The elixir could only do so much, not until I could formulate one explicitly for this car. I hoped it would be enough to get us to someplace where I could do more extensive work.
I stood back and wiped my hands on the seat of my jeans, then instantly regretted it. My hands were somewhat less greasy but black smudges marked my jeans.
“Can you fire it up? And will it at least go into gear and move?”
“As I said in the ad, there’s something wrong with the fuel pump relay,” Brandon said. “I can give it a shot of ether and it will run for a bit. Then it dies for lack of fuel. It should last long enough to drive across the lot.”
I nodded. “Have you got the ether?”
He squatted to open the duffle bag and removed a spray can of ether. He sprayed a heavy dose of the ether through the grill into the air intake.
“Becki? Jeff?” I said. “Could one of you start it?”
Becki got into the driver’s seat. Through the windscreen I could see her lean forward to turn the key. Nothing happened.
I grinned and trotted around to the open driver’s door.
“You’ve got to engage the clutch to start it.” I said.
“Um...” She looked around the passenger compartment.
I pointed at the floor. “Parking brake,” I said, pointing at the leftmost pedal, then continued working from left to right. “Clutch. Brake. Accelerator. Left foot on the clutch. Right foot on the accelerator.”
She nodded.
“One more thing.” I reached across her and wiggled the gear shift. “Making sure it’s in neutral.”
I trotted back around to the front of the car. “Okay, hit it again.”
The engine groaned then turned over. It cranked for several seconds, coughing, then finally roared to life.
I made a show of inspecting the running engine. Truth was, all I needed was to know that it ran at all.
Modern science will deny the idea, but the truth is that all made things have a spirit—not a soul in the sense of living things, but a spirit. When people make something, they put a bit of themselves into it. That spirit remains so long as the made thing can fill the function for which it was created. It does not matter how badly it works, only that it works at all. If there is even a little bit of function, the spirit remains and alchemy can work on it.
So long as the spirit of the engine remained, alchemy could bring it back to full life. Same with any other working parts on the car.
That, at least, was my theory. It seemed to fit my experience.
I would not even need to use much of my own blood for that.
As the engine started to falter, I shut the hood and turned to Brandon. “Can you give it another shot?”
He bent and sprayed more ether into the intake. The engine revved, then settled. I did not have long for any further tests.
I went back to the driver’s door. “Hop out.”
Instead of exiting, Becki shifted over to the passenger seat. I climbed up into the Explorer and scooted forward in the seat. With only the ether to run on, I did not have time to adjust the seat and mirrors.
I made a quick check, confirming that Brandon and Jeff were both out of the way, depressed the clutch, and put the car into gear.
The Explorer moved forward. I turned the steering wheel first left, then right; the key subsystems of the car had to work at least somewhat if I was going to be able to restore it. The car responded. I depressed the clutch and brake. The Explorer stopped. I dropped it back into neutral just as the engine sputtered and died. I turned it off but left the keys in the ignition.
“Well?” Brandon asked as I opened the door.
“She’ll do.” I hopped down. “Five hundred, you said?”
“Five hundred. You got cash? ‘Cause I don’t do plastic and checks well...”
“I get you. You got the title ready?” I pulled the wad of cash from my hip pocket.
He removed an envelope from his back pocket and unfolded it. Inside was a Tennessee Certificate of Title. I counted out the cash and he signed the title.
Five minutes later, he pulled out of the parking lot, leaving me, Becki, and Jeff with the Explorer. At my request he had thrown in the can of ether.
When we were alone, I opened the gas fill port and poured in the remainder of the mechanical elixir.
“Let’s see if I gambled right,” I said. I took the can of ether to the front of the car. “Becki?”
She hopped into the driver’s seat.
A moment later, the car started, sounding much better than when we had first tried it. The elixir in the intake and the oil had already begun to work. I dashed around to take over from Becki in the driver’s seat.
The engine stumbled. I gave it a shot of gas and it kept running, stumbling, starved for fuel, but it kept running. After a bit, the stumbling smoothed out. The blue smoke pouring out of the exhaust cleared. I grinned.
“And we have a new car,” I said.
“What are we going to call it?” Becki asked.
Jeff climbed into the back seat. “Call it?”
“Well, the Caddy was the Green Monster. What do we call this one?”
I reached down to the lever that let me adjust the seat. Then reached up for the mirror, checking the view to the rear. “Do you have a suggestion?”
I pulled out into the street. The Explorer drifted to the left. I turned the wheel but the Explorer continued to drift toward the oncoming traffic.
“Front!” Jeff called.
I twisted the wheel harder. Finally, the Explorer veered back into its own lane.
Mental note. Steering was incredibly sloppy on this car.
“This thing is a menace,” Jeff said.
I grinned. “So, Menace it is.” I said. “The Orange Menace.”
“You going to keep it that color?” Becki asked.
“Why not? Green for the Monster. Orange for the Menace. Maybe the next one will be the Purple Plague or something.”
In the rear-view mirror, I saw her shudder.
#
I lifted the cup of coffee to my mouth and breathed deep of its aroma. Between the flight from Indianapolis and the search for a replacement car, I had been without sleep for entirely too long and I still had more hours to go. The Menace was running, but I would either have to pay a mechanic for extensive work on the suspension, engine, and transmission, which would likely require leaving it in the shop for at least a week, or I would have to do an alchemical restoration.
We sat in a small restaurant having an early dinner. I had bid farewell to the Monster. Jeff had driven it, following me to an old country road where we had parked it on the shoulder. With luck it would be days or even weeks before someone impounded it and ran the VIN, and by then we would be long gone from this area.
“So, what do we do now?” Jeff asked.
We had a quiet booth in a corner of the restaurant. With the waitress gone after taking our dinner orders, we had privacy to talk.
“I won’t have a new ID ready for another three years. The ones I have in preparation still show me as a minor. It would be hard for me to go back to high school without a parent or guardian.”
“Could one of us fill that role?” Jeff asked. “Pretend to be an older brother or sister raising you since our parents died?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have ID for either of you. We could get fakes but it would come apart the first time somebody does a check. I don’t fancy being in prison the next time the Shadows locate me.”
“So...what then?”
I sighed. “We need to go somewhere it’s easier to create a fake background. I hear South America is nice this time of year.”
I looked over at Becki who sat staring into her cup—tea, not coffee. “Becki?”
“What happened to Chuck?” She looked up at me. “There was that light, then...what was he ranting about?”
I paused in thought for a moment. “You understand he was being ridden by one of the Shadows?”
“You’ve said
that. What does it mean?”
I sighed. “The Shadows are vulnerable to light. It hurts them but until—was it only yesterday—I didn’t think it really harmed them, if you understand the distinction.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Spring, 1817
I walked into the small settlement of Portland on the shore of Lake Erie, not far from where Commander Perry had defeated a British fleet a few years before.
My horse followed placidly behind, furs piled high on his back. From where I stood, I could see the docks down by Sandusky Bay where a schooner floated at dockside. An early spring breeze ruffled the budding limbs of the trees, bringing a reminder of the previous night’s chill.
People scurried around the ships. A few more clustered around one of the larger buildings, which I presumed was a store or trading post. I walked that way.
As I passed between the houses, a few people stopped to look at me but most paid me no particular attention. Trappers, I supposed, were common enough here.
One paused a bit longer than others. “Mornin’.”
“Morning.” I tilted my head in the direction of the larger building. “Trading post?”
The man nodded. “And general store.”
“Much obliged,” I said.
“You stayin’ long?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Depends, I suppose. I’ve been out so long I’ve lost track of time. What day is it?”
“April 19, Saturday. Will we be seein’ you at church tomorrow?” He pointed at a frame building with a small steeple containing a brass bell.
“It will be my pleasure, sir,” I said. To be honest, I intended to trade and leave but I did not want to offend by saying so.
“Then good day to you, sir,” the man said.
“And a good day to you.”
He turned away and I continued to the store.
The store was typical of the trading posts I had seen over the past decades. The proprietor looked up at me.
“You here to trade or cause trouble?”
I bit back a retort. I merely held up my hands. “Trade. Furs.”
He wiped his hands on a rag and approached. “All right. Let’s see ‘em.”
I led him out to my horse. His opening bid was to mention that the schooner was headed west and so not in the market for furs on this run. Thus, he would have to hold them for the next eastbound ship. We spent some time dickering before settling on a price.
I needed the coin. Alchemical supplies and equipment were hard to find in the wilderness. After South River I feared spending much time in towns but the dwindling supply of my Elixir of Life meant that I would have to brave one soon.
A quick question directed me to Old Widow Smith’s house where a few coins obtained a room, the first bath I had had in a long time, and promise of dinner.
Attending church the next day seemed a small price indeed for the unaccustomed luxury of bath, hot meal, and real bed.
#
I woke with the cock’s crow. Widow Smith met me at the door of my room, holding a basin of hot water, a towel over her left arm. Before I could say anything, she brushed past me and set the basin and towel on the small table next to the window. From the pocket on her apron she produced a small block of soap and a folding razor which she set next to the basin.
“Now, you get yourself shaved proper, Mr. Gensch.” she said. I had introduced myself as Erwin Gensch. “You need to look fit for church.”
Widow Smith appeared to be not far into her thirties. Her hair was light brown with honey highlights and her body showed the sign of toil. Yet despite the lines of care and toil etched into her face, she also bore lines of humor. Life had assaulted her. It had not, however, defeated her. All in all, a mature, handsome woman.
I smiled. “As my lady wishes.”
“Get along with you, now.” She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door. At the door, she turned back to me. “You should have enough time to shave before I call you for breakfast. The bell will call people to church.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s been a while. There aren’t many churches in the Indiana Terr...no, I suppose it’s the State of Indiana now.”
“The country’s growing,” Widow Smith said. “And we’ll bring those heathens to God soon enough.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
To be honest, after six hundred years of seeing the horrors I’d seen, from the Black Death to witch hunts, I was not sure there was a God, let alone one that was kind and loving. Later, I came to different conclusions, but just then...
No matter, though. Admitting to a growing, what would eventually be called agnosticism, was simply unwise in that time and place.
“Now you hurry up and get down to breakfast or I’ll have to throw it to the pigs.”
“I’ll be quick, ma’am,” I said.
“You know, you’re the first young man to be through here since my husband died. Most of the trappers who stop here more resemble bear than man. And they’re only interested in...well, never you mind.” She flashed me a quick smile before the door closed and I turned to my shaving.
Young? If only she knew.
#
I mounted the short run of steps up to the chapel door. I pulled on the ornate brass knob opening the door then turned, holding the door for Widow Smith. She gave me a slight nod of her head and a coquettish smile as she swept past me.
Widow Smith wore a bodice and skirts in deep green. The full sleeves ended in tight-fitting cuffs secured by pale buttons. A small fringe of lace played at her throat. Her pleated skirt swirled around her legs, not as full as was the fashion when I fled Massachusetts but wide enough to contrast her narrow waist.
I followed Widow Smith into the chapel and frowned. Instead of the brightness of open windows I had come to expect of most Christian churches, this one was dim, almost gloomy.
Inside, I saw that the men and boys sat on one side of the chapel, women and girls on the other. Even families split up that way. While this seemed odd, I had heard that some sects had become stricter about association between the sexes and so thought that perhaps this sect disapproved of even casual contact between men and women during worship services.
Widow Smith waved to me. “You sit over there, Mr. Gensch.”
I nodded at her confirmation of my assessment.
The locals crowded into the front pews, seeming to vie to see whoever could sit closest to the altar. Or perhaps there was some precedence I did not understand. I took a seat in the back, comfortable in my isolation.
The slight buzz of conversation died and I looked up to the altar. A man in dark clothes climbed two steps to the lectern. He turned to face the congregation and I noticed with surprise that a leather strap fastened around his head and covered his eyes.
I shook my head. There was no particular reason why a preacher could not be blind. A good job for a blind man, I supposed provided he knew scripture well enough. Better than begging at any rate.
“Brothers and sisters,” the preacher said. “Let us pray.”
He bowed his head and I followed suit. The prayer was typical, asking for good weather for the crops, safety for the sailors that visited their port, and health and security for the members of the congregation. He also asked the Lord to intercede with certain ladies of ill repute—he named three and I took note of the names; a man had needs after all—that the spirit would move them to end their evil ways and they would come to Jesus.
After the prayer we sang a song, one I had first learned in German. The English version sounded odd to my ears but was pleasant enough.
He then began to preach.
“Brothers and sisters, the Lord calls on us to be a light in the darkness. And yet to do so, one has to go into the darkness. A light among other lights does not shine. It only shines in darkness. So you must venture into the darkness, join it, embrace it so that your light can shine. For did not even our Lord dine with publicans and sinners?”
That was, I thought, a stran
ge topic for a sermon. The locals, however, seemed quite happy with it. He continued for some time in that vein.
After the sermon the congregation sang another song, one I was not familiar with, and then closed with another prayer.
The congregation stood almost as one at the end of the prayer. I turned to slip out but found Widow Smith standing in front of me.
“Mr. Gensch, you simply must meet the parson.”
“Of course,” I said.
The departing crowd veered around her as she made her way up the aisle toward the altar. I followed in her wake.
As we reached the altar the preacher was bending and snuffing a candle.
“Parson,” Widow Smith said. “This is Mr. Erwin Gensch. He’s just arrived in town.”
The preacher straightened and turned toward me, he held out a hand. I took it and shook.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gensch. Do you plan to stay long?”
“Not too long, I’m afraid,” I said. “Figured to spend a little time in civilization before heading back into the wild.”
The preacher laughed. “Well, now, I wouldn’t exactly call our little town civilization, but we do try.”
“That was an interesting sermon you gave,” I said.
“Yes. Walking into the darkness is a theme I touch on a lot.”
“It is? It’s not something I...”
“I’ll just leave you two alone,” Widow Smith said. “I need to be getting dinner on back at the house.”
“Of course,” the preacher said.
“Now don’t you be stayin’ here too long, Mr. Gensch...Erwin.” She tilted her face down and looked up at me through lowered lids.
“Uh...” I stuttered, not sure how to take this change in her body language. “I’m...sure I won’t be too long.”
“See that you’re not.” She patted me on the cheek then turned and walked up the aisle.
I shook my head then turned back to the preacher. “Where was I?”
“You were asking about my sermon on venturing into the dark.” The preacher smiled. “I have spent many years studying the Good Book and I note that this is common not just with the Lord but with the prophets is that they do not spend their time with the holy, but instead go to the unclean, the evil, the dark. It is darkness that they follow, darkness into which they journey, darkness with which they surround themselves.”
Alchemy of Shadows Page 12
