“Why would he? He hates it there. That place only reminds him of his defeat. He hadn’t set foot anywhere close to the mine until yesterday’s vigil. And you saw how well that went.”
Mrs. Whitlock was either willingly unaware of her husband’s whereabouts, or she simply didn’t care.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitlock.” Tiberius tapped the brim of his hat.
“Before you go, would you mind opening this bottle for me? I can take the cork out for the life of me.”
Mrs. Whitlock handed Tiberius a small rectangular glass vial topped with a cork. When he pulled it out, a small drop of the tincture fell on his hand. The room filled with a strong scent that had a fresh, earthy quality to it. It was pleasant, a mix of fresh flowers, wet wood, and spices, with a hint of something metallic.
Mrs. Whitlock poured the tonic on her hands and gently rubbed them. Then she grabbed Tiberius’s palm and spread the stray drop with her finger. Her touch was soft as silk. Tiberius’ skin tingled.
“You’re a very handsome man, Sheriff. Strong. Souls Well’s true guardian.”
“Mother?”
Sarah Anne’s appearance gave Tiberius’ the chance to break free from Mrs. Whitlock’s grasp.
“Sarah, be a dear and walk Sheriff Tibbetts out. Good day to you, Sheriff.”
Tiberius replied with a flustered nod. His cheeks burned. He rushed back to the hallway.
“What was that about?” Sarah Anne asked, amused with his childish reaction.
“Your ma is acting very strangely.”
“I’ve never seen her like this before, but she looks happy. I guess the change is for the better.”
The house was quiet, and Sarah Anne dared hold Tiberius hand as she guided him back to the front door.
“Why didn’t you tell me that woman was here, Sarah? The one from the medicine show.”
“Why would I tell you that? She came and sold my mother some cosmetics. She didn’t seem to mean any harm.”
“I don’t trust her.”
“What’s the matter, Tiberius?”
Tiberius’ head was spinning. Lucy, Obadiah Whitlock, John Hickok, and Mountain Iris. A dead girl, a cursed silver mine, vanishing corpses, and mysterious elixirs changing hands all around town.
Even if his mind wanted to deny it, Tiberius had witnessed the impossible twice in less than a day. Clinton Eadds, a cripple whose legs were too broke to even stand on his own, danced all night long. And now Mrs. Whitlock, the sickly, fragile, gray Mrs. Whitlock, suddenly showed the spirit and looks of a woman in her prime.
“I’ll see you later, Sarah. Come find me right away if your father shows up.”
Sarah Anne kissed him on the cheek, and he was grateful. Tiberius left her house with more questions and no answers. He hoped the crowd would be gone by the time he passed the town square, but the line of people was even longer. Donahue had a larger stack of boxes behind him, but his female counterpart was nowhere to be seen.
XIV
Tiberius stared at the snowy peaks, ominous and threatening behind the tall treetops. He followed the path to the silver mine, through the white fir forest, scouting every inch of the ground. The footprints of the vigil’s attendees were still visible in the mud, as was the deep track from the wheels of Obadiah Whitlock’s carriage.
When he reached the mine and circled the deserted landscape, he found nothing but endless piles of rock and snow, and the melted candles the townsfolk had left in front of the buried, wooden archway.
Tiberius stood still and listened. The wind whistled. A hawk screeched high up in the sky. The ice cracked as it melted beneath his boots. Nothing seemed amiss in that peaceful place of desolation.
Tiberius still feared Obadiah Whitlock had lied about abandoning the digging site forever. If Whitlock lost his silver fortune, he’d also lose his grip around Souls Well. The mountains grumbled, as if they had read Tiberius’ thoughts. He shivered at the possibility of another cataclysm. The men and women of Souls Well were used to the harsh mountain life. They’ve overcome it all: crime, disease, famine… But there’s so only much tragedy a place can witness before turning into a cursed spot on every single map.
Tiberius returned to the fir forest. This time, he trekked through wild, narrow trails between the trees. He eventually came to a dead end, marked by a tall wall of gray rock: the base of a sharp cliff. The trees grew more sparingly around the cliff, and bushes dominated the greenery. As soon as Tiberius moved closer, the breeze carried the fresh scent of sage straight to his nose.
Both sides of the wall led to steep slopes that dived back into the forest. Thin streams of water ran down the face of the cliff and made the soil muddy at its base. Where the mud was fresher, Tiberius noticed a group of footprints. They changed in size, shape and distance. Tiberius tried to identify the pairs. Four? Five, maybe?
The tracks led him to an outcropping of black rock. Pebbles and twigs layered the ground around it, and the footprints soon became impossible to trace.
The dark rock stood around five feet high. Thick brambles covered most of its surface, but its northernmost side was barren, and showed deep marks of erosion that Tiberius used as rough handles to climb all the way to the top.
The gentle wind carried the soothing sounds of the forest to his vantage point atop the rock. The trees swayed and crackled while birds chirped and flew from treetop to treetop. The high peaks rumbled. The streams had started to freeze and they gurgled slowly..
There was one other sound, an unexpected melody that both stood out and perfectly matched the natural melody of the forest. Somewhere, not too far from where Tiberius stood, a woman sang.
Tiberius traced the enticing chant. He followed a stream and came to a small lake, fed by a short but strong waterfall. Mountain Iris was bathing in it. Tiberius recalled a story his father used to tell him about the beautiful goddess Diana, and the hunter that was condemned for staring at her naked beauty.
Mountain Iris’ movements were graceful, swan-like. Drops of water gleamed like pearls in her long, dark hair. Her curls fell all the way down her back and covered her breasts.
“Are you coming in?” she asked.
Tiberius stirred. “Isn’t it too cold for a swim?”
“Cold water makes your blood flow. These streams are old and full of minerals. One dip can do wonders for your health. You should try it some time.”
Mountain Iris waded out of the stream. Her whole body, covered in fresh water, sparkled under the late morning sun. Tiberius turned away. She laughed, her laughter as crystalline as her singing.
“I’m decent now,” she said with fake decorum.
Mountain Iris’s dress stuck to her wet skin and defined her curves. Tiberius wondered what was more seductive: seeing her naked or fully dressed. She twisted her long hair. Water drops fell on her feet.
“Taking an afternoon walk?” she asked.
“For work, not pleasure.”
She smiled. “Are you Sheriff of the forest as well?”
“Actually, I’m glad I found you. I have some questions. You—”
Mountain Iris grabbed Tiberius’ chin and turned his face left and right. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sick?”
“Just tired. Very.”
“Come.”
Before he could say anything else, Mountain Iris guided him through a path full of thorny bushes. Minutes later, they arrived at a small clearing that was well protected by tall trees on three sides and opened to a wide, sandy path on the other. Mountain Iris’ red wagon rested close to the path. Wet, colorful clothes, mostly female, hung from a rope that crossed the wagon’s window and was tied up to a nearby tree. In front of the wagon, a cauldron bubbled on top of a blazing campfire.
“Nice place for a hideout,” Tiberius said.
Mountain Iris’ black stallion roamed free. He trotted closer when she arrived, looking for a quick pet. Mountain Iris tapped the horse’s side, picked a handful of h
erbs and pebbles from the pocket of her dress, and threw them inside the black cauldron.
“I’ll be right back.” She disappeared inside her wagon.
Tiberius walked to the fire pit and smelled the bubbling concoction. He was disappointed to find no traces of sage. He strolled around the campsite. If he believed in fairytales, he’d have thought that he’d just walked into a witch’s trap.
Clinking noises came from the wooden wagon. Tiberius approached its red door and placed his hand on the red knob. Mountain Iris’ horse neighed.
“Hey, she brought me here first.” Tiberius smirked and went inside.
XV
As soon as Tiberius stepped into the wagon, the thin layer of yellow mist that floated above the traveling truck made him tear up. He smelled sulphur. And columbines, coffee beans, moss, and rusty metal. The mix of scents was alien and intense, but not altogether unpleasant.
The smoke came from the multiple glass vessels that filled every corner of the wagon. There were flasks and beakers crammed on a small table, some of them connected by tubes and funnels, filled with liquids of glowing colors that danced with an incandescent glow.
Mountain Iris was busy stirring some of the beakers and mixing others. She watched some of the potions and nodded. It was a wondrous display of careful technique that Tiberius would never have expected.
Tiberius stood by the door, too concerned of breaking anything. “So, this is your deal, huh? You make the product and Donahue closes the sales.”
“And I assume your deal is following women into their homes without being invited in.”
Tiberius cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “You live here?”
Mountain Iris stepped on a stool and opened a small skylight on the wooden ceiling. The yellow smoke escaped through the opening.
“Here, there. It doesn’t matter, really,” she replied.
Tiberius stared at a round beaker and smiled at the deformed reflection of his face. He stuck his tongue out, and the glowing liquid seemed to respond with a sudden, golden twirl.
“I have to be honest, this is very impressive,” he said.
“You were expecting water, booze, and colored tincture, no doubt. I’m aware of the alarming quantity of phonies out there, Sheriff. Snake oil salesmen they call us. Sad but true most of the time.”
“But you’re different.”
Mountain Iris stopped her coming and going. She waved her arm toward her flasks and beakers. “This is my craft. It’s both art and science. I follow the ancient tradition I learned from my grandmother, and she did from hers and so on.”
“I never cared for witchcraft.”
Mountain Iris responded with a warm, patient smile, like a tutor teaching a little boy how to read.
“Ignorance and superstition will only bring us back to the Dark Ages. I rely on study and careful experimentation.”
The wind sneaked through the open door and caused four leather pouches that hung from four iron hooks to sway. Mountain Iris chose one of them, and pulled its content on her palm. It was a red gemstone, like the one she’d used on her magic act at the medicine show.
Mountain Iris pinched the gemstone between her long fingers, and moved it until it brushed surface caught a sunbeam. “Everything in this world is made of the same elements, differently combined. The rocks, the trees, the water in the stream, everything. Nothing stays the same for long. There’s a constant flow. Understand that flow and you’ll be able to control it. Such is the power of alchemy.”
Mountain Iris spoke with passion and confidence, but Tiberius couldn’t help but arch his eyebrow.
“Alchemy? Like turning sand into gold?” he asked.
She shrugged. “If that’s your area of expertise, why not?” Her eyes shimmered with a feline glow. “I’m more interested in what changes the most, and what we know the least about: the human body.”
Tiberius recalled Mrs. Whitlock as she played with her colorful collection of bottles and vials. “Beauty tonics.”
Mountain Iris picked two of her flasks and poured their content into a small beaker. Then she shook it and the liquid changed from red to blue.
“You talked to one of my customers. How is she?”
“Different,” Tiberius replied.
“Different good or different bad?”
“Different weird.”
Mountain Iris widened her eyes. Then she laughed, openly and honestly.
“Let me tell you something, Sheriff: weird or not, my elixirs do work.”
“For a price, of course.”
“A girl needs to make a living.”
Mountain Iris carried a black leather pouch hanging from a string around her neck. She took a pinch of a sparkling, gray powder from the pouch and added it to the mix. The potion’s blue color twinkled and then darkened.
Tiberius peeked over her shoulder. Two small cots occupied the far end of the traveling cart. But only one of them had been slept in. That sight gave him a sudden sense of relief.
“What about Donahue?” Tiberius inquired.
Mountain Iris followed his gaze, then drew a red curtain and hid the back of the truck. “What about him?”
“Is he an alchemist too?”
“He’s a dedicated student. Also, he’s better with people. I don’t have the charisma or patience to deal with crowds.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Or me?”
Mountain Iris lit a candle and placed it under a round, metal grate. She put the vial on the grate and got busy with the rest of her potions.
“I certainly did not. Now, I’m not sure what to think. You seem very different from Donahue. I must say I can’t getput my head around your connection.” Tiberius confessed.
“If you’re meaning to ask if he’s my lover, he’s not. He once was, but we realized we were better as partners than as sweethearts.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“My whole family died of consumption. None of my formulas could save them, no matter how hard I tried. From that moment on, I’ve dedicated my life to understanding what makes us so weak, so vulnerable.”
Mountain Iris picked up a bright yellow shawl from a hook and wrapped her tan shoulders in it.
“I survived, but I was all alone. I met Maxwell when he came to my hometown with one of his medicine shows. He told me I had a talent that needed to be shared with the world and offered me the position of his traveling companion. I accepted. I wanted to travel, but that’s not easy for a woman by herself in the West. Especially for one with my skin tone.”
Mountain Iris was a vision as she played with her flasks and filled bottles with liquids of one thousand and one colors. Her movements were so careful, so precise, that Tiberius would consider her capable of trapping a sun beam in one of her potions.
“What about your tribe, then?” Tiberius asked.
“Excuse me?”
“The young squaw. That’s what they call you around town.”
Mountain Iris’s laughter bounced on the glass beakers. It reverberated like a brass bell.
“My father was a gentleman from Boston who ran away with his maid, born and raised in Medfield, Massachusetts.”
“Sorry, I assumed… Your looks… And your name…”
“My grandmother was Egyptian. My mother always told me how alike we looked. The name was Maxwell’s idea. He thinks it has a better ring to it for sales.”
“What’s your real name?”
Mountain Iris blew the candle under the grate. She wrapped her hand in a damp cloth, put the glowing vial away from the heat, and placed that same cloth on top. “What’s yours?”
“Tiberius.”
“That’s a nice name. Unusual.”
“My father was an unusual man.”
“I see.”
Mountain Iris picked up a cork from an open glass jar. She unwrapped the vial from the damp cloth, touched it with her fingertip then corked it and shook the mixture.
She held Tiberius’ hand and
pressed the potion on his palm while the glass was still warm. “This is a reinvigorating tonic. It won’t substitute the benefits of a good night’s sleep though. You must take better care of yourself.”
“I don’t want it.” Tiberius protested, but didn’t take his hand away from hers.
“I told you my story and my secrets. I had no reason to. I’m no threat to your town or you, Tiberius.” Mountain Iris closed Tiberius’s palm around the vial. Her touch was fire. “Take it. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t trust me.”
Tiberius rejected her gift, with some reluctance. “Maybe some other time.”
Mountain Iris stood too close to him for a woman he’d just met. Or maybe she wasn’t close enough.
A young face peeked through the wagon’s door. “Hello?”
Clinton Eadds tumbled inside. He relied on both his left and right crutches. His legs were crooked and looked weaker than ever.
“Hi, Clinton,” Tiberius greeted as he took a step back from Mountain Iris.
“Oh, hi, Sheriff.” Clinton adjusted the straps of his satchel. “I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am. Someone in town told me your camp whereabouts and—”
“How can I help you?” Mountain Iris replied with a welcoming smile.
Clinton was having a hard time standing up. Mountain Iris invited him to sit down on a wooden stool. He leered at the stool and remained upright.
“The tonic Mister Donahue gave me yesterday,it really worked, ma’am. I’ve never felt better in my life.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But today—”Clinton burst into tears and his legs gave in. Tiberius held his crutches and helped him sit.
“There, there. Put yourself together, pal.” Tiberius gave him a brotherly pat on the back.
Clinton sniffed. “My injuries came back.”
“Did Maxwell send you here?” Mountain Iris asked.
“No, ma’am. I decided to come here by myself. I don’t want anyone to know I’m crippled again.”
Tiberius saw how Clinton Eadds perceived himself: broken, weak, worthless. For just a night, Clinton had caught a glimpse of how his life could’ve been if the avalanche had never occurred. But he’d woken up to find a dried-up dream, a fantasy that slipped through his fingers like desert sand.
Silver & Bone (American Alchemy - Wild West Book 1) Page 7