The Cunning Man

by D. J. Butler

  “Dimitrios Kalakis! I squeeze this trigger, and you die. Do you understand me?”

  Shuffling sounds came from behind him, and Hiram couldn’t afford to be ambushed. He stepped sideways, keeping the Greek covered.

  Sweaty still lay on the ground, clutching himself, but Shorty was up on all fours and muttering. “Goddamn farmer saw us coming, and I said for us to wait until they camped, but the Greek, he said we should get it done…”

  “Shush,” Hiram said.

  Dimitrios puffed out his chest. “Shoot! We Greeks, we are invincible. Do you know the story of Achilles? He was covered in fire that melted any spear that attacked him—”

  “Except for his heel,” Hiram said. “And a blow to his heel killed him. Only I’m thinking you may have an Achilles forehead.”

  Dimitrios sucked in breath and his surprisingly high-pitched voice fell silent. He’d been the one laughing.

  Of the four men, Dimitrios was the only one who spoke with a foreign accent. Then it struck Hiram who the big man was. He’d been the tough working the door at Naaman Rettig’s suite, the man with no neck and the sides of his head shaved.

  “Mr. Kalakis,” Hiram said, “does Samuel Kimball know you’re working for Naaman Rettig?”

  “No,” the miner admitted.

  Hiram kept watch out of the corner of his eye. He hoped he hadn’t killed Big Man. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to kill any of them.

  “And what would your wife think about you doing this?” Hiram asked. “I’m an innocent man. My son is in the truck. He’s seventeen years old, and he’s scared silly because men in masks are attacking us!”

  “Hey,” Michael muttered.

  “And for what?” Hiram continued. “So you can drive me out of town? Don’t you remember that I’m the one who brought food to camp just yesterday?”

  Dimitrios said nothing.

  Hiram turned on the dwarf. “Does your mother know what you do for a living? Does she know you’re a two-penny bravo for a railroad bandit with the ethics of a cornered rattlesnake?”

  “No,” Shorty said. “And that’s low, talking about a guy’s mom. I’m a bona-fide employee of the D and RGW.”

  “And yet, your mother says rosaries, praying that her son is a good man. Keep in mind, I have six shots, there are four of you. I earned medals as a marksman in the Great War, and I shot a hell of a lot of Germans on colder, darker nights than this.” That was a straight run of lies on Hiram’s part. “I’ll kill at least two of you before you can even stand up.”

  Shorty and Dimitrios Kalakis both raised their hands in surrender.

  Hiram prodded Shorty with the toe of his boot. “Tell me your name.”

  “Tyson Gibby.”

  “And the big fellow over there?”

  “He’s Frank Johnson.”

  “Mr. Gibby, could you check to see if Frank Johnson is still breathing?”

  Gibby crept over to the big man.

  “You’d better tell me your name, too,” Hiram said to Sweaty.

  “Lemuel Hanks,” he muttered.

  “Good work, Pap,” Michael called from the truck.

  Hiram took a deep breath. “Turn on the headlights, would you?”

  Lemuel Hanks sat up. “You should’ve been dead. I’ve had that heater for ten years, never jammed on me once. You’re a lucky man. And as for my wife or my mother, I don’t have either, so don’t try that stuff with me.”

  “The Lord Divine has saved you and me both from committing murder,” Hiram said. “Assuming Frank lives.”

  The charm had worked. Hiram’s repentance had been acceptable. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, that was one of the Beatitudes. Hiram had turned the other cheek. He had resisted unnecessary violence, he had spared the lives of his attackers.

  And the Lord had given power to his charm.

  But that didn’t mean the truck would start now.

  “He’s breathing,” Gibby said, “but he’s out cold. Hey, Lemmy, help me drag him some. That usually wakes ’em up.” Then in a lower voice, “I had an uncle who drank something awful, and he’d get so gassed he’d fall down…”

  Gibby and Lemuel Hanks lugged the unconscious giant out into the glow of the Double-A’s beams.

  The three men stood uncertainly, looking at Hiram. Now that he had some real light, Dimitrios’s single eyebrow stood out even with the black on his face.

  Michael got out of the truck. “Do you believe in ghosts, Dimitrios?”

  The Greek shrugged. “Maybe, I do.”

  “But the phantoms running the ridges up here—that’s been you, all along.”

  Dimitrios looked down at his feet. “We frighten the people.”

  “Because Rettig told you to?”

  Dimitrios nodded.

  “But tonight you tried to attack me,” Hiram said. “Rettig told you to do that, too?”

  The Greek nodded again.

  “What about the ghosts?” Hiram pressed the Greek. “Really, do you think the mine is haunted? The eastern seam has a ghost?”

  Dimitrios opened his mouth and closed it twice before he found the words he wanted. “I have never seen a ghost, but other men swear to it. But the railroad man pays me a good pay to do what Samuel says and report to him. And since Samuel promises me Bill Sorenson’s job, this is a very good work for me. Samuel says the mine is haunted, and I say, yes, sure it is. Once the railroad owns the mine, that will be better for everyone. We can all go back to work.”

  Hiram nodded. So Rettig had had an inside man. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, from his bashed nose. He spit.

  “Dimitrios, this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to go back to the camp, talk with the Greeks, the Chinese, the Japanese, and whoever else you can, and tell them that there is more coal in the eastern seam, and until that coal gives out, you’re going to mine it. You all need to bury your differences with Ammon and the Germans.”

  “They won’t listen. They’re scared.”

  “Well, you’re going to try,” Hiram said. “There is coal in the eastern seam, isn’t there?”

  Dimitrios shrugged. “I think maybe.”

  Hiram felt tired; he had to go down the mine. He had to confirm the presence of coal there, and he also wanted to look for evidence of Samael. If there was a fallen angel under the earth, was it even safe to open the mine again?

  Which meant that he had to find out quickly.

  Hiram continued. “Even if there’s a whole city of coal down there, you’re done, Dimitrios. You’re going to take your family, and you’re going to leave the camp. Do you understand me?”

  The Greek nodded. “What of my debts?”

  “I’ll worry about that.” Hiram wasn’t quite sure where he’d get the money, but he wanted Dimitrios out of the picture, for his sake and for the miners’.

  Frank sat up and shook his head.

  Hiram felt a huge relief at the sight of Frank moving. “As for you three, you’re going to go back to Rettig, and you’re going to tell him I spared your life. I could have killed all of you, but I don’t want trouble. Also, tell him the Kimballs won’t sell. At any price. He needs to quit trying. It’s your job to convince him of both.”

  “Why should we?” Frank asked.

  “Aw, knock it off, Frankie,” Gibby said. “He could shoot us now, but he hasn’t.”

  “That all may be,” Lemuel Hanks admitted sourly. “But the boss don’t quit. And I don’t see him quitting because I tell him to.”

  “We’ll try, Mr. Woolley,” Gibby said. “Hanks, you fool, shut your gob.”

  “Mr. Gibby, call your mother tomorrow and tell her you love her.” Hiram shifted his gun barrel to cover Lemuel Hanks. “And you, I think you should find yourself a good woman. It’ll settle you down, and if you eat right and drink less, you might not sweat so much.”

  Lemuel Hanks grimaced. “I’d rather die.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want that,” Hiram said. “I’m letting you go, unless
you force me to do otherwise.”

  “I ain’t forcing you,” Hanks said.

  Hiram pointed across the ridge. “I think that’s your most direct route back to Kimball and Spring Canyon. From there, you just walk downhill.”

  Frank got to his feet, wobbling. Gibby and Hanks had to take an arm each to steady the big man. Together with the Greek, they took the direction Hiram indicated.

  Hiram let a long breath, put his revolver back into his bib pocket, and then got out his bandana. The cold night had already congealed his blood to his lips and chin. It took some wiping, but he got most of it off.

  “For the record, I wasn’t scared silly. Or even scared amusing.” Michael walked to stand in the glow of the headlights. Then he laughed. “You pulled the hammer back, as cool as a cucumber, and said, ‘I think you may have an Achilles forehead.’ And that’s Henry Furry, he has ice water for blood. Damn, Pap, that was a close one.”

  Hiram took a deep breath.

  “Don’t curse, son.”

  Time to get the truck moving.

  Hiram kicked himself for letting his guard down, and for giving Dollar back his book. The man had fooled Hiram.

  Again.

  But the bloodstone hadn’t warned Hiram of any attempt to deceive. Either Gus Dollar’s magic had been too strong for him…or Hiram had asked questions the old braucher could easily evade.

  Had Hiram, in fact, returned Gus’s book to him because Gus had hexed him?

  Or was Gus wrong about his being the only magician in Spring Canyon? Had some unknown witch hexed Hiram’s truck this time?

  Or had Samael done it?

  Hiram felt exhausted. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Okay,” he said to Michael, “let me take a look.”

  He slapped at a fly buzzing in his ear, and missed. Flies in February. It wasn’t right. He heard a distant whistle, piping on the cold wind. Hiram winced. A bad taste filled his mouth and it wasn’t just blood. Things worse than men were about.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hiram circled the truck with his flashlight, hands going numb from the cold; he was looking for evidence of Gus Dollar’s new curse.

  He found it on the rear bumper, in the form of a single word, repeated three times: nema! nema! nema!

  It was written in thick red characters. Crayon? Or lipstick? And what was Nema? Another demon’s name?

  Several flies buzzed into his face, and he waved them away.

  Spitting into his bandana, he erased most of the writing in a few long strokes Then, with smaller, fastidious motions, he wiped out the last traces.

  Then he stood. “Michael, I have a question that’s going to sound strange.”

  “A strange question from my Pap! What is the world coming to?”

  “You know, when you’re grown, and you’ve figured out what you want out of this world, son…I’m going to miss your acid wit.”

  “Don’t worry, Pap. I’ll keep cracking jokes, so you don’t feel deprived.” Michael puffed and waved in front of his own face. “What’s with these flies? They have the body of a musca domestica but are the size of a tabanus trimaculatus. Either is strange when it’s this cold.”

  Hiram didn’t get sidetracked. “While I was in the store this evening, did anyone approach the car?”

  “You mean, when you forgot to get more Cokes? Yeah. I said hello, but she performed a strong Jenny Lindow impression and just ignored me. And then she picked something up off the ground and went inside.”

  A tall blonde woman. Dollar’s daughter? While he had been talking with Hiram, Dollar had sent the woman out to put a hex on Hiram’s truck. Or at least, to prepare the Double-A for Gus’s hex.

  Had Gus kept Hiram in the shop with the sieve and shears only to allow the curse to be placed?

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  “That’s right, Pap. Dammit.”

  What was Nema?

  Hiram brushed flies from his face. “Try the starter again.”

  “Nothing,” Michael called back.

  Hiram needed to do more. He’d already burned a shingle from Gus’s roof, but he had the Coke bottles.

  Hiram climbed into the back of the truck and threw open his toolbox. He had to move the brass and lead lamens, and at the sight of the lead one, he wondered again what wall Gus Dollar was trying to bring down. He snatched up a Coke bottle. He also grabbed a bundle of steel sewing needles wrapped in a swatch of cloth and a wad of modeling clay. It was only when he went to replace the upper tray in the chest and found he was unable to do it without trapping flies inside that he realized just how thick the cloud of insects was around him.

  Flies. In February.

  Flies, like he’d found in the tunnel below Gus Dollar’s shop. Flies, like he’d encountered in Apostate Canyon.

  He knew a charm against flies. It involved burying the image of a spider beneath the house you wished to protect from them, and was useless to him here. He slammed shut the tool chest and jumped to the ground, full can of gas in one hand and an empty Coke bottle in the other.

  Fire was the most basic defense against evil. If he didn’t know what was attacking, and didn’t know who had sent it, the most useful thing he could generally do was make a fire. Fire was the lightest element, it chased away darkness, and the sun’s fire nourished the earth. Fire was primitive man’s oldest weapon against the wolf. In the Book of Daniel, God had saved Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in and by fire.

  “Keep trying!” he called to Michael.

  The flies were thick enough to nearly blind him now. He shoved the bottle into a pocket and lurched off the side of the road, looking for wood. He nearly impaled himself on a dry branch, and when he dragged it back onto the road, he found he had brought almost an entire juniper tree, dead and shriveled.

  It would do.

  Something moved out in the darkness, ahead of him and on the road. Hiram tossed the bush to the dirt in front of him and sloshed gasoline onto it.

  “I am Gabriel,” he muttered, “that stand in the presence of God.”

  He heard the crunch of footsteps, slow, heavy, and deliberate. At each step, the buzzing of the flies reached a crescendo just as the foot seemed to strike the ground. And after each crescendo, the total sound of the flies increased in volume and pitch.

  Could this be Rettig’s men, returning to harass Hiram again? Big Frank Johnson, making heavy footsteps?

  But the footfalls were too loud. And there were the flies.

  Hiram’s heart raced.

  He struck a spark with his Zippo—only to have the flame snuffed by a phalanx of flies, so densely-marshaled that they might have been a hand.

  A second attempt met the same fate.

  The steps drew nearer.

  Hiram knelt, smelling the gasoline reek like an overwhelming cloud. He struck the Zippo’s flint a third time—and before flies could knock it away, the juniper burst into flame.

  Hiram fell back onto his shoulders. His face hurt, seared by the fire.

  In the darkness and among the flies, he heard an angry shriek that resembled a train’s steam-whistle more than the cry of an animal. The buzzing of the flies lessened.

  “Pap! Pap, are you okay?”

  “I’m okay! Keep trying!” Hiram spat flies from his mouth.

  He didn’t hear the engine turn over, so Hiram had no choice. He pocketed the Zippo again and removed the bottle. He made sure his back was turned to the Double-A so Michael wouldn’t see what he was doing, and then he unbuttoned the fly of his overalls and carefully filled the Coke bottle with his own urine.

  Grandma Hettie had explained to him the theory of the witch bottle one day when he had found a cracked glass bottle in the stone fire ring out behind the barn. The idea was that the bottle represented the bladder of the witch who was attacking a person, and the witch bottle would deliver sharp pains to the witch’s bladder that would force an end to the witch’s magical attack.

  The flies’ buzz rose in intensity, and Hiram again heard th
e crunching of enormous feet in the cloud. He set the Coke bottle carefully aside, grabbed the gas can, and sloshed a jet of petrol over the fire.

  The WHOOSH! of the resulting flame felt like it might have obliterated his eyebrows, but the flies eased off. Seeing a fallen log beside the road, Hiram grabbed it and dragged it across the flaming juniper.

  Then he returned to the bottle. Holding the bottle in his left hand, he bit three fingernails off his right hand and spit them into the bottle. If he were defending another person against the witch’s attack, he’d use that victim’s urine and nail trimmings. If he had more time, he’d add hair and other similar ingredients, but he was pressed.

  He took the bundle of needles out of his pocket and dropped them into the bottle.

  He thumbed in the wad of modeling clay to close up the Coke’s top.

  Footsteps crunched closer.

  Was that the outline of a man in the cloud? Could it be Frank Johnson, after all?

  But no—the silhouette suggested a man who was eight feet tall, with impossibly broad shoulders.

  His hands occupied, Hiram drew on another expedient to push back the threat. “And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire,” he called, “out of the midst of a bush!”

  The fire of Hiram’s burning bush rose higher, and again he heard the whistle erupt into a terrible, injured wail that faded into a whistle.

  If he wasn’t killing the thing out there, he was injuring and angering it.

  Could it be Samael? Mahoun? Nema?

  Could Gus Dollar have been telling the truth? Could this be one of Lucifer’s fallen angels, living out here in the Wastes of Dudael, in the hills above Helper, Utah? Had the witch summoned it and was he now controlling it?

  Had Hiram himself let the thing out of its cave?

  Nema, he suddenly thought. Amen, backward.

  Nema! Nema! Nema! was amen, three times, backward.

  Hiram realized what Gus’s curse was, and how he could push it back.

  He set the witch bottle in the fire. Activation of the witch bottle required that the urine inside be brought to a boil.

  Hiram staggered off the road three times. Each time he grabbed the nearest sizeable piece of wood he could find, sloshed it in gasoline, and added it to the fire, nestling each new log as close as he could to the bottle, building up the fire there so as to be sure the liquid inside was exposed to the maximum possible heat. Each time he added wood, he shouted, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”