After that tragedy he no longer worried much about God’s opinions. The words in this book had nothing to do with what he’d been and who he was now.
He looked into the dusk as if darkness could purge his confusion. Phainothropus primates and Antediluvian Engines? Nonsense poetry and scientific bullshit.
So why couldn’t he bring himself to get rid of the book?
He pulled an old yet functioning Gruen watch out of his trouser pocket. The dials were visible if he leaned into the setting sun’s purple light dusting the camp.
Cockfight in less than an hour.
He placed a tattered Tyrolean straw hat on his head. Set the book back in the cigar box, on top of the photographs, gaffs and bottle below it all. Held the box under his left arm as if they were chocolates and he was off to a date. Walked past the poorly constructed bullpens and gunnysacks stretched between wood frames. So many vacant now.
He paused in front of a tent. A woman sat inside with a boy and two girls. Hunger made Rey curious as to what she was preparing. She pushed her tangled dirty hair over one shoulder, poured thick soup from a dented pot into a ceramic vase. Placed her hands on the side of the vase and turned it upside down.
A quivering rubbery cylinder slid out. Fetal shapes floated in the center of the cloudy upright mass, like developing chicks inside an egg.
The woman noticed Rey. Offered a warm smile. “Care to join us? There’s plenty to go around.”
The children looked up at him with soft gazes. Rey felt uneasy at what he’d seen. They began to aggressively poke at the jelly with their dirty hands.
Rey mumbled something noncommittal and walked away.
The chicken coops were kept at the perimeter of the camp—far enough away to allow some discretion despite the animal’s crowing, near enough the contractors could keep an eye on them while allowing the men their recreational gambling.
Rey had sent money home to his wife and children over the years, but was too embarrassed to admit he’d been living in squalor. Never deluded himself into thinking he was a good man, but after all the fights and thieving and gambling he still held a certain pride in providing.
Lately even this had fallen to the wayside. Exorbitant debts and a drastic decrease in field labor wages saw to that. Only occasionally fooled with the four-bit broads, majority of his cash went to gambling and paying for his gamecock’s upkeep.
He set the cigar box down. Removed the dirty undershirt draped over the cage to keep Little Cerefino from getting agitated on seeing other stags. Bird usually ate better than him: forty pellets every morning, handful of cooked grains, dose of lemon and sugar just to keep his insides clean. But there was no food inside the cage now. 24-hour fast made the bird a better fighter.
Little Cerefino was a white hackle cross, powerful, noble in his simplicity. A stupid beast whose sole purpose, if any purpose could be ascribed to any living thing, was to fuck and fight. Born and bred to satisfy the cockfighter’s voracious appetite for sport and blood.
Rey held Little Cerefino in the crook of his elbow. Ran a finger across the smooth wattle and comb he’d expertly dubbed with a razor blade. Closed the cage, retrieved his box. Passed between the furrows on the dark scurfy fields in the direction of the distant hills.
A falling star cut a bright path across the sky.
Rey used to see strange things up there when he was younger. Called them “ancient-engines”. Concocted all manner of stories about where the ancient-engines had come from. Gave gruesome descriptions of their epic battles and malign intent. A boy playing make-believe games of war.
The land was desolate. The distant scrub pines twisted wire miniatures in a child’s diorama. Segments of sun bleached wood and rusted nails littered the ground—remnants of a gallera’s construction. He passed by leather cords attached to spikes driven into the earth. One tether ended in a chaos of feathers and dried bones. Waste of a good meal there.
A clapboard structure occupied the center of the clearing. Nearby, several empty cock hutches sat silhouetted against the sky, stacked high atop each other, like strange desert growths. The subdued rumble of men talking and guff laughter came from the interior of the ramshackle gallera.
The gateman sat on a metal folding chair. Left peeper nothing but fatty tissue, like something a butcher planned on saving for his dogs after the day was done. Two men stood, one at his left, other at his right.
Tall one looked to be napping while standing, thumbs hooked into his faded overalls. Other pulled deeply from a poorly rolled cigarette. Stared up at the stars as if expecting more company to fall down.
Rey fought the urge to turn around to see if the burning horse was behind him.
The gateman’s remaining eye glowed with a strange eagerness in the light cast by the trouble lamps hanging from hooks on the gallera’s canvas walls. A generator growled from somewhere nearby, emitting gasoline fumes, acrid and persistent.
“You gonna need to be approachin’ if you intend to enter these premises,” the gateman said.
Rey touched the photograph in his pocket for reassurance. The gateman’s sunburnt face added a severity to an expression that didn’t reach the amusement on his lips. Wore spit shined Bluchers the color of a redbone hound. Ivory slacks looked to have been denied the attentions of an iron for quite some time.
“Fine gallo.” The gateman ran a thumb and forefinger along his salt and pepper mustache drooping with sweat.
“Yes he is. Little Ceferino. A real pug.” Rey smiled.
“You business in bein’ here?”
“Fighting Alectryomancer tonight.”
The smoker raised an eyebrow. Picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue.
The gateman leaned forward in his chair, hands on knees. Scrutinized Rey from dusty boots to battered hat. “El Amarrador’s Alectryomancer? Y su gallo negro?”
Rey nervously tucked Little Ceferino under his other arm. Moved the cigar box to the other hand. “I have dough. Worked my way through the circuit.”
“I know who the fuck you is. You and the bird. Real money bird.”
“Six time champion. I’m on the level.”
The gateman slapped his knee as if he’d just been told a solid joke. “Who needs Ham ‘n’ Eggs in their dotage when you got a nest egg in cockfightin’! Am I right boys?”
Neither the tall sleeper nor smoker responded.
“You know El Amarrador never been beat?” The gateman sounded incredulous.
Rey knew this. El Amarrador had quite the reputation in the pitting racket. Reputation outside as well. Said to have made and lost fortunes on tin and rubber in Singapore. Came home to rub shoulders with Silver Shirts at the Murphy Ranch. Renowned cockfighter had traveled far and wide. Dabbled in strange and disreputable new movements. All this been said and more.
But Rey had his own past to contend with. He was determined to win tonight.
“I have dough. Here to pit with El Amarrador’s Alectryomancer,” he repeated.
“We’ve gone over this already pally.” The gateman turned his head, hocked a wad of yellow phlegm into the dirt. “You got the fee?”
“Entrants don’t pay a fee.”
“You’re an exception pally.” He held up five fingers on one hand, bent thumb and forefinger formed an O with the other.
“Never had to pay before.”
“Well you sure as fuck is gonna this time.”
“Goddamn frame-up.” Rey handed over the 50-cent entrance charge. Could’ve picked up a cheap steak and a pack of Model cigarettes for that price. The tin was a bigger hit than he’d expected to pay.
“Referee’ll be waitin’ inside.” The gateman paused before finishing with pally. He leaned back in his chair, surreptitiously slipped the coin into a pocket that jangled like a successful beggar’s cup.
The smoker waved Rey through into the gallera. Tall sleeping man continued to do just that.
The pit was an oval space with a packed dirt floor, about 18-feet in diameter. The thigh-high
barrier walls were built from rusty chicken wire and ragged pieces of wood lashed together with twine. Folding chairs surrounded the pit.
Folks had traveled far to be here; there were men from various camps within a 50-mile radius. Some gamblers sat, others stood. The shorter ones in the back did so on wooden fruit crates.
Rey recognized the referee from a bout he’d attended in Santa Barbara earlier in the year. A good man, well trusted. Known to be scrupulously fair when it came to his avocation.
El Amarrador squatted in the center of the pit. He held Alectryomancer wedged between his knees, like a farrier grasping a skittish stud’s hoof as he hammered the shoe in position. Swiped a big hand across Alectryomancer’s soot-black trimmed feathers. Rey had never seen such an animal before. Jet-black, beak and all.
El Amarrador met Rey’s gaze. Eyes all pupil, dark as the rooster’s feathers. Face smooth as a razor strop, like stubble had never marred its surface. He’d met this man before, was certain of it. Couldn’t describe the circumstances.
The referee held a Standing Liberty between thumb and forefinger. “Call it gentlemen.”
El Amarrador stood, looked down from a great height. “You first.”
“Heads,” Rey said.
The coin flashed like a diamond in the air, fell onto the referee’s open hand. “We have the Lady! Short or long?”
“Short.” Rey opened his cigar box. Carefully set the photographs and book aside. Removed the stubby sharp spurs and patches of chamois hole-punched in the center. Slipped them onto Little Cerefino’s leg, over the area where his natural spurs had been dubbed. Splashed liquid from the isopropyl bottle onto a wad of cotton. Wiped the gaffs, leg, and talons clean.
He tied the metal spur on. Looped the wax string several times so the thin blade would stay securely attached to the leg. Did this to both legs, cock scratching and fussing all the while. Rey looked over his shoulder and saw El Amarrador was ready with Alectryomancer.
“Time limit or kill?” the referee asked.
Rey looked to El Amarrador. The large man just smiled.
“Kill,” Rey spoke on his behalf.
The crowd was as agitated as a stallion smelling a mare in heat.
Finger betting began. Low roar of shouted numbers, extending one finger, five, back and forth. Money passed between work worn hands.
The referee wiped a wet cotton ball across Little Cerefino’s spurs to remove any traces of poison or noxious substances—professional cockfighter wouldn’t dream of pulling that particular grift, but rules were rules. He forced Little Cerefino’s beak open, squeezed the excess water from the cotton into his mouth. Satisfied the bird hadn’t been peppered or soaped, he turned to El Amarrador.
The large man lifted Alectryomancer above his head. Held him up like a newly acquired trophy. The crowd broke into a chant.
Alectryomancer! Alectryomancer! Alectryomancer!
The referee wiped down the black bird. Blew against the feathers, exposed the dark skin underneath. Finished, he stepped to the side of the pit, shaking his head at El Amarrador’s antics. He waved his hat in the air to get the crowd’s attention.
“Little Ceferino versus Alectryomancer! No time limit! Short gaffs! Gamecocks weigh in at 4 pounds each! Enoro!”
Rey pressed a palm against the snapshot in his pocket. Tried to imagine what his daughter’s faces looked like, the way his son held his hands to his mouth while sleeping. How their voices might sound if he’d enough details to conjure them up once more.
He gave a silent prayer to his children.
His wife.
His God.
“Bill your cocks!” the referee shouted.
They held their gamecocks out at arm’s length. The stags fussed. Clawed and pecked. Rage sparking their instinct to kill. Puffed up twice their size. Alectryomancer’s obsidian plumage glowed a purple tint in that light.
The two men crouched, each on their side of the chalk lines. One hand clasped against their cock’s breast, other clutching tail feathers.
The referee nodded. “Pit ‘em!”
They released their gamecocks.
Little Cerefino leapt into battle as if he had a hot pepper up his ass and came down hard on Alectryomancer’s back. Spur parted feathers, bit into the stag’s dark skin.
Alectryomancer rolled away. Fluttered dust off his feathers. A strange nightmare thing all bristled with aggression. A spider with feathers.
He ran at Little Cerefino, thin legs a blur, chest held forward. Pecked at his opponent’s head like a trained piqueros. Dazed him, flipped back talons up and sank spurs into Little Cerefino’s breast.
A point was so deeply lodged Alectryomancer had to bounce on one leg as he struggled to withdraw the gaff.
“Handle!” the referee commanded.
The cockfighters pulled their bird’s apart. Retreated to their respective sides of the chalk lines.
Alectryomancer’s blood was black as motor oil. El Amarrador’s hands glistened dark and wet.
Rey pressed his thumb against the hole in Little Cerefino’s chest until the bleeding slowed. He was already in a bad way. Despite all the black blood it looked like Alectryomancer was fine. That demon bird’s wound was all show but no blow.
“Pit!”
The cocks rushed at each other, wings outstretched. Dark outline of Alectryomancer contrasted against the filthy whitewashed pit walls like a mythical creature from a stone carving.
Little Cerefino tried another aerial attack, but that dark bird was too fast. He took advantage of the opening, jabbed at Little Cerefino’s head with both spurs slitting feathers and skin. Lacerated the cock’s eyeball. Jelly gushed down his beak.
Everyone in the noisy confinement of that gallera heard the impact. Little Cerefino was bleeding something awful from his eyehole.
“Handle!”
Rey took Little Cerefino’s head in his mouth, sucked the excess blood and eyeball mush from the empty socket.
Nothing to be done about it. Cock was blind on one side now.
He spit the bird’s hot blood into the dirt. Worked up some fresh saliva, spat into Little Cerefino’s mouth. Rubbed him warm. Held his finger against the breast wound even though it had already grown a tacky layer. “Not yet Cerefino. Not yet.”
Any hope of a win was fading fast.
The cocks flew at each other. Sleek killers, one a beautiful rusty orange and metallic green, the other otherworldly. Black as space.
Alectryomancer had the upper hand each pit, battering and slicing Little Cerefino, yet refraining from the final strike. Tiny feathers floated in the air.
By the fourth pitting it looked like all was lost. If Rey didn’t know any better he’d say Alectryomancer was intentionally prolonging the match, as if some predetermined amount of time had to pass before he could vanquish his foe.
Alectryomancer broke Little Cerefino’s left wing seconds into the fifth pitting. Even hobbled, wing dragging uselessly through the dirt, he was still a gallant bird as fury propelled him into combat, determined to hang a heel.
Alectryomancer rushed Little Cerefino. Lifted a few inches into the air, sailed down low, spurs extended for the kill. Little Cerefino gave a pathetic but valiant hop in an attempt to defend himself, but his left wing held him back. His injury forced him into a spin that threw Alectryomancer’s trajectory off.
The black rooster hit the dirt hard.
Little Cerefino continued moving, spurs swinging in an arc. One sank into Alectryomancer’s neck, other pierced his eye and slid into the brain with the sound of an icepick stabbing slushy ice.
Alectryomancer fell over limp and lifeless.
Those who’d taken a risk in betting on Little Cerefino howled with success. Most of the crowd spat cabron! at the gamecock and his handler.
The earth trembled.
A few laughed at the surprise, made jokes about the earthquake’s timing. The rest waited it out with grim determination. Trouble lamps swayed for a full two-minutes after the afters
hocks subsided.
Rey restrained Little Cerefino under his armpit. Poured cold water over his feathers, washed him up best he could. Wiped down the gaffs nice and neat. Stored them back in the cigar box beneath the book and photographs.
El Amarrador stood over Alectryomancer. Flies had already started to land on the verga. The big man’s shoulders shook as he sobbed.
He lifted Alectryomancer with such reverence you’d expect him to have blessed the little corpse right then and there.
But he just stood in silence, shirt and arms so wet with blood Rey could smell it as far away as he was. Odor made him think of fire and that black horse.
Gamblers slapped Rey on the back. Drunk faces cheered him on. A fistfight broke out near the back of the gallera.
El Amarrador turned to Rey. Didn’t seem to care much that his tears left trails on his dusty skin. Kind of man that wore his emotions on his sleeve and wouldn’t think twice to correct your error at drawing attention to it. He solemnly shook Rey’s hand.
“Regular navajeros that gamecock a yours. Don’t know how he did it.”
“Fair fight.” Rey wiped black blood on his trousers.
“Alectryomancer never lost a bout.”
“What kind a bird is that?”
“Not from these parts. One of a kind really.”
“Never seen the likes.”
“Wasn’t supposed to happen like that. No telling what machinery been set in motion now.”
“What about my money?”
“Get it tomorrow. The boy will fetch it.”
“You don’t have it?”
“I do not.”
“Suppose I got no choice.”
“None whatsoever. Like that little tremor we got right before that earthquake. Metal orbs shifting under our feet. Can’t control none of it.”
“Don’t know any a that from nothin’.” A spasm rippled down Rey’s neck. Those words were familiar.
El Amarrador placed his thick hand on Rey’s shoulder. Little Cerefino squawked. “Incomprehensible machines evolving beneath our feet. At the mercy of time.”
“A preacher and a cockfighter! Don’t recognize the verse.”
“Not much use for scripture.”
Alectryomancer and Other Weird Tales Page 18