“So? What’s it matter to you, she dies or not?”
“Lenamarie was my friend.”
“Your friend made her bed—made her own gal set the Hex-Doctor’s rigs on her, for Christ’s sake, ’cause it wasn’t worth trying to convince her otherwise. And now she’s dead she gets to lie in it, just like everybody else.”
A highly Chess-like sentiment, one which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone who knew them, or even who didn’t. You taught me well, Charlie thought—and this time, even as the words formed, he saw Chess nod, if only slightly. Shaping back, with far more expertise:
Damn if I didn’t, too.
Marsh jerked again, maybe trying to throw up both hands, just to show the true scope of his frustration. “And what about the boy, goddamnit?” he repeated, a trifle desperately.
As Jorinda grit her teeth, struggling to hold the Manifold’s beam steady, Chess rounded on the man, demanding: “What about him? You wait ’til he flowers, then what—gonna hunt him down, lasso him, make him Oath up ’fore he chokes? He’s a child of sin and free will, same as you and me both. Which makes it his t’choose if and when he comes here . . . or not.”
Point made, he looked to Songbird and Gabriel for support, only to see the albino girl shake her white head in disagreement. “Yet he will have to, eventually, red boy. You know this.”
“Did you? Or was that choice maybe took away from you, at threat’s point? Did it maybe hurt, too, enough so you fought it with all your might, and almost killed yourself in the process? Wasn’t so long back I don’t remember. So how ’bout it, Songbird? Am I right, or am I wrong?”
Songbird hissed. But now it was Yiska’s turn to nod, and tell her, softly—
“. . . the first, Yu Ming-ch’in. As you well know.”
“Ai-yaah! This is—true enough, I suppose.” Songbird took a second to settle herself, sleeve by sleeve, the movement seeming to calm her. Observing, as she did: “You have finally learned to argue, red boy, and well; too well. Frankly, it would be better had I never asked you here.”
Chess snorted again. “Heard that one before. Still, you’re stuck with me now.”
The place where her eyebrows should be raised up, just a twitch. “How so?”
Chess looked to Yiska, who looked to Gabriel, who sighed, and clapped. A split second after, the twins popped back into view, each with a hand on one of old Claw-foot’s hairy forelegs—one pointed her Charlie’s way and let her go, the other doling out a kick in the direction of her notable lack of butt. The spider scurried to meet him, scattering hexes as it went; picking up his cue, Charlie jostled Jorinda’s arm enough to snap her Manifold shut, letting Marsh slump free. “Mount up, your kids too!” he yelled at Lobbel, who nodded, all but heaving his step-daughter and the baby into Claw-foot’s saddle, before gingerly clambering up himself. Charlie himself, meanwhile, had barely time enough to grab onto the reins, and pray Chess knew what he was doing.
No time to say goodbye, he’d remember thinking, later on. There’s a surprise.
By then, however, Songbird must’ve figured out what was going on, and thrown in—reluctantly, he had no doubt. 'Cause next they knew, things bent, sling-shotting all four of them (five, if you included the arachnorse, which Charlie sure did) from the very centre-space of Hexicas to the midst of New Mexican canyon country, miles away from every previous threat. In the middle distance, Charlie thought he could just glimpse those old Injun ruins Yiska had spoke of, too far for him to quite see if any eight-legged shadows swarmed those walls; given the way Claw-foot perked up, though—like she could scent them, even at this distance—he thought it likely.
Behind, all that remained of where they’d come from was a trailing filament, a narrowing light-leash. Charlie found his eyes drawn back to it, almost irresistibly, while Lobbel and Jorinda conferred in whispers, over the baby’s wailing head—
“Remember what you said, Jorinda: you are his sister, even now we know. So you must continue to love him, no matter what.”
“And I do. I will. How can I help it? You think I don’t love her, still?”
Lobbel looked down, a wave of pain obviously washing over him, and waited until it subsided to admit: “Yes, katzchen. She could have waited to find out, about you—I pressed her to do so, as far as I could. She would have known, eventually, whatever was done. But . . . this was not good enough, for Lenamarie. Nothing was.”
“No,” Jorinda agreed. “Since she had been disappointed once before, already.” Explaining, at Charlie’s glance: “I cannot sing either, you see.”
Christ save us from our folks’ expectations, Charlie thought. Going on, a moment after, to reckon how that’d probably never been Chess’s problem—or had it? For as it turned out, long after the fact, “English” Oona’s neglect and raillery had been a species of plan in itself, calculated either to trigger Chess’s capacities or kill him trying. And Charlie knew that well enough—Chess had told him that story, more than just the once. But maybe . . . maybe he hadn’t been listening, all too hard.
I’m sorry for that, he tried to shape at Chess, from Christ knew how far away. And got back, eventually—seeping through that only just-open crack, softer than he’d heard the man speak under any circumstance, in person—
Don’t much matter if you are, I guess, or even if you ain’t. ’Cause we never were fit for double-harness, you and me; knew that from the start—I did, anyhow. And if I gave you another impression, ever, then I all I can do is apologize. . . .
(darlin’)
The gentlest of all possible sendings, more brush than touch, far softer than Charlie might’ve merited. So it really shouldn’t’ve hurt the way it did—not as bad, anyhow. Nor as deep.
I did love you, though, he tried to tell him, eyes downcast and stinging. You know that, right?
Yes, Charlie.
Kept on waitin’ for you to tell me yea or nay, too, long after most would’ve just left. Probably thought I was a damn fool too, a fond young idjit, for all you kept quiet on it. But you never would’ve loved me same’s you loved the Rev, would you, no matter how long I stayed . . . no matter what I did, or didn’t?
Simply: No.
Like a boot to the chest, further up than Chess himself could ever reach—it rocked Charlie back, even as he mocked at himself for letting it. And heard Chess go on, quieter still, as the crack grew yet more narrow—
But then again . . . you wouldn’t want me to, not really, you gave the idea more’n a minute’s hard thought. And given what it brought him and me both to, by the end, that’s probably just as well.
With that, the wisp of power still visible from Hex City blew away, scattering wide across the plain. Between that last word and the silence where the next should go, Chess was gone.
Charlie stood there a minute, letting his breath slow, his heart cease to hurt, or almost so. Good enough to be getting on with, at any rate.
Wish I’d known, last time I kissed you, he thought. That . . . it was gonna be our last, I mean.
But enough of that.
Next to him, he felt Claw-foot twitch, excited. “Must smell pretty good over there, I guess,” Charlie told her, reaching up to stroke one palp, set all a-tremble at the idea of finally meeting more of her own kind. “Well, okay. Gotta get you bred up sometime, huh, honey?” Adding, to Lobbel and company: “That’s if you folks are all right with takin’ a slight detour, I mean, ’fore I get you moving towards civilized climes.”
Jorinda looked at her Vatti, who swallowed. “I . . . see no reason not to, Mister Alarid, if you think it safe,” Lobbel replied, stiffly.
“Oh, that bunch know ’bout children, hex and natural, from what I’ve heard. ’Sides, we don’t gotta go with her . . . can just make camp in the shade, slip her traces, and wait. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
“Hansi might get hungry,” Jorinda said.
“I got food in my saddle-bags,” Charlie offered. “Biscuit makes
a pretty good mush, mixed with canteen water.”
“Very well, then,” Lobbel said, to which Jorinda nodded, eagerly. And Charlie led them forward, into the light.
April 5, 1875:
FRESH NEWS FROM HEX CITY!
PARTIAL EXODUS OF MANY “NATURAL” (NON-HEXACIOUS) CITIZENS
TO SATISFY THE REST, A NEW SYSTEM IS INITIATED—
ONE WHICH COMES WITH A NAME OF PAST NOTE ATTACHED
GREAT UPHEAVAL!
The Hexican City Council Announces that From Now On,
City’s Police Force is to be Comprised of “Naturals” Wielding Asbury’s Manifolds (Patented),
Supplied—in Co-Operative Venture—by the U.S. Government’s Own Thiel Agency.
Their Chief? None Other than Mister Chess Pargeter,
Who Readers Will Remember from both Darkest Nights
And Brightest Victory-Days of Pinkerton’s Hex War.
Some have Left, while Others Stay, though Un-Expressed—
“It is Worth Inconvenience and Some Trials to be Valued for What We Are”
Say Inverts and Odd Women; Negroes, Orientals and Indians agree.
Alderman Increase Dow maintains: “Our Variance proves us American, Hex or No.
Being Different, we must Welcome Difference, and so Strive to keep our city Welcoming.”
In EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW conducted by Noted Correspondent
Fitz Hugh Ludlow,
Author of The Perambulatory 38th (Serialized in this Paper),
Newly Oathed Sheriff Pargeter vows to Make Sure
No Hex Exploits their Power over Naturals (nor Vice Versa),
By Maintaining a Balance within which Capacity for Abuse
Remains both Equal-Shared, and Equally Forsworn.
“Long’s we Live Together, we’ll D— well Live Equals,” Former Outlaw Declares.
A year after their parting, Charlie Alarid—against all his worser instincts (which were most of ’em, to be frank)—found he’d somehow carved himself a weirdly solid niche in the hierarchy of Total Wreck, New Mexico, so much so he was already hovering dangerously close to the edge of respectability, taste in bed-partners notwithstanding. The spider-ranch he’d founded with Claw-foot’s second clutch, using the money from her first for seed, was doing a brisk bit of business: mainly locals and cow-boys, who used two or three ’norses to keep off rustlers when herding cattle (their webs also worked wonders for make-shift fencing), but that’d change soon enough; he’d had nibbles from the army, above and below the Border. Sure, ’norses hadn’t penetrated the Mex market all too much thus far, but this was where it definitely helped to be raised fluent. . . .
He’d heard from the papers how Chess finally took the Oath after all, in order to become Hex City’s Sheriff—would’ve paid a deal to be in that room, when it happened. Of course, he doubted even the prospect of playing chief lawman in the oddest city on Earth would keep Chess more inside than out for long; was the sort of job called for skills he hadn’t quite developed yet, though God knew Charlie’d seen him trying. So Chess’d probably find reasons to furlough, sashaying out as emissary, as negotiator, or just to educate folks. The idea of Chess Pargeter giving lectures did make him snort a tad, though, since—going strictly by his own experience, mind you—he’d personally found Chess to be far more of a hands-on instructor.
That evening, who should show up but The Night Has Passed herself, Miss-or-Mister Yiska. She was riding a fresh new arachnorse, young and high in the shoulders, dun across the top to blend in with the desert dust, but with interesting orange shades to its belly-pelt. “Red boy’s rider,” she called him, grinning wide. “You have done well for yourself, with the eggs our males bred in your mount. Perhaps you owe us somewhat, in return for such bounty.”
“Hey, now—they didn’t have t’do thing one with her, they didn’t want to. But my gal here can be powerful seductive, when she takes a mind.”
“Hmmm, she is pleasant to look on, still. And fertile. How many times has she clutched since?”
“’Bout once every six-month or so. We raise ’em up, train ’em, pass ’em on, savin’ the best male and female out of each bunch—mate the male back to Claw-foot and her daughter both, and see what happens. She gives good stock, so far. I start seein’ too much die-off, though, then I’ll think about buyin’ eggs from someone else, and lay in a little new blood.”
“We have eggs to sell, as it happens.”
“Oh, that so?” He returned her grin, with interest. “Then maybe you better c’mon in and sit a while, so’s we can talk business.”
The time passed pleasantly enough, drinking rye whiskey and smoking those good cigars Charlie’d gotten for cheap, his last time down Tlaquepacque. Yiska inquired about the Lobbels, to which Charlie said he hadn’t seen ’em since they’d caught the train in No Silver Here, heading for Yuma City. But he did get the occasional card or letter from Jorinda, now going strictly by her Vatti’s last name. Lobbel’d taken a job in a bank, writing letters on the side; Hansi was getting tall, running every which-where, but hadn’t managed to hurt himself bad enough he’d bloomed up, as yet. Charlie suspected it was Jorinda’s prime task to make sure of that, and could only hope she was picking up enough in and around it to keep her in good stead, after the (un)blessed event finally arrived.
“We still have many children, in Hexicas,” Yiska assured him. “Of those who left, most were single men and women, unmarried—the others chose to stay, almost all. Sophy Love has established a school and hired teachers by correspondence, some natural, some not. Nothing is neglected.”
“Uh huh. And this police force of Chess’s—the natural cadre, Manifold-slinging all up and down Hex-town—how’s that goin’? Any riots t’put down, as yet?”
Yiska took another reflective pull, and paused to blow a perfect smoke ring. “Lucas Marsh made trouble,” she said, “as we expected. So he was drained of power, braceletted, put in jail. We have a jail, now. In the Moon Room, where Ixchel Rainbow and Reverend Rook once slept.”
“He learn his lesson?”
“In a way. He managed to hang himself, from the bars of his cell.”
Charlie had a sip halfway down, but managed to complete the gulp without coughing—much. “That . . . ain’t good,” he said, finally.
Yiska shrugged. “He would have had his hexation returned, eventually, if he was only content to wait. But this is something you bilagaana find difficult, I have found.”
Charlie gave her a long look, taking her in top to toe, from her booted feet to her shiny black hair, worn loose like a trick-rider’s, a bandana keeping it from her eyes. “How d’you do it?” he asked, at last. “You ain’t like them.”
“Ah, but I am. I could have been a Wise Woman, as my Grandmother advised me—the Spinner, she who raised Old Woman Butte. But I wanted other things; to ride, to fight, to kill. To take my pleasures where I find them.”
“You ’n’ Songbird.” She nodded. “But that ain’t always enough, is it?”
“I was lucky to be raised to the Way from childhood, and it keeps me level. You bilagaana, blundering around, never knowing your own path . . . I pity you, sometimes. A man who cannot see where to stand will be pushed at from all sides.”
“You think Chess knows his way, now?”
Yiska smiled. “The red boy still goes where his stomach tells him, mostly. Yet I count it a great step forwards that he no longer goes in bad directions, simply because others tell him not to.”
Charlie took a mouthful of air, puffed it out again. Allowing, against his better judgement—
“You can feel free to say you saw me, if he asks where you been. All right? I mean . . . well, hell. I guess you know what I mean.”
A small incline of the head. “I do.”
By the time they were back outside, the hills were purple. Yiska mounted her big ’norse in a single spring, sleeking her face against the top of its head to rouse it from cold-sleep, warming it w
ith her breath. The spider made a creaking noise, straightened its front legs and gave a sort of all-over shiver that meant it was looking forward to kick-off. With a tinge of envy, Charlie wondered how long it’d been since him and Claw-foot had a real run, let alone a scramble up some particularly steep cliffs.
“See you later?” he asked. She nodded.
“Without doubt.” Then added, as she nudged the spider into a turn: “But he has already seen where you live, rider, if you wish to know. He had the Shoshone scry for it, once, when he thought neither I nor Master Chu were watching.”
She hauled on her ’norse’s reins, hard, but not unkind; a quick strike of bare heels on chitin kicked the great spider into a gallop. Charlie watched, admiring her skill and the spider’s speed, ’til they both blurred into the horizon. For some further time, he stood leaning against the door-frame, wondering if he might see a figure in purple riding back the other way one day, he just squinted hard enough. Tricky to tell if the shimmer separating sky from sand was in the air or in his eyes, but it made no difference, either way; nothing moved that he could see, ’sides from a few low clouds.
Rain, maybe. Best get the juves back inside.
After a while, Charlie cleared his throat, with some force. And went on back to his evening’s work, like any normal human man.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in London, England and raised in Toronto, Canada, Gemma Files has been an award-winning horror writer for over twenty years, as well as a film critic, screenwriter and teacher. She has published two collections of short work: Kissing Carrion (2003) and The Worm in Every Heart (2004), both from Wildside Press. She has also written two chapbooks of poetry. Her first novel, A Book Of Tongues: Volume One of the Hexslinger Series, won the 2010 Black Quill award for “Best Small Press Chill” (Editors’ and Readers’ Choice) from DarkScribe Magazine, and was also nominated for a Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel. Its sequel, A Rope of Thorns (2011), along with this book, complete a trilogy which is really one narrative broken into three instalments. For her next trick, she looks forward to writing something different.
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