Mahpiya eyed Jem with lizard-like eyes that bulged under half-lids and did not appear to ever blink. His skin appeared made from saddle leather, so smooth and brown and hairless that Jem had no idea if he were sixty, eighty, or two hundred years old. Thasuka Witko patted Jem on the back and said, “You must go with him. He says there is much at stake, for both our people.”
“Right now?” Jem said. “Where are we going?”
Thasuka Witko shrugged. “He would not tell me.”
It was so dark at the bottom of the hill that Jem could not see his hands unless he held them in front of his face. The sky was empty, devoid of star or moon. There was a brief flicker of flame as Mahpiya lit a handful of desert sage and held it out like a torch. The sage’s smoke was sweet like incense, as Mahpiya fanned smoke onto Jem, he sang in low, rhythmic tones.
Jem’s guns rattled in their holsters as he walked. Heavy winds rolled across the plains, louder than mining drills, lifting like waves that gathered dirt and debris in their procession and crashed into Jem’s face.
He lifted his hands to hold down the brim of his hat and protect his eyes, and followed the old man’s song. It carried on the wind, but he lost its direction, and he stopped. There was dirt in his nose and mouth. He pulled his black bandit’s scarf from his pocket and tied it around the back of his neck. He called out for Mahpiya, but there was nothing but wind.
Two destriers charged past him, their hooves shaking the ground like locomotives, and Jem leapt aside to avoid the wheels of the wagon they were hauling. The wagon bounced as the animals raced, and a gun went off in the distance. Two masked riders flew after the wagon, their pistols raised and firing until it slid to a halt.
One of the riders leapt from his destrier and walked up to the rear of the wagon and knocked on the door. Screams came from the passengers inside, high-pitched and feminine, high-pitched and adolescent. The bandit said, “Gentleman Jesse Alcott has come for your money, boys and girls.”
Jesse opened the door, put his gun inside of it, and fired until the screaming stopped.
Jem’s own screams were drowned out by the rising winds. He drew his gun and ran forward blindly, never finding the bandits and never finding the wagon. He lowered his head into the storm and kept walking until the wind died down enough that he could look ahead. There was a campfire with a man sitting in front of it, tending the fire, his face hidden beneath the brim of a battered hat. He poked the fire with a stick but no smoke rose out of the pit, and he did not look up when Jem walked up to him and said, “Hey, partner. Did you see any of that? A couple bandits shot up a wagon.”
The man turned a log over with his stick but did not respond. Jem held his hands over the flames, but felt no warmth coming from them. “How about an old man? You seen him?” Jem said.
The man continued stirring the flames, and finally muttered, “I ain’t talking to you, because you ain’t real. So just get along.”
“I’m real enough, friend,” Jem said. “I’m lost in this storm just like you are.”
“This storm? This storm is a joke compared to what’s coming.”
Jem looked around but saw no tent or even a bedroll. There was a wagon on the other side of the fire and Jem said, “You got any other shelter?”
“You ever been out in the wilderness so long that it felt like everything you ever were was an illusion. Like your whole life was just some story you dreamed up. You couldn’t go home if you tried, because nobody there would remember you anyway.” The man bent forward and spat a mouthful of sweetweed juice into the dirt between his knees.
“I think you’ve definitely been out here too long, friend.” Jem wiped the dirt off his pants and said, “That man I’m looking for is a Beothuk. He would have stood out if you saw him come past. Did you see any Beothuk?”
The man lifted a finger toward his wagon and said, “Only the ones in the back of that carriage, and I brought them with me.”
Jem got up to inspect the wagon and saw the words WILLOW FUNERAL HOME written across the side. There were dead bodies of Beothuk warriors laid out in the back, their injuries painted over and their bodies carefully arranged in positions of respect. Jem spun around to face the man, and saw Sam Clayton look up at him from under the brim of his hat.
Sam leaned back from the fire into the shadows and an enormous bird with wings wider than Jem’s arms and curved talons that flashed in the firelight sprang into the air, flapping only once and it was enough to send the bird high into the sky and out of Jem’s sight. Jem stumbled backwards, losing his footing, and falling toward the ground but never hit it. He fell and fell, end over end, through space and time and everything else until finally, he reached nothingness.
Jem awoke in the dirt, smelling smoke from the remains of a smoldering fire set outside the entrance of a tent standing over him. Harsh light streamed through the tent’s flaps and Jem had to cover his eyes and squeezed his skull between his palms to ease the pounding inside his head. He saw a jug of water and a bundle of salted beef inside the tent and grabbed the jug and swallowed water until it threatened to come back up.
He stepped out of the tent and tore off a piece of beef with his teeth. He shook out the cramps in his leg and stretched, looking around the flatland outside of the tent. He was standing in a long, tall shadow. He turned around and saw the radio tower. Jem scratched the top of his head and said, “I’ll be damned.”
13. And Then I See A Darkness
Hank Raddiger begged and whined until Little Willy Harpe finally lifted one of his fingers and said, “Fine, as long as you shut up already. Euphoria.” Hank’s head snapped back like he’d been shot in the forehead and he convulsed all the way to the ground where he squealed and kicked over a whole row of books on one of the shelves in Bill Sutherland’s office. Papers and pamphlets scattered into the air and Sutherland took cover behind his chair.
“That’s enough,” Little Willy said after a few moments. “We have things to do.”
The connection broke and Hank pounded his fist against the floor. “You said I could have a full ride, Willy! Goddamn it, you promised.”
“It makes me disgusted the way you beg, Hank.”
Hank’s expression softened and he pressed his hands together and got down on his knees. “Master? Please. I’m begging you. Just a little more.”
Little Willy stroked the long black oily streak around his neck and said, “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Go find me a rat, there should be one scurrying around in the lot, and when you come back take that rat and stick its head in your mouth. If you can bite the rat’s head off before it bites your tongue off, I’ll give you a ride like you ain’t never had.”
Sweat beaded like grease bubbling inside a skillet on Hank’s forehead as he weighed the challenge. Finally, he nodded and raced out of the office, ducking between ships to search for his prey. Bill Sutherland stood up from behind the chair, clutched his stomach for fear that the sickness boiling in his gut was about to spill out.
Little Willy sighed sadly and said, “I know my associate can be a little bit pathetic. It’s a shame, really, but that boy would do damn near anything for some of that Euphoria. And I mean, anything. I could make him do anything I wanted, of course. Same as I could make you, Bill. But it’s the desperation that makes it exciting, if you see what I mean?”
“No. Not really.” Sutherland pressed his back against his office wall and steeled himself.
Little Willy frowned and said, “You know what? Me either. I think when he gets back I’m gonna tell him the trash furnace is a swimming pool and we can watch him dive into it. Better yet, I’ll tell him there are bugs crawling under his skin and that he has to peel it off to get rid of them! Should make for a fun evening’s entertainment, what do you say, Bill?”