Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman

by Duncan Eagleson

  I don’t allow them to haunt me much. I can’t afford to. You let yourself dwell on that sort of thing too much, you’ll drive yourself mad. Now and then, though, you have to let those faces come out of the shadows. You have to think about them and remember. It’s what keeps you from allowing yourself to take life lightly, to kill because it’s expedient rather than truly necessary. To remember that it’s always a choice, and you take responsibility for it, accept the consequences.

  I knew I’d be seeing that face loom out of the shadows more frequently than the others. Hannah Caine, Helena Crichton, Goodnight Irene, the Amazing Vanishing Mother, Demon Goddess, Vengeful Wife and Spurned Woman. I wondered how often, if ever, it would be overlaid by the face of the Fairy Godmother, or whatever she was, who appeared to me over the years.

  And what about her, anyway? Was she a figment of my imagination? A spirit of some sort, masquerading as my mother? A Rydell fragment of herself my mother had thrown off? If she ever showed up again, I supposed, I could try to ask her. Not that she had ever given me time or opportunity for questions.

  I watched Morgan tapping away at the keyboard of her portable unit. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, the unit on her lap, our satchels packed at her feet. Now I thought I understood why she’d tried to persuade me to leave once the Beast was dead. She had already known—or had a strong suspicion—that Helena Crichton was also my mother. She’d been trying to avoid having to tell me, hoping to protect me from the knowledge. She’d thought that if we called the case closed, left the city, went on with our lives, I might never have to know what kind of monster dear old Mom had become. That’s what she’d meant when she’d said, “We’ve lost enough.” With Rok gone, even in the midst of her own grief, she’d tried to save me from this further loss.

  But you can’t protect people by denying them knowledge, or denying them an informed choice. Morgan had realized that. That’s why she’d told me at the last.

  I’d said we’d talk about this later, but I realized now there wasn’t any need. Ultimately she’d done the right thing, and that was what counted.

  “We’re to return to New Frisco ASAP,” Morgan announced, looking up from the screen. “They’ve convened a Raven Parliament. You are requested to attend.”

  “They want me to give evidence?” I asked.

  Morgan frowned. “There’s only twenty-two other names on the list,”

  The Raven Parliament consists of twenty-three members: a Murder of seventeen Ravens a Pentangle of five Senior Ravens, and the Elder Raven. If someone had appointed me a Raven, no one had told me about it yet. I thought of my late-night conversation with Roth. And I wondered... Did he know something I didn’t? Did he have a contact inside the order?

  “By the way, Roth wants to see you before we go.”

  I found Roth sitting alone in the conference room where we’d first met. The westering sun cast gold highlights on the edges of things in the room. The large circle on the opposite wall positively glowed. Before Roth, on the conference table, lay the hilt of the ancient sword I’d used to kill Hannah Caine.

  “You know what this sword is?” asked Roth. The hilt and what remained of the blade threw off sparks of fire from the evening sun.

  “I’m an expert at using them, not at appraising them. I can tell it’s the oldest piece I’ve ever seen, probably an Osoto.”

  “It’s older than that,” said Roth. “It’s an original Isao Suddeth. Look at the menuki here.” He pointed to the side of the handle. “Suddeth used very simple, stylized shapes, we think in reaction to having used the traditional, intricate carvings for so many years. They went out of use in the second century, and sword makers went back to the older style. And the tsuba,” he indicated the round hand guard, which was decorated with a bas relief of crows and leaves. “Those leaves are sugar maple, which only grows in the northeast. Take this hilt apart, and I’d be willing to bet you’ll find the tang of the blade stamped with Suddeth’s mark. It’s not Ravenwing, but it’s of that period. Possibly belonged to one of the First Five.”

  “I didn’t know you were such an expert on antique swords.”

  “Everybody needs a hobby.” Roth laughed. “Look at this. There’s a story in these engravings. You see this face here? With the runes under it?”

  I’d seen it. I could read the runes. “It says ‘memory,’” I said.

  “It means ‘remember.’ And the face is a mask. Just before the Crash there was a class war developing. It was the corrupt government officials, the puppets of the petrobarons and wallbankers who created the economic disasters of the period. This mask was a symbol of the folks who rose up against them.

  “It’s important for a city boss, or a leader of any kind, to have a clear sense of history,” he said. “Look at the great disasters of the past and eight out of ten times you’ll see that a crucial component in making the disaster is a leader who’s not thinking straight, one who makes decisions on the basis of what benefits themselves and their cronies, rather than what’s best for their community. Consider in our own era the fall of Redmond, the collapse of Charlotte, even what happened here with the Takeover. If Crichton’s priority had been what was good for Bay City, the People’s Movement would never have been necessary.”

  “But don’t you think,” I asked, “that it’s possible for a leader to have his constituents’ best interests at heart, and still make the wrong decisions?”

  “Of course. Anyone can make a mistake. Hell, I’ve made some major mistakes myself. And they do come back to bite me in the arse.” He lifted the hilt of the sword. “Case in point. My actions with Hannah Caine, Helena Crichton that was, were driven by tunnel vision, concern for my immediate objectives, without considering the price of those objectives. If I had counted the human cost of those actions, even just the cost to Helena Crichton herself, it might have prevented much of what has happened here.

  “It’s all about your people, Railwalker, about your relationships, your community. When I began the People’s Movement, I sought out associates who weren’t afraid to argue with my decisions. That’s what keeps a leader honest, keeps the power from going to your head. But your associates can only help you with that if you clue them in. I said nothing to anyone about my affair with Helena Crichton. It was a secret from even my closest friends. No one ever had the chance to tell me I was being an arsehole.”

  “Sometimes you have to figure that out for yourself,” I said.

  He nodded. “Your partner has told you you’ve been called to New Frisco?”

  “Yeah. There’s a Parliament.”

  “You know they’ll ask you to fill a post. Probably Warden of the West.”

  He paused to let that sink in. It did. He was right. Morgan had called it. Dahlia was even older than Traveler, and she wanted to retire, and she was looking at me to replace her. I’d never wanted any sort of office. But Morgan was right, I had to admit. The alternatives were not pretty. If Kane or Groute became Warden, they’d be one step away from Elder Raven.

  “Your Prof, Morgan,” said Roth. “Does she say you frankly?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed. “She lets me know when I’m being an arsehole, that’s for sure.”

  “Good,” said Roth. “Good enough. Keep her with you if you can, and seek out others like her for your staff as Warden. You need the ones who’ll call you on your shit.

  “Once you’re Warden, you’ll be dealing with me, and people like me, a lot. But when you’re making your decisions, make them for Suzi Mascarpone, and Arnie Hawthorne, for the people of Maricopa, and the other places you’ve visited in the zones. Make your decisions with all of them in mind.”

  He slapped his open palm on the table. “Enough lecture!” he said, and stood. “You’ve done a man’s job, sir.” He produced a small valise, slid it across the desk toward me. It was heavy. I looked inside. Gold pieces gave it the weight, and there were bundles of intercity scrip.

  “That’s an awful lot of money,” I said.

 
“You saved my skinny old arse, and saved my city and my people from a pair of monsters,” he said. “Take it. If you won’t take it personally, deliver it as my contribution to your order.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He extended his hand, and I took it. Roth knew nothing of the fact that I’d killed my own mother. His thanks were unmitigated by any doubt or second thoughts. He would not be haunted by what had happened. Or would he? Maybe, I thought. He may not have killed his own mother, but the woman I killed had once been his lover, and had become his most fervent nemesis, and Roth was a man who clearly saw how his own actions had sown the seeds of his near-destruction. Yeah, I thought, he’d have his own ghosts to deal with.

  “Many thanks, Railwalker Wolf,” he said.

  “Just doing my job,” I said in the ritual response.

  “Go safely, and return as the crow flies.”

  “I will as I may. Twenty-three Blessings of Soul-Are on you and yours, City Boss Micah Roth.”

  ***

  We stepped out onto the roof in the half-light of early evening. The sun was a narrow crescent of orange on the edge of the bay to the west. Morgan and I turned toward it and performed the Salutation to the Setting Sun. When that was finished we stood still, watching the final slice of the red orb sink into the bay. Then we turned toward the ornithopter.

  That was when I noticed the figure in the wheelchair. She saw me notice her, started her chair, and rolled over to me.

  “Oculus,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t know me, Railwalker,” she said. “You don’t know nothing ’bout me, or my homies and contacts. How’s this crippled old mutie come to be on the roof of the City Admin Tower, chair and all? Like to remain one of them mysteries. But I tell you true, Railwalker, word and pledge on it, I had a vision ’bout you. Your Momma, she dead these many years, no?”

  “Not so sure about many years,” I said. “But she’s dead, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re a fool, then. You Momma, her spirit come to me, coupla days ago. She showed me a vision. She feared for you, Railwalker. You face many trials ahead. Then one of these days, you’ll meet that old Glaeken. And your Momma feared for your fate at its hand.”

  A Glaeken was something like a dragon. There were tales of them in the Railwalker Canon, but no one had seen one in living memory. The Glaeken was also often used as a metaphor for other forces: the unconscious, the darkness, the things that dwell in shadow. It wasn’t clear how Oculus, or my mother’s spirit, meant this to be taken. I sighed. Again with the obscure mystification.

  “But here’s the important thing,” Oculus continued. “What she wanted me to tell you. Don’t try to stand against the Glaeken alone. You can’t defeat it by yourself, so don’t even try. When the day comes, reach out to your people, Railwalker. That’s the only way you will conquer.”

  She peered at me, apparently gauging how well I was listening. I nodded slowly.

  “Go safely, Railwalker,” she said.

  “Twenty-three Blessings, Grandmother.”

  I turned and followed Morgan to the ornithopter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Nearly every acknowledgments page I’ve ever read (and, yes, I always read them) trots out the old saw about how novels are not created in a vacuum, and it takes lots of help and support to make them happen. It’s not as if I ever scoffed at this idea, but writing Darkwalker and seeing it through to publication certainly underscored the validity of that oft-repeated claim. I’m deeply grateful for the help and support of a number of folks who contributed in one way or another to the making of this novel.

  First and foremost, my profound thanks to my best friend and sometime collaborator, Rev DiCerto. He was there at the start of Darkwalker, and gave invaluable feedback and input during the writing of the initial drafts. I think it came as a bit of a surprise to both of us when he ended up becoming my editor on the final drafts, but I couldn’t have asked for a better editor.

  A major shout-out is due to my crow-bro Gregory A. Gallo, one of the finest artists and the finest men I’ve ever known, without whom the Railwalkers would never have existed.

  Thanks also to Rose Mambert, for believing in Darkwalker, and offering it a home at Pink Narcissus. Profound appreciation to my early readers and critics: Kelley Braheny, Jane LeCompte, Juniper Talbot, and Sarah Eaton. Also to James D. Macdonald, for some of the most practical, pragmatic and down-to-earth writing advice I’ve ever been gifted with.

  Though I don’t know Howell Chickering personally, I nevertheless owe him a debt of gratitude, as it was his essays and annotations to Beowulf that first opened up that famous epic poem for me, and got me delving further into the critical literature about it.

  And deep gratitude to my life partner, Moira, and my daughter Kelley, for their unflagging belief, love, and support.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Author and artist Duncan Eagleson has had a checkered career which has included working as an advertising copywriter, private detective, astrologer and cartomancer, actor, stage combat choreographer, painter, sculptor, screen printer, book and comics illustrator, and mask maker. He is best known for his artistic contribution to Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series, his graphic novel version of Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour, and the masks he created for Wes Craven’s Cursed, the Big Apple Circus, magician Jeff McBride, and the WWE wrestler Kane. He lives just outside Providence, Rhode Island (former home to Poe and Lovecraft) and spends most of his time in his basement studio, surrounded by far too many drums, swords, books, and DVDs. He no longer owns any pets, and refuses to explain why, but has been seen talking to crows on numerous occasions.

  He can be found online at duncaneagleson.com, eaglesondesign.com, and maskmaker.com.

  Other Pink Narcissus Press titles

  featuring Duncan Eagleson

  ELF LOVE: An Anthology

  The best of the lot was “Goodnight, My Lady”, penned by Duncan Eagleson and inspired by Raymond Chandler’s “Farewell, My Lovely” wherein hardboiled detective Philip Marlowe is hot on the trail of the vanished lover of a dangerous ex-con. Although it is a 35-page short story, the pages fly by fast and the story goes down like a shot of Hennessy Cognac.

  -Bob Heske, IndieCreator

  ISBN: 978-0-9829913-0-5

  IMPOSSIBLE FUTURES

  The subtitle emblazoned across Duncan Eagleson’s pitch-perfect, retro-kitsch cover of Impossible Futures promises its readers a “Return to the Future that Never Was!” It’s a promise that this new anthology fulfills several times over...This wholly satisfying collection delivers an entertaining, engrossing, even exhilarating reading experience.

  -ForeWord Reviews

  ISBN: 978-1-939056-02-3

  RAPUNZEL’S DAUGHTERS

  and Other Tales

  Duncan Eagleson’s Viking Snow White retelling, “Snovhit” [has] an authentically ancient feel. [… A]ny fairy tale fan will find something to enjoy in this collection.

  -Publishers Weekly

  ISBN: 978-0-9829913-1-2

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE FROM DUNCAN EAGLESON