Conspiracy of Ravens

by Lila Bowen

  His little toe itched and twitched, but Rhett didn’t indulge in a scratch. He’d pretended for too long that his eye would grow back, somehow. His toe, he knew, was gone forever. But what was Trevisan doing with the damn thing, anyway?

  The next morning dawned fair, the last of the rain dripping away from every eave and sagging tent. The first thing Rhett did, even before he opened his eye, was to rummage around under his shirt and dig a fingertip into the pouch of ashes and touch his tongue, just in case the effect had worn off. Surrounded by nothing but monsters, his only hope of staying hidden was to pretend to be normal. Normal for a monster. Or not the Shadow, anyway, considering he was in with a whole crew of Injuns and half-Injuns, and who knew if they were familiar with the legend?

  If Rhett had considered his life with Mam and Pap to be horrible before, it was only because he’d never worked at a railroad camp. Digby rounded up the fellers of Car 18 and marched them in a line to a supply car, where they were each handed a numbered pickax, their tips purposely filed down to bluntness. Rhett’s new number was eleven, which was easy enough for him to remember. 11. Just two little lines, like a man’s legs. It was carved into his pickax, and Rhett considered it damn lucky nobody carved it into him. The 18 Cora had drawn onto his palm had long since been rubbed away, but if he thought about it, hard, he could still feel the warmth of her fingertip pressing gently against his skin.

  Pickaxes over their shoulders, Digby led his men to the front of the train, which Rhett had never seen before. The engine was a big, dangerous-looking thing, like a damn buffalo—which is what the little grille on the front was for. If some dumb cow or a buffalo got on the track, Digby told him, well, the train just plowed on through, and some fellers were sent out on handcars afterward to collect the meat.

  The track ended way ahead of the engine, and it was Crew 18’s job to grade the area, meaning it had to be level enough for the rails. They crowded onto a little car, banging one another with boots and pickaxes, and then Digby and the next biggest feller pumped the machinery that moved the car on down the freshly laid rails. It was a long, bumpy while before they reached the end of the train tracks and the handcar stopped to let them off, right before a whole other set of cars containing wood and metal and spikes beyond counting.

  Other crews crawled over the site like ants, some setting out with scraggly mules or much-abused handcars, carting dirt and supplies and dynamite to wherever the hell such things were needed. Rhett caught sight of a group of worried-looking Chine men carefully carrying big crates as if they contained precious, raw eggs and concluded he was glad that blowing shit up wasn’t his job.

  Once Rhett had hopped down in the puddle-filled trench and started banging his pickax into the quickly drying mud, he couldn’t watch what anybody else was doing. All of his focus went toward not breaking a foot or hitting his workmates. He learned immediately that Digby was a different man outside the bunk car, a sharp-voiced, angry-eyed bastard spitting orders and keeping everybody in line. Rhett took to his pickax quickly, although the work was awful and hard and stupid. He tried to stop one time to wipe sweat off his brow, and Digby stuck the end of a whip in his face.

  “I don’t wanna quirt you, son, but I will. If Mr. Shelton or a foreman is watching and you stop working, I’ll whip you. And if the big boss comes by while you shirk, I’ll beat you near to death.”

  Rhett almost said something smart, but he could well see the desperation begging behind Digby’s eyes and reckoned the man had a good reason for saying such things. “Yes, sir, Mr. Freeman,” he said softly, and he went back to his work. Digby at least gave him a nod of apology.

  Lunch was a dipper of water and a piece of hard tack that was mostly weevil. Rhett chewed in disgust as he watched the blisters on his hands reseal.

  “They’ll be back soon,” Preacher said, stretching out his own pink palms, a mass of callus. “Such is our Sisyphean task.”

  “This ain’t a task for sissies at all, far as I can reckon,” Rhett said.

  And then Digby was back with his quirt, and Rhett took up his pickax, the handle moving loose over wet palms and a new layer of blisters.

  By dinnertime, Rhett couldn’t lift the pickax another time. His arms were limp as old reins, and his head felt like it was stuffed full of moldy straw. His legs and back ached, and so much sweat had run into his eye that he reckoned he’d processed a cloud’s worth of moisture. His kerch was wet and crusted with salt. He turned in his pickax and felt as light as a damn feather, like he might just float off into the sunset. It was more than a bit like sleepwalking, slogging along to the food tent. He ended up next to Notch, their elbows bumping as they shoveled in their food. Rhett barely tasted it—it was just fodder.

  “Meat’s tough tonight,” Beans observed.

  “Better than going without,” Preacher intoned.

  “Mr. Trevisan eats rare lamb,” Notch said, his voice gentle. “Or veal, sometimes. Gives his valet the scraps. Hard to go back to this shoe leather, after that.”

  A piece of weevily bread bounced off his head, and he ducked. “Shut up with that chatter, fool,” somebody muttered. “You ain’t special no more.”

  Rhett’s head slowly swiveled to stare at the quiet feller by his side. Notch was a good-looking man, young and lithe and quick and not too unlike Rhett, although his skin was a world lighter and his eyes a bright, keen gold. His hair was sun-kissed brown, long and straight. Must’ve been half-white, the lucky bastard.

  “How do you know what the big boss eats?” Rhett asked quietly between gulps. “And what the hell’s a valet?”

  “Big boss keeps a servant. Calls him a valet.” The feller’s voice was soft and cultured. “Tried to train me up, and it wasn’t hard work. But I got too proud. Thought I was smart. Thought I could run. He caught me. The marks on my back and the notch in my ear are my first warning.” Notch touched his ear, quick as a worried rabbit. “Next he’ll be taking my left leg to go with the bit of finger he already kept, or so he told me.”

  Rhett’s food was all but forgotten as he realized that this feller might just contain all the information he needed to accomplish his task without another day at the pickax. “Did you live in his caboose, then?”

  Notch chewed and swallowed before shaking his head. “Naw, I slept on the floor of the walking boss car and just visited to help him dress. Mr. Trevisan wouldn’t trust anyone to sleep in there. Except Meimei, but it’s not like she can do anything.”

  “Who’s Meimei?”

  Notch looked over, all crafty. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I just got here. I don’t know nothin’.”

  Preacher put a hand on Rhett’s arm. “Less you know about that, the better.”

  And then they were being hustled away to make room for the hobbling mop boy and the next crew.

  That night, as Rhett collapsed into his bunk, he felt a breeze on his face and put his eye to the hole in the wood. Not so far away, lanterns hung outside the ersatz city, and all the white fellers—or at least the ones that had a job instead of an enslavement, as far as Rhett could tell—were headed for the saloons. Woman-shaped shadows flounced around, and Rhett couldn’t help being curious if these were more vampires or human women, and if there were vampire work crews who slept in bunk cars all day and worked all night. Shelton—the foreman Rhett had never met, thus far, but whom Digby had pointed out as a very kind drunk—walked by with some other fellers, laughing and sharing a bottle. It was funny, as far as Rhett considered, how two such very different lives were unfolding, so near and yet so far away.

  Rhett was too tired to move, but most of Car 18 was in the corner, shaking dice and gabbling in their languages while Digby kept watch at the door and Preacher prayed by his cot, loudly, for their eternal souls. The voices and clattering made a pleasant-enough noise, although Rhett vastly preferred a crackling fire, softly stamping horses, and the nighttime conversation of one Samuel Hennessy.

  A body landed in the cot beside him, and R
hett prepared himself for a world of stink. But instead of farting, Beans started talking.

  “She’s Grandpa Z’s other granddaughter,” Beans whispered.

  Rhett rolled over. “Who is?”

  “Meimei. So if you wonder if the Chine will ever turn on the big boss or be friendly-like, now you know who they’re loyal to. She’s just a baby thing, and Trevisan treats her like a little pet, but if Grandpa Z ever showed his claws…” In the shadows, Rhett could barely see the shape of a finger drawn across a neck.

  “Why’re you telling me that?” Rhett asked.

  “I saw your medicine bag this morning. Didn’t mean to pry, but there you are. My ma was Comanche, too.” He held out something similar from his own neck. “Reckon you’re the closest thing I got to family in here, even if your habits are a little peculiar. And I hate Notch parading hisself around like he’s special. So now he ain’t.”

  Rhett grinned. “I reckon I owe you one, then, cousin.”

  Beans made a personal noise that Rhett was glad to ignore. “I can accept that,” he said.

  The next morning, Rhett woke up early for the chance to piss alone in the sad excuse for a privy. He made sure to go before dawn so nobody would be around to see what he didn’t have or witness him rewrapping the sweaty muslin on his chest. But when Digby slid open the door to let him out, the world was a fresh new hell. Every damn inch of space outside was covered in black birds. The cars, the sagging lines of the tents, the wagons. Even some of the mules and cows. And not just normal birds, but the exact same kind that had assaulted them around the campfire and nipped off a chunk of Dan’s ear.

  “Ravens,” he muttered.

  “An omen of evil,” Preacher said from his cot.

  Rhett turned around and found several pairs of eyes watching him warily.

  “Now you know good and well they’re not biblical things,” Digby said, patting him on the back. “They’re Trevisan’s creatures. Nothin’ god or devil about ’em. They ain’t even real.”

  “They’re real enough,” Notch said, one hand fiddling with his ear. He was all shrunk back in his bunk, and Rhett didn’t blame him.

  “Why ravens?” he asked.

  Digby snorted. “Why are you what you are? Why am I this? What is, is, son. The big boss tells a flock of birds what to do, and I reckon he tells a flock of men what to do. If I can’t defy him, why should they?”

  “Okay, but what’s he use ’em for?”

  “Sorcery,” Preacher started, but Digby waved it away.

  “This and that. They’re good for seeing the lay of the land, finding out what’s over the ridge. We always know what the weather’s gonna be, and when there’s a herd of buffalo, well, we know that, too, and we eat well that night.”

  “I’ve heard they find the gold in graves,” said Beans. “Pick through the pockets of the dead.”

  “And eat what else they find in there, besides,” added Jackrabbit, who only seemed to speak up when there was something gruesome to be said.

  “Nature’s cleanup crew,” Digby said with his big, wide grin. “The Lord loves a useful animal.”

  “He keeps one in his car.”

  Rhett turned to look at Notch, but the man had gone quiet—and two shades paler, curled up like a child after a nightmare.

  “In his car?” Rhett urged.

  Notch nodded. “In a cage, like Meimei. Two identical cages, lined with red Chine silk and pillows. He pokes their food in between the bars.”

  “What’s the bird eat?” Rhett asked.

  Notch didn’t answer. He just shook his head, stood, and hopped out of the car.

  “Be smart,” Digby said to Rhett, a hand on his shoulder and a meaningful look in his eye. “Learn when to shut up. Like Notch.”

  “If Notch is so goddamn smart, why’s he back in here with a chunk cut off his ear?”

  Digby’s smile was sad and pitying. “He wasn’t smart before. He’s learning now. Best get to the privy while you can. The birds’ll head off, soon.”

  And they did. Sometime in the morning, the whole flock took off in a great black cloud, swirling like a tornado and flying off purposefully into the blue. Rhett stopped digging, his pickax stuck into ground that had been mud a few days ago and was now dry, unforgiving, hard earth riddled with hateful rocks.

  “Keep on keeping on with that ax,” Digby said. “Don’t be buyin’ trouble on my time.”

  This time, he barely had to waggle his quirt before Rhett got back to work.

  Chapter

  21

  The Shadow soon discovered the taste of humble pie. What had he told his friends—that he’d swagger into camp, kill Trevisan, and swagger right back out? Hellfire. At least they weren’t here to see him suffering for his pride.

  The problem was that Rhett had figured he’d have plenty of access to Bernard Trevisan, but he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man since that night in the rain. Not overseeing the camp, not riding about on a snow-white horse. Rhett hadn’t even seen the man’s underlings, nor had he manufactured a chance to visit Cora and Grandpa Z again. Rhett had begun, to all effects, to be as helpless as Earl himself had been. And the one time he’d tried to talk to an Irish crew, the feller had spit on him and told him to go to hell.

  And so he stood in his ditch and did whatever Digby Freeman told him to do. Some days, it was the pickax. Other days, they transported fill dirt onto a handcar and shoveled it into holes. Some days, they sat in the tent to avoid rainstorms or sandstorms, doing women’s work and being miserable in a different way. After a week, Rhett was no closer to accomplishing a damn useful thing. He’d expected some sort of lucky break, but none had come. He was always on the lookout for Trevisan, whether walking through the camp or spying through the hole in the car. Other than that night in the rain, however, he hadn’t seen his quarry again. And although the flock of ravens had flown over his head, back and forth, again and again, cawing to hell about their dark deeds, he had no idea what news they brought. He just hoped Dan and the rest of his posse had the good sense to stay hid and allow him the time he needed to accomplish his goal.

  Every few days, as the track was laid and spiked and smoothed up ahead, the engine would fire up, pumping its rancid black smoke into the air and puffing along the tracks with a powerful grunting like thunder having a big belch. Even then, Trevisan wasn’t seen, but of course, that would’ve been like looking for one particularly shy ant in a hill gone mad. Rhett had never seen such carefully orchestrated insanity as the tent city and shebang all packed up into wagons and train cars, the men hanging off the sides as the engine pulled them a few miles to the next site. The ants swarmed again, and within hours a new city stood with a new thoroughfare already beginning to collect its puddles of piss and tobacco spit and piles of horseshit that would melt at the first fat drops of rain. The places they left behind were filthy and flatter than buffalo wallows, nothing but train tracks and ruin in their wake.

  What Rhett couldn’t quite figure out was how Earl had ever managed to run off at all. Maybe the Irishmen were trusted more than Rhett’s crew, but it was all he could do to keep his fellers from finding out he was distinctly lacking in the pizzle department. That spot he and Coyote Dan had agreed on was about as far away as the damn moon, after the train had moved twice. About the only freedom he had involved turning from one uncomfortable side to the other in his damn crappy little cot.

  One morning, he woke up and stretched, the gunshot cracks of his aching back loud enough to wake the dead, although not quite enough to wake a train car full of exhausted graders. He kept his eye closed until he’d tasted the witch’s powder, of which there was increasingly less. When he looked up and blinked, he was surprised to find dawn’s rosy fingers prying open the door of the bunk car. It wasn’t open all the way, but it was open enough to let slip a slim sort of feller who didn’t eat enough.

  His eye darted left and right as he shoved on his boots and silently tiptoed to the door. Normally, one Digby Freeman would be gu
arding the door from the inside. But when Rhett looked out, he saw Digby getting what looked like a nasty sort of dressing-down from Shelton. The foreman had his hands on his hips and was jawing off, taking out his hangover on the much-larger man, who looked like he was trying to cower right into himself, softly muttering, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” anytime there was a break in Shelton’s hollering.

  Neither man was looking at Rhett, though, and that was the important thing.

  Because what Rhett needed wasn’t to actually run away, as Earl had. He just needed to get caught running away. Because he was sick of waiting for a lucky break, and Earl had said Mr. Trevisan had given him those scars on his back, hadn’t he? And Digby had called that kind of punishment a man’s first warning. Rhett was willing to risk what was left of the meat over his own spine if it meant he was in Trevisan’s presence again. And who knew what might happen, when a canny and tenacious feller like the Shadow was left alone in a locked car with a pompous magician who thought he was the damn King of Durango?

  Anything was better than waiting for luck that never arrived.

  The Shadow would make his own luck, for good or ill.

  Pulling his hat down, Rhett hopped lightly to the ground, which hadn’t gone entirely mucky yet, which meant his boots didn’t make a squelchy sound and give him away. He didn’t want Digby to be the one who caught him, though, so he slipped around the corner of the car and considered his options. Was it better to get caught actually running, or was it preferable to look like he was getting up to no good? If he ran, he might take a gunshot to the heart, but if he sauntered along, surely someone would stop him with less permanent measures. But would such a minor infraction as getting lost on his way to take a piss get him into Trevisan’s clutches? Hellfire, Rhett had spent most of his life trying not to get beat, and now he was aiming for the biggest beating of his life—on purpose.