The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  Nacto brought us to a little farm. A two-story house and a large barn, took shape in the dim starlight. Several oil lamps burned in the windows and the chimney puffed invitingly.

  The barn dwarfed the two-story house. Several horses peered out at us. One nickered, as if inquiring to know who was interrupting their rest. A cow lowed softly. It was so different from my home, and yet so familiar.

  The windows gave off a warm, welcoming glow beyond lace curtains. I sobbed with relief. A tiny woman peered around a corner of the lace, then the door burst open and she stood there, waiting for Nacto to enter.

  He pulled his hat from his head as he entered. “Chelan.” She rushed to greet him. She had the same long, black hair styled in a braid down her back. She had beautiful doe eyes, soft and kind. She was darker than Nacto and less ruddy, but her features were a fragile copy of his. They spoke to one another quickly, their voices rising and falling in a rush of language I did not speak. It was beautiful, and I wished I knew what they were saying. Nacto paused and motioned to me.

  She froze, her expression blank, but her eyes were wide. Whatever Nacto had said frightened her.

  “I am Chelan,” she said. “Many of the folks around here prefer my white name. You can call me Nannie Carey, if you like.”

  I would have offered my hand, but it hurt too much. “Vivian Valentine. I will call you whichever you would prefer.”

  Chelan motioned to the children. “These are my eldest, Karl and Daisy.” A teenaged boy, who was busy casting bullets at the hearth with tight, aggressive motions, stared suspiciously at Nate; the bullets would have to be recast. A girl, a year or two younger, washed dishes at the sink.

  Karl glared at Nate, his attention barely wavering as he twisted the bullet mold, popping a bullet free to fall against the hearthstone. These children had white names. Daisy stared, as well. She kept throwing glances over her shoulder. There was a tension I could not quite put my finger upon, a tightness in my chest that made me want to say something, anything to them…or leave.

  Nacto noticed it, too. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He called Chelan by name. Their language broke the stillness in the room.

  Whatever he said made some impression. Karl dropped the bullet mold on the hearthstone. Chelan took my hands, red and blistered. “My brother says you banished the wendigo with fire.”

  I tried to pull my hands away but, as slight as she was, her grip was iron. “I wouldn’t say I banished it.”

  Her brother. So Nacto was her brother. Had Nannie given her children white names to help them fit in better in St. Louis, or was she married to a white man like her name, Nannie Carey, suggested?

  How short-sighted was I being? I had met several African individuals in London who had names as “white” as Harper or Valentine. Perhaps “Carey” was a perfectly common Cheyenne surname.

  Nannie stared at me.

  “It wasn’t really fire, it was light. Well, I mean…I suppose the light did burn that…wendigo did you call it?”

  Nacto and Nannie still stared. I was sure I had done something wrong.

  “Whatever you did, the light burned you,” she said.

  She was right. My hands were raw, scraped, and blistered, and the outer layer of my skin was swollen and peeling. No wonder it hurt so bad.

  Nannie turned to Daisy. “Serve them dinner.”

  Karl shot us a very sullen scowl, but didn’t argue. Daisy brought us bowls of beans and bacon and a plate of biscuits wrapped in a blue-and white-checked napkin.

  I took a delicate bite of bacon and beans.

  “How do we defeat a creature such as that?” Ever practical Nate. He only wanted to know who his enemy was and how to defeat it.

  “You don’t,” she said. “It is the wendigo.”

  “What is the wendigo?” I had to know.

  The room was silent. They looked at one another.

  Chelan set the pitcher down on the table. “This is not the same land as your land, but the nature of mankind does not change.”

  I had to agree with her. Aside from the trappings, the virtues and sins of people were much the same no matter where we were. Greed, hate, and pride seemed to cause the downfall of people no matter where they were, be it London or China. It stood to reason it would be the same in the New World. And, if the nature of humanity did not change, then the nature of their monsters would not change. If a monster was a monster then that monster could be repelled, maybe even destroyed.

  “It is Hestanováhe,” Nannie said, touching her forehead with her fingertips in what appeared to be a blessing, as though she was warding off evil spirits. “It is the life drinker.”

  “It is a spirit,” Nacto clarified. “An evil spirit.”

  “It is more than that,” Nannie said. “The wendigo is the destruction of mankind. It is drawn to mankind when they are at their worst. It feeds upon the evils of man and so will remain as long as the great tribes are broken and have lost their way.”

  And I knew why it was here. Mr. Geiger called it. If it fed upon the evil of mankind, then so long as mankind was wicked and sinful it would remain feeding upon all that was awful in the world. To defeat it, we would have to heal the world, purge the entire world of evil. It was a wonderful thought, but an impossible one.

  God gave his son to purge the world of sin, once. Before that, God tried to wash the earth clean of sinners with the mighty flood. Before that, man and woman lived in a great garden and was tempted by sin. It was the nature of man to sin. There was no way to avoid it, no way to purge the world of sin. It was a world of decadence and excess, where a mother abandoned her son and families were burned alive. A world where one of the most virtuous men I had ever known, my papa, was dead and gone. I forced myself to swallow my food. The bite hurt the whole way down.

  Nacto shook his head. “The wendigo is the ravager. The consumer. The cannibal. All the peoples know this.”

  I shuddered. A cannibal consumed human flesh. I hoped it was merely a metaphor. But the memory of the wendigo’s teeth was forever etched in my mind. No, Hestanováhe, the wendigo, was a consumer of human flesh.

  I remembered the vision I had of the man sacrificed by Geiger. Geiger said the man had been a drunk, a sinner, worse even. Geiger set human flesh and blood before the wendigo and the monster came from the shadows and melted the flesh away. The cannibal spirit consumed him.

  I pushed my bowl away. “Give me your hands,” Nannie said.

  I set my hands, palms up, on the worn, kitchen table.

  Her daughter brought a steaming copper kettle that she poured into a blue cup with a twist muslin full of tea in it. Nate held it to my lips for me to sip. I could immediately identify sweet sage and something fruity and slightly bitter. I also thought I could taste a concentrated form of willow bark to help ease the pain.

  Chelan set a basin before me and put my hands inside to soak. Whatever was mixed with the water felt slightly greasy, but it was extremely comforting, and it took some of the throbbing pain away.

  I nodded my thanks and sucked down the tea as fast as Nate could pour it down my throat. If it was willow bark tincture, I hoped it would take effect quickly.

  She took another look at my face. “I have seen a great many marks one would paint on their skin, some permanent, some not. Why would you choose that?”

  I looked at the bowl, willing my hands to stop shaking enough so I could catch my reflection. Sure enough, clear as day, a star looked as though it had been burned into my flesh around my eye.

  Using the Tarot symbols brought the marks to the surface from under my skin. Using them too much made the mark darker and made it last longer. This one looked like a burn or a fresh tattoo. I wondered how long it would stay. I was certain The Moon at the center of my chest, to the right of my heart where The Lovers sat, was dark and raised, and The Sun on the small of my back, where my back met my pelvis, would be dark as well. At least those were covered by my clothes.

  “I didn’t. They just happen.” I
wasn’t sure how to explain the magic leywell beneath Molten Cay to Nannie. I wasn’t sure there were any leywells in America.

  Oddly, she seemed unconcerned by my answer or lack thereof. She nodded and took my hands in hers. She bathed them in the slick water, then bound them with the split, fleshy pads of an unfamiliar plant. “Rest now. You are safe here.”

  I laid my head on the table. The day’s events finally took their toll, and my eyes burned from the effort to keep them open. Every time I closed my eyes the wendigo waited, staring at me with its head cocked to one side. Its hollow, pale eyes cut through me, and the smoke of the burning farmstead filled my mind. But I could no longer remain in the state of a frightened hare. With pained hands and a frazzled mind, I fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  I WOKE LATER to Nate pulling me upright. It was still dark, and my head and hands throbbed fiercely. Another man had joined them.

  “His name is Haimovi,” Nate explained. “Mrs. Carey is putting us up for the night. As much as I can gather, Haimovi is Nacto’s friend, though he also calls him brother. But, then, Nacto also called me brother, so that might be just a custom.”

  I nodded sleepily. I only grasped part of what he was saying. More brothers or friends of Nannie and Nacto. We were remaining for the night. At least we were not leaving the house in the black of night to meet that monster on the road. I was grateful for that.

  Haimovi wore his hair long, with only the top portion tied back in two small braids and adorned with black and white feathers. He had a small string of tiny, red seed-beads of fine bright glass around his neck that had been looped several times and now rested over the top of his blue shirt. A pair of bright abalone-shell earrings hung from his ears. He was a handsome man, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, but he scowled at us, waiting for us to do something untrustworthy, or as though our very presence was distasteful.

  He spoke to Nacto in their language, staring at Nate pointedly the entire time. Nacto defended us.

  Nate ignored them and walked me up the stairs and into a small room with a bed covered with a quilt. A small lamp with hurricane glass sat on a wooden table, and a chair sat beside a hand-carved wardrobe containing four shirts and three pairs of pants. By the size of the clothes, it was Karl’s room.

  I sat heavily on the bed “Do you suppose Karl is upset he was moved to make way for us?”

  “I think he is happy to spend the night with his uncle and Haimovi in the barn,” Nate responded as he readied for bed.

  The bed was narrow for two, but big enough. We lay down. I settled my head on his shoulder, doing my best to banish the sight of the fleshless wolf-skull of the wendigo and the shaggy, inky-black pelt as it moved soundlessly through the shadows of the burned-out Tate homestead. It was a monster, of that I was sure, but the wendigo was a monster of claws and fangs. What if the Tate family had been attacked and fought back? Had something as innocent as a fallen lantern or a rogue ember from the fireplace been the cause of the farm burning?

  My husband settled to sleep easily, as he nearly always did. I envied him. He could move from awake to asleep and then to full awareness again with a speed that made me think that he never actually slept, but watched from some sort of restful wakefulness. It must be related to his dog-like nature. He was always aware of danger, and always able to conserve his energy.

  I was not so lucky. I fretted late into the night.

  The power of the wendigo was not something man was capable of containing, but Geiger was sure he could give it a body.

  The black farmhand from the Tate farm was one of the largest men I had seen in real life. Large, strong men did not seem to be the only key. What else would Geiger try? When we first encountered him in the bowels of Sterling’s factory, he was building mechanical men. Would he attempt a mechanical body for the monster? Nate and I had no problem destroying that hulking monstrosity. It was hardly a form resistant to damage.

  No, Geiger needed someone stronger, more powerful, more durable. What would be able to contain the power of the wendigo within its bones? What living form could house such a thing?

  Nate shifted beside me. Oh, god no!

  My husband was able to transfigure into two different forms. Transfiguring was painful for him, but his bones and muscles were certainly flexible, and used to the process. If any living being was able to contain the immense power of the wendigo from within, it might be Nate.

  The only way to keep Geiger from trying would be to keep Geiger from reaching him. But I knew my Nate well and he would not remove himself from either monster. He sought out battle when people he loved were threatened.

  My hands throbbed so badly I nearly cried. I needed help. I needed a healer. I needed my papa. I thought of the neat little rows of bottles on high shelves, nearly reaching the ceiling in my father’s old shop. One of them, carbolic acid, mixed with water, would protect against infection and I could soak my damaged hands in the cool waters. Carbolic acid was made from coal tar, a sticky, nasty substance, but it produced an amazing antiseptic.

  I stared at my hands again. Whatever magic I had channeled through the ruby had nearly peeled the flesh from my hands. My veins were visible on my forearms, showing as dark lines beneath my pale skin as though my blood itself had gone dark, very nearly the color of the ruby itself.

  I pulled the ruby out and held it in my hand. It was comforting. Though only the size of a little bird’s egg, it felt like it held all the promise of the world within itself. When I held it, my hands hurt a little less. It was glowing, thrumming, and throbbing. I could hear it, like the beating of my heart. It was waves crashing over me, removing all other sounds. My hands throbbed to its rhythm.

  I needed healing. I needed peace. Carbolic acid and my father were out of reach. There were a few cards one could use for healing, but most were for spiritual healing, like guides to help people find their way through mourning, or times of trouble.

  I closed my eyes, willing myself to look away from the ruby in my hand. I needed more than medicine, more than wine, more than carbolic acid and laudanum and whiskey. I needed something more.

  I extended myself again, sinking into the world of mystical energies and feeling the little lines that connected all things. They were veins and all the world a heart drumming along to a sacred beat. I saw a man in armor. A knight of old laying on a stone slab no…a tomb. Across his breast lay a sword held in his stone hands. Above him, a stained-glass window shone down, bathing him in gentle holy light, watching over him while he lay at rest. Beside the window, three swords hung on the wall.

  Knights fought, but they were also seen as protectors of the people, at least symbolically. Here, the knight’s battle was done.

  In my vision, I turned to get a better look at him. He was not stone, but he may as well have been. He was resting, waiting for his next battle. He was meditating, sleeping, healing.

  He was healing.

  The Four of Swords. Three swords on the wall and one in his hand, so there were four swords. Swords are a tool of battle. It was only logical they could bring peace, as well.

  I held the ruby to my breast, my heartbeat matching the thrumming of the stone. A moment later, I was aware of my body and the great heaviness of my own mortal form. How strange, I had never been aware of it before. I made myself translucent and lay down upon the knight, sharing his place upon the stone tomb. I took his sword and laid it upon my breast. I felt my own breath slow. Beneath my damaged palms, the handle of the sword was cold, cooling my burned hands. The window bathed me in healing light. Here, for now, my battle was done.

  I took a deep breath and let the pain flow from my body into the cold stone that formed the tomb in the image. It was not difficult to feel myself moving from my own body and into the image itself. In that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, anything is possible. I let the cold stone leach the pain from my battered body.

  I made myself forget the man whose bones had shattered from the inside out as h
e fought the evil of the wendigo. I made myself set aside the hurt look Nate had given me when he realized I had kept the ruby. I pushed away the loss of my papa. Here I was, alone, but I was not lonely.

  And, for the first time in so long, I felt peace.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to the sound of birds and the rustling of wind gently dancing through the trees. Nate stretched and rolled on his side. Every morning, he stretched like a dog might, every muscle long and lean in one great arch, then sat up, yawned and shook his head. I smiled.

  There was a heaviness on my breast. I still held the ruby there in my clasped hands.

  I sat up and dropped it from my bosom into my hands. My hands…I gasped. They were pink and tender, but the flesh was perfectly serviceable.

  Nate snatched my hand, his mouth hanging open. “How?”

  I couldn’t explain. Was it the herbs from Nannie, or maybe the ruby? My own meditation on the knight in his tomb?

  He nodded mutely. There was nothing either of us could say.

  I went to clean myself up for the day. There was a small mirror pinned to the back of the door on Karl’s wardrobe. My face was filthy. I got a bit of water and a cloth and started to make myself presentable. But as I washed, there seemed to be more and more filth, like I had been too close to a fire or I was washing with ashy hands. No, my hands were clean. I turned to the mirror again. It was my eye. I scrubbed carefully around my eye and the Tarot mark became visible, dark, almost black like a tattoo…then it started to rub away.

  The Tarot mark washed away.

  I stared at the dirty water, ashy gray. I touched the flesh around my eye. My skin was clean again, no more ash scrubbed away but that was not all, the mark was gone. It was really, truly gone. The Star, the symbol of hope and faith, the renewal of the earth, the symbol of spirituality, was gone. I felt the loss of it as completely as though I was suddenly missing a tooth. It was an empty socket within me.