Dead Iron aos-1

by Devon Monk

  “Neither.”

  “Family? Your brother?” she guessed.

  “West just meant more land between me and a life I’d never have again.”

  He might mean the war. Might mean property or family he lost because of it. Mae figured it wasn’t her place to pry into matters that private.

  “And yourself, Mrs. Lindson?” he asked, filling the silence before she could. “What drew you so far west?”

  “The land.” She soaked the cloth again, pressed it into his side. He wasn’t wincing every time she touched him. She hoped the willow in the water was numbing the pain a little.

  “Good rich land here in the Oregon Territory. Plenty of it. Thought we’d follow the river all the way to the sea. But when Jeb saw this valley tucked against the mountains, he said he’d never seen a more beautiful corner of God’s earth. So we set to farming here, living here. It’s been a good life. . . .”

  She realized she’d stopped working and was instead just kneeling there, thinking of a life she also could never return to.

  Cedar Hunt caught her gaze. There was sympathy there. Understanding. Maybe something more she couldn’t quite describe. A kindness and warmth. In that moment she knew he too had suffered death. But instead of giving her gentle words that would do no good for her pain, he simply nodded once. “Your pot’s boiling.”

  Mae was grateful that he didn’t ask her any more. She stood and walked to the kettle, pulling it with a poker away from the fire. Outside the wind lifted on the day, pulling birdsong through the air.

  She had known she’d never have Jeb again, but had pushed the reality of it away as often as she could, using anger to keep her mind on her task. But seeing Mr. Hunt here, a man who had left a life behind, who had suffered death and never returned to the life he had once lived, made her realize she was alone. Truly alone. And would have to find a way to carry on, build a new life with no one beside her.

  “Mae?” Cedar stood beside her and gently pressed his fingertips onto her arm.

  How long had she been standing there, the copper pot hanging from one hand, the wind stirring and nosing between the wooden trinkets on the shelf?

  “I’m fine, just fine,” she said. “Have a seat. This will be hot, but we’ll wrap it tight to keep the injury clean.”

  Cedar hesitated a moment. He glanced out the cracks in the shutters, and held his breath. Listening, she realized. Listening for whatever thing had distracted her.

  “Suppose you didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said as she brought the pot over to the table and used a clean knife to draw up the soaked cloth.

  “Not so much as I prefer, but enough.” She opened the cloth with her fingertips, and scooped out the leaves and bark and seeds.

  “That Strange, the one that looked like little Elbert,” she said, “you said it smelled of his blood. Do you think the boy, the real Elbert, is still alive?” She folded the cloth around the herbs like an envelope, then wrapped it up in a long strip of cheesecloth she would tie around his ribs.

  “The blood was fresh,” Cedar said. “And it was Elbert’s.”

  Mae pressed the compress against his skin. “Hold this.” Cedar held it in place with his right hand. “So there’s a chance the boy’s still alive?”

  “I’ve seen Strange, Mrs. Lindson, but none that uses gear and bone and blood like a child plays with sticks and mud. These are something more. Stronger. Wicked.”

  Mae walked across the room and pulled down extra strips of cloth and brought those over. “Mr. Shunt. Do you think he somehow devised that Strange boy?”

  “Yes.” Cedar grunted as she bound the cheesecloth, then the length of cloth, around his ribs. “But I don’t know why he would want to. And I don’t know why he would want such a fine woman as you, Mrs. Lindson.”

  Mae swallowed at those words and kept her eyes and attention on laying the cloth down smooth and wrapping it evenly. She didn’t want that compress to slip.

  “He has killed my husband. The one true love I vowed my life unto. I don’t know what he wants with me. Now that Jeb is dead, there’s not much of me left to hurt. Maybe the Strange don’t approve of our marriage vows. A colored man and a white woman.”

  She stood and handed him Jeb’s shirt.

  Cedar paused before putting it on. “Don’t think the Strange much care about the color of a person’s skin. Don’t think love much cares either.”

  Mae held her breath at those words. They were likely the kindest thing she’d ever been told in her life.

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  Cedar shrugged his good shoulder and buttoned the shirt, not meeting her eyes. “You suppose the Strange want you for the spells at your disposal?”

  “Spells?”

  “You are a witch, aren’t you, Mrs. Lindson?” Cedar tipped his eyes up and caught her gaze. He was not afraid of her—no, she’d be surprised if he were afraid of anything or anyone. He wasn’t encouraging nor demanding. And yet, she felt a need to answer him, to tell him what so many had gossiped, what so many had feared.

  And putting this truth in his hands could mean her life. The townsfolk did not like her, were afraid of the simplest blends of herbs she made for healing. What would they do if Cedar told them she was indeed the ungodly thing they feared?

  And what would they do if they found out the hunter they trusted with their herds, with finding their children, was a cursed and killing beast?

  It seemed they both had equal to lose, and to gain. That made up her mind.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunt, I am a witch. And I trust my secret is as safe with you as yours is with me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lindson, it is.” Cedar smiled, and it did his face good. She found herself smiling too.

  “I’d wager,” he said, “that particular skill is why the Strange are looking for you.”

  “Well, I can’t undo what I am. It’s not so much a choice, Mr. Hunt, as a way you’re born. I’d follow the ways of magic whether I knew to call myself a witch or not.”

  “Wasn’t saying anything needed undoing. Are there others of your sort around these parts? Your . . . sisters?” he added.

  “I don’t really know. I’m from a small coven—a community. And I was seventeen when I came this way with Jeb. Hallelujah is tucked off of the trails. Well, until the rail finishes, that is.”

  “If there were a witch nearabouts, do you think they’d contact you?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Could be just that you are the only witch in a hundred miles, and that’s why the Strange are looking for you. Or it could be that you have something particular that they want. Something particular Mr. Shunt wants.”

  “All that I have you are looking at now. Do you see anything worth killing me for?”

  “Never know what whets the interest of the Strange. Sometimes it’s a bit of metal, a bob of glass. Sometimes it’s a song or a dream, or a rare skill. Is there something you specialize in?”

  “Weaving and lace, though I imagine there are those better than I at it. And vows, bindings, and curses,” she added quietly.

  “What?”

  “It’s not something that’s spoken.”

  “Maybe not. But I think it’s something that needs to be heard.”

  Mae walked over to her spinning wheel and dragged her hands over the blankets in the basket. She didn’t want to give this secret words to cling to. Didn’t want to give it shape to fill. Even words—no, especially words—carried magic.

  “I am particularly gifted to using magic with vows, bindings, and curses. It’s not approved. It is not even the correct way to guide magic. But it is the way of me.”

  “Must be that,” Cedar said as if talking about magic in this civilized world were commonplace. “Though I still don’t know why Mr. Shunt would want to harm you. Maybe he’s doing Shard LeFel’s bidding. Maybe it’s Mr. LeFel who wants what you have.”

  “I don’t see as how that can be. I don’t think I’ve seen Mr. LeFel but once since he’s
come to town.”

  “Once is enough when a man sees what he wants.” Cedar said it slowly, softly, his gaze holding her. He hesitated, as if he would say more, then cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you have a pair of boots I could borrow?”

  “I should.” Mae oddly found it a little difficult to breathe. There was something about Mr. Hunt. Being near him caught her up in most confusing ways. “Let me go fetch them. Then will you be leaving?”

  “I’ll follow the trail of the boy’s blood. See if I can find Wil. See if I can find Elbert.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she said over her shoulder.

  Nothing but silence filled the room. Mae found Jeb’s old boots near the bed. They had holes in the sides, and might be too big for Cedar’s feet, but she had spare socks he could use to take up the difference.

  As soon as she stepped back out into the main room, he stopped pacing and slanted a look at her. “No, you most certainly will not.” It was a commanding voice. A stern, lecturing voice.

  Mae ignored it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a lawyer, Mr. Hunt. Declaring your opinions as if they were fact.” She held out the old boots and socks for him.

  He scowled. “A teacher,” he said.

  Mae smiled. “I’ll be going with you. That shotgun is the only thing I’ve seen that can stop Mr. Shunt in his tracks. Not that it kills him, no, he snaps and pulls and stitches himself back together again as easily as he falls apart.” She swallowed hard at the memory of him. “He’s not made of the natural world.”

  “Not this natural world, at least,” Cedar said. “Which is all the more reason you should stay here where it’s safe.”

  “There is no safe place for me.” Mae didn’t mean it to come out quite so plainly, but there it was. So long as she was a witch in this God-fearing land, with Strange things that crept through pockets of shadow and cozied up to nightmares, she would be pointed to as different, and killed for her ways.

  “Mrs. Lindson,” Cedar tried, then, “Mae.”

  She looked up at her name, surprised.

  “Listen to me. To reason. I know you can stand on your own. You’ve proved you have a strong spine. But first I’ll be headed back to the Madders to reclaim my weapons and clothes. There’s no need for both of us to deal with the three brothers. Their doors too easily turn to walls. I owe them favors I’d never promise another man. If you hold tight here, with the gun at hand, then when I return, well before nightfall, we can set out together to track the boy and the Strange that killed your man.”

  Mae had had enough of men promising her they would take care of things a man should, and then return for her as a man should. She’d had enough of men going away and not coming home.

  “I’ll be back for you soon,” Cedar said. “I give you my word.”

  Mae looked him straight in the eye. “That’s what my husband told me, Mr. Hunt. And now he’s dead.”

  Cedar took a breath, and let it out slowly. He walked over to the door and opened it wide, letting in the clean promise of daylight. He paused there, one foot in her home, the other out in the afternoon light, his eyes scanning the horizon before he turned back toward her.

  “That may be true,” he said gently, “but I am not your husband, Mrs. Lindson.” He moved to close the door.

  Mae spoke up. “Take the mule. She’s out back. You can just point her toward my house when you’re done. She, I’m certain of, will find her way home.”

  Cedar nodded, just the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindson, I’ll do just that.” Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rose Small rubbed the soft cloth over the top of the pew, the honey smell of wax filling the still air of the empty church.

  Cleaning every scrap of wood in the building wasn’t her idea of a way to spend an evening as nice as this one, the dusk still clinging to the warmth of sunlight before autumn shook the heat and leaves off the land.

  But her folks had heard about her walk last night. Likely from Henry Dunken’s gossipy mother. So Rose was here in the church, as she would be every night this week, contemplating her inexcusable behavior beneath God’s watchful eyes. Offering up to Him elbowgrease tithing for her sins.

  At least here in the church she was left in peace to think her own thoughts away from her mother’s angry tirades, away from the women who shook their heads in pity at her, and the men who thought she didn’t notice how they looked at her like she was a broken thing they could use if they wanted.

  Oh, she’d seen the letters her folks had written up, asking about eligible men in the nearby towns. She’d more than seen them—she’d volunteered to put them in the mail, and thrown them down the privy hole instead.

  The thought of tying herself down to this little town and only ever seeing the sun pull up over the same horizon for the rest of her life near about gave her hives.

  She wanted to explore the world, wanted to see what amazing gadgets and tickers and inventions chugged along between the high buildings in the old states, or pressed wide, round backs against the sky, steering the winds across the ocean to far-off lands, or harvesting the rare glim. She wanted to touch those things, make those things.

  She wanted to fly. And wanted to do so much more.

  When Rose was six, she’d insisted she wanted to be a blacksmith and a deviser when she grew up. She’d heard her father make the blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, promise he’d never put a hammer in Rose’s hand.

  And he hadn’t. Though he’d let her pump the bellows and mind the coals and fetch his tools, all the while talking to her of what he was doing and why. Rose figured she knew more about metal and the making of it than a whole university of books and thinkers.

  She’d done her devising in secret, hidden in her pockets, hidden beneath her bed where no one ever looked. Little trinkets, little tickers. When her mother had discovered the thimble bird Rose had made when she was nine, she’d demanded to know if Rose had been devising, doing the work allowed only to men.

  Rose had told her Mr. Gregor made it. Told her it was a gift to the family and that she’d kept it in her room because she liked it so.

  She hadn’t counted on her mother marching her by the arm down to the blacksmith’s shop. Hadn’t counted on her demanding the truth of the story from Mr. Gregor.

  And she sure enough hadn’t counted on Mr. Gregor telling her mother, without a bat of a lash, that Rose’s story was true and that he had indeed devised the bird and given it as a gift.

  But whatever thin warmth she had felt from her mother froze away over the next few years. Rose knew her mother wanted her married off so that she was no longer a problem to hide or to mind.

  Some days she thought the only reason she hadn’t left this town was because of Mr. Gregor. Just thinking about poor little Elbert wandered off into the wild made her heart catch.

  She hoped that Mr. Hunt—in whatever skin he was wearing—would be able to find the little child.

  Her thoughts lingered on Mr. Hunt. She’d heard stories from travelers passing through that there were men who could change into wolves. Native stories of men turning into all sorts of animals.

  But she’d never thought to see such a thing here, with her own eyes, in the little town of Hallelujah.

  It might be the wolf in him that kept him private. Or at least she assumed.

  There was something behind the closed-off pain in his eyes. A way to his words that spoke of knowledge she didn’t have and wished he’d share.

  Rose walked across the aisle to polish the next pew. She supposed she should just be grateful that he believed in the Strange, or at least seemed to. When she’d mentioned the bogeyman to him, and Elbert gone missing, she’d seen the recognition in his eyes.

  Rose had always known the Strange were real. The land grew thick with them. Something about the gears and metals drew them, she thought. Something about matics and contraptions call
ed to them. It was one of the reasons she combed the shadows at night, looking for castaway bits and gathering them up before the Strange could come find them.

  The door to the church opened, letting in the early-evening air and a liquid wave of dying sunlight.

  The shush of petticoats and bustles swept in by the slow chattering of voices, gossipy as birds.

  Rose didn’t have to glance their way to know it was Mrs. Haverty, Mrs. Dunken, and the others come to go through the church yet again for wedding plans.

  So much for her peace and quiet. They’d likely have her fetching them tea and cookies and things down from the attic for the rest of the night.

  As soon as they caught sight of her, they fell silent like birds ducking a wing that had just covered the sunlight.

  “Rose Small?” Mrs. Haverty, the banker’s wife, had the sort of bearing Rose had always imagined a queen would hold. Never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in her skirts, she looked like she’d stepped right off the pages of a fancy catalogue. “I did not expect to find you in the church this evening,” she said. “Did your mother send you to lend us a hand with the wedding planning?”

  Rose did not stop wiping down the woodwork, but did glance over at the women, eight at least, all clucking about, with plump and pushy Mrs. Dunken giving her a smug look she’d never seen on her face before.

  “No, ma’am,” Rose said. “My mother promised the pastor I’d dust down the pews. So everything is ready for service tomorrow.”

  Sad-faced Mrs. Bristle spoke up. “Are you saying you don’t care about Mrs. Haverty’s daughter Becky’s impending nuptials? Even a . . . castoff like you should show some respect.”

  Rose squared her shoulders and kept the backs of her teeth together so no words could slip out. She was taught to respect her elders, but words would fall through her lips too quickly if she didn’t keep her mind on them. Then they’d all know exactly what this “castoff” thought about them and their judging ways.