“The spell has two parts,” Mr. Milne said. “The first part of the spell must be cast within one day of her death. We need five things for it: a piece of clothing she cherished, something that represents her connection to the person casting the spell, a favorite food to place in her mouth, and two things she held dear.”
Hearing those words, Thomas knew what he could do to stop the spell, to save Mama from living again.
When Stanley returned to America from his second trip to Africa, he bore irrefutable evidence that the deep jungle rites brought real power to any person who made appropriate sacrifices. I suppose at that point my fate was set.
Chapter 3: Magical implements
It was simple. Thomas just had to hide the two things she held most dear: her wooden spoon and bumblebee.
And he knew exactly where she kept them.
You do it, Mama’s voice said. You take them and you put them somewhere no one will find them. If you fail, you’ll have proven yourself as worthless as I suspect you are.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He lowered his eyes so no one could see in them his sudden plot, and pushed past Papa into the bedroom he shared with his brothers. In five steps he moved between the bed and the dresser, into the kitchen.
To his left was the closed door to Clara May’s room. Above it hung the family’s old rifle; the newer one hung over his head, above the door to his room. To the right, the open doorway to Mama and Papa’s room gave view of their half-made bed. Across the kitchen, the front door still stood open. From it came indistinct voices and Stanley’s barking.
Thomas paid the sounds no heed, and headed around the wooden table and chairs, straight for the counter under the window. On the table, in a film of flour, sat an abandoned mass of dough. Above the counter, a few pots and pans hung from a rack that dangled from the ceiling. On the wall next to it hung a series of shelves covered with wooden cups and plates, and a pile of cooking tools.
Thomas leaned over the counter. He used one hand to balance himself, and stretched the other high, for the top shelf. Unable to see what he looked for, he fumbled until his hand closed on something small and spherical. He brought it down and opened his hand to look at it.
The bumblebee.
Wooden. About as long as Thomas’s thumbnail. It's once vibrant yellow and black stripes had faded. Frequent handling had left its body worn smooth. The little wooden wings, the most fragile part of the toy, bore seams where Mama had glued them back on.
It was nearly identical to the one that Thomas kept in his pocket at all times.
He turned it over in his hand. Mama had almost always kept it with her. Otherwise she’d kept it on the shelf, threatening anyone that touched it with a beating that would keep them from sitting for a week.
Once, when just four or five, Thomas had pulled a chair over to the counter, climbed up, and stretched as tall as he could to reach that top shelf. Sure enough, about the moment he’d gotten his mitts on the toy, Mama had walked in and surprised him with such a shout that he fell off of the counter. As he lay there, his back hurting and golden flecks flitting across his vision, she’d snatched the bumblebee away, then grabbed her wooden spoon, and whacked him a good dozen times on the shoulders and rump.
He looked back at the doorway, into his room. Past the bed, through the room, Papa still stood at the back door, his back to Thomas.
Mr. Milne said something that Thomas couldn't hear well enough to understand. The talking from outside in the front was muddled, but Thomas could tell that it was Charles. Stanley still barked, and not in a friendly manner.
Thomas deposited Mama's bumblebee into his left trouser pocket. It clicked against his own figurine.
The wooden spoon sat on the lowest shelf, along with a fork, ladle, tongs, and a few other miscellaneous wooden utensils. Like she’d done with the bumblebee, Mama had worn the spoon smooth with years of usage. Its foot-long handle, half an inch thick, ended in a wide, shallow bowl.
Thomas owed many a bruise to this spoon. He half wanted to snap it right in half.
But he didn’t. When she died, Mama would want it buried with her, and he couldn’t disrespect her by breaking her favorite tool.
So, instead, he would hide it.
He slid it handle-first into his right pocket, near where he always wore a knife like Mama had instructed him to do. At first the spoon didn’t fit. It stuck out six inches, but he moved the handle around, searching for the hole in his pocket. When he found it, the handle of the spoon went through and the rest of the spoon descended into his pocket. The bowl of the spoon was too large to fit through the hole.
He would hide the objects. Then, when the time for resurrecting Mama had passed, he would retrieve them and bury her in peace. Everyone would know he’d taken the ingredients, and they might try to make him confess their location, but he wouldn't tell them. They would even try to force him into telling them. He might even have to brawl with Charles over it, and that guaranteed at least a black eye and bloody nose. So he had to hide them well.
Heading for the door, he glanced back at his bedroom to verify that Papa hadn't turned. But by the time he looked forward again, it was too late to stop from running straight into Charles, who bounded through the doorway.
He shoved Thomas back and said, “You idiot!”
Thomas stumbled and caught himself on the counter. He caught a whiff of sweat and horse. His heart seemed to stop. Maybe Charles had seen him pocketing the spoon.
But Charles just darted past the table, toward the bedroom and back of the house, his eyes straight ahead. Thomas hung there on the edge of the counter, trying not to draw any more attention, watching his twin enter their bedroom. As after every ride, he wore those black boots that clopped on the wooden floor.
“Is she better yet?” Charles said. “How is she? There’s people outside, asking about a girl.”
Papa said something that Thomas didn’t hear because of his haste for the door.
Outside he blinked in the sudden light that shone in his face. The sun hung over the mountains in the distance, casting long shadows from the two people who stood thirty feet away from the porch, each holding a horse's reins. Thomas started down the steps toward them.
"Can I help you?" he said. "Quiet, Stanley!"
“We’re looking for a girl,” one of the men said.
The way he said it—the tone he used—made Thomas halt with one foot on the third step, and one on the first. The man hadn't made a request. More like a demand layered with a threat.
The steps creaked as Thomas backed up to the porch.
The man who’d spoken grinned. He had a gold tooth in front, and wore a suit coat with long tails as if he’d originally set out for church. He had something of a fat gut, but held himself like a man used to working. His face, with the beginnings of a beard like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, had a dark countenance about it, and not just from the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. It was like he was used to getting his way, and that way usually meant hurting others.
Stanley, standing in front of the porch, continued to bark.
“A pretty girl," said the second person.
A boy. Maybe seventeen. He wore work trousers and a gray shirt. Dust from their ride covered him and his companion. Their horses breathed hard, as if recovering from a run.
“Her name,” said the older man, “is Sadie.”
By 1883, Stanley’s knowledge led to the development of the “blessings.” These became part of America’s counterculture, and tens of thousands of people gained supernatural powers. Including my parents. Why they couldn’t just recognize the blessings as what they were—curses—I’ll never know.
Chapter 4: Zombie raisers
Miss Sadie might have made Thomas feel inferior—something she probably couldn’t help—but these men simply made his good senses balk. The few moments he’d spent with them were enough for him to conclude that he’d never met anyone as unpleasant as them.
The man gestu
red at Stanley. “Call your dog off.”
The sound of boots on wood behind Thomas preceded the shifting of the porch as more weight made the boards bend. Then Mr. Milne stood next to him, his rifle raised to his shoulder and aimed at the older man.
“Get out of here, Brady,” Mr. Milne said. “You’re not welcome in this area, or at this house. Stanley, quiet!”
The dog shut its mouth, but growled.
The man, Brady, sneered. “Milne.” He said it like he and Mr. Milne had met on many occasions. “I’ve just come for Sadie. Her Papa misses her sorely.”
Mr. Milne cocked the rifle. It sounded crisp in the morning air. “Her Papa isn’t missing her at this exact moment.”
Thomas had almost stopped breathing. He’d never seen a man killed. Not with a rifle. A few years before, he’d watched a herd of horses trample the father of his best friend, and another time he’d seen a friend drown in the river. But he’d never seen blood shed—as much as he would’ve liked to shed Charles’s or Papa’s, sometimes. Surely Mr. Milne, a level-headed Christian if Thomas ever knew one, wouldn’t point a gun without cause.
“She can’t get away from us,” Brady said.
Now that Thomas had somewhat adjusted to Brady’s unpleasantness, he realized that Brady had an accent. An English one—like so many people in Hurricane.
“Thomas,” Mr. Milne said. “Get your rifles. Fetch Charles.”
Thomas hesitated. He didn’t want to miss anything.
“Go!”
He couldn’t ignore that command any more than he could’ve ignored one of Mama's orders. He darted back into the house and headed for the gun hanging over Clara May’s door. The handle of the wooden spoon poked his thigh.
“Charles!” he said. “Get out front!”
He reached up and took the rifle down. This older gun had jammed on him once, preventing him from killing a deer. He pulled the lever to the chamber, to see if it housed a bullet. It did. He cocked it.
“I ain’t leaving Mama’s side!” Charles called from out back.
As Thomas pulled the gun down from above the doorway to his room, he looked out back. Papa leaned against the doorpost, half blocking the doorway. Miss Sadie pushed past him, into the bedroom, worry on her face.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s dangerous people out there. Charles, get out here!”
Papa leaned around the doorpost, his face stern. “Keep your yelling down!”
Thomas growled as he examined this gun, the newer one—although still plenty worn from use—and verified that it bore a bullet. This one had never jammed on him. He placed the older gun on the table and headed for the door.
“Charles! Mr. Milne wants you outside with a gun. Now!”
Didn’t he understand that if somebody wanted you somewhere with a gun, it sure as blessings wasn’t so you could do-si-do with them?
“The gun’s ready! On the table!”
He didn’t wait for a response, but stepped outside, squinting in the light and bringing the butt up against his shoulder and taking aim. In the thirty seconds he’d been inside, the men hadn’t moved. By the time he stopped at the head of the stairs, next to Mr. Milne, he had the sight trained on the heart of Brady, surely the more dangerous of the two.
He’d never aimed a gun at another person. Not ever. His breath came heavy and he had a hard time keeping his aim true. Stanley’s barking sure didn't help his nerves.
“Shut up, Stanley!” he said.
The dog obeyed.
The wood of the porch shifted as someone came out of the doorway. Boots clopped on the wooden porch.
Without looking, Thomas said, “It’s about time Char—.”
But it wasn’t Charles.
Miss Sadie stepped to the other side of Mr. Milne and lifted the rifle to her shoulder. She had the right stance—body facing perpendicular to her target, feet apart—and held the gun with confidence, like she’d shot things every day of her life. Her finger, covered with the white glove, rested lightly on the trigger.
Thomas's estimation of her went up quite a bit.
She looked down her barrel, but spoke to Thomas. "Shouldn't you be looking at what you're aiming at?"
Thomas started and turned his attention back to the men. He had to raise the barrel several inches.
“Shame on you, Farrell,” she said. “Running to Mr. Brady.”
“You lied to me,” the boy said.
“Now Miss Sadie,” Brady said, his English accent thick, “you’ve got to come with us. Your Papa will forgive everything. He sent a wire saying so.”
A wire? Where was she from? The nearest wire was in St. George. It went up to Salt Lake City and down into California and Arizona.
“I didn’t lie to you,” she said. “You assumed everything, and I just didn’t correct you.”
“It’s as good as lying, then,” Farrell said. He stared at her with a mixture of hatred and lust as plain as the hair standing up on Stanley’s back.
Mr. Milne pulled his trigger. The shot consumed everything, from its register in Thomas’s head to the cloud of dust rising between Brady’s and Farrell’s feet. The men jumped about six inches high, and their horses reared up on their hind legs. So did the horses tied to the post by the porch, Miss Sadie’s and Mr. Milne’s—and now a third that Thomas hadn’t noticed before. But he should have known that Charles’s precious horse would be there.
The horses' squealing replaced the sound of the gun. The tied-up animals pulled against their reins, but went nowhere. Brady kept a hold on his animal’s reins, but Farrell didn’t. The leather slipped out of his hand and the horse began to run down the lane, away from the house. Shouting, Farrell followed.
Stanley, brilliant as he was, took that as a signal, and darted past Brady and his horse, after Farrell.
“Get back here, Stanley!” Thomas said.
The dog ignored him.
Mr. Milne took a bullet from a pocket in his suit coat, slid it into the chamber, and cocked it. Then he took deliberate aim, a little higher than where his previous shot had hit.
Brady, knuckles white on the reins, struggling with his horse, looked at Mr. Milne with narrow eyes.
“If you want it to be like that, Milne, then that’s how it will be.”
Thomas swallowed hard and took his aim again. He tracked his barrel with Brady’s body as he moved back and forth, calming the horse. Thomas’s arms trembled. Not wanting to fire accidentally, he kept his finger off of the trigger.
“Get your zombie-raising hide out of here,” Mr. Milne said. “Or you’ll be buried right where you stand.”
Thomas looked at Mr. Milne and frowned. Zombie-raising hide? Impossible. The barrier kept zombie raisers out of Sanctuary, which extended all the way from Zion’s Canyon, down through the town Gateway, past Hurricane and the Baker farm, into St. George. Thomas knew the shape well. Mama had made him memorize it when he was little, until he could draw it or form it with a bit of string or rope, or even the cloth around his hat. He had no idea why she'd done that, but knew no zombie raisers had entered Sanctuary in nineteen years, since the Moabites had tried to invade and the barrier first went up.
Brady gave Mr. Milne and Miss Sadie a long, cutting glare, then turned his eyes to Thomas.
“You’re mixed up with the wrong people, boy. It’d be smart for you to part ways with them. Otherwise, they’ll wreak havoc on your family.”
The warning made Thomas shiver. “I reckon that you’d be the one doing the wreaking.”
He moved his finger near the trigger, but made sure not to put any pressure on it. He had no desire to kill a man. Given the chance, he probably wouldn’t even kill Papa. And probably not Charles.
“Wire my Papa,” Miss Sadie said. She still held that barrel calm and steady. “Tell him I won’t be coming home.”
Brady chuckled, touched the brim of his hat in a sarcastic gesture, and mounted his horse. As he did, his coat swung open, revealing a revolver at each hip. Withou
t another word, he touched his heels to the horse’s flanks, pulled the reins around, and let the horse run down the lane between the two unplowed fields.
A bit more than a hundred yards down, just outside the fence and on the road, Farrell had caught his horse and stood next to it. Stanley had started back up the lane, tongue hanging out and jaw gaping in a grin. Running crooked.
“Don’t lower your guns,” Mr. Milne said.
From behind came Charles’s voice. “What did you mean when you called him a zombie raiser?”
Stanley barked at Brady’s horse and avoided a trampling by dodging aside, off of the lane. Brady rode toward the sun without looking back. Thomas kept his sights on Brady’s back. His breath still came hard.
Mr. Milne heaved a sigh and shook his head. He kept his gun up to his shoulder. “It appears the barrier has gone down.”
My parents and other blessing seekers were in the minority. The mainstream viewed these strange powers as gifts of Satan. They called the blessing seekers devil worshipers, persecuted them, and ultimately passed laws discriminating against them. I sincerely believe they knew what they were doing.
Chapter 5: First time in twenty years
Charles pushed between Mr. Milne and Thomas and jumped down the stairs. Thomas grunted in annoyance and re-aimed at the distant Brady as Charles ran to his brown stallion. He ignored Miss Sadie’s and Mr. Milne’s mounts, instead muttering words of comfort as he stroked Lightning's neck. The beast stood two full hands taller than the other horses, and had a muscular body built to run. Spirit burned in his eyes. Thomas hated him more than he hated Charles.
And that was saying something, because although Thomas and Charles were twins, Thomas felt no particular connection to Charles. Other twins that Thomas had known always spoke of a bond between them, a kind of sensing when the other was in pain or scared or happy. But Thomas and Charles seemed to have no such link.
Keep Mama Dead Page 3
