Keep Mama Dead

by S. James Nelson

For which Thomas was grateful.

  “No zombie raisers been seen here in twenty years,” Papa said.

  He moved out of the doorway, toward his rocking chair.

  Clara May leaned against the doorpost. She placed one hand over her belly, like she wanted to puke, and hugged herself as if for warmth.

  “I’ve got eggs to deliver. Eli Miller and his family will be looking for me.”

  Thomas called for Stanley to come. For once the dog obeyed. He grinned as if he’d chased off the intruders all by himself and expected a tasty reward. Out past the gate, Brady reached Farrell. The boy had mounted his horse, and together they followed the road as it bent south, following the ravine on its left.

  “Nevertheless,” Mr. Milne said, “we’ve had zombie raisers here today.”

  “Well,” Clara May said, “then the barrier must be down. Otherwise they couldn’t come in here.”

  Mr. Milne raised an eyebrow. “Smart girl.”

  “How can the barrier be down?” Charles asked. “It’s never gone down. Not in twenty years.”

  Papa grunted as he settled into his chair. “Didn't Mr. Smith—in St. George—cast the spell? Didn’t he die a week or two back? And didn’t resurrect?”

  As far as Thomas knew, there were two reasons someone who'd obtained the gift of a second life didn't resurrect: because they'd either used up all their second-life days casting spells, or had endless second-life days.

  He'd never met anyone with endless second-life days; they were rare, and appeared at random in the population. No one knew why, but someone with that gift simply didn’t resurrect like a normal person did. They died and stayed dead, as if having endless second-life days needed some opposite cost, and not living again was it.

  Mr. Milne shrugged. "Mr. Smith? I'd never heard that bit of speculation."

  "If he were the one," Miss Sadie said, "the Moabites would have sent an assassin in long ago."

  Of course, everyone knew the identity of the barrier caster had always been a secret for that reason. National and personal security.

  "Whatever the case," Mr. Milne said, "the barrier is down."

  “That’s bad,” Clara May said. "Now the Moabites will invade, again."

  They'd last invaded in 1885, the year of Thomas’s and Charles’s births. The Lich Mayor of Moab had led an army of Moabite zombies into Monument Valley, where they slaughtered and drove off the blessing seekers and Navajos. From there, they invaded Hurricane, hoping to take Zion’s Canyon. But as they attacked Hurricane, an invisible barrier had gone up. It turned the zombies to ash and created a buzzing in the heads of the Moabites that made them flee. For nineteen years the barrier had kept Hurricane safe.

  Charles’s horse had calmed down, but Charles stayed there, stroking its neck.

  “You’re sure those men were zombie raisers?”

  "They're zombie raisers all right," Miss Sadie said.

  Still aiming her gun at them, she looked after them with a scowl, shook her head, and spat onto the dirt in front of the porch. Thomas started at the indecent action, and thought he heard her mutter something about "unholy abominable zombies and their masters."

  Mr. Milne frowned at her. “You’ve heard of Brady’s Watch?”

  Everyone knew about Brady's Watch. The Moabites had established the post to watch over Zion’s Canyon, so that when the barrier went down, they could notify the Lich Mayor in Moab.

  "Of course,” Charles said. Apparently satisfied that Lightning was fine, he walked back to the porch steps and stood below Thomas’s barrel.

  “Our visitor,” Miss Sadie said. She lowered her rifle. “The distinguished Mr. Brady, was the first to settle Brady’s Watch.”

  Thomas kept his rifle pointed in the general direction of the diminishing Brady and Farrell, but looked over at Miss Sadie. He’d never seen any woman hold a rifle with such ease; yet at the same time, he’d never seen such a fancy dress and pretty face. Or heard such perfect articulation. No doubt she wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot Brady if the need arose—something he couldn’t say about himself. But also no doubt, given the chance to dance at a hoedown, she would be the best dancer. The one every man would want to take a turn with.

  And now, her Papa had sent a zombie raiser to retrieve her.

  Who was this girl?

  Charles gave her a thoughtful glare. Thomas knew that stare; it meant trouble.

  “You’re one of them,” Charles said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Brady knows you,” Papa said. “You’re a zombie raiser.”

  With Brady and Farrell well beyond gunshot range, Mr. Milne lowered his gun. “Sadie’s with me. She’s not a zombie raiser.”

  Thomas lowered his gun. Miss Sadie’s eyes met his in a challenge. He didn’t look away. Who was she, and how she’d come to his farm? Was she a zombie-raiser? She seemed unfriendly enough to Brady and Farrell.

  “How does Brady know her?” Charles asked.

  “It’s my business,” Miss Sadie said. Her tone defied the entire group. “I’m not one of them. I’m no zombie raiser. I despise the things.”

  Thomas took that to mean that she’d been one, but wasn’t, anymore. It made him shudder. He’d never seen a zombie, but had heard all about them. You had to practically not have a soul to raise a loved-one from the dead like that—even with their permission. Resurrecting them for a regular old second life was one thing, turning them into zombies was another.

  Could she really be a zombie raiser?

  Stanley reached the house and loped past Charles, up the steps to Thomas. He deserved a good scratch—after all, he’d chased off the men and avoided getting kicked by a horse—and so Thomas gave it to him.

  "If the barrier's down," Mr. Milne said, "we should warn the mayor and council in Hurricane. While we're at it, we'll ask permission to cast the resurrection spell on Caroline. And research the wording."

  During the confrontation, Thomas had forgotten about Mama. One hand went into his left pocket, where he felt for the two wooden bumblebees, and his other hand went to his right thigh, to feel the wooden spoon beneath his pants. He needed to hide the objects.

  The barn would work, for now. No one ever went in there except for him. He just needed an excuse to get over there.

  "She ain't going to die," Charles said. "She ain't sick."

  "She'll be dead soon," Mr. Milne said. "And I think you'll be the one to resurrect her."

  Charles gave Mr. Milne a long look. Thomas stared at him, trying to see in his eyes if he'd already thought about resurrecting Mama. His face showed nothing, but no doubt he had considered it. Why wouldn't he want her around as long as possible? She would let him do whatever he wanted, all the while keeping Thomas on task, farming the land when what he really wanted was to leave.

  "Sure," Charles said. "That sounds about right. I think she would want to come back."

  "Of course she would," Papa said.

  "She'd miss us," Clara May said.

  Charles nodded and smirked up at Thomas. "I'm the person best suited to bring her back, don't you think?"

  Thomas fought the desire to lift his rifle to Charles's face. He never did anything. Never helped. Just rode that horse all day, every day. Made more work for Mama. Yet she just always went on loving him more than anyone else.

  "I'll put these guns back," Thomas said, willing to take any excuse to get out of Charles’s presence.

  He reached for Miss Sadie's firearm, thinking of how firmly she’d held it, and she lifted it, point up so he could grab the barrel. His hand closed around it, but she didn't let go. Not looking at her, he tried to pull it away. She yanked it back and he gave her a sharp look.

  She peered into his eyes, her brow furrowed.

  He raised his eyebrows at her and tilted his head to one side. She looked deeper into his face. He didn’t turn away. Such deep green eyes. Like the color of rich alfalfa after a rain.

  "Charles," Mr. Milne said. "You'll need to gather some ingredients for the spell."

&
nbsp; "What ingredients?" Charles said.

  Miss Sadie narrowed her eyes at Thomas and let go of the gun. With a long look at her, he turned to go inside. Why had she stared at him like that?

  He tried to shut out Mr. Milne’s voice as he went inside, followed by Stanley, but with each word Mr. Milne said, the bumblebee and wooden spoon weighed heavier and heavier on him. By the time he had both guns up on their hooks, when Mr. Milne had finished explaining the ingredients, it felt like his pants would fall down from the weight in his pockets.

  He went into his bedroom, to exit the house through the back. Stanley darted out of the door ahead of him.

  "Well," Charles said. His voice grew louder and his boots pounded on wood as he ascended the steps. "That's easy. I know right where the bumblebee and wooden spoon are."

  As Thomas exited the house through the back door, he turned to look at Charles entering the front and heading toward the counter and shelves. Then Thomas was outside, past Stanley, taking a deep breath of air that smelled like chicken poop and plowed fields.

  Not looking at Mama—who still stood at the wash basin, ignoring the clucking of hens—and barely noticing Franky coming down the ridge with a fish in his arms, Thomas ran.

  Go! Mama’s voice said in his head. Go! See to it that they can’t cast the spell.

  Persecution forced the blessing seekers—my parents included—to flee west to settle in the least desirable deserts of the continent: in the Utah and Arizona territories. We took the railroads as far as we could, then traveled the rest of the way on foot through a land we would later learn lent our blessings power. And thus my captivity began.

  Chapter 6: Rescued

  Thomas ran with everything he had. His arms and legs moved like he’d received the gift of speed. The morning air burned in his lungs and against his face, and his boots threw him over the furrows, across the ridges of the field, uphill.

  The barn wouldn't do. They would see him going there. He needed to get past the top of the ridge two hundred yards up, into the untamed land, and go another hundred yards to the reservoir. Stanley caught up to him, and passed, his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.

  Confused shouting came from the house. Thomas didn't look back.

  Only thirty yards ahead, Franky ran through the field toward Thomas, hopping over the furrows, holding the pole and a fish nearly as big as him. Even an enchanted pole couldn't catch a fish that size without help from another spell.

  Thomas tripped on the top of a furrow, caught himself without falling, and continued on. He could throw the trinkets into the creek at the base of the earthen damn, and let the water carry them away.

  The shouting behind him became enraged.

  "Get back here, you coward!"

  He looked back. Seventy-five yards down, Charles disappeared into the house. Why hadn't he pursued?

  Franky slowed as he approached Thomas and the dog. Stanley jumped up at the fish, and Franky turned aside with a frown, guarding his catch.

  "Get down, you mutt! It's my fish!"

  Playing, the dog leaped aside, right in front of Thomas. He tried to dodge, but failed. He tumbled over Stanley, who yelped and leaped away as Thomas hit the ground and skidded on his face and chest. The handle of the wooden spoon dug into his thigh.

  "You stupid dog!" Franky shouted.

  With a grunt Thomas leaped to his feet and ran on. Stanley loped with him, his tongue inside his mouth and his face guilty.

  More shouting came from behind. The group had come around the house and started up the hill. Mr. Milne led the way, with Miss Sadie behind him, her white dress a beacon against the blackened house and red dirt—a shining pillar ahead of Clara May's drab dress. Papa brought up the rear, not doing much more than strolling.

  Thomas thought he heard Miss Sadie calling for him to run, run, and Clara May for him to stop. Papa’s voice came loud but indistinguishable.

  Charles wasn't with them. Not for a second, anyway.

  Then he rounded the house on his horse, whipping its rear.

  The thumping of the hooves gave Thomas new speed, but he knew how it would end. He couldn't outrun a horse. Especially not that one. He reached into his pocket, slowing to get his hand in despite the pumping of his legs, and withdrew the two bumblebees. He clenched them so they dug into his palms. With his other hand, he withdrew the wooden spoon.

  The rhythm of hooves grew louder. He didn’t look back again, but had barely gone another fifty yards before he knew he’d never get away. The thunder bore down on him, and as he ran he waited for the animal to trample him like nothing more than a stalk of grass.

  At the moment when the horse breathed in his ears, just behind him, when he thought the horse would reach and crush him, he tossed the spoon to his right, and the bumblebees forward. They sailed through the air. The faded yellow paint caught the light just right, and seemed to glow.

  He didn’t see where they landed.

  Weight crashed down around him. Charles’s arms closed over his shoulders, and grunting filled his ear. He fell toward the soil, rolling forward in the hopes that he could flip Charles over his back and land on him.

  The horse thundered past.

  Thomas didn’t roll enough. Instead he landed with his face in a furrow, his body spanning a ridge. Charles released him, sat up on his back like he was mounting a horse, and began to strike him in the back of the neck and head. On the shoulders and on the back. Again and again. He swore.

  You worthless idiot! Mama’s voice said. You’ve failed! Can’t I trust you with anything?

  Thomas gathered his strength and pushed with everything he had. Charles flew off of his back and Thomas rolled to his feet. He barely had his balance when Charles came at him again, fists swinging. Thomas knew what to do. He and Charles had tussled a time or two. He dodged and pummeled his brother in the ribs. Charles lunged at him, ramming him in the stomach with this shoulder, and for several seconds they grappled, each trying to tackle the other.

  In the confusion, Thomas ended up spinning and falling to the ground, his head and hips on two adjacent ridges. For a second time Charles jumped on Thomas’s back—which bent backward into a furrow. Thomas tried to buck him, again, but Charles lifted his weight and slammed it down in the center of Thomas’s back. Thomas felt like maybe he would snap in half, with how his body bent backward into the furrow. He could only collapse into the dirt and cry out like a sissy boy.

  Thus stretched over two furrows, Thomas could not gain proper leverage to get Charles off him, and the blows and curses came at the back of his head again.

  Stanley stood off to one side, yapping. Charles had beaten the dog enough times that the animal knew not to tempt him. He dared only threaten with growls and bared teeth.

  The blows came like a thunder storm. The swearing continued like a river. Thomas’s ears filled with a dull roar and he couldn’t see anything from how his face was buried in the soil. He could hardly breathe. Dirt filled his nose and mouth. It tasted sweet and bitter all at once. If he turned his head even a little, Charles would strike him in the face, so he kept his face down, trying to push up with his arms. His spine flexed backward with Charles's weight. His hand slipped over and over. Charles just kept hitting, as if determined to pound him into the field, plant him.

  Well, if he was going to kill Thomas, he might as well get used to planting, because the task would probably fall to him. As if he would assume it.

  People surrounded them, shouting and chattering. For a moment Thomas thought the beating would end, that someone would stop Charles, but they didn’t. The voices moved past, in the direction he’d thrown the bumblebees. They all clamored to know where the toy was.

  “It’s over there,” Charles said.

  The hitting paused as Charles pointed past his horse.

  Thomas chanced a look up, and through the dirt in his eyes saw Mr. Milne, Clara May, and Papa bending low to the ground. It was actually quite an accomplishment that he’d managed to get Papa off of
his rocker into the field.

  Another fist hit the back of his head, pushing his face back into the dirt. “You cowardly, zombie-loving—.”

  “Get off of him!”

  Finally, someone had come to help him. Miss Sadie.

  The weight on Thomas’s back shifted as if someone had pulled at Charles. It lessened and increased several times as someone struggled with Charles. Thomas tried to get a look, but couldn’t lift and turn his head enough.

  “Get away, zombie raiser!” Charles said.

  “Leave him alone!”

  “Yeah!” Franky said. “Get off!”

  There was a slap, good and loud, almost like two boards slamming together, and the weight fell completely off of Thomas. His back protested as he straightened it the right way, pushed himself up, and looked back.

  Charles sat on his rump deep in a furrow, rubbing a cheek. Miss Sadie stood above him, between him and Thomas, her face bright red and her teeth bared, like she was Stanley's rabid cousin.

  “This ain’t your fight,” Charles said. “You ain’t family.”

  Stanley bolted between Miss Sadie and Charles, and came to Thomas. He sniffed Thomas’s face and began to lick. Thomas tried to push him away, but only lost his balance and fell back into the dirt.

  “Oh,” Miss Sadie said. She raised a finger as if she were scolding a child. “Oh, but I am. I’m as much a part of the human family as you. Probably more so.”

  “Leave Thomas alone,” Franky said.

  He stood next to Miss Sadie, just as angry as her, still holding that fish against his belly in both arms.

  From ahead, where the others sifted through the soil, Mr. Milne said, “Sadie, stay out of it. Charles, get over here and help us find the bumblebee.”

  As Mr. Milne’s gaze went back to the dirt, it passed over Thomas. What did it hold? Pity? Compassion? Regret? Thomas couldn’t decide.

  Charles scrambled to his feet, shooting Thomas a look of bullets. He ran to the side where Thomas had thrown the spoon, and found it after a moment of searching. Before he could get over to the group, Papa stood upright, holding something small in his hand.