Chameli filled a basin of water and shook a bit of powder from a paper carton into it. She began to scrub the blood from the wooden floor.
Chelan was right; there would be no safety here. They needed to move as quickly as they could, but it would be slow going with a baby. They would have to stay off the roads and avoid towns or risk being caught, either as fugitives or for being Natives. And if the children were identified as half-breeds or Indians and the townspeople in St. Louis were right, they would be taken away and placed in Christian charity homes. They needed to get to the safety of their people as soon as possible. That meant traveling on roads or, even better, trains.
Meturato whipped his head shaking the long bangs out of his eyes. “I will help.”
Haimovi nodded. “You will help.”
I pulled Nate aside. “We need to travel with them. They need to go to their people and if they travel with us, we can take them safely.”
Nate nodded. “There is a law here called peonage. I read about it in the paper. We can use it to transport them as…” he trailed off.
“As what?” I could tell this was going nowhere good. I touched the ruby in my pocket. I felt stronger just having it nearby. The last few days were so trying, I just needed a rest.
“As our property,” Nate finished.
“As slaves?” I stared at him. Did he really just say that?
“It’s like a modern indentured servitude. No one would bother an English Esquire and Lady moving their property to a new estate,” Nate argued.
“You have lost your mind!” I snapped. “I am not having anyone pretend to be my property, even just in name.”
“It is the best protection we can offer them,” Nate whispered furiously.
“Tell them that you’d be happy to transport them as your personal property!” I turned away from him. How was this the man I married? I rubbed the ruby in my pocket. I clenched my teeth so hard, my jaw ached.
He put his hand on my shoulder. I jerked away. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to strike him. More than that, I was wounded by his very callous words. I wanted to strike back.
“I’m trying to help,” he snapped.
“You’re failing!” I cried out.
“Then you come up with a better way!” Nate snarled. It was a dog’s snarl, a wounded dog pushed past patience.
How dare he snap at his mistress that way? I was cold and hot all over. All I could see was red, red-hot fire and I felt like I was being pulled into the ground. I was filled with righteous rage. I wanted to hit him, bite him, wound him. My throat ached, throbbing and burning hot. I grabbed the back of a chair for support.
He was mere inches from me. I had tried to be kind, but I had given so much. What did he expect me to give now?
“Brother?” Nacto called.
“I mean it, Vivian.” Nate growled. “You have a better way, I’ll hear it, but no one will molest a man’s property.” He turned on his heel.
First, it was an esquire and a lady’s property, now it was a man’s property. I was weighted to the floor with despair. I could not breathe, my blood rushed through my veins. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Breathing alone took all the energy I had left.
I thought of the dragon. She was a dangerous creature, but she had been good and nurturing, and she gave and gave until she had become a shell. I was burning away and losing the Tarot symbols we had both come to rely on. I was becoming a shell. Out of balance, the dragon became a broken-hearted creature of evil, who viciously hated the humans she had once loved and guided. We loved our tenants. We would give them all we had. Would they grow to hate us, and us them? Was that why the upper-class often treated the working classes as beneath them?
My hands ached. The back of the chair was gouged, and my nails had bits of wood beneath them. I blinked hard. They looked like claws, curved and tapered to wicked points. I tucked my fingers into my fists. For a moment, they pricked my palms, then the moment was gone.
The most infuriating part was that Nate was right. If Chelan and her family traveled as our peons, then we could safely transport them wherever we chose to go. Which, really, was the most important thing. But the idea of claiming ownership over another human being, even as a farce, turned my stomach. We paid our servants, and the tenants who worked our land paid rent, but they were also free to move off the land and seek better fortunes.
Nate, Haimovi, and Nacto filed out the door to hide Nannie Carey’s lawful husband’s body. They were intent on their grim task.
I should hate it. And in a way, I did. I hated that Joseph Carey lay dead and that my husband was now involved in a plot to hide his body in the woods. But, more than that, I hated this new world. It should be a place of wonder and advancement, a huge land of enchantment where a man was only limited by his spirit and his hard work. But not, of course, if he wasn’t white, or wasn’t a man.
America was huge, it should be more than big enough to share. Why were the Cheyenne being forced onto reservations or into church-run state homes when they had families who loved them?
I could understand why Nate had been handed over to a church-run home for boys. He had had no family to look after him. He had no one to keep him out of trouble, and, as much as I loved the man, I had to admit he needed someone to keep him out of trouble. Chelan should not have had to marry Joseph to keep her children safe, to keep them from being stolen away and placed in church homes “for their own good.” Chameli, Meturato, and the baby would have had two loving parents and an uncle who would have looked after them.
I watched the men leave with Mr. Carey’s body and, slowly, my breathing returned to normal. My heart no longer rattled in my ears, drowning out all other sounds and driving me into a violent rage. More than violent; I was worried. Whatever I felt, it was intoxicating. What was wrong with me? I loved Nate more than anything in the world. I would die to protect him. I never wanted to see him hurt, nor did I want to harm him.
I set my head against the cool pane of glass. Suddenly, I was so tired. I felt as though I had been nothing but tired lately. I touched the ruby in my pocket and immediately felt better. Now I was strong enough to go on, strong enough to own other people, for as brief a time as possible.
If Mr. Carey’s body was found, Chelan, Haimovi, and Nacto would be imprisoned and probably executed. The children would be taken away. They would lose their identities, at the very least. They would cease to be Meturato and Chameli and would, instead, be forced to be Karl and Daisy. The baby, instead of being named on his first birthday, as is the tradition Chelan explained, he would be Evan as Joseph had demanded. The name might bring the baby bad luck and draw evil spirits before the baby’s spirit is strong enough to fight them off.
Chelan handed me the baby. He gurgled while trying to shove a handful of my hair into his mouth. He smiled, as always. He stared at me in cross-eyed fascination. I swear he could see the Tarot symbols under my skin.
Chelan fixed her braid. “I can offer you something greater than my gratitude.”
I shook my head. The baby was heavy in my arms. I would give anything to hold my own child in my arms. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Chelan interrupted me. “You do not have a baby.”
I looked over her baby’s head. Surely, she was not offering me her own child?
My panic must have shown. She gave me an indulgent smile with battered lips. “A mother can see the look of longing. You wish to have a child of your own, not mine. I see a striped cat. It hunts after you, stalking your steps. It devours your babies before they can make their way to you from the world of souls.”
I squeezed the babe in my arms tightly. He squawked in protest.
Chelan took her infant back. “My mother is a Ma’heóná’e, a true medicine woman. I am merely a Nóává’e, a medicine woman who still learns. I watch over the bones of my people. Now, I cannot stay here, but must move on and join my people. My mother will help you banish the striped cat. It will stalk you no more.”
&nb
sp; My mouth fell open. How could she know? Mr. Quinn, one of the treasure hunters we met in China, had warned me that there was a terrible price for disturbing a holy grave site. It would result in terrible luck. A tiger would haunt my shadow. I would never get my heart’s desire.
I had disturbed the holiest of grave sites, that of the sacred dragon, the mighty Xihuan-Lung. I had been cursed, and the evidence was all around us. Our investments had soured, my father had died. Nate and I had been married for over a year and we had not yet become pregnant.
Chelan took my hesitation as a refusal. “Would you trade our freedom for that?”
I stared at her. “No. It is not about trading your freedom. Nate and I will help take your family north. No matter what.”
The baby closed his eyes and gave a contented sigh before grunting and filling his diaper.
Chapter Sixteen
THE SUN WAS just setting when the men returned from their gruesome task. They were soaked to the skin despite the dry, sunny day. I hoped that they had washed in a well or a stream before returning.
I wanted to apologize to Nate. I wanted to hold him to me and tell him I knew he was trying to help. He had come up with a good idea. No one would molest the private property of a foreign esquire and his wife. We would need to convince Nacto and Haimovi the plan was sound.
It turned out I didn’t need to apologize. Nate could read me well. He walked into the house, his brow arched as he glanced at me. Were we still fighting? I shook my head. My husband was a good man and, though I hated the idea of slaves of any kind—I even treated our hired staff more like trusted employees than servants—his heart was in the right place.
I gave him a smile.
Nacto and Haimovi went to speak to Chelan. Nate must have discussed the idea with the men while they were away. While it was not a popular idea, it was accepted as the best plan for safe travel. Meturato seemed to hate it more than I did. He was even more sullen than during the fight with Mr. Carey, if that was possible.
We decided we would leave in the morning. No one wanted to run into the wendigo in the dark. This was no longer a safe place for Chelan and her children. After a night’s sleep, the world would look a bit brighter, and the
next day we would help them get as far as we were able to take them. There was nothing else we could do, now.
Chameli turned bread dough out on a board and kneaded it with strong hands, adding a sprinkle of flour here and there while Meturato looked on. He nailed closed the window frames on the far side of the house, sealing them up. I watched him move through the home creating an air of finality. The farmhouse had obviously been built by hand and was lovingly cared for as the home where Chelan raised her children. Though Chelan would not return, she sealed the home with care for the next resident.
Haimovi sharpened a knife, using long, even strokes. Since Nacto had put all the horses in the paddock, there was little to do but wait. We would turn loose the cow before we left, hoping it would find a kind master. The goats would come with us in the wagon, north to the Cheyenne home.
And wait, we did. We waited for the bread to rise. We waited for the morning. We waited for the fire to burn down so we could take turns adding another stick. I placed my hand in my pocket to touch the ruby. It calmed my pounding heart.
I stared into the warm, beautiful fire. The fireplace was in our home outside London. Papa was there with Mama, and we were in the conservatory as he fed his birds. They hopped on his fingers and whistled at him. Nate had his arm around me and we sat together on the sofa. I was pregnant and nibbling biscuits and tea. It would be Christmas soon, and due to well-managed investments and a good harvest, all our tenants were well-fed and healthy. It was my home, but with one thing I had never noticed before. Glaring down at us, weaving her way between the mantle clock, the candlesticks, and several books, Xihuan-Lung watched us. She was the same dragon, only smaller. She raised her head and our eyes met as a fierce heat caught me beneath my breast and at the ruby in my pocket.
Nate suddenly grabbed my wrist. Couldn’t he just let me have a moment of peace? I glared. It was almost completely dark outside.
He was slowly rising from the table, staring at the darkened window.
“Wha—?”
He raised his hand to silence me. Haimovi and Nacto also turned to the windows, readying their weapons.
Then I heard them. A dozen men and horses, with lanterns.
“The savages did it!”
Nacto nodded to the men and motioned Meturato back. He opened the door. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Yer sister! Where is she?” one man demanded.
“Where’s Mr. Carey?” another man shouted.
“He is away,” Nacto said. “I am visiting my sister while he is gone.”
“You’re gonna have to come with us to talk to the sheriff,” a man said. “Just until he returns.”
“How come you’re always here when he’s gone? You and that other fella?” A man shouted, he sounded familiar. I replayed his voice, trying to place it.
“He and I travel together. We are brothers,” Nacto said calmly.
“Come out then, both of you! Before we’re forced to come in after you!” a faceless man from the crowd hollered.
Nacto stood at the door, barring entry. “We did nothing.”
“They burn the homes of good, hardworking Americans and chase them off of their land. And if they won’t move, they burn them, too.” That voice again. I knew that voice.
Nacto stood his ground. “It wasn’t the Cheyenne. Most of our daughters and sons have long since left our lands.”
A man raised a kerosene lantern. “They ain’t yours anymore!”
Haimovi appeared at the doorway and raised his chin defiantly. “It was Silver Arm. He burns your people.”
Nate could not stay back. He joined the two men at the door. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the crowd. His jaw was tight and at his side his fist twitched, clenching and unclenching slightly—he expected a fight. Even if the crowd believed in Silver Arm, they were more willing to believe the Cheyenne were responsible for the burned household rather than any other explanation. I wanted to be shocked and horrified, but I was already saddened by the plight of these people and what they had to endure.
How many people had Silver Arm killed? Geiger had murdered people in London, several through his manipulation of the underground waterways to expose the leywell under London, nine at the Tate household. How many lives in China had he carelessly dealt with when he thought he could manipulate the Explorer’s Society into giving him unfettered access to their vaults? How many more lives in America? He must have an endgame, but what was it?
We would not find out here. Geiger would have moved on, or so I hoped. But, the crowd was becoming more and more aggressive.
“Carey would want his children raised with good, Christian values.”
Chelan tucked her son and daughter behind her own, slight form. It did little to hide them, but no one would doubt her resolve and I was sure they would only take them over her dead body, hers and those of the other Cheyenne men. And Nate’s and mine.
Someone in the crowd called out, “Arrest Phillip. He doesn’t belong here!”
I blinked, feeling stupid, “Who’s Philip?”
Nate motioned with his chin unwilling to split his attention from the two sides. “Haimovi. They all have white names.”
One man spoke for the crowd. In the lantern light I recognized him, it was Mr. Massey. I was beyond angry. “Steven West, you’re going to have to come with us until we get this cleared up.”
I had to ask Nate. “Who?”
Nate half turned to me. “Nacto,” he said under his breath.
One of the men jeered, “Where is Carey anyway?”
Nate pushed forward. He was taller than both Nacto and Haimovi, taller than some of the crowd, as well. He made an imposing sight. He cast long shadows in the lantern light. “He’s away at the moment.”
I wondered h
ow far away. Joseph Carey was probably buried in the woods not far from the farm. I hoped the mob would not stumble upon him tonight.
One of the crowd glared at Nate. “Who the hell are you?”
Nate inhaled sharply through his nose. “A friend of the family.”
Another man shouted. “Ha! Unless you’re a friend of Carey you ain’t no friend!”
The crowd murmured assent. “Go back to where you came from, ya limey Brit!”
It was an angry murmur, like bees; like a growl, far off in the distance and drumbeats on the horizon.
I wanted to hold the ruby in my pocket, just for the strength it gave me. I could not leave Nate to them. I joined them on the porch. I would stand beside him no matter what. I would always fight at his side.
A kerosene lantern was thrown into the wagon we had loaded with food and clothing. The glass shattered, spilling the fuel. Suddenly, a gout of flames erupted across the foodstuffs and blankets. The flames rose high and angry, sending up the heavy, sweet, yeasty smell of burning grain and cotton and wool.
The mob’s horses rolled their eyes and snorted, tearing at their lead ropes. Glass bottles shattered, spraying their contents and shards of glass in a deadly burst of boiling fluid that stunk of mingling fruit, vegetables, and meat. Debris hit my clothes, and I brushed it away. It added to the general chaos of the moment.
Suddenly, my world spun and I was removed from the moment and thrust into the world of the mystical and out of the physical. It was like someone set a hook beneath my breastbone and jerked me into the sky. I thrust my gaze upward. Even the stars here were different. No not different, this was a pattern. The stars were making a picture. A man sat on a throne. A king, maybe? No, not a king, a priest. A priest didn’t sit on a throne, but a high priest might, The Hierophant would. His hand pointed toward the earth, his feet to the sky. He sat in heaven, his hand stretched out to the land itself. It took me a moment to realize this was not his natural orientation. So, The Hierophant, reversed; question society, break convention, break the rules, challenge the status quo. Finally, something made sense.
The Rail Specter Page 14