MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  Paul’s patience eroded. If he or any of the other boys fussed so, they would have been cuffed behind the ears.

  “We could use your chips, Amelia,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t stink.” As Paul predicted, he was cuffed behind the ears.

  “Leave me alone!” Amelia squealed.

  Paul’s barb nevertheless had the desired effect. She hushed. But she refused to eat.

  That night Paul could not write in his journal. He was afraid they would be wandering the plains forever. In time sleep snuck up on him, but when its spell began to wane he found himself in a warm bed. Startled, he bolted upright with the coverlet settling on his lap.

  Once his nerve settled Paul realized that he finally did fall asleep and he was in the world of his dreams. Several cats sat upon a windowsill, licking their paws. An unlit oil lamp sat on the nightstand beside the bed. Light shined through an open door, coloring the walls in soft, flickering amber.

  Certainly the Traveler was here. He sprung from the bed and padded across the wooden floor on his bare feet to a landing outside the door. Following the steps downstairs with his eye he saw before a fireplace the corner of a chair, a portion of a pants leg and a leather shoe. It was the Traveler. Paul recognized the fabric of the clothes. Except here Paul knew the Traveler by his name, Randolph Carter.

  He heard Randolph below casually turning the page of a book.

  Paul’s spirits rose. He was about to tramp down the steps when a reminder crossed his mind that he needed his rest. The advice came from Randolph. He and Randolph on occasion communicated to each other in thought rather than in spoken words.

  Even though he wanted to go downstairs, Paul obeyed.

  Curious, he took a peek out the window, and down in the narrow, cobble-stoned streets were burly figures, like trolls, shuffling about, banging on the wooden doors and peering through the cracks in the shuttered windows. In the flickering streetlights, Paul saw bits of dirt crumble from their bodies as they walked. In fact, it appeared as if they were formed from clumps of moist soil.

  In dreams Paul knew things without being told, and he knew they were looking for people. For whom or what, he didn’t know. He also had a sense that they came from the waking world just as he did. When one of the dirt trolls approached the front door below the window, one of the cats hissed. Startled, the troll backed away and lumbered toward the next building.

  Feeling safe, Paul stroked the cat that spooked the troll. But wait a minute! Just because he was safe here, didn’t mean he would be safe when he awoke.

  Paul ran back out to the landing.

  “I need to talk to you about the trolls outside,” Paul said in thought. The sound of a page turning was the only response.

  “My parents fell behind the wagon train,” Paul persisted. “We’re lost. Will the trolls get us?”

  “Keep your wits about you and you will be fine,” Randolph replied. “How is that going to help? I’m not smart like you!”

  “Of course you are. Where do you think I got my smarts from?” “I suppose your Pa.”

  “Exactly—Pa.” “Huh?”

  Paul jumped awake in the tent, back on the plains in the waking world. Did the Traveler try to call him “Paul” or “Pa”? Quickly, the dream faded into the shadow of forgetfulness.

  “Pa,” Paul murmured. He decided that was what the Traveler had said. The Traveler called him Pa. It didn’t make sense because the Traveler was older than him, and he was just a boy.

  In the morning his parents and the Wilkes were anxious to continue the search for the trail. They skipped breakfast and trekked on. Paul kept pondering the significance of last night’s dream. His father asked if anything was bothering him. He shook his head no.

  If only he could fall asleep now, find out the next chapter, so to speak, of his relationship with the Traveler.

  The little group picked up their pace at the sight of campfire smoke curling up from behind the next rise. When they crested the hill they discovered an encampment of about a score of tipis intermingled with horses and several carts.

  They had wandered into Sioux country. About a dozen warriors mounted up and approached. Half of them carried muzzle-loaders. The Carters and Wilkes had no idea what to expect. They held still.

  The Sioux confronted them at the top of the hill. The eldest dismounted. The deep lines in his face made him appear ancient. His comrades climbed down from their horses, except for the ones with the guns. They stayed put with their hands resting over their triggers.

  Paul’s father raised his hand in greeting. He broke an inviting, but tense smile.

  The elder Sioux extended his hand to shake. Surprised by the gesture, Mr. Carter tentatively shook his hand.

  “You are lost,” the elder stated.

  “Lost—how’d you guess?” Paul’s father asked sheepishly.

  “You do not look like,” and the man paused for emphasis, “sodbusters.” He smiled over his knowledge of the colloquialism.

  “No, we’re not farmers,” Paul’s father jutted his thumb toward Mr. Wilkes. “Elliot here is a blacksmith. Me, I’m Lewis Carter. I worked as a merchant back East. Your English is good. You met white men before?”

  The elder Sioux pointed toward the left. “That way is your trail. That is north.” He then extended his hand westward toward the endless rolling hills. “Be careful that you do not go that way. That way is the black ship. If the spirits of the black ship find you they will take you to the sky. My people do not go that way. Not even for buffalo.”

  “Ship, as in boat?”

  “Ship. Boat. They mean the same in your language, do they not?” “Sure, but I didn’t know there was water that way.”

  “No water. The ship sails the skies at night.”

  The elder Sioux then gazed at Paul’s father in expectation.

  “Well,” Paul’s father scratched his head in the midst of the awkward pause, shuffled in place. “I guess thanks. We will be on our way.”

  Paul understood what was wrong. He tugged his father’s sleeve and explained in his ear that they needed to give them something.

  “Give them something?” His father blurted out loud.

  “It’s in a traveler’s guide I read. It has to do with hospitality and right of passage and such.”

  His father stared at him blankly.

  “We don’t have much,” Paul said to the Sioux. “Please find something that will equal your hospitality.”

  His mother protested. “Paul, what are you doing? Don’t be handing out our belongings to these people!” She turned to her husband for help. “Lewis!” “What am I supposed to do?” he replied, exasperated. “They have guns!”

  The elder Sioux nodded, and his dismounted companions headed for the wagons. Paul kept pace, dropping the back of his parent’s wagon. He pointed to items of interest, cooking utensils, blankets, and vouched for their quality.

  Furious, Mr. Wilkes intercepted the three tawny braves approaching his wagon. “Touch my stuff and I’ll knock the lot of you on the ground. Get me?” His three boys gathered around to back him up.

  The muscles on the trio of warriors went taut. They stood aside to give their musket men a clean shot. Mrs. Wilkes screamed when she saw the guns shouldered.

  “Mr. Wilkes!” Paul shouted. “You don’t understand. We’re trespassers in their land. It’s custom to offer gifts. It’s to ensure goodwill.” He hurried over and motioned to the riled warriors that it was all right to go through Wilkes’ wagon.

  Mr. Wilkes yanked Paul around by his reedy arm. His poor limb looked ready to snap.

  “Who are you to hand out my things? I paid for them. You didn’t!”

  “Let go of my son, dammit!” Paul’s father grabbed Mr. Wilkes by the collar with both hands and shoved him back, using all his strength to make the big man yield. “Can’t you see he’s trying to keep us out of trouble?”

  Paul rubbed his sore arm.

  The Elder motioned for the guns to be lowered and told his oth
er three comrades to go ahead and find items of value among the Wilkes’ possessions.

  Paul’s mother decided to extend the peace offering. “You seem to have an excellent command of English,” she said to the Elder. “Perhaps you will meet someone who can teach you to read it as well. I want to give you this.” She held out her Bible. “Its worth is beyond anything else we have.”

  He glanced at the golden cross on the black leather cover of the book. “Missionaries came to my people to teach us about a healing god. They also brought us cholera. My tribe was once ten times as many as you see behind me now.”

  Mrs. Carter blanched. “I’m sorry.”

  When they were well on their way, Paul’s father put his arm around him. “You handled yourself well back there,” he said. Leaning close, mindful of Wilkes overhearing, he added, “We probably would’ve lost as much as Elliot if you hadn’t been cooperative.”

  “I read about trading goods for passage in a guidebook that was up on the shelf at the store in Missouri while we were getting last minute supplies. Reading isn’t so bad now, is it?”

  “We never had a problem with reading,” his mother interjected. “It’s what you enjoy reading.” She asked why he didn’t enjoy reading the Bible as much.

  “I don’t know. Boring, I guess,” he replied reluctantly. “I was afraid of that.”

  Paul expected her to become angry. Instead she was sad. He apologized some more. It didn’t help.

  “You don’t understand,” his mother said.

  “What’s there to understand?” Paul asked.

  “We should tell him,” his father suggested to his mother. “It’s your family line,” she reminded him.

  “I didn’t partake in the sins of my forebears. So there’s no shame on my head. Tell Paul.”

  Mrs. Carter told Paul his father’s ancestors had a history of witchcraft and sorcery. Paul couldn’t believe it. Grandpa walked the straight and narrow, he argued, as much as anyone in the congregation of their church back in Massachusetts.

  His mother clarified. She referred to his great grandfather, Edmund Carter. Many of the Carters were sorcerers, but Edmund was the most accomplished, or notorious, depending upon how one looked at it. The Salem Witch Trials condemned Edmund to death by hanging. He disappeared from the gallows before the eyes of the citizens of Salem while the noose was about his neck. Much like Paul, Edmund and his ancestors were not interested in religion and were drawn to weird books. Paul’s mother feared he would follow in their footsteps.

  Paul insisted the books he read weren’t weird, but his mother considered Poe and Irving and the others weird enough. Besides, scholars were becoming more godless, and industry and science had gained such influence in city life in recent years, instilling godly principles in him would be difficult. This was the reason for the trip West.

  “If our family had normal problems,” she explained, “we’d solve them by normal means. Unfortunately your father’s side of the family has problems that are spiritual. And the only way we know how to protect you is through faith.”

  FIERCE WINDSTORMS PLAGUED the journey. Airborne dust blew as blinding rain. It stung the eyes and filled the mouth with grit.

  Mr. Wilkes grew impatient. When the winds died down enough for talk he disputed the directions the Sioux gave them.

  “We’ve been wandering two days. Any of you see the trail? Huh? You Martha?” He asked his wife. She shook her head. “Boys?” His sons said no. “Amelia?” His daughter also shook her head. “And how about you?” He turned the question over to Paul’s parents.

  They had to admit the obvious. Paul noticed Mr. Wilkes avoided eye contact with him. After the Sioux had claimed his horses, the blacksmith had been treating Paul as if he didn’t exist.

  “Hell,” Wilkes continued, “we all know how much the Indian resents people traipsing through his land. I bet the direction we were told not to go is the way we should’ve been going. He was just trying to scare us, hoping we wander around till we drop dead so he can get the rest of our stuff without a fight! I’m going that way,” he jabbed a thick finger in the direction the elder Sioux warned them not to go. “If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”

  Barking orders at his family, Mr. Wilkes steered their wagon around. Paul’s parents discussed what to do. Mindful that Paul had read a few things about Indians, Paul’s mother deferred the question to him.

  “What do you think, Paul? Was the Indian chief lying to us?” Paul doubted it.

  All the same, his father summed up, they probably were wavering from the course due north ever since the clouds covered the sun. There was little doubt they were going to continue going the wrong way as much as the Wilkes. Better to be lost together than being lost separately.

  The Carters turned and followed behind the Wilkes.

  The wind continued to harangue them till dark, then ended abruptly. The two families made camp on the leeward side of the hills.

  There was something that did not feel right about where they were. Paul couldn’t put his finger on it. Everyone else seemed to be affected as well, although no one voiced his or her anxieties. His father seemed driven by nervous energy. Instead of letting the animals roam so they could graze, he tied their reigns to the spokes of the wagon wheels to keep them close b y. He then posted the tent between the wagons. Wilkes and his boys followed suit.

  “We should post a watch,” Mr. Wilkes suggested gravely.

  “Right.” Paul’s father rubbed his chin, scanning the land. “What do you suggest the order should be?”

  “All men folk will stand watch, ninety minutes apiece,” the blacksmith rattled off. “Frances, my youngest will take first watch, then Joel, then me, and then Plutarch. After that it’s up to you.”

  Paul’s father turned to him, appearing doubtful. “You feel up to it, Paul?” he asked.

  Paul knew why his father was uncertain. He was no good when it came to hard work. What confidence then should his father have in his ability to take responsibility? “Sure I can,” he stated.

  His father continued to look at him. Paul could read from his gaze what he was thinking: Are you sure? This is serious.

  He stared forcefully back: I won’t fail you. Give me a chance.

  His father loosened a smile. He dug out his pocket watch and gave it to

  Paul.

  “All right, Paul. Wake me at four-thirty.”

  He rubbed the pocket watch with his finger. In a way the watch was a token of his father’s good faith. He was determined to not be a letdown.

  Amelia stepped over to Paul with a smirk.

  “I bet my baby brother Frances can do a better job on watch than you,”

  she taunted. “In fact I bet he can swing an axe better than you!”

  “Why don’t you get your own axe?” Paul stood nose to nose with her. “We’ll see who’s stronger.”

  “Sure. Taking on a girl is the best you can do, isn’t it?”

  “Amelia!” her mother hissed. “Quit teasing and get over here!” “Ha!” Paul laughed. “For once you got into trouble.”

  “Paul!” his mother called sharply in a hushed voice. She made a whip cracking sound with the snap of her fingers and pointed to the ground in front of her feet, letting him know she wanted him to come over here and behave.

  “Ha!” Amelia rebutted. “And you got in trouble again, as always.” She stuck out her tongue and pranced back to her parent’s wagon with her chin raised in a haughty air, swinging her hips wide.

  Paul spotted a small rock and then eyed her swinging behind as a bull’s eye. He thought better of it and returned to his mother.

  “You might want to start being nice to her,” his father advised softly. “Most of the people going west are men. In a few years, she’ll be more precious to you than gold.”

  Paul doubted it.

  To be safe, they slept in the wagon, which took some adjustment to keep from jutting their elbows and knees into each other.

  Nightmares of the t
rolls hounded Paul, kicking him awake, his heart galloping. He laid still and quiet to assure himself that everything was fine.

  Then a subtle sucking sound drew his attention outside. It was similar to the sound of a boot being drawn from thick mud. Peering over the buckboard, he could see nothing, and could only hear the gentle shuffling of the animals. There was also a peculiar smell of freshly turned up soil. Lightning flashed and revealed a sight that made him freeze with his nails digging into the wood.

  A few feet away stood one of the troll creatures. It extended its arm, pointing toward the Wilkes’ half of the camp. As the lightning finished its spasm Paul saw more of them rising straight up from the ground, effortlessly as if the hard sod were viscous ooze.

  Joel, who was supposed to be on watch, was sitting with his back to one of the posts of the tents with his head down, asleep.

  Before Paul could yell to him the storm burst. The wind hit hard and fast. It barreled over the wagon, tumbling Paul and his parents like dice in a cup. The wagon crashed on its side. Its canvas cover blew loose. The oxen were nearly crushed. They bleated in panic. The horses kicked and pulled at their reigns. The spill rolled Paul and his startled mother and father clear out of the wagon. They scrambled back, curling against the upturned wagon bed, clinging to each other.

  The storm lifted by morning. Clouds hung heavy in the air. Paul and his parents were cold, wet, and stiff. They checked on the Wilkes, finding the blacksmith’s family gone, wagon and all.

  Paul and his father searched for wheel ruts. With the ground turned to mud it should have been easy. Nothing was found.

  “If we can’t figure out where they went,” Paul’s mother said, trying to act composed, “we should ask God to keep His hand on them.”

  The Carters clasped hands in a circle.

  “Lord,” Paul’s father spoke, “we know a person doesn’t just disappear. So we trust that you know the truth of what happened last night. Wherever Elliot and his family may be, please keep your eye on them, and see them through whatever dark valley they may be in right now.”

  They pitched in together to turn the wagon back on its wheels, yoked the oxen, packed what could be salvaged and continued forward, this time toward the north.