Clockwork Canada

by Dominik Parisien

  At Gassy Jack Deighton’s two-storey hotel the first clue came through. Jorgensen and Chu ran the local supply store for prospecting, mining, and building. Chu had helped lay the last railway ties and his tales of working the rail lines made Chex’ináx yaa wunagút realize that being the only viewer of spirits in her village had been a mild inconvenience compared to the hardships of those who had worked under such conditions.

  They sat at a table drinking ale in the saloon. She sipped soda, for the North-West Mounted Police must always be vigilant.

  Chu said, “Yes, young man-boy he come in and want brass. Why for brass?”

  “Brass?” she asked. “And did you supply him with this brass? How did he pay?”

  Jorgensen, a towering blond Swede with a moustache touching his chest, and a surprisingly soft voice, quaffed his beer and said, “Yah, ve are not stupid. Good money he pay. Good gold. Must be prospector. We sell – brass, wires, tools, coal, yah?”

  She thought back to the prospector’s description of buttery gold buffalo girls. Could it be? “Any idea where he is?”

  Chu and Jorgensen shook their heads. “No,” said Chu. “He come in. We take money. We give. Not question. Many different requests.”

  Jorgensen peered down at his friend, as round as Jorgensen was tall. He smacked him on the back. “Yah, ve like money and ve never question, only sell. Even ven man buy yards and yards of rope. Honest business, selling.”

  At this Chex’ináx yaa wunagút sat up straight and asked for a description. A man staking a claim might need a lot of rope but there was something… The bodies of the murdered women had shown burns or bruising around their wrists or necks. This could have been caused by rope. Unfortunately, the men’s description was vague. A man of medium height with hair to his collar – brown they thought – brown eyes, average looking, maybe Indian, maybe white. They argued but neither had a name or any other information.

  “Sorry, Constable Walks Through Shadows, ve see too many people.”

  “What you think of proposed name?” asked Chu, lifting his bleary gaze to his towering friend. “Granville, then maybe Vancouver. Why no stick with Gastown?”

  * * *

  While she knew a train robber and a murderer were in the vicinity, she could find no trail amongst the old thick cedars. She examined the areas where the women had been taken or found. Chex’ináx yaa wunagút needed to solve one of the cases before the North-West Mounted Police questioned her ability.

  In the office, the pot-bellied stove built heat to stave off the spring chill. She pulled out a map and marked it in charcoal for every spot where the women had last been seen. Then in ink, she marked the locations of where their bodies had been found. She wrote the dates beside each one.

  The first woman, Marjorie McIntosh, was dleit Káa and had worked in the Hastings townsite’s saloon as a prostitute. The second, a Squamish woman named T’óok’, or Nettle, was taken at the southern outskirts of Senákw; the third, Mary Corn Woman had been of the Musqueam nation and working at Gassy Jack’s saloon as a barmaid. A pattern began to emerge.

  One dleit Káa, one Squamish, one Musqueam, and then they repeated. The woman still missing was dleit Káa. Whoever was murdering them was attacking each nation but always attacking women. With seven murdered or missing the next was sure to be Squamish, but what if the murderer couldn’t tell the nation and only went for the area? Her map indicated the sites where they were abducted, but it wasn’t clear. The concentration had been along the boundaries of the Granville-Se’nákw lands but that was only where each woman had been seen last.

  It brought her no closer to finding the culprit, not at the moment.

  Night had fallen already, with a slight mist rising, when she realized it was time to leave, eat, and stop thinking of crime. She folded the map and put it in her satchel, placed her cap on her head and closed the office.

  “Ma’am! Constable Walks Through Shadows!”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút finished locking the door and turned to the urgent summons.

  McCready waved to her as his bowlegged gait brought him toward her. “You gots to hurry, ma’am. Them buffalo gals is active. I can show you where but we gotta go now or they’ll be gone before you know it.” He hitched up his suspenders, buttoning his worn jacket and shifted from foot to foot.

  She grabbed a lantern from the porch, turned up the light, and asked, “You have a horse?”

  He shook his head.

  “We’ll use mine. It will save time.”

  She handed him the lantern as she buttoned her jacket to the neck. The chill night puffed their breaths before them. Checking her pistol, Chex’ináx yaa wunagút wondered if she would need more ammunition, but this was still not a crime.

  Once mounted, she took the lantern from McCready, then had him hop up behind. “Hold the lantern but turn it low, just a glimmer. Now show me where.” Her horse danced with her agitation, tossing its cedar-coloured mane.

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút’s skin tingled. Energy nearly pulled her forward as the sky turned from indigo to navy. The stars sprang out like shell buttons on night’s blanket and the half moon added light, letting her eyes adjust.

  They moved quickly but carefully south of the Granville townsite and then east. The forest thickened, weaving into patches of black shadows on navy.

  “Right up here,” he whispered. “We has to be quiet or they might spook.”

  She tossed the reins over a branch and leapt down, leaving the prospector to dismount. A barely discernible glow limned the trees and Chex’ináx yaa wunagút motioned Mc-Cready to stay back. Tucking her braid in between the brass buttons of her jacket, she moved cautiously, finally peering between several cedar branches.

  At first she saw just the shimmer of a shape but when her mind accepted what her eyes saw, her jaw dropped. There was only one – graceful, powerful, a brass and copper creature standing the height of a person. It bent a little forward at the waist but the shape was definitely that of a woman, ending in two legs with rounded hooves.

  From head to toe, she glimmered gold, amber, oily in the faint light, small rivets marking seams up each leg, along the torso, suggestive in its feminine bareness. The arms ended in mitt-like hands and the head was a marvel. Large and round, it was more buffalo than woman, small golden horns curving upward, human-shaped eyes made from some sort of glinting green glass. Steam lazily rolled from the wide flat nostrils but the lips and hinged mouth were also reminiscent of a woman’s. The construct shifted from hoof to hoof, lifting each leg high at the knee.

  Then the buffalo woman pushed off, loping between the cedar trees and moving east. Chex’ináx yaa wunagút did not have time to mount her horse but ran after the creature. She had never stopped honing her skills and could pace most animals when hunting. Still, she barely kept up and cursed not bringing the lantern, but McCready was now far behind.

  She lost sight of the metal being but continued, hoping to get a glimpse. Stopping, she listened, moving cautiously forward, pushing branches and sorrel aside. Her braid was tangled with bits of twigs and leaves, and her cap had fallen off somewhere along the way.

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút saw a brightening in the dark. Peering from the blackness that hid her against the contrast of light, she saw a small cabin, nestled in the surrounding trees. Rough tables nearly formed a square in front, with lanterns hanging from poles. A large oilskin covered something behind the cabin. The buffalo woman stood to the side, near Chex’ináx yaa wunagút. A man, in a black vest and shirt-sleeves rolled up, bent over scraps of metal and coils.

  Her mind jumbled the images, trying to assimilate everything. When she looked at the buffalo woman standing immobile like a gilded statue, steam trickled from the nostrils, and light flickered from the eyes. Was it alive, or a machine?

  Then she saw a white and grey form shutter, as if someone opened and shut a shade, overlaying the brass figure. It rose and subsided, rose and subsided above the head. Features formed and wavered, a woman’s fa
ce. As Chex’ináx yaa wunagút watched, stunned, she realized it was the face of one of the murdered women. The woman looked sad, staring at her and before Chex’ináx yaa wunagút knew it, she had drawn her gun and entered the clearing whispering a prayer, and reached up. Her fingers tingled as she sent the energy to disperse the spirit that had been tied to the machine.

  A sigh, or a lightening of the air, moved through the glade.

  The man turned, dropping the instrument he had been holding and ran toward her. “What did you do?”

  She pointed her gun and stepped back. “Stop right there!”

  His large brown eyes teared up and he fell to his knees. “What did you do?” he whispered, staring at his empty hands.

  In the wavering light she saw his face. Nothing added up.

  “You’re Peter Stanton, wanted for armed robbery of the Canadian Pacific Railway.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, didn’t even look up, still kneeling, head bowed as if he prayed. “You don’t know what you did.”

  She frowned. “What I did?”

  “You…dissipated her.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You – you can see them? Their spirits?”

  He nodded.

  She had been going to ask how, but then she could not answer that question for herself. “What have you done to the women? Did you kill them all?”

  Stanton frowned at her. “No, I didn’t kill them.”

  “Then what are you doing with the spirit of a murdered woman?” She motioned with her gun for him to stand.

  He did so slowly, as if he was realizing the severity of the situation.

  “I didn’t do anything with their spirits.”

  Their. “Where are the others?”

  He motioned to the oil cloth and she made him pull it off. “Slowly.”

  There stood another four buffalo women in different stages of completion, like goddesses waiting. She could see two wraiths moving in and out of the constructs.

  “The spirit was trapped by your machine.”

  “No.” He clenched his fists. “No, she was not. She chose to inhabit it.”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút looked over to the buffalo woman. It still stood there, steam trailing from its nostrils. She gestured with her gun, for once feeling completely out of her depth. Murderers, she could track. Robbers she could arrest, but this, she had no idea what this all meant. “I don’t understand.”

  Stanton ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “Of course not, how could you?” He moved toward his cabin, motioning her to follow. He opened the door to the modest room and went inside, lighting several lanterns, pulled out the single chair for her to sit, and grabbed a crate for himself.

  He looked at her then, actually registering her red serge jacket and regalia. He sighed. “Oh. You’re North-West Mounted Police. Well, let me explain before you take me. And let me wrap up.”

  She sensed no threat, no subterfuge, but she kept her gun out. He was a man of average size, not overly muscled, but she remained alert, checking the room for guns or traps. She positioned herself so that she could see the door, in case he had partners. The lantern light left the corners in shadow but only a child could have hidden there.

  He sat on the crate across from where she stood but stared out the open door.

  She prodded him by saying, “You could see the spirit. I don’t understand what you were doing with it.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t doing anything. Well, not at first.” He sighed. “I was coming out to get my sister. I didn’t want her working…doing what she was doing in that saloon. But I was too late. She was murdered before I could get here.”

  “Marjorie McIntosh?”

  “Her husband died. She came out here to work, to survive. I couldn’t save my little sister. I robbed the train for her, to give her enough to start a new life. I didn’t care if I went to jail. But I was too late.”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút’s heart felt heavy. He had risked everything to no avail. If he was telling the truth. “But what is this construct you made?”

  His eyes brightened for a moment. “They are my buffalo fighters. I heard of the other murders. The gold meant nothing after that. But I wanted people to remember my sister for more than what she had become. She’d been fierce and strong and independent and to see her…” He choked up and sat for a moment, breathing heavily. “To see her reduced to serving men to survive, it broke my heart. I’d been an engineer, and a bit of a sculptor before. I wanted to make something strong and beautiful, so I built the women. Better to create them than have the gold and money go to some rich baron who is getting fat caring little about people or land.”

  He stood abruptly and she brought her gun up, tensing, watching as he paced, running his hands through his hair. “I got more than I asked for. It’s taken months but they’re almost ready. I was initially building them to remember those missing women. But I wanted them to be more than sculptures, to be fierce and strong. Did you know the buffalo are being decimated?”

  He whirled and really looked at Chex’ináx yaa wunagút, walking around her, ignoring that she pivoted to keep the gun on him. “The crest on your jacket indicates you’re from the north. You don’t have buffalo there, or here, but that doesn’t matter. The Plains People depend on them and they are wonderful wild beasts. These automatons I’m building are to protect the buffalo. I’m designing them to scare off those hunting for sport. The herds have to survive. My sister loved them.”

  With that last statement, Peter Stanton’s fire dimmed. He just walked out the door and stood staring at the buffalo woman standing quiescent before the cabin.

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút came out behind him. Conflicts warred in her. A madman might think it appropriate to kill women so their spirits would fuel his machine. There was a madness about Stanton. She was sworn to keep the peace but Stanton’s cause captured her heart.

  “You were going to build one for each murdered woman?”

  “Yes, or until the money ran out.”

  She shook her head. “But I do not understand the use of their spirits.”

  He turned to her. Tears streaked his face. “I didn’t use them. They started coming to me. Maybe they sensed my purpose, maybe that’s why I can see them. I never asked them – they just came. Only two so far, now that you sent one away. But I’m hoping Marjorie will show. They add something to the machines. The automatons move more fluently. I think it’s a place for them to live.”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút replied, “Some spirits move on. They do not stay. Your sister may already be gone.”

  Stanton closed his eyes, nodding ever so slightly.

  “You know I must take you in. I must uphold the law and you have to answer for your crime.”

  Peter Stanton turned to her, his brow creasing. “I know, but I ask you, let me finish first and set them free. They’ll roam the prairies, protecting the buffalo, until they break down, but those women’s spirits will have a chance to live for a while and do something for which they will be remembered.”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút knew the weight of spirits, of deciding if she should send them on or let them be. Not all wanted to go and she felt shame that she had reacted without respecting that one spirit’s wish. Yet, she had to also judge whether Stanton was guilty and should atone for his crimes. Her fingers ran over the shell buttons on her coat, back and forth as she weighed her choices.

  Stanton saw the resolve on her face. “Please, just let me finish them. After that, I don’t care what happens.”

  “I have a murderer on the loose. How do I know you haven’t been killing them?”

  He closed his eyes. “I…could never murder anyone, least of all Marjorie. Check the date of the robbery and you’ll see it was too close to her murder for me to be here.”

  That still didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for the others, but it just didn’t add up.

  “Please, Constable. Shackle me if you must, but let me stay here.”

&
nbsp; “ I must take you in, but I will give you a month to finish. Do not try to escape. ”

  “I give you my word.”

  She left the clearing, with Stanton and his buffalo woman watching her go.

  * * *

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút had been staring out at the people moving around Senákw doing their daily business, laughing, shouting, children running to and fro. Gulls called out overhead and she shook herself. She was daydreaming and she still had a murderer to catch.

  Before meeting Peter Stanton, she had seen ghosts from time to time. A few she had sent on to whatever place the dead inhabit after life. But she had given little thought to their lives beforehand. Now she had a link between the murdered women and at least some of their lingering wraiths. Could they tell her who the murderer was? They had not seemed angry with Stanton.

  She knew Stanton wouldn’t run. He was pierced by sorrow and would bleed out his efforts avenging his sister. The bizarre brass mannequins impressed her with the nobility of his desire. There was a sudden tugging pang for her people in the Whale house of the Raven clan.

  The villages here lived closely beside each other; cultures and times were mixing. There was so much flux. Perhaps this unsettled feeling was only a time of change. She needed to move, release her restlessness.

  She was just unsaddling her horse when several people approached. It was obvious from the grim faces that something had happened. One of the men from Granville said, “We found a woman by Hastings Mill.”

  Chex’ináx yaa wunagút thought of Stanton and for a minute wondered if he had needed another wraith, but he wore his grief like a cloak where each button was a deed he would take on to avenge the wrongs.

  The unrelenting grey sky starkly revealed the white man’s land thinned of trees, and laid out in rough grids with buildings on either side. At Hastings Mill, she approached the waterfront where reddish logs floated, waiting to be hauled in. By the water, the bloated corpse was nearly unrecognizable except for the long brown hair tangled about the face like seaweed, and the waterlogged clothing. They’d found her under a boom.