Dusk Mountain Blues

by Deston Munden

  Ignace pushed his kinky black hair from the good side of his face. “I vividly remember saying that you shouldn’t bring yourself around here.”

  ​“Not even minutes in and it’s already ’bout you, Ig.”

  ​“Don’t call me that.”

  Appetite smiled.

  ​“Why are you here, bull? I thought you weren’t going to come back.”

  ​“I thought that too.” Appetite vividly remembered the promise after Ina vanished. He wasn’t one to take stuff back. “But it ain’t right to not let my daughter meet the other side of her family.”

  ​Ignace paced. “Yes, your daughter,” he hissed with slow words. “I’ve heard she was here too.”

  ​A cold, soft anger rose in Appetite’s stomach. “She ain’t in this, Ignace.”

  ​“I ain’t gonna hurt your whelp. Why would I...unless…” He stalked around, brushing against Appetite’s side with every bump. “Oh, unless it hurts you.”

  ​“Are we really doing this?”

  ​“Oh stop, Woodrow. You act like I’m the monster here. I won’t let you tell me what’s best for my people.”

  ​“Ignace,” Appetite shouted, his voice rippling through the willow leaves. The sudden anger startled Ignace to the point of jumping back a few inches. The men, his posse, lept into action with their spears pointed at Appetite’s back. Don’t wanna do that gentlemen. Don’t let the nice clothes fool ya. “I’m here to give ya a warning. I’ve always known what you’ve wanted and you thought that you were going to get it. Ya didn’t, did ya? You were always second place to Ina. Always. Her not being here hasn’t changed anything. The Flame isn’t yours nor will it ever be yours. You will never be a leader. So, whatever you have planned, keep that between you and your pa. Got it? As long as my little girl’s here, you don’t move a muscle. I don’t care what you got planned, leave Cassie out of it.”

  ​Ignace cocked his head back a bit startled. He had experienced Appetite’s rage before. In his anger, these spears, guns, or whatever they had at their disposal meant nothing to him. Appetite waited for the man to respond with the blankest expression he could manage.

  That smirk progressed across the dark man’s face again. “You really don’t know, do you? You have no clue,” he said in the softest of whispers. “I guess it doesn’t matter at this very moment.” He gave a low, hot glower underneath his heavy brows. The smile didn’t regress. If anything, as the seconds stretched into long minutes, it had gotten worse. A thick orange pulse rose from Ignace’s shoulders; heat pressed against Appetite’s body. “Welcome back down from that precious mountain. Perhaps you will find that more things have changed in our fifteen years apart.”

  ​The odd heat disappeared in an instant. Ignace folded his arm within his robes, his men resting their weapons all around them. Appetite eyed him, unimpressed despite the sweat now soaking his shirt. This wasn’t something he hadn’t seen before. Living out in the Dusk Orbit planets and traveling with Ina gave him all types of experiences. Flexing ain’t helping much. You know what I can do.

  “You won’t have to worry about me,” Ignace said. “Besides, I think in a few days or so, you’re going to have your plate pretty full. Have a good evening, Mr. Caldwell. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  ​The orange-robed men left without a word. Appetite watched them, heart thumping in his chest, as they left him to wonder what in the blue blazes Ignace had to be so confidence about.

  ***

  Appetite returned to the manor in the dead of night to find Remy in well over his head.

  ​He had never seen the man with anything other than a calm expression on his face. Tonight Remy stood with his back against the door, purple eyes weathered like rust on an old car and shivering as though the evening air was cold. Appetite tried to ignore what he felt clearly on the air the moment he stepped foot in the manor. A thick layer of warmth and muck clung to the air, choking them with arms of humidity. A lance of panic rose through Appetite’s chest. Fear for his child’s life was followed hand in hand by an immeasurable amount of rage.

  “What happened?” he began, feeling the arms of his shirt rip from the bulging of his muscles. Small rips became larger ones as he grew, feeling the hot surge of power from a full stomach. Words became difficult to string together in his mind, replaced only by savage grunts. “What happened to my little girl?” he managed to mutter. “What. Happened?”

  ​Silence.

  ​Silence for too long.

  ​The anger took over. One second he was at the door, the next he was leaping across the hallway. His thunderous footsteps broke the wooden planks, the mass of his body ripping through the decor as though it was nothing. He was on Remy in seconds, long before any of the maids, butlers, or guards could hope to react. Appetite slammed his fist into the wall a hair’s breadth away from the man’s head, punching a hole clean to the other side. Remy didn’t flinch; he only raised his head as though seeing Appetite for the first time.

  ​“She’s alright, she’s alright,”’ Remy said, looking up into his now painfully red, glowing eyes. “I promise. I would’ve told you right away if something bad happened. Just unexpected. I didn’t factor in whatever mutations your family have - that’s not important and you’re not listening anyway. She’s in the spare bedroom resting.”

  ​Appetite pulled his fist from the wall, splinters of wood stabbing into his knuckles. The anger remained. You promised she’d be safe. I should’nt’ve have come here. I shouldn’t have come. A roar escaped his lungs, the sound of death to the manor, even to the his own ears. Remy looked for a second at the beast heaving down his neck in puffs of heavy smoke, tongue lulling from his unhinged mouth. Appetite backed up with a few steady steps, reeling himself back. He heaved thick breaths to try to get his mind back. He let the rigidness in his body leave with every second. I need to see her. He pushed Remy aside, no longer hearing the clumsy apologies at his back.

  ​He stomped through the house, feeling ragged and broken. He knew the way; that much hadn’t changed. Around him, he heard the stirring of the house guards. They were too slow to stop him from almost eating a man alive out of trust. Now, they were wary and ready for him in case what he found wasn’t satisfactory. Nothing in heaven or earth would stop him if there was a single hair wrong on his daughter’s head.

  He stomped up the twisting stairs, the flameless torches throwing his monstrous shadow up and across the windows and the underbelly of the second floor. He slowed himself, becoming mildly aware of his weight creaking against the wood, the lava of his anger cooling into a hollowed rock in his chest.

  ​He reached the spare bedroom; the thick, black wooden door was closed. Another one of those ominous red masks hung from a small knob on the face of door. This one looked down from its post with a scowl in those painted yellow eyes. He wouldn’t have gotten close to this supernatural totem in his right mind but parental protection broke through that. He began to hear things - soft whispers and chuckles on the wind - the moment his hand touched the doorknob. He had heard them before with Ina.

  The Ember Gods, the murmurs of the Starcall, she had called them. Superstition ran thick in his subconscious mind, threatening moments of hesitation. His conscious mind willed it away. His daughter was behind that door. Nothing was going to stop him. He shouldered the door open.

  ​A blast of heat hit him from the other side.

  ​He stood in the frame of the door, staring into the lightless room. The familiar smells barraged him. Where he expected the smell of sickness or rot, he got a peppery aroma touched with nutmeg and sugar. What looked like fireflies or wisps bounced and danced around the room. On the other side, the barj accumulated in the corner as though it was a remorseful child in timeout.

  Appetite walked in, eyes flickering back and forth. Nothing looked off, only felt it. The room barely had any furniture and a single window. On the far side of the room, Kindle was sitting up in a bed much too big for her. She looked a little pale, her hair
was a mess, and the odd vents in her skin were open. Other than that, she looked fine… aside from one detail: she was holding a fire in her hand. The flame was a torrent of different shades of red, woven together and beating with a certain life.

  ​Kindle caressed the flame with her fingers, lacing its embers through her fingers. It disappeared like a real fire, rather than the thousands of fireflies it was made of. She stared up, eyes pale but smile vivid. “I didn’t know I could do this,” she said after a time.

  ​Appetite deflated. Any residual anger he had rushed out of his body. He ran to her side, sitting on the bed and reaching for her free hand. He took in a sharp breath. “What happened?”

  ​The door shut behind them. Remy had entered; he moved to speak. Kindle shook her head at him.

  ​“I got it,” she said. She extinguished the flame. “I got a little overconfident, I reckon.”

  ​“Looks like more than a little,” Appetite replied.

  ​A weak smile from her. Good. “Okay, okay. More than a little.”

  ​“What did I tell you ’bout that, knucklehead?” Appetite gave her a light tap on the head. “Wanna talk about it?”

  ​“Not right now,” she gave a smile. “I...saw her.”

  ​“You saw who?”

  ​“Mom.”

  ​“Where?”

  ​“Through the Flame.” Kindle went to grab a cup from the table. Her father met her halfway, putting the cup of water - or, at least, he thought it was water - in her hand. “She’s far away.”

  ​“How far?” He cursed himself for asking.

  ​“I don’t know. Maybe a galaxy or so.” She drank some of the water as though that was a good enough answer. Maybe it was. “I saw ships too.”

  ​“What kinda ships?”

  ​“Fighters and cruisers, I think. Fleets and fleets of them on the distance. Bluecoats mostly.”

  ​“That’s enough, Cassie,” Remy said, stepping in. Appetite gave him a hard stare at the interruption, but he had regained his nonchalant attitude. “Drinking too much of the Spark might have caused you to see some things; it’s nothing to worry about. You need to go back to bed. There’s much you need to learn before I let you head back to the mountain. They’re going to need you. So, rest.”

  Kindle finished her water and rested her head on the large back pillow. She muttered something under her breath for a while before nodding off. Remy approached from the other side, though with a little caution and respect this time. Grandfather and father watched her drift off to sleep; Appetite held her hand the entire time. When she was sound asleep, he rose gently from the bed to let his champion sleep off whatever crap she had experienced, beckoning Remy to the same. The lean witch doctor dipped his head and followed him to a small corner of the room. Neither seemed remotely impressed by the other. They waited for a little longer to let her sleep to settle in.

  “The Flame is the life of the planet,” Remy said in a whisper. “Have you ever wondered why C’dar was different after the first Civilizations fell? Why even despite the apocalypse at their own hands, this planet survived? That’s why. The Flame allows us to eat, breathe, to live on this planet. It allows us to grow. To have a Handler of Flames or a Shaman is needed on the planet, at least for a year or so. Fifteen years without one has put strain on the planet. People blame you and your family for it.”

  ​Appetite knew that Remy wasn’t wrong. He chose to say nothing.

  ​“For the sake of the Willows, I’m going to ask you to leave. The tension is too great.”

  ​“I get the importance of all this,” Appetite said in a soft voice. “I really do. But I’d rather watch this planet die than my daughter. There are thousands of these. She’s the only one of her.”

  ​“You care for her.” Remy sighed. “You have my word. Nothing like that is going to happen again. You, however, need to get that tank off our lawn and head back to the mountain. I got some news that you’ll want to hear. Word on the streets is that your father has started a war.”

  Chapter 8

  Sensible Brooding

  Drifter

  “Tread lightly from here. Tread lightly and triumph.” -- Jo “Rancher Queen” Caldwell

  They returned with their loot the next day to find that Shepherd had done somethin’ real stupid.

  He knew that Spencer and the Hounds weren’t the most stable of the family. The Caldwells had to have some degree of madness to survive here on this planet with not a lotta people but a whole other lotta things that could kill you. Drifter wasn’t one to judge about that. That being said, the Shepherd was closer to a raider than anyone else in the family; he had done terrible things. This one ranked in the top ten - no, about top five - of the silliest things he had done.

  Heads lined every post leading up the mountain, crows poking at their empty eyes. Shepherd hadn’t discriminated in his rage; men, women, synthetics, organics, mutants, humans, were all equally put on display. From the look of it, they appeared to be a small squad caught in the wrong place at the wrong time - not unlike those green boys they stole the 7-A from.

  There was no denying it now. They were at war.

  Pit, despite his best efforts, couldn’t contain his glee at the grisly site. He rose from the back seat, pushing through the mountain of spoils and grinning like a mad man. That was the reason they gave them the collective nickname of the Hounds. Dogs are loyal, emotional, passionate creatures. They also hunted, mauled, and killed once they found a scent. From the grandfather to the sons to the pups, they shared those single-minded traits - with minor variations here and there.

  Drifter cursed under his breath. What did y’all do, he thought, clutching whitened knuckles against the steering wheel. He knew Pit hadn’t planned this, he didn’t really have...what’s the word...the foresight for that. At the very least, they could’ve been smart about it, not parade their spoils to decorate their home. They never did. Gonna have to fix this too.

  No one noticed that Drifter wasn’t too happy about it.

  Big Thunder turned after a while, seeing the unhappiness creep on Drifter’s face in a stark contrast to their giddy brother. He flicked his eyes back and forth from one brother to other, obviously a tad confused on how he should feel. He kept quiet; a smart move, all in all. Drifter hadn’t the time nor the dang patience to talk ’bout his feelings. Right now, Drifter was too busy mentally trying to find a big enough shovel to dig themselves out with. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, driving through the valley of the dead and ascending up the mountain.

  When they made it to the summit and to the Homestead after a few empty minutes, it appeared that he wasn’t the only one upset about this. A few of the family had already begun discussing - very heatedly, might he add. Drifter parked the truck by his garage. He jangled the keys from the ignition and opened the door with a bit more anger than he should’ve, stomping around the back. The crowd of his kin fell into silence as the patriarch quietly unpacked the loot from the Huntsman. A few of the nephews and nieces helped, taking the various crates to the warehouse behind the cabin. Their little arsenal for a rainy day.

  Drifter motioned for Doc, Moses, Jo, and Shepherd to stay off everyone without a single word. Everyone knew better than to test him in one of these moods. He tried his best to keep cool, but his anger sputtered outta him like oil. What tipped him over the edge was the satisfied expression on Shepherd’s face. The boy had lost his son; he was willing to give him a pass in his grief. Not if he was going to be smug ’bout it though. So, he did what good family member would do: he popped the boy right in his mouth.

  The punch came hard and unexpected, as one does when you sucker punch a fella. Shepherd fell to the ground, nose delightfully busted and crooked. He cursed, growling, muttering, clawing at the dirt with blood trickling off of his chin in ribbons of red. Pit opened his mouth but shut it quickly with a glance over his shoulder when seeing his older brother’s death stare. He knew that his son deserved that one.

  “You don’t
think,” Drifter thought - or, at least, he thought he thought it. He heard his voice echo against the trees; flocks of birds flew up from their nests. He had shouted, apparently, since everyone was looking at him with mouths agape.

  Drifter felt his knuckles sting a tad from the blow, his throat a little raw from the shout. No one said a word for a very long time. Drifter peeled back his thick film of anger only a tad as he paced. “Did you think that maybe, just maybe, there might be reckonin’ to whatya did, hm? Think ’bout that. There’s a reason I went all the way out to vent my anger, boy. You might’ve just led them right to us!”

  ​Drifter trembled. In all his born years, he hadn’t experienced anything like this. Shepherd sat in the dirt, holding his nose, eyes alight with deep recognition. The display of anger had given the Bluecoats a breadcrumb trail up Dusk Mountain. The Dusk Mountains served like a natural defense for the family, but Doc and Loner had made sure they had other defenses besides - they didn’t wanna have to use those. The mountain and the natural traps had always been enough for the idiots before; now, Shepherd might given them the key to the front door.

  The idiot. A single punch suddenly didn’t feel like punishment enough. Even as the Hounds carted him away, he thought to chase him down and give him another swing.

  “Remember when your ma died to those off-world pirates? I told ya, we’ll get revenge for her. I promised ya. It didn’t happen overnight, it didn’t even happen over a year. Guess what, it happened. We took our time. We take our time here, Spencer!”

  ​“That’s enough, he gets it, Pa.” Jo grabbed Drifter by the arm. “He knows what he did wrong. But what’s done is done. How ‘bout you cool off, eh?”

  ​Drifter felt his thin body being dragged away from the rest of his family and onto the porch. His body continued to tremble, but the fog of anger retreated. He took off his mesh ball cap and slammed it into the dust. He took a breath - the thick kinda breath meant for a truly rare type of frustrated. His daughter eased him back into his rocking chair and fetched him a cold cup of water and a few aspirins. Slumping in his seat, Drifter downed the medicine and the water in a single gulp, unsure of which his body needed more.