He filled the bowl that he and his mother had designed with a brothy soup that would hopefully ease her coughing. It smelled like chicken soup all right, but somehow didn't taste the same as the stuff his mother used to cook. He hoped she wouldn't notice the poor craftsmanship of his cooking. If he was only a quarter the gunsmith his father was, then he was only a tenth the cook that his mother was.
It was hard for him to look at her. As long as he could remember, his mother had been beautiful, healthy, and full of life. Her black silken hair was still well maintained—Emmett would comb it for her twice a day—but it had acquired a much more silver tone over the last few months. The piercing gaze of her brown eyes, so full of strength, now seemed defeated by sickness. Her lithe and strong body had atrophied and left a shriveling shell in its place. While her dark features contrasted against his father's Nordic pedigree, her strength had always matched his—both in body and spirit. Now his father was gone and his mother was fading into nothingness.
"I made you a light soup, Ma. I know you haven't got much appetite, but it might settle your cough a bit." Emmett kept his voice low but enthusiastic.
"Thank you, baby. Can you get me my tray?" Emmett's mother whispered the words, trying to sit herself up in bed. Tremors rocked her whole body as she coughed, before settling into a sitting position against a large pillow behind her. Emmett frowned, his mother's coughs sending shivers through his own body as well.
He grabbed a small wooden tray, a simple, flat piece of hickory about a yard by a foot, and placed it across his mother's lap. She nodded her thanks, and Emmett placed the bowl of soup on the tray. As she looked down and took note of the bowl he had chosen, a genuine smile crossed the lips of the dying woman.
"Do you remember when we made this, Emmett?" his mother asked in a raspy voice.
"I sure do, Ma. You told me how the symbols brought good luck. Thought we could use some of that luck about now."
"Good thing your Pa ain't around to hear that kinda talk," Emmett's mother laughed. The laugh descended into a labored hacking.
Despite his mother's words, Emmett did wish his father were there to scold him for seeking out luck from a painted bowl. He wanted his father to walk through the door with a real-world way to save his mother's life. He wanted to hear that gravelly voice tell him that everything was going to be okay. That wasn't going to happen though. He was on his own.
Emmett's mother could read the dark expression in his gray-blue eyes. It was almost as if she could read his mind.
"You're a fine man, Emmett. You're doing your best for both of us." She paused, trying to stifle a cough. "I know you think your father could stop this if he was here, but he couldn't."
The boy, who was now man of the house, closed his eyes, trying not to cry.
"I'd go as far as saying you're handling this better than your Pa would if he was here. He's a damn good man, but facing a problem he couldn't out-think or out-shoot would drive him mad. I'd be having to take care of him if he saw me like this."
A single tear streaked down Emmett's face, causing his cheeks to flush with anger at his own weakness.
"No. Pa would find a way. He'd fight God and the devil themselves if he had to."
"Emmett, baby, sometimes there just isn't an answer. Sometimes it's braver to end a song than to write another verse."
***
It was nighttime now, and Emmett stood in the kitchen alone. His mother was fast asleep in her bedroom, and Emmett was putting away the dishes he had cleaned after dinner. His mother was getting worse, and her willingness to submit to oblivion hurt and angered him. The talk about his father had stirred up emotions he tried to keep buried most of the time—feelings of abandonment and anger battled against respect and love in the young man's tumultuous mindscape.
He missed his Pa something fierce, and was so proud that he had gone to stand up against the Union dictators, but damn it, Emmett was mad. How could he leave them here? Wasn't family more important than Davis or Lincoln, or some imaginary line in a country they had stolen anyway? Wouldn't it be nobler to stay and watch his boy become a man than to go kill the sons of others?
But deep in his heart, Emmett believed his father was right. Lincoln's thugs were crushing freedom and dissent all the way out here, where they had no business telling folks what to do or think. Word was that Confederate sympathizers in Virginia City had been taken to Fort Churchill and locked away, all for simply speaking their minds. It was that kind of blatant tyranny that had forced Emmett's father to head for Texas and take up arms for the South. The West, and all of America really, was about freedom and independence. The actions of the Union had demonstrated that they had clearly forgotten those ideals.
As thoughts of his father and the familial duty he had shirked in lieu of some grandiose national duty bounced around Emmett's mind, the young man placed the bowl that he and his mother had painted back in the cupboard. As he pulled his hand away, he paused to admire the simple angular designs of muted, rusty tones that reflected so much of California itself. The symbols meant something, but he didn't quite understand what. His mother had explained them as good luck charms, but Emmett believed that was an oversimplified explanation. There seemed to be something deeper in their shapes ... something powerful.
With one finger, Emmett traced one of the symbols—a diamond of yellow ochre set over a rust-colored rectangle. He imagined the power of the land itself being channeled through the symbol and into his body. Broken fragments of legends his mother had told him flooded his mind. Shamans speaking to the dead and glimpsing images of the future through dancing flames. Braves calling upon the spirits of bears and raptors to give them strength and courage. Warriors blessed by ancient spirits who could walk through volleys of arrows and gunfire unharmed.
Doctors, three of them in fact, had failed to provide any substantial treatment for his mother. The tonics and cure-alls of the white man were doing little to even comfort her. American ingenuity, for all it was worth, had failed Emmett. Perhaps his father would be bright enough to find a reasoned means of saving his mother's life, but Emmett wasn't the man his father was. Emmett was barely a man at all.
If neither the white man's science nor the white man's God could fix things (and yes, Emmett had prayed at length to the God of Israel), then perhaps older, forgotten solutions could be unearthed. Emmett knew that the stories of his grandmother's tribe may well be the nonsense that his father insisted. Hell, he doubted that his mother even believed them, but if there was a chance they held any kernel of truth, didn't he owe it to his family to at least investigate them? If some Paiute medicine man, maybe even his own grandfather, held the secret to conquering his mother's illness, was it not Emmett's duty to secure that secret? And honestly, what did he have to lose?
Emmett put the rest of the dishes away and headed to his own bedroom, comforted by the thought that he at least had one more possibility to save his mother's life. In the morning he would pay one of the ladies in town to keep an eye on his mother, and then he would take his mule south to the Paiute reservation. At a good clip, he could be there in three hours, and back home before dark.
For the first time since his mother had taken ill, Emmett slept soundly through the night.
CHAPTER THREE
When the witch named Fiona had pointed him to the "path paved with blood and gold," the old man was certain that Thurs must be somehow tied to the Overland Route. The railroad was almost a deity unto itself. A good deal of money and blood had been sacrificed to it. The vision of the steel tracks brought ideas of salvation, escape, and hope to an entire nation. Men devoted their lives to its service. It made perfect sense that Thurs would be uniquely interested in the birth of a new god. Strangely, the old man found no hatred in his heart at the thought of the railroad as a god. If he were to get behind a god, it would be one like that—a deity that man had created and that man could control. That was far more palatable to him than some unfathomable alien—no matter their agenda.
&n
bsp; Traveling from the Mexican border, where he had ended Fiona's life, the old man made his way to Oakland, California. From there, the tired Confederate traced the Central Pacific from its origin point, in search of the thing that stole his son. From Oakland on, the trail was wrought with greed, corruption, and death, but of a distinctly human nature. Shady backroom deals were made. Workers suffered. Men made their fortunes or were swindled out of their savings. No arcane influence seemed to be at work though. Even the Celestial rail workers, with their strange customs, seemed untouched by the Devourers.
When he arrived at Donner Summit, a gorgeous mountain pass above a lake that shared the same namesake, the old man realized that the efforts of the last few months had been a waste. The procession of the railroad was brought to a near standstill here. Workers labored day and night to blast tunnels through the miles of ancient stone. Black powder and nitroglycerin kept the project going, but at an excruciatingly slow pace. If Thurs was somehow manipulating the railroad, it was on the side of the competing Union Pacific company, far across the Sierra Nevada.
This left the old man with a choice that might have been difficult for others. He could sacrifice several more weeks and seek a route around the mountain range, or he could cross the inhospitable land on foot, in the middle of December. While he was patient, the old man still understood the value of every second. With that in mind, there was only one real option, and the old man wasn't prone to wasting time on lamentations of "what ifs." Without a moan or complaint the old man continued east.
Snow was falling in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, creating a monochrome landscape of white powder set against gray stone. The old man didn't care for snow, and he had hoped to have seen it for the last time in '65. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that whatever powers moved this world often had plans at odds with his own. This was just the way of things, and it was not the old man's nature to dwell on setbacks. His mind was singularly set on one goal, and roadblocks were only there to be smashed. With silent determination, the old man made his way across the rocky mountain path and through the snow-laden winds.
It would be hard to hunt or trap any food during the Sierra winter. Game would be scarce, and the seasons of gathering lay behind and ahead. Anticipating the struggles that lay before him, he had bartered for several weeks of rations with the rail boss at Donner’s Pass. Mostly he had gotten stale bread and smoked venison, paying for it with gold that was worth ten times the value of the food. As for clothes, he'd managed to rustle up a few garments that he could layer beneath what he already wore. There seemed to be nothing warmer for an overcoat than the worn, dirty, Confederate artillery coat that he'd been living in for so many years now. It would get him through most of his trek across the mountains. That was what mattered—keeping momentum toward the goal. Obstacles like hunger or frostbite would have to be dealt with as they came up.
The journey across the mountains was unpleasant at the best of times. Temperatures dropped to well below freezing at night, and on the warmest days the old man's breath still danced visibly in the air. Little could be found in the way of shelter or dry wood, leaving the old man to depend on his bulky layers and his hatred to keep him warm most nights. Additionally, the old man was fatiguing far easier than he had ever before in his life. He wondered if his age was finally catching up with him, or if one of the witches he had sent to the grave had laid some manner of dying curse upon him.
After three weeks of trekking down snow-flooded wagon roads, surviving on meager rations and sleeping beneath lean-tos on frozen ground, the old man began to second-guess his decision. He was unsure of how much ground he had traveled, but he was sure it wasn't much. In the last week the path hard hardened, and he now walked on packed, frozen snow, rather than through knee-deep powder or slush. His momentum should have increased but, now that the landscape had become more agreeable, his body had become less so. Maybe a path around the mountains would have delivered him to the Union Pacific rails with greater rapidity.
Skirting the Sierra Nevada would have been a more sure course at the very least. If the icy winds and unforgiving snow stole the life from him, he would be of no use to his boy. And were the frigid winter winds not the ally of Thurs? The old man had no facts to back up this assertion, but he knew it in his heart that the deathly winter was a tool of the Devourers, just as all primal forces and peoples were their tools.
Lost in his thoughts, tired and aching from the cold, the old man didn't notice that snow in front of him looked to be of a less firm nature. Taking a step, he meant to place his right foot upon the packed snow, but instead went through it. With more sleep and better food he could have easily pushed himself back onto more solid ground with his other leg. His muscles had betrayed him, however, in protest to the cold, abuse, and lack of fuel. Like some great, clumsy child, the old man tumbled headlong into the soft snow before him. His great weight, both from his own massive frame as well as the gear he carried, forced him deep into the cold snow. The freezing powder cushioned his fall, but collapsed atop him as well, invading every opening his clothing left vulnerable. His face stung as thousands of unique crystals stole the warmth from his flesh.
Adrenaline was pumping, but the cold and weariness still made it hard for the old man to flip onto his back. Once he accomplished this seemingly Sisyphean task, he was greeted by more snow to the face. He was unsure how much of the powder had collapsed onto him, but found himself more annoyed than worried. Light still made its way through the snow, and he guessed he could be no more than a yard and a half buried.
That was until he tried to get up. With each struggle to gain his feet or pull himself up, the white seemed to suck him down further. Like arctic quick sand, it refused to loosen its grip. The old man struggled angrily and found himself descending further. The strange sensation that he was being sucked down beyond the snow's natural depth gave credence to what he had been thinking only a few moments before. This primal place, away from mankind's will and reason, was well within the power of Thurs and the mad, devouring titans of Utgard.
With the snow in his eyes, and the light above fading, the old man was unable to see. Nonetheless, he was confident that talons, formed from ice and snow, had grasped onto his clothes and limbs. His mind screamed for his muscles to fight harder but, even as he urged his body on, the cold sapped his strength. Finally the frost invaded his mouth and nose, drowning the lone soldier in frozen water. Unable to breathe, his body out of fight, the old man cursed and screamed until the light of consciousness expired. Darkness and cold eclipsed his burning rage and the old man drifted into Hel.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once, the whole of what the white men had named California and Nevada were the hunting grounds and the home of the Paiute tribe. Now, the descendants of the men and women who had roamed these lands since the Great Spirit first breathed life into the world were crowded onto a chunk of lifeless soil only eight thousand acres large.
Bishop Colony. It was this open-sky prison, barren of hope yet overflowing with disease, addiction, and apathy, that Emmett's grandfather called home. The angry and distrustful stares that the residents there cast him were further proof that he was not a child of two cultures, but a twin pariah. The folks in town looked down on his family, despite the respect his father had earned as a master craftsman. His father's finest work couldn't wash away the rusty tint of Emmett’s flesh or the raven silk of his hair. The same went for the more distinctive native features that his mother displayed.
Shortly after riding into Bishop Colony, Emmett stopped his mule near a couple of children who were looking upon him with both fear and excitement. The two boys, maybe around eight or nine years old, had been playing outside of a tiny hut made from sticks and straw. They could not take their dark eyes off of him. Emmett's cotton shirt, blue jeans, and hard-soled leather boots must have seemed so alien to these two boys who were dressed in simple clothes made from deer skin and yucca fiber. For all Emmett knew, he was the closest thing to a white man
they had ever seen.
From the few Paiute he had seen so far, he was about a head taller than any of the grown men, having inherited his height from his old man. He could see how his size might intimidate the Paiute children. On the other hand, he guessed that they didn't get many visitors, so even some giant mongrel riding a comically small mule would be a joy to see.
"I'm looking for the elder shaman. A man named Poohwi." Emmett spoke the words in a pleasant voice, trying to put the children at ease.
The two boys looked at Emmett for a moment in silence, before simultaneously breaking into a chatter of indiscernible language. Of course, Emmett thought, they don't speak a lick of English.
A deeper voice, that of an adult, issued some strange word from inside the hut. It sounded like some manner of command. Judging by the way the children immediately ran back into the hut, it was just that. As the children ran into the small home, a grown man stepped out through the open doorway of the hut. The man, whose hard, angular face held eyes the color of rich topsoil, regarded Emmett coolly.
"Poohwi is not taking visitors, stranger."
"I get it. You don't fancy outsiders. I really can't leave without seeing him though."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," the man from Bishop Colony said in a slow, deliberate manner. "Poohwi is quite sick. Any excitement could be detrimental to his health."
"His daughter—my mother—is dying. The white man's medicine is failing her. I need his help."
The man before Emmett paused, looking him up and down. Emmett felt as if the man was looking through his physical form and into his very soul. The thought made him vaguely uncomfortable.
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