“I don't think this was my choice,” Galen responded.
“Understand that everything that follows is your destiny at work, and any attempt to fight it will only result in grave consequences.”
“Please,” Galen pleaded, but the crone only stood and stared. Finally, she spoke.
“Come in and warm your bones by the fire. I think I know why you’re here.”
He had been sitting by a small cast iron stove for nearly a half-hour when the Gypsy brought him a steaming mug to drink. “This will warm your bones for sure.”
Galen drank from the hot cup. What was inside was bitter, but he kept drinking because the warmth. Also, something in his mind told him he could not put the mug down even if he had wanted to.
“What do you know about your past?” asked the crone. The question alarmed Galen, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
When he didn't answer she pressed him. “Where were you born?”
“I don't know,” came the response.
“Who were your parents?”
“I don't know.”
“What is the date of your birth?”
“I don’t know!” bellowed Galen.
“There is a curse over you,” she mewed, nodding her head. “One that is ancient. One that is unforgiving.” The Gypsy spat onto the floor. “You are an abomination!”
To Galen, all this crazy talk coming from the crone buzzed about his head like flies. “I'm a man,” he blurted out. “Not whatever you're trying to make me out to be.”
The crone's sickly laughter filled the air between them, which is when Galen smelled her breath’s rank disease. She now reminded him of a corpse, with her sallow skin wrapped loosely around her skull. It came as a sudden flash, but there he stood—in his mind's eye—over her dead body.
He blinked and his eyelids suddenly felt weighed down. With effort he opened them, but the drowsiness was overwhelming. He could feel his shoulders go slack as the energy drained from his body.
“Very good,” said the crone, grinning. She ran a bony finger down his cheek. “Very good.”
***
Galen’s eyes opened to the sight of a small white mouse crawling out of a hole gnawed in the baseboard. Its nose wrinkled and its tiny red eyes stared back at him, as if examining him as much as he was examining it.
“Hi,” Galen began to whisper before cutting himself off, startled when a shoe heel came down upon the white mouse, smashing it into the floor.
Daisy stood there nude, shoe in her hand. “Duh— duh— dirty cuh— cuh— critter,” Daisy muttered, she looked at the bottom of the shoe, now splattered with blood and bits of fur before tossing it aside.
She crawled back into the bed, pulling the covers over her back before straddling Galen’s naked frame.
“Let’s guh— guh— go again?” she whispered into his ear. Any thoughts Galen had about how he had gotten here were pushed away by her misshapen breasts brushing playfully against his chest. She began to grind her hips into his and Galen could feel his natural response come to life. But as he entered he looked up into the ugly visage of the old Gypsy crone, her skin wrapped loosely around her skull, baring her stained and crooked teeth at him.
“No!” he screamed.
His heart pulsing with fright, he roughly shoved her off and leapt from the bed. But when he looked back he only saw Daisy lying there, in her natural form, staring back at him curiously.
“I have to leave,” Galen told her, nervously gathering his pants from the floor.
“If yuh— you’re worried about m-m-money, yuh— you p— p— p— paid for all nuh— nuh— night,” she said.
Galen ignored her. He slid into his pants and shirt and sat on the bed with his back to her, putting his boots on. With her duties obviously over, Daisy got up and put on a dirty and tattered silk robe.
He pulled his foot out of his second boot after feeling something hard inside. He upturned the boot, causing a small, nickel-plated, two-shot Derringer to fall to the floor. Daisy paid no mind, as she was too busy washing herself from a small bowl of water. Galen picked up the gun, securing the rosewood grip in his hand.
Another flash overtook him. Instantly, he was back to the previous night in the lair of the Gypsy crone. In the lamplight, her bony hand slid the very same Derringer to him across the table.
“Bring me that ebony box,” her voice intoned, her gaze piercing deep into his soul.
He was back in Daisy’s shabby room, holding the Derringer in his shaking hand.
It had been just before daybreak when he left, stepping out into the cold winter air. The streets were already busy and he dodged carts and horses to make his way from the bar as fast as he could. At first he was disoriented, unsure of which direction to turn. He stumbled across a curb into the arms of a fine-suited gentleman going the other way.
“Watch where you’re headed, fool,” said the gentleman brusquely as he passed.
Galen turned, trying to spot any familiar landmarks. The first time he had visited the bar he had been mere blocks from his boardinghouse; now he was completely lost. He crossed one street, then another. Finally he spotted a man loading dry goods into the back of a buckboard.
“Can you tell me the way to Washington Street?” asked Galen.
“Standing on it,” came the answer.
“Which direction is the Gypsy fortune teller?”
Looking at him like he was crazy, the man guffawed before returning into the store.
Galen looked around. He walked up one side of the street, then down the other.
The storefront with the window marked “Fortune” was nowhere to be found. He had only seen it at night—and while drunk at that—so his only landmark was that window with the wide and crooked letters.
Again he tramped up the street, looking carefully at every building he passed.
Perhaps the window was replaced, he reckoned to himself. As the snow began to lightly fall, he trudged up the length of Washington Street and back down to the waterfront with no luck.
It’s only there at night, he thought. And as unlikely as he realized this was, he was now certain it was the case.
Galen drifted down to the edge of the water and plopped himself onto a rock by the shoreline. He put his hands in the pockets of his duster and felt the Derringer. Pulling it out, he drew a long look at the small gun. Hefting it in his right hand, he arched back, ready to throw the Derringer into the river, but had to stop himself.
The inside of his head hurt—as if someone had torn a great rift in his mind. Galen violently rubbed his temples. Before him the river seemed to fade away; again he was back in the Gypsy’s parlor, repeating a scene buried in his memory.
“Where were you born?”
“I don't know.”
“Who were your parents?”
“I don't know.”
“What is the date of your birth?”
He rubbed his eyes, watching the candle-lit room disappeared as the river faded back into view. Finally, Galen stood from the rock. He faced the great roaring river, then tilted his head to the sky and bellowed, “Why do I not know?”
The world, it seemed, was spinning around him. He could see what felt like the passage of time whizzing past as he propelled forward through it. Inside his head, synapses fired a hundred times their normal rate and load, causing his conscious mind to buckle under an overwhelming flood of forgottens he was helpless to hold back.
And, as if landing with a thud, he was there—a dark place his mind hadn’t gone to in over a hundred years. His hand ran along the side of a tree. He could feel the rough surface of its bark against his touch though he dared not look beyond it.
“No,” he gasped. In one big whirl it all vanished—the darkness around him; the tree; the woods—and immediately he was back at the waterfront, freezing in the cold morning air.
You are an abomination. He heard the crone’s voice in his head.
When he sat back on the rock, Galen let his face fall into
his hands as he wept.
He stood in the cold, watching the front of the bank for hours, waiting. In his pocket, he gripped the Derringer. He made up his mind.
At half past five, darkness began to fall as the sun set into the winter night. From this spot on the street, Galen watched the fiery ball descend below the horizon. Shortly thereafter, Dunburton locked up the bank for the evening and wobbled home, fully unaware of the man shadowing him.
As Dunburton turned toward the waterfront, Galen saw his chance. Picking up his pace, he pushed close to the old man.
“Do as I say and you’ll live,” Galen told him, jamming the Derringer’s barrel into Dunburton’s ribs.
“Sir, what is the meaning of this?”
Galen thumbed back the hammer. It was the only answer he needed to give.
At his house, Dunburton’s hand shook as it reached for the front door.
“Be very careful,” Galen said in a low voice. “Because I will kill you if I have to.”
They entered the foyer and Galen put a finger to his lips. Matty was rattling around the kitchen loud enough for both of them to hear.
“Anyone else in the house?” Galen asked.
Dunburton shook his head. His pallor seemed apparent. Galen motioned for them to go directly to the study.
Inside, Galen closed the door behind them.
“Please, I beg of you,” Dunburton said in a shaky voice, “don’t do this.”
“Give me the key,” he told the banker, motioning to the banker’s pocket.
Dunburton’s fingers trembled as he fished it out and handed it over. Galen went directly to the side table and unlocked the drawer.
Inside was the box. Galen picked it up, mesmerized. Finally, he made out the design. The box’s black exterior was inlaid with intricately carved snakes.
Dunburton broke his silence. “Why did you bother giving me the box if you were planning on stealing it?”
Galen snapped out of his trance-like state, whipping the gun around and pointing it right at the banker’s stunned face.
“Be quiet or be dead,” Galen hissed.
Dunburton ignored him, staring past the barrel of the Derringer and into Galen’s eyes. “Sir, I knew I had seen you before—and how you managed to escape death that first time is beyond me. But trust me when I say that it will certainly come looking for you again.”
With the back of his hand, Galen smashed the banker in the face, sending the old man to the floor. Galen slipped the box into his pocket.
“You come after me or yell for help, and I will kill you. That, I promise you, is not a lie,” Galen said.
Before Galen could exit, Dunburton spoke.
“You didn’t plan on stealing that box until you saw it,” he said. “You didn’t even know what it was until yesterday. Perhaps you still don’t even know.”
Galen paused and looked back at the banker, momentarily making Dunburton think he was to be on the receiving end of a Derringer bullet.
And without a sound, Galen left the study and slipped quietly from the house.
“You have done well,” the crone told him as she let him into her parlor. Galen brushed past her and shook off the winter chill.
“You have it, no?”
Galen reached into his duster and withdrew the carved ebony box, placing it on her table. In the flickering lamplight of the parlor, the engraved snakes seemed to dance and slither in their own shadows. The Gypsy’s stare was transfixed on the fabulous object; her mouth pulled taut with delight under her wide eyes.
“I have waited for you for so long,” she said, opening the box.
Suddenly her expression changed. Her jaw was slack, her face crestfallen.
“What did you do with it?” she screeched, dropping the empty box to the floor. “Tell me!”
Galen stood stone-faced, unmoved by her threatening pleas.
“You don’t understand. You don’t understand its power!” she cried.
“I think I’ll manage,” Galen told her. “You used me. You played me like a fiddle.”
“It is your destiny to be used. Why do you think you were delivered to my door?”
Galen stepped back as if slapped.
“You are not from this world, Galen Altos. You do not belong here.”
Galen grabbed the crone by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “How do you know my name?” he bellowed.
“I can see your past as clear as I see your true face,” the Gypsy said. “I even know that Galen Altos isn’t your true name.”
He shoved her backwards against the wall and turned toward the door, but as he took his first step to leave, the crone snatched a heavy pewter candlestick from the table, raising it high above her head with both hands. As she labored to stop the metal at the top of its arc and bring it down on the back of Galen’s head, he spun, Derringer in hand, and fired a single shot; the bullet shattered her teeth before, went into her open mouth, and exited though the carotid artery in her neck.
She fell to the floor, convulsing, her hands clutching at the wound pumping away her life’s blood.
“You search for that which you will never receive,” she hissed before dying.
*****
CHAPTER 7
Galen peeked down at the smoking Derringer. As the Gypsy had fallen, her blood sprayed onto his hands and coat. He tossed the gun aside and took one last look into the open eyes of the dead crone. Galen stepped over to the ebony box, upside down and open upon the wooden floor of the parlor. He picked it up, reached into his pocket, and replaced the box’s original contents before closing the carved lid and dropping it into his coat.
Hastily, he made his way down the street, picking up pace with each step until he was at a full run, the vapor of his breath trailing in the frigid air. Halfway to the waterfront, Galen came across a steed tied to a hitch. Checking up and down the street for its owner, Galen freed the horse and rode away into the night.
For nearly two hours he could feel the box inside his pocket alive and slithering, pushing him to a limit of sanity. Finally, he came across an abandoned house that, by the looks of it, had recently been vandalized. Galen tied the stolen horse to a tree out of sight and carefully entered.
The place had been thoroughly picked through. Only evidence of recent squatters remained, but he didn’t find anyone still there. He used a broken chair to start a small fire in the hearth. The box wouldn’t allow anything else to occupy his mind, dispersing even his need for food. He sat on the floor by the fire and, with a trembling hand, reached into his pocket to take it out. The carvings—snakes of a talented, albeit unknown hand, seemed to move under his fingers, forcing Galen fight surging the fear inside of him. With a soft click, he threw the latch and opened the box.
Inside was an eye.
This eye had once belonged to some kind of living creature, but was now in a petrified state. But he quickly came to understand why the Gypsy and the banker had both coveted it, for it had certain palpable cognizant powers.
He picked up the eye and cupped it in the palm of his hand. The outside felt smooth and uneven, save for the slightly rough area in the back where the nerve stalks had long been severed away.
As he had done before returning to the Gypsy’s parlor, he stared into the eye’s black iris and felt himself instantly drawn into it—falling, like tumbling down into a darkened well.
The first time he gazed into the milky cornea, he’d seen how the crone had drugged him and used him to gain that which he had brought to the banker. But that scene was now replaced by a new, much more terrifying one. Again, a headache struck—an intense pressure building up between his temples; a pounding ache, as if something inside his skull were to break through like a hatchling from its shell.
Galen screamed as the pain grew and, without warning, his body felt limp, as if his brain had lost the ability to control its, to command its verticality. The pain welled, his brain felt full of fire. He thought he screamed again, but this time no sound came forth—
only the hiss of air escaping his throat.
The mounting pressure inside his head built to the point when every aspect comprising his body began shaking violently, as if trying to escape their bonds. Then suddenly, as quickly as it started, it stopped, leaving Galen with an overwhelming sense of silent levity, an acute sense of the soft whoosh of air gently passing him.
Here, there was no pain, no suffering—only an inescapable brightness. Galen looked around before finally gazing down. Below his feet—several hundred yards down—he could see the ground. He was above a dense forest—serene and silent, stretching infinitely into the blue sky. Galen cocked his head. He could hear birds singing in the trees. But suddenly, their music stopped, and from the woods below thousands of birds took wing, scattering every which way—as if escaping.
Smoke was rising in black wisps, funneling into the sky, obscuring anything beneath the tree line. But orange flames began to break through, spreading with astounding speed. Within moments, the fire expanded with a deafening roar, consuming everything in its path as it reduced the forest to a cinder.
The birdsong Galen heard before was gone, replaced by something more sorrowful. One voice gently sobbing in the distance was followed by another, as anguished, whispered cries for help grew to a level higher than the fire, as they multiplied by the thousands. Voices swarmed around him as the sky suddenly began to grey, finally giving way to a frightening and oppressive sense of total dark.
Galen sensed their ascendancy from untold depths—monstrous creatures of the abyss spreading like a plague across the world below, their gnashing yellow teeth making short work of all flesh unfortunate to fall within their indiscriminating jaws. Those unlucky enough to survive then cast into chains, turned into slaves. With a crack of thunder, the sky above Galen opened as a single shaft of pure illumination punched through the darkness, containing illuminated winged figures pouring from the sky.
Shadow Falls: Badlands Page 7