by Andy Monk
*
The old woman was wearing a floral dress and a wide-brimmed canvas hat that shaded her face, her spare frame carried a slight stoop and she was leaning upon a wooden walking stick. The passage of years had deeply lined her face and skin hung loosely around her throat. Her smile was broad and infectious, revealing teeth that were incongruously white against her dark brown skin, while her eyes sparkled in the shadow cast beneath her hat as he approached, John cutting through the grass at his shoulder.
“Look at you two!” she cried, her head bobbing up and down as she chuckled.
He exchanged a look with the gunsmith who shrugged. Cece turned around to face them. Beneath her own hat all the colour seemed to have bled from her face.
“Now, why don’t you find me somewhere to sit so we can have a little talk. Is there a blanket or something? I find all this grass terribly itchy… who are those folks over there?” She lifted her stick to point at Dorry, Sye and Laura.
“John…” Cece started to say, but the old woman grabbed hold of the startled gunsmith, sliding her arm through his.
“Now while this handsome young man kindly lets me lean on him, why don’t you go and lay out a blanket for me Cece dear. My legs aren’t good for anything these days.”
Cece looked between the two men, then bit her lip before hurrying off to find a blanket for the old woman.
“You know I don’t recall you being quite so handsome,” she was telling John.
“Erm… that’s kind of you to say so.”
“Just grumpy. That’s mainly what I recall…”
“Well-”
“Oh look!” The old woman declared, stopping to stare past Amos, her eyes widening in excitement.
He twisted around to find a horse walking towards them.
“Hey boy!” he called. Like the rest of their horses Silver had run when the shooting had started, but unlike the others he’d come back.
He took his bridle, patted his neck and kissed the horse’s forehead. When he turned back, the reins in his hand, the old woman’s eyes had a misty distant look.
“I hope you’ve been feeding him right,” she smiled, “Silver always was a very hungry horse, as I recall…”
*
They helped Amelia onto the blanket Cece had laid out for her, trampling down the grass to get it to lay flat. It was a slow business, given her joints were decades past the point where sitting on the ground was a good idea.
“There we are!” she declared, smiling up at them once she was finally sitting down with her thin legs stretched before her. Despite her smile it was clear she was in pain, but as there was no comfy rocking chair for her out here, it was the best they could do.
“Who is she?” Dorry whispered, leaning into him, “Where did she come from?”
He offered a smile and squatted down in front of the old woman. He didn’t even know where to begin with those questions. Instead, he crossed his legs and tried to reconcile the frail old lady trying hard not to look too uncomfortable in front of him, with the little girl who was unable to stay still for more than five seconds.
He kept telling himself it wasn’t the same person. It couldn’t be the same person. It was Amelia’s grandmother. The old woman Mr Wizzle had told him he’d spoken to when he’d been out looking for “angels.” She must have made it into town and found her granddaughter, who’d breathlessly recounted all her adventures in Hawker’s Drift, including the ones about Amos the gunslinger and his ever-hungry horse Silver.
That was the rational explanation.
The only problem was, he recognised her soul. Its colours and patterns, slower and more muted than his Amelia’s, fringed and marbled with unmistakable grey, but irrefutably the same. And she remembered him too. With a warmth and a love that thickened his throat.
It was madness, but, perhaps, no more so than seeing souls or a man who could squeeze a black liquid from his body that made people do and remember whatever he wanted them too.
“Now, I haven’t got long, so why don’t you two hunker down as well to save me craning my scrawny old neck to see you…” she said, indicating Cece and John, “…and you two young uns best keep an eye out for bad men. There’s a lot of them out and about right now, I hear.”
Dorry, as usual, looked like she was about to protest, but Sye, still clutching his bandaged arm, turned away without comment, his eyes blank and his features unmoving.
“No offence, hun,” Amelia said, sensing the young woman’s reluctance to follow Sye, “but these here folk are old friends o’mine and we got some catching up to do. Sure you won’t be much interested in an old bird’s reminiscing now, eh?”
Dorry looked more like she wanted to spit, but she gave a quick nod before walking back over to the sleeping Laura, cradling her rifle and head raised towards the east for signs of the Scourge.
“Lotta hurt in that pair,” Amelia said, her smile fading as he eyes lingered on Dorry and Sye.
“How do you know us?” Cece asked, sitting between Amos and John and hugging her knees, all three of them facing the old woman stretched out on a blanket in an amphitheatre of grass.
“Because we’ve all met her before, haven’t we?” his own gaze not wavering from Amelia’s.
“News to me,” John shuffled his butt to get comfortable.
“You both helped her when she was sick,” he explained, when they both continued to look blank, he added, “It’s Amelia.”
“Amelia?” John said.
“That’s not possible…” Cece added.
“You don’t mean the…” John muttered, ceasing his fidgeting to stare at the old woman.
“Oh, you and your science! You got no idea what’s possible and what ain’t.”
“But you can’t be here twice,” John insisted, “not at the same time!”
“What’s that phrase you like to use? Falling down the rabbit hole? Well, I fell down the rabbit hole a long time ago and I kept on falling back and forth throughout my days. Was easy as pie once I was shown how. Don’t need none of your big fancy machines to do it neither. Got harder as I got older and I kinda forgot for a long while. Getting married, having kids can make you forget just about anything, including your own name. Time’s not your own anymore and that’s the key. Time being yours…”
He glanced at John and Cece. He didn’t have any idea what Amelia was talking about, but from the way they were both sitting wide-eyed and rigid-backed, the old woman’s words certainly meant something to them.
“Anyone mind telling me…”
“You can get home? Whenever you want?” Cece demanded, sitting up even straighter. Clearly, nobody was in much of a mood to explain anything to him.
“Easy as pie, hun.”
“Show me!” Silver ripples of excitement shivered through Cece’s soul.
Amelia smiled, though her own soul was clouded with sadness, “And as hard as one of Molly’s pie crusts…”
“So…” John said carefully “…where did you come from?”
“Mississauga.”
“Huh?”
“It’s in Ontario. In my world anyway. Not sure about yours.”
“And you came here, to Hawker’s Drift when you were a little girl? The little girl who’s back in town…” John jerked his head to the west, “…with Molly?”
“That’s right.”
“And now you’ve come back… some time later?”
Amelia laughed, “Some time later… what a gentleman you are John Quayle! I’m eighty-one years old. You’re a clever man, I’m sure you can do the arithmetic.”
Cece and John exchanged another glance.
“Yes, I know your name. I know about your Facility. I know what you did. I know you’ve been in love with Cece for the fifty years you were apart and that you still are. I also know she’s angry as wasps about what you done and being trapped here,” Amelia looked at each of them in turn and beamed her smile that still held the shade of the little girl she’d once been, “As dear Molly would pr
obably say… I know a fuckin’ lot.”
She laughed then, rocking back a little as she slapped her bony thighs.
“What-”
“I know you got questions…” Amelia waved Cece down “…but I ain’t got a lot of time here, one way or another…” her eyes darted at him, by the greyness creeping through her soul he could see she didn’t have much time in at least one respect “…so it’s best you just does some listening and get on with what you’re gonna need to get done.”
Cece again made to speak, but John reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. She yanked her hand away and black anger forked momentarily through her excitement and curiosity.
“What do we need to get done?” he asked, before Cece could either snarl at John or distract Amelia.
“You all gotta go to the Mayor’s ranch…” she said, her eyes narrowing and her voice dropping to a whisper all but lost amongst the rustling of the grass as the wind picked up “…because God wants you to blow it to kingdom come…”
The Widow
For all his faults – murder, manipulation, not being entirely human and other general creepy fuckery to name but a few - she had to concede the Mayor knew how to deliver a speech.
He stood on the gallows. It seemed an appropriate pulpit for the fucker, backed up by what constituted the great and good of Hawker’s Drift. Sam Shenan, Doctor Rudi, a gaunt and listless Guy Furnedge, Deputy Nordvelt, Harry Calhoun who run the town militia when he wasn’t baking bread and the sundry whiskery men who made up the town council. Plus, for no obvious reason, Giselle the Fortune-Teller.
Perhaps her ability to see the past and the future would come in handy.
Virtually the whole town was gathered in a semi-circle around the Mayor, silent and respectful as he talked. And scared too. She could feel it from where she stood on the steps of the Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Royce at her shoulder. They hadn’t found Blane yet and until they did Sam Shenan had given her a new shadow in the form of Hawker’s Drift’s least intimidating lawman.
More survivors had trickled in through the afternoon and now, in the early evening light there was no escaping the fact the town was facing a real danger. Renegades and desperados were hardly uncommon. Whole swathes of the Broken Union were effectively lawless, following decades of war, strife, in-fighting, coups, famines and all the other ways men found to fuck the world up. But the Scourge was something else, different in terms of scale, organisation, purpose and sheer barbarity.
And for whatever reason they were heading for Hawker’s Drift, dozens of groups of riders killing, burning, raping and looting their way across the land.
Maybe they’d skirt around the town and move on. That was what everybody hoped. Hawker’s Drift would be too big a target. No one knew how many men made up the Scourge, but from the survivors’ tales there had to be a hundred or more.
Sam Shenan was trying to look calm and confident, his thumbs in his gun belt and his belly hanging over it, but she wasn’t buying it. The men he’d sent out to scout the threat and show the raiders that this wasn’t one of the lawless backwaters the Scourge were probably used to hadn’t yet returned.
In addition to raising the part-time militia (which consisted of pretty much every man in town who owned a gun), fifty more men had been deputised and some of them were spread around the crowd, the others were on lookout around the edges of town for signs of the Scourge. Unlike the regular deputies, who had never seemed any more trustworthy than your average cutthroat, these were just regular townsfolk; shopkeepers, clerks, labourers, farmers and their sons. Sniffy Smelts stood at the foot of the gallows cradling a rifle while trying to pick his nose. He was about as fearsome as the amateur deputies got.
Her attention snapped back as the crowd broke into applause at something the Mayor had said. She asked Royce what it was, but he was so engrossed he didn’t hear her.
“We will not stand idly by while our way of life is threatened, we will not allow our children and woman folk to be terrorised, our livelihoods to be destroyed and all we have worked so hard for to be trampled underfoot by men of violence and ignorance. Men who do not know how to grow or create or love…”
It all sounded very noble, but as she looked over the heads of the crowd she couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were in the thrall of the Mayor’s black candy.
She also wondered whether the erstwhile Deputy Blane was out there somewhere watching all this and waiting for an opportunity to finish his business with her. Royce and Crackers Norveldt had returned from the lodging house where Blane had been staying to report there was no sign of the man there. Though they had found the corpses of his landlady and her husband. Blane’s gear was gone from his room and two of Hawker’s Drift’s finest minds thought there was probably a connection between the two...
She turned back to look at the Sheriff’s Office. Amelia and Ruthie were inside and Sam had assured her the only way in was through the front door, outside which she was standing with the redoubtable Deputy Royce. And his paunch.
She’d wanted to ask him how he’d ended up amongst the deranged and violent hardcases that made up most of Hawker’s Drift’s Sheriff’s Office, but decided against it, partly because he was busy hanging on to the Mayor’s every word, but mainly because she’d rather not find out that underneath his clerk’s spectacles and scribbler’s demeanour he actually fitted in just fine.
“We knew a day like this might come, though we prayed hard that it would not, and we have made preparations. We have barricades and defences prepared and in storage that will be put in place overnight. If this Scourge makes the mistake of bringing their misbegotten ways to our town, ladies and gentlemen, they are going to get their butts kicked so hard they’ll never forget the town of Hawker’s Drift. Those of them we don’t put under the grass anyway!!”
More applause and hoots of approval.
Monty and Sonny were moving through the crowd handing out free beer, which was helping to stiffen the townsfolks’ resolve. No doubt the Mayor had paid for it. She couldn’t see Monty’s sense of civic duty stretching that far.
“Mrs McCrea?”
A bedraggled young woman emerged from the crowd to climb the steps up to the Sheriff’s Office. She looked impossibly tired, as if every step was taking so much effort it might very well be her last.
Her long blonde hair was tied back into a rough and tangled ponytail, her dress was ripped, soiled and splashed with what appeared to be blood. She was pretty beneath the grime, fatigue and bruises, but she clearly hadn’t been having the best of days. She hadn’t washed much either.
“Yes?” Next to her Royce quickly run a professional eye over the newcomer and, concluding she wasn’t a homicidal ex-colleague, immediately went back to drooling over the Mayor’s speech.
“I’m Sally… Sally Lumiere. I was asked to give you a message when I got back to town.”
The girl rested her hand on the railings and looked like she wanted to curl up and sleep right there.
“Who by?”
“Amos.”
“You’d better come in…”
She decided she didn’t need to hear the end of the Mayor’s speech.
*
The poor girl could barely keep her eyes open.
When she’d ushered her inside, Royce had forlornly turned to follow them, but she’d waved him away. He could guard the door just as well from the outside and Blane wasn’t going to waltz across Pioneer Square and get past him with the whole town gathered there.
“Coffee or whiskey?” she offered once Sally had slumped behind one of the deputies’ desks.
“Both…”
She liked her immediately.
The girls were asleep in Sam’s office. He’d wanted to put them in the cells, but she remembered how uncomfortable her night had been down there, besides both girls had been traumatised enough today without spending a night behind bars, even though Amelia was doing a remarkable job of not looking traumatised and had appeared quite ex
cited at the prospect.
She checked on them, but both were curled up asleep on the floor. She’d sniffed out the fact Sam kept a bottle of whiskey in his desk and she quietly redistributed it without waking either Amelia or Ruthie who were curled up together on a pile of blankets and pillows.
There was a small galley kitchen at the back and she made two coffees as slowly as she could. Part of her wanted to know what Amos’ message was, but a lot of her didn’t. A blood splattered young woman in a dirty dress was never going to be the bearer of good news.
By the time she got back to the front office, Sally had her head in her arms and was snoring faintly.
She put the coffee in front of her and tipped in a generous shot of whiskey. She did the same with hers and thought about leaving her to sleep. The message could probably keep to the morning, but Sally also deserved a proper bed for the night and waking up without a sore neck.
When she laid a hand on Sally’s shoulder, the girl sat up immediately with a start and a strangled sob. She blinked a couple of times before the wheels caught the gears and things fell back into place.
“Sorry...”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” she pushed the coffee mug across the desk.
Sally conjured a smile though, like everything else she did, it seemed to cause her pain. In the lamplight the scratches and bruises on her face and arms were clearly visible.
“The Scourge?”
Sally nodded and cradled her coffee in her hands, not raising her eyes.
She pulled over a chair and sat down opposite.
She thought she should ask what had happened to her. She wanted to ask about Amos. Far more than she cared to admit. Instead, she reached over and took Sally’s hand. There was what looked like dried blood in the creases of her finger joints.
“They killed my parents and David, my fiancé. Burned our home down. And raped me. Now they’re coming here…” Sally’s voice was hollow, her eyes didn’t leave the steam rising from the mug she held in her other hand, but they looked far away, still seeing other, terrible, things.
“Have you told the Sheriff?”