Oddity

by Eli Brown

  “One,” Willit shouted.

  Susanna had managed to get to her feet but wobbled where she stood. The Doll looked as if she’d crawled through a meat grinder, one eyed and leaning, wool poking through ragged tears. Clover opened her father’s bag, and Susanna crawled miserably inside.

  “Two!” Bolete hollered.

  “They’re going to kill us.” Nessa’s eyes were wild with fear until she looked at Clover’s face. Then her features softened, and she smiled. “This would make a tolerable opera. Tragic beauty!”

  “The next one is ‘three,’” Willit warned. “Here we come, children.”

  As the bandits approached, Clover remembered the Matches. She dug in her pocket for the box and managed to pull out a Matchstick just as Willit and Bolete came charging around the corner, their guns raised. Bolete’s first shot blasted the cliff behind them, and Clover felt the sting of the dust hitting her face as she struck the Match on a rock, ready to disappear. But she did not disappear.

  Everything stopped.

  Willit and Bolete had frozen mid-run like statues. The air was frighteningly cold. Nothing moved — not Susanna, not Nessa. Bolete leaned on one foot at an impossible angle. Even the bits of shattered rock hung in the air as if trapped in ice. Only the Match continued to burn, the flame consuming the pine stick bit by bit.

  Clover now understood how the oddity worked. The Matches didn’t send the user anywhere; they simply gave her time to move. She let out a frightened laugh. It was what she thought the watch might have done. Time stopped, if only for a few moments. Time enough for hope.

  But Clover didn’t know where to go. The fire crept closer to her fingers; her opportunity was almost lost. She rushed toward the poachers and, having no other plan, grabbed hold of the shotgun barrels. The next shots would kill Nessa and Sweetwater if she didn’t do something. She pulled down as hard as she could, but the guns didn’t budge. They were as immobile as the rest of the world, fused in place like a badly healed joint.

  The Match fell from her hand and sputtered on the ground, the last of its flame dying. Clover pulled with all her strength, and as the fire went out, reality rolled back into motion. The ends of the gun barrels dropped under her weight, and Willit’s shotgun blew a hole in the dirt at her feet. With the Match gone out, the gun barrels were suddenly searing hot and lit Clover’s palms with pain.

  “Nessa!” Clover screamed as she wrestled with the poachers. Her palms felt like pancakes on a griddle, but she forced herself to hold on to the gun barrels. The rock dust was in her eyes, and she didn’t see Bolete’s fist coming. It landed in her ribs, knocking the wind out of her. She fell to her knees, gasping. Bolete yanked his gun back and aimed it at her head.

  Then Bolete fell to her right and Willit collapsed to her left.

  Willit was bleeding from the head but still breathing. Nessa stood over him, holding the rock she had brained him with.

  Bolete was a heap. Sweetwater had bitten him twice. His arm twitched once. He was dead.

  The mountainside was very quiet except for the groans coming from Willit Rummage, the murderer.

  Clover fished through Willit’s pockets, looking for more secrets.

  The poacher was in no state to resist. “I thought you weren’t the violent kind,” he moaned. Even in agony, he still scratched after the merciless Flea. Clover found the purse of bullets and stuffed it into her own pocket. The only other things she found were a lint-covered piece of dried cheese and the bloody handkerchief Willit had wiped his nose with. Clover felt strangely numb as she threw them both over the edge of the mountainside along with his belt and boots.

  The words “violent kind” rattled in her head. Bolete’s body was hard to look at. Clover’s eyes swam with tears, but she couldn’t be crying for that brute, could she? She was not herself. But, she thought, what safety is there in being myself?

  Willit held his rabbit-ear hat in his lap and winced as he touched the injury on his head. Blood had crusted a few strands of remaining hair on the back of his pale scalp. Clover watched his eyes for signs of internal bleeding.

  “The skull is not broken,” she said. She opened the medical bag to find a bandage, falling back on old habits, and her hand touched the Hat.

  Clover shoved the Hat on her head to get it out of the way.

  It fit perfectly. Clover felt secrets stirring inside, like cobwebs swarming with hundreds of baby spiders. But she was beyond caring, her vision blurred, her palms throbbing, and the stench of gunpowder stinging in her nose. The whispering spiders trickled into her ears, and she learned about Willit’s other crimes:

  . . . Robbed a church . . . Bludgeoned a deputy with a horseshoe . . .

  Clover set the bag down and turned to the poacher. All this time she’d been disgusted by the Hat, but after all, it was only trying to tell her the truth. She could not go back and save her parents, but she could keep this wolf from killing again. The truth was messy, but then, she’d never mastered “tidy.”

  . . . Kidnapped an actress . . . Burned a silo to raise the price of corn . . .

  She pulled out the Pistol, loaded a bullet into the chamber, then aimed for the rabbit ears. She pulled the trigger and watched as the bullet obeyed, fur snowing onto the poacher’s lap even as the shot’s echo rattled off the hillsides. The fear on Willit’s face was the best thing Clover had seen in a long time.

  . . . Put a scorpion under the pillow . . . Robbed the mausoleum . . .

  Were they all Willit’s crimes or did these secrets belong to others as well? Clover decided it didn’t really matter. “Drastic symptoms demand drastic measures,” she said. “Shall I pass a bullet through the valves of your heart like a clot of blood? Or lodge one deep in your brain, one last stupid thought?”

  “Clover, don’t,” Nessa whispered.

  “Or I could take my time, start with the muscles of your right hand. I know how a body is built.” Clover smiled. “So I know how to take it apart. If I removed the rotten parts of Willit Rummage, what would be left?”

  . . . Fed a cow hemlock . . .

  Clover saw now that the Hat was nothing to be afraid of. Smalt had been weak, vain, and greedy. But Clover wasn’t going to profit from secrets; she was only going to do what needed to be done.

  She opened the Pistol chamber and blew the smoke out of the barrel. Willit rolled and lurched to his feet. He limped a few steps before tumbling down a slope and landing with a yelp in a heap of stones ten feet below.

  “You’re not a killer,” Nessa said.

  “I killed Smalt,” Clover said.

  “That Hat killed him — several times over.”

  “Clover killed Bolete,” Clover said. It felt good to speak in simple truths.

  “The snake did that.”

  “And good riddance to them both.”

  Clover leaned to watch Willit scampering like a cockroach behind a lichen-crusted outcropping.

  “You of all people know that you can’t hide from the Pistol!” Clover shouted at him, and her laughter echoed with the cobbles that he stumbled over.

  All the while, the Hat whispered like a chorus, faithfully guiding her toward this just act. She tasted something in the back of her throat, salty, sour, and enormously satisfying. It was the vinegar tang of brutal truths. Clover savored it as she sent Sweetwater down the ravine at a leisurely pace.

  “Which will find you first, Mr. Willit? The bullet or the fangs?”

  Nessa grabbed Clover’s shoulder. “You don’t need to —”

  “Now I know what felt so . . . wrong,” Clover said, reveling in the clarity the Hat offered. “I wasn’t meant to be a doctor. Father’s tools never felt right in my hands. But this” — she examined the Pistol — “holds itself steady.”

  Just as Clover was reaching for a new bullet, Nessa snatched the purse from her and ran.

  Clover shook her head. “I’ve played both sides of this game.” She lit a Match, and Nessa froze, everything froze. Just as the universe stopped around her,
a wave of nausea hit Clover like a punch to the gut; Sweetwater was too far away. Clover’s vision blurred, but she clenched her teeth, blinking until she could see clearly again. The snake would return when it was finished, and Clover had her own work to do. She grimly hummed the tune of Nessa’s opera, letting the Match burn her fingers as she walked to stand in front of the charlatan. When the flame surrendered to its thread of smoke, Nessa slammed into Clover and fell into the dirt.

  “You’ve been a thorn in Clover’s side, Ms. Branagan,” Clover said, grabbing the bullets and loading the pistol. “You betrayed Clover. Sold Clover. Left Clover to die.”

  The Hat confirmed everything she said. While everyone else lied or hid the truth, the Hat offered solutions to every riddle, cast light into every shadow. Old debts were aching to be settled. “You worked for the poachers who robbed your uncle. You stole my heirloom silver,” Clover said, listing Nessa’s crimes, speaking out loud the truths the Hat whispered.

  “What?” Nessa sputtered. “I never —”

  “Poisoned my dog — you were jealous. Your hounds could never tree a fox as well as mine.”

  “What are you saying? This isn’t you.”

  “Your gossip ruined my promotion. I would have been lieutenant of this ship,” Clover said, seeing in Nessa everything that had soured the world.

  “Clover, wake up.” Nessa got to her feet. “You’ve got every right to kill Willit. But what you do right now will sit heavy on you for the rest of your days. You’ll have to carry it, not him.”

  “I was carrying it,” Clover said with wonder. “I thought it was all my fault somehow. But now I know better. Clover was not the problem, but Clover will be the solution.”

  “He deserves what’s coming to him,” Nessa pressed. “But you deserve better. He’s got nothing left. You can leave him to his misery.”

  Clover pointed the Pistol toward the ravine. “Clover’s first shot belongs to the poacher,” she said. “You can have the second.”

  Nessa’s punch landed on Clover’s upper lip with a wet plop. Pain bloomed like a sunflower in Clover’s skull. Tears rolled down her cheeks as blood slicked her teeth. The Hat fell in the dirt next to the dropped Pistol, but Clover was still standing. She lowered her head, baring crimson teeth, and lunged at Nessa. Nessa set her feet firmly and caught Clover’s enraged rush, wrapping her in a fierce hug. Nessa held on as Clover twisted like a caught fish, her screams crumbling into whimpers. And then, all at once, the Hat’s fevered clarity was gone. Fear, guilt, and confusion settled into Clover’s gut again. With them came relief. She’d been pulled back from the cliff’s edge.

  Feeling Clover’s body go slack, Nessa loosened her wrestler’s grip just enough to examine her friend’s face.

  “Are you . . . you?”

  Clover nodded, shame hot on her cheeks. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she sat on the ground, feeling very ill. They both looked at the Hat.

  “I never thought I’d pity Smalt,” Clover said shakily.

  “You have to get rid of that thing.”

  “I will when I find a safe way to destroy it.” Clover shoved the Hat into her bag, hearing the sour whispers protesting. “But it wasn’t just the Hat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it fits me a little too well.” She licked her swollen lip. “Thank you, Nessa.”

  “For the hug or the punch?”

  They heard Willit scream in terror, and Clover gasped. “Sweetwater!” She felt the snake close to her prey, darting like an arrow toward the warm target, the cowering body. Clover closed her eyes and willed the snake away. It took all of her strength, like pulling a bull by the tail. Clover could feel the animal’s fear. The poor beast was as miserable as Clover but didn’t understand the reason. The snake surged closer to Willit, longing to lash out at the closest threat. But she finally felt Clover’s call and relented. Soon enough Sweetwater returned, flowing over the gravel like molten bronze. Clover would not have Willit’s death on her head today.

  She hugged Nessa again, trembling. Clover sobbed once and buried her face in her friend’s shoulder. Beneath the grime and marsh wine, Nessa smelled like wet hay.

  “We both need a bath,” Clover said.

  “Ah . . . Clover?” Nessa whispered.

  Clover pulled back and saw that Sweetwater had wrapped herself tightly around Nessa’s neck, tucking her head cozily under her jaw.

  “Oh, sorry,” Clover said, coaxing the viper back onto her own person.

  Nessa called into the ravine, “You just rot down there! Between the cold nights and the vermin, I guess you’ve got slim chances. We’ll check in on you on our way back.”

  “You’re going to the witch,” Willit hollered. “You ain’t coming back.”

  Clover and Nessa started toward the mines.

  “It ain’t right to leave an injured man alone on a mountaintop,” Willit called after them. “Bootless!”

  “Nothing about you is ‘right,’” Nessa called back.

  Clouds enveloped them as they crossed a plateau of grass and obsidian. Clover examined Susanna in the uncertain light. The Doll was in bad shape. The shots had shredded her belly, and she was loose, almost lifeless. Clover knew Susanna didn’t feel pain, but there wasn’t much holding the Doll together anymore. Soon she’d be nothing but a nest of wool and wine-stained cotton.

  Clover set Susanna on her shoulder. Her voice cracked as she said, “I am sorry, Miss Susanna. As soon as we get off this mountain, I’ll find good cotton and put you back together. Good as new.”

  “Not getting off this mountain,” Susanna whispered.

  “Why would she go and say something awful like that?” Nessa groaned.

  “You did your part,” Clover said to Nessa. “You can go home.” For a long time there was no sound but the slip and crunch of their feet on the black, glassy gravel.

  “You said I might write my own opera someday,” Nessa said, looking straight ahead. “Well, in my opera, I’m going to keep knocking poachers in the head with rocks until you’re home safe.”

  “Then it looks like you’re going to meet the witch with us,” Clover said.

  They crossed a bleached field dotted with huge corroded mining pans holding green puddles. A massive stamp mill loomed nearby, the hammers that crushed the ore now mottled with rust. Even now the remnants of the copper and mercury used to extract the silver smelled like stale blood.

  They heard a skitter of rocks and the hoarse whispers of vermin nearby. Susanna shuddered; her remaining eye wobbled. She pointed toward a clump of soot-colored bushes. “That way,” she said. “To the bridge.”

  Beyond a copse of larch trees dripping mist from their bare branches, they discovered the abandoned mining town of Harper’s Hope. Clouds moved like ghosts between the brick ruins. An echoing warehouse was surrounded by smaller structures: a bakery, a post office, a barracks, and more. The wooden roofs had rotted away years earlier, leaving them open to the sky.

  Abbot’s Highway, an ambitious road cobbled by stones brought up from the mine, was wide enough for the twelve-mule wagons that had once carried the precious silver down the mountain. The road cut away from the town in both directions, one toward the US, one toward Louisiana. But there was no sign of soldiers. It felt as though nothing living had passed this way in a long time.

  Susanna pointed toward the edge of the town where the fog was thick. Brambles were woven between the fallen walls, and with every step, the click and scurry of hidden vermin got louder.

  Susanna was too weak to climb down into the medical bag, so Clover tucked the Doll in. “Ain’t scared,” Susanna croaked.

  The town ended abruptly at the edge of an enormous canyon. The chain-and-slat bridge had once been strong enough for carts of ore, but mist had rusted the links, and many of the planks were long gone. It hung like a toothless smile across what seemed to be a bottomless gorge. Here the wind whipped the clouds into a stampede whose whorls hid the distant reaches of the canyon.

&n
bsp; On the other side of the bridge, a hole in the cliff wall looked like the entrance to the land of the dead.

  “Missus waiting,” Susanna said.

  “What, in that hole? I don’t think we should go in there.” Nessa’s voice wavered

  “I’m not asking you to,” Clover answered, testing the bridge with her foot.

  “We could just go home,” Nessa said.

  “If I have any family left, it’s in there. The Seamstress is my mother.” It was a relief to say it aloud.

  “Oh, Clover.” Nessa groaned. “It’s no wonder trouble follows you.”

  Clover put all her weight on the first plank she could reach. It creaked but held.

  Then they heard the trumpet of approaching riders. The mountainside distorted the echoes, but Clover guessed they were only a few miles away. The clarion was followed by the crack of a gunshot rattling through the canyon.

  Time was running out. Clover leaped to the next plank, grasping at the support chains.

  “What if we moved to Italy?” Nessa called from the safety of solid ground behind her.

  When she got no response, Nessa sighed and followed, grumbling.

  They had made it halfway across the bridge when something monstrous rose from the mists below. At first Clover thought it was a giant spider. But it was a vermin as big as a bear. It scrambled up the opposite canyon wall on six legs, several hides bound together: bison, cougar, wolf. It leaped onto the bridge and roared like a steam engine rumbling to life. In its cavernous mouth, rows of teeth doubled where the pelts overlapped. The sharpened farm equipment that composed its skeleton shrieked and rattled.

  With another roar it gave the bridge a violent shake, and Clover’s feet slipped between the slats. Nessa caught her elbow, and Clover yelped, her feet dangling above the void. As Nessa pulled her up, Susanna clambered out of the bag and took a few shaky steps toward the beast.

  “Susanna, wait!” Clover yelled.

  “Ain’t scared.” The Doll’s voice was very faint, but she picked up speed as she headed across the bridge, sometimes leaping over the gaps, sometimes teetering across the chains.