The Dark West

by JT Dylan

Jack mimed uncertainty. 'It's a real man's job I reckon. I wouldn't want a boy like you to hurt himself. What are you, five, six?' Jack laid it on thick and hoped he wasn't overdoing it.

  'I'll be seven next month. And I can climb that tree better than you ever could mister.'

  'That's right, he is Jack. And if my boy here says he can climb the damned tree, then I believe in him.' Old Sonny smiled a thank you at Jack, and the boy grinned up at his old man, his faith in him returning.

  Jack shrugged and scratched his head. 'Well alright, but if he manages it, I guess we won't have no boy travelling with us after that. He'll be a man for sure.'

  The boy's chest swelled fit to burst and he bolted for the tree. The old man squeezed Jack's arm in gratitude. Jack touched the brim of his hat, don't mention it. He wondered briefly if the old man remembered climbing the tree when he was a boy, or in his version if Jack had done it.

  The boy made short work of getting into the first batch of thick branches. He paused to evaluate his position and scanned the trunk for the next foot hold.

  'Where's the hole Pa?'

  'See that crooked branch, the one that forks into two like a snake's tongue?'

  'The high one? But no one could reach that! It's a mile up.'

  'Well, I guess we could try asking a passer by ...' Old Sonny had to hide his smile with his hand as he spoke. The boy didn't reply, he just gritted his teeth and swung up onto the next level.

  Before too long, the boy was so far up that only the swaying branches gave his position away. Jack saw the old guy's face strain to make out young Sonny's progress. There was a moment of silence from above before the shriek of excitement.

  'I found it! I got it Pa!'

  The old man clasped both hands together in a knot and his lower lip trembled in a smile. 'Careful now, you hear me Sonny? Shimmy it into your britches. Mind you use both hands to come down to me.'

  The boy did just that. Jack couldn't help but be impressed as he watched him descend. The boy seemed born to climb. Looking up at the sheer scale of the tree, he wondered how quickly he could have done it himself. He figured he'd still be on his way up, and complaining all the way at that.

  Jack and the old man gave the boy a helping hand from the lowest drop and he landed on his knees in the dirt. He smiled up at them, and they grinned right back. Jack was especially pleased that the boy, now a man in his own eyes, clutched at his old man's coat tails once more. A young man maybe, but still someone's son.

  The boy took out a thin rectangular package from behind his back. Jack saw that it had been wrapped in a rag of some sort. The old man took it gently from the boy and bent down and hugged him tight.

  'Well done my boy.'

  The boy beamed, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. 'What's in it?'

  The old man laughed and held the package up to Jack. 'Well that's for Jack to say. It's his package after all.' Jack pushed up the brim of his hat and took the parcel. It didn't look familiar. Jack saw that it was wrapped in oiled sheepskin, not a rag after all. It weighed very little and had some give in it but not much. Sturdy, but not solid. Jack unwrapped the sheepskin. Droplets of rain danced across it as he did so, the watertight cover reluctant to absorb the moisture. Both Sonny's, old and young, watched eagerly as Jack took out the object.

  It was a small black book. The leather covers bound together by a weathered dark leather strap. Jack ran his fingers across an etching on the back. He recognised it as a brand name. A registered trademark from a time just before his. Inside the back cover was a paper pouch, to store loose folds of paper and such.

  The book had maybe a hundred yellowing pages, still dry and unspoiled. Jack leafed through to the front. He frowned. The old man's mouth hung open. The boy's smile faded. Jack thumbed through again the the other way. Saw the same result.

  The black book's pages all had the same thing in common.

  They were all completely blank.

  TWENTY

  'Connor, leave that.' Carla Walker was tired, hungry and hungover.

  They were making slow progress through the flea market that sprawled through the south side every Saturday morning. What had begun as a short-cut home from the grocery store had turned into a battle through the crowds of the market. Connor was eleven years old and interested in everything. He was four steps behind her and elbow deep in a box of dusty books. He had seen an old comic annual on the top and was lost in the promise of childhood heroes. He looked at the price scrawled in crayon on a carton flap.

  'It's only 50 cents ma. Please?' He held the thick book close to his chest, willing her to see how much he wanted it.

  'Connor. Drop it.' A pause. 'Let's go.' She peered over her dark glasses, and raised an eyebrow. He knew that look. He sighed and placed the book back onto the pile.

  'Grab one of these bags would you, they're killing your old ma.' She handed him the heaviest of the three brown paper sacks and re-adjusted her fingers through the remaining handles.

  Connor blew a lock of hair from his eyes and forgot about the book. He knew she didn't mean to be the way she was. Things had been difficult for her since dad left.

  'Ma?' he stole a glance up at her as he hurried to keep up. She didn't answer, she was on the tips of her toes, trying to find the side street entrance up ahead. People were a solid mass. A gap opened up, making a lane through the crowd. Connor heard a siren somewhere in the background.

  'Keep up now champ, I think I see the alley we want.' She pushed ahead through a family of tourists, aiming for the gap. Connor's bag snagged on a pushchair and he dropped his gaze for a moment. When he turned back his mother had disappeared. The tourist unfolded his map, giving Connor zero visibility. Connor pushed past the map, his heart quickening. The siren was much louder now. Up ahead he could hear shouting and commotion. He heard the thud of some heavy objects. Sounded like the garbage men that woke him every week. Maybe they collected late morning in this part of town. He still couldn't see through the swarm of limbs. He squeezed through, pulling his bag awkwardly after him. An apple tumbled from the top of it, and bounced away from him, rolling into the clearing ahead. Connor saw it roll over road markings.

  He saw that the market actually occupied two sides of a single-lane of blacktop. He assumed cars used it every now and then when the people got out of the way. Maybe it was for deliveries and cabs. The apple rolled to the centre, it stopped short of someone who had fallen over. The apple bumped against a dark shoe, lying forgotten some distance away from the pedestrian. An ambulance was already on site. Connor thought it was parked somewhat clumsily on the far kerb, and he noticed its front tyre was flat. A wisp of white smoke seeped from the grill. Connor realised that other groceries also littered the road. The garbage collectors must have been in a rush.

  He looked to the other side, desperately looking for his mother. His hands were clammy now. Something about the scene upset him. His heart beat a little too quickly. A paramedic stumbled out of his driver's seat. Connor looked in horror as the man vomited all over his uniform. He had a gash on his head and swayed like a drunk. Connor's mind pieced the scene together backwards. The shoe. The thud. The siren. A busy open road through a crowd of people.

  A second paramedic groaned from the passenger side of the vehicle. They weren't here because of the accident, they were the cause of the accident. Tins of hot dogs littered the ground. His favourite. Ma had bought him enough to last until doomsday, that's what she had said. Connor dropped the bag and ran forward.

  His mother lay at an awkward angle. Her dark glasses no longer hid her eyes. There was no blood. Just a single pale blotch on her temple. Connor saw through thick tears that she still clutched the string handles, but the bags were long gone. He was vaguely aware of people rushing to help her but he also knew they were too late. He hugged his mother for the very last time. He buried his face in her hair and wept in agony.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The fire crackled and popped, and the three of them huddled closer to it. A
bitter wind had come in from the east and they ate quickly. No meat this time, only roots and nuts. No one had spoken much since they had found the book. Jack looked deep into the fire, searching the flames for his own answers. The old man kept little Sonny warm inside his coat, and alternated between rubbing his own arms and the boy's. The boy fell asleep that way.

  Jack glanced up at them both. 'Maybe this was a bad idea. I should have taken you home.'

  The old man smiled. 'Then you would have killed us all.' He spat at the fire.

  Jack saw the boy stir. This was still an adventure for him. Not yet the life and death brutality it had been for the old man.

  'They waited for us that night. We weren't there of course. My old man knew as I did to wait out the night.' Old Sonny grimaced at what was coming next. He cleared his throat. 'That damned dog. Looked out for us to the very end. Those no good bastards.' Sonny let the thought hang in the air as he composed himself.

  When the old man spoke again, his voice was but a whisper. 'I had to leave the poor mutt there. What comes next for us depends on it.' The old man wiped a knuckle across his own cheek. 'The dog took one of their hands. Bit three fingers and a thumb clean off. I found them in the dirt. All those years ago. Nothing else. They burned all of it.' He closed his eyes. 'Dog too.'

  Jack hung his head low. Thought how that must have been for six year old Sonny. How it would be for him tomorrow. 'Do you know who they were?'

  Old Sonny shook his head. 'What's to know is what they were after.' He pointed at Jack's coat. Jack put a protective hand over the bulge inside. The book was safe for now. How to keep it safe was another matter. Why it was important was another.

  'You were as shocked as we were weren't you?' The old man had a curious glint in his eye. 'Back at the tree. You didn't expect it to be damned empty either did you?'

  Jack smiled. 'I don't know what I expected. I try to take things as they come.'

  Old Sonny shivered and threw another piece of thick bark onto the flames. He saw no stars above, only clouds. He cleared his throat. 'I don't remember it.' He prodded the fire, keeping his eye line away from Jack's.

  'Remember what?'

  'The book.' Sonny grimaced. 'I remember my old man walloping me a good one, then I remember the tree. I'll never forget that damned tree.' He scratched his cheek.

  Jack saw that the boy's face still burned a dark red in the exact same spot.

  Old Sonny continued. 'But I don't remember the book. Seeing the boy climb yesterday brought some of it back but after that it's blank. Until the dog.'

  'You were young. I'm surprised you remember any of it.' Jack tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes and leaned back. The old man fussed with the fire.

  'But I put it there. I should remember something. I feel like I used to remember, but it's fading. Like something's changed.'

  Jack stirred. Pulled his coat closer around him. 'Seems like things are always changing. Guess we just have to change with them.'

  The old man shivered and huddled down next to the boy. His mind hopped from one thing to the next, piecing together shreds of memories from nearly a century of events. When it came to him later that night he was almost asleep. It felt like a hammer blow to the chest. For a second he forgot to breathe. His mouth moved silently, as he considered the implications.

  His memories hadn't faded. His mind had blocked them out. The human brain will do whatever it can to reduce mental trauma. A great loss or horrific injury will be locked away by the subconscious in its darkest corner. Sonny realized with a sudden great clarity and horror that the day that he'd found the book was the last day he'd ever seen his old man.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The young warrior Akuti waited patiently outside the Grey Wolf's dwelling. The snow still fell but did not yet make her feet cold. An elder passed by in the distance carrying fresh buck skin, and nodded in a silent greeting. Akuti smiled in return. She saw no one else around. Not many people lived near the ridge. Most of the villagers sheltered further down, where the trees were thicker. Akuti enjoyed the solitude up here. It made her feel closer to the skies.

  She knew very little of the ancient one's wisdom, save that it was indeed great. The old man had always known so many things and shown them how to stand strong against others. She had been born into a community hidden deep in the highest forests, and they lived away from fear. Elder Chiefs came from long distances to seek Grey Wolf's tongue. Those who paid him kindly and heeded his words were blessed by the great Coyote and survived yet another cold year. But those who did not believe in his words soon joined the fallen. Flood, famine or battle, it didn't matter which, they fell just the same. Some had said that the Wolf was actually the great Coyote himself, such was his knowledge and strength. But she had seen Grey Wolf, and he looked like no Coyote she had ever seen. He was an ancient being, but still strong and sure. Some said he was older than the trees themselves, and she believed it. For it was not his age that was remarkable about Grey Wolf. It was the fact that Grey Wolf really did have twice the wisdom and courage of any man. For Grey Wolf had been blessed with two faces.

  The wind threw a flurry of snow that whipped Akuti's legs, and she blinked up at the sky. She would remember this day. It would be the day that a prophecy was fulfilled. Grey Wolf's tales of ancient battles had entertained the village children for decades. The elders smiled politely at these musings, and knew them to be analogies for warfare and survival. Only the children knew of the truths he spoke. Akuti was the youngest warrior in the village, and the stories burned brightly in her mind.

  He had spoken of an ancient battle between gods. His speaking face would say the words while the other looked on quietly. It always watched, fused to his speaking face, but never making a sound. The old man would point at the lines in the stars with his good arm as he spoke, drawing their outlines with a steady finger. His other arm always hidden inside the layers of thick deerskin.

  His story would continue into the night. The Great Coyote and the Silent Buffalo had once been great allies. But the sleeping Coyote had been overcome by the Great Buffalo God, and had been cast down to Earth for his weakness. The enraptured audience scoured the heavens, looking for traces of this fierce war. Most would swear they saw the pair still locked in battle. The old man looked the children in the eyes one by one as he finished his tale. None of them dared look at his second face, which watched on silently.

  The Great Buffalo God would also fall to Earth one day. Whoever took away his soul would release the Great Coyote, and he would rise again to the stars where he still belonged.

  Akuti had embraced this tale the most for she had dreams that she too would one day fly to the skies she loved so much. In her dreams she soared over the land, higher than even the great Raven.

  She saw that the snow fell heavier now, and when she looked up long enough, the heavy flakes became black silhouetted stars, falling to earth.

  A coughing from inside the dwelling, and the thick skins covering the doorway parted. Old Grey Wolf appeared at the opening and with a single nod, beckoned her inside. She breathed out and with a quickening of her heart, walked in after him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The apartment was black. The green light below the cooker told him it was a little after four. Sergeant Rogers felt blindly for the latch, clicked the door shut and dropped his keys into the empty fruit bowl. Emptied his pockets and dropped everything in on top of the keys. Shrugged off his heavy coat and belt and let them hang on a chair back to dry. He saw a note on the table, ignored it, and opened the refrigerator. He opened a Bud, and finished it in two long mouthfuls. He took another two out of the pack and grabbed some meat loaf with his other hand. Elbowed the door shut and left the room. The cat squirmed past him and he dropped heavily into his old armchair. He noticed he was still in the dark. He slugged back half of his next beer. The clock sounded ten times louder in the darkness. He finished the meatloaf in between gulps and just stared into the darkness. Exhausted. Cold. Numb. A little drunk now
too. He wondered where Maria was. She hadn't called to ask why he was late. Hadn't fallen asleep with the light on this time either. The crack under their bedroom door was dark. Maybe she'd left a voicemail or a message. He remembered the note. He got up, a little unsteady, and made it back to the kitchen table without kicking the cat or spilling his beer. He nudged the wall lights on and scooped up the folded square of paper. It only had two words. He turned the paper over then flipped it back. Nothing but two words. He read them again to be sure. They still said the same thing. I'm sorry. He walked quickly across the room, through the living room and opened their bedroom door. Flicked on the lights. The switch made a foreign sound. A slight echo joined it. The room was bare. No floral bed-linen, no fancy drapes, no clothes, no high heeled shoes, and no Maria. Shit. He thumbed open his cell phone and hovered over her name. Then remembered the time. The cat looked up at him then rubbed against his leg. Damned cat. She could have at least taken the cat with her. He peeled off his uniform, and dropped it into the laundry basket. He yanked the shower lever to maximum heat and let the pressure work its way up to an acceptable level. The steam quickly filled the small wash room and the cat mewled briefly before finding something more interesting to do in the kitchen. He scooped out his old tattered dorm towel from the wicker basket, the only one Maria hadn't taken, and hung it on the shower rail. She had also left some shower gel. That was thoughtful of her. No sense in getting her designer heels all wet for the sake of some soap, he guessed. The water massaged his scalp and he let his thoughts wander. They came to him silently, with only the hiss of the shower as their soundtrack. He saw the naked man in the mud, screaming silently. The blue lights popping as the medics arrived. The man clinging to him in desperation. His legs crushed and somehow packed into solid earth. The morphine shots and the oxygen mask to calm the guy down. The painstaking process of loosening the hard soil. His partner, Hodgson, vomiting as he saw what remained of the man's legs. The skin ripped to shreds, the soil and random construction debris somehow mangled with the flesh and bone. He'd almost passed out himself. Half a rusty license plate jutted out between the man's calf muscle and shin bone. The delirium as the howling man slipped in and out of consciousness on his way to Langone.