by David Boop
“The lore that silver can harm shapeshifters includes references dating as far back as the Middle Ages,” Hale lectured. “However, its usefulness as a weapon is a modern development. This is because silver is comparatively soft—at least when compared to steel. Silver makes a fine ceremonial blade, but is hardly practical for repeated use in battle. Bullets, however, can be made of even softer metals, such as lead.”
He leveled the pistol at her, taking careful aim. “Prudence Bledsloe, I command you, accept the moon’s kiss and die!”
But Prudence was not about to stand there and wait for him to pull the trigger. A skilled shot herself, she knew how often amateurs misjudged even carefully aimed shots. What she couldn’t risk was that Hale’s aim relied less on his ability with a pistol than upon black magic. She leapt onto the nearest desk, so that Hale’s shot, rather than penetrating her heart, passed through her skirts.
Filbert had stopped moving, forgotten as Hale struggled to reorient the unfamiliar weapon. Prudence leapt from the desk onto the youth, knocking him flat so that a chance shot would not harm him. Then she raced away, leaping erratically from desktop to floor, rolling in the aisles, doing everything she could to keep Hale from drawing a bead on her. Her task was complicated in that she tried to keep the three children, whose droning recitations and erratic screams had continued throughout the confrontation out of the line of fire. Hale’s next shot missed, but the one after perforated her dress’s mutton-leg sleeve, another drilled a hole through the bun that rose behind Prudence’s wolf’s ears.
Hale was so focused on shooting Prudence, that he didn’t notice that the werewolf’s erratic progression had a purpose to it. Leap by leap, she was drawing closer to him, well aware that even an unpracticed marksman could hit at close range. Hale cackled madly as he leveled the pistol, aiming for her snarling wolf’s muzzle. Rather than dodging back or side to side, as Hale clearly expected, Prudence dropped to her hands and knees. Her long skirts kept her from moving easily on all fours, but her forearms were strong enough to hold her as she kicked off with her feet against the floorboards and leapt at the schoolmaster.
First, Prudence tore the pistol from his hand and threw it across the room. Then she gripped the schoolmaster’s skull in one clawed hand, and braced his spine with the other. Bending his neck, she bit down through gristle and spine until the laughter abruptly stopped. There was no blood, for what remained of Samuel Hale held neither blood nor tears nor pity. Nonetheless, the eyes in the nearly severed head remained horribly alive and the mouth continued to declaim.
“Nothing shall end my triumph over death!” Hale shrieked.
“You sure?” Prudence drawled as she tore Hale’s head free from the shreds of flesh and tendon, then threw it so that it smashed into the chalkboard and broke into flinders. The eyes rolled free from the shattered bone, their unholy light gleaming for a final long moment before going out—hopefully forever.
Before the scholars awoke from their daze, Prudence hastily reverted to her human form, then draped her cloak to cover the damage to her attire. She was unchaining Rosemarie when she heard pounding feet on the treads of the supernatural stair. Charlie ran directly to Prudence, clutching her skirts to reassure himself that all was well with her. A few paces behind, Sheriff Dixon paused wide-eyed in the doorway, Reverend Jenkins peering around him.
“When I heard you’d given Charlie lines, I feared the worst,” the lawman explained, “as did Reverend Jenkins. I kept watch and, when I saw you go toward the schoolhouse, I paused long enough to bring the reverend—for not only did I wish to catch you in the act, I needed a reliable witness. What the hell is this?”
Momentary eloquence lost, the sheriff gestured to where the shriveling but still recognizable corpse of Samuel Hale sprawled headless on the floor of his dark temple to knowledge. Reverend Jenkins sprinkled what was probably holy water on Hale’s corpse. If he sprinkled a little on Prudence as well, she forgave him.
The minister continued the sheriff’s account. “When we arrived at the schoolhouse, the door was locked. We peered through gaps in the curtains, and it seemed that the building was empty. We were inspecting the woodshed and outbuildings when Charlie threw open the door and shouted for us to come with him. Can you tell us what has happened?”
Prudence stood tall within her cloak, doing her best to look schoolmistressish and prim. “I believe the Bible has words that speak to the case of Samuel Hale far better than ever they did to that of Saint Paul.”
The sheriff looked confused. Reverend Jenkins gave a dry cough that was not quite laughter. “I believe I know which words you mean.”
“Well, I don’t,” Sheriff Dixon said. “Mind enlightening me?”
As one, minister and werewolf quoted, “‘Much learning doth make thee mad.’”
SUNLIGHT AND SILVER
Jeffrey J. Mariotte
The trip west from Trinidad, Colorado, should have been easy, but a stinging rain had fallen after Caleb Willows set out. The trail turned slick, the wagon’s wheels caught in the mud, and by the time he camped that first night at the base of Purgatoire Peak in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, he already regretted accepting the commission. His horse was miserable, he was miserable, and he figured whatever he earned from the job would be spent replacing the animal and laying in enough firewood to keep his home warm, because he wanted never to be so cold again.
Having anticipated problems with the weather, Caleb had packed his equipment carefully in its cases, then wrapped the whole in oilcloth to keep it dry. He’d placed it in his buckboard, directly behind his bench so it wouldn’t slide around. He wished he could have treated himself the same way.
The second day dawned frigid but clear, and with the morning sun at his back, throwing his shadow out past that of the horse, he worked his way up the mountain toward Naciemento.
He had been on the road for less than an hour when he saw a single figure ahead of him, on foot, carrying a saddle, a rifle, and a knapsack. The man heard him and turned around, waiting. Caleb slowed the wagon and eyed as bedraggled a human as he had ever seen. Wet mud caked the cowboy’s boots and dappled his jeans. Even his once-proud wide-brimmed hat drooped shapelessly around his head.
“If you’re headed—well, anywheres, I’d sure appreciate a ride, mister,” the cowboy said.
“Hop aboard,” Caleb replied. “I have business in Naciemento. As far as I know, that’s the only place this road goes.”
“That’s more or less where I’m headed. Heard tell there might be some work up that way.”
“Not ranch work, I don’t think. I believe there are some farms around town, though.”
The man put his things in the buckboard’s bed, taking care not to get mud on Caleb’s gear. “I’ll take what I can get. I got busted out of the outfit I was with, and somebody told me there’s someplace hirin’ up the mountain.”
“Well, you’re welcome to ride along with me. I’m Caleb Willows.”
The cowboy climbed onto the seat beside Caleb, tugging off a leather glove and offering his rough, weathered hand. “Nate Murdock,” he said. “Thanks for the hospitality.” He put the glove back on as he sat back. “That rain yesterday ’bout drowned me in my boots. The horse my old boss guv me slipped on a wet rock, busted her leg somethin’ fierce. Bone stickin’ out through her flesh. Pain she was in, this far away from any doctorin’, tweren’t but one thing I could do for her. Hated to do it, and not just because it left me afoot. But she’s sleepin’ peaceful now, out of pain forever.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Caleb agreed. Just the same, if his horse had broken a bone, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it. He had a rifle in a scabbard lashed to the bench, but he was no shooting man. A scholar and an artist, he bought his meat from a butcher. He had packed the rifle mostly for show, to discourage potential robbers. And he had heard bears stalked these mountains.
Murdock was an amiable enough passenger, and they chatted along the way, reaching Naciemento at mi
dafternoon. Although not quite September, early autumn colors carpeted the slopes surrounding the town: bright yellows, rich oranges, deep browns, and reds so vivid they almost hurt the eye. Not for the first time he wished he knew a way, short of hand tinting, for photographs to capture the true colors of nature. He saw the world with a photographer’s eye, and had often said that of all the senses, he prized vision the most. He would rather be struck deaf, or be unable to smell or taste or even feel, than lose his sight. Only his eyes truly mattered.
He let the remarkable view delay him for only moments, though. The sun had reached its zenith, and then some, and he wanted to be able to work before it vanished behind the western peak. He urged the horse forward, and soon they reached the town proper.
“Ain’t the friendliest place, is it?” Murdock observed.
He was right. People on the street glanced at them and hurried on their way, but offered no words of welcome, no smiles. Caleb felt under suspicion from the moment of their arrival. He noticed that the town’s one church, a large adobe structure, looked abandoned, with scorch marks shooting up its outer walls. He saw two saloons, a few stores. Down a side road, he spotted a laundry and a place that might have been a brothel.
“No, it’s not,” Caleb said. “Are you sure about looking for work here?”
“A man’s got to work, he wants to call himself that,” Murdock answered. “I’ll find somethin’, or keep movin’ on. Thanks again for the lift.”
“You’re welcome. If you’re ever down in Trinidad, look me up. Caleb Willows Photographic Arts, on Commercial Street.”
“I’ll do that.” Murdock hopped down, grabbed his things from the back, and stood in the street, turning in a slow circle, as if unsure which way to go.
Caleb missed him already. Given the sense he got that Naciemento didn’t particularly welcome strangers, he appreciated the man’s friendliness all the more, as well as the sense that he knew how to use that rifle he carried.
His client, Hodding Benson, had given him directions back in Trinidad, and soon he pulled up in front of the Benson homestead. It was a small house at the edge of town, with a lush garden behind it. Mounted on the wall beside the door was a bell, nearly the size of Caleb’s head. Something to use to call in their child at suppertime, he supposed.
Too bad they’d never again need it.
The day’s relative warmth had vanished, as if Nate Murdock had carried it with him, and Caleb cursed the cold as he carried his equipment into the house. But it was warm inside, for which he was grateful. Hodding Benson explained, “I left it chill for three days, as must be. I started a fire just this morning, as you suggested.”
“Good,” Caleb said. “Has the house a basement, or another windowless space that I can close off? I need a working space with as little light as possible, and another, where we’ll pose her, with as much light as possible.”
“A contrarian, then,” Benson said. “There’s a parlor you can close off, and I believe the most light comes in through the girl’s bedroom windows.”
“Good, good. We can pose her on her bed, if you like. Or we can bring in a lounge or chair from some other room, if you’d rather. I think it best if she’s sitting up, to some degree.”
“Then a chair might be most natural,” Benson suggested.
“As long as it’s of adequate size. Some subjects are not easily posed.”
“I’ll help with her.”
While Caleb made additional trips out to the wagon to bring everything in, and got his darkroom gear set up in the parlor, Benson carried a chair into the bedroom, drew back the curtains, and went to fetch Addie, his daughter.
As Caleb had feared, she was hard to pose.
Benson hadn’t left Naciemento until the day after she’d passed, and it had taken him a full day on horseback to reach Trinidad. Upon his arrival, he had made inquiries, and wound up hiring Caleb for the job. But Caleb hadn’t been able to leave until the next day. So four days had elapsed. Benson had kept Addie cold, but Caleb had warned him that she shouldn’t appear frozen, so for the last several hours, he’d been warming her. That had the unfortunate, but unavoidable, effect of stiffening her in a different way—one he hoped would leave her slightly more malleable.
As they worked to prop her in the chair facing the window, a favorite doll clasped in her hands, Benson gasped. “Your hands,” he said. “Did you suffer frostbite on your journey?”
Caleb looked at his hands; he was so accustomed to the black fingertips and dark nails, caused by the silver nitrates he worked in, that he tended to forget about them until someone else noticed. “An occupational hazard, I fear,” he said. “The photographic chemicals stain them. They’re always that way.”
Benson nodded. “Guess so. How does she look?”
“We’re close,” Caleb said. “Have you a cross, or any other religious articles that you’d like to be in the image with her?”
“We don’t truck in those things here,” Benson said sharply. Caleb couldn’t be sure if by “here” he meant in their home, or in Naciemento, with its one vacated church.
“Fine, then. Perhaps you could wait in another room, now. I shouldn’t want to be disturbed while I work.”
“Of course,” Benson agreed. “Her mother’s been beside herself. She’s resting now; she’s hardly left her bed for days. I’ll look in on her. Call if you need anything.”
When Benson had left the room, Caleb rearranged Addie. He angled her chin up a little, as if she’d heard something outside. Taking a spoon from an equipment bag, he used its handle to pry her upper eyelids open and to push the lowers down. Dampening his fingertip with saliva, he rolled her eyeballs until the pupils were in their proper position. With the sun reflecting off them, she would look almost lifelike. He’d had to paint eyes to appear open in the past, and it never looked quite real.
With her in place, he hurried back to the parlor, racing the sunlight. In the darkened room, with a cloth spread to keep out any stray light, he worked quickly, by feel. He poured collodion on a sheet of glass, turning and tilting it this way and that, expertly coating it. That done, he closed it in a box and carried it through the house, to the bedroom. As he went back and forth, he heard a woman’s weeping from another room, and the soft rumble of Benson’s voice trying to soothe her.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled forward the focus window, inserted the coated plate, and closed it with a snap. He took one more look at the girl—eleven years old, petite, with dark tresses that held natural waves, large dark eyes, and full lips—and opened the aperture.
Later, he presented Hodding Benson and his wife, Madeleine, with an albumen print showing their daughter holding her doll. He had captured her, he thought, in blacks, whites, and every shade of gray. They were pleased; she looked, Madeleine said, “Almost as she did in life.”
“That’s the point,” Caleb explained. “A camera is a kind of time machine. It freezes a moment in time, and then that moment is forever in the present. Never gone, never lost, it’s always now.”
“Can you stay the night?” Benson asked. “It’s too late to leave. You can take Addie’s bed; we’ll put her out for the night, and bury her in the morning.”
Caleb had hoped for such an invitation. He didn’t want to stay in the dead girl’s bed, necessarily, but neither did he want to spend another night in a tent, out in that weather.
“That would be most appreciated,” he said. “I’ll be no trouble.”
“Before you go, let me ask around,” Benson offered. “I expect I can drum up some more business for you.”
“Here in Naciemento?”
“We’re suffering an influenza epidemic,” Madeleine said. She rubbed her nose, red and raw from days of crying. “It’s been terrible. So many gone.”
Caleb turned back to her husband. “You didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask,” Benson pointed out. “You asked if she was disfigured, as if by accident or misadventure. It was nothing of the sort.”
“No harm done,” Madeleine said. “We aren’t sick, and she can’t harm you now.”
Caleb looked out the window. Full dark had descended, and a fierce wind blew. Leaving was out of the question.
Besides, if so many had passed, he might be in a position to earn enough here to make the trip more than worthwhile.
He stayed that night, and attended the burial in the morning. No one spoke of God, nor did Caleb see any clergy. Hodding Benson mumbled a few words over the open grave—Caleb thought he heard “Ashes to dust, dust to clay,” but that didn’t make sense—as a few other townsfolk stood in a ring around him, chanting in a language that Caleb had never heard before, sibilant and strange.
Benson introduced him to some other families, and he ended up staying for three more days. The dead were mostly children, seemingly scores of them. Their grieving parents wanted tintypes; cartes de visite; and albumen prints, for albums, or frames with braided locks of hair and other treasured objects. Although reluctant to let him into their homes, they wanted the service that only he could provide. Others closed doors and shutters when they saw him coming, and if those houses contained more of the dead, he would never know.
During daylight hours, he worked without pause. Move to another home, set up, pose the departed, prepare the plates, make the image, print it, and then start all over again. He felt a sense of tragedy wrap around him like a stifling cloak on a scorching day. All those children. People died every day, he knew. Children, too. But he had never had to confront it like this, so many, all at once. It wore at him, made his heart feel heavy in his chest.
He expected that he would never get the sour-sweet smells of death and flowers out of his nose, and that he would conflate the two forevermore.
And he thought the town the oddest place he had ever been. Each house had a bell, like the Bensons’ had, but he never heard them toll. The people he met seemed friendly enough, but strangers never spoke, only looked away when they saw him. The sun rarely penetrated skies like molten pewter, and the air never warmed. Every minute he stayed, he couldn’t wait to get away. But before he left Naciemento, he had made as much money as in a good month, back in Trinidad.
