Deathless Divide

by Justina Ireland

  Sue nods. “Yup, they got here this morning, talking about a horde on the way to eat us all. Their group was followed by a whole bunch of skittish white folks. That’s why we’re out here.”

  “Surely they do not mean to have the few of you take on the horde, on your own!” I cannot quite keep the horror out of my voice.

  Sue laughs, the sound low and deep. The other girls titter as well, and my face heats with embarrassment.

  “Nope,” Sue says. “These Nicodemus folks, they got a machine some fella invented that kills the dead when they get close enough. We just offered to come out and keep watch because we got nothing else to do. This town is getting awfully crowded.”

  It is more than I have ever heard Sue say in the entire time I have known her, at least two years. Something has definitely changed.

  She turns back to Jane. “Speaking of, did that pretty boy find you and get you that letter of yours?”

  Jane folds in on herself a bit, and nods.

  “There was a tragedy,” I say, stepping in to say the words for her. “It has been a long trip.”

  Sue straightens, her mood dampening. “Aw, sorry to hear that. Annie, why don’t you take these fine folks to the sheriff’s office so that Miss Duncan can get them settled?”

  “Miss Duncan? Oh, well, that is a relief,” I say, ignoring the smug looks of the girls. They think I am happy to see her because I am the teacher’s pet, but the truth is Miss Duncan is a seasoned veteran of the War Against the Dead and a knowledgeable woman when it comes to survival. Hopefully, she will have some sort of strategy for this approaching horde. Machines might slow them down for a time, but everyone knows it is only bladework that stops the dead.

  A small girl with perfectly straight braids—most assuredly done by Sue; she was the best braider at Miss Preston’s—walks up and beckons for us to follow. The Madam and the tiny Spencer boy, now asleep, lead the way. I let the other soiled doves and Lily go ahead of me, and then I pull Jane back so that I might have a word with her privately.

  “Are you okay, Jane?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Fine enough, I suppose.”

  “Once we get inside, let’s see to finding us both a place to get some rest—”

  “Murderer!”

  I look toward the town’s proper front gate, where a crowd has gathered, blocking the way. A group of red-faced white men come barreling toward us, and I recognize quite a few of the drovers from Summerland as well as men from the more privileged families. Without thinking I ready my rifle. They slide to a stop when they see the end of my barrel.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demand, and the men seem confused. A few take off their hats respectfully; most of them know me as a delicate lady of the East, thanks to Jane’s shenanigans of passing me off as white. The rest of the men look to be trying to judge just how good a shot I am and whether they can make a run at us.

  They might not know it, but that is a gamble they would regret making.

  There is too much yelling to understand what is happening, until we hear a voice over the din. “Back up, back up,” he says, and a familiar face pushes through the fray. I relax my hold on the rifle just a bit but do not stow the weapon.

  Daniel Redfern, a Lenape Indian man who once worked for the terrible Mayor Carr back in Baltimore but later helped Jackson escape certain death, stops a few feet in front of us, his back to the crowd. I am not sure whether to shoot the man for helping us be shanghaied to Summerland or to ask him for his help.

  “Mr. Redfern.” I nod. “I must say, you are looking hale and hearty.”

  “Miss Deveraux, it is a pleasure to see you looking similarly well, despite the obvious hardship you’ve been through.” It is nice of him to say such, even if it is a lie. I feel like a dress four seasons out of fashion, raggedy and pathetic. I know my appearance must look a fright as well.

  Mr. Redfern turns to Jane. “Miss McKeene,” he says, his voice taking on something of a tone as he says Jane’s name. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”

  Jane finally recovers enough to grin. “The last time I saw you, you were abandoning us to our fate at the hands of the men of Summerland. You look taller, Mr. Redfern.”

  “Sheriff Redfern,” he corrects.

  “What?” Jane’s smile melts away and then reappears once she notices the silver star upon his chest. “Well, how about that. You used to break the law, and now you enforce it. This town really is something else. You got a Negro deputy, too?” It is meant as a lighthearted inquiry, but there is an edge to Jane’s voice.

  He sighs, already exasperated by her presence. It is a feeling I know well.

  “Jane McKeene, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I wasn’t planning on staying out here. In case you ain’t noticed, this here prairie is infested with shamblers.”

  “You don’t understand my meaning.” He grabs her arm, and only then does the crowd of people between us at the gate to Nicodemus part. “You are under arrest for murder.”

  My fate cries out,

  And makes each petty artery in this body

  As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet

  —JANE—

  Chapter 9

  In Which I Learn the Fate of Baltimore

  My entrance into the town of Nicodemus is a grand one. I am allowed to walk without chains, but I suspect that is because Mr. Redfern doesn’t have any rather than faith in my honor. The white drovers from Summerland howl for my neck as I pass by them, my head held high. I fight the urge to give them a little smile and a jaunty wave, figuring I should try to contain my baser instincts for once. After all, it’s only a single line of armed girls keeping them from stretching out my neck then and there.

  I recognize the girls from Miss Preston’s School of Combat and those from the Summerland patrols holding back the men, but there are other colored girls I don’t recognize, their features stranger than any Negro I’ve ever seen before. There are also a few Indian girls, though I do not know from what tribe.

  “Those girls are from Landishire Academy,” Miss Duncan offers helpfully, appearing to my right. Her color is high, and there’s a strange tone in her voice. Contrition? “Many mixed-race Negro girls found their way here from there. It’s a school for the offspring of Indians and Negroes. Miss Preston wasn’t fond of them, said the mixing of the Negro with any race but whites made the girls intractable.”

  “Well, seeing as how Miss Preston did like to sell her girls into bondage, I can see where that might get to be an issue,” I mutter, more to myself than to Miss Duncan.

  My former instructor’s lips thin. “Yes, I’m afraid I didn’t know the extent of Miss Preston’s treachery until the night you and Katherine disappeared. It’s not something I’m proud of. I should have been more astute.”

  I shrug inelegantly, ignoring what I suppose she considers to be an apology. After the time I spent in Summerland, I’m not exactly feeling charitable. After all, my back still ain’t completely healed from the whipping Sheriff Snyder gave me.

  Sheriff Redfern walks behind us, gun drawn in case I get any ideas about running, but it’s Miss Duncan who seems to be doing the escorting. She wears a tin star on the lapel of her riding jacket—apparently, she is a deputy. What kind of town is this Nicodemus if an Indian man and a white woman can be the law?

  We clear the innermost fence, which is easily ten feet tall and made of sharpened logs driven into the ground. As I glance at it, Miss Duncan, ever the teacher, says, “The town was once a fort, before the Army abandoned it during the War Against the Dead. There are several tribes that claim this land—the Kansa and the Kiowa; the Pawnee to the north. The town was originally fortified to protect against them, but now these same walls protect the people of Nicodemus from the dead.”

  A couple of girls stand on the wall, one with a rifle, the other with a spyglass. They wave at me as I pass, and I wave back. />
  “You are something of a legend amongst the girls here,” Miss Duncan murmurs, too low for Redfern to hear.

  “How’s that?” I ask.

  “The Angel of the Crossroads,” Miss Duncan says, her lips pulled down in disapproval. “There is not a one of them that has not heard the tale, thanks to Sue.”

  I don’t smile, but hearing that makes me a wee bit glad. It’s good to know I got some allies.

  Back in Baltimore County—before I found out that Mayor Carr was sending folks west to Summerland, and before I had the misfortune of getting shipped out there myself against my will—I would patrol the roads at night and lend assistance to travelers. I thought my exploits were mostly my own concern, but Sheriff Redfern had enlightened me to the tales surrounding my heroics. “The Angel of the Crossroads.” It was a ridiculous name for a homesick girl who cut down the dead in order to work off her loneliness and anger.

  Thinking about it makes me think about Jackson. The memory of our last argument is like a letter opener through the ribs, small and deadly. I take a shuddering breath and blink hard and fast.

  I will not let a single one of these bastards see me cry.

  Once we clear the gate I get a better view of the town proper. It’s a smaller parcel than Summerland, with houses and buildings tucked tightly together in military precision. The structures are made of clapboard, the wood silver with weathering. The roads are also smooth and dusty, and there’s no horse manure dotting the lane like there had been in Summerland. The boardwalk extends the full length of the town, and the house of worship is set off from the main drag. It’s smaller than Summerland’s, without the impressive spire. There’s no saloon, but I’m surprised to see there is a library—it’s a small whitewashed building tucked next to the church, and is just as well maintained.

  Well, this is a whole different animal from Summerland.

  We make our way up to one of the first buildings we encounter, which must be the sheriff’s office. There’s no markings on the window and no signage outside the door, but half the room is taken up with a cell made of iron bars, so that’s really the only thing it could be. A large Negro man waits on the walkway, and my heart jumps as I recognize the pale man standing beside him.

  Gideon Carr.

  It seems traitorous that my pulse should pick up at seeing the boy, especially with Jackson just passing, but my emotions are unsteady at best and I cannot help but be glad at the sight of him. He looks better than he should, clean and composed, and when his eyes light on me he gives me a smile that pulls one from my own lips.

  “Jane McKeene, well met,” he says as Redfern guides me onto the boardwalk.

  “Better met if I wasn’t in custody,” I shoot back, and he laughs.

  “True.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please, folks, can I get your attention?” The colored man standing on the boardwalk yells to be heard over the din of the crowd, and people grudgingly turn to him, tearing their angry glares away from me for the moment. I ain’t exactly terrified, but I will say that having this many people call for my neck ain’t giving me a whole lot of peace of mind.

  I’m beginning to think there might have been some wisdom in that Fort Riley idea.

  “Thank you, folks, thank you. Although I know a few of you, I have not had the chance to become acquainted with the bulk of you. I am Hamish Washington, mayor of this fine town. Welcome to Nicodemus!”

  I laugh as the crowd falls silent, and I swallow the sound at Redfern’s dark look. The looks of confuzzlement on the white folks’ faces as they look from Gideon Carr to Mayor Washington and then around the very lovely town of Nicodemus are like a vaudevillian act. They cannot fathom a colored mayor, which is no surprise when so many of them thought Summerland was the best idea since bobbed wire. Any place that sends colored folks out to die to protect white folks is fundamentally flawed, and so is any muttonhead that would support such a system.

  “While you can see that our small town here is growing more and more crowded by the minute, Nicodemus is a town founded on Christian values of hard work and charity. So you are all welcome to remain as long as you are willing to work.” Mayor Washington ignores the surprise and disgust that twist the pale faces before him. “We are also a town of laws, and we believe in fairness above all.”

  “That girl is responsible for the fall of Summerland!” a white woman with a hideous tan bonnet yells.

  “She murdered the sheriff in cold blood, and there was no one left to protect us!” another man yells.

  I stare at him, openmouthed. These fools somehow believe that Sheriff Snyder and his henchmen were keeping the town safe. No wonder they’re so angry with me. They think I was the cause of their undoing. And why not? A mouthy Negro girl without any kind of sense? I am the world’s most perfect scapegoat.

  The crowd begins to holler, and Mayor Washington holds up his hands once more. “I daresay that the horde outside our gates is responsible for that, friends. No single man could have kept your town safe.” Mayor Washington chuckles, but his humor only riles up the crowd even more. I look to Gideon with wide eyes and a slight tilt of my head, silently imploring him to step in. It’s clear that the folks from Summerland won’t respect a colored man, and maybe Gideon can use that family name of his for good.

  But he just gives me a wink and says nothing.

  “Either way, fine citizens of Summerland,” Mayor Washington says, redirecting the conversation once more, “we believe in upholding laws. We take your accusations against Miss McKeene here very seriously, and if she is responsible for killing your sheriff she will be punished accordingly. Gideon Carr and I will begin interviewing eyewitnesses forthwith, so that we can put this matter to rest, one way or the other.”

  I cannot help but stare at the mayor as he attempts to placate the citizens of Summerland. Trying to talk sense to this group of enraged white folks is the silliest thing I’ve witnessed in a spell. It’s like watching someone try to reason with the dead: dangerous and an absolute waste of time.

  People begin shouting once more, but I am hustled into the sheriff’s office by Redfern and Miss Duncan, my piece in this tableau apparently complete.

  Inside the office, the shouting is muted. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, but at least it’s a mite bit cooler than it is outside. While I’m taking stock of the office, desk, cell, and not much else, Redfern opens up the barred door and gestures for me to head inside.

  “Strip off your weapons first.” A muscle in his jaw flexes as he looks at me, and I’m struck once again with a kind of sadness at knowing he doesn’t care for me. I don’t often give a lick that people don’t like me, but every now and again I do. Something about Redfern—perhaps his ability to adapt so easily—makes me want to be able to call him a friend, even though I know that ain’t happening.

  I’ve dawdled too long, and he takes a step toward me. I raise an eyebrow at him. “You think I’m a murderer, too?”

  Redfern frowns. “What? No, I just need you in the cell until the council can organize a trial for you.”

  I snort. “You do understand that there’s no way I’m going to get any kind of a fair trial?”

  “Nicodemus is a town founded on Egalitarian principles by former slaves and a few Quaker settlers. I daresay you’ll get treated just like everyone else.” He says it with the certainty of a man who has spent the better part of his life believing in a system.

  I laugh, harsh and bitter. What was it Ida had told me back in Summerland? Something about white folks twisting the law to suit themselves. I have no doubt that there ain’t any justice to be found on all the continent for the Negro, and not even the promise of a town full of colored people is going to change that doubt. I watched the fine, educated, affluent Negroes in Baltimore turn a blind eye to the lives squandered in the name of keeping white folks safe. In my first few minutes in Nicodemus I’ve already seen Mayor Washington dancing for the Summerland folks. I ain’t got a lot of faith in the colored me
n of Nicodemus, either.

  They’re gonna hang me, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, and while they do they’ll find some way to twist it so that I should thank them for the pleasure of having my neck stretched.

  But Redfern is hardheaded; I don’t give him a philosophical debate, just point out the obvious. “Half of those folks out there calling for my neck are the same who stood by as hundreds of Negroes were forced into slavery and killed in Summerland. They’re trying to blame me for their town falling to the dead. You really think they care about justice?”

  “Jane,” Miss Duncan says, her voice kind, “we aren’t going to let you be lynched, but we have to do this the right way.”

  I scowl at her. Funny how the right way for white folks always ends up with someone else taking the blame. Or dying. But I don’t say that, because I’m tired and more than a little maudlin.

  For a second I wonder whether I could overpower the two of them. Redfern, maybe. But Miss Duncan is a whole other matter, and, with a sigh, I turn over my weapons. My sickles, boot knives, and sidearm make a tidy pile on Redfern’s desk, and he gathers it up and places it in a drawer while Miss Duncan locks the cell door behind me. And once more, I despair, my freedom taken so easily. It seems I am a caged bird; no matter how far I fly, I inevitably find myself beating my wings against bars.

  The cell contains nothing more than a moth-eaten cot and a filthy bucket. “The cot is clean,” Miss Duncan says at my askance look, “and I’ll fetch some water for you.”

  “And this?” I ask, nudging the bucket with my foot.

  Miss Duncan says nothing, just presses her lips together. If she thinks I’m going to perform my bodily functions with Redfern for an audience, she has another think coming.

  It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I’m not long for this cell. There’s only two ways this ends: with a noose around my neck, or with me hightailing it across the plains.