Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes

by Rob DeBorde

  “Alive?” Maddie asked.

  “Barely. But they think he’ll pull through … with a little help.”

  Andre nodded. “I’ll check in on him as soon as I can.”

  Joseph stoked the fire, adding another log before returning to his place on the couch between Kate and the twins. There was just enough seating in the living room for everyone, although Andre barely fit in the chair he’d chosen. He was used to it.

  “Tell me about the book,” Joseph said. “You buried it with the Hanged Man, correct?”

  “Yes. With no master, it was safer in the ground, soon to be forgotten.”

  “Why not burn it?” Kate asked. “Burn it and the body together. Wasn’t that the story everyone was told?”

  “I believe there was some miscommunication about his funeral arrangements.”

  Andre tacked a smile onto the end of his attempt at humor, but Kate didn’t laugh. It did, however, elicit a grunt of recognition from the marshal.

  “You made me bury him. Tricked me into it with one of them curses.”

  “I was there,” said Andre. “And I helped you to do what needed to be done. But it was not a curse.”

  “The hell it weren’t! You put a hex on me so I’d forget—but I didn’t. Oh, no. I remembered just enough to keep an eye on the dead bastard all these years, for all the good it did.”

  Joseph leaned forward. “Marshal, I don’t think accusing Mr. Labeau of cursing you is going to help.”

  “No,” said the marshal, standing up. “I want to hear him say the words. I want to know. God knows I ain’t gonna think it up on my own.”

  Andre felt the block in the old man’s mind slipping. Yes, part of it had been put in place by his hand, though not the worst of it. He lowered his voice and did what he could to push the barrier out of the way.

  “I only did what you asked me to do, Marshal.”

  The marshal shuddered as the memory tumbled into place and all at once he knew it was true. All of it was true.

  * * *

  “You sure I ain’t gonna remember this?” the marshal asks. The star on his jacket glistens in the afternoon sun.

  Andre tamps down the last shovelful of dirt on the dead man’s grave and nods. “Only what you need to, Marshal Kleberg.”

  “Good,” the marshal says. “Just as soon forget as much as possible.”

  “You will never truly forget, but the memory will remain hidden, safe. It will grow old with you and die with you.”

  The marshal chuckles. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Do not be so sure. I see a long life ahead. Quiet, happy, and full of respect from those you love.”

  “And whiskey, I hope.”

  The big man smiles. The marshal knows he has a name, but he can’t quite place it.

  “Always loved the view from up here,” he says, appraising the town and river below. “Kids want me to move to Portland, but think I’ll stay put awhile.”

  “A fine idea, Marshal.”

  The marshal glances back, but he is alone. He has been all day. He spies the shovel on the ground and picks it up.

  “Don’t want to forget this,” he says and walks down the hill.

  * * *

  “You made me forget,” the marshal said, plopping back down in his chair. “’Cause I didn’t want to remember.”

  “Yes,” Andre said.

  “All this time, thought I was losin’ my mind. Hell, I been getting it back.”

  Andre glanced at Naira, who quickly redirected his gaze toward Kate, but too late.

  “It’s true, then?” Kate said. “You put a curse on my dad?”

  “It was not a curse. And your father accepted the charge freely—it was his choice to stay and watch over the dead man.”

  “How did he have a choice if you made him forget?”

  “It’s all right, Katie.”

  “No, Dad, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. I wanted this—I asked for it—for you, for the family. It was my decision. Just didn’t work out quite how I expected.” The marshal looked at Andre. “Thought I wasn’t supposed to remember nothin’.”

  “You were not.”

  “Well, I did. Remembered just enough to think I’d forgotten something really important. Damn near drove myself crazy.”

  “For that I am sorry,” Andre said. “But I believe it was a crack in your memory that you yourself created years ago. It was only a matter of time before it failed completely.”

  The marshal stared at Andre. He knew. Course he did.

  “A crack? What does that mean?” Joseph asked.

  The marshal frowned and pulled the gun from his coat. He held it briefly before laying it on the small table between them. The handle glowed crimson in the firelight.

  Kate’s breath caught in her throat but she managed not to make a sound.

  “He means I went and dug this damn thing up a couple months after buryin’ it. Couldn’t never forget it, I s’pose.”

  “It has a voice that is loud and clear,” said Andre. “Few men could resist its call.”

  “Take it.” The marshal sighed. “I don’t want it no more.”

  For a moment no one said a word, then Kate found her voice.

  “I still don’t understand. You buried these things, these evil things, and then what? Made my dad watch over them, even though he didn’t know it? Why wouldn’t you just destroy them?”

  “It is not so easy to unmake a thing, especially one that holds as much power as the Hanged Man’s weapon. I understand the desire to melt it down or simply throw it in the river, but the curse that is bound within would not be broken, but rather set free. It would only make matters worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yes,” Andre continued. “But to bury a thing beneath time and earth—to render it forgotten—that is a powerful weapon, indeed.”

  “The marshal remembered,” said Joseph. “He dug it up.”

  “But he kept it hidden for more than a decade. If he had not gone back for it, I believe someone else would have.”

  “Someone did.”

  Andre said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  “Henry Macke,” said the marshal. “How’d he know about it?”

  Andre shifted in his chair. “That was my mistake. I believe he was on the hill the day we buried the Hanged Man, hiding amongst the trees. I was so focused on the task at hand, I missed his presence.”

  Maddie jumped in. “So why didn’t he dig it up right away?”

  “He would have been just a boy,” Kate said. “Younger than you are now by a few years, I think.”

  “True,” Andre said. “And it is my belief that because he heard my words he was bound by the same charge laid upon the marshal. Young Mr. Macke forgot what he saw. He likely would have remained ignorant had the marshal not left Astoria. But the charge fell to him in the marshal’s absence and his memory resurfaced, unclouded, it seems.”

  “He knew right where to dig,” Naira added.

  “Why would he dig up a dead body?” Kick asked, glancing at his grandfather. He was pleased to receive an approving nod from the old man.

  “I do not know,” Andre said. “There were others involved, criminals who may have influenced Henry’s decision. They may have been after the gun. Not finding it, they took the body, hoping to sell it.”

  “But kept the book,” said Joseph.

  Andre nodded. “Henry kept it. Mostly to himself, I have no doubt. He used it to lift the Hanged Man from his slumber.”

  “Weren’t no slumber,” said the marshal. “I put a dozen slugs in the bastard with his own gun. You were there. Man was dead.”

  “Very much so. But he had prepared himself, using words from the book to preserve his body. He no doubt had a different plan in mind should he be cut down, but eleven years on it finally came to fruition.”

  Kate folded her arms over her chest. “You believe he planned to come back from the dead?”

  Andre shrugged. “He took precauti
ons.”

  “You know a lot about what’s in this book,” Kate said, choosing her words carefully. “I take it that means you’ve read it.”

  “I have read it,” Andre said. “Once, as I wrote it.”

  * * *

  Andre’s explanation of how the book came to be was careful, considered, and perfectly rational. His personal penance for losing it had been harsh, and his efforts to recover and ultimately render the book inert were thorough and fairly accomplished. He had done everything he could to atone for an error of youthful indulgence and it was not his fault that so much evil had come from something born of his hands.

  And yet Joseph was certain Andre didn’t believe a word of it. The man blamed himself and always would.

  “But you never used a single curse?” Joseph asked. “Not even to see if they worked?”

  “I believed they would. To use them would be wrong. It was my intention to stop others from using such words and for that I needed only to know them.”

  “Very noble,” Kate said.

  “And very foolish,” Andre added.

  Kate stared at the man currently overflowing her mother’s favorite chair. He wasn’t holding anything back now. His story was fantastic, but it was honest. He believed it, and despite her better judgment, Kate found she did as well.

  “Then I guess you’ll just have to bury it again,” she said. “If you can convince Mr. Macke to return it, that is. What about the gun?”

  “We destroy it,” Andre said.

  Kate laughed. “You just told us we couldn’t.”

  “Eleven years ago that was the prudent course of action. Today circumstances are different.”

  “You still think he’s out there,” Joseph said.

  “Evil such as the Hanged Man is not so easily washed away.”

  “Alive, dead, drowned … whatever he is, best to bust it up,” the marshal said, finding it easier not to look at the weapon. “S’pose I didn’t need to clean it.”

  “Fine,” Kate said, starting to rise. “I’ll get a hammer and we can smash it to bits right now.”

  Joseph caught his wife’s arm before she could step away.

  “Mr. Labeau, correct me if I’m wrong, but the Hanged Man and this weapon are connected, yes? That’s how he found us. He can sense when it’s nearby?”

  Andre nodded. “It speaks to him. Or, more accurately, the curse placed on it does, and he must heed its call.”

  “Then it could be used against him.”

  Kate stared at her husband. He’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for her to accept Andre’s words so he could offer his own. If it came down to it, he would chase after the man. He’d done it before.

  “You’re going to keep it?”

  “Just until we’re sure he’s dead.”

  Kate shook her head. “He’s gone, Joseph.”

  “If he is, then I’ll take the hammer to it myself … I promise.”

  Kate looked from her husband to the faces of her children, rapt and eager. Memories that had danced around in the back of her mind all day slipped forward to remind her of what happened to men who challenged the Hanged Man—to men and their families.

  “It can’t stay here, Joseph.”

  Joseph reached out to his wife and was glad when her hand closed around his.

  “It’ll be gone by morning.”

  The marshal grunted. “You gonna bury it in the yard?”

  “No,” Joseph said. “I have another place in mind.”

  * * *

  The front door was boarded, but the key was for an entrance on the side of the three-story building, which opened without protest. Joseph entered first, followed closely by Andre and Naira. Kate came last, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Make sure your feet are dry,” Joseph said, wiping his boots with one of several rags strewn on the floor. “We need to keep as much of the water outside as possible.”

  The air inside was warm and uncomfortably dry compared to the humidity of the flooded streets. It felt as though something had sucked the moisture from the room, which Joseph suspected was not far from the truth.

  “Interesting,” Naira said, running her hand along the spines of several books hanging from a clothesline. A dozen more lines crisscrossed the room, holding hundreds of books. “I’ve never seen books displayed in such a fashion.”

  “We had some water damage in our storeroom.”

  Kate laughed sharply. “Some?”

  “A lot,” Joseph added. “The mayor was generous enough to donate this space so we could salvage our overstock.”

  “They do seem dry,” Naira said, flipping through one of the tomes. “Mostly.”

  Joseph ducked under a line and through a doorway into a much larger space. A row of tall, covered windows along the front wall let in just enough light to reveal the room and its contents. Elaborate, ceiling-high pillars stood half constructed along each of the main walls, a long, unfinished countertop shoved against one of them. The floor, cut stone rather than wood, echoed underfoot despite a layer of dust and debris. Numerous oversize crates sat stacked in the back corner, well away from a long, canvas-wrapped pillar laid lengthwise in the center of the room. An arrangement of lumber remnants kept the storm totem three feet above ground level at all times.

  Andre was drawn to the mystery, finding it too curious to ignore.

  “The totem you spoke of,” he said, placing a hand on the canvas. “Still warm to the touch.”

  “Yes,” Joseph said, loosening the restraining boards on one side of a crate nearly as tall as himself. “It has some very curious properties. I would be interested in your assessment when you have the time.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Just don’t get it wet,” Kate added. “Please.”

  Joseph slid the crate face away to reveal a large bank safe stored within. He studied the steel box only briefly before placing one hand on the dial at its center, the other, fingertips only, on the door. Slowly, he twisted the dial to the left, stopping after a three-quarters turn.

  “This building was going to be a bank,” he said, turned the dial back to the right. “But the financiers backed out before it was finished. They did, however, leave behind this very nice safe, which according to the manufacturer is nigh impregnable.” Joseph slowed to a stop and then rotated the dial to the left once more, freezing after only a few clicks. He turned the handle and the enormous door swung open easily.

  Andre raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have the combination.”

  “Right,” Joseph said, then held out his hand. “If you please.”

  Andre opened the pouch at his side, drawing forth the Hanged Man’s pistol wrapped in cloth, which he passed forward. Joseph set the gun on the center shelf of the otherwise empty safe and shut the door, spinning the dial around twice. He pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Satisfied, he took a step back and let his focus settle. Six inches of steel now surrounded the dead man’s weapon on all sides, but Joseph could still see the revolver clearly through the door.

  “Do you think me a fool, Mr. Labeau?”

  “I do not.”

  “You see, Kate? Not a fool.”

  Kate shook her head. “I never said you were a fool, Joseph, merely foolish.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  Kate glanced at both Joseph and Andre before giving her answer.

  “We’ll see.”

  Both men were silent for a time. Joseph felt Andre’s heart thumping beside him and took comfort in the slow, steady rhythm. He could not discern the man’s partner until the sneaky young woman revealed herself at his side.

  “You now believe the Hanged Man lives.”

  “I do.”

  Naira looked to Andre, who was slower with his response.

  “Henry Macke is still in possession of the book. With it he can keep the dead man in this world.”

  “Does he have a choice?” Kate asked.

  Andre looked up, ready with his answer, but
instead found another he hoped would prove true.

  “Every man, even a cursed one, has a choice.”

  EPILOGUE

  Four miles south of the Morrison Street Bridge, a stand of birch trees rose from the Willamette, splitting the river in two. Surging floodwaters had swallowed much of the island, leaving behind a mass of floating wreckage to strangle the trees. In the shallows of the eastern fork, the river slowed to a crawl as more debris found its way to shore. It was here that a young man came to wait at the water’s edge.

  Henry wasn’t familiar with local currents or flood plains, but he knew exactly where the body would wash up, battered and unconscious—a dead man to all but Henry’s eyes. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of the Hanged Man as alive, but the true death would not come so easily—not while his corporeal presence haunted this world.

  Henry grabbed the Hanged Man’s collar and dragged him as far as he could up the sand-and-gravel embankment before rolling him onto his back. His skin was pale and shriveled. The frame that had once been menacing was now crooked, the shoulders uneven, legs bent backward and likely broken. He wouldn’t walk without help.

  (help him)

  Henry frowned.

  “Did you get it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  The Hanged Man stared into the sky, not saying a word.

  Henry checked the holster on the dead man’s hip. Empty.

  “No, I thought not.”

  Henry twisted the left leg forward sharply, tilting the foot upright as he reset the ankle. The sound of bone scraping against bone brought the taste of bile to his tongue.

  “Going to have to fix you up myself,” Henry said, drawing the belt from the Hanged Man’s waist. Carefully, he looped it under the left arm and over the chest, pulling the leather strap taunt behind the dead man’s neck.

  “I have words that will mend broken bones, possibly dead ones.”

  Henry yanked the belt, jerking the shoulder back into place with a sickening crunch. He then tested the arm, pulling it forward and twisting it until satisfied. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. For how long?

  Henry dropped the arm and stared at the broken body, clearly seeing the trials that lay ahead.

  “Damn fool, they beat you!”

  The words were so bold—so true—that it took Henry a moment to realize he’d spoken them aloud. But he had. And there were more. He would have to listen.