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

by L. E. Erickson

  "Like hell," the girl mumbled.

  But Ger was afraid now. Getting himself killed was one thing. He couldn't stand it if anyone else got hurt because of him. He had to get her out of here.

  Ger made a second, much more cautious attempt to stand. He got his feet under him, pressed his palms against the tree to keep his balance, and slid his back up the trunk. Once he was upright, he had to close his eyes briefly against the stars exploding in his vision

  He didn't fall. It was a start.

  The girl hadn't moved. She was still staring and frowning. Ger met her gaze—easier said than done, since the ground was still tilting every once in a while and one of his eyes was little more than a slit—and attempted to stare her down.

  "There's nothing you can do for me. Go home."

  The furrow between her brows deepened, and all the soft lines of her face hardened. At first, Ger thought she was going to yell at him. Fine. Maybe she'd storm off while she was at it.

  What she said instead was, "I live near here. Around the corner. Maybe I can get you some help."

  For a second, Ger was afraid he'd cry. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, like he had earlier. Like he had earlier, he wished he could just go to sleep and let everything sort out without him. But that wasn't any likelier to happen now than it had been a couple of minutes ago.

  Ger opened his eyes and tipped his head forward to look at the girl.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  She hesitated long enough that he thought she might not answer. Then all those hard lines in her face finally relented.

  "Kellen Ward."

  "Gerald Owen. Ger." He hesitated. "And I'd be quite grateful to accept your offer, thank you. But we really should clear out of here now."

  It was just to get her away from here before Ripley came back, he assured himself.

  Chapter 11

  They took it slow, as Kellen led the boy calling himself Ger Owen from the graveyard to the Widow's house. He walked better than Kellen had thought he might be able to. She hovered close, and when he stumbled she braced his shoulder or caught his elbow. For the most part, though, he insisted on walking by himself.

  Kellen kept a sharp eye and ear for Ripley, her heart pounding so hard she figured it might act like a meeting bell for any man set on making trouble, but the street stayed empty. Thankfully, the courtyard between houses was empty, too, although Kellen glimpsed the pale oval of a face through the window. Mistress Kreuger had to be kicking herself for not being outside right about then.

  A faintly fishy-smelling warmth rolled from the kettle and the hearth, creating a wall of almost-summery heat between the kitchen and the cooler cellar. Going up the steps was a little like climbing into hell. Only a powerful sense that she was doing something well and truly right overpowered Kellen's fear of angering the Widow.

  The Widow heard them coming and was waiting in her kitchen, hands on her hips and frown on her face. Kellen dragged out a chair without waiting for the Widow's say-so, and Ger fell into it.

  "What sort of trouble hast thou brought to my doorstep?"

  The Widow sounded as pleased as if Kellen had brought an alley dog into her home. Kellen supposed that was pretty much what she'd done.

  "Your mother?" Kellen still stood right beside Ger, and he spoke quietly but not quietly enough. Eyes narrowed, the Widow looked Ger up and down. Kellen thought if she frowned any harder, her face might break.

  "Landlady," Kellen murmured back, searching for words that would soften that hard-hearted old woman.

  What the hell could she say? Ger was a mess. He was too skinny to start, the sort of gaunt that came from living on the streets. His dark blonde hair fell in a stringy mass around a rapidly swelling eye and a split lip. He slumped in the chair like a man about to collapse, his head tilted back. Kellen could hear him struggling to catch his breath.

  "He's hurt." Nothing like starting with the obvious. Kellen piled a sympathy ploy on top of that. "He didn't have anywhere else to go."

  The Widow raised one eyebrow but didn't melt in the least.

  Kellen fought a sudden, tiny urge to scream, or maybe cry. Maybe both. It wasn't like she'd wanted to get involved in Ger's business to begin with, but here he was. His eyes were nearly closed, but Kellen could tell he was listening to everything she and the Widow were saying.

  "He just needs to get cleaned up. One meal. One night's rest."

  "I can ill afford—" the Widow began.

  "I'm already paying board for two! You don't even feed me enough for one."

  Widow Howland's body stiffened into dangerously hard lines.

  Jesus. Oh, shit. Kellen's righteous anger cooled a little, but it was too late to take back the words now. She sucked in her breath and held it.

  "Impertinence will gain thee little, Miss Ward."

  Frostbite in Widow Howland's voice—but thinking that tempted Kellen to think of Vincent. She was struck by the unnerving urge to tell Widow Howland to go to hell. She bit the inside of her lip until the danger passed.

  "Apologies, ma'am," Kellen mumbled.

  Widow Howland stared Kellen down a second longer. Behind her, the fire crackled and the stew inside the great black kettle bubbled. Then the Widow crossed her arms and turned her gaze on Ger.

  He'd been staring at Kellen. Now, apparently sensing the Widow's attention, he shifted around into a more upright position on the chair. He nodded politely, as if he'd have bowed if he could bend.

  "Gerald Owen, ma'am." Rapidly darkening bruises along his jaw marred the effect, and his words were slurred a little from his swollen lip. Still, Kellen had to give him credit for trying.

  The Widow's eyes narrowed further. "And how did you come to be in this condition, Mister Owen?"

  Ger hesitated, but for less than a breath. "I ran into a bit of trouble, I'm afraid. Someone mistook me for a man who actually had any coins to steal."

  The Widow's brows drew down even tighter. She turned her gaze on Kellen.

  "Thieves in the streets." The Widow spoke with dour sarcasm. "How startling. Thou aren't the best judge of a man's character, Miss Ward. Art thou certain this man isn't one of the thieves?"

  Kellen didn't miss the old bitch's meaning. The last man Kellen had trusted had run out on her. That urge to scream obscenities arose again. Kellen clenched her teeth together and waited to answer until she trusted herself to speak. "Pretty sure."

  "I'm no thief, ma'am." Ger looked between Kellen and the Widow. "Only a fool who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I swear to G—"

  "Thou shalt do no such thing."

  Widow Howland abruptly took her hands off her hips, turned on her heel, and stalked toward the hearth like a soldier advancing on the enemy.

  "Charity 'tis a plant divinely nursed." The Widow reached for a bowl. "'Tis ours to be God's gardeners."

  Kellen's urge to shout at the Widow was abruptly replaced by a similar urge to laugh. Or maybe cry. Since when did the Widow have anything to do with charity?

  "I should think, however, that in the future thou would do well to take greater caution regarding thy physical well-being, Mr. Owen."

  "Yes ma'am." Ger pulled himself up a little straighter yet in his chair. "My thanks."

  "Miss Ward." The Widow spoke over her shoulder as she reached for the water dipper lying alongside a stout oaken bucket. "In the next room, thou wilt find a cabinet. Open the lower doors, and thou wilt find a bottle of whiskey. Bring it, if thou wilt."

  Kellen gaped at the Widow's back. Whiskey?

  The Widow looked around and fixed Kellen with her hardest expression yet.

  "'Tis a bottle left behind by Captain Howland. Go."

  Kellen snapped her mouth shut.

  Two doors opened from the kitchen, aside from the hall through which Kellen and Ger had arrived. The one furthest back Kellen assumed led to a pantry. The other, to the side, led into the Widow's workroom at the back of the house. Kellen crossed through into the cooler air
of the workroom.

  Kellen had never set foot in that room before. Its perfectly tidy state was unsurprising—squares of fabric and needle cases and pincushions sat in neat formation on a small work table. Not a loose thread escaped from the basket of spools perched on the table's corner. Even the folds in the curtains on the window overlooking the alley seemed to fall in regular intervals.

  A straw broom leaned in the corner. Kellen imagined it got used a lot. For herself, she was a little afraid to even breathe for fear of unbalancing some part of the room's order.

  The cabinet sat against the far wall, a heavy-looking piece of dark red wood with two sets of doors, high and low.

  As Kellen crossed to the cabinet, she peeked through the door leading to the house's small front parlor. Tidy reigned in there, too, although not luxury. Two threadbare chairs flanked the door and window on the front of the house, accompanied by a settee and a desk shoved against the wall. The desk was tidy, too—a lone pewter candlestick stood watch on its surface.

  The rooms were so perfectly still and quiet, Kellen swore she could hear dust tip-toeing for the door in search of a more hospitable place to live.

  Kellen reached the cabinet, crouched, and opened the lower doors. A squat bottle of dark glass sat on the very bottom shelf.

  "Miss Ward?" Cold snapped in the Widow's voice.

  Glass clunked against wood as Kellen dragged the bottle off the shelf.

  The Widow had some clean rags and a bowl of water and was cleaning up Ger's face. Judging by the expression on his face, she wasn't being terribly gentle. She wielded the cloth as though she were scrubbing a particularly nasty pot.

  Kellen set the whiskey on the table and then watched, feeling useless, as the Widow poured a splash of the amber liquid into a bowl, spilling its sweet-sharp scent into the air. The Widow dipped her cloth and came at Ger's face with it again, and for a time the only sounds were the crackle of the cook fire and the hissing intake of Ger's breath.

  When the Widow had finished with Ger, she cleared bowl and rags and whiskey from the table and went to the kettle over the cook fire. Kellen sank into the chair across from Ger.

  Cleaned up, he looked a little less pathetic. His color looked better, too. Fine blonde whiskers skimmed his jaw, and Kellen realized he was probably older than she'd first thought, less of a boy and more of a grown man. He was still too skinny, though, and it showed in his face as much as in the rest of him.

  He caught Kellen looking at him and smiled, a feeble glimpse of white teeth that still somehow managed to be like a flash of sunshine. Before she really thought about what she was doing, Kellen smiled back at him.

  The Widow plunked bowls of watery stew before each of them. It smelled like fish, but Kellen didn't see anything other than turnips and carrots.

  "Thank you, ma'am. This smells wonderful." Ger sounded like he meant it.

  Widow Howland didn't answer him right away, and before she did she glanced toward Kellen. She didn't even scowl. "It's barely enough to feed a person. But it's what I can do."

  Kellen nearly dropped her spoon.

  Ger smiled, a pained ghost of what might have been a charming grin. "Seems like a feast to me."

  Widow Howland's mouth twisted into a wry smile—wry, but a smile. Again, she glanced at Kellen. Under the circumstances, Kellen thought it smartest to just put her head down and eat.

  Across from her, Ger spooned up his stew slowly at first, as though testing his body's ability to keep it down. Eventually, he ate more quickly, but Kellen caught him casting glances at both her and Widow Howland. His brow settled into a mild crease, like he was trying to wrap his mind around some puzzle.

  When he'd finished, Ger set aside his spoon. Then he cleared his throat. "Ma'am?"

  Kellen looked up. Ger met her eyes for a second before he turned a bruised but polite expression up at Widow Howland.

  "You mentioned having room for a second boarder."

  Every muscle in Kellen's body tensed.

  Widow Howland pursed her lips and regarded Ger in silence a moment.

  "Hast thou work?" she finally asked.

  "Some." His words still sounded mushy around the edges, but that didn't seem to make him think he should use fewer of them. "Dock foremen are a tough crowd, but I've been working on impressing them. I entertain the hope of work picking up as spring advances."

  Widow Howland turned her head to peer at Kellen from beneath her mob cap. She didn't scowl and she didn't frown, and many of the usual lines that knitted her face smoothed away.

  "T'would have an easier time of it, with another to share the board." The Widow spoke softly, in a voice that struck Kellen as almost kindly. Kellen didn't look at Ger, but she could feel his eyes on her face.

  Kellen wanted to shout. She wanted to fling a "no" into both their faces, although at first she couldn't think why. It was the solution to her money problem, right? Then understanding dawned. Saying "yes" was the same thing as admitting that Vincent wasn't coming back, not someday, not ever. Kellen's urge to shout gave way to the urge to cry.

  Jesus, she was tired of wanting to cry.

  Both of them stared at her, the Widow with her frighteningly kind expression and Ger with hope in his eyes.

  Damn it.

  Kellen nodded, just once, and the deal was done.

  Chapter 12

  Ger was grateful to finally have a place to live, but he had to admit that the situation was a little uncomfortable.

  The night before, after getting cleaned up and fed, Ger had stumbled down the cellar steps behind Kellen. It turned out there was only one bed, but it had two mattresses. Kellen had dragged one of the mattresses onto the dirt floor. It was the flimsiest, most meagerly-stuff excuse for a mattress Ger had ever seen, but he'd had fallen onto it without protest. He couldn't say it was the best of accommodations, but the mattress was softer than cobblestones, the cellar was cleaner than the streets, and he'd listened to the rain instead of being soaked by it—not to mention he'd had a warm meal in his belly for once.

  And it was safe to close his eyes. He slept like he hadn't slept in weeks.

  It was still awkward. When he woke the next morning, he kept his eyes carefully shut and listened to Kellen's movements as she dressed. He had no problems with his own modesty—he hadn't bothered undressing the night before. He even still had his shoes on. He hurt, head to toe.

  Discomfiting as the situation was, there was something soothing about the rustle of Kellen's movements and the steady drip of rain. The cellar room smelled of dust and mud, but it was a good smell.

  When Ger did decide to open his eyes, it proved as difficult as he'd anticipated, especially the one Ripley had blackened. Ger finally managed to prize them open. Kellen was shrugging into her coat. In the early gray light, she looked tired, both too young and too old all at once. Her hair, shorter even than his, bristled in unkempt directions. She plopped a cap onto it.

  Ger tried to sit up. Every muscle in his body screamed in objection, and his skull felt fit to explode. He groaned and fell back onto the mattress again.

  Kellen looked down at him, smiling a vague and obviously half-felt smile, dressed in men's clothing—worn and ill-fitting men's clothing, at that.

  "You should just stay put for today." She still had nice eyes. Noticing that again made Ger feel even more awkward. "Widow's paid already, anyhow. You can start pitching in your share next week."

  Ger braced himself and made a successful second attempt to shove himself into a sitting position. He fumbled for his pocket and drew out what was left from the two days of pay he'd earned the week before.

  "I know it's not much." He held the coins on his open palm up toward Kellen and offered a weak smile. "But it should at least cover last night and the rest of this week. Maybe?"

  Her eyes lit, and some of the lines in her face relaxed. She took a step toward Ger, extending her hand down toward him.

  And then she stopped mid-stride and frowned, first at the coins and then
at Ger.

  "How'd you manage to hang onto those?" she asked.

  Ger's smile faltered.

  "Hang onto them?" The room wobbled around him.

  "Ripley." Kellen lowered her hand. "You got beat and robbed last night. I don't know how you'd forget."

  "They didn't rob me." A vague itch along the back of Ger's neck suggested that was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn't figure out why.

  Kellen stared at him. "You told the Widow you got robbed."

  "Did I?" Had he? Ger vaguely recalled that maybe he had. If he hadn't said it outright, he supposed he'd at least implied it.

  Kellen eyed Ger warily as she reached out again, more slowly now. When he tilted the coins into her palm, their hands brushed. Her fingers were as chilly as her frown. Ger had liked it better when she was smiling, even if it hadn't been much of a smile.

  "I guess he wasn't worried about my money." Ger tilted his head back and tried to smile charmingly at Kellen, but his mouth hurt like hell and tipping his head back like that made him want to collapse onto the mattress again.

  Coins collected, Kellen stepped back from Ger. She held her clenched fist pressed to her chest, as if she feared he might try to take back his money.

  "What else did you lie about?" she asked.

  Ger let his attempt at a smile fade. Having slept under a roof and on a mattress, he wasn't much inclined to let it slip away from him by saying the wrong thing now. And there was something about Kellen, something in the tired lines of her face and the glimpses of sparks in her eyes, that made him want her to stop frowning at him.

  "Nothing." He spoke as sincerely as he could. "I don't even know why I lied about that. I guess I thought it would make Mistress Howland feel sorrier for me."

  Kellen snorted. "That witch doesn't feel sorry for anybody but herself."

  But her frown eased, and Ger relaxed. Kellen looked down at the coins in her hand, as though she weren't certain what to do with them now that she had them. Ger shifted around so he could lean up against the wall. The musty stink of old straw wafted up from the mattress. Damp seeped from the bricks and through his coat.