Crucible of Time

by James Axler

  "You got Indian trouble around here?" Krysty asked, absently wiping a fork on the cloth.

  The woman sniffed. "Some. Say, that's some right pretty hair you got there, missy. Closest thing I ever saw to a tumble of living fire."

  "The heathen are losing their race against the forces of righteousness," one of the young men said.

  "Amen," the other two chorused, crossing themselves.

  "You fellows anything to do with the Children of the Rock?" Ryan asked.

  There was a sudden stillness in the eatery that you could have carved wafer thin.

  The hunters stopped, right by the door, faces turned from Ryan to Mom to the trio of men. The old-timer was frozen in the act of sipping at a chipped cup of coffee sub.

  "You mean us, outlander?" asked the skinny one of the three. "Us?"

  "If the cap fits."

  "Meaning…?"

  Ryan sniffed. "Meaning that we've been seeing all sorts of signs on walls for the Children of the Rock. Looked like it was some kind of religious ville. You three keep praying and crossing yourselves. So, it seemed more than possible that you might all have something to do with the Children of the Rock." He paused. "Whoever they are."

  The woman behind the counter gave a gap-toothed smile. "Good guess, outlander. These young—"

  "The prattle of an empty-minded woman is like the shaking of a hollow gourd," said the lean man, who seemed to be leader of the three seated men.

  "I was only—"

  " 'Only' is the first step on the trail to the bottomless swamps of heathen eternity, Mrs. Fairchild. Best you say no more. Go cook the jerky for these folks."

  Mom shrugged, halfheartedly wiping at the bar top. A gust of cold air swept into the room as the front door opened and closed behind the two trappers. The old man dabbed at his mouth with a linen kerchief and also made his way out. He hesitated as though he was going to say something, then changed his mind and walked out in silence, leaving behind a handful of small jack on his table. Mom turned and went out into the kitchen. Ryan stared at the three men. "Guess my hearing's getting poor," he said. "Didn't catch the answer to my question about the Children of the Rock."

  One of them, with a straggly mustache, laughed, but it got nowhere near his pale blue eyes. "You know that the cat found itself burning on the barbecue from asking too many questions, stranger."

  "What are you frightened of?" Krysty asked, leaning back in the bentwood chair.

  "Frightened? What in the name of the Almighty makes you think that?"

  "I can see it in your faces. Sense it in the way you're sitting. Your whole body language speaks to me of a very deep unease."

  "No, lady. I'll tell you about the Children of the Rock. Yeah, we're all proud to be members of the flock. We aren't a ville. Not like most in Deathlands. Just some right-thinking folks collected together under the strong arm of the Blessed Jesus Christ and his angelic host."

  "Fundamentalists?" Mildred asked quietly. Again it was the main spokesman who answered her. "A well-honed sword will smite the ungodly better than a whole library of good thoughts."

  "None of you carry swords," J.B. commented. "No blasters, neither."

  "Not here. We are close enough to our heartland to be safe from the threat of the Apaches."

  "Paramilitary survivalists." Mildred's voice was trembling with barely suppressed anger. "You were around in my days. Folks like you. Most of you then were just stinking, redneck racists. All you lack are hoods, sheets and blazing crosses! If you're white, it's all right. If you're black, get back. Hiding hatred behind a blurred version of the gospels. That what the Children of the Rock are up to?"

  The three men seemed taken aback at the surge of rage from the black woman. Their leader stammered, face pale, spots of hectic colour dappling his hollow cheeks. "Why, no… That is… Our leader is Brother Joshua Wolfe and he doesn't turn anybody away on account of color. We preach tolerance for those that walk the true path."

  The one with the mustache spoke up. "I reckon that before you attack us, you should come see us. See our camp. Meet Brother Joshua."

  The third man, who'd been silent, nodded. "The shroud of ignorance is a darkening thing to bear. Come and let us rip it aside. Then you can walk in the bright light of love."

  Krysty half smiled. "Sure. Been trying to do that for too many years."

  "We are members of the Children of the Rock. Outlanders who are pure in heart are always welcome. Providing, of course, that they prove themselves acceptable. We are going there shortly. Why not walk with us?"

  Ryan shook his head at the invitation. "Not right now, thanks. Need a meal and then a bed for the night. This place provide overnights?"

  "It does." Mom's voice floated in from the kitchen, showing that she had preternaturally sharp hearing. "Fix a price for y'all, depending on how many rooms you want. Food won't be too long a-coming."

  The three men stood with a strange synchronicity, tucking their chairs neatly in place. The skinniest of them smiled at Ryan and the others. "Brother Joshua Wolfe will welcome you, perhaps after the dawning?"

  "Perhaps. It's near?"

  "Oh, yes. It's only a few minutes walk farther along the winding old blacktop. You can't possibly miss—" His next words were drowned out by a ferocious outburst of coughing and sneezing from Doc.

  "My sincere apologies," the old man spluttered. "It's not the cough that carries you off. It is the coffin that they carry you off in."

  "Didn't catch the last thing you said." Ryan waited.

  "There will be sentries on watch on the road. There always are. The Children of the Rock have many good, good friends and a scattering of hostile enemies."

  "Like the Apaches?"

  "Yes, brother. Like the spawn of Shaitan. Farewell, then. Until tomorrow."

  All three of the young men paused by the door and made a strange circular motion with thumb and forefinger of the right hand. "Be seeing you."

  Then they were gone.

  The scent of food was growing ever stronger, making Ryan lick his lips.

  "Seem friendly," Doc said, wiping away beads of sweat from his forehead. "Very amicable fellows."

  Mildred sniffed dismissively. "Yeah, about as friendly as sunwarmed rattlers."

  Ryan poured himself a tumbler of water. "Can't say I took to them, myself. But I reckon it could be interesting to go take a look at their ville tomorrow."

  "You all right, Doc?" J.B. asked, sitting next to the old man.

  "I confess to feeling a little below par, dear friend. A touch of influenza would be my self-diagnosis. But I shall doubtless be myself on the morrow."

  Jak ran his long fingers through his matted mane of white hair. "Could do with bath."

  "Reckon that could be arranged," Ryan said. "Let's get the meal done with first."

  At that moment the bat-wing doors clattered open, and Mom, red faced and perspiring, pushed her way through carrying a big tray loaded with plates of food.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "That was so good."

  Krysty leaned back in her chair and barely stifled a belch, wiping at her chin with a stained linen napkin. She looked at her empty plate, then at the large array of serving bowls that stood in the middle of the table.

  One held a few wisps of creamed potatoes, dried and crusted at the edges. Another had a handful of slender green beans, sodden with salted butter. A large gravy boat had the skinned remnants of a delicious creamy sauce. A quarter of a loaf rested on a wooden platter. Its four predecessors had left only a scattering of crumbs.

  A flat dish of flower-patterned china had once held a mountain of Mom Fairchild's famous jerky. Now there was only a smear of dark grease against the emptiness.

  "Anyone fancy some puddings?" Mom called from behind the bar.

  "What you got?" Ryan replied.

  "Pecan pie. Pecan pie with cream. Pecan pie and lime jelly. Hot pecan pie."

  J.B. gave a thin smile, whispering under his breath. "Pecan pie well-done. Pecan pie med
ium rare. Pecan pie and grits. Oh, and we got some pecan pie."

  Mom hadn't finished. "And there's some peach-and-cherry cobbler, hot or cold, with or without."

  Ryan blew out his cheeks. "Spirit's willing, Mom, but I'm not sure the body can take another mouthful."

  "Try pecan pie, peach-cherry cobbler with cream and lime jelly," Jak called.

  "Me, too," Dean added.

  Krysty laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You two are living proof that you can get a quart into a pint pot. I seriously don't know how come you don't burst. You must've had at least three helpings of the jerky."

  "Four," they replied in unison.

  "Anyone else for dessert?"

  "I'll have a sliver of the pie with cream," Ryan said. "How about you, lover?"

  "No, thanks. I know when I've had enough. And right now I've had enough."

  "Just a glass of water for me, if you please," Doc said. "And maybe some coffee sub."

  "Sure thing." Mrs. Fairchild stood in the doorway, sleeves wound up almost to the shoulder, revealing her muscular arms. "Anyone else? No?" She turned on her heel and disappeared once more into the steamy kitchen.

  "That was the finest damned jerky I ever tasted," said the Armorer, leaning back in the seat and easing the buckle on his belt by a notch.

  The restaurant was empty, several of the lamps guttering. Nobody else had come by Mom's Place since Ryan and company arrived.

  Ryan felt comfortably relaxed and full. His right hand brushed against the butt of the SIG-Sauer; the Steyr SSG-70 hunting rifle stood upright against his chair.

  The great dishes of sun-dried strips of meat, some of them honey roasted and some smoked, had been mouthwateringly good, tender and chewy, with an exquisite flavor that lingered long on the palate.

  He'd asked Mrs. Fairchild what kind of meat she used for the jerky.

  "Varies. Sometimes I use some prime beef. Hard to get hold of up here in the hills. Goat's real good. Old guy lives down the trail a piece has some he feeds on milk. Tender as hand-reared veal but with a mite more flavor. Then there's often some tasty pork in there."

  "Lamb or mutton?" Mildred asked. "Some of it had a real unique texture."

  "Not often. Could be venison jerky that you had. Those hunters bring me some now and then. Even tried beaver, but it was kind of tough. Back flavor of fish to it. I often just mix it up and serve it in any order. Kind of potluck, as it comes."

  Ryan had tried to pump the woman about the Children of the Rock, but she clammed up and changed the subject, claiming she could smell something burning back in the kitchen and disappearing from the questions.

  A little later, when she was actually serving out the meals, she was just a tad more forthcoming.

  "Children of the Rock been around here for almost as long as I can recall. Started real small. Brother Joshua Wolfe came with a couple of shootists. Half a dozen women. Some hunting hounds. Now there must be close on a hundred of them. But that's only a guess. I haven't been there myself. Not for years. Fortified ville. Big buildings. They say they got electrics there. Power mill and shock fencing."

  She elaborated a little, saying there was a reasonable mix, with a few more men than women, but hardly any children. There were plenty of weapons and they were always on the lookout for recruits. They were at war with the local ranging band of Apaches, and they were seriously religious.

  "They leave me alone and I leave them alone. I just take care not to—" She stopped abruptly, as if she'd gone a few paces farther along the line than she'd intended. "Take care not to upset any of them who pass by."

  Now the meal was nearly done.

  In the end they all joined Doc in steaming mugs of coffee subs, served with plenty of cream and a large bowl of unrefined sugar.

  "Guess I'll be closing up soon," the woman said, leaning on the bar counter. "Light's most gone. Won't be any travelers passing through now."

  "You get troubled by mutie rats?" Ryan asked.

  She whistled between her gapped teeth. "Do I, outlander! I surely do. Biggest sons of bitches I ever saw. They reckon that it's one of the results of the old rad hot spots nearby, among the big trees."

  Ryan and J.B. both glanced automatically at the small lapel rad counters they wore, noticing that both were showing somewhere between the orange and yellow. They were some little distance away from the safety of green, but an equal distance from the imminent danger of red.

  Mrs. Fairchild carried on, seeming oblivious to their rad counters. "They come for miles after the offcuts from the butchering we do here."

  "Can't you poison them? Or just chill them with blasters?" the Armorer asked. "I never saw such mean, sickly bastards in all my life."

  "Just keep coming. Think they got some kind of underground nest out in the forest. Wouldn't want to be the one that stumbled on a place like that." She shuddered theatrically at the thought. "Anyway, you folk like some more coffee sub?"

  Doc, Dean and Jak both raised a hand at the invitation. The others refused the offer.

  "You three goin' to share a room together, tonight?" the woman asked as she poured out the hot, black, bitter liquid from a blue enameled pot.

  Dean and Jak nodded. Doc smiled up at the woman. Ryan watched and realized that the old man was entertaining lecherous thoughts. Mrs. Fairchild looked like she could have eaten up Doc for supper and spit out the bones. But there was no accounting for taste.

  "I've put you three into the end cabin. Kind of a few steps away from the main building, toward the stream. But there's plenty of bedding. You'll be snug as bugs in rugs. Now drink up, there's good boys."

  Doc sneezed and coughed at the same time, spluttering coffee onto the table. "I am so sorry, my dear Madam Fairchild," he said, wheezing.

  "Think nothing of it. Listen up, strangers. Make sure you keep the doors bolted tonight. Windows got armored shutters and locks. Keep them secure. This is a dangerous part of the country, what with the Apaches and all. Also been some trouble with stickies, within the last six months. Plucked folks out of their sleeping beds with their evil suckered fingers and slobbery mouths. Never a trace of them seen again."

  "We've gotten used to looking after ourselves." Ryan stood and stretched. "But we surely thank you for the warning. Old friend of mine used to say that an ounce of warning was worth a ton of regret."

  "Ready for bed," Doc said, wiping his nose with the blue kerchief.

  "Take one of the lamps from the table there. You'll find candles set ready by the beds. Plenty of blankets. Extra ones in the closet. Got your own John and washing facilities just off the bedroom. Won't be too much hot water. Plenty of cold. Comes straight from the stream out back."

  "I'd be interested to see the place you store your jerky," Mildred said.

  "Why?" The word was snapped like a steel bear trap.

  The woman looked up at Mrs. Fairchild, surprised at the vehemence of the reply. "No reason. It was so damned good I just would have liked to have seen the carcasses and the way you dried it. To keep the flavor."

  "Secret."

  Mildred shrugged, palms out. "That's fine. Didn't want to cause any trouble."

  "Sure, sure." A doubtful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Sorry I snapped. Just that there's always folks sneaking around, trying to find out my secret recipe for the jerky. Get tired of it."

  "I understand."

  "Good, real good. Just so long as you… That's fine, lady. Fine."

  A small part of Ryan's mind was puzzled by the woman's strange reaction to what had seemed an innocuous question. But his stomach was well filled with the fine food, and he was warm and dry, with the prospect of a decent bed for the night to come. Life was rich and interesting, and he set the minor doubt away.

  JAK LED DOC and Dean into the gloom, along the eastern flank of the main building, to where a narrow path wound out alongside the foaming stream, among the trees. He held one of the stained brass lamps above his head, the yellow flame turning his hair into a tumbled veil
of gold.

  Mrs. Fairchild indicated to Ryan and the others where they were to sleep, pointing to a white-painted door that opened into a narrow hallway. "One room with a double bed on that side. Another one, mite bigger, on the other side. And remember what I said about bolts and locks."

  "Sure. Thanks. We'll take breakfast before we leave in the morning."

  She nodded. "Sure, sure. Got plenty of eggs and sausages. Running a mite low on jerky. Though I feel sure there's some fresh supplies on the way." She paused, smiling to herself, by the heavy steel-lined door to the restaurant's kitchens. "Y'all sleep well, now."

  RYAN AND KRYSTY TOOK the smaller room. The shutters were heavy, with iron bolts, and he shook them, making sure they were solidly locked.

  "She kept on about the danger, didn't she?" Krysty said doubtfully.

  "Yeah. So?"

  "Like…like she was almost preparing us for something dark happening."

  "You got a bad feeling about this, lover?" He had sat on the bed, starting to unlace his combat boots, stopping as her doubts communicated themselves to him.

  She stood by the door, reaching up to slide across the top bolt, looking back over her shoulder, her fiery red hair gleaming in the candle's glow.

  "There's something that doesn't set right. The way she's out here on her own. With those mutie rats. And the Apaches in the neighborhood. I know she seems kind of tough, but…"

  Ryan ran his index finger alongside his nose, easing it up under the patch over the puckered socket of the left eye and rubbing at it. "If she had something planned, then why make such a fuss about warning us?"

  "True." She moved over to the other side of the bed, dusting her hand gently over the stained patchwork quilt. "Guess I'm getting paranoid."

  Ryan sat, unmoving, thinking. "You got me thinking," he said quietly. "Still, we got our blasters, and the room seems double secure. I can't see where any serious danger's going to come from. Over, under, through or around, like Trader used to say. All seems safe."

  She peeled off her white shirt, revealing her magnificent breasts. The nipples were erect, shadowed.

  "Got the itch, lover?"