by Eric Juneau
“You ‘ave a special job, and want to ‘ire my services.”
“Yes! You took the words right out of my mouth. How did you know what I was trying to say?”
“Trust me, Charles, I ‘ave people like you come all the time. Now, what can I do for you?”
Charles stared at the ground. He swallowed. “I want to hire a bone pointer.”
Stocker burst out into a laughing fit, releasing even more stench from his mouth. “You mean a Kurdaitcha? Why on Earth would you e’r want that?”
“There’s someone I mean to have him point the bone at.”
“Of course. The perfect murder. The poor bloke’ll be dead and there’ll be no evidence leading to you. That’s the most insane, devious way to kill a man I could e’r imagine. ‘Tis such a shame I didn’t come up with it myself.”
“So, can you do it?”
“For the right price, I can do anything. ‘Ewo’s the unfortunate soul?”
Charles’ voice stuttered for a moment. He felt like he was about to jump off a cliff, with no turning back after he uttered the name. “Reginald.” His voice squeaked.
“Your own brother. I should ‘ave seen this coming. After all the years ‘e treated you like total rubbish, you’re finally going to do something about it. Good for you!” The smile left Stocker’s face. “You know, of course, it works on the natives because they believe in it. Reginald is a civilized man. I can get you the Kurdaitcha, but I can’t guarantee it’ll ‘ave the desired result on ‘im.”
“If it works, fine. If it doesn’t, well then I am no worse off and at least have the pleasure of knowing the joke was on him for a change. I can give you fifty pounds now, and another fifty when the job’s finished.”
“A fair price. There’s one thing I must tell you, though. I think it’ll be very ‘ard to find a bone pointer. Their culture is so different from ours, you know. Just in case I can’t find a genuine Kurdaitcha, I’m sure I can find a man ‘ew’ll be willing to dress up as one. ‘e’ll be an aborigine so it will be as good as the real thing.”
“That will be fine. All that matters is Reginald believes he’s a real Kurdaitcha.”
¤
Two nights later, as Charles made his bed, Reginald staggered into their tent. He went straight for the whiskey bottle and fumbled getting the cap off. The contents sloshed heavily as his trembling fingers tilted the opening to his lips. He chugged down two large swallows.
“Charles, you’ll never guess what just happened to me. I was on my nightly constitutional when I was accosted by the most barbaric looking Aboriginal savage. He was clad in the most ghastly manor, with fur from head to toe, and wore an atrocious headdress.”
“You were?” Charles hoped his face showed concern. “Did he do anything to you?”
“That is the strange part. He produced the most wicked-looking instrument. It looked like a sharp stick or bone, but had fabulous decorations about it. Well, he pointed it straight at me and gave me the strangest of looks. Then he said something to me in that bloody gibberish of theirs.”
“What did he say?”
“How the Devil am I supposed to know? All I know is the Queen’s English and a little Latin.”
“So, what did he do next? Did he hurt you?”
“Not in the least. As soon as he finished his God-awful speech, he disappeared into the night. I was so frightened I made no attempt to follow him.”
Charles suppressed a smile. “You know, that’s exactly what happened to the poor Aborigine the other day. He was approached by a similarly clad native. I believe they call them Kurdaitchas.”
“Kurda…?”
“Kurdaitchas. They’re some kind of witch doctor or something. When they point the bone at you, it’s supposed to put a curse on you.”
Reginald’s eyes widened. “A curse? What kind of curse?”
Laughter erupted inside Charles, which he hoped his brother couldn’t see from the outside. “It’s supposed to be fatal, at least it was for that poor man. The Kurdaitcha pointed the bone at him, and he was dead within a week. Even the doctor couldn’t help him. Of course, you don’t believe in such superstitions, right?”
Reginald grabbed the whisky bottle again and took another swig. “No, of course not.” For the first time ever, he sounded unsure of himself.
¤
The night provided a few hours of limited relief from the scorching sun, making the air merely hot instead of intolerably hot. All too soon, the work bell rang as the first red rays of dawn crept into the tent. Reginald yawned and rubbed his eyes. Charles sat on the bed and stuffed his feet into his boots.
He uttered the line he had rehearsed in his head for two days now. “Reginald, you don’t look so good this morning. Do you feel all right?”
“Why, is something wrong?”
“You look a little pale. Are you sure you aren’t sick?”
“I always feel like excrement in this heat. The project can’t get by without me, though. I’m sure I’ll feel better later.”
They walked through the already sweltering heat to the mess tent. Once inside, Charles said, “Save your strength, I’ll get our teas this morning.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you, little brother.”
With his back turned to Reginald and the other occupants, Charles produced a tiny bottle of ipecac syrup that he had secretly borrowed from the doctor’s tent. Mother would roll over in her grave if she knew how I’m using her secret trick for making us toss our cookies now. Fortunately, Reginald liked his tea very strong. Charles poured in as much ipecac as he dared without giving away the taste.
“This will make you feel so much better,” Charles said, hoping he had not gotten the two cups confused. He did his best to look inconspicuous as Reginald drank his cup down.
Reginald began his morning lecture. “When we do our daily surveys from now on, I think it’s clear you shouldn’t operate the transit anymore. Just hold the rod while I take the measurements, and above all don’t try to do any of the calculations. We know what happened last time you did that.”
God, that ipecac syrup can’t take effect soon enough. Mercifully, before Reginald got any further in his speech, he doubled over and started moaning.
“Are you all right, Reginald?”
“Maybe the whiskey I had last night didn’t agree with me, but it’s never done that before.” Reginald vomited onto the dirt below.
Charles puckered his lips to prevent a smile from breaking out all over his face. “Let me get you back to the tent. You need to lie down for a while.”
“Perhaps I should, little brother. A little time on the cot and I’ll be a new man. Try not to touch anything while I’m gone, I don’t want you wrecking things in the mean time.”
Charles turned his head to hide the scowl. If things continued to go this well, I wouldn’t have to endure his jabs much longer.
¤
Reginald didn’t come back to work all day, so when quitting time came the first thing Charles did was to check on him. He found Reginald sprawled on his back.
“Charles, it’s good to see you,” he said.
“I’m more concerned about your health,” he replied.
“I feel simply dreadful. I went to the doctor today. He looked down my throat, in my ears, up my nose, everywhere, but couldn’t find a bloody thing wrong with me. Charles, do you think there could actually be something to this Kurdaitcha business?”
“Why certainly not! Only the savages believe that rubbish. I’d say a proper gentleman who believes that gibberish is either a fool or a complete moron.”
“I suppose you’re right, little brother.”
The feeling of satisfaction warmed Charles like a cup of hot tea on a blustery morning. For the first time in his life he had actually gotten away with calling his brother a fool and a moron, with no consequences whatsoever. “Can I bring you something to eat?”
“Oh no, I haven’t felt like eating or drinking all day. I could really use a good night’s
sleep, though.”
¤
Reginald tossed and turned that night. Charles didn’t sleep either. The image of the suffering Aborigine stuck in his mind and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for his brother.
“Charles,” his brother’s voice called from the darkness, more mournful than even at father’s funeral. “Are you awake? There’s something I must tell you.”
Charles swallowed. “Certainly, Reginald.”
“I know I’ve been hard on you all these years, and I’ve really treated you poorly. I’m so sorry for doing so. I want you to understand that as the older brother, I always felt I had to be better. In fact, I was always afraid of you, that you’d surpass me. That’s why I worked so hard to keep you down. Can you ever forgive me?”
Tears leaked from Charles’ eyes. He sniffed them back. “Of course I can forgive you.”
“One more thing. If I don’t make it out of this, I want you to know I’ll die with the knowledge the company is in good hands with you. I know you’d make father proud.” A sound came from Reginald’s mouth which had to be a sob.
“Please don’t talk like that, Reginald. I just know you’re going to be fine.”
“I’m so sorry our lives were ones of competition. It is such a shame we never loved each other as normal brothers should.”
Now was Charles’ turn to toss restlessly in bed. What would father think of him now? Murdering his own brother, and over a little name-calling no less. His conscience grew like a mushroom until it would allow him to go no further. He knew he had to speak.
“Now there’s something I must tell you, Reginald. You know the Kurdaitcha you saw the other night? It wasn’t a real Kurdaitcha, it was someone I hired to impersonate one. I sent him to point the bone at you that night, and the next morning I put ipecac syrup in your tea to make you think you were sick. I resented the way you treated me all these years and wanted to m… mur… knock you down a peg. Can you ever forgive me, Reginald?”
“I’m sorry, Charles, but I don’t believe you. I do know what you’re trying to do, though, and I think it’s most noble.”
“For God’s sake, Reginald, why would anyone lie about that?”
“You’re trying to convince me there was no real Kurdaitcha because you think it will somehow save me. You think it’s all in my mind, but there are things in this universe that work beyond science. The curse is quite real, dear brother. A day from now, two at the most, I’m sure I shall be dead.”
¤
The work bell rang, but Charles had not slept a wink. He had pleaded with Reginald the whole night, doing everything in his power to convince him both the Kurdaitcha and the curse were false. Nothing had worked, and he staggered out of the tent a wreck of a man. He went through the motions of his work that day, eating nothing and drinking barely enough water to keep him hydrated in the intense desert heat.
He checked on Reginald at noon and then at supper, and each time found him worse than before. Guilt consumed him like a yule log in a fire. He knew only one thing left could save his brother from the trap he himself had set.
He walked back to Stocker’s tent before the sun had even set, no longer caring who saw him. His reputation, money, status, none of that mattered to him any more. All that mattered was atoning for the deed he had done, before it became murder.
“Stocker, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want Reginald to die. I tried to convince him the Kurdaitcha was false, but he wouldn’t believe me. You have to convince him!”
Stocker cleared his throat. “There’s a problem with that. Remember when I told you that if I couldn’t find a real Kurdaitcha, I could find a man to impersonate one? Well, I found a real Kurdaitcha that’d do the job. I convinced ‘im it was Reginald’s fault the railroad is being built across their ancestral lands and killing the man in charge would ‘elp protect it. It’s a real Kurdaitcha and a real curse. Once the curse is cast, nothing on this Earth can stop it. And besides, I don’t give refunds.”
“This is the nineteenth century, for God’s sake. Surely you don’t believe in the curse as well?”
“Believe or disbelieve what you wish. I’ve been observing these people for years now, and I can say for certain they’re capable of things we wouldn’t think possible.”
“Whether or not the curse is real, you must tell him the curse is false, and the man you hired is not a real Kurdaitcha. It’s the only chance he has. Look, here is all the money I have. It’s four hundred twelve pounds, a hundred of it in gold. Please, I beg you, tell him the curse is false.”
Stocker licked his lips as he counted the money. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving a dusty red sky as they headed for the brothers’ tent. Stocker protested the pace as Charles tried to drag him ever faster.
When they arrived, Stocker said, “I handle this kind o’ situation all the time. Let me do the talking.”
Charles followed Stocker inside. He paced back and forth, wearing a small path on the dirt floor. He ground his jaw in earnest.
Stocker bent over Reginald. “Old buddy, I know we’ve ‘ad our differences in the past, but there’s something I need to tell ya. That Aborigine that accosted you the other night— ‘e was not a real Kurdaitcha. ‘e was an employee I ‘ired to impersonate one. There is no curse.”
Reginald slowly turned his head toward Charles. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”
Charles cleared his throat. “Well, uh…”
Stocker took in a breath. “’e asked me to tell ya that. But I swear it’s true. The man you saw was not a real Kurdaitcha.”
Reginald coughed. “It was so sweet of Charles to put you up to this, but I know you’re lying. It comes so naturally with you.”
Charles bent over and grabbed Reginald by the collar. “For the love of God, it’s like I said! I hired Mister Stocker to find a Kurdaitcha to scare you. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s all in your head!”
Reginald’s head dropped onto his pillow. He took in a labored breath. “Charles, I’ve never said this before, but I love you. When you see Mother again, tell her I love her too.” He closed his eyes and breathed no more.
Charles shook his brother violently. “Reginald. Reginald!” He turned to Stocker. “Get the doctor!”
Stocker rushed to the medical tent. The doctor stormed in. He blew into the older brother’s mouth and massaged his chest. After a couple minutes, he pulled the cover over the lifeless man. “There’s nothing more I can do for him. He’s dead.”
Charles pushed the doctor aside and kneeled in front of his brother. There he lay, peaceful as ever. Charles grabbed Reginald by the shoulders and shook him some more. “Wake up! Please, Reginald, wake up. Please don’t be dead.”
The doctor grabbed Charles’ arms. “I checked for a pulse, heartbeat, breathing, everything. Face it, Charles, he’s quite dead.”
Charles’ throat tightened so he could barely speak. After a few minutes he said, “I need to be alone for a while.” He stepped out of the tent.
He wandered into the desert. Away from the lights, stars appeared one at a time. Under normal circumstances it would be a beautiful sight, but Charles was in no position to appreciate it. He muttered, I’m sorry, Reginald, as he thought of his dear departed father looking down in shame. He shuddered at what his mother would endure if she ever found out what really happened.
Something rustled in the darkness. Charles’ ear twitched. Many things could have caused it, a rat, a kangaroo, or even a pack of dingoes. Strangely, he felt no fear. In his current state of mind he felt he would have welcomed being devoured by a pack of such creatures.
Out jumped the largest aborigine he could imagine, covered in fur and wearing a strange headgear with feathers protruding from it. Charles had never seen a Kurdaitcha before but found it obvious that he was staring one in the face now. The Kurdaitcha produced what looked like a long, white femur with dark feathers attached to one end and leveled it at Charles’ chest.
He uttered a strange chant, then ran back into the darkness as abruptly as he had appeared.
“It’s only fitting,” Charles said aloud. “With Reginald gone, I’m the one in charge. This is my just punishment.”
A paralyzing pain erupted in Charles’ heart. He fell to the ground, grabbing his chest, and landed on his back. Staring up at the stars, he uttered his last words, “Forgive me.”
¤
Stocker slipped past the seal covering the entrance to the brothers’ tent, now vacant with both its occupants departed. He cracked open their steamer trunk and rummaged inside until he found a box of Cuban cigars. He slipped several into his pockets. They won’t be needing these any more.
Before leaving, he swiped a couple whiskey bottles and stuffed them under his arm. You really outdid yourself this time. He lit one of the cigars and took a puff. No, you really did.
Even he never realized the Kurdaitcha would be after both brothers, but then he recalled his line about the one in charge being responsible for the desecration of the tribal lands. He hoped the deaths of both brothers wouldn’t end the project. The workmen were so important to his business. I really need to choose my words more carefully next time.
Chuck Robertson writes: As a teenager, I spent many hours reading Clarke, Asimov, and Heinlein and aspired to become the next Isaac Asimov.
I have been married for twenty years to a registered nurse but most of all a compassionate wife and mother. Together we are raising two brilliant and (mostly) well-behaved teenage children. When we go on vacation, we never go far. When you live in the Ozarks, you're already there.
My stories have appeared in Finding Home: Community in Apocalyptic Worlds, The Fifth Dimension, and Cosmic Vegetable's Anthology of Humorous Science Fiction.