Of Honey and Wildfires

by Sarah Chorn

  He felt uncomfortable, truthfully, sitting in this empty car with all these empty, leather seats, knowing there were likely a hundred men behind him, standing for hours. Unwashed bodies pressed against unwashed bodies. All those sad goodbyes as they left their families behind to go chase the liquid gold that Shine Company paid them to pump or mine out of the belly of the world.

  He’d never felt the line between himself and others so keenly. His nice clothes had never felt more damning.

  The train sped along the tracks, chewing up the countryside. It was one thing to see it on a map, but being in the middle of the Territory showed him just how vast a tract of land his father owned. It was unending. He’d spent most of his life feeling like a big fish, but now, suddenly, he felt so very small.

  They stopped in a town called Natville an hour into their journey. Natville was small, barely more than a handful of cabins on a sloping hill, and a few stores to supply the workers camped out around the station, waiting for the next train that would take them northwest, to the shine mines.

  There, about half the people got off the train, each of them darker than anyone Arlen had yet seen in Shine Territory, their rainbow-hued skin and hair looking almost stormy in comparison to the duskier hues of most everyone else. He watched them depart, the hardest, most worn of the lot, and also the youngest. Watched as the town of Natville swallowed them up, shoulders slumped, clothes barely more than rags.

  The people Shine Company hired to work the shine mines always fell into two groups. Those who were large and burly, men who didn’t mind hard labor, lifting and smashing for hours on end, and the small boys whose families were so destitute they had to send their kids off so the family waiting at home could have enough money to eat their next meal.

  The boys were what did him in. Those small bodies, whipcord thin, and so very young. They’d fit in the smallest mine passageways. They could go where grown men couldn’t, and so they mined for anywhere from ten to twelve hours a day, digging out rock, sending all their pay home.

  He knew this. He was the son of the owner of the company. Of course, he’d been taught how things ran. But it was another thing entirely to actually see it.

  “I understand the shock. I felt it too when I first came out here, but think of it like this,” Elroy said, obviously following the direction of Arlen’s of thoughts. He wondered if this was a shock everyone felt upon seeing the realities of life out here for the first time. “Those kids, those entire families, would have died if it wasn’t for the opportunity to work that we offer them. It’s hard, back-breaking, but we feed them, clothe them, take care of their health concerns, and send their wages home so their families don’t starve. It’s ugly, Arlen, but we’re doing them a service.” Elroy paused. “It’s no different back home. How many kids do you see working in the factories, the mills? It’s an ugly fact of life.”

  “I wonder,” Arlen replied, “do they see it that way?”

  Elroy shrugged. “There are always discontents, but most people stay quiet. In the end, we all just want to live. It looks grim out that window right now, but every boy leaving to work the mines today represents one family that isn’t starving because of him. Hopefully, it won’t always have to be like this.”

  The train started moving again, slowly picking up speed. The next stop would be in an hour or so, in Grove. Between the two towns was nothing but sprawling countryside speckled by farms and livestock, a few cabins here and there. If he had his paints and brushes, Arlen would have loved to stand out there at sunset, and set the landscape on canvas. Immortalize it.

  “Tell me—" Elroy began.

  The train lurched, brakes screaming on the line.

  “Are we scheduled to stop?” Arlen asked.

  Something was wrong. He knew it the same way he knew the sun was shining outside. Elroy grabbed a pistol from his coat pocket, and Arlen immediately felt the lack of the same. He hadn’t even thought of a pistol. They were so rare, far too expensive, it never crossed his mind. His eyes flashed to the small vials of shine on Elroy’s belt, enough to fill up a few extra rounds of his gun, if needed. Arlen could get one and…

  And what? He couldn’t manipulate shine, which meant any gun he held wouldn’t fire. It would be a toy, not a weapon.

  Suddenly, all this wide-open sky felt threatening. Anything could happen out here, between stations, between towns, between spots of civilization, and who could save him? Who would even know?

  The train screeched to a halt, cars bumping against cars. Thrown off his seat, his body went sprawling, his head banging into the wall, blurring his vision and making his ears ring. Then, everything went silent and still.

  Too silent.

  Too still.

  All he could hear was the rasp of his breath and the pounding of his heart while his blood sought refuge in the harbor of his heart.

  “Stay down,” Elroy hissed, pistol out, feet braced. He wasn’t the easygoing coworker anymore. No, this man was the bodyguard. A man with a gun in his hand, and every intention to use it. This was a side of Elroy he had never seen. His commanding presence. Those flexed muscles. The body coiled, waiting to strike.

  His vision narrowed to a pinpoint until all he was aware of was the quiet. So much quiet.

  “Hand me something,” Arlen hissed. “A stick, a pole. Anything loose. Hand me something, damn it.” He was whispering, the words a sibilant hiss. It surprised him, this sudden, overwhelming desire to defend himself, though all either of them knew was that the train was stopped. Nothing more. No immediate threat. Nothing to worry about.

  And yet.

  The door to the car opened, a whisper of movement, before a breath of fresh air entered the closed space.

  “Stay the fuck down,” Elroy hissed.

  All Arlen could see from the ground were Elroy’s boots, shiny and black. Elroy turned toward the door and then it all seemed to happen at once.

  Shouting. So much shouting. Men with deep voices. The deafening explosion of guns and the flash of shine as pistols fired off deadly sprays of the stuff. Elroy let loose a few shots, cursing, hand straight and aim true, or so Arlen hoped.

  Something whizzed past Arlen’s head, close enough to feel the breeze of it rustle his hair. He touched his ear with shaking fingers and did not feel blood, which filled him with relief. He turned his eye to the seat beside him, fixed his gaze on the telltale burn from a shine bullet. A hole had formed, burning through the leather, a thin stream of shine-sweet smoke drifting from the wound. His heart thudded in his chest. That could have been him. One inch to the right, and it could have been his head burst open like a watermelon, burning away like that leather seat.

  Elroy cursed, the gun flying from his hand. Drops of red spattered the floor. He spun and fell with a thud.

  And then it all went so impossibly quiet.

  Arlen closed his eyes, curled in on himself, and tried to look dead. There were two of them by the sound of it. Thick boots thudding on the polished wooden floor. He felt each footstep roll through him like a tidal wave of intent. No words, just those feet moving slowly, so slowly, toward him.

  Please think I’m dead.

  Please think I’m dead.

  Please think I’m dead.

  “This one is injured,” a man said, voice low and raspy. “Shine hit him in his shoulder. Looks like he’s knocked out.”

  A grunt from further away answered him. Footfalls, coming closer.

  “This one…” the feet moved until Arlen felt the toe under his cheek, lifting it. “Ain’t nothing wrong with this one. Seems to be playing possum. You think this is the one you was lookin’ for?”

  Fear was a cold fist wrapped around his heart, making it impossible to move, impossible to budge. He was frozen in place, laying there like a lamb on his way to the slaughter. All the fight in him fled.

  “Probably,” a deep voice answered. “ A man don’t come out here just to stand guard for nobody.”

  A hand slapped Arlen’s cheek, pulled on hi
s hair roughly. The sting went all the way through him. “You alive, boy?”

  Arlen opened his eyes and met the cold, passionless gaze of a killer. There was nothing else he could be, out here robbing trains, firing off pistols. A person didn’t live like this unless he had a good relationship with hacking out his days and paying for each one with blood.

  His foreboding was made worse because he could only see the criminal’s eyes. Hat pulled low, his nose and mouth covered by a colorful kerchief. All Arlen could see was that violet stare and the small crow’s feet etched into his dusky violet skin. That was the gaze of a man who had nothing left to lose.

  He’d never noticed how empty eyes could be. They were the loneliest things on the planet, seeing everything, yet keeping none of it. Doorways to pass through, but not a place to stay.

  “I don’t have anything,” Arlen babbled. Fear filled him up, cold, with long nails that scratched at his soul. “No money. I’m an accountant. A fucking accountant. I’m not—"

  “Wasn’t we looking for an accountant?” the other man said. He was further away now, not right over him.

  “What’s your name?” the one with the violet eyes asked, his kerchief puffing with every word. The air felt oppressive, as though it had weight, and it was bearing down on him.

  “Your name!” the man shouted when he didn’t answer fast enough.

  “A-A-Arlen.”

  The criminal let out a long, low sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation, as though he didn’t really want to be doing this. He didn’t want to be out here, under the sun, stopping trains and robbing the innocent people on them, but a man had to do what a man had to do.

  Violet Eyes, as Arlen decided to call him, opened up his coat, feeling his pockets, doubtless looking for weapons. Doubtless, for shine, or money, or any number of other things an outlaw would want. “My father won’t pay a ransom. He won’t… you’re wasting your time.”

  No reaction.

  Those hands moved, steadily, patting the collar of his shirt before moving down, skimming his sides, stopping at his chest. And suddenly the cold fear that filled him up earlier was replaced by fire heating his blood, filling his cheeks. “What the fuck is this?” Violet Eyes asked, real surprise coloring the statement. It transformed his gaze from cold to vibrant and alive. Eager.

  Exposed. Arlen suddenly felt so very, very exposed.

  “What?” The other man asked, still somewhere distant. Arlen could hear him looking through drawers on the coffee service station. Neither of them seemed too worried about Elroy.

  “Take the injured one out. Dose him with some shine till he’s too high to move for a few days, and tie him to your horse. Let the men know they need to keep all the workers the fuck on the train.”

  “Right-o, boss.” In a flash, the other man was pulling Elroy off the train, his body limp and lagging, blood smearing behind him as he went. And then, Arlen and Violet Eyes were alone.

  Just the two of them.

  And oh, his stare burned. The outlaw sat back, leaning against the chair Elroy had just been sitting in. “Who are you?” he asked, pulling the kerchief from his face.

  It took a moment for Arlen’s mind to catch on, to pull together all the threads of what was happening. What had happened. He remembered the outlaw poster that Elroy had shown him. And he knew. He knew this man. He had the same captivating eyes, the same crow’s feet, the same weathered gaze. This was…

  “You know who I am. I can see as much. So, who the fuck are you?”

  “Arlen Esco,” Arlen whispered. “Son of—"

  “You ain’t no boy.”

  “I—"

  “You’ve got a mighty smooth face for a boy. You got breasts, too, bound up nice and tight, but they are there. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Arlen is who I am. I am a man in every way that truly matters.”

  “You weren’t born an Arlen,” the outlaw replied. “What was your name when you were in swaddling clothes?”

  He hesitated, licked his lips. He didn’t like thinking about this. Didn’t like remembering, and certainly didn’t want to expose this part of himself to someone he didn’t know and had no reason to trust. But here he was, sitting before this infamous outlaw. “Tell me,” the older man pressed. “Now.”

  “Alice,” he whispered. “Alice was my birth name.” He’d been Arlen as long as he could remember. It was just who he was. He had some vague memories of being called Alice, but he hated thinking of them, and so he didn’t. Even as a child so very, very young, Alice had felt wrong. It wasn’t him. Alice was a stranger, someone who borrowed his body for a time and nothing more.

  Christopher Hobson, the Shine Bandit, and his kidnapper rubbed a hand over his face and cursed long and low. “And Matthew Esco is your father?”

  “Yes.”

  The outlaw punched his fist through the wall of the train. Arlen jumped with a yelp of fear. “That bastard,” Chris hissed through clenched teeth.

  Arlen folded in on himself, pulled his knees up to his chin to protect his vitals, afraid of what would happen if the man suddenly decided to put his fist through Arlen, rather than the wall. Instead of more anger, Chris seemed to deflate, hiding his face behind his hands. He let out a low moan, sounding more injured animal than man. Finally, he took in a deep, calming breath and whispered, “Oh, this pain.”

  Then, in a blink, in a flash, the moment was over and he reached out to grab Arlen’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing their gazes to meet across the gulf that divided them. There was sorrow in those eyes. Such profound, unbelievable sorrow. A well of it, newly-tapped and surging. The Shine Bandit was a man suddenly, with an unhealed, soul-deep wound.

  “Does he treat you well?” Chris asked, his voice cracking. Those eyes were filling with tears, catching the light, making his vivid violet irises shimmer, as unforgettable as a sunset. His hands were shaking, his touch soft as a butterfly’s wings. “Does that man treat you well? Did he raise you right? Did you ever want for anything?”

  “I was well cared for,” Arlen said. “I wanted for nothing.” This conversation, this entire event, was about something he wasn’t aware of, something he didn’t understand.

  Arlen took in a breath and steadied his nerves. If Christopher Hobson had wanted him dead, he’d be dead, not having a conversation. He was fine, for now. At this moment, the outlaw had no intention of hurting him. “Matthew Esco has taken care of me well enough,” he finally reiterated, voice firmer and far stronger than he’d expected it to be. He made himself comfortable. Made himself ready for whatever was about to come next.

  It wasn’t like he could do anything else. He had no gun. Had no way to defend himself, and Elroy was injured, bleeding, and likely tied up already, so it was just him out here, under that big blue sky with the countryside stretching and yawning all around him. This wasn’t what he’d imagined a heist to be like when he’d read those copper-piece stories as a boy.

  He wanted to get up and run toward the horizon and keep going until he found somewhere safe to put up for the night, but he couldn’t. He was as trapped as a man could possibly be.

  “You’ve got a shine burn on your coat,” the outlaw said, fingering a hole in his suit coat. “But you aren’t injured.”

  “Lucky shot,” Arlen said. His forced laugh sounded more like the bark of a dog. His hands were shaking, vision blurring. He’d almost been shot. If he was anyone else, anyone at all, that shot would have killed him. Life, he realized, was so incredibly fragile and it was nothing but the breath of Fate that had kept him from losing his.

  “Well,” the outlaw said, gaining his feet. “Get up, Arlen. Just do what I say, and you’ll be fine.”

  “What do you want from me and Elroy?” Arlen asked, remembering his companion, wounded and likely strapped to the back of a horse.

  “From both of you? Nothing. Wouldn’t give the steam off my piss to that man tied up out there. From you? You are the son of the company owner, Arlen. Your father sent you out he
re with one shitty bodyguard, and that old coot who is lost up in the mines chasing rumors and ghosts. Papa Esco was a fucking fool, and you’re paying for it. As for you…” his voice trailed off. “Well, that’s another matter.”

  “He won’t ransom me,” Arlen whispered. “My father. He has a rule about paying off bandits. I knew that before I came out here. He said if I was caught, I was on my own.” And wasn’t that a kick in the teeth, because every word of it was true. As far as his father figured, only a fool got kidnapped by outlaws, and he had no truck with the foolish.

  “Matthew might as well have sent you trussed up in money, dancing in the city square.” He paused, unrolled his kerchief and flattened it out. “Get up, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid. I’m a man grown. Twenty-one. I’ve been to university. Stop treating me as though I am a child.” Why on earth he felt the need to stand up for himself was beyond him. The man was a train robber, for Fate’s sake. Christopher Hobson was the last person whose opinion should matter.

  “Fine, big man,” the outlaw said. “Come along.” He tied his kerchief around his mouth again, and pulled his hat low, hiding his violet hair and lined face. Hiding everything but those eyes.

  He kicked Arlen’s feet until he pulled himself to standing, and then took hold of his shoulder, fingers biting into his skin, and pushed him forward. “Keep your fucking head down and your goddamned mouth closed,” his captor hissed. “And keep your secrets to yourself. If you do that, you just might survive.”

  And then they were out of the train and under the sun.

  I wake with the sun. For a moment, I lay in bed, stunned. Yesterday was a bad day, even considering that all of my days are bad now. Truthfully, when I closed my eyes, I thought that to be the end of it. But I am awake, watching the sky paint itself with the colors of tomorrow, wisps of clouds decorating the heavens like lace.

  The sanatorium is silent, save for my rasping breath. It bubbles in my lungs. The iron tang of blood sits like a stone in the back of my mouth. Life is sweet. Odd, that it should taste so bitter.