“Just one more,” Deacon said. His voice was placid, calming. “I know we can’t carry on with it. All I want is a little extra. You understand. A little something to keep us warm. Something to keep the cold away. You understand, Archie.”
But Archie was shivering, Archie was hugging himself, and it looked to Bone as if Archie might not be warm ever again.
He woke up that night after the fire had gone out.
The embers were cold, the ground beneath him was cold. Bone sat up and hugged his pea coat around himself.
Amber light from the freightyard washed out over the prairie. Behind a chain link fence, an acetylene torch dropped showers of sparks. The night air was full of metallic smells and the stars above him were icy and strange.
The Calling sang to him.
Here I am, find me.
Now before the time passes.
Bone, find me, here, now.
He could not mistake the urgency of it. He sensed that some irreversible process had been set in motion, that he needed to play out his part. His body felt huge and strange about him. In this last week the sickness had come back, the convulsions that bowed him heel-to-crown as if he were about to erupt from this clumsy cocoon and burst forth transfigured. It was time to move on. So close now. He did not need words to know it.
He moved away from the cold campfire, from the prone bodies of Archie and Deacon, into the darkness. In the shadow of a rust-eaten oil canister he stood to his full height and scanned the eastern horizon.
She was a light there.
He thought it for the first time: “She.”
She was a blue corona that rose and flared like a searchlight against the stars. Bone knew without thinking it that the light would be invisible to Archie or Deacon. It was a sign meant exclusively for Bone, a kind of marker. Here I am. He trembled with the closeness of it.
The light transfixed him, consumed all his attention for a timeless moment, and he was startled when Archie tapped his shoulder.
The smaller man was shaking. His knapsack was in his hand. He gazed up at Bone, and there were tears leaking from his eyes.
“We leave him here,” Archie whispered. “Listen to me. Without us he can’t hurt himself. He’ll be okay. We leave him here, right, Bone? Without us they can’t touch him. He’ll be okay—”
And Bone, gazing at Archie, was overcome with another realization.
He was not like Archie or Deacon. I am not human. The thought was dizzying, and for a moment he was afraid a convulsion might overtake him. In the glare of that blue light he had glimpsed himself, had bathed for a moment in the secret illumination of the Jeweled World. Bone’s comprehension failed him, but he understood, at least, that he was not like Archie. The gulf between them was vast, vast…
“Archie, no,” he said. His voice seemed loud in the darkness. “I have to go—“he pointed helplessly—“there—”
Archie gazed beyond him, not listening, blind to the Calling light. “He changed since we met you. But that’s not true, either. It was nothing you did. Just something he saw in you. I don’t know. You were like the ghost of all the beatings he took. But not beaten. All his old anger came out.”
There was a motion in the darkness beyond the oil tanks. Bone, distracted, looked away.
“I guess I changed too,” Archie said. “I only ever wanted to help him. I guess you know what I mean. But I can’t do that by staying with him. That’s the hard part.” His eyes focused on Bone. There was anguish there but also a kind of strength. Bone felt a shadow of the smaller man’s pain, of this hard-won peace he had arrived at, somehow, in the deep of the night. “We have to leave him. It’s the only way to help him. Christ, it frightens me to be alone! It’s the only thing I was ever really scared of. But if we don’t leave him, Bone, he’ll kill himself. He’s drugged up on crazy vengeance and there’s no sense in him.”
That motion again—a flicker of denim, a sigh like drawn breath. Bone’s hackles rose. He turned to the smaller man beside him. “Archie—”
But there was an explosion that lit up the night. Bone was momentarily blinded, and when his vision cleared he saw Archie on his knees, gagging, and then Archie in a pool of his own dark blood, limply dead.
Deacon stepped out from behind the oil tanks with the pistol in his hand.
He turned on his heel, and the pistol was aimed now at Bone.
The immensity of the betrayal shocked him. Deacon had shot Archie. Archie, who had held his mirror when he shaved. Archie, who had loved him.
“He’s dead,” Bone stammered out.
Deacon nodded. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. “Sure he’s dead. I caught him. Son of a bitch! Run away on me, would he? Run away on Deacon?”
“He was afraid for you.” Bone shook his head, aghast. “He was afraid you might get caught.”
“Don’t move!” Deacon thrust the pistol forward. “I heard you two talking! Move out, he said, leave Deacon behind, he said, that’s what you were doing out here in the night—”
“The pistol shot,” Bone managed. “The men in the railyard. They’ll be here soon.”
On the horizon, the blue Calling light guttered and flared.
“He was just waiting for his chance,” Deacon said. “Sneak off and leave Deacon in the lurch. Son of a bitch! I guess I know better.”
“He loved you.”
“That’s a dirty lie.” Deacon pressed the gun forward. There were voices now from the railyard, and his expression hardened. “Give me the money.”
But Deacon had the smell of death about him, a carrion stench Bone could not ignore. He had seen the Jeweled World, the bright beauty of it, and he could only recoil in horror from the ugly thing Deacon had become.
Deacon, he understood, meant to kill him.
“Now,” Deacon said.
Bone darted his big hand toward the pistol. He could not grasp it but only slapped it away. The gun flew through the cold air while Deacon cursed and leaped after it. “I’ll kill you,” Deacon panted, “I’ll kill you, you geek bastard!”
Bone stumbled backward. The sheer scope of it defied understanding. Deacon had killed Archie— here was the steaming carcass to prove it—and now Deacon meant to kill Bone.
There was no one, Bone thought bitterly. No one and nothing he could trust here. Only the Calling. Only the light and the song of it. Nothing human. He was not human, and there was nothing in the human world for him.
Only danger here.
Deacon scrabbled for the gun, and Bone turned and ran.
The scissorbills ambushed him at the hobo jungle.
The came at him with flashlights and guns. He was trapped, encircled suddenly, blinded. His foot caught in a railway tie and he fell clumsily among the gravel and embers. There were four flashlights, bright bobbing flares that disguised the faces behind them, but more men than that, maybe more guns. He stood up slowly and listened to the awe that crept into their voices as they made a ring around him.
“Big bastard, ain’t he?” “It’s him, all right—” “No question.”
“—the one they wrote about in the papers—” “Christ, look at him!”
They pushed him up against the corrugated side of a reefer car.
“He’s not packing anything.” A man stepped forward, and Bone saw his face in the reflected light. Thick, grizzled face. Save for the uniform this might have been one of the hoboes. Bone felt that same gulf again, a revulsion, a blossoming hatred. Such men had beaten him too often before. But now now, not now: he was too close.
The scissorbill shone a light in Bone’s eyes, and the others pressed close behind him. The heat and smell of them were unbearable. “We heard a pistol fired,” the man said. “Same pistol killed all those farmfolks maybe? Huh? You want to tell us where it is?”