Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name

by Edward M. Erdelac

  “I should like to have seen the treasure that dragon was guarding, at any rate.”

  “You think it was guarding that jewel?” the Rider piped up.

  “Oh of course not, just a figure of speech. Who’d tame a thing like that?”

  The Rider wasn’t so sure. He had seen the small niche at the back of the cave, and according to Spates’s story the thing attacked the miners who had attempted to extend the tunnel. Could it have been some sort of demon placed there to watch over the stone, some guardian that the disturbance of its charge had awakened? He had heard of such things as mazzikim being called down and bound as servants to guard treasure. Solomon surely bound the mazzikim to his will to build the Temple, after all. But he had never seen the like of this creature. A thing undetectable yet subject to fire and lead? Was it possible the fire, being born of Sheardown’s concoction had some alchemical properties which weakened it? Spates said he didn’t know the composition of the stuff in the ampoules either; couldn’t that have been some mystically imbued potion? It was low magic, but not improbable.

  When they reached the cabin again, Doc and one of the horses were gone. He left behind a bullet lodged in between Dodgy Shunderburger’s eyes.

  They found the German cooling on the floor of the shack, face down. There was a knife in his hand, and his pockets had been rifled through. The Rider’s gold gilded Volcanic pistol lay neatly arranged on the dead man’s back, along with a smooth, grey green stone a little smaller than an ostrich egg and no more precious than soapstone. It was vaguely starfish shaped, and bore on its surface the etching of the star and eye —the Elder Sign.

  As for the two thousand dollars, it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Maybe they buried it,” the Rider offered, feeling the comfortable curve of his pistol in his hand.

  “Sure,” Mather said, his eyes flashing. “Maybe.”

  The Rider went outside to check on his animal. The onager’s wound was scabbed over and had been cleaned. He opened his saddlebags and swapped his pistol belt for Dirty Dave’s, taking comfort in the weight of his own gun on his hip again.

  The onager shook its mane and made a nervous noise. The Rider followed its gaze to the far edge of the clearing, where some brush wavered, but nothing emerged.

  He walked over, keeping his hand on his pistol. In the melting snow, he found fresh, sizable tracks that he couldn’t readily identify, but appeared to be quadractyl. Something snapped behind him, and a cold shiver went up his back. He spun, but it was only Spates, bouncing the oddly shaped stone from the mine in his hand.

  “The Star-Stone of Mnar,” he said idly. Then he held it out to the Rider. “Yours if you want it. I’m not an archaeologist. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”

  “Handy?”

  “Come on now,” said Spates. “I’m not a fool. I recognize a talisman when I see one—or, however many it is you’ve got about you. We’re in the same line of work, you and I—well, related fields.”

  “I thought you were a zoologist. A naturalist.”

  “More of a preternaturalist really.”

  “Do you know what this is?” the Rider asked, taking the rock in his hand and tracing one finger through the Elder Sign etching. It was warm to the touch, though the air was still cool.

  “I know what that is,” said Spates, pointing to the carving. “More than that,” he shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

  “What is it?” the Rider asked, testing the man’s knowledge.

  “The Elder Sign. Or a variant thereof. I’ve run across it now and then. I understand John Dee crafted a different version of it, but this one’s most prevalent. Supposed to have protective powers.”

  “Against what?”

  “Demons.”

  “No demons I ever heard of,” the Rider said. And his knowledge was quite extensive, even of non-Jewish bodyguards. Adon had seen to that. Why had he never encountered this then? “Where did you learn of it?”

  “Oh, the usual sources, Von Junzt, al-Hazred. It’s not really in my line.”

  Al-Hazred…the Rider had heard or read that name, but among the copious volumes of occult lore he ingested, he couldn’t put his finger on where.

  “Al-Hazred?”

  “The Mad Arab? Surely you’ve heard of him…The Kitab al-Azif? The Necronomicon?”

  The Rider was baffled that he hadn’t, though the name al-Hazred still stuck in his mind.

  “I wonder if you’d look at something for me,” he said.

  They walked back toward the cabin, to the horses, and the Rider took the leather scroll case off the onager’s saddle and, as an afterthought, the bound correspondence between Adon and Sheardown.

  “Well,” said Spates, after the Rider partially unrolled it on the ground, “partly hieroglyphs,” he said, peering at the scroll but not daring to touch it. “It’s quite old, and this is almost certainly papyrus, but not entirely Egyptian. Seems familiar though…”

  “Can you read them?”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said Spates. “I recognize it, but sorry, no. Where’d you get it?”

  “And what about these?” the Rider said, setting aside the scroll and tentatively holding out the ream of hand-printed letters.

  Spates took them and leafed through them, narrowing his eyes.

  “Some of the same stuff… Wait, I think I know where I’ve seen this before.” He snapped his fingers. “A colleague of mine in Boston, a linguist from my Cambridge days….I once consulted him on some inscriptions on a woodblock print of an Atlantean tablet depicting a shoggoth.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s complicated,” Spates shrugged. “Nevertheless, he was able to translate it for me. I believe he called it Tsath-Yo. It’s the written language of the Hyperboreans.”

  The Rider couldn’t help but smirk. Atlantis and Hyperborea, all in the span of seconds.

  Spates handed back the letters.

  “Well, you asked me,” he said in a huff. “For somebody who goes around with the Seal of Solomon stamped on a gun…you’re not particularly receptive to these things are you?”

  The Rider’s smile fell.

  “I’m sorry, professor. Atlantis and Hyperborea don’t fall within my system of beliefs.”

  “Ah? And where does the thing from the tunnel fit into your dogma?” he exclaimed. “Too cunning to be an animal, invisible, hah? Not a demon, or your trinkets would have repelled it. Yet the light from Sheardown’s compound, through a red glass kept it at bay. And this.”

  He tapped the glyph on the stone.

  “You seem like an observant fellow. Did you notice the alcove at the back of the cave? Did you see how smooth the stone was? Made by sentient hands to hold this. And the creature didn’t attack until it was dislodged. What does that tell you, my friend?”

  The Rider pursed his lips. It was exactly as he had been thinking.

  “The creature was guarding it.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Spates chuckled. “The stone held the creature in place.”

  Mather came out at this point, sullen, dragging Dodgy by his boot heels.

  He hefted the big German belly up over the saddle of one of the horses and tied its hands and feet.

  “Let’s get going,” he said. “I don’t fancy spending the night up here, and I got to get back and tell Hoodoo Brown that Doc made off with that two thousand.”

  “What about the others?” Spates said, indicating the bodies of Cady and Bullshit Jack, which were still lying there.

  Mather’s only answer was to spit, turn up the collar of his coat, and ride off, Dodgy’s corpse jostling on the back of the spotted horse he led behind him.

  * * * *

  When they arrived in Las Vegas again, Mather said he would rather break the news to Hoodoo himself, but advised the Rider to come by his office in an hour’s time.

  “Wait a minute,” the Rider called to Mather as he turned to lead his grisly cargo off down the street.

  He took Dirty Dave’s gun and belt from his saddlebag
s and tossed the rig to Mather.

  “If you see Rudabaugh, tell him I said thanks for the loan.”

  Mather grinned.

  “I’ll do that. See you in an hour.”

  He went off in the direction of the municipal building.

  Professor Spates resolved to retire to his room at the Rincon Hotel off the plaza, and the Rider promised to stop by and see him before he left town.

  He led the onager to the post office, stealing himself to beat his head against the wall of the postmaster and feeling past all luck.

  When he had tied the onager to the hitch and was about to enter, a gaudily dressed woman interposed herself between him and the door.

  “You are the bookseller?” she said, in a voice he immediately recognized.

  “Yes.”

  He supposed he was easy to pick out.

  “I’m supposed to give you this.”

  She held out a parcel wrapped in twine and brown paper.

  When he took, it she sauntered off without a word or a second look.

  The Rider hastily opened the parcel, and found a letter addressed to him which read:

  B.S.,

  I regret not remaining around for formal goodbyes, but a sudden opportunity necessitated my expeditious departure. I trust you have your fancy weapon back in hand, as well as the purported jewel, which it turns out is worth about as much as the life it cost Dodgy to secure it. Kate and I have decided to relinquish our interest in the saloon to Hoodoo in exchange for a generous monetary endowment on his part, which we intend to presently use to set ourselves up elsewhere. If you see Webb, please give him my regards and explain my intent. He was never much of a business partner, but I do not fault him that, not being one of much aptitude myself.

  Enclosed you will find I think, some of the letters which you were seeking. I convinced the postmaster to release them to my care. I also took for you a paper from the board that I suggest you pay particular attention to.

  Regards,

  Your friend,

  Doc

  The Rider glanced at the thick envelope addressed to Sheardown and stopped himself at the return address. But trusting to Doc’s judgment, he skipped with trembling hands to the folded sheet tucked beneath the letters and caught his breath at what he saw.

  Staring back at him was a canny sketched likeness of his own face, replete with his yeyo curls, embossed spectacles, and hat. The picture was bordered on the top and bottom by bold type which read:

  WANTED

  Manasseh Maizel

  Alias Rider

  Alias The Merkava Rider

  By Order Of Lew Wallace, Governor Of New Mexico Territory

  The Killer-Jew Of Varruga Tanks!

  Eight Times A Murderer!

  For The Wanton Slaughter Of Dr. Amos Sheardown,

  Michael Cashion, Bill Owen, Boston Wilkes,

  Jiminy Baines, Rodrigo Botello,

  Delmar Frederickson, and Tom Larson

  For The Destruction Of The Tanks At Varruga

  For Horse Theft

  For Grand Theft Of Property

  $500 Dead $1,000 Dollars Alive

  A general description followed, of his ‘peculiar dress’ and ‘exaggerated Semitic features,’ as well as an addendum at the bottom which read:

  An Additional $5,000 Dollars Cash Reward Will Be Paid Out By Mr. H.T. Magwood of Delirum Tremens, Arizona Territory For The Recovery Of An Antique Scroll Stolen From His Property By The Accused.

  Delirium Tremens, where he had defeated Hayim Cardin’s cult of Molech worshipers earlier that year. Delirium Tremens, which was the same thing the faded pink postal stamp on the envelope addressed to Sheardown here in Las Vegas read.

  Who was this Magwood then? Another disciple of Adon’s? Whoever he was, he was a man of influence, and he had just made things very difficult for him in New Mexico.

  The Rider unhitched the onager and went straight to the Rincon Hotel, feeling as if every man and woman and even gamin on the street were staring at him. He asked for Spates at the desk, and in a few moments the professor came down, clean shaven and in fresh clothes.

  “Ah! Have you been to see Mather and Mr. Brown then?”

  “No,” said the Rider. “I don’t think I’ll be going to see them today. If Marshal Mather comes around looking for me, give him my regards. I have a favor to ask of you, and some advice.”

  “Of course,” said Spates, wrinkling his brow. “I’m happy to hear both.”

  The Rider passed him the envelope containing the last letters from Adon, and handed over the sheaf of Sheardown’s correspondence as well.

  “I’d like to ask you to impose on your friend in Boston,” he said. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, but I would like these letters translated…with the caveat that it be done in strictest confidentiality and as soon as possible.”

  “I see,” Spates said, going over the letters.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask. And I have no money.”

  “Oh he’ll do it for me, no worries there. But it’ll still take some time. Are you going to remain here in Las Vegas?”

  “No,” smiled the Rider. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” the Rider said, nodding. “Have the translations forwarded to Tombstone in Arizona Territory. Address them to Miss Josephine….Miss Sadie Marcus. Instruct him to include a note saying the papers are intended for her cousin. I’ll look for them there.”

  Spates had removed a journal and begun scribbling. He finished as the Rider ceased speaking.

  “I’m trusting you and your colleague with a great deal.”

  “You can count on us, Rider. Are you certain you’re alright?”

  “No, but I’ll be fine. I have to go.”

  Spates nodded warily and held out his hand.

  “What about the advice?”

  “Leave town. As fast as you can. Don’t leave your name anywhere, and don’t tell anyone you’re going,” the Rider said, looking grimly into his eyes as he held Spates hank in a firm and perspiring shake. “If Dr. Sheardown told anyone else you were to acquire this stone for him, others may come looking for it. And when they find you don’t have it…”

  Spates held his grip, looked curiously at him.

  “Who?”

  “No one you’d care to meet.”

  “Perhaps I’ll deliver your correspondences personally, then.”

  “It might be a good idea.” He squeezed Spates’ hand once more for emphasis.

  “Goodbye, Arthur,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Spates nodded and watched him turn away, then went himself up the stairs to his room, the bundle of papers tucked under his arm. He quickened his step as he reached the landing.

  The Rider stepped out of the Rincon into the bustle of the sunny plaza, unhitched the onager, and walked briskly out of town, lowering his hat and turning up his collar against the eyes of all he met.

  Episode Seven - The Outlaw Gods

  For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.—Isaiah 65:17

  The white onager sensed them before they came to the fire. Its long ears perked and it gave a short blast of the nostrils to signal their coming. The Rider tensed, but did not reach for his gilded Volcanic pistol, draped in its tooled holster over a nearby stone. If they wanted to kill him, he would have been dead. His fire was a bright beacon in the desert night that cast a nearby boulder in a red glow. Maybe it had been a foolish place to build a fire so close to Apache country, but he was well past exhaustion and in unfamiliar land.

  “Don’t shoot, indah,” said a deep voice from the dark. “We are coming to your fire.”

  He heard them then, their light footsteps scranching the pebbly ground. He knew it was solely for his benefit. They had very likely been out there for some time already.

  They came into the firelight, six of them, and gathered in a semicircle around his meager camp. He
assumed they were Apache. The wild hair that framed their uniformly hard faces was long and unbraided, kept from their dark eyes by wide cotton bands. They wore shirts of trade cotton and calico, and some were bare legged beneath long breech cloths, their feet bound in rough leggings or moccasins. They carried knives and pistols and carbines, and they moved slightly hunched, like prowling cats desperate to hide their doings from the light of the stars.

  He wasn’t sure what to feel. Relief, that they weren’t New Mexican bounty hunters seeking the thousand dollars reward for his capture, that they weren’t Adon’s riders come to kill him for the arcane texts he’d taken from his lieutenant, Dr. Sheardown. And yet, these were Apache. In the middle of the desert, that didn’t bode well.

  The Rider stood, not knowing what else to do, and touched the pale head of the nervous donkey reassuringly as it shuffled in its hobbles and gathered in their wild scent with quick snorts of air.

  He did not know which of them had spoken. All seemed roughly the same age. He did not know which to address, and so he addressed them all, keeping his hands at his sides, eyes going from one to the other in turn.

  “I have coffee if you want some,” he said wearily.

  He was spent. His food wasn’t staying down these days, and he’d taken to broth. Whatever the invisible demons Lilith had unleashed on him were doing, it was taking its toll. He was a gaunt shadow of his former self, like something found wandering amid tombstones.

  Twelve dark eyes watched him before two relaxed, and the owner of these settled on his haunches across the fire. This one was the leader, but the Rider sensed he was more of an acting chief than one who had commanded his brethren long. The others hesitated a moment longer before hunkering down slowly on either side of him.

  The Rider did not have cups, save for his own. He poured the coffee he had brewed and handed it over to the lead man, who drank it in one swallow though it was piping hot. He gave the cup to the man beside him, and the Rider poured more. This went on until they had all drunk. The Rider sipped the dregs as a show of good faith, but to him they were as bitter as something culled from old grounds.