by Vic Connor
I struggle to my crutches and drag myself upward.
Abe pulls his head back, air hissing into his nostrils.
Nose for Storms:
Dark Clouds
“Trouble ahoy,” he reports, eyes somber. “There be a storm a-brewin’ right ahead.”
12
Sum of All Parts
From his rucksack, Abe produces a second flintlock pistol, and hands it to me. I secure the two guns in my belt, one over my left hip and the other at my right, making sure I can grab them with either hand—although I’ll have to let go of one crutch to do so. Then, we hurry up and follow the witch, trying not to lose sight of the angry, wriggling corals drawn on Juanita’s back.
The sun lashes at us as we continue along the path through the jungle; noon seems to last forever. The base of my spine has begun to ache, and my shoulders and arms feel like my veins are pumping molten lava instead of blood.
“Juanita!” I call. “Do you thi—”
The sharp barking of gunshot cuts through the air, followed by a feral warcry: “Kutabare!!”
“Beelzebub take thems!” Abe roars. “Move, Jake lad. Move!”
He sprints past, shoving me aside, and I stumble and almost land head-first into the undergrowth. I regain my balance, then rush and bolt forward, wishing my crutches were wings. Part of my brain tells me my body hurts like hell, but the burst of adrenaline drowns out the pain.
The jungle ends abruptly, giving way to a barren, rocky plateau devoid of vegetation. About thirty steps from the tree line, the plateau meets the base of a tall cliff that extends in both directions, as far as the eye can see.
“There.” Abe points to a spot in the distance. Fifty paces to our right, a deep, narrow canyon slashes into the rocky wall ahead of us, as though a giant axe had struck the cliff. “That be t’ ravine we came through.”
Another gunshot reverberates—and once again, it bursts from the narrow canyon.
It is followed by a silky flower with creamy petals in white, pink, and blue, which swirls out of the gorge enveloped in a web of flashing steel. A ragtag bunch of grizzly thugs pour out behind her like blood from a wound. Armed with swords, they yell and curse in rough Spanish.
“Six o’ thems filthy dogs,” growls Abe. He pulls out his cutlass. “Take care of our lad, witch. I be helpin’ our fair lady take care o’ thems dogs.” With a roar, he sprints forward.
“What should—”
“You and I stay here, young Jake,” Juanita hisses. “And if you remember how, shoot.”
The silky flower turns and whirls without pause, lashing out at the thugs with a metallic tongue.
Keeping out of its reach, the goons maneuver carefully around, searching for a weak spot or an opening in the web of steel that the spinning silk flower weaves around itself.
Abe’s yelling charge startles them. With a scream, two of the ruffians whip around and face the charging pirate.
They clash in a flurry of blades and curses.
Distracted by Abe’s onslaught, the thugs don’t seem to have noticed Juanita or myself. One of the goons, in an attempt to flank Abe, has even turned his back to me.
I let my right crutch fall and cautiously draw the pistol from my right hip.
Take aim.
Pull the trigger.
The goon bends forward as the bullet pierces his left shoulder blade. He cries out in anger, pain, and surprise. He turns around and looks right at me—bloodshot eyes and murderous expression—as he draws his own pistol. His bullet buzzes past my ear.
Before he can fire again, the goon’s chest bursts with blood as a blade protrudes from his thorax: Abe has stabbed him in the back with such force that the cutlass penetrated all the way through.
“Never be givin’ yarr back to Ol’ Abe, ya hear!?” yells the pirate. He kicks away the dead ruffian to free his weapon and hurls himself toward the second foe.
The silky flower’s steel tongue has managed to keep its four foes at bay. One of them has heard and seen me shooting, and charges at my position.
Juanita whispers some words I don’t understand, and a loud buzzing sound comes out of nowhere, just like those frigging bees who attacked me in the Pain Tutorial. Indeed, a swarm of bees flies in the direction of the incoming thug, engulfing him in a cloud of wings and stings.
The thug shrieks, arms flailing against the swarm. He slows his charge, then stops in his tracks before he reaches me.
There’s no way I could miss.
I know it.
Skill Unlocked!
Aim: Point Blank
I toss the empty pistol to the ground and, after a moment’s struggle, pull out the one on my left hip.
Aim at the head and pull the trigger.
Point Blank:
Critical Hit!
The goon’s head explodes. His limp, headless body falls to the ground like a rag doll.
I glance at Juanita and realize she’s no longer by my side. Her poncho has been left crumpled in a ball on the ground.
The cliff echoes with Abe’s snarl, followed by the feral warcry we heard before: “Kutabare!”
Only two thugs remain standing.
One meets a brutal end as he tries to parry one of Abe’s ferocious blows. The pirate’s cutlass breaks the thug’s blade with enough remaining momentum to connect a downward slash to the collarbone. With a sickening crack, the thug collapses.
The other ruffian recedes toward the cliff, fighting to defend himself from the storm of steel raining over him. Facing a lone opponent, the silky flower has stopped spinning—its attacks are now all straight thrusts and lunges, and it has turned itself into…
Memory Unlocked:
A Flower of Silk and Steel
Her real name is likely not Miyu, but that’s the name she gave us when we crossed paths.
An onna-bugeisha: A female samurai, wielding a naginata—the symbol and source of pride of her class. The silks she wears, though lush and colorful, bear no marks of affiliation to any clan.
As if she has been cast out in disgrace.
Her naginata sinks deeply into the belly of the thug, who releases his sword and grabs the polearm’s shaft. After a second, she pulls her weapon backward, freeing the blade and letting her foe drop to his knees.
Then, her voice explodes in a savage kiai, while she sweeps the naginata’s blade quicker than the eye can see. The thug’s head rolls onto the rocky plateau.
With their weapons still drawn, Abe and Miyu inspect the canyon’s entrance.
Nothing moves.
The pirate removes his orange bandana and uses it to wipe the blood from his blade, hangs the cutlass from his belt, and wraps the bandana back around his head.
The bee swarm, buzzing angrily, flies straight at me.
Instinctively, I cover my face with both arms and jerk backward to protect myself, letting go of my left crutch. I remember too late how foolish that is, as I lose balance and fall flat to the ground.
The swarm buzzes above me toward Juanita’s crumpled poncho.
In sync, the bees land on the clothes, as though the garment was covered in honey, or perhaps as if it was their hive.
Then, the poncho pushes upward, like a tree has sprung up lightning-fast right beneath it.
Memory Unlocked:
Shapeshifter
The ocelot, the one I liked the most as a kid.
Of all the forms Juanita could take, the ocelot was my favorite, and the falcon a close second.
I hated the bee swarm, though. I saw her shift into a swarm only once before I made her promise she would never, ever do it again.
“I swear I will not, young Jake,” she assured me. “Unless it is strictly necessary.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, still lying on the ground. “I guess that was strictly necessary.”
Juanita, looking like herself again under her poncho, stretches her lips in a tight smile and fixes me with a stare. My head hurts from the fall, and my pride hurts even more, but I have to give
it to her: The way she’d handled that thug was neat.
She searches for my crutches, extends a tattoo-covered arm, and helps me back to my bound feet.
“Are they all dead?” I ask, surveying the field.
They are, indeed.
Juanita and I limp closer to our companions.
Enshrouded in pink, white, and blue silks, Miyu kneels on the ground, surrounded by corpses. She keeps her naginata upright, the weapon’s butt resting on the ground. Abe, crouching at her left, is tying a piece of cloth around her arm.
Quest Completed!
Rejoin with Miyu:
+2VPs
“She’s hurt,” I say.
“Aye,” confirms Abe. “Bullet be piercin’ a bloody hole through ‘er.”
“Will she be alright?”
She lifts her head and turns it toward me. Covering her face is a Noh mask, white as porcelain, portraying a fair-skinned, beautiful young woman with slanted eyes, knitted eyebrows, and the trace of an eerie smirk.
As she tilts her head gently upward, the mask’s smile seems even more pronounced.
Abe stands up. “She be a tough lass, our glaive lady.”
Blood is already seeping through the makeshift bandage the pirate has made on the samurai’s arm. I look at Juanita. “Can’t you do something?”
“There is not much—”
“Nay,” Abe cuts in. “Our witch be knowin’ lots about shapeshiftin’, and confusin’ foes, and hurtin’ thems folks she don’t likes.” He stresses the word ‘hurting’ in an odd, no-nonsense way. “And she may brew a foul potion or two, but she ain’t no surgeon an’ no healer, me lad.”
I study Juanita’s stave. “I’m sure the stave can be used for healing. I could feel it when choosing between the gun, sword, and staff, so I thought you—”
“No,” she interrupts. “The staff I carry has indeed been blessed by the Lord of Here and Now—”
Abe spits to the ground and mumbles as Juanita says the name, but she ignores him.
“—and will in turn bestow the Lord’s favor by channeling the wielder’s powers. But it will not grant the wielder powers she does not already possess.”
“But why did I—”
“’Cos thems pagan healin’ magicks was somethin’ ya was not so bad at, lad,” admits Abe. “Back when ya remembered how, that is.”
I look at Miyu’s bleeding wound.
I can feel the weight of the flintlock pistols on my hip, and I think back to how I just remembered the right way to use them—or, at least, the basics of shooting them. Raising a hand, I focus on my healing memories…
…on mending a wound and stopping the flow of blood…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
…no; I can’t access any healing spells.
Juanita’s warm hand rests affectionately on my shoulder. “It may come to you later, my child. If the Smoking Mirror wishes.”
“In the meantime, though, we have no healer,” I say. “Right?”
“Ol’ Abe can be patchin’ a wound, if it be nothin’ serious,” the pirate assures me. “An’ our glaive girl here can, too. But not healin’ magicks like yarrn or … aye, no.”
Hmm. It might have been wise to have asked that before choosing the pistols, I suppose.
“Uitzli,” says Miyu. Her voice sounds tired behind her Noh mask. She lowers her head, clasping her naginata’s shaft with both hands and using the weapon to support part of her weight.
I glance at Juanita with a questioning look.
“Uitzli,” Miyu repeats, hissing.
Memory Unlocked:
White Magic
Snow-white skin. Milk-white hair.
Her eyes are all white, too: iris and pupil, white as paper. The slight pink hue comes from the visible blood vessels nourishing her irises.
Blood pumps from a horrible gash across my left side. Though I press my hands as tight as I can against the wound, I feel blood and life seeping out through my fingers.
I’m dying.
She places her hands above mine, my red blood spilling over her white skin.
She smiles, her pearly-white teeth flashing like moonlight. She speaks words too old to have any meaning for me and fixes her white gaze on my eyes. A soothing warmth spreads through my wound, erasing my pain.
“Uitzli,” I confirm. “The girl with snow-white hair. Her name is Uitzli, and she’s our healer.”
“Now that lil’ angel be patchin’ a wound jus’ right,” agrees Abe. “Lord Almighty forgive us—” he crosses himself “—but truth be told, her pagan magicks be savin’ our here hides more times than Ol’ Abe can count.”
Juanita smirks. “I am certain she healed you a great many more than three times, pirate—”
“Shut yer damned mouth, witch!” Abe barks over her words. “Ol’ Abe can counts a lot more’n that!”
A-ha. “Stop it, you two,” I scold pleasantly. “Where is Uitzli, then?”
New Quest:
Rescue the Healer
Heh. Like clockwork, I guess?
“Last we saw,” explains Juanita, “she was taken captive after the fight.”
“That be the fight when ya endin’ up cracked like a flea, me lad.”
Miyu stands up using her naginata’s shaft, like I’m forced to do with my crutches. “Barboza,” she says, spitting the word out.
I look around at my companions. A seven-foot-tall, cutlass-wielding pirate; a female samurai hiding behind a Noh mask and carrying an eight-foot polearm; an old, brown-skinned witch with a staff, a colorful poncho, and tattooed arms.
And a cripple on crutches, two flintlock pistols on his hips.
I have been party to better warbands, I have to admit. But, well, if the game pelts you with lemons, I guess you’ve gotta make lemonade.
“Alright, crew,” I announce. “Do we loot the corpses now?”
A huge grin brightens Abe’s face. “Well, lad. At least ya be rememberin’ the most important part right!”
With the adrenaline rush of the fight gone, weariness falls on the four of us like a heavy hand, pressing us down.
Juanita and Miyu rummage through the three thugs that the samurai had mowed down, while Abe ransacks the two ruffians he’d chopped down himself.
I flounder on my crutches and fettered feet to the headless goon I had point-blanked with Juanita’s help. Gory as the scene is, it’s not quite as bloody as I’d guess it would have been in real life. For a few seconds, I consider how to go about it—I can’t quite crouch by the body in my current situation—then just lower myself to the ground and sit beside the corpse.
I focus on the body…
…nothing happens.
“Interesting,” I whisper, half to myself and half to the game. “No looting options… I guess you want me to do it the old-fashioned way?”
I search carefully through the dead body. Not much to find: a ragged, blooded shirt; a pair of equally ragged, blooded trousers; and a cutlass, similar to Abe’s but medium-sized rather than extra large.
Remembering the golden earring in Abe’s ear, I inspect the rocky ground. I can see specks of blood, bones, and brains, but no yellow glint that would indicate the goon had any valuable jewelry on him.
“And no, I am not,” I whisper, again to the game. “I’m not digging through bits of brain to see if there’s an earring in there.”
I double-check the thug’s belt, hoping to find a gun; we heard gunshots, and one of these people had shot at me, but this goon only carried a sword.
“Hey, Abe!” I yell.
“Yeah, lad?” he calls back, still rifling through his victims.
“Found any guns on those?”
“Ya may want t’ look, me lad.” He sounds like he’s smiling.
I climb back to my crutches and slog over to where he crouches.
“Three o’ thems guns Ol’ Abe smashed with his cutlass, he did, before ‘em scurvy dogs could shoot.” He throws a piece of torn metal toward three shattered p
istols piled on the ground. “But that one—” a fourth flintlock pistol, seemingly whole, lays by the pile of broken bits “—that be t’ one thems be shootin’ ya with, me lad. So Ol’ Abe be thinkin’ it should works good.”
He hands the gun to me. It’s identical to the two I already have, and it seems to work. I holster it in my belt, this time at my back.
Abe looks at me.
“What?” I ask.
He gestures to the pile of gun bits. “Thems broken parts, them be ringin’ a bell for ya?”
I look down at the shattered pistols…
…word dance at the tip of my tongue, almost…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
…nothing.
I clench my fists in frustration.
“Now c’mon, me lad!” Abe encourages. “’Bout healin’ ya knews jus’ a bit. Our lil’ Snow White be havin’ more magicks wrapped ‘round ‘er lil’ finger than ya hads in yarr whole body. But ‘em pistols and parts…” He pokes at the pile of broken remnants with the tip of his boot. “…Ya knews ‘em well ’n’ good, Jake me boy.”
He stands up, towering over me. His steely eyes have an intense, scary fire in them. “Ol’ Abe be rememberin’ all too well, me lad,” he growls, staring down at me. “How good ya was with ‘em guns. How good ya still be. So ya better be squeezin’ that head of yourn real hard, an’ be rememberin’ thems things before Ol’ Abe be doin’ the skull squeezin’ fer ya!” He raises his two huge hands, mimicking his threat.
Memory Unlocked:
Sum of All Parts
The large man can’t be older than his mid-thirties, but the bushy, U-shaped beard on his face makes him look elderly. His blue eyes are full of laughter and intelligence.
“Zee whole, zee whole,” he keeps saying with a thick German accent, “zee whole ist life. Parrts arrt just parrts. Parrts alone arrt dead.” With robotic precision, his nimble fingers fly over the table, assembling the pistol. “But zee whole, ah … zee whole ist alife!”