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

by Laura Anne Gilman

  She shifted, so that her face was turned toward the door, squinting to make out the shape in the dim light. “I did not realize thoughts were so loud?”

  “Yours are. Or maybe it’s just that they’re still new, so I hear ‘em more.”

  “I apologize for keeping you from your sleep.” Her tone might have been a bit sharp, but being told that she was thinking too loud? It seemed particularly unfair.

  “I’ll sleep in,” the other woman said, coming to sit on the edge of the chair, her flannel wrap belted around her waist, thick curls bound up in a sash around her head. Even in the dim light, she could tell that the sash was a bright blue, the color of a butterfly’s wing. “It’s not like you to buzz so. Tell me.”

  She hadn’t been aware of her own thoughts, so it was difficult at first to think of what to say, or even if she had anything to say at all.

  “Have you ever asked the boss for anything?”

  It was difficult to see Zinnia’s expression, with only the moonlight, but the flash of teeth was unmistakable. “I have not, and pray I never need to. Not the way I’m thinking you mean.”

  “I don’t know what I mean.” It was only the shadows that allowed her to say that, to admit uncertainty, vulnerability. It made her wish to pull the coverlet to her chin, and pretend that the words had never come from her mouth, that she had been asleep from the moment Zinnia came into her room.

  “The Territory does that to you,” the other woman said. “Takes what you thought you knew and turns it downside-up, sometimes shakes it and breaks it entire, too. You’ve only been here, what, five months?”

  “Six.” Nearly eight, since she’d taken that first step onto the barge and crossed the river.

  “Six. Seems a lifetime, doesn’t it? I barely remember who I was, before.”

  She made a face at Zinnia’s admission. “You were very young.” According to Zinnia’s stories, she’d barely been walking on her own when her parents came cross-river.

  “Still am,” and those teeth flashed again, a huffed laugh in the darkness. “But the Territory, it ages you up fast, even if it never really lets you get old, either. Not here, anyway. You stay in Flood, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “And if I leave?” She hadn’t thought about leaving, hadn’t thought about anything much beyond day and day since she’d arrived, but now, in the darkness of the room, she wondered at that lack, that … apathy. She’d always been a planner, from the time she was a child. But here, there was nothing to plan, nothing to arrange, or conceal. It simply … was. And suddenly, it disturbed her.

  “Are you thinking of leaving?” Zinnia sounded surprised. “Boss talks to you. He doesn’t do that to many. You should stay, see what he’s in mind for you.”

  “Because I want to, or because he wants to?” She felt something press inside, the mulish kick that always ended up making her father sigh.

  “Probably both?” Zinnia’s response disarmed her, unwillingly. “Let me ask you your own question. You ever ask the boss for anything?”

  “No.” Her thoughts earlier than evening returned to her like a stab. “Not even a job.”

  Something made Zinnia reach out, hard, warm fingers wrapping around her wrists like bracelets. “Not the boss who decides that, that’s all Judit. She picks us like she’s picking corn from a field, just ‘this one and that one not that one nor that one,’” and her imitation of Judit’s voice was uncannily perfect, making them both laugh, a little breathless.

  “Tell me you never do that where she can hear,” she said, slipping her hands from Zinnia’s hold, drawing them back under the coverlet.

  “Ah, she can hear everything, everywhere. There’s no hiding from Judit. Not when you’re in Flood, anyway. Did you know she put down the wardings? Back when the town wasn’t even half the size it is now, she walked the line, trailing salt and sigils. And they sank right down through the dirt, burned themselves into the bone.”

  As a distraction, it was an effective one. “That’s impossible.” She’d learned about wards since she crossed the river, same as you learned how to harness a mule or polish silver, as matter of course. They were what kept the haints and the demon from bothering the living, and warned bear and the like to stay clear. You painted them or carved them, or built them into walls, but nothing could put them into the ground, not like that.

  “That’s the story I was told. And I’m not going to say anything’s impossible, not here. This is Flood, Grace.”

  There was weight in those three words that she didn’t understand, still. Uncanny. Everything here was uncannysave her.

  She had wanted her entire life only to be ordinary, unexceptionable. To fit into the weave, not interrupt it. But she was starting to think, even here, it could not happen.

  Zinnia was not easily distracted. “You asked about the bosswhy? Because of those two who were here tonight? The ones at his table?”

  She pulled the coverlet up over her shoulder, then shoved it away again, plumping the pillow under her head with more vigor than was required, suddenly feeling restless and petulant as a child. “Didn’t my thoughts tell you?”

  “I know you’re noisy, dearling, not what the noise is.”

  “I can’t stop…” not thinking about them, particularly, but why they had come. What they had wanted. And if they’d gotten it.

  Zinnia waited.

  “Bargains.” The word felt odd, sounded odd, as though she’d said it too many times, even though she’d not spoken it out loud, before.

  “They say … well, they say things about him. About everyone who lives here. That we all make a bargain with him. But … most folk never even come to Flood.” The family she’d traveled with had never mentioned the devil, never seemed to even know they were near his home, when they left her off. And while folk came into town, some of ‘em on a regular basis … she’d seen more people come and go through Landing than she’d seen in Flood, and she’d only been there a fortnight.

  “No. Most don’t. Some folk come to play the boss just ‘cause they can. It’s a thing they can puff about, later, say they faced off against the devil, and walked away with silver in their pockets. Some of ‘em like the challengethey come with their best cheats, and see if they can get away with anything.”

  “And they never do,” she ventured, but Zinnia shook her head, the edges of her headscarf swaying.

  “Some do. The boss is good but some cheat better. But they never get away with it twice, that’s for certain. Thing is, some folk who do come don’t want anything of the boss except to have been here. That’s all most folk need: to have him here. Like … like the natives do that thing, where they don’t actually fight? They just steal something from another tribe, or cut someone’s braid in a fight, or something that says “if I’d wanted to I could have but I didn’t, and we both know it for the rest of our lives.” That kind of thing. They know it only goes so far and no more, and the boss isn’t going to get mad. Not at that.”

  She nodded as though she had any idea what Zinnia was speaking of. “But he’s not safe.” Only a fool would think the devil was safe.

  “No. Oh, no. No more’n anything’s safe, and you either learn that or you die a fool. But … after the ones who don’t need him, and the ones who only need small things … If you need something, if you got a desire that burns you so hot you can’t sleep for it, can’t breathe for it, safe isn’t what you’re looking for. That’s when people come to Flood to make a Bargain.”

  Nothing’s safe. The other woman had been so casual about it, as though of course all things were dangerous. But what if they did not want to be?

  She pulled herself upright, pushing the pillow against the headboard and curling her legs under the coverlet. “How does it happen?”

  “What, bargaining? I don’t know. Just that folk come filled with need, and they leave with it sated. The boss knows, and Judit, and they’re the only ones who need to. We just… make sure they get to the table, if they need to be there.” She heard Z
innia shift, start to say something and then exhale, as though uncertain she wanted to say anything at all. “You just curious, Grace? Or is there another reason you’re asking? A reason your thoughts are such a loud jumble they’re keeping you awake?”

  Need wasn’t the right word. She understood need: you needed water and food, and sleep and clothing. You needed room to move, to breathe. But these were things that could be acquired, bought or traded or taken. What she felt was more. Worse.

  “No. Nothing like that. I was just curious.”

  “Count yourself lucky, then,” Zinnia suggested. “And try to get some sleep. I’d like to do the same.”

  “Zinnia.” Another question pushed its way into her thoughts, shaking itself like a wet dog coming out of a stream. “Are we friends?”

  She’d never had a friend. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be one. But if Zinnia said they were …

  Zinnia was a dark shadow in the doorway, the glimmerlight from the hallway catching the hem of her nightfall and the tangle of her headscarf, nothing more.

  “Not friends,” she said. “Sisters, though. If you’d like. Sleep, Grace.”

  The rest of the week passed without incident, but she found herself more distracted, the occasional urge to throw her trayglasses and allacross the saloon held back only by fierce effort that left her irritable and sharp-spoken, until even Zinnia left her be.

  Occasionally, she felt the boss’ gaze rest on her, but he said nothing.

  Four days after Zinnia came to her room, she woke too early after another restless night, her body heavy with exhaustion, her thoughts scratchy, as though they’d been dragged along the creekside until coated in sand. The sound of the heavy boots on the porch below, low murmur of mens’ voices and the heavy slap of packages being transferred to the kitchen told her that the butcher was making his weekly delivery, and she hoped, idly, that they’d run out of rabbits this time.

  Her foot itched, and she pushed off the coverlet to scratch it, frowning as she considered her options. The sky was still dark, but she knew that chasing sleep further would be a fool’s ride. Better to make a virtue of inevitability: waking early meant that she could wash her hair thoroughly rather than trying to rush her bath before someone hammered an impatient fist on the door.

  Afterward, her hair in a damp coil at the back of her neck, she sat on her bed and considered the booklet on the small table by her bed, left by a rider a month before, and passed among the saloon’s inhabitants in an echo of the subscription library her mother had belonged to. She felt no desire to pick the story up again, although she had begun it with great enthusiasm the week before. Her mouth felt dry, and her flesh twitched under her skin, the strange restlessness that had kept her from sleeping all week transferring itself to a more physical ailment.

  Was she falling ill? That might explain much, perhaps.

  Lacking any appealing option, she laced up her shoes and went down the stairs, thinking at the last she could find a cup of coffee, and maybe something productive to do. As it turned out, she was not the only one who could not sleep. The newest girl, Antonia, was huddled on the upholstered divan pushed against the far wall. She was bundled in a thick flannel wrap, deerskin slippers lined with fleece on her feet, her nose a pink button and her eyes red-rimmed from sneezing, even as her fingers wrapped around an earthenware mug filled with something that steamed tendrils into the morning air, a small bowl of eggs waiting to be cracked into it, Judit’s surefireif horrid-tastingremedy for congestion.

  The girl had only joined them the week before, from a farmsteading a few hours’ ride outhad Tonia brought sickness into the saloon? She made a quick movement with her fingers, a subtle charm meant to keep away evil humors, and shook her head. “You look terrible.”

  “I appreciate your honestly,” Antonia said, but her voice made it clear that she didn’t appreciate it at all.

  “If I’d told you that you look lovely, you’d roll your eyes at me,” Grace said in response. “And if I didn’t say anything at all, you’d think I was rude.”

  The girl made a face, but acknowledged the truth of those words. “Just … stick with good morning?”

  “It’s a terrible morning and we’re both awake far too early.”

  “I … all right, there’s no arguing with that.” She sneezed again, and took a sip of the hot liquid, grimacing as she did so. “Cook swears this will cure me, but it may kill me, first.”

  Iktan, bringing in a crate of glassware from the kitchen, snorted at that. “If medicine was pleasing, we’d choose to be sick,” he said, placing the crate on the bar and reaching for the cloth he used to keep them sparkling.

  “Nobody would choose to be sick,” Antonia said, and wiped her nose with the crook of her arm. “It’s miserable.”

  Maggie came in from the kitchen, a mug in her own hands, but from the dark smell of it, she had coffee, not a tisane. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and she merely nodded at them as she went past and up the stairs.

  “Nobody slept well last night,” Antonia noted. “My da used to say that meant there was a bad star over us.”

  She’d never heard that phrase before, and said so.

  “Ah, it’s a Ka’ayini saying. Da grew up running with them, picked up all sorts of language Ma didn’t like him using, but some of it slipped through.”

  “Your father … grew up with natives?”

  Antonia nodded. “Their farmstead used the same stream to water the crops as the local tribe used, so they saw each other regular enough, seemed natural for the boys to play together, I guess. Oh, Grace, your face.”

  She had no idea what her face looked like, just then.

  Antonia shook her head, smiling down into her mug. “I know you’re new to the Territory, but whatever nonsense they filled your head with back where you were born, about the ‘terrible savages’ here, I’ll wager not even a thimbleful was true.”

  She didn’t bother to protest she’d been here long enough, nor that she’d never listened to the stories. Tall tales had held no interest for her, nor gossip, although she’d wondered a few times if she’d been more eager, or less, to cross the river, had she listened. She might have known more of the devil, too.

  And likely much of that would have been wrong as well. Finding out for yourself was always better. She would have to judge the natives for herself as well, at some point, she supposed.

  But they did not come to Flood. Of all the living souls in the Territory, they alone owed nothing to the devil.

  The restlessness ached in her joints, took of residence in her bones, casting her exhaustion into high relief. She pressed her fingers into her elbows, as though to push it out, and returned to the earlier comment. “What does it mean, to have a bad star?”

  “Oh … that there’s something troublesome hanging above us, I suppose. Something big coming, or some change readying itself. It’s all nonsense.” But the girl didn’t seem as certain as her words claimed.

  “Nonsense,” she repeated, thinking back to the feeling she’d had, the day she came to Flood. The voice she thought she’d heard, the push she’d definitely felt.

  She’d smelled of the winds, Iktan had said. And the boss had said that Iktan was rarely wrong.

  If anything brought troublesome change within the Territory, it was the winds. Only medicine men and would-be magicians dared stand within them, to gain the magic they carried, and the price the latter paid for what they learned was one she had no desire to pay.

  She was odd, and perhaps uncanny, but she was not mad. If the winds had sent her to Flood, it had been, as the boss had said, for their own entertainment, momentary and quickly forgotten. Whatever game they had played with her, she could only be glad it was over.

  This bad star could have nothing do with her.

  Antonia shrugged, taking another sip of her tisane. “If not foolishness, then mayhap just more we’re not meant to understand. The whole of the Territory’s its own self, isn’t it? Half of it’s hidden from us si
mply because of who we are, and likely all the more so for you, recent-come.”

  The girl’s words caused something to shift in her chest. “What? Why?” Zinnia had said nothing of that, Judit hinted at nothing. The boss … might have hinted at something of the sort, but the boss did things like that.

  “Being born here … I suppose it just comes more natural? There’re things I couldn’t explain to you, things I know just by knowing. Like wards. I know where they are when I come up on ‘em, no matter who’s laid them down. My ma couldn’t, not all her life, and my da had to work at it. But my sisters and me, we all knew. Things like that. It’s because we were born here.”

  Grace turned the example over, trying to stick other pieces into it. “Like the boss knowing what people want, just by them playing cards with him?”

  “I suppose,” Antonia said again. “He’s been here the longest of any of us. Longer than the rocks, Ma says. Stands to reason he’d understand more.”

  The girl seemed to be done with that thought; she’d wondered and found a reasonable explanation and that was all she needed. She found herself envying the girl that certainty.

  She hadn’t been born here. She would never understand, never fit. But she hadn’t fit where she’d been born to, either. Maybe they’d been right, back home: the problem was her, not wherever she was.

  Maybe she had been made wrong, after all, and she would always feel this way.

  “Good morning, ladies, Iktan”

  Antonia jumped, still not accustomed to the way the boss could just show up out of nowhere. Her tisane spilled a little over her fingers, and the girl cursed, using the edge of her skirt to mop it up.

  If no-one was sleeping well that night, he was not exempt. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbow, and the thatch of golden-brown hair was a tangled mess, as though he’d been running his fingers though it all morning, the same look she’d seen on her uncle’s face, as though he’d been going over numbers all morning and they weren’t making sense. But she’d never seen any indication that the boss knew what money the saloon took in, much less cared about making a profit.