Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  Galahad isn’t your average St. Bernard cross. He’s a dog were, a canine that’s been bitten by a thrope and now has the same disease—some sort of cursed virus, apparently—coursing through his veins as human lycanthropes do. In the case of dogs, though, it doesn’t confer any supernatural immunities or strength; it just means they transform into a human version of themselves when the sun goes down. Oh, and every full moon they get a little smarter for a few days—I swear I found Gally trying to surf the Internet once. He’s one of the bright spots of being stranded in this reality; I’m going to miss him when I finally go home.

  Whenever that is.

  * * *

  Aside from the whole locked-in-a-cage thing, the lems treat us well. They bring us food, make sure we’re okay for bedding, even offer us reading material. And they firmly, absolutely, refuse to let us leave. “For your own good,” they say.

  I notice something when they bring us food: The last cell on the end, across the corridor from me, doesn’t get any—but does get three paperbacks pushed through the bars. I don’t have a good view of the interior, but unless this is the local branch of the lem library somebody must be in there. A pire, maybe?

  “Hey,” I ask a guard. “Who’s in the last cell?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment. “A traitor,” he says at last, then stomps off with more than his usual grimness.

  I press my face up against the bars and try to get a better look. I can only see one of the paperbacks—a Zane Grey Western, it looks like—the other two having landed far enough inside to be out of sight. I wish I had one of those little mirrors they’re always using in prison movies to look around … and then I realize I’ve got something almost as good.

  I take out one of my eskrima sticks and open the blade. Twelve inches of highly polished silver snap into position, turning it into a scythe. I hold it outside the cell and angle it to get a better view of the last cell.

  I see a glint of bronze as a hand reaches down to pick up the book, and what looks like the edge of a battered straw cowboy hat.

  I know who’s in that cell—and more than likely, he knows who’s in mine.

  I pull back my arm, close the blade, and put the stick away. “Well, well, well,” I say loudly. “What’s the matter, Silverado—you not planning on saying hello?”

  After a moment a familiar voice responds: “Hello, Jace.” I wait, but that’s all he apparently has to say at the moment—Silverado isn’t a big talker.

  He is, however, several other things: a bounty hunter, a lem, and a near-mythical figure once known as the Quicksilver Kid. He’s the only lem in the world with mercury in his guts instead of soil, and with a brass exterior that makes him look more like a robot than a golem. Legend says he’s animated by the spirits of a hundred rattlesnakes, and I can say from personal experience that his reflexes support that theory. He carries a bandolier of enchanted silver knives that can cut through damn near anything—including spells—though I would guess that his current situation means he doesn’t have them in his possession at this particular moment.

  “Didn’t expect to run into you here,” I say. “Why aren’t you out there helping your brothers-in-arms overthrow the state?”

  “They offered. I declined.”

  “Doesn’t look like they agreed with your decision.”

  “You could say that.”

  So lems still had the ability to make their own decisions. The odds of Charlie coming back and letting me go didn’t look so hot anymore. “Don’t suppose you’ve got one of those magic knives hidden somewhere on your person, do you?”

  “ ’Fraid not. Don’t suppose your partner’s gonna come back and unlock these cells?”

  “Doesn’t look that way.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, but it’s kind of hard to tell when Silverado’s done speaking; an entire civilization could rise and fall during one of his pauses. I finally give up and say, “Last time I saw you, you were on Tair’s trail. How’d that go?”

  “Got close a couple times. Then he hooked up with an arms dealer, surrounded himself with a gang of mercenaries. Tracked him here. You?”

  “Pretty much the same. He was supposed to be fronting a deal of some kind—the other players were Aristotle Stoker and a mage named Asher. Know anything about that?”

  “Can’t say that I do.” He answers just a little too quickly, and my cop instincts tell me it’s deliberate. Silverado knows something, but he doesn’t want to talk here.

  “Damn,” he says. “I’ve read all three of these, ’bout a dozen times each. Nice of ’em to provide a so-called traitor with reading material at all, I guess—I must still have a little mojo with the locals.”

  “Wish I could say the same—”

  “I was made around here, you know,” he says, actually interrupting me. I get the hint, shut up, and listen.

  “Little town called Wolf’s Hollow. Founded by thropes, which I don’t suppose comes as much of a surprise. What with the Mexican border being so close, they had more than a little trouble with thrope banditos, coyote-blood packs swooping in and taking whatever they wanted. Town had a sheriff, but he just rolled over and showed his throat at the first sign of trouble. They couldn’t afford a regular shaman to build ’em a lem, but there was this crazy old Englishman living there who offered to make ’em one for free. Make a long story short, he made me. That was a long time ago.”

  He pauses, but this time I wait. After a moment, he continues. “I’ve been around quite a spell, and I’ve done my share of traveling. I’ve seen some mighty strange goings-on, but I’ve been told things that were even stranger. Learned to pay attention, too—someone tells you a tale, they generally got a reason to do so. Sometimes they’re trying to hoodwink you, but sometimes they’re trying to clear the scales from your eyes. Up to you to decide which …

  “I was in a bar outside Flagstaff, hunting a bank robber who had jumped bail. Heard he might be found in this one particular watering hole, so I was waiting around and putting quarters in the jukebox to pass the time. This old Medicine Man, wrinkled and white-haired, walked up to my table and asked me to buy him a drink. I asked him why I should; he told me a wise lion feeds the crows by the water’s edge, so as not to startle the deer. I got his meaning, bought him a shot of cheap whiskey, told him to keep his mouth shut.

  “He took the whiskey happily enough, but I guess he figured I was good for more than one because he sat down at my table. He drank the shot real slow, making it last, and as he drank he told me this story.

  A long time ago, in the land of my father’s father’s father, there was a shaman who had not yet chosen his Spirit Animal. In those days, a shaman could do such a thing, for the Earth was still young and Man was still powerful. To be the Spirit Animal of a human shaman was considered a great honor, and many beasts of the land, the sea, and the air vied with one another to be chosen.

  “Choose me,” said the Falcon, “for I can fly to the very tops of mountains and see all things no matter how small or far away.”

  “Choose me,” said the Killer Whale, “for I can swim to the very depths of the ocean and guide you to the richest fishing grounds.”

  “Choose me,” said the Mouse, “for I am clever and quick and wise in the ways of love; I will guarantee you many, many children.”

  But the shaman was not satisfied with any of these animals, for he wished to be the most powerful and feared shaman in all the land. “I choose the Wolf,” he said, “for it is not only fast and clever and strong, but savage as well; and all those who see it are afraid.”

  And so Wolf was pleased, and guided the shaman when he traveled to the Spirit World in search of knowledge and power. But on his very first voyage, the shaman had gone no farther than the foothills of the Great Mountains when Wolf stopped. “I can go no farther,” Wolf said.

  “Why not?” asked the shaman.

  “The Great Mountains are the dominion of Cougar, and should I trespass, he would fall upon me and rend me thr
oat-to-belly.”

  This made the shaman very angry, but Wolf would not be dissuaded. So the shaman banished him, telling him he was no longer his Spirit Animal, and Wolf slunk away.

  The shaman made a fire, and burned certain herbs that only grow in the Spirit World, and invited Cougar to visit him; and after a while Cougar came down from his home in the Great Mountains and approached the shaman’s fire without fear.

  “Wolf is afraid of you,” said the shaman. “You are mightier than he, and so I choose you as my Spirit Animal.” And Cougar accepted, for that was how things were done in those days.

  Cougar took the shaman into the Great Mountains, and showed him many things, and the shaman was well pleased. But at length they came to the Great Forest, and Cougar would go no farther. “This is the domain of Bear,” said Cougar. “If I should trespass, he would tear me asunder with his mighty claws.”

  The shaman was angry once more, and banished Cougar back whence he came; and he took out his drum and beat out a message that would reach the very deepest, darkest parts of the Great Forest. And Bear heard the message, and he came.

  “You are surely the fiercest, most powerful of all creatures,” said the shaman. “Even Wolf and Cougar are afraid of you. You will be my Spirit Animal, I will be the strongest of all shamans, and none will bar our way.”

  Bear thought about this, for he was indeed the mightiest animal in all the land, and feared nothing. “Very well,” Bear said. “I can tell you will be a powerful shaman indeed, and so are deserving of my partnership.” And he and the shaman entered the Great Forest, and Bear showed him many things.

  “All was well, until winter came. Then one day the shaman summoned Bear and he did not appear. He searched the Spirit World until he found him, fast asleep in a cave, for Bear grew slow and tired when snow lay upon the ground, and would not be roused until spring had come.

  This time, the shaman’s fury was terrible to behold. “I have become the most powerful shaman in all the land,” he shouted, “and yet my Spirit Animal slumbers away a third of the year? I will not have it!” And he called down a lightning bolt upon Bear’s cave, and it turned his fur as white as snow. And Bear bellowed in pain and fear, and ran far, far away, and never came back; and to this day he will not sleep when there is snow on the ground.

  Though he no longer had a Spirit Animal, the shaman had learned much from Wolf, Cougar, and Bear, and now he turned all his knowledge and power to the problem at hand: finding a beast so fierce, so strong, so hungry, that it would never be content, never be at rest. He went into the desert, where he drank certain potions and ate certain bitter roots; and after a timeless time, he had a vision that told him to dig at the base of a towering cliff, where he found a single tooth.

  It was like no tooth he’d ever seen, even larger than that of Orca, the Killer Whale; and though it was made of solid stone like something carved by man, the shaman could tell it once belonged to a living thing—a creature that had not been seen on the face of the Earth for millions of years, an animal no man had ever set eyes on. And though this beast and all his kind had vanished long, long ago, the shaman knew that its spirit still walked the Spirit World, for spirits live forever.

  So the shaman polished the stone tooth, and placed it at the center of a web he had woven from dreams and shadows; and he danced around it, calling upon the spirit that once owned it. And deep beneath the surface of the Spirit World, in the Black Pools of the Great Caverns, the spirit heard him. And it rose up from the thick, dark deeps, climbed out into the Great Caverns, clawed its way through the secret tunnels of the Underworld until it reached the surface. It burst up through the earth beneath the shaman’s feet, knocking him to the ground; and he gazed upon its terrible face as it looked down upon him.

  It was a great stone lizard, larger than a dozen bears, with jaws like the mouth of a cave and teeth like spears. “I AM THE DEVOURING GHOST,” it said. “WHO SEEKS THEIR DEATH?”

  “I seek not death, but power,” said the shaman. “I am the mightiest shaman in all the land, and only the most powerful creature will do as my Spirit Animal. That, it would seem, is you.”

  The Devouring Ghost considered this. He was not used to his food answering his question; they usually just died of fear on the spot. “I HAVE BEEN ASLEEP FOR MANY YEARS,” he said. “WHY SHOULD I NOT CALL YOU BREAKFAST?”

  “Because,” said the shaman, “all things change, even the Spirit World. The animals that roam the plains, the mountains, and the forests of this place are not the same as when you fell into your slumber. I have much knowledge, and knowledge is power.”

  “NO,” the Devouring Ghost said, “THIS IS POWER.” And he reached down with his immense jaws and ate the shaman in one bite.

  Or so he thought. But when he straightened up, the shaman still stood before him. “You are powerful, Devouring Ghost,” the shaman said. “But you are still only a ghost, and I am a living shaman. You cannot harm me in the Spirit World, for I am protected by my magicks. Did you really think me so foolish, so unprepared? Am I nothing but a rabbit in the middle of a field, waving a greeting to the hawk circling above?”

  The Devouring Ghost considered this. “WHAT,” he replied, “IS A RABBIT? OR A HAWK?”

  And the shaman smiled, for he knew that the Devouring Ghost would accept his offer.

  Which he did. For powerful though the Ghost was, he found himself in a place very different from the land he’d once roamed, and the shaman’s advice was useful to him. So the Devouring Ghost agreed to be the shaman’s Spirit Animal, and the shaman agreed to teach the Ghost about this strange and new world.

  But even though the Ghost knew none of the beasts that now filled the Hunting Grounds of the Spirit World, some things were still the same.

  He was still very hungry. And they were still good to eat.

  It wasn’t too long before the shaman was visited by the spirit of one of his ancestors.

  “Greetings, blood of my blood,” his ancestor said.

  “Greetings, Grandfather,” said the shaman. “How are things in the Spirit World?”

  “Terrible. There are no caribou, few elk, and hardly any deer. At this rate, even the rabbits will soon all be gone.”

  “How can this be?” the shaman asked. “The bounty of the Hunting Grounds is endless.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s endless,” his ancestor said. “The appetite of your Spirit Animal. He’s eating everything on four legs, and I’m pretty sure that when they’re gone he’ll start on things with two. I have to tell you, we’re starting to get nervous.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him,” the shaman said.

  But the Devouring Ghost wouldn’t listen. “TELL THE MEMBERS OF YOUR TRIBE TO KILL MORE GAME AND SEND MORE SPIRITS HERE,” he said. “I JUST ATE THE LAST MOOSE, AND I’M STILL HUNGRY.”

  “You need to think about going on a diet,” said the shaman. “You keep eating like this and you’ll get fat and slow; then you won’t be able to hunt at all.”

  The Devouring Ghost just laughed, a sound like thunder in a canyon. “HA HA HA! THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, I HAVE A CRAVING FOR—WHAT ARE THEY CALLED AGAIN? BAFFALO?”

  And so the Devouring Ghost ate the Hunting Grounds bare of all game. And the shaman was secretly pleased, for now he was without doubt the most powerful shaman of all. Even when the Devouring Ghost turned on the spirits of his own ancestors, the shaman was not moved; for soon he and the Devouring Ghost would have the Spirit World all to themselves, and the Ghost could not devour him.

  The people of his own tribe came to the shaman, saying that they had heard the screams of their ancestors in their dreams, but the shaman laughed and called them fearful children.

  The day came when the Devouring Ghost appeared to the shaman and said, “I HAVE EATEN ALL THERE IS TO EAT. IT IS TIME FOR ME TO RETURN TO THE BLACK POOLS, FOR OTHERWISE I WILL STARVE.”

  But the shaman refused to let him go. “You are bound to me as my Spirit Animal. You will stay
here and survive on the spirits that trickle in, for animals die every day. You will not be happy, but you will obey.”

  “I WILL NOT,” growled the Ghost. “I AM A HUNTER, AND EAT WHAT I MUST. YOU WILL NOT REDUCE ME TO A PENNED ANIMAL FED ON SCRAPS.”

  “You have no choice,” said the shaman. “You cannot harm me, remember? And if you do not do as I say, I will cast a curse on the living creatures of my land so that when they die their taste will lie foul in your mouth.”

  But the Devouring Ghost was not so easily beaten, for he had learned much from the shaman. That night he appeared to the people of the shaman’s tribe, and told them of the great evil their Medicine Man had wrought; and though the men and the women of the tribe were terrified of the shaman, they were even more afraid of what the Devouring Ghost would do to their spirits once they left the land of the living.

  So they crept into the tent of the shaman as he slept, and they killed him; for as mighty as he was, he was still just a man.

  When the shaman’s spirit appeared in the Hunting Grounds, the Devouring Ghost was waiting, and spoke only two last words to his former master: “HELLO, BREAKFAST.”

  Once he had consumed the shaman’s spirit, the Devouring Ghost kept his promise to the tribe and left their Hunting Grounds. Where he went is not known, but the Spirit World is large; some say he found another hunting ground, one with even more game, and will return when he has eaten it all. Others say he went back to the depths of the Black Pool, to slumber for another hundred million years.

  The only thing the Devouring Ghost left behind was the stone tooth the shaman had dug up. They say that it is in a museum now, but nobody knows for sure.

  I knew Silverado’s story was over when the ritual tone left his voice. “Tried to buy the man another drink when he was done, but I guess I was wrong about his reasons for sitting down; told me he only allowed himself one while he was storytellin’—otherwise, he’d be drunk all day. Guess one was more important to him than the other.”