by Ben Galley
‘Mhm,’ Lurker nodded, pausing to smoke some more of his pipe. He sniffed. ‘Lil ain’t got the goods, so to speak, the answers that you need. Am I right?’
Merion nodded. ‘That you are.’
Lurker waved his cigarette about as he spoke. ‘Strange things, answers. Most times, you want them so badly, but when you get ‘em, you wish for anything that you could forget ‘em. Lose them somehow. Hmph.’ Here he shrugged, then pointed the pipe at Merion. ‘And you came runnin’ after me because you think I’ll give them to you.’
‘Right again.’
Lurker snorted rudely, crushing Merion’s hopes in one fell swoop. ‘Then you’re a fool, Tonmerion Hark. I wouldn’t cross your aunt if my life depended on it. No. If she says you ain’t ready, then you ain’t ready.’
Merion wore a pained look. ‘But I am. I promise you. My aunt is wrong. I’m ready to know what’s going on here. I need to know who killed my father. I need to know how to get home! It’s killing me, don’t you understand? And I know you want to tell me the answers. I heard you saying so to my aunt. She doesn’t know me, but I know I’m ready for the truth, Lurker. I need it, before I go insane!’
Lurker looked up at the clouds and sniffed. ‘Boy does have a right to know the truth. Who are we to keep it from him?’
Jake squawked at him. Lurker gave the bird a stern look. ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, sir. I know what I’m doing.’ His grey eyes flicked back to the boy. ‘Tell me again. How old are you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘See? Thirteen. I was already working fields by then. You weren’t even an egg,’ he said to the magpie. Jake flapped his wings and squawked no more.
Merion sighed. He was exhausted, and he knew it. He decided to make one last desperate plea, to see if he could appeal to this prospector’s moral side, if such a thing existed. Merion threw his hands up in the air and then let them fall to slap against his thighs. ‘Look, Lurker. Will you do what’s right and help me find out the truth?’
Lurker sniffed the cold air for a spell, and then leant forward. Merion could barely see his eyes, thanks to the shadow of his hat. ‘No,’ he said.
Merion’s heart fell like a stone. But it was then that Lurker stood up, and the boy’s heart rose back up with him. ‘But if you ain’t going to leave me alone, then so be it. I’ll take you to those who can,’ he said quietly. ‘But bear in mind, you asked for this, not me.’
Merion pushed his luck. ‘Are you taking me to the witch? The Shohari witch?’
Lurker narrowed his dark eyes and growled. ‘Who told you about her?’
‘A beggar in an alleyway. An old soldier who fought the Shohari.’
‘Ugh,’ Lurker grunted. ‘Then he’s a fool.’ The prospector crossed his arms and sighed. ‘If you’re to travel with me, then you travel by my rules. You stop when I stop, you eat when I eat, and you shit when I shit, understand?’
‘I … er, yes,’ Merion nodded.
‘Good,’ he said, and with that, he turned his back on the boy and began to walk north. Merion followed eagerly.
‘So it is the witch you’re taking me to see,’ Merion guessed.
Lurker flicked his cigarette to the dust irritably. ‘You’ll see soon enough. No more questions for tonight. I like to travel quiet.’
Merion fidgeted as he followed Lurker’s footsteps through the mud. ‘Then … could I just ask one more of you? I’ll promise I’ll be quiet after.’
Lurker sighed. ‘Speak then, boy.’
‘What exactly is a knuckle-dick?’
Chapter XI
OF BUFFALO AND BEANS
‘The boy. That impetuous little sod, he did it. I think I’m in the house. Smells like dust, sweat, and blood, though that’s all mine. This is the first time he’s left me alone. He doesn’t say much. Don’t know how old he is, but his eyes are older than the rest of him, that’s for sure. He just keeps staring at me, and I can tell he’s drumming up the nerve to ask: What the hell am I?’
13th May, 1867
His feet burned. The miles had fallen away, step by painful step. Miles and miles of sun-drenched desert, flaked and rippled like the puckered skin of some over-baked goldfish, already dry as a bone despite the recent storm.
His knees ached. The poor excuse for a path that they followed wandered between fields of red sand and patches of prairie scrub bristling with twisted cacti. Not a soul walked the path with them, neither ahead nor behind them.
His lips were raw. In fact, the only living things Merion had seen on their silent, wearisome journey were the sort that slithered, or scuttled, or soared on the rising thermals and squawked at the wind. Merion didn’t have to look up to know the vultures were still circling above them. He could almost feel their keen eyes on the back of his pink neck; he could almost imagine them licking their beaks and praying to whatever feathery god they believed in for a fatal trip or a sudden and vicious heart attack. Merion would give them no such satisfaction.
His eyes throbbed. If the truth be told, Merion was already doubting his decision to follow Lurker into the wilds. Hell, he had been thinking it since noon, and he wagered it was now closer to three.
At first he had been terrified. The cold, dark hours of the desert night had been full of squealing and snarling. Shadows had flitted back and forth, just out of reach of Lurker’s dusty lantern, far too close for Merion’s liking. But then dawn had broken, and what little excitement and anticipation he could summon had quickly been dampened by the ceaseless trudging, the countless stubbing of toes, and the dogged heat.
With every sluggish step, and with every flicker of hot pain that came from his feet, Merion’s determination had crumbled. Even the tempting gleam of precious answers was starting to wane. Such was the curse of impetuousness. It goes hand in hand with fickleness. Simply put, Tonmerion Hark was exhausted.
‘Why …’ Merion took a moment to gasp as he felt the cracks in his dry lips widen when he spoke, ‘… on earth do you not own a horse, man?’
Lurker went as far as shrugging. That seemed to be about the entirety of his answer.
‘Did you hear me?’ Merion thought he heard a sigh.
‘Never liked the beasts,’ Lurker replied. ‘Don’t smell right, by my reckoning. Too much blood, not a big enough brain.’
Merion frowned. ‘Am I supposed to know what that means?’
There was a familiar squeak of leather as Lurker shrugged again. Merion wondered whether it was too late to turn back. He wondered how angry Aunt Lilain would be, and whether it would actually be better to let her cool down for a few days.
‘When do we make camp?’
Lurker turned his head just a little. His dark skin shone with sweat. ‘Why? You tired, boy?’
‘No,’ Merion lied. ‘Just don’t want to spend another night treading through hell with nothing but a lantern and a magpie.’
Lurker could be heard chuckling. He tugged a hand out of his pocket for the first time in what must have been twelve straight hours and reached under his cloak to the small of his back. Merion heard a metal snap, and before he knew it, Lurker was holding a gun aloft, pointing it at the vultures. They knew well enough to flap higher. The contraption was enormous for a handgun. The thing had six long barrels, all neatly and tightly bound together in a ring, surrounded by ornate steel bands. Where their slick, black steel met the dark wood of the gun’s thick handle, a huge hammer sat, gently kissing the backs of the barrels, poised to rear and strike like a rattlesnake.
‘Kolt. Never leave home without it.’
Merion shook his head. ‘It’s vulgar.’
Lurker didn’t seem to care. He drummed his fingers against its handle and watched it shine in the hot sun. ‘That it may be, but Big Betsy here hits like a sledgehammer. She can blow a hole through a cow with one shot,’ he boasted.
‘Please don’t tell me you know that from experience?’
Lurker snorted, which apparently meant no.
Merion shook his head. ‘So wh
en are we making camp?’
‘Several hours or so, when the sun starts to drop.’
Several hours …
Merion shuddered at the thought of another hour, never mind a few. ‘Can we at least …’ he sputtered. ‘Can we just …’
Lurker stopped and turned. ‘Spit it out, boy.’
Merion held up his hands while he took a moment to gulp down some well-deserved air. ‘I know I stop when you stop, and all of that, but can you just, please, stop for one moment? I feel like my feet are going to fall off.’
‘I highly doubt that,’ Lurker grunted. Jake croaked in agreement.
‘One minute, please.’
Lurker looked around, surveying their roasting surroundings. Jake followed his gaze with his one good eye, every flick and turn. He held up a finger and felt the breeze, what little of it there was in this damned desert, and sniffed several times. Merion was too busy to notice what Lurker was up to, and in too much pain to really care. He simply sagged to the floor and stretched out his legs, hissing partly in pleasure, partly in pain. It felt as though his feet were slowly stewing in their own juices.
‘Aaaaaaaalmighty, that bloody hurts.’
Lurker was now staring far into the distance, to the northeast, where the dark smudges of hilltops could be seen above the wavering horizon. ‘When the blisters pop, your skin’ll harden,’ the man muttered. The blasted fool was still wearing his heavy coat and his wide hat. He must have been roasting under all that leather, along with the belts and the luggage … Madness.
‘I think they’ve already popped,’ Merion grimaced as he prodded his toes. He had to count all his toenails just to be sure none had taken a mind to wander off.
‘Well then,’ Lurker sniffed. ‘You could always piss in your shoes.’
Merion looked up, horrified. ‘I could what?’
‘They’re leather, ain’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then piss in them. Soften’s em up. Stops the rot.’ Lurker waggled his foot. ‘Pissed in these the first few days I got ‘em. Never had a blister since.’
I wondered what the smell was, Merion thought, involuntarily wrinkling his nose. Besides, judging by the way Lurker could stride mercilessly on without ever breaking pace, Merion would have bet Lurker’s feet were made more of hoof, or iron, than bone and skin.
‘I am not going to piss in my shoes.’ Merion could swear he heard a poorly stifled chuckle coming from his rucksack. He barely resisted the urge to elbow it. He caught Jake’s eye, and the bird clacked his beak. Merion narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s even more vulgar than that cannon of yours.’ Merion sighed, and turned his attention to gently peeling off his shoes. ‘Ahhhh,’ he couldn’t help but wince as each throbbing foot came free.
‘Not a fan of guns, boy? Might be a problem ‘round these parts.’
‘Has Lilain not told you anything?’
Lurker threw him a cold look. Merion wilted slightly. ‘She told me enough.’
Merion gently massaged his feet. He could have sworn that steam was emanating from the insides of his shoes. ‘Then you’ll know it was a gun that killed my father. So no, Mr Lurker, I am not a fan of guns.’
‘Makes sense. Question is, you a fan of buffalo?’
Merion’s head jolted up. ‘Buffalo?’ Aunt Lilain had spoken of them, of their horns and hooves. He had yearned to see one then, and he could not help but yearn now, despite how damn tired he was.
‘Whole herd, coming in from the north. Look here.’
Merion rolled onto his knees and shuffled, rather gracefully, it has to be said, through the sand and grit to where Lurker was standing with one foot on a small, knobbly rock. He pointed with an arm, and Merion squinted into the haze.
‘I don’t see anything,’ he said, the disappointment clear in his dry voice.
‘Look harder.’
‘Well that helps. I really don’t—Wait.’
A dark line had appeared in the shivering heat waves, a line that reached for miles across the horizon. It was then that Merion felt the fear in the ground, the nervous trembling of the sand around his knees. Hooves. Thousands upon thousands of hooves, battering the earth in thunderous unison. The dark line grew thicker as the mighty heard came closer. Merion could hear them now: a low rumble in the air, interrupted by the occasional trumpeting bellow. Merion began to pick out the galloping shapes of the faster beasts, the ones outstripping the rest and leading the way. With every bone-shattering stride, the buffalo drew nearer, until Merion’s heart began to jolt along with their frenzied rumble.
For one stomach-churning moment, it looked as though the herd would swing towards them, but then they turned again, and veered east and away from them, down into a slight dip in the land.
The buffalo were enormous. Taller and wider than a carriage, and veritably dripping with muscle. Their shaggy black manes danced and streamed behind them, flecked with white spit from their heaving, slavering mouths. They seemed like furious, skin-wrapped steam engines for all their snorting and grunting. Merion wagered that had it been cold, they would have looked the part as well. It was the buffalos’ horns that thrilled him the most. Curved, long, and deadly, they looked to be made of iron instead of simple horn, even going so far as to glint in the sun, as any metal worth its salt would.
Lurker waited until the very last wheezing buffalo had hobbled past before he spoke, almost as though his words might have ruined the spectacle. ‘Don’t ever want to get on the wrong side of a buffalo, boy, trust me on that one.’
‘And trust me, I don’t intend to,’ Merion said, putting a hand to his chest to steady his heart.
Lurker snorted, and took the opportunity to fish out his pipe and a fresh pinch of tobacco. ‘Full o’ strange old wonders, this part of the world,’ he mumbled around the mouthpiece of his pipe.
Merion shuffled back to his shoes. He eyed them as a passer-by might look at a soiled, drunken tramp on the street. He wanted to spit on them, never mind piss on them. As he painfully eased them back on, he noticed that they were rapidly falling apart. He cursed under his breath.
‘Are those things lined with velvet, Hark?’
Merion rolled his eyes. ‘Indeed they are,’ he muttered.
‘Shit, boy. And worn down to a thread, I see. You’d better pray we meet a roamin’ trader on the way; otherwise you’ll be walking the desert in your socks. That ain’t something I would go recommendin’.’
Merion didn’t exactly relish the thought either. ‘Wonderful,’ he grunted.
*
He could smell the earthy tang of the leather, the dusty scent of paper and books. He ran his hands over the dark wood of his father’s desk, watching how his fingers changed colour under the sunlight pouring through the towering stained-glass windows. Blue, green, red, and every colour in between, broken only by the tall shadow standing mere feet away, staring at the kaleidoscopic world outside the cavernous study.
Merion lifted a fist to his mouth and coughed politely. The shadow turned slightly. A stern, angular face looked back over the stark line of a muscled shoulder. Merion waved.
‘Hullo father,’ he said, his voice sounding sluggish and faint in the dream.
‘Have you found him yet?’ asked Karrigan. His lips had barely moved. His voice sounded faraway and on the brink of being lost.
Merion furrowed his brow. ‘Pardon me?’
‘My murderer, Tonmerion.’
The younger Hark shook his head, flushing red. ‘I’m trying my best, father. This man, Lurker … he’s taking me to—’
‘It’s not good enough.’
Merion’s eyes itched as they began to water. He forced himself not to reach up and rub them. A sign of weakness. ‘Father … please,’ he whispered. ‘I will find him, I promised you.’
Karrigan turned back to the paned glass and sighed. ‘Beans, Merion.’
‘Father?’
‘Beans.’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘Beans I said, you lis
tenin’, boy?’
Merion’s eyes snapped open, letting reality flood back into them. His head lolled as he shook off the dizziness of the dream.
Lurker was brandishing a dirty wooden spoon at him. A little cluster of brown beans clung to it for dear life. ‘Don’t you be fallin’ asleep on me yet. You eat when I eat, remember? Got to get some food in your stomach before your head hits the pillow. This ain’t the sort of place you want to wake up hungry. Here, have some beans.’
Merion rubbed his eyes with the palms of his dusty, dirty hands and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He peered down into the bubbling pot Lurker had suspended over the timidly crackling flames. Beans, indeed. ‘Is there any bread?’
‘No sir.’
‘No bacon?’
Lurker just chuckled at that.
Merion’s stomach rumbled painfully. ‘Any meat at all?’ he whined.
Lurker looked up from stirring his pot. There was a hint of a scowl on his face. Little did Merion know that beans were very important to a man like Lurker. Beans could be counted upon. Beans could warm a soul as well as a stomach. Beans could turn a rough day on the road right around.
And here was Merion, turning his nose up at them.
‘Well, seeing as my ole pap’s recipe ain’t good enough for you…’ Lurker paused to thrust a hand into his nearby pack. There was a moment of rummaging, during which Merion’s stomach rumbled with hope as well as hunger, and then Lurker threw something at him, a little slab of something hard and no-doubt chewy, wrapped up in grease paper and string. ‘…you can have what’s left of my jerky. Carve off a piece, go on.’
‘I don’t have a—’
Steel flashed as a knife spun over the flames and landed in the sand inches from Merion’s knee. The boy tried to quell the shaking in his hand as he tugged the blade free. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Welcome.’
A bowl was filled with beans and passed across the fire. The beans were big and soft, and the sauce they swam in was thick and rich, deep with spices and smoke. Merion was instantly apologetic. ‘These beans are incredible, Lurker.’
Lurker didn’t look up. He just kept slipping beans into his mouth, one by one, eating like a grizzled old turtle might. He managed a brief, ‘Thank you,’ between spoonfuls.