Hank, while the old man and the clerk were talking, had taken to admiring the various firearms. Maybe it was mankind's natural love affair with things that kill, maybe it was that the old man's admiration for guns had become contagious, but Hank was enamored with collection of weapons that were for sale.
"Come on," the old man said, and motioned for Hank to follow him. The boy reluctantly turned away from the Winston repeater he was eyeing and followed the old man back out into the coming night. Once outside Hank turned toward the old man, with a serious expression on his young face.
"How am I supposed to help you kill this Thurs thing without a piece? You told me that only bullets can kill the Devourers."
"Come on," the old man repeated, ignoring both the boy's question and the unpleasant task that lay shortly ahead. "The train passed by a curio shop on the way here. Gonna give her a look."
"What's a curious shop?"
"Curio," the old man corrected. "A shop that sells unusual odds and ends. Taxidermied animals, antique junk, old books."
"Why we going there?"
"Every once in a while the charlatans that run these places stumble upon a bit of real magic—bones from monsters, black bibles, cursed weapons."
"I thought powder and flint held all the magic we needed?"
"Yes. But if we found something of an arcane nature, we could glean more into the mind of the enemy. We could also acquire said damnable things and destroy 'em. Cut down the enemy's arsenal a bit."
Hank nodded in understanding and the two walked in silence for ten minutes or so. It wasn't an awkward quiet, but rather a silent peace that comes about when folks are truly comfortable around one another.
The curio shop was little more than a tin-roofed shack surrounded by tacky statues and various pieces of Americana. Once it was in sight the old man turned toward Hank with an expression that nearly gave hint of a smile.
"Plus, curios just have some interesting shit. Kind of fun to look around."
Fun. The concept seemed as alien to the old man as the word sounded coming from his mouth. The strangeness of it—this grizzled, vengeance fueled, old-as-dirt warrior suggesting something fun—caused Hank to smile.
A piece of poultry wire nailed to a few rotted boards served as the front door. The old man pulled it open, allowing Hank to enter first. The inside was dim, lit by several small candles that did little to combat the oncoming darkness of night. They weren't meant to though. Rather, the old man suspected, the dancing flames were there to cast suspicious shadows on to the tightly packed knick-knacks for sale. Smoke and mirrors, to transform mundane refuse into treasured mysteries.
The parlor trick salesmanship was winning Hank over with a quickness, just as the old man reckoned it would. The boy was bouncing from treasure to treasure. One moment a grainy photograph of the Great Sphynx would captivate him, then a pyrite necklace would glitter in the corner of his eye and demand his attention. The old man was amused. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in years.
Hank's excitement did not go unnoticed by the shop keep either. The proprietor, who was a gangly old thing with the demeanor of carnival worker, watched him with deep interest. The old man reckoned this was partially to make sure the little bastard didn't steal anything, partially because he suspected it would be an easy feat to relieve the boy of any money he might have.
The old man tipped his hat at the shop keep but didn't speak. The shop keep gave the old man a nod in return, then shot his gaze back upon the boy who was now admiring a geode about the size of a robin's egg.
The old man gave the tiny shop a quick scan, looking for anything that might relate to witchcraft. To his relief there was nothing.
"Come take a look at this!" Hank cried.
The old man walked over, trying not to knock down anything in the space that could barely contain his height and girth. He found Hank gawking at a queer taxidermied spider, the size of the old man's fist. Bright orange dominated its exoskeleton, which looked to have turned soft and spongy by whatever chemicals preserved it. White tendrils shot out from its limbs and from one of its mandibles. It almost appeared to be half plant.
"Ever seen something so crazy looking?!" Hank exclaimed in excitement and disgust.
"It ranks up there, I'll give you that."
The old man nonchalantly reached for his remaining pistol as soft footfalls came up behind him. Instead of an attack came a voice. The old man relaxed his hand as the shop keeper spoke.
"That right there may be the strangest piece I've ever come across," the garbage slinger said, beginning his sales pitch. "You may think you know what that is, but I bet ya beer money that you are wrong." He spoke in a voice that was creaky and rough, like cracking wood set against unoiled hinges.
"It's a spider," Hank replied.
"And you'd be owing me a beer, young ‘un. That ain't a spider at all."
"Sure looks like a spider," the old man chimed in.
"Sure as shit does, I agree. But it ain't."
The shop keeper reached for Hank's hand, and placed the boy’s fingers gently against the spider. It felt soft and porous, not at all like a spider had any right to feel.
"Ewww"
"See?" the shop keep croaked. "Ain't no spider. Least not anymore."
"What is it then?" Hank asked.
"A fungus, like mushrooms, but a special kind of fungus. A parasitic Fungus."
"What's that mean?"
"Means that once upon a time, this poor bastard was a regular old spider, eating bugs and birds, humping on lady spiders, doing normal ole spider things. Then somewhere along the line this fungus got in its blood, and started taking it over like. Replaced his flesh and blood and other spider bits with its own stuff. Eventually Mr. Spider here kicked the bucket, but the fungus kept on eating away at his body, and growing in his place. Now there ain't nothing left of Mr. Spider but a mushroomy shadow."
Hank pulled his hand back and shook it wildly.
"Shit! Did I get it in me?"
A disquieting laugh creaked out from the shop keep's throat.
“No worries, boy. The fungus been dead quite a spell too. Ain't no danger."
The old man had turned away from the two of them suddenly and headed for the door. A pair of stray tears ran down his face. He didn't know what had brought about the crying, nor did he care to get introspective.
"Where you going?" Hank asked, not wanting to leave the house of mysteries.
The old man did not turn around, but he did stop at the door. He pretended to rub the exhaustion from his eyes, and he buried down the pain that was physically erupting from him.
"I need some fresh air."
Before walking out the door, the old man placed a greenback on the counter.
"Buy yourself something fun, Hank."
With that he walked out the door and looked up toward the hated stars.
I'm coming for you tomorrow, the old man projected the thought upward. The stars did not respond.
***
Hank walked out of the curio shop, having purchased a pendant of driftwood carved into the shape of a raven. He saw good luck in the pendant’s graceful form.
“You remember the ravens up in the mountains?” Hank asked the old man, who was smoking a cigarette outside.
“Yep. I’d say we owe them a debt. Might not have gotten my hand on my pistol if they hadn’t of pissed off that lunatic.”
“I figure as much too. That’s why I picked this.” Hank showed off the wooden raven as he spoke.
“That’s a fine choice, Hank.”
The old man reached down and took the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, admiring the simple beauty of its craftsmanship.
“My own pa was as taken up with myth as much as my wife. A whole different set of stories, but the same kind of nonsense. As a kid I loved hearing his stories about the gods and heroes of the old country. 'Course those stories were silliness at best, but when that maniac started cursing about them ‘crows,’ my pa’s nonsense
came to mind and I found a bit of wisdom in it.”
“Yeah?” Hank asked.
“See, the king of the gods was a tough, slippery, old bastard. He had to be that way, because his enemies were worse. But he had these two pet ravens that acted as his eyes across the world. In English their names would have been Thought and Memory.”
“There were two ravens outside the cabin!” Hank exclaimed, eager to latch on to any belief the old man might have.
“Well that’s just coincidence, but it got me thinking. Sometimes the world makes a bastard of ya. Chance and circumstance can turn the kindest man into a murderer, or a thief, or both faster than anyone would care to admit. But what keeps you human, what guides you home, is thought and memory.”
The old man paused before asking Hank if he understood.
“I think,” Hank replied.
“Thought—critical, logical thought—that’s what separates a man from an animal. That’s what keeps us progressing further and further. That ability to think our way around any and every problem is why the Devourers fear us.”
“And what about memory?” Hank asked.
“Memory is what keeps us strong in the toughest times, and it’s what prevents us from becoming monsters when our hands are forced to kill. It’s the memories of love and happiness that let us come home from the dark places where the world sometimes takes us. It’s memory that lets a man find the strength to fight the gods themselves for what’s right.”
Hank hung his head down in shame and said, “I try not to remember most of the time”.
“I understand,” the old man said between drags of his cigarette.
“I miss them so much,” Hank muttered, trying to suppress a sob.
“Tell me something good about your folks. Something from when life was at its best.”
“You first,” Hank replied with tears in his eyes. He didn’t think he was ready to revisit those happy moments just yet. He was sure that the single-minded witch killer wouldn’t have it in him to share about his family.
The old man called his bluff. He recounted the way his wife would tell these ludicrous Indian myths as if they were fact, and how he was always torn by his hatred for superstition and how beautiful she sounded when she told them.
He laughed, actually laughed, taking about his son imitating him, pretending to shave by slathering his face with soap and scraping it away with a fork.
Hank, seeing actual happiness in the old man’s face, gave in and told his own stories. He talked about how proud his folks had been on the day when they walked away from the plantation to forge their own path. He recalled with misty eyes the sound of his parents' voices belting out gospels in perfect harmony.
For the rest of the evening, the old man and his young friend wandered the quiet, dark streets of Omaha, smoking rope and trading fond stories of their lost loved ones.
For the first time since they'd met, the old man didn't look so old to Hank. The boy began to think that the poor guy was a mite younger than first impressions would suggest.
Late into the night, Hank began to waver, clearly losing his battle against exhaustion. The old man picked the boy up in his strong arms, and carried him until he was sound asleep.
Once Hank was out cold, the old man headed over into the poorest section of town he could find, the part of town where he figured the Negroes lived. He walked unrushed, taking comfort in the warm sensation of holding the boy in his arms, and looked for a home that showed signs of children. Eventually he stopped at tiny hovel where a crude, wooden doll with straw hair lay by the door.
It was nearly three in the morning by this point, but the old man knocked on the door anyway. After a minute or so, a scared-looking black man, maybe in his early twenties, opened the door. The sight of the enormous Confederate warrior sent a tremble of terror through the man's body. Word was getting around about a so-called knighthood of Confederates who were lynching blacks, and here was a gray-coated monster holding a black child in his arms.
The old man only said "Shhh," as he pushed past the terrified occupant of the house. The place was really just two rooms. This first room held two mattresses. On one lay a sleeping little girl with ebony skin. She was maybe three or four years old, the old man reckoned. On the other mattress lay a woman, who was presumably the girl's mother. She was awake and filled with an even greater depth of fear than her mate who had answered the door.
The old man walked over to the latter mattress and gently lay the boy on the bed, careful not to wake him. On the floor near the mattress he dropped a small pack that contained the few belongings Hank had acquired since they left the Sierra Nevada—a few scraps of his parents' clothes, and random rocks and sticks that had caught his fancy. The old man had also slipped his own backup pistol into the pack. It was a tough world, and the boy might need a piece from time to time.
The old man turned back toward the door and stepped uncomfortably close to the trembling man of the house. The old man locked gaze with the man, meaning to invoke his fear.
He let his own pack slip down his shoulder and to his hand, then reached in. The old man was sizing up the man at the door, trying to gauge his character. Fear was visibly written across his face, and he was rapidly swallowing spit and terror. Still, he didn't turn away, and that was something.
He'll do all right, the old man decided.
Instead of drawing a pistol or a knife from the pack, the old man pulled out a fistful of greenbacks. He pushed them into the man's chest, still locking his gaze.
"You take care of this boy. You do him right, as if he was your own."
The old man got closer this time and hunched down to bring himself level with the other man, leaving only fractions of an inch between their noses.
“I’ll be checking up. Making sure he’s treated well.”
Without another word, the old man exited the hovel and left the terrified, confused family to ponder what had just happened.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The air was dry and hot on the morning when Emmett finally rode back into town and up to his house. The parched ground beneath his feet was cracked and broken, just like the rashy, dry flesh of his body. The summer air and the unforgiving sun exasperated Emmett's discomfort, but he had managed to compartmentalize the irritation and focus on the enlightenment that had so recently elevated his mind and spirit.
No one had been in the streets as Emmett rode through the center and all the shops were closed up. He guessed that would make it Sunday and put most folks at church. The concept of time had confounded him while within the warm embrace of The Emerald Flower. Minutes had expanded to the space of hours and days had compressed into seconds. Truthfully, Emmett could not even guess as to how long he'd been away.
It had not been just inside the whorehouse that Emmett had experienced this time dilation. On his ride home, this strange, shifting perception continued. Rattlesnakes had issued slow-motion warnings to his horse, taking a full minute to swing their tails back and forth a single time. Maggots writhing within the carcass of some fallen rodent lived out their life cycle, transforming into flies and dying of old age within the blink an eye.
These insane sensations had lessened in severity the further on he rode. Only now, just outside of town, had things really begun to feel normal again. Emmett was unsure if this was the truth though. Had reality calmed itself and settled back into the shape he had known since birth, or had he simply grown accustomed to this new vision of the world, like a man wearing spectacles recovers from the initial dizziness they cause?
Emmett patted his horse on the side and tied him to the fence that bordered his home. Surely his mother would ask where the animal had come from, but Emmett didn't care at the moment. His body was tired and pained. His mind was reeling with what he'd experienced since meeting Fiona, and the possibilities of experiences yet to come. The least of his concerns was placing his mother's mind at ease about a new horse.
Emmett walked with extra care down the dirt path from t
he log post fence to his front door. He was afraid that time might go wild and he would lose his footing, or that he might fall from exhaustion. Neither happened. His hand touched the front door and he smiled, glad to be home.
He pushed the door open and took in the happy scent of fresh baked bread and vegetable soup. His mother stood at the stove with her back to him, stirring a pot.
"Hi, Ma," Emmett spoke the words nonchalantly.
She turned around and cast a glance that reflected neither expression that Emmett had expected. There was no joyous relief that he was home, nor anger that he had been missing for who knows how long. Her eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears, and a great sadness resonated throughout her entire face. Emmett had never seen such an expression on his mother, not when she was dying, nor when his father left for war. It broke his heart to look upon.
"Ma, what's wrong?"
Her lips trembled and tears broke forth from the dam of her will.
"You went and saw your grandfather, didn't you? You went and saw my bastard of a father!"
Emmett's mind reeled at the accusation. How could she have known? Had someone followed him? Had some Paiute son of a bitch come to town and run his mouth?
"Ma, I've been off picking up work. I ain't never met your pa. Never had the time nor the inclination to seek him out."
Now anger snuck its way into his mother's sorrowful expression. Her brown eyes lit up with fury behind the tears. Her trembling lips stiffened into a thin, straight line.
"No!” she yelled. “No, Emmett! You do not lie to your kin! Your pa and I taught you better than that."
"I'm not lying, Ma," Emmett lied, reaching out his hands in a gesture of faux sincerity.
His mother, anger still resonating through her body language but not overshadowing her sadness, reached into a small pocket of the apron she wore. A moment later she produced a silver coin. It was one of the Nibelung coins, covered with inscriptions of sharp, angular runes. The most prominent of them was the rune that he'd seen in the scrying vessel where his blood had danced with Fiona's ichor—that sharpened "p" shape that was too long at the top.
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