All the Pomp of Earthly Majesty

by Michael G. Williams

  Chinatown, San Francisco, 1912

  Theodora ran into the narrow front room of the brothel, unleashing a fierce and fearsome battle cry, one part the roar of a bear, one part the scream of a wildcat. Two hatchet men ran out to meet her, wielding the very weapons that gave them that sobriquet, but Theodora was ready for them. She had a metal bracer around her left arm covered in thick leather with padding under it, and she met the heads of their hatchets with her left forearm. Feather fragments puffed from the tears the hatchets made in the leather, and Theodora wasted not a moment of her advantage. With her right fist, she punched one hatchet man in the nethers so hard he passed out on the spot. With one of her great, black boots, she kicked the other in the knee. The joint made a sound like someone breaking a handful of twigs all at once, and that man also dropped to the ground.

  A woman behind the counter disappeared from view by ducking under it, and Theodora, her face twisted in righteous rage, opened her mouth and bellowed a wordless challenge to anyone else in the house who might wish to put up a fight.

  The house was almost frighteningly silent in response. Norton could hear girls through the paper-thin walls. Some of them wept with terror at the idea of the house being invaded twice in one night—first by police, then by Theodora’s announcement of Donaldina’s return—but there were no gunshots and no hatchets flying through the air.

  “I imagine the police took most of the men.” Donaldina Cameron swept into the lobby of the brothel with Eva Marie covering her flank. The older woman strode into the room with cold satisfaction on her face. Eva Marie turned and stood in the doorway to watch the alley for any unwanted surprises.

  One of the boo how doy started to stir on the ground, but Theodora produced the hammer and clocked him again.

  Norton gasped and adjusted his hat. “Young lady!” Norton shook with agitation. “That is quite enough of that, don’t you think?” He pointed at the man’s temple. Blood already pooled in bruises under the skin. “You are going to kill one of these people sooner or later if you keep doing that. I understand you have a mission, but these are people. Human beings, just like yourself.”

  Theodora gave Norton a long, cool stare before turning to Donaldina. “What next, ma’am?”

  Donaldina stepped over to the counter and dinged the dome bell sitting on it.

  A quivering Chinese woman rose from behind it.

  Donaldina said something in Chinese, rapid-fire, too fast and too complex for Norton ever to understand. The woman she addressed nodded and bowed, ducking back behind the counter with an air of finality: she was done talking and she was done being talked to.

  Donaldina snorted and gestured to the other two. “Girls, our quarry is upstairs. Back in the very room whence we took her not an hour ago. Let us pay her a second visit and advise her she does wish to go with us.”

  Norton cleared his throat. He opened his coat and gazed down at the hatchet there. He had what he came for. He’d helped them by distracting the guard out front so Theodora could sneak up on him. He had no doubt there were girls here against their will: it was a phenomenon well known in his century—and, as he had learned, in the one to which he was summoned.

  And yet…

  “Why, exactly, did she run away when you rescued her earlier tonight?” Norton cleared his throat again. “With respect, of course. I recognize that she was meant to lead you into a trap, yes, but why did she do that? Why not simply allow herself to be rescued by you if you’ve had such great success at it before?”

  Donaldina didn’t pause as she began climbing the narrow, dimly lighted staircase. “These girls do not know the ways of the world, sir. They do not know a better life is possible. They only know this, which has the powerful advantage of being familiar to them. It is a known quantity. If they come with me, well, they know not what awaits them.” Now Donaldina did stop on the landing, so she could address Norton before she took the remaining stairs to the second floor. “It hardly matters that what awaits them is the salvation of education. I mean that in the sense of spirit as well as body, of course. When I rescue a girl, I teach her the skills required for a decent life before she is allowed to try to make such a life for herself.” Donaldina gestured at the rest of the building, at the two hatchet men on the floor, at the counter behind which, Norton presumed, the receptionist continued to cower: all with one grand sweep of her long, thin arms. “Here a girl also receives an education, of course, but it isn’t in service to a life. It’s in service to an early death. I keep them at my mission, as you may have heard. And yes, sometimes they choose to escape me. And when they do, I track them down rather than fret over why. For I know why. It is because escape is perhaps all they have ever been able to want or to hope for, and that hope is an old habit I must work to remove from them, like a thorn worked out of a wild animal’s paw.”

  Norton’s bristle-brush beard sagged. “You do these girls a disservice comparing them to beasts. They are not of your culture or of your religion, madam, but they are people and deserve the language of people.”

  The missionary’s eyes narrowed. “Allow me a metaphor, sir. Imagine you find a fox in the woods. It is wounded, perhaps gravely so, from being caught in a trap. The bait that lured it has gone bad, and it does not have long to live. What do you do? Do you end its life and call it an act of mercy? Or do you take it home and keep it in a cage while it heals, knowing it would run away given half a chance? That perhaps it will never thank you? That you may never see it again when it is healed? Or do you walk by and ignore its feeble cry?” She gestured up the stairs. “These girls have been so ensnared. And I cannot walk by and ignore them. And if you do not like the cage in which I keep them while they heal, well…” she spread her hands again, “which of us came here to save a human life, and which of us came here to steal an axe?”

  Norton pondered this for a moment, just a heartbeat, then spoke again. “And yet they know enough of your methods to call you ‘Jesus Woman’?”

  “And to call me ‘White Witch,’ and all manner of other terms. Rumors abound, sir. I cannot control that. I can only do what I am called to do: go on saving young girls sold as slaves to service anyone and everyone who walks in that door.” Donaldina cocked one eyebrow at him. “Do you wish to question my methods further?”

  Norton heard an edge in that voice. He spoke softly, deferentially, his eyes hooded. “No, madam. I hold no doubt that you believe every word you just said. And I know many of these girls are here against their will and welcome the salvation you offer.” Norton lifted his eyes. “But I also pray that you never join the ranks of those who trade human lives as a commodity: that you do not shift your priorities such that the goal becomes to increase a tally rather than to decrease suffering. The prisoner moved from one cell to another is not free.”

  Donaldina paused, and her eyes softened a touch, but her words crackled, crisp and confident. She replied with the tone of a leader who has made choices, observed consequences, and knows the cost and the benefit of success. “And I, in turn, pray that you do remember that some cells are worse than others, and some better, and which of us—the Tong brothels, or me—in this instance is the greater enemy of freedom. The world—and specifically this corner of it, the part where girls are misled, betrayed, and sold to stock the shelves of a glorified market stall—is a terrifying place. It is filled with monsters, with those who would take another’s life, another’s agency, another’s dignity, as soon as they would take their next breath. Confronting those monsters is difficult. Some nights, when the fog creeps in and we find ourselves alone against such men as these, it is easier to question the methods of those who likewise oppose them than it is to face them straight-on.” Donaldina spread her hands, not a shrug so much as a do you see? “I welcome your prayers that I retain my grasp on the point of all this: that girls ripped from the lives they knew, and promised happiness, find liberation from slavery and can enjoy a life somewhere between the lie they were promised and the tragedy beyond it. And I pray
that you do not forget that you and I have common enemies, and common goals, and that we keep them in our sights as we go about fighting them each in our own uncommon way.”

  Norton blinked. Then he nodded slightly and touched his hat. “You have given me much to consider.”

  “I suggest you consider elsewhere.” Donaldina Cameron nodded at the street Eva Marie still watched from the door. “The window during which this place is safe and quiet is narrow, and growing more so by the moment.” She turned and strode up the stairs, giving orders without looking back. “Theodora, I believe your boots may be useful opening some of these doors.”

  Norton fished in one of his pockets as Theodora kept an eye on him to make sure he would leave them to their work. Producing the brooch Madge had given him, he rubbed it between thumb and forefinger as he mumbled. “Any time, my good witches. Any time at all…”

  Chinatown, Our San Francisco, Tonight

  A rush of wind kicked up a sudden cyclone of food wrappers and paper napkins and single sheets from a discarded section of newspaper. When the wind passed, Madge stood in the cyclone’s place. She cast her eyes about the skyline. The city stood restored: Dragon Gate was back, and so was that building from Dirty Harry, 555 California Street.

  Madge sighed. It worked. This San Francisco was home.

  “What…exactly…did you just do?”

  Madge turned. Mammon stood where he had before she left this timeline, when she had tried to use the magic of the gate to make him go elsewhere.

  The demon put a hand to his chest, under the left lapel of his green sport jacket with gold and silver trim. When he withdrew his hand, there was no blood there, not exactly, but a viscous light ran down his fingers and dripped against the sidewalk before fading out. His face was curious, cautious, and then very suddenly it was filled with fury. Mammon turned eyes that glittered like shards of broken obsidian on Madge, and his skin rippled as his slicked-back hair twisted and turned, taking on the aspect of something Madge had to admit might have been called horns. The demon’s skin broke out all over as though covered in boils, flecks and shards of gemstones and precious metals erupting from them and overlapping into the scaled hide of a rich and terrible beast. Mammon’s expression was very cross.

  “Oooooookay.” Madge licked her lips and stepped back, crossing her arms in an X in front of her, a protective stance, one where she could use her hands to fight or to cast or to help push off if she needed to run away. “I am remembering that that worked.”

  Madge heard Etta’s voice from behind her—and the familiar click-clack of Etta’s gun. “Hoist those hands, girl.”

  Mammon puffed yellow smoke from his mouth and nose as he addressed Etta. “Kill her. Then find the other one and kill them, too.”

  Madge’s mouth felt very dry.

  Mammon’s voice rumbled like an earthquake. “I said, kill her.”

  Madge sighed slightly. Oh, gods, do I really have to die outside a Starbucks? Is there anything more San Francisco than dying outside a chain coffee shop full of people frightened to cross the street and enter Chinatown?

  A car sat at the light at Bush and Grant. The driver, their windows down, began frantically blaring the car’s horn and shouting at Madge to warn her about a gun.

  Etta jumped at the sound, and Madge took advantage of the driver’s welcomed distraction to disappear around the corner onto Bush and run for it, wishing good fortune on the rest of that driver’s days as she went. Dying while doing cardio, on the other hand, would probably be very L.A.

  A block later, Madge turned another corner and there, crossing Union Square, saw Iria running full speed toward her. They wielded a bar of rusted iron in their hand, the tip a decorative twist of metal like an Ace of Spades: sharp and solid and simultaneously crafted and barbaric. “Holy shit, are you okay?”

  Madge stumbled to a halt beside them, finally allowing herself to glance back.

  No assassin pursued her. The square was filled with tourists and locals in the evening air, but none of them were the woman whom Madge had spent the night trying to evade.

  “I think so.” Madge’s voice shook. “But Iria, we are in it deep.”

  “I killed Mammon tonight.” Iria blurted it out, their other arm around Madge’s shoulder, holding her close. They kissed the top of Madge’s head. “Well, I killed a version of Mammon. Just now. I think I was in a…” Iria’s voice trailed off. The bar of iron in their hand dissolved, as though it abruptly got tired of holding its shape. One moment Iria held the iron bar, and the next they held nothing. Not even a residue remained.

  “Parallel dimension?” Madge didn’t pull away from Iria, instead turning them both to keep her eyes on the way she came when getting there. “Same. And I killed mine, too. We need to compare notes, because what we did there hurt him here. At least, he noticed something happened. But I think maybe we should not do big-deal magic under duress next time.”

  Iria was silent for a moment, then: “We still need to get Norton.” They nodded in the direction Madge’s eyes continuously scanned. “Can we go back that way?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Iria gave her another kiss. “Next time, no splitting the party.”

  “It’s a deal. Now let’s go.” Madge nodded in the direction of Chinatown. “I want to get Norton and get home before Mammon can find us again.”

  Chinatown, San Francisco, Tonight

  Chinatown was almost never utterly silent, but Ross Alley on this night was quiet and dark with fog clogging either end. The dowsing rod Iria carried swung this way and that. On the asphalt between Sweetheart Florist and the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory, swaddled in the slightly sweet scent of flour and oil from one and the spiced perfume of cut stems from the other, Iria reached through the hole in time and space Madge helped them cut.

  They both heard a woman’s voice through the portal, the sound diminished and elongated as though crossing a very great distance on the wind before it reached their ears in the here and now. “…I believe your boots may be useful opening some of these doors.”

  They made out Norton’s voice as well. “Any time, my good witches. Any time at all.”

  A much shriller, younger voice cried out. “Madam! His Majesty!” There was the sound of sputtering. “There’s a street in the middle of the living room!”

  There was a cry of surprise and a bigger, booming voice said, “Ma’am, he’s back slangin’ it!”

  “Theodora, I’ve told you not to use the language of ruffians like tha—blessed God!”

  Iria and Madge each grabbed one of Norton’s arms and yanked with all their strength. He cried out in surprise, and Madge saw something flip up and out of his grip: the brooch she had given him as a good luck charm.

  “Wait!” Her voice came out strangled and surprised, and it was already too late. Norton stood in the alley between them, returned to the here and now, and the portal slammed shut.

  A clatter of metal jangled against the pavement. “Oh, thank the stars.” Norton half-squatted and half-bowed to pick it up. “I thought I’d dropped it.” He lifted the brooch and handed it to Madge. “My good witch, your charm. I daresay I needed all the luck I could get in the mad time to which you sent me.” He drew a handkerchief from inside his old military coat and dabbed at his forehead with it. “I have quite the tale to tell. And I have some questions to ponder in some quieter moment.”

  “And you have the hatchet.” Iria spoke from his other side.

  “I do.” Norton turned to them and opened his coat to show it in his belt loop. “Does your magic tell you when I find the item you desire? Handy, that.” Norton drew another deep breath and then swung his eyes back and forth between Madge and Iria. “But the two of you appear as though you have met your own ghosts, and perhaps a few extras to boot. Is all well?” He reached out suddenly and clasped their upper arms, his face filled with sincere concern.

  The more we do this, the more bound we all are. Madge reflected on the conditions t
he magic created between them, not for the first time. But now was not the time, and this was not the place. “The adversary is onto us. He’s hired someone to help him get to us, and he sent her after us tonight.” She spared a glance each direction. Only fog crowded the ends of Ross Alley, but that didn’t exactly make her feel safe. It made her feel isolated and exposed, standing in the middle of the alley like this. “We need to get home and regroup. And I suspect we need to lay low for a little while.” She said this last part directly to Iria: a teacher giving her student an order, not a partner asking her lover’s advice.

  Iria nodded their assent. “Come on. Let’s go. We’ve got some ground to cover.”

  None of them noticed Etta making notes in a tiny leather journal, a stub of pencil clutched in her hand, as she stepped from the shadowed entrance of Culture-Lite Printing Company to follow after them.

  Union Square, Tonight

  Norton slowed and then stopped as the three of them crossed the expanse of sidewalk and green lawn arranged around the Dewey Monument. Iria and Madge took a few more steps, then turned to him.

  Iria nodded in the direction of the Tenderloin. “Come on. We need to keep moving.”

  Norton did not respond, instead turning first to his right, toward the northwestern corner of the plaza, then around again, clockwise, to face northeast, then turning again to gaze first southeast and then southwest. “What are your thoughts on slavery?”

  Iria turned to Madge and raised one eyebrow.

  Madge widened her eyes momentarily, like a tiny shrug.

  “Let me put it another way.” Norton cleared his throat.

  “We really don’t have time for this.” Iria tried not to sound impatient, but it was impossible. They were impatient.

  Norton’s left foot lifted as though to take a step, but he stood straighter, gathered himself, and put it back down. Iria tried very hard not to seem surprised because that was just another on the growing list of things suggesting they had gotten more than they bargained for when they summoned up whatever this was that looked and talked and presumably thought like Norton did.