Dark Alchemy

by Laura Bickle

  The smell of fetid breath came in a gust from the backseat as Frankie wobbled upright. He spoke in a dreamy singsong. “Runaway from water. Runaway from fire. Runaway looking for her daddy.”

  The fine hair on Petra’s arms stood upright in the heat. “What did you say?”

  Frankie slid back down to the seat as if he’d been deflated.

  Petra turned her face to the window, bit her lip. The blood was drying on her shirt. She was trying not to imagine what microbial creepy-­crawlies were in it. The gun felt hot in her hip pocket, drawn twice today.

  Maria stared straight ahead at the road, which was stained red from bits of iron ore in the asphalt. “Frankie is clairaudient.”

  Petra blinked. “What?”

  “Frankie hears things. But only when he’s drunk, and he forgets all about them when he’s sober. Which isn’t often.” Maria stared at her. Hard.

  Petra looked out the window at the shimmering heat. She rubbed her temple, mindful to try to keep the blood on her sleeve from smearing on her face.

  Maria laughed. “You aren’t fooling anyone.”

  “You clairaudient, like Frankie?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  “No. I’m a social worker. I’ve seen more than one domestic violence case in my time.” Maria gestured to the mark on Petra’s arm.

  Petra opened her mouth to protest, closed it, and tugged the sleeve down on her wrist. Maybe it was better if Maria thought it was that simple. Something in the other woman’s expression had softened, and maybe that was a good thing.

  “It’s not what you think. I just . . .” Petra shook her head, and she could feel the quaver in her voice. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it. Not yet.”

  Maria nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “You’re a social worker?” Petra turned a question back on her.

  Maria nodded. “Yeah. I work at the Family Center on the reservation. This far out, ­people have a lot of problems that get swept under the rug.”

  “Like Frankie?”

  Maria shrugged. “Frankie’s my uncle. I’ve gotta take care of him.”

  Petra’s brows drew together, and she glanced in the side view mirror at the lump in the backseat. They looked nothing alike. Maria was dark and exotic to Petra’s eye, while Frankie looked like a wrinkly white cast-­off from a Florida retirement colony.

  “We’re related by marriage,” Maria said, and it had the feeling of a confession, the way she said it. “He was my uncle’s . . . aunt’s . . . er. They met at Burning Man in the nineties. It’s complicated.”

  Petra glanced at the shotgun tucked up next to Maria’s skirt. “Would you have shot him?”

  Maria chewed her lip. “No,” she admitted. “But I would have shot in his general direction. He was swinging at one of Rutherford’s men like it was the ninth inning with bases loaded.”

  “He said his name was Gabriel.” The name tasted odd and metallic on Petra’s tongue.

  “I’m surprised that one of them spoke to you. They’re a quiet, creepy bunch. They work for Sal Rutherford, the owner of the biggest ranch around here. Ranch hands.”

  “I take it that you don’t think much of Rutherford, either?”

  The corner of Maria’s lip turned down. “Sal’s got money. Lots of it. And he gets what he wants. His family’s been here for generations, old cattle barons. They were always pissed that our tribe got land here. He moves his fences forward every year. We move them back.” Maria gestured with her chin to the green sign beside the road that said: WELCOME TO RED ROCK INDIAN RESERVATION. Pavement dropped immediately to gravel with an audible thunk of the Bronco’s tires. At least the shocks didn’t squeak.

  Maria’s mouth thinned. “This may go to Rutherford, sooner or later, I think. The reservation populations have been dwindling as more and more ­people move away to look for work. Someday, this land might belong to the federal government. Or to Rutherford’s descendants.”

  The Bronco churned through a small town like any other in the West: convenience stores, fast food, gas station, a Laundromat. Down one side street, Maria pulled a U-­turn and parked the Bronco beside a white two-­story house that probably dated from the 1930s. Flowers bloomed in carefully tended window boxes, and laundry was drying on a clothesline in the side yard. The paint on the porch was curling a bit, suggesting that traditional women’s work was going on as usual, but the men’s work was slipping a bit. Maybe Maria was doing it all.

  Maria shut off the engine. Valves continued to ping loudly against the backboard hood as Maria reached into the backseat. “Frankie. Frankie, get up. We’re home.”

  Frankie groaned and climbed upright enough to ooze out from the car door. Petra inspected the backseat with a sharp eye, searching for vomit.

  Frankie muttered to a grasshopper resting on the mailbox, then to the birds perched on the roof gutter, before sinking down into a porch swing.

  Maria rolled her eyes. “He thinks the animals talk to him.”

  “They do talk to me,” Frankie insisted. He pointed at Maria. “That one could be a most excellent shaman, if she would stop talking long enough to listen.”

  “Frankie, take your pills.” Maria groaned, rubbing her forehead, before turning her attention to Petra. “He knows nothing about shamans. Look, you wanna come in and avoid the heat? I need to dig out the title on this beast. And you can get cleaned up.”

  Petra self-­consciously climbed out of the truck. She peeled her shirt off, but the tank top she wore beneath was still stained in places and showed off her scars. A mess, no matter which way she looked at it.

  Petra followed Maria to the porch. Sweetgrass surrounded the foundations of the house, and a garden heavy with tomato vines and nodding sunflowers stretched to the west side. Sparrows were busily attacking the sunflower heads in a quest for seeds. A small grey and white cat lurked in the dirt, tail lashing, waiting for an opportunity to pick off one of the tiny brown planes.

  “Leave those birds alone.” Maria gave the cat a stern look. The cat blinked and ignored her.

  Petra smelled sage as she followed Maria into the house, noticing that the door was unlocked. She wondered if Maria was that trusting, or whether her fearsome reputation with the shotgun was enough to keep intruders at bay. Plants had overtaken the interior of the little house, as well. Maria punched a button on the window air conditioner, and the artificial breeze stirred a strand of bells and devil’s ivy growing from pots suspended from the ceiling. The main room was a small living area dominated by a slipcovered couch on one end, kitchenette on the other. Cast-­iron pots dangled from a rack, where more plants reached from the kitchen windowsill. Herbs were stuffed in bottles and laid out to dry beside empty canning jars. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, scarred wood floors covered in colorful carpets.

  “I’ll get you a clean shirt.” Maria disappeared into the back of the house.

  Reluctant to sit on the furniture with half-­dried blood on her clothes, Petra stood awkwardly in the center of the floor with her arms crossed, listening to the air-­conditioning hum. She jumped when the front door creaked open, but it was only the small cat, pushing the door with her front paws. The cat sauntered into the living room and looked up at Petra.

  Petra knelt and let the cat have a sniff of her fingers. The cat thrust her head under Petra’s hand, emitting a rusty purr. By her size, Petra had judged her to be a half-­grown cat, but closer inspection showed the sinewy muscle of age.

  “Pearl likes you. And Pearl’s not usually very fond of strangers.” Maria returned to the living area with a small bundle.

  Pearl looked up at Petra and emitted a meow that sounded like she’d smoked six packs of cigarettes a day.

  “Is she your watch cat?”

  “Pearl does what she wants.” Maria handed Petra a shirt. “This should fit you.”

 
“Thanks. I’ll bring it back to you.”

  Maria shook her head. “No need. It shrank in the dryer, and makes me look pretty slutty if I try to wear it. There’s soap and washrags in the bathroom.”

  Petra looked down at her shirt.

  “Don’t worry about getting blood on anything. The towels are old. Feel free to use the shower, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Petra said. She was grateful to be directed to the bathroom and to shut the door behind her. She placed her red-­speckled hands on the faux marble countertop and let out a quavering breath. She stared at her red knuckles, reached for the squeaky tap. Hot water scalded her shaking hands, and she scrubbed viciously with cedar-­scented soap.

  She yanked her tank top over her head, taking three tries to peel it over her face without the red touching her lips or eyes. It had soaked through to her bra and skin. She pulled the rest of her clothes off, reached past Maria’s daisy-­patterned shower curtain for the shower tap, and stepped in.

  She scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink, letting the water and the soap do its work. Gradually, the scent of the cedar soap permeated her skin, calmed her. No red—­it was gone.

  When she stepped out of the shower, she surveyed her clothes. The bra and tank top were ruined, but her pants seemed fine and she pulled them on. Maria’s shirt, a gauze peasant top, wasn’t designed for a bra, anyway. It was a chocolate brown color, off the shoulder, with smocking that wrapped around her waist. She had to admit to herself that it was pretty. Petra hadn’t owned feminine clothes in years. This felt . . . different. It didn’t smell like salt, unlike everything she owned. This smelled like land, like it had been dried in sunshine and kept in a closet with lavender sachets.

  She padded out of the bathroom in bare feet, the ruined shirt and bra balled in her hands.

  “Feel better?” Maria stood at the kitchen counter, chopping herbs. Pearl perched on top of the refrigerator, taking a bath. Her tail tickled the colorful kitchen magnets studding its surface.

  “Yes, thanks. I hope I didn’t use up all your hot water.”

  “There’s always more. You’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

  Petra shook her head. She didn’t believe in Frankie’s supposed special powers, but didn’t trust her reactions around Frankie’s drunken fishing. “I appreciate it. But I should get back.”

  Maria nodded, wiping the knife off in a dish towel. “Truck title’s on the table. Sign off, and I’ll notarize it.”

  “You’re a notary, too?”

  “I wear a lot of hats. Pearl will be our witness.”

  Petra signed while Pearl watched from her perch until her attention was arrested by a refrigerator magnet that was fun to push around the surface of the fridge. While Maria stamped the document, Petra fished her money out of her cargo pants and handed eight hundred to Maria. The other woman didn’t bother to count it, stuffing the wad into a cookie jar on the counter. She opened one of the upper cabinets and dug around for a blue bottle about the size of her hand with a screw-­on cap. Sunlight glistened through the bottle, outlining a shadow of plant matter inside. She handed the bottle to Petra.

  “Take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A sleep potion. I call it ‘Liquid Dreamcatcher.’ Nothing harmful or illegal. Just herbs and rum.”

  Petra swirled the contents of the bottle around. “I look that rattled?”

  “You look like you need to sleep. That will help. Two sips should take you to dreamland.” Maria took a card off the counter and handed it to Petra. Her brown eyes were warm. “This is my card. If you need anything, and not just with the truck . . . Call me.”

  The card was plain white, with Maria’s name and the LISW designation below it, listing her address and phone number at the Family Center. On the back was a number scratched in red pen. “That’s my cell number, when you’re ready to talk.”

  “Thanks. A lot. I mean it. And . . . I will call.”

  And it felt like she meant it.

  Chapter Four

  Blood

  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Gabe slammed the truck door and leaned heavily on the fender. His fuzzy vision settled on a figure outside the barn holding an axe.

  “Boss.” Gabe tipped his hat with his bloody knuckle, leaving a wet smudge on the brim.

  Rutherford approached, inspecting Gabe’s injuries. He poked Gabe in the shoulder with the axe handle. Gabe winced.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Amusement lit in Rutherford’s voice—­amusement and curiosity. Sal Rutherford believed that he was the only one who knew the vulnerabilities of his silent ranch hands. If others knew, his power over them might be diminished. Might.

  “Lucky drunk took a ­couple of swings at me with one of your fence posts.” Gabe told him the truth. There was no need to lie.

  Gabe walked heavily into the barn, Rutherford following on his heels. The light was lowering on the horizon, sliding through the chinks in the barn in golden slats. Dust motes were suspended in the light like daytime fireflies.

  “Hnh.” Rutherford seemed to chew on what Gabe had said. He blocked Gabe’s way with the axe. “Where you think you’re going?”

  “To ground.” Gabe paused, fixing Rutherford with his amber gaze.

  Rutherford shook his head. “I’ve got work for you boys.”

  Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Not tonight, dear.”

  Rutherford swung the axe. Gabe raised his arm to block it, and the blade of the axe embedded itself in his palm. Gabe looked serenely over the blade, wrenched it away from Sal.

  He pulled the axe blade from his hand. It was like pulling a paring knife from an apple: no blood, no sign of pain. He cast the axe to the floor of the barn, and it skidded away in the straw.

  Rutherford smiled. “You boys always amuse me. I can shoot you, burn you, stab you, and you’ll remain standing. But whack you in the knees with a baseball bat, and you go down like everyone else. Makes me wonder what would happen if I skewered you, like that Vlad the Impaler guy . . .”

  Gabe was on him in two swift steps. He grasped Rutherford by the throat, lifted him with one hand. Rutherford’s feet kicked up straw dust, and he wrapped his hands around Gabe’s wrist, gurgling and flailing.

  Gabe leaned in close to whisper in the boss’s ear, his breath ruffling the grey hair of the boss’s muttonchop sideburns. “You’d do well to remember that you’ve got more weaknesses than we do. Many more. And there are more of us than there are of you.”

  Rutherford smiled and croaked, “You could kill me. But I have the tree. The Hangman’s Tree is on my land. All it takes is one can of gasoline over that thing and a book of matches, and you’re done. And that’s exactly what the Rutherfords will do if anything happens to me.”

  Gabe dropped Sal, gasping, to the floor. He turned on his heel and walked away, into the field beyond the barn and the sunset. Closing his eyes, he felt the warmth of sun on his skin and the tall grass flickering through his fingers as he walked. He could find his way back to the tree without looking, had counted these steps over and over in his mind for more than a century.

  A lone elm stood alone in the center of the field, gnarled with age and reaching toward the sky with bent and twisted branches. It had been here ever since he could remember, which was a very long time. The cool shadow of it pressed on his face, the breeze rustling through its leaves. Somewhere above, a raven perched, cawing to its fellows. They came here at sunset, the ravens, all to this place. Men like Rutherford called it the Hangman’s Tree. It still bore scars in its lower branches where ropes had scraped away the bark.

  But Rutherford had little idea of what it really was, beyond knowing that Gabe and his men needed it. The Alchemist had called this the Lunaria, the Alchemical Tree of Life. Where its branches stretched to heaven above, its roots reached into the earth in perfect symmetry.
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br />   “ ‘As above, so below,’ ” Gabriel muttered. The Alchemist had said it first.

  The ravens gathered in the molten light, cawing to themselves, roosting in the tree by the dozens. Black wings flapped in the leaves, and the Lunaria took on the impression of something more intensely alive than a singular tree, moving, shifting in that pure breeze and cacophony of black feathers.

  Gabe knelt, feeling the dry grass prickle his palms as he searched for the door. He found a hidden root, pulled open a rusty door covered with turf and dirt. He climbed inside the hole, away from the light and grass and the cackling of ravens.

  It smelled like damp earth here, like a root cellar kissed by floodwater. The fingers of roots brushed Gabe’s face as he dropped below the surface. This place was one of many rabbit holes the Hanged Men had dug over time to go to ground. Rutherford had little knowledge of the warren of tunnels that worked beneath the field, the barn, even his own house. As far as he was concerned, the boys disappeared and reemerged at will.

  Gabe’s vision gradually adjusted as he stepped into the dark. He could see the dirt walls and uneven floor of the tunnel as he wound deep into the earth. He looked down at his clothes. They were streaked with golden light, like frozen sunshine. He could taste it in his mouth, and he spat it out on the floor of the tunnel.

  The tunnel opened up to a chamber directly beneath the tree. Roots reached out in all directions. Gabe could feel the pulse of water and light through the living wood as tendrils dug through the earth, worming after nutrients in the soil.

  The other men were already there. They dangled motionless from the ceiling of the chamber, roots wrapped around their necks and arms, the grotesque fruit of the Lunaria. Gold light pulsed through the silent roots into their bodies, feeding them, regenerating what seemed to be corpses buried underground. Gabe and the rest of Sal’s men could stay away from the Lunaria for a day, or even a handful of them. But they always needed to return, to feel the embrace of the tree.