by Ben Reeder
“That don’t mean they just wandered in on their own. You need a conductor to even get the train into the Verge. If a man falls off along the way, well, that’s plain bad luck, but he was already there.”
“Are there also not stories of trains arriving with more Riggers than they left with?”
Caleb’s brow furrowed, and all humor left his eyes. “There are stories, yes.”
“If you will not believe me, then humor an old man and stay on the road where you know it’s safe.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll change the dressings on your wounds before you go.” Toh Yah turned away from the warmth of Father Sun and directed his charge to lay back. The four long furrows across his chest were still red and angry, but they had begun to heal, and only seeped a little blood. He laid the fresh bandages and poultices against them, then wrapped it around his chest.
“How far is it to town from here. And just where on Earth is here anyway?” Caleb asked.
“Follow the road south and east, and you’ll be in Mendoza Springs by nightfall. Your things are over there.” He pointed to a bundle by the door.
“Much obliged, sir.”
“If that were so, you would be staying,” Toh Yah said as Caleb put his gun belt around his hips.
“I reckon you’re right, sir. But there are other reasons I can’t stay. And as bad as this...skinwalker sounds, it seems like he has no quarrel with the Dine’.”
“Today, no, he doesn’t. But let the sun rise and set, and on a different day, he might find one.”
“Here’s hoping that day never comes.” Putting his hat on, Caleb pushed the blanket aside and walked out of the hogan.
Toh Yah followed and watched him set out along the trail to the road. “Hope,” he whispered, “is a poor shield.”
The day grew hot before the sun made it a quarter of the way to its zenith. The Riggers coat, so useful in the chilling void of the Verge, became a leaden weight on his shoulders. His long bandana hung down over his chest, and only drew more heat to itself. Even his hat became burdensome, too hot to wear comfortably but the brim vital to keeping what little sun off his body as it was able to.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, his bandages were beginning to sting and itch, and the heat shimmers made the road hard to see more than a few yards away. He stumbled and came to a halt, his eyes blurry, and pulled the thin waterskin from his belt. The few lukewarm swallows did only a little to slake his thirst or ease the dryness in his mouth. The world tilted to one side, and he stumbled toward the edge of the road, catching himself before he left it entirely. When he righted himself, the world seemed cooler, and too bright. In spite of the drop in temperature, though, the ground still shimmered.
“Isn’t that better?” someone asked. Caleb spun and drew his pistol. The road was supposed to be safe, he remembered, but his thoughts were sluggish as he tried to recall why that was important. At first, he couldn’t find who had spoken, until he looked to the middle of the road. A familiar canine figure sat in the middle of the road, its tongue hanging out as it panted.
“Coyotes can’t talk,” Caleb reminded himself.
“I’m not a c C oyote.”
“What are you doing on the road?”
“It’s safe here,” the not C c oyote said.
“But,” Caleb squeezed his eyes shut, “you’re not supposed to be on the road.”
“You’re right,” Not Coyote said. It trotted to the side of the road. “The only thing you’re going to find on the road is what you already know. Familiar things. Old things. Old problems, old pains. Old enemies. All the things you know how to run away from.” Caleb opened his eyes as he saw the face of a dead man before him. He fumbled with the pistol, but it fell from limp fingers as the round, damp face of Bishop Paul loomed over him.
“What is the suffering of one worthless soul compared to all the good I’ve done?” Paul demanded. “I saved thousands of souls. And you...you chose the life of one urchin over all of that!”
Caleb swung, but didn’t connect as Paul leaned back out of range. His greased back hair didn’t move even when he exerted himself. He swung again, and Paul disappeared.
“The road is safe,” he snarled as he picked up his pistol. “It’s supposed to be safe!”
“Did you think that meant it was supposed to be easy?” Not Coyote taunted from the side of the road. “Without sacrifice? Without pain? Did you think that safe meant it was supposed to make sense?” Not Coyote’s voice started to sound tinny and distant. “Even safety has its own perils. But they’re perils you know how to run away from.”
“You’re trying to get me to leave the road,” Caleb said, stumbling forward.
“Oh, no, stay on the road. There is nothing new here. You can stay the same, carry the same burdens, cry the same tears, and arrive still the same man as when you left. Broken. Useless. Human. So keep running. There is nothing you want out here. Well, nothing you want bad enough to take a chance on, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Caleb said, turning to face not C c oyote.
“Nothing. Stay safe. Stay on the road,” Not Coyote said, then stood and transformed into the form of Anne Miller.
“It’s too dangerous out here,” not Mrs. Miller said. “Go back to safety.”
“I’m...must be seeing things,” Caleb muttered. He put his hand to his chest; the bandages felt hot, but the sun was high in the sky.
“Stay on the road,” not C c oyote said. “It’s safe. It’s easy.”
“To Hell with you,” Caleb said. He put one foot off the road, then the other. The heat of the midday sun receded, and he stumbled forward, more and more certain with every step that he’d made the right choice.
“The old man meant well,” not coyote chuckled.
Anne Miller had never been one to ignore her instincts. Unlike many women around her, she was more than ready to listen to her intuition than dismiss it as simple female hysteria. So when the short hairs on the back of her neck stood up, she wasted no time in laying hand on her Colt Model 1849 Pocket Pistol and set a pot of water on the stove. But when white light flashed outside her window, she knew that the pistol’s use would be limited. The tingling along her arms and up her back were a sure sign that something had come out of the Verge nearby. The same sensation made travel by the aether train problematic for her, just as it had made her choose this spot for their homestead. She tucked the compact pistol into the pocket of her apron and opened the front door. The sun had fallen down behind the ridgeline, leaving the valley that sheltered her baille in half-light.
“Halloo?” she called out. “I know you’re out there. I’ve a gun, so if you’ve trouble in mind, you’ll find more here than you’ve accounted for.” Near the corral, a lone figure stumbled into sight. A long coat draped from his shoulders, and his hat sat askew on his head. He took a few steps, then sagged against the fence.
“Stay on the road,” the man called out. “Sumbitch lied. Only thing on the road are demons and ghosts.”
“Mr. Archer?” Anne said. She dashed forward, suddenly heedless of any danger.
“Oh, Lord, I’ve conjured up the Widow Miller again,” Caleb said when she reached him. “Father God, forgive me if in my fevered dreams I imagine her doing that which is unseemly, for I am a wicked man, and she, a goodly woman.” He smiled and slid down the fence.
“Oh, you foolish man,” Anne muttered as she tried to stop his descent. “There must be lead in that arse of yours.” Even with all her strength, she could not get him to move more than a couple of feet at a time. Short of getting her donkey to drag him the hundred feet to the front door, she was going to have to make him lighter somehow.
She eyed the coat, and resolved it had to come off. Riggers’ coats were rumored to be lined with metal, and very heavy. “Diana, give me strength and cunning enough to get this poor sod into the house ere midnight.”
Caleb returned to the world of the living a little after dawn. Light strea
med through the windows, yellow and fresh. Above him, wooden beams ran straight and true, with packets of herbs dangling from them. He tried to lift his arm, and was barely able to touch his face. The limb felt like a full grown bull perched on it.
“You’ve returned to us,” a soft, familiar voice said.
“Mrs. Miller?” Surprise lent fleeting strength to his body, and he sat up. “How did I get here?” He was in the middle of the main room of the house, on a soft down mattress that had been set on the floor.
“A good question that, since last I heard of ye, you were over the river hunting the thing that you claimed killed those horses. But that was a week agone before you showed up at my door, burning up with a fever.”
“Why am I on the floor?”
“Because you’re a great lump of a man, and I could barely get you up to the house, much less lift you onto a bed. So I brought the bed to you instead.”
“I didn’t do anything...untoward, did I?” he asked as he sank back down onto the mattress.
“No, sir,” Anne laughed. “You did quite the opposite. You laid there and suffered with all the dignity of a woman.”
“I don’t remember crossing the river, and, weak as I was, I would surely have been swept away.”
“Your clothes were dry as a bone,” Anne said. “I don’t rightly know how you got here. There was a bright flash of light before you got here, and...well, let me show you.” She set the knitting she had been working on aside and walked over to his side, then crouched down and extended her hand toward him. When her fingertips were a few inches from his shoulder, a long tendril of energy arced from her hand to his shoulder.
“Well, that’s pretty darn disconertin.’” Caleb said.
“To say the least. But I’m still glad you’re awake. I have something to do tonight. As it is, I’m behind on the chores here. So, you rest today, and I’ll see to things around here.”
“Do you want your bed back?” Caleb asked.
“When you can put that mattress back on your own, I’m happy to let you do it. But you’ve been two days there, and my guest bed is more than comfortable enough. Now, let’s get some breakfast in you. Bacon, eggs and porridge should be a good start for getting your strength back.” She helped him to his feet and across the few steps to the table. H e E sat down hard in the chair and blew out his breath.
“I’ve never felt this weak before,” he said between breaths.
“I imagine not,” Anne said over her shoulder. She busied herself with the food, and in less time than Caleb expected, had plates of bacon and eggs ready and on the table, with a bowl of oatmeal coming only a moment later. Catching his look at the heap of yellow eggs, she pointed a finger at him and matched his look with a stern glance of her own.
“I’ll not be hearing anything out of you about fried eggs, mister” she said. “Scrambled eggs are easier on the stomach. You’re lucky I’m letting you have bacon, weak as you are. Now, eat up.” She heaped his plate full and doled out a bowl of porridge as well.
Caleb closed his eyes when the eggs hit his tongue. Soft, smooth and flavored with some spice he couldn’t name and cheese, the simple egg became a feast to his tastebuds. He almost forgot about the rest of his food until a few bites later. The bacon was thick and savory, and, as always seemed to be the case with bacon, gone too quickly. The porridge hit his tongue with a subtle taste of maple, which, after the bacon, balanced out the flavors.
“I see your appetite wasn’t harmed,” Anne said with a smile. Caleb lost himself for a moment in her expression and tried to get to his feet when she took the plate he had just finished. The effort was taxing, and he sank back down, his head bowed.
“No, ma’am, seems to be the only part of me that’s working proper about now.” He reached for his coffee to cover his expression.
“Oh,” Anne said, “if that face were any longer, I’d worry that you’d trip on your own chin.”
“I’m not accustomed to having someone do for me,” he said.
“Don’t get too used to it,” she laughed. “In a couple of days, I’ll be putting you to work, once you’ve recovered your strength. By the way you ate, I may have you at it tomorrow. Now, back to the bed with you.”
He found himself leaning less on Anne on the way back, though his breath came no less readily at the end. His arms barely had the strength to pull the blanket back over himself, and he belatedly wondered whose pajamas he was wearing, and how he’d ended up in them.
Her voice awakened him from a light doze some time later, and he blinked quickly, then shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry, what?” he murmured.
“Ha! Good, you need the rest. But if you wake later and you’re hungry, I’ve made up some pocket pasties here,” she pointed to a small, covered tin pot by the mattress. A clay pitcher and a cup sat next to that. “I’ve some things to see to, but I’ll be back well before sunset. There’s a chamber pot by the bedframe if you find yourself needing it.” With that, she was moving, out the door in a moment. Sleep stole up on him with cat feet.
Wakefulness arrived in the same way, a paw tapping at his face. He opened one eye to see a feline face peering down at him, somehow conveying a sense of impatience.
“What do you want?” he asked it. It answered with a meow, and he chuckled at realizing he’d expected it to speak to him. His arm responded with greater strength when he reached out to pet the creature, though it still felt reluctant to move. The little tabby leaned into his touch, then stood and pranced around in a circle before rubbing its face against his. A slight popping sound came when his hand parted from its fur, but otherwise, there was none of the odd energy about him. The cat meowed again, then went to the tin pot beside the mattress, turned about and looked at him expectantly.
“Oh, I see,” Caleb chuckled and reached for the lid. The smell of cooked meats and spices hit his nose. He retrieved one of the small round pasties from inside it and broke it open. The urge to stuff it in his mouth struck as the aroma of it got stronger. He fought it down and plucked a bit of meat from one side and offered it to the cat, who casually sniffed at the offered meat, licked it, then turned its nose away. With a quick movement, he tossed the meat to the floor, then took a bite of the pasty. Immediately, he questioned the cat’s taste in food and proceeded to devour the rest of the pasty. As if waiting to see if it was good enough for human consumption, the cat went and gobbled up the discarded bit of food, then returned and meowed at him again. Three pasties and half the pitcher of water later, he found that his strength was returning along with his appetite, and made use of the chamber pot before returning to the mattress to sleep once more. The tabby, having shared the pasties with him, curled up beside him and stuck her nose under his arm. Her contented purr was the last thing he remembered before he dozed off again.
When Anne returned, she found both cat and man asleep. “Welcome back, Persephone,” she said on her way to set her baskets down. “I see you’ve found another human to charm.” She busied herself with cooking, recalling older habits to make enough for two, and soon had a thick pot of stew bubbling on the black iron stove.
“How is it,” she heard from behind her, “that there is no line of suitors at your door?”
“Most likely because I’d make a poor wife to the men of Mendoza Springs,” she answered. Turning in place, she found Caleb sitting at the table, his face flushed a bit but otherwise looking hale enough. “I am of that breed of woman who thinks for herself and believes in such heresies as women’s suffrage and independence of men.”
“And there are no men in this territory who want such a woman in their lives?” Caleb asked, reasonably sure he already knew the answer to that.
“So far, every potential suitor has tried to impress me with how much better he will run my homestead once it’s his. I don’t care much for that, and I’ve developed a bad habit of saying so. Now, if you don’t mind, we should eat. I’ve someplace I want to be before the sun sets.”
“No objection fro
m me,” Caleb said. She brought bowls to the table, and a loaf of bread with thick butter. For the first time in days, Caleb said Grace over his meal, though the words came out more by rote and tasted flat on his tongue. Still, his soul found some peace in the ritual, and his belly found greater satisfaction in the food.
With supper done, Anne set the bowls aside and gathered another bag from her wardrobe, along with a long coat of some sort, then came and put a hand to Caleb’s forehead.
“Your fever seems to be done with. I’ve some few books, if you’ve a taste for mythology, gardening and some light reading. Or, you’re welcome to peruse my late Jonathan’s books. He was fond of Dickens and Dostoyevsky. Hardly light reading. Otherwise, there is engineering, maths and science.” She pointed to an area set aside for a tidy desk and a bookshelf which held more than a score of books.
“He sounds like quite the scholar,” Caleb said.
“He was. Once upon a time, he was a Rigger, but he dreamed of becoming an engineer. The Verge and the Aether, they were his passions. Now, I must be gone. Your things are by the door, except your gun belt and coat. I put it there, in that trunk near your mattress. My Jonathan was in the same profession. I know how much that coat is worth.”
“Thank you for seeing to it, Mrs. Miller.”
“Oh, I think you can call me Anne, by now Mr. Archer.”
“Then please, call me Caleb.”
“Very well. I’ll be out long after dark. You don’t have to wait up for me.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to, but you’re an independent woman,” he said, smiling. “You’ve no need of a chaperone.”
Anne laughed as she went out the door. Left to his own devices, Caleb sought the bookshelves, and found a wider variety than he’d hoped in a stack of Beadle’s Dime Novels and a handful of old story papers. Now that he could focus on more than food and sleep, Caleb took a good look around the cabin he’d been in. Like most he’d seen out west, it was but a single room, spacious though that room was. A fireplace occu - pied the center of the wall on t he lef , t with the wood stove and kitchen area to the rear of the room. The table was close to the kitchen, and an iron bedframe occupied the corner of the opposite wall. A spinning wheel and loom were near the front of the room, set to take advantage of the window on the right side of the front wall, where the desk took advantage of the window on the other side of the door. And, of course, the mattress he’d been sleeping on was in the front and middle of the cabin, with a heavy chest at the foot of it, just under the edge of the table.