West Winds' Fool and Other Stories of the Devil's West

by Laura Anne Gilman

  She slept less well each night, and woke more sore, less content.

  And then one day, they came to a place where a fainter trail crossed the one they were on. The father stopped them, pausing a moment.

  “Crossroads,” he said, as though that meant something.

  Grace stood beside him, and looked curiously at where the trails crossed. The wind lifted itself around her, prickling her skin. Behind them, the cattle balked and complained, and she turned her head, eyes straining to see something on the horizon that was not there.

  Something scratched within her, faint and hot.

  Uncanny, she thought, and then, why not?

  She gathered her few belongings, and stood by the side of the road, watching as they moved on, the older children turning to wave farewell.

  “You’re certain?” The man seemed hesitant to leave her there, or perhaps hesitant for her to leave them.

  “No. Not at all.” She did not give him the smile she had perfected over years, but a new one, pushing to her surface like something green in spring, and he blinked in the face of it. “But it will be fine.”

  They left her then and she felt the fabric of her dress shift around her as though a breeze tangled there, although her skin felt no air cooling the sweat from the noonday sun overhead.

  The narrower track that had intersected theirs cut a path northward through tall grasses. The dirt was pitted and worn flat, and yet there was something about that suggested a road less traveled, a path overlooked, or one that perhaps was not entirely there.

  As though it had not existed before they rode up, and would disappear again if she walked away.

  She shook off such fancies. Whoever walked this way went on foot, or horseback, not by wagon, and so left a fainter trace, that was all.

  And yet, there was something about it that made her skin prickle.

  Beware the uncanny, she had been told, but in a land reputed to be ripe with the uncanny, how could such caution even be considered? If she had embraced caution, she would have been still in her mother’s house, preparing supper, or darning clothes, or some other practical, useful thing, making herself fit what was expected. Bending herself into a shape that was known, safe.

  The very opposite of uncanny.

  The smile she had given the man broadened into the grin her mother had more than once, despairingly, called feral. She lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed to better feel the light on her face. Then her knees bent and her boots lifted, and she walked down the center of that narrow, dusty road as though to dare anything to dissuade her.

  Within a few strides, the first road was lost to view, and she did not look back again. Her path lifted and declined, a fierce stream interrupting its passage at one point. She eyed the running water cautiously, shifting her bag as though to gauge how well the tapestry cloth might fare were it to be dropped into those clear waters.

  There was nothing for it: the wagon was long gone by now, even if she were to turn back, and there was no way forward save though the stream. With a deep breath, she stepped into the sandy waters at the edge, finding a shallow bridge of stones underfoot, slick but not slippery and enough to carry her across with dampness rising only to the ankle of her boots.

  “Almost as though it wanted you to cross,” she said to herself, as she reached the sandy bank of the other side.

  “Almost as though.”

  She turned swiftly, her hand reaching for the knife she’d bought before beginning her journey, cold fury at having been crept up on filling her throat.

  But there was nothing there. No human shape watching her, no four-legged beast, nothing save the shape of three birds far overhead, turning and turning in a widening circle.

  She let her hand drop from the blade’s handle, achingly aware that she had little sense of how to use it, save to cut things already dead, and tightened her other hand on the handle of her bag, aware of the weight of it. She would have better luck using it as a weapon to knock an assailant out than trying to defend herself with a knife.

  An echo, that’s all it had been. Some trick of the wind and water.

  “Uncanny,” she said, and for a moment, she thought she felt fear.

  Suddenly, she was aware of how very far away she was from her home, much further than merely the miles she had traveled. But then, that had been what she had desired, had it not? To flee the confines that had pressed at her throat, pushed and pulled her into shapes she could not naturally form.

  And if she met her end here, on a dusty deserted road in the middle of the uncanny wilds, well, that at least would be a more interesting fate than spending the remainder of her life trying to be what she could not.

  That was what she told herself, as she shook the last drops of water from the hem of her skirts and tips of her boots, and looked up the hill in front of her.

  Some, she had learned, crossed the river out of need or desperation, their past lives in ashes behind them. Some came in hope, thinking to make their fortune in some way, become something greater than they could be in the States. And some, like her, had no reason driving them, no dream or fear or incentive to leave all they knew behind for the unknown, save a thought that somewhere else had to be better.

  And here she was, with wind at her knees and a lightness in her chest that had no explanation she could muster, only that they both lifted her, and carried her forward.

  “One more hill,” she told herself, although she had no idea if that was true or not. “One more hill to go.”

  It was, in fact, two more hills, and the road flattened, revealing the checkmarks of fields in the distance, the blue-green ribbon of a river curling through the flat-bottomed valley, and between them, at the end of the road, a cluster of unprepossessing buildings, and the faint stink of something bitter yet not unpleasant in the air.

  The breeze pushed behind her knees again, and she let it, her stride long now that she knew her destination.

  She had no sooner crested the final hill than the wind dropped off, an odd tingle running through her skin as it disappeared, leaving the fabric of her skirt suddenly heavier against her legs, the faintest hint of laughter echoing about her ears. But she had no chance to wonder at it, the road flattening out for the final few lengths into town.

  Assuming one could even call it that. She sniffed once, stopping to consider the structures in front of her.

  Once she left Connecticut, she’d not expected to see another city, and the towns she had passed through had been small even by those standards. But what was ahead of her could barely even claim to be a village. Five buildings set along a single street, all of them made of weathered grey lumber, as though whitewash had never been heard of on the side of the river. They were low-slung and battered, with none of the bits and bobs most folk set out around their homes; no trim or flowers, not even a rocking chair on the porch of the single building that had one. There was a blacksmiths’ chimney smoking at the far end of the street, the black smoke the source of the odd tang in the air, like rotted eggs, dipped in honey. Her nose wrinkled again: how could they live with that smell in the air?

  Still, she supposed it was no worse than the mills back home, and people became accustomed to those as well. But she wondered what metals the blacksmith worked with, that his fire caused such a stink.

  “Not silver, certainly.” He father had taken her to a silversmith’s once, in New London. The smell of heated metal had been bitter, but a greenish bitterness, like raw onion, not this.

  Already the smell was fading, and she thought that without the wind, it might not be so bad after all.

  That settled, she took a second look at the town. It was small, yes, but the buildings were not quite so isolated as she’d first thought: there was a path coming from the other side that she’d missed before, that presumably led to the farms beyond. She noted it now only because someone was coming down it, pulling a three-wheeled cart behind him. His head was bowed low with the strain, and she wondered what he was bringing, and fro
m where. Produce from one of the farms in the distance, maybe, but for what cause? There could be no market here, so far from everything

  She stopped and laughed at herself. Everything here was far from everything. But a market day would fill an empty square with dozens of people, easy enough, even if they had to ride for half a day to get there. Surely such a thing happened even here, in this great emptiness.

  “Sir!” she called out when the man had come close enough to hail politely. He stopped, and looked up, revealing a dark face under the brim of his hat, and she almost swallowed her tongue in surprise.

  He was old, too old to be pulling that cart by himself, and she felt a flash of anger at his master, that he would send this old man to do such a thing.

  She caught the anger with long practice, smothered it and scattered the ashes.

  “Excuse me,” she asked finally, when he simply stared at her. “What town is this?

  He blinked, sucking on his teeth thoughtfully, before telling her, “You’ve come to Flood, Miss.”

  “Flood.” She thought of the river she’d seen, far too distant to reach here, and felt her brow furrow. “As in Noah and?” A Biblical name seemed … unexpected, at best, from what she’d heard of the Territory, but she did not know what sort of folk right have come here, first, to have the naming of their town.

  Her question seemed to amuse the old man, his teeth flashing in a grin, the wrinkles in his face deepening around his eyes until they nearly disappeared. “Of a sort, yes, of a sort. But you’ll have to speak to the Old Man to get the full story, iffy’ you want it. He’s the one who picked the name, as it were.”

  “The old man?”

  “The boss.” His grin deepened, a flash of mischief she hadn’t been expecting. “You’ll be wanting to see him anyway; nobody comes here first time unless they’ve business with him anyway.”

  “I’m not entirely sure why I’ve come here,” she said, struggling to regain control of the conversation, but that just made the man laugh, a low, deep sound of amusement.

  “Same reason everyone comes to Flood, I wager. Go, talk to the old man. He’ll sort you out, one way or t’other.”

  “And he would be found … where?” She hoped that he wasn’t the blacksmith; she wanted to get no closer to that stench than she could avoid.

  “The saloon, miss.” He pointed with his elbow toward the two-story building. “He’s always at the saloon, excepting when he isn’t.”

  “A saloon. Lovely.” She nodded once at the slave, and set her jaw, preparing herself for whatever lay ahead. Behind her, she could still hear him chuckling, and it only made her spine straighten even more, until her shoulders ached with it.

  There was no sign posted on the building she had been directed to, nothing to indicate what its purpose might be. Then again, she supposed there was no need, in a place this size.

  She had never been in a saloon, had never even been near one, far as she knew: there were alehouses back home, of course, but a saloon was a different thing entirely, wilder, far less respectable, one far less suitable for a woman, young or otherwise, to be entering.

  Then again, she told herself, pausing at the first of two steps onto the porch, she had gone cross-river, and there were somemanywho’d say she had no claim to respectability any more. Or that she’d ever had it at all, save as a courtesy to her mother. What had she to lose, entering a saloon in a barely-there town, in the emptiness that was this land? And how terrible a place could it be?

  She stepped onto the porch, bracing herself to open the door. But whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been for a lean, nearly rawboned woman to open the door before she could touch it, robed not in scanty attire, but a sturdy, utterly respectable brown dress, her hair up in a braided coronet, her face free of paints or blandishments.

  “You’re early,” the women said, “but not so early we’re not open. Come in.”

  Whatever she had half-expecteddrunkenness, lewdness, smoke and deviltryit was not what she encountered. Instead of disrepute, the space inside would have made even the most scrupulous of housewives sigh in pleasure. The wooden floors were scuffed but clean, the walls lit with brass sconces that gleamed with polish, and the great winding-clock by the staircase looked as though it might just have been unloaded off a ship direct from London.

  Inside, the entire first floor seemed to be filled with gaming tables, the surfaces covered with green cloth, surrounded by straightback chairs that couldn’t be as comfortable as the menand a woman, she noted with surprisesitting there made them look. Only one table had a game going, the cards making a flickerthwak noise as the dealer turned them over; at the other table, two men seemed intent in a discussion that required a great deal of hand motions. She recognized the posture; they were likely arguing politics.

  Even here, it seemed, some things remained the same.

  “You here to test your luck, or just to see if you have any?” The woman had closed the door behind her, and was watching her now, arms folded over her chest.

  “Luck is for those who prefer not to work,” she said with some asperity, and the woman laughed at her, shaking her head in obvious amusement.

  “Not in the Territory, it’s not, but that’s not a bad attitude to start with. What’s your name?”

  She opened her mouth, and stopped, tongue already forming the shapes. She had been asked that at the hostel in Landing, and she had given her full name, out of habit. When she had met the family she’d traveled with, she had done the same, as had they.

  But there was no need, not any more. It was an odd realization to have, that her name, her family name, meant nothing here, now. No connections to be delved, no expectations to be upheld. Only her.

  “Grace. My name is Grace.”

  The woman’s eyes were kind, she thought, even though she was still laughing at her.

  “And that’s also a good name to start with. Welcome to Flood, Grace. Come, have a drink with me while you wait.”

  “Wait … for what?” She didn’t care for spirits, but followed the woman to the long, polished wood bar nonetheless.

  “Two, please, Iktan.”

  The man behind the bar was only a few years older than her, at a guess, bronze skin taut over a broad jaw, long black hair just starting to silver. His eyes were dark as jet beads, but unlike everyone else she had met so far, he did not laugh at her, square face without even a hint of mockery as he poured two drinks from a frosted pewter pitcher and placed the glasses down in front of them with a precision she could admire.

  “Just lemonade,” the woman said, catching her eyeing the glass suspiciously. “You don’t seem the sort to need liquor to steady your nerves.”

  Grace still had no idea why her nerves would need steadying, but the lemonadelemons, here!was fresh and cool and perfectly tart, and she hadn’t realized how thirsty she had become on that walk before the liquid touched her tongue and throat.

  “That is very good,” she said, placing her glass down carefully, hearing the clink of glass against wood, even over the sound of the card-players behind them. Her nails had grown too long and ragged, she noted, and there was dirt under them she had not been aware of before. The thought of a long, warm soak in a bathtub was a sudden craving, and she coughed once to dislodge it. “But if I may ask”

  “You may ask anything here,” the woman said, and there was an amused cast to her face, although she was no longer smiling. “That is why we are here.”

  And that was the very first question. “And what is 'here?’”

  “Flood.”

  She narrowed her eyes, suspecting that she was still being teased. “Yes, I know that, I encountered a slave outside”

  The woman coughed as though surprised, but recovered quickly. “We are not free, in the Territory, but neither are we slaves. Not any of us.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to do with that statement, so vehemently offered, so merely tucked it away for later. “Well, he told me that this was Flood, and that I s
hould speak with … the Old Man?”

  The woman nodded, her lips pursing. “The Boss, yes. It’s not a requirement, or anything of that sort, but most folk who come through here, that’s why they come. Even if it’s not what they do.”

  Exasperation won out over caution. “Does no-one in this land speak directly?”

  The bartender did laugh then, a dry crackle of noise as he leaned on the bar, ducking his head toward them. “I like this one,” he said. “She smells of the wind. I hope we keep her.”

  “Hush,” the woman told him, and set her own drink down with a less delicate clunking noise. “But if you have been wind-touched, and Iktan would know, then you definitely need to speak to the boss. Wait here.”

  The bartenderIktan, an odd name to match his odd facerefilled her glass before it was empty, and she nodded her thanks. He seemed disinclined to speak further, which she appreciated. It was not that she disliked people, or speaking with them, but she’d learned that tolerance for her oddness could turn to upset, too easily.

  It might be different here. But it also might not.

  Turning in her seat, Grace watched the business of the saloon.

  Although the bar took up much of the long wall, it was apparent that drinking was not the main purpose of this room, but rather, gambling. There were five felt-covered tables, each with six chairs set around them, and placed so that there was space to move without jostling a player’s elbow. She tried to imagine the room on a busy night, when every table was filled, and thought that it must become quite noisy and not a little overwarm. But for now, the air was comfortable, and the unpleasant tang outside was replaced by the more soothing smells of fine leather and tobacco, and an unfamiliar musk.

  She sniffed, trying to identify the last, and thought it might be an undercurrent of the smoke from outside, but tempered somehow. It was … not-unpleasant.