A Stillness of the Sun (Crowmakers: Book 1): A Science Fiction Western Adventure

by L. E. Erickson

  He was gone. He wasn't real anymore, but instead just a ghost of a memory that trailed around behind Kellen all day every day, making her miserable life even more miserable.

  As Kellen passed in front of the Lutherans' stern-faced church, a sound whispered in her ear, faint like distant voices but somehow close, too.

  She slowed and glanced around. The street was empty.

  Kellen frowned and shrugged, trying to shake the mildly itchy feeling on the back of her neck. Spend too much time thinking about ghosts, and this was the sort of shit that wound up happening. Screw Em Jacobs and his damned stories, anyhow.

  She heard it again.

  It sounded almost as much like water gurgling as like whispering voices, this time—whatever it was, it sent shivers down Kellen's spine and raised goosebumps along her arms. She stopped this time, so that the sound of her footsteps wouldn't cover the sound.

  Nothing. Kellen listened a heartbeat longer, even turned all the way around and looked behind her.

  Still nothing. No one else was even in sight.

  "Shit." Kellen scowled. She set off for home again, walking more quickly this time, but only because she was pissed off now. Not scared. She wasn't scared.

  As she stepped off the footpath to cross Arch Street, someone shouted.

  ~

  Ger's head thumped the flat surface of a grave marker. His skull rattled, light flashed behind his eyes, and he tasted blood. Around him, brick walls dripped with shadows beneath low-hanging tree branches. Darkness pooled, as thick as night, on the cold ground. New grass clung to Ger's wrists like icy fingers.

  Metal clanked—the sound of the graveyard gate closing. Two pairs of feet came into view and moved toward Ger.

  Ger fought to his knees, but Ripley was on him again before he could gain his feet. Ripley grabbed Ger by both arms, lifted him clean off the ground, and slammed him up against the trunk of a walnut.

  Ripley got right up in Ger's face. His broad jaw was fringed with downy, pale whiskers, and his eyes were the color of a frozen river. His breath stank like old meat and whiskey.

  "You been watching me," Ripley said. "I want to know why."

  Ger dragged a breath into his lungs, but he couldn't move. Ripley's hands were like bands of fire around his arms, and Ger couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet. His knife was in the sheath on his belt, but he may as well have not had one, for all the likelihood he'd get his hands on it now.

  I am such a fool, Ger thought, and all the old frustration and helplessness washed through him.

  Ripley's face drew back an inch, and a smirk wormed across his mouth.

  "Aw. Are you gonna cry? I think he might cry, Alvie."

  Ripley's remark was met with laughter. Ger didn't need to tear his gaze from Ripley's face to know that Alvie stood nearby. He also didn't need to look around to know that those two were the only living souls in sight or earshot.

  "If he was scared, he shouldn't have messed with us." Alvie followed up his words with a loud hawk and spit.

  Ripley's eyes suddenly narrowed, and his smirk faded. "I know you."

  Oddly, Ripley's recognition settled a strange calm across Ger's shoulders. The next breath he drew came more easily. Even the ache in his arms seemed more distant.

  They were going to thrash him within an inch of his life. He might as well say what he had to say. And if he was going to say it, he probably ought to do it while he could still talk.

  "You ought to know me. I helped you rob Daniel Comstock."

  Ripley stared a second longer. Then he tipped his head back and crowed laughter.

  "You helped me? Boy, I don't need help robbing anybody."

  "I could've stopped you."

  Ripley dragged Ger closer, almost up against his chest in a parody of a lover pulled into an embrace. Then he slammed Ger against the tree again.

  Ger's teeth snapped together. Air rushed from his lungs. Light exploded before his eyes.

  The pain made him angry.

  "I could have," he gasped at Ripley. "I still could."

  "Is that what you think you're doing?" Ripley asked. "Stopping me?"

  "I'm going to catch you at breaking some law, someday."

  Be quiet, Ger thought. Just stop talking now.

  "And then I'm going to turn you in," Ger said anyhow, "and you're going to get what you deserve."

  Ripley laughed. Alvie laughed with him.

  Ripley's grip on Ger's arms increased, until Ger was sure he was squeezing all the blood from them up into Ger's head. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his face burned. His hands had gone completely numb.

  I wish you would die, Ger thought. God help me, if I had a gun you'd be dead. Why do bastards like you get to live?

  "That what you think?" Ripley's breath hissed against Ger's face.

  And then, for no reason Ger could fathom, Ripley's face went momentarily slack. His eyes glazed, and he tipped his head to one side, like a man listening to a far off sound. His grip on Ger's arms loosened. Ger's jacket snagged on bark as he slid down the tree trunk, just one fraction of an inch.

  Just enough for his feet to touch the uneven ground around the tree's roots. Hope brightened in Ger's chest. He gathered himself, flung his arms abruptly away from his sides, and shoved with his feet away from Ripley.

  Ripley snatched him up as easily as if he were an uncooperative kitten. The back of Ger's head slammed against the tree harder than ever, and nausea rolled over him.

  Alvie stepped forward, and Ripley let go of one of Ger's arms long enough for Alvie to take hold. Before Ger could comprehend that this was a very bad thing, Ripley slammed his fist into Ger's stomach.

  Pain turned Ger's insides to liquid fire. He'd have cried out, but his breath was gone.

  Ripley leaned close. His grin had not returned, and his eyes were still odd and distant. When he spoke, it was little louder than a whisper.

  "Since we're sharing," Ripley said, "I'll tell you what I think. You want to know what I think?"

  "I wanna know what you think," Alvie said, and tittered laughter.

  "Shut up, Alvie." Ripley spoke with no more emotion than if he'd asked Alvie about the weather. "You're an idiot."

  Alvie's laughter died. Ripley never shifted his attention from Ger.

  "I think you, with all your watching, had better be watching yourself," Ripley said. "You can't catch me at anything if you can't walk. Or see. Or maybe even breathe."

  Breathing would be good, Ger thought. He tried taking quick, shallow gasps, but even those hurt.

  Ripley drew back his fist and drove it into Ger's gut a second time.

  Organs moved with a sickening lurch. Pain screamed through Ger, and he would have screamed with it if he could have. His consciousness, realizing that there would be no escape from whatever Ripley chose to do to him, tried to crawl out of his body and flee.

  Something seemed to move in the shadows of the graveyard, something Ger couldn't see that might have been just his own terror and Alvie's oddly-distant laughter. To Ger, it sounded like the voice of waves as they crashed against pilings and caressed the hulls of sleeping ships.

  Ripley drew back his fist again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Chapter 10

  She should just go home. She hadn't seen anything. All she had to do was cross Arch and she was almost there.

  Except she had seen something, Kellen thought. The Christ Church Burial Ground covered a fair share of the block behind the Lutheran Church. Dusk was quickly draining the light from the sky, but Kellen thought she'd caught movement from the corner of her eye, down near the graveyard's gate. She knew she'd heard someone shout. She wondered if whatever was going on in the burial ground could explain away that eerie noise she'd heard.

  Just a few steps down Arch, then. Only far enough that she could still turn around and do the smarter thing by going home.

  The graveyard seemed to breathe, puffing out air that brushed Kellen's cheek with chi
lly fingers. She was nearly to the arched wrought iron gates set into the graveyard wall before she heard it again—the sound of voices. Again, she stopped and listened.

  This time she could make out actual voices. A laugh, even, although it sounded oddly flat. And the voices seemed familiar. Kellen instinctively stepped closer to the wall beside her.

  The voices rose and fell again, and this time Kellen was sure she recognized one of them.

  "Shut up, Alvie."

  Kellen's heart lurched. She glanced up Arch and back down again.

  A lone horse clopped along the paved street, but it rode east toward the waterfront. The night watch wouldn't be out and about for another hour or two. The street was as good as empty.

  She really ought to go now, then. Quickly, while Ripley and Alvie were still busy. Kellen gathered herself to move.

  The voices inside the graveyard had faded away. In the quiet that followed, Kellen heard the soft cough of a fist connecting with flesh followed by an involuntary grunt.

  Kellen hesitated. Keep your head down. That's what Vincent had always taught her. Stay safe. That advice was even sounder with him not there to stand up to Ripley for her. Kellen stayed pressed against the bricks, breathless with uncertainty.

  If Ripley ever caught her alone, it could be her caught in the shadows with no one to save her. She might need a stranger's help.

  She glanced both ways one more time, up the street and down. No one else appeared. Even the horse was out of sight.

  "Ripley?" Alvie's voice this time. "Hey, Ripley. You said you didn't want to kill him. Lay off now?"

  Another punch, another groan. A brief silence.

  "Ripley?"

  "Fuck off, Alvie. I'm done when I say I'm done."

  She should move. She wanted to move. The bricks rubbed against Kellen's cheek. On the other side of the wall, Ripley's fists thumped. Whoever he was beating moaned.

  "You're gonna kill him." To Kellen, Alvie's words sounded as much like a prayer for blood than a warning.

  Kellen felt the sudden urge to urinate. It could be someone she knew. It could be Em Jacobs, and Ripley could be killing him, and all she was doing was standing here trying not to piss herself. Her eyes teared up, and she wanted to whimper. But she couldn't move.

  Another thump, but this sounded more like something heavy being thrown against a wall.

  "I'm done." Ripley this time. "Stay away from me, you little fucker, or next time you're done."

  Footsteps. Footsteps on the path leading through the graveyard. Leading through the gate, so close Kellen could stretch out her hand and touch the last brick before it. God, she'd stayed here too long and now it was too late to run. Kellen shoved herself against the wall and wished she could crawl between the bricks. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering.

  But the footsteps receded rather than growing louder. Ripley and Alvie were leaving the graveyard by the Fifth Street gate. Kellen stayed where she was, her whole body aching from the effort of keeping still.

  When she couldn't hear any footsteps anymore, she made herself wait another endless moment. Then she waited another moment after that. Inside the graveyard, nothing made a sound.

  She could go home now. She could just turn and go back to Fourth Street as if she'd heard nothing, go home to a supper that was meager but at least warm, and sleep on a bed that was in a cellar but still better than no bed at all.

  No sound, not now. Dead men didn't make noise.

  He might not be dead.

  Keep your head down. Vincent's voice, reminding Kellen what he'd want her to do.

  The tears that had threatened earlier suddenly flooded back. Vincent damned well wasn't here, was he? He wasn't here to keep her safe or pay the rent or tell her what she should do right this very second, with a man Ripley might have killed lying just around the corner, buried in the graveyard's shadows. No, Vincent wasn't here. So screw him and what he might think. If Kellen had to take charge of her own life now, then she'd damned well take charge of it.

  Kellen swiped the tears from her eyes, pushed off the wall, and reached for the graveyard's gate before she could change her mind.

  ~

  A narrow strip of sky, gray with dusk, showed between the treetops above Ger's head. He stared at it, because it was all he could do.

  He hurt all over, a vague, oddly numb sort of hurt, a throbbing awareness of pain that felt almost good in comparison to Ripley's fists. The keening whine of panic in his head had lowered a notch, and he could hear the wheeze of his own breathing.

  He was breathing.

  Ger closed his eyes and mostly just tried not to cry. Crying would only hurt more. Just breathe. Slower, calmer now. It's over. Relax.

  He couldn't stay there. What if they came back? But God help him, he wasn't sure he could get up, either. On his back, the corner of a flat grave marker digging between his shoulder blades, cold damp seeping through his coat. The overall ache of his body spiked to real pain in the back of his head.

  He'd hit it against the stone marker. Was he bleeding? Ger lifted one hand, and nausea rolled through him. Retching, he pitched onto his side.

  The graveyard rolled with him, spinning over and beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled the rest of the way, trying to stay on his elbows instead of going face first onto the ground. Resting his forehead against the grass helped a little.

  When the spinning stopped, he opened his eyes—slowly, cautiously. Only one eye cooperated—the other felt swollen. Blood spattered the grave marker, but only a little. Good. That was good, right?

  He had to get up. He couldn't stay there. He lurched forward and dragged himself to the foot of the walnut Ripley had pinned him against. Propped himself into a sitting position. His stomach threatened again to turn itself inside out. He sat carefully still, waited it out.

  Over toward the gate, shoes scuffed on the gravel pathway. Before Ger could stop himself, he whimpered. Ripley would kill him for sure, this time. And no one would know. Dying wouldn't even get Ripley off the streets. It would just be dying.

  "Bastard," Ger muttered. "Ger, you damned idiot."

  Fire rose inside him instead of his gorge, this time. It burned through the pain and gave him strength. He clawed at the tree trunk behind him, trying to pull himself to his feet, fumbled at his belt for his knife.

  "Jesus." A low, soft voice emerged from the shadows.

  The voice was not Ripley's. Ger's newfound strength cooled and drained from his muscles. He fell against the walnut again.

  A short, slight man stepped out of the darkness beneath the trees. He wore the simple trousers and jacket of a dock worker and a cap that cast a shadow over his face. Judging by his voice, he was young.

  It didn't matter who he was—he wasn't Ripley.

  "Tell me about it," Ger managed to say. The words came out sounding mushy. His lip was swollen, and he tasted blood.

  The other man came closer, stepping past a row of grave markers before coming off the pathway. "You're alive."

  "For the moment." Just talking was a chore. Ger paused to catch his breath. "Where's the damned watch when you need them?"

  The other man snorted a short laugh. "Yeah, right. If you want Ripley to kill you after he pays his fine."

  Ger smiled faintly. Then he realized what the man's words meant. For a second, Ger's ears rang as if Ripley had just clocked him again.

  "You saw them," Ger said.

  The dockman stared down at Ger. Ger's pulse pounded in his temples, and he fought the urge to lunge up at the man.

  "They could've killed me." Ger's accusation came out in a wheeze. "Why the hell didn't you do something?"

  "I heard voices." The stranger's voice was sharp and yet somehow still oddly soft. "I thought it wouldn't be a great idea to run in and take them on alone. That was working out so well for you, you know?"

  Ger's anger ebbed abruptly, leaving him empty and chilled.

  "Right. Of course."

  He was tired, suddenly
. Even with tree bark gouging at his back and cold seeping into his bones, all he wanted was to tip his head back and go to sleep.

  The stranger took another shuffling, hesitant step closer, and the light hit his face at a different angle. In that glimpse, taken together with the softness of the stranger's voice, Ger suddenly realized the man was not a man at all. The shape of her body seemed convincingly flat in the coat and trousers she wore, but her cheeks were too round, her lips too curved.

  "Well, hell," Ger mumbled. He tried out the approximation of a pleasant smile, and attempted to lighten his tone. "You'll excuse me if I don't stand. Or tip my hat."

  The cap in question lay in the grass a few feet from where Ger sat—it seemed a huge distance. The girl stared down at Ger like he'd lost his mind. Her mouth twitched, like she wasn't sure if she should smile or cry.

  "Don't be stupid." She walked over as if it were the simplest thing in the world, snatched up Ger's cap, and held it down to him. "And for God's sake, don't try to smile anymore. You look like hell."

  "Right." Lifting his arm required painful effort, but Ger took the cap from her. "Thank you."

  She stared at him. Up close, he could see her face better—her nose was too long and her mouth was a little crooked. She had nice eyes, though, round and thick-lashed. Her mouth had stopped twitching, and she didn't look like she might smile anymore. Her brow furrowed, and she looked more like she was wondering what the hell she ought to do next.

  "You're not gonna go far in that condition. Where do you live?"

  Ger tried to laugh. It didn't come out sounding very healthy. "Around."

  The girl frowned. "That's not helpful."

  Ger sighed and made a game attempt to shrug.

  "Nowhere in particular. But I guess right here probably isn't a good place to sleep tonight."

  She made no sympathetic sounds, but her frown wavered. Ger realized, abruptly, that it was still possible Ripley might come back. If he did, he was going to find far more than just Ger to keep him entertained. Fear returned, tickling his gut with sharp edges.

  "I'm probably not the safest company to be keeping. Don't feel obligated to hang around. I'm sure I'll be fine."