by Jeff Chapman
Hetty smiled, begging my indulgence yet again.
After helping Isobel fetch and heat the water, I was ensconced in a washtub in the back room. The warm water and scent of meat pie brought back fond memories of home, but guilt soon spoilt them. I had no heart for resting with another’s suffering weighing on my back. What was Orville enduring now?
Another fight with the Pig-man? Was Marzby feeding him and the woman? I set my mind to the problem at hand and discovered faster than a frightened jackrabbit that I knew little more of my quest than when I began.
I was sinking beneath the waves of despondency, feeling sorry for my woeful hide, my grandma would say, when I heard the footfalls of someone rush into the cabin.
“Isobel!” shouted Hetty. “No!”
The door flew open as Isobel burst in like a runaway wagon. I sank in the water up to my chin and snapped my legs and arms round me, augmenting whatever modesty a tub of bath water provided.
“Where’d you get this?” Isobel held up the tile inscribed with the birdman.
“From Marzby, I reckon.”
“Who?”
I hadn’t explained anything yet. “The devil causin’ Orville’s troubles.”
“Isobel!” Hetty appeared in the doorway. “For decency’s sake, get out of there this instant, or your pa’s going to switch your hide.”
“I’ve seen this picture before,” said Isobel, breathless with excitement. “Up at Skull Hill.”
Chapter Eleven
“I said out, young lady,” Hetty demanded.
Isobel yelped like a whipped puppy as Hetty tugged her through the door, a hold on hair and collar alike. Hetty yanked the door closed behind them.
My mind was a galloping express rider. That tile wasn’t for the birds. Maybe the matching image marked an entrance.
I dressed in some castoff clothes from Isobel’s brothers, hopping and stumbling as I tried to step into my britches and boots in one movement. One leg of the pants was ripped up to the knee, and the shirt had been patched again and again, so many times it was more akin to a quilt. Now I had an inkling of the next step, I felt a spanking new sense of urgency.
In the outer room, Hetty was lecturing a contrite Isobel on the laws of decency.
“Can you show me where you’ve seen that drawin’?” I asked.
“Course I can.”
Would Wilbur have figured out the clue? From what I’d witnessed, that lump would as likely pulverize it underfoot in a fit of rage.
“Saddle up Maggie. Ain’t no time to lose.”
Isobel was up and out the door before I turned to Hetty. A checked gingham cloth covered the table and there were three place settings.
“Must you leave so soon? I’ve prepared dinner, and your clothes are still hanging in the sun. You mustn’t encourage Isobel to be running off like this. You’ll make her wilder.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Much obliged to your hospitality, but this is a matter of life and death.” I stepped toward the door.
“Will you be gone long?”
Did she think we might be back in time to eat? “Can’t say, ma’am, but you’ve my word of honor, I’ll send Isobel back right quick.”
I was out the door, sprinting for the barn, before Hetty could call me back. It felt mean leaving her alone with all those fine-smelling vittles that she so wanted to stuff me with, but I had to chase good luck wherever it led me.
I found Isobel securing the saddle. I was a good judge of a horse’s temper, and one glance at Maggie’s black eyes told me she wasn’t too pleased to be saddled again. I stroked her neck. Maggie snorted and shook her head. “Just a little more ridin’, girl. I know you’re fond of Orville, too.” Actually I didn’t know that. Orville regarded Maggie as a blacksmith beholds a busted horseshoe. Maggie likely felt the same.
Isobel gave a final tug to the saddle cinch. I lifted the canteen hanging before the saddlebags and found it heavy. Isobel’d had the good sense to fill it. Clever girl Isobel.
“You’re momma ain’t none too pleased at us skedaddlin’.”
“Ma ain’t too pleased about a lot of things.”
I climbed astride Maggie and extended a hand to Isobel, who settled herself in front of me.
“Lead on,” I said.
Isobel took up the reins. We were passing the front of the cabin when Hetty came running out the door, carrying a cloth-bound bundle.
“Wait!” she called. “You’ve had nothing to eat.”
Isobel reined in Maggie. I took the proffered bundle.
“Mister Orville’s in deathly trouble, ma. We ain’t got time to waste.”
“There’s some buttered bread and pork sausages. You can eat while you ride. And you come back home as soon as Jimmy tells you. You understand me, Isobel?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I tipped my hat. “I’ll send her back right quick, ma’am, as soon as we’re done.” For the second time, I’d given my word. Only thing worse would have been swearing on my grandma’s grave or the Good Book. A crow cawed. Perched on the cabin’s ridgepole, the black bird eyed me and cawed again. Sooner or later I had to do something about these confounded birds.
Isobel guided Maggie down a trail worn by her father. “The shortest path to Skull Hill,” she assured me. Short work we made of the bread and sausages, and our stomachs growled the louder for it when we were done. I gave Isobel an abbreviated story of our dealings with Marzby. I left out mention of the Pig-man for fear Isobel would lose all faith in my veracity.
“Of a wickeder weasel I’ve never heard,” said Isobel. “What does he want with that there knife?”
“Won’t say. His motivations are a mystery.”
“The Stanton constitution is strong as a bull bison, but I’ll let all my relations know to stay clear of a Doctor Marzby in Misery Creek.”
“We gots to keep an eye peeled for Wilbur too. I reckon he’ll spread his violence with nary a care for you. Come to think of it, I’m sending you back to your mama as soon as we find the matching carving.”
“You will not. I ain’t goin’ nowhere ’til I see Mister Orville free and clear.”
I held my tongue. Wouldn’t do no good to fight this battle now. As my grandma said, Pushing a wagon sometimes sinks it deeper in the muck.
After fording a stream where the trees grew thick and slapped us as we passed, the lonesome yews of Skull Hill cast their shadow on the horizon.
We tied Maggie to a sapling oak beside a cool spring hidden from all but those who knew where to find it. I cupped my hands and drank the coldest water to wet my lips in weeks.
“My pa always refreshes hisself here,” she said, taking her turn.
When I looked skyward, I met the gaze of a crow perched in the upper boughs of the oak, its beady, black eyes intent on me.
I jumped to my feet, waved my arms and shouted. A flurry of black wings lifted the crow to one of the yews atop the hill. A crow in the other yew answered its caw.
“I’ve had enough of them birds. When the sun goes down I’ll have owls followin’ me.”
“Mighty peculiar.”
Frustration got the better of me, and I kicked a mess of pebbles, which skittered up the hill a few feet before tumbling back down. Scrub bushes and yucca plants covered the steep hillside all the way up to the flat top. Clumps of grass filled the ground in between. From where I stood, we’d need a pick and shovel to find any sort of entrance.
“Marzby said to look at the east or west ends of the hill. Is that where you saw the carving?”
“Can’t rightly say. Might be.”
We left Maggie tied next to the spring and trekked along the base of the hill. Isobel had found a sturdy branch as tall as herself. She jabbed the side of the hill with it whenever the vegetation thinned. Looking for buried stone, she claimed. I followed, my confidence waning and my irritation rising as she peppered me with more questions than Wilbur had buckshot. The many questions boiled down to two. Why did Marzby want the blade and why didn�
�t Marzby come get it himself? My answer was the same, and it didn’t satisfy neither of us.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But whatever his purpose, I reckon it’s nefarious, but I can’t see any other path to gettin’ Orville back unless we have that blade to bargain with.”
“Well all I’m sayin’ is there must be somethin’ mighty awful waitin’ for us if this dastardly Marzby and his magic fingers won’t venture in, and all we’ve got for a weapon is this old stick and the wits the good Lord gave us.”
The girl did talk sense, which was annoying. I hadn’t devised any sort of plan. My progress was no better than stumbling in the dark. I’d decided against bringing the rifle Orville kept underneath the wagon bench. The trigger and hammer were already seized with rust when Orville bought it for a few pennies. “Just for show,” he’d told me. A show of arms wasn’t going to scare off Marzby or even Wilbur. Most likely the opposite.
“Why didn’t you bring Pa’s rifle?” she asked.
“Ain’t mine. Wouldn’t be right to leave your ma without it.”
“My ma can take care of herself, but that was right kind of you to think of her.”
The snake incident suggested otherwise. “I’ve found my wits a powerful weapon in a pinch. Let’s see what we’re dealin’ with first. A gun might be of no use.”
She harrumphed, jabbing the hillside extra hard. Her confidence didn’t meet mine, but for once she didn’t vent her opinion. Sending her home once we’d found the entrance might prove a difficult proposition. Like my grandma said, Sunshine and rain fall from the same sky.
Skull Hill was a long, flat-topped mound. Far more of a rectangle than a circle. The orderliness suggested something unnatural about it. We rounded a corner to walk along the west end. A stand of birch shaded the hillside.
“There it is.” Isobel thrust her staff through a mess of ivy that blanketed the hillside like a cloth spread out for a Sunday picnic. The wood thudded as it struck stone. A second and third thrust answered the same as the staff sank deep into the ivy. “I remember these vines under the birches.”
“How’d you find it the first time?”
Isobel dropped her staff. “There weren’t so many vines.”
We tore at the ivy curtain. At first we tried to push the vines aside, but the stems, so heavy with leaves, fell right back, frustrating us to no end. Frustration proved the mother of strength, and we resorted to yanking those vines from the ground or breaking them in the effort. A pile of ivy grew behind us.
The work calmed me, as hard labor always does, and the sweat washed away the past day’s vexations. Hard to believe that the day before yesterday, I had been watching Orville charm coins out of fortune seekers. We slowed as we tired. Finally the curtain parted. Behind it a wall of stone was set into the hillside.
“There’s that carving.” Isobel pointed to a shallow depression in the middle of the stone.
I judged it to be near the same size as the clay tile. I edged closer and squinted. The shadows from the trees obscured the details but I could make out a beak and wings. “Looks mighty similar.”
“I told you they was the same.”
I pushed on the stone. “Solid as a mountain. Interestin’ coincidence, but I don’t see how this helps me get inside.”
“Maybe it’s a marker and there’s a cave near.” Not waiting for my opinion, Isobel took up her staff and commenced beating the hillside.
There had to be something more to this than a mere marker. I had no reason to believe, no evidence other than my gut feeling. But like my grandma said, If a feller can’t trust his gut, who can he trust? Retrieving the tablet from my shirt pocket, I held it next to the impression. The two looked made for each other, like a wheel and an axle, a boot and a foot. “Does your pa know about this?”
Isobel was thrashing the hillside like she was threshing wheat. She stopped and panted. “Not that I can say, but he ain’t the kind to mention every little thing he sees.”
“Well, now that we’ve found it. Maybe you oughta head home. Don’t wanna worry your ma too awful.”
“We ain’t found no entrance yet. And I don’t see you findin’ one just gawkin’ at that carvin’.” She gave the hillside a few more whacks. “You need yerself a guide.”
“Do I have to tie you across Maggie’s saddle and haul you back to your mama?” Not that I had time for such shenanigans.
Isobel glared at me before resuming her assault on the hillside.
I studied the carving and the tile again, and then followed the natural progression, like water running downhill. I placed the tile in the depression. A key couldn’t have fit its lock more perfectly. I ran my hand across the stone face and felt nary a ridge where the tile and rock joined.
“Isobel, take a gander at this.”
Frowning like a mother at a particularly troublesome child, she walked back to me, staff in hand, her forehead shining with sweat. “We ain’t gonna find that cave with you standin’ here like a cow waitin’ to be milked.”
I pointed at the tile, which seemed to bind more with the stone every time I looked.
“Glory be,” said Isobel. “Can you get it out?”
“Dunno.” I reached to touch the edges, now as smooth as glass. The hairs twitched on the back of my neck. The way the one had melded to the other spooked me, powerfully unnatural. “Ain’t no seam to find anymore.”
“Most peculiar.”
A caw startled us both. The crows were back, black triangles in the upper boughs of the birches.
“I reckon this is where I’m supposed to be and placing that tile is what I’m supposed to do, but Lord help me, I ain’t got the first notion what it means.”
“Most peculiar,” Isobel repeated, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
From behind us came the panting of a dog, and a big one from the heaviness of the breathing. My breath caught in my throat, and a chill skittered up my spine. Our gazes met as we turned to face who knew what. I knew she was spooked. The confident streak of defiance that always twinkled in her eyes was gone. From what I’d seen in Marzby’s dungeon, I wouldn’t have been surprised at a man with a wolf’s head.
The biggest coyote I’d ever laid eyes on sat on its haunches, not more than three feet away, its pink tongue lolling between its teeth, licking the air. Its bushy tail curled round to cover its forepaws. With one lunge, it could have ripped our throats. With its head cocked, it regarded each of us in turn, sizing us up it seemed, and I hoped not for dinner. Strangest part of the coyote was its eyes. One was yellow, but the other was violet, and as it considered us, the violet faded to a cornflower blue. A mood eye?
Isobel raised her stick in both hands and cocked it over her shoulder. “Whatcha think it wants?”
“It’s had plenty of time to rush us, and it don’t look rabid.”
“My pa says you can’t trust a coyote. Indians say he’s a trickster.”
“Look at his eyes.”
“Most peculiar.”
The bracken at the base of the birches behind the coyote quivered. I was having second thoughts about leaving that Winchester with Isobel’s ma.
“Now what?” said Isobel.
The coyote showed about as much fear as a rock for an ant. It yawned as it watched withered leaves rain down from the shaking bush, and when an errant leaf lodged in its fur, the coyote sent it flying with a twitch of its tail.
I was expecting another coyote, perchance a pup, but out of that bush waddled an opossum, twitching its pink nose as it looked from me to Isobel and back again. The two beasts looked to each other and made some noises somewhere betwixt growls and grunts.
“Are they talkin’?” I said.
Chapter Twelve
“They appears to be yammerin’ of some kind. Might be a trick.” Isobel narrowed her eyes to slits, staring daggers at the coyote. Her stick twirled, winding up for a good hard thwack. “I’ll take the coyote. You take the little one.”
“Hold on.” I put a hand on Isobel’s shoulder,
never allowing my gaze to stray from the two animals, who were jerking their heads and yapping like two old crones at a hen party. “They may be tryin’ to tell us somethin’.”
Maybe they heard me or their talk had reached its apex. The opossum rolled onto its back, curled its feet and lay still as death. The coyote barked twice, threw back its head and howled, not the mournful nighttime yowl but a laughing howl.
“They’re laughin’,” said Isobel. “I don’t fancy bein’ the butt of some mangy critters’ joke.”
I figured with two older brothers, Isobel had been the dupe of many a prank. The coyote bared its teeth and growled. Its mood eye flushed crimson. The opossum righted itself.
“I see you understand us,” I said.
The coyote pointed its nose to sniff at us.
“Talkin’ to varmints.” Isobel shook her head. “This day just gets more and more peculiar.”
“Hush,” I hissed at Isobel. “I’ve seen far worse. They may be here to help us. You two know anything about this here rock?”
The coyote ceased its growling but eyed Isobel warily.
“Put your stick down,” I told her.
“There ain’t no trustin’ a coyote.”
“Let’s give this one a chance.”
Isobel thrust the butt of her makeshift staff in the dirt. Despite Isobel frowning down at it, the coyote seemed placated. I tensed and then relaxed as the coyote loped between me and Isobel up to the rock. Raising a back leg, it let loose a stream of piss at the rock’s base.
“Markin’ his territory, I guess.”
“Tryin’ to warn us off,” said Isobel.
The coyote rose onto its hind legs with its forepaws against the stone. The beast stood a head taller than me. This wasn’t no ordinary coyote. It stuck its nose against the clay tile, now merged with the rock, and licked it. I was growing tired of all this tomfoolishness.
“Mister Coyote.” I felt more than a tad ridiculous myself, but how does one address an intelligent coyote? “Are you gonna help us? We need to get ourselves inside this hill.”
The coyote swiped the tile again, spreading its pink tongue all the way across it. When its tongue slipped back in its mouth, it held its head still, like it was considering. A low growl rumbled in its throat as its mood eye rolled toward me, red as a firestorm. I stepped back, my heart building up to a gallop, and pushed Isobel away from the coyote. A rifle at this moment would have proved mighty handy. The coyote lunged, its mouth bristling with white fangs slick with saliva. It snapped like a whip as it twisted in midair to land at my feet, ready to spring for my throat. Those retreating steps had taken me out of its range, but not by much.