by Don P. Bick
* * *
The grass spreads in golden waves before me, white clouds billow cottony in a high blue sky, and a thin brown bird with a glowing orange chest calls out from its perch, balancing on a reed. I have been walking for a night and a day, moving steadily north alongside a thin, tall lake. For some reason “Dakota” comes to mind, and I accept the label without complaint. I have no other glimpses of memory. No sense of my name or background. No idea why I am here, alone, in this vast wilderness.
I have seen no sign of my fellow releasees. There has been no sight of the sniper who had taken Ragnor’s life nor of any other denizens of this open landscape. For all I know it is now me and the wild animals which surround me, alone in this place.
My stomach growls, and I once again scan the ground for potential meals. I had been fortunate to find a small wild plum tree earlier in the morning, and gorged myself on the small, vibrantly red berries. But my pockets are now empty, and the sun is slipping lower in the sky. I know soon would come the shimmering violets and deep, dusky greys.
A glimmer comes from ahead, and I pull to a stop, peering across the grassland.
The lake curves at its top, the incoming river dipping down south to form a perfect crook. Nestled within that hollow lies a small settlement, a low wall of stone and wood protecting the front area. My hand drops to the gun at my hip, and I pull out both, checking the cylinders before reseating each one into its holster. Eight bullets left. I’ll have to make sure each one counts.
I stride forward, steadily, surely, and the sun eases down as I go. A cool breeze blows steadily off the lake by the time I draw up to the mouth of the wall. A pair of young boys lounge atop it, eyeing me with bored attention, their eyes going to the orange of my outfit. The tow-headed one whispers something to the other, and they both giggle.
The town is rough-hewn, with wooden buildings fronting a dusty dirt road. A few horses are tied up to rails, and a roar of laughter comes from a run-down building with a pair of swinging doors. The upper floor sports a row of windows, the shutters all pulled tight.
There is a steady stream of people moving about the town, a few in orange like me, the rest in a motley assortment of leather, dark cloth, and bare skin. Most ignore me, going about their business with steady attention. Then a trio of elderly men in dark burgundy robes leave the shelter of a nearby porch and make their way toward me.
My hand drops automatically to the revolver at my side, and the taller of the three raises a frail hand in comfort, his wrinkled eyes shining. “No need, no need,” he calls out in a musical voice. “We are friends.”
I look them over as they draw to a stop before me. “Do I know you?”
He gives a warm laugh, shaking his head. “Not yet, but we are glad to welcome you into our flock,” he offers. “Have you yet heard the Book of the Lake?”
I glance forward, to the edges of the water which I can glimpse circling all around three sides of the town.
He gives a low chuckle at that, shaking his head again. “No, not this little finger of water,” he corrects me. “The lake is north, far north. But I have a copy of the book here.”
He reaches a hand into a pocket. My fingers wrap carefully around the grip of my revolver, intensely alert, but his hand comes out only with a small booklet within its grip. The cover is cloth-bound and burgundy in color.
He offers it to me. “Here, I will trade it to you, for that gun of yours. Put aside the implements of destruction. Come join us in the ways of peace.”
The edge of my mouth curls into a smile. “And what of the locals who might then find me an appealing target? Shall we present them with books as well?”
He pats the book steadily against his chest. “The Lord shall protect us all,” he vows. “Come with us, and we shall keep you safe.”
I glance around at the moving crowds. They are steadfastly ignoring us, moving toward the stables or tavern or general store with steady attention.
I give my head a shake. “Maybe another time,” I advise him. “For now I’m heading north.”
His eyes shadow. “North, always north,” he murmurs. “So short sighted, when the glory of the Lord is here before you.”
I turn from the trio and stride down the street. The sun is behind one of the taller buildings now, and shadows are stretching long across the main dirt thoroughfare. Exhaustion settles over my shoulders, pulling down at me, and I’m reminded that I haven’t had any sleep since …
Since when?
I remember nothing from before when I blinked into awareness in the white chute. So at least since then; at least a full day and a half.
There’s a motion at my right, and I turn to see a large, open wagon fronted by a pair of oxen. A burly man with a bulbous nose is helping a trio of orange-garbed women up into the back of the wagon. Each woman turns over her gun as she steps in, and the man nods, making a notation in a small book.
One of the women, a wiry red-head with a scraggly bush of hair, stares down at him with sharp eyes. “And you’re sure you can get us all the way to the gate?”
He nods in quiet patience. “Yes, yes. You pay your fare; we take you to the gate. We do this all the time. Not to worry, we’ll stay on the Pilgrim’s Road. It’ll be perfectly safe.”
The woman purses her lips, but settles down next to the other two.
There’s a store up ahead. I stamp my foot on the wooden porch, shaking loose most of the mud, before pushing open the door and stepping within. The structure is lined with shelves on all walls, filled with heavy wool blankets, wooden boxes of nails, tins of beans, and a variety of other sundries. A long counter runs along the right side, and a thin, speckled man wearing wire spectacles nods at me in welcome.
“A new arrival, eh? Well, make yourself at home. All prices are as marked.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “I imagine ya ain’t got silver or gold on ya, not yet, but unless you’re a wild shot ya probably still got a few bullets left.”
I move forward to one of the shelves, and sure enough, beneath each item is its price listed in bullets, silver ounces, and gold ounces. A pair of boots goes for ten bullets. A coon-skin hat is only four.
His eyes move greedily to the second gun on my left hip. “You won’t be needing two of those,” he points out. “I can make you a nice deal for that.”
My left hand drops easily to the gun’s hilt. “Think I’ll keep it for now.”
“Of course, of course,” he murmurs, his eyes not leaving the weapon.
I make a mental note of the prices and then turn my back, moving to the door.
“Be sure to come back soon!” he calls out.
I push the door open, heading back out into the street. The sun is lower now, dark violets and rich burgundies streaking the clouds. Lamps are glimmering into light in the windows, artificial fireflies beginning their mating dance. I move further down the street, heading down a side alley, my eyes sweeping the shadowed buildings.
A small sign hangs by one door, saying, simply, “Store.”
I push open the door and step in.
The structure is neat, well-kept, with fewer goods than the previous shop. Most seem to be items of clothing, and a rack on a far wall features a row of hangers with a variety of items. A reedy man in leather, with thinning sprouts of sandy-brown hair, turns from the lamp he has just lit and holds my gaze for a moment. His eyes drop to the pair of guns at my hips, then he nods.
His voice comes out in a slow drawl. “You’ll be wanting new digs.”
I glance down at the tangerine color which seems to shimmer in the flickering light. The fabric would stand out as a beacon as I moved through the woods.
I look back up at him. “Yes,” I agree.
His eyes go to the pair of belts again, then down to the shoes, half caked with mud. “You give me all you wear, ‘cept the guns and ammo, and I’ll set you up with gear that’s functional and less …”
“… pumpkin,” I finish for him.
His teeth flash in a smile,
and he nods.
I look him over. “Agreed.”
He waves a hand toward the rack, and I step to it, riffling through the options. Much of it is geared toward a larger frame, but I come across a pair of dark brown leggings that seem adequate. There’s a hemp shirt in dusty ivory, a worn set of boots that exactly fit, and a sturdy leather belt with a pair of holsters.
Then my eyes light on a leather jacket at the end of the row, a rich brown the color of a stag in autumn. It would cover me to mid-thigh. A line of decorative beading runs across the chest, with the symbol of a hawk centered one each side.
I gather up the items and step behind a thick, dark-blue curtain which hangs across the back corner. I leave my guns within easy reach as I quickly slip out of my tangerine garb and into the new items. They smell of sweat and dirt, but nothing that a few days on the road won’t quickly drown out. I buckle on the belt, slide the guns into place, and pull the leather jacket over the top.
I swat back the edges of the jacket with my hands and practice my double draw a few times.
Perfect.
I push aside the curtain, dropping the pile of my old apparel before him. He flips through the items, nodding in appreciation, then looks up at me.
“Jacket suits you,” he comments evenly. “Petrus cared for it well.”
I glance down at it. “So why’d he give it up?”
His eyes don’t flicker. “Dead.”
I glance out the window, at the shadowy town beyond. “And his friends won’t mind?”
He gives a short shake of his head. “Those who die weren’t meant to live.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs. “That book has some sense in it, after all.”
He looks me over for a minute. “So, heading to the gate?”
“Seems the thing to do.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “Seems so,” he agrees. His eyes hold mine for a minute. “Don’t take the Pilgrim Road,” he advises. “It’s fish in a barrel for those who enjoy those sorts of games. Follow the river north, to Lamur. You can’t miss it. Big stockade fence.”
I nod my head. “Thanks.”
Exhaustion pulls at me, and I turn, heading back out into the town. The night sky is densely dark, speckled with a thousand stars as bright as diamonds. I make my way to the main street, to the tavern, pressing open the swinging doors and stepping into the noisy brightness.
The crowd within pays no attention to my entrance, going on with its babble of discussion and argument. I push my way over to the bartender, and in a moment he comes to lean toward me.
“What’ll it be?”
I nudge my head toward the stairs. “How much for a room?”
“Three bullets. Four with a bowl of venison stew.”
My mouth presses into a line at the thought of giving up such a large percentage of my ammo, but I know I needed a safe place to rest. If I stumble from town at this point, and find somewhere to hole up, I could be easily slain. I nod grudgingly, reaching a hand down to my left-hand gun and popping the cylinder. I count out the four bullets before him.
He sweeps them up in a beefy palm, then calls over his shoulder.
“Lenore, bring a bowl of stew and the keys to room eight.”
The stew is warm, filling, and surprisingly good. In short order I stumble up the worn wooden stairs to a door with a burgundy number eight painted in its center. The room is sparse but neat, with a simple bed and a low table at its side. A dresser on the opposite wall completes the set.
I close the door, lock it, and then give a heft to the dresser, pushing it over to block the door. I double check that there’s no porch or nearby roof to allow access to the shuttered single window. Then I tumble into bed, fully clothed, and the world winks away.
Zing.
I am sprawled, face-down on the mossy bank of the stream, and that distinctive sound-wave traces immediately overhead. Ragnor staggers, looks down in surprise at the crimson blossom at his chest, and falls back.
Zing.
I am lying on my chest on a grassy ridge, peering across a prairie at a group of shapes creeping stealthily toward us. They must be at least five hundred yards away. One of the forms staggers back, as if suddenly struck, then falls to the earth.
I turn my head to see who is at my side - who made that shot - and the sky whirls to black.