Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “ ‘Contemptible’ heretics they may be, but the Ocelomeh crushed you easily enough—”

  “I . . . was not at the battle either,” Kisin interrupted. “It would’ve been different if I were.”

  “Really? Still, the Ocelomeh seized their opportunity to combine with the ‘others’ with admirable eagerness when your precipitous attack drove the blue heretics into their arms. And I’ve no doubt they’ll combine with the Uxmalos. Probably more city-states on the peninsula. Very dangerous ‘others’ indeed,” he added gloomily, closing his eyes.

  The cart shuddered, and he looked to see the terrifying shape of a garaache hovering over him, long, tooth-lined jaws slightly parted, big orange eyes regarding him, clawed hands digging into the cart’s sides to support its precarious perch.

  “I’ir?” it seemed to ask Kisin, then went on at some length in atrocious Spanya—the more-or-less common language of the region. Like all creatures of its kind, it couldn’t form words requiring lips.

  “Quién sabe,” Kisin replied, then looked at Arevalo. “General Soor is concerned about you. Only he and a few dozen of his Concha Band of Blood Lizards have remained with us—for now—believing only a partnership with the Dominion can preserve his race.”

  Arevalo knew the Dominion wanted nothing to do with Holcanos, in the long term, and certainly not talking animals with pretensions to sentience. All such creatures were abominations, likely touched by demons. The Dominion would use them, of course, but certainly never “preserve” them when their usefulness was at an end. “How kind,” he managed.

  “He also wants to know if he can eat you if you’re about to die—while your blood still runs,” Kisin went on, matter-of-factly. “We have no time to gather much food to take, and this time of year the road to Nautla gets hungry. Especially if other villages join us on the road. And there’s little food in Nautla, for that matter, besides the wild young of his own race.”

  “I’m . . . quite sure His Supreme Holiness would take it badly if I was eaten by one of our allies,” Arevalo carefully replied. General Soor jerked a saliva-slinging diagonal nod and jumped from the cart.

  “He’ll eat you anyway, you know,” Kisin said lowly. “We’ll both be eaten by everyone if we die. Whatever it’s like where you’re from, that’s the way of things here.”

  Arevalo knew. He also suspected that Kisin, for all his Death Collars, body paint, and other barbarous ways, would be shocked by the “wastefulness” of the ritualistic bloody-mindedness that was increasingly required by Arevalo’s God. “If I live, I’ll likely face a far less pleasant fate than being eaten,” Arevalo murmured.

  “What will they do to you?” Kisin asked, intrigued.

  Arevalo didn’t reply.

  “I will go with you, if you don’t die,” Kisin suddenly blurted. “All the way to the Holy City of Mexico.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell them this was not my fault,” Kisin insisted. “Not your fault. It was those lazy, cowardly garaaches!”

  Arevalo understood little of General Soor’s . . . creatures, but knew they weren’t “lazy” or “cowardly.”

  “Maybe I’ll get guns from your war leaders,” Kisin continued, more animated. “And if they kill you, I want to see what they do,” he confessed.

  Arevalo snorted. “I don’t think it will be necessary—or wise—for you ever to go to the Holy City,” he said with a wince when the cart hit a bump. “If we make it to Campeche, I do think you should take your remaining warriors to meet as many more as you can summon at Cayal. There you can prepare to push north against Puebla Arboras and Itzincab. After my report, I imagine the Dominion itself will march an army up the Camino Militar, and eventually on Uxmal itself.”

  “You think this will begin the final thrust?” Kisin asked anxiously.

  “I believe it must, once my superiors understand the stakes. Whether I’m alive to join it or not,” he added glumly.

  “And I will rule all this land of the Yucatán?” Kisin demanded.

  “Under the authority of His Supreme Holiness, of course,” Arevalo assured evasively then gasped again when the young healer sucked his wound and spat.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lewis was disoriented when he woke under sun-brightened canvas billowing in the breeze. He was still in the trees, of course, and the shadows of leaves and limbs on the white gun tarp cast bizarre, shifting shadows. But that was ordinary, expected, even comforting. So was the smell of cook fires and muted sounds of an army camp. But it was broad daylight, and he realized he must’ve slept longer than intended—much longer than he should’ve. He sat up with a groan, every joint and muscle aching from all he’d demanded of them over the last few days and nights, and the apparent fact he’d hardly twitched in his sleep. Blinking gummy eyes, he looked around.

  Leonor was sitting nearby, knees drawn up and chin resting on arms crossed on top of them. She’d been gazing west, past the beach where they fought the day before. Hearing him rise, she stood and kicked a snoring form on a mound of leaves and branches. “Get up, you lazy bastard,” she hissed. “Captain Lewis is awake.”

  “I didn’t do it! Lemme be!” cried Private Willis, leaping to his feet as if to run, but falling face-first in the sandy soil. Jumping back up, he looked blearily around. “What the hell? Oh.” His face fell, and he glowered at Leonor. “I was havin’ such a good dream. . . .”

  “We could tell,” Lewis said, voice raspy.

  “Move yourself!” Leonor snapped at Willis. “Bring food an’ coffee.”

  “Strikes me . . .” Willis began snidely, but Leonor took a step toward him. “I’ll ‘strike’ you.”

  Muttering to himself, Willis shuffled away. Leonor was muttering too. “Of all the men you could’ve picked . . . I guess he ain’t good for nothin’ else.” She crouched back beside Lewis and handed him her canteen. “Water’s holdin’ out,” she assured before he could ask.

  Gratefully, he took a long drink and cleared his throat. Instead of asking why she was there and how long she had been—the first questions that popped into his mind—he decided the answer was obvious. For some reason, she’d appointed herself his guardian while he’d slept and was probably responsible for making sure he’d done so as long as needed. He stifled a stab of irritation. In spite of his various aches, he really did feel better. He’d desperately needed sleep and wasn’t as sure as he’d said that others would manage in his place—not that he felt particularly confident he could either. His notions of the night before might’ve been exactly what Dr. Newlin denounced them as—idealistic enthusiasm. But he couldn’t see another way.

  “What were you looking at?” he asked instead, voice closer to normal. Leonor pointed, and Lewis shifted to see around the popping fly. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed when he realized how clean the beach in front of the breastworks had been picked. There wasn’t a complete body anywhere, and only thousands of scattered, red-black bones remained. Even some of these were still being fought over by mobs of flapping and cavorting lizardbirds, shrill cries blending in a constant, high-pitched counterpoint to the roaring wind and surf.

  “Varaa says we can start salvagin’ more casks an’ crates this evenin,’ an’ the Uxmalos’ll be able to start tearin’ into the wreck itself by the time they get here.” Leonor nodded toward the tree line. Just short of it, where De Russy had begun to bury his dead before the attack occurred, was a wide, blackened area covered with blowing ash and smoldering ships’ timbers pulled from the breastworks. “Varaa an’ some o’ her warriors, along with Captain Beck an’ some of our boys, dug a bigger grave for all our dead an’ built a big fire on top just at dawn,” she added grimly. “Varaa said it’ll keep critters from diggin’ ’em up from the soft sand.” She hesitated. “Reverend Harkin an’ Father Orno figure to hold a service there before we leave.”

  Preventing Lewis from dwelling on that, she pointed far beyond the
beach at a distant plume of gray smoke slanting away to the south. “Koaar took a hundred warriors against the Holcano village. Most on foot, o’ course, though they have some horses in these parts.” She frowned. “Kinda weird ones: shorter faces, tan with dark stripes . . . I seen a couple that Koaar’s messengers showed up on. Not like ours, or them Dom horses we seen.” She waved that away. “But woods Injuns don’t fight on horses, so Koaar went on foot while Sal Hernandez an’ Sergeant Hayne led a handful o’ dragoons with Alferez Lara an’ his Mexicans as scouts. Made sense. They ain’t sneakin’ around anymore, an’ the whole point is to put a scare in the Holcanos, keep ’em from concentratin’ again. Father—I mean Captain Anson—told ’em not to harm women and children,” she hastened to add, “but don’t leave ’em a place to stay either. I think Koaar wants to raid a couple more villages before they head back.” She shook her head and blinked. “You know, it’s mighty strange rootin’ for Mexicans an’ Ins.”

  “Everything’s changed,” Lewis somberly agreed. Rising to his feet, he buttoned his sweat-crusty vest and shook the sand off his dark blue, red-trimmed jacket. Finally, he buckled his saber belt around his waist and plopped his hat on his head. Oddly, he didn’t remember removing any of them the night before. “Has there been any word from Captain Holland?” he asked, stepping toward where he last remembered being the night before. The beach and British ship were both visible from there. Leonor followed. Lewis was immediately taken aback by how many men stood from where they were resting to salute him as he passed. All looked weary and haggard, and many wore bloody bandages, but instead of pretending they didn’t notice him, nearly all seemed to make a deliberate point of rendering him this simple honor. Even a few Ocelomeh sitting with the men jumped up and imitated their new friends. Normally, Lewis would’ve suspected sarcasm. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to show contempt for martinets or officers prone to administering harsh punishments in this way, but he saw no disrespect, no insincerity. He returned all their salutes.

  “Captain Holland came ashore this morning,” Leonor told him.

  Frowning, Lewis said, “I left specific orders . . .”

  “An’ Dr. Newlin countermanded ’em,” Leonor rebutted with a note of challenge. “All’s as well as can be in Tiger.” She went on to describe how the ship’s crew had no captain, were virtually abandoned as well, and had barely enough men to work her, much less fight her. “Holland’s already gone back out with his sailors and some soldier volunteers used to sailin’ an’ woodwork to help get her in some kinda shape. A few Ocelomeh with experience in fishin’ boats—an’ this coast, o’ course—went too. He figures with the extra manpower he can get topmasts an’ topsails on her pretty quick an’ Tiger can carry our worst wounded to Uxmal faster an’ gentler than a overland trip.”

  Lewis again refrained from commenting that he should’ve been consulted because Holland was absolutely right. Maybe they can manage better without me than I thought, he told himself, returning more salutes from artillerymen around the field howitzer and 6pdr, and then Olayne’s and Burton’s as well.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” He smiled. “Nearer afternoon.” He looked at Burton. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be back on land!” He shook his head. “There really are sea monsters out there!” he blurted.

  “You may have noticed a few monsters on land,” Olayne reminded.

  “Yes.” Burton shuddered. “But you can see them.”

  Lewis looked at Olayne. “Varaa-Choon said there’s a Dom naval threat. I intend to offer Captain Holland some artillerymen for Tiger’s guns. Ask for volunteers.”

  “He was hoping you would,” Burton informed him. “And maybe a couple of blacksmiths or farriers. There’s another forge wagon, as well as limbers, two caissons, and a battery wagon for the twelve pounders still in Commissary’s wreck, but Tiger’s got the blacksmith’s tools. She just needs men with know-how.”

  Lewis glanced at Olayne. “Volunteers for that as well, but no more than two. We’ll need their skills. Skills of all sorts,” he added lowly. “We must be extra careful who we risk with what in the future.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir,” said Olayne.

  “Nor could I,” approved a booming voice, used to projecting itself. Lewis watched several men, Ocelomeh, and Mistress Samantha approach. The voice was the obese Reverend Harkin’s, restored to his dark-suited splendor. To Lewis’s surprise, he was paced by the diminutive Father Orno. There couldn’t have been a more unlikely, contrasting pair. Captain Anson, Varaa-Choon, a surprisingly restored Colonel De Russy, and Barca all attended Samantha, who wore a sensible, light blue day dress. Those around her, even Varaa, seemed pleased with themselves.

  “We brought the lady some of her things,” Burton whispered to Lewis. No one saw Leonor stiffen in the presence of the woman, who’d transformed herself into a slim, crisp, fresh-faced beauty.

  Private Willis chose that moment to appear with a steaming mug and tinned plate covered with glistening slop. “Coffee’s burnt,” he hissed, “an’ I reckon the cask the salt pork came from was condemned a decade ago. . . .”

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Lewis told him quickly, taking the dented mug. “I’ll eat something later.”

  Willis looked dolefully at the plate. “What am I s’posed to do with it? I ain’t eatin’ it!”

  “Git!” Leonor snapped at him.

  Willis backed away, mumbling, “Go to all the goddamn trouble . . .”

  Colonel De Russy pretended not to hear and said, “My dear Captain Lewis, Warmaster Varaa-Choon and Dr. Newlin described the scheme you hatched last night, and while I concur wholeheartedly with your aims—they seem our only recourse—the first obstacles to forming the . . .” He paused thoughtfully. “It really must be a Union of all the cities, mustn’t it? But while you so deservedly slept”—he gestured at Harkin and Father Orno—“they immediately engaged over the momentous religious differences dwarfing such meager trivialities as the struggle between life and death.”

  Harkin glared at him, but De Russy held up his hand. “Fortunately, as I said, I’m a better diplomat than a soldier. Between Varaa-Choon and I, and Captain Anson as well, we’ve constructed a firm—if temporary—truce between the principal belligerents.”

  Anson chuckled. “First thing, Varaa had to convince Reverend Harkin she ain’t a demon, nor are the . . . Grik critters we fought.”

  “I remain unconvinced of that,” Harkin objected, furrowing his brows, “at least in regard to the Grik.” He looked unapologetically at Varaa. “I’ve no idea what to think of her and those like her, however. Having spoken with her and Consul Koaar at length, I can’t consider them ‘animals,’ but how can they be ‘men’? Races of man differ, sometimes quite distinctly. Some are darker, some lighter, some even much hairier and with . . . surprising facial features. Why, even among my congregation back home there was a woman so profoundly . . .” He shuddered slightly and cleared his throat. “But all are still at least vaguely made in the image of God.” He paused uncomfortably. “Yet until now, I would’ve been certain the presence of a tail most emphatically crosses the line between ‘man’ and ‘animal.’ I can’t imagine God has a tail!” He seemed to wilt a little. “On the other hand, my hobby of comparative anatomy informs me even man possesses bony structures below the pelvis, contiguous with the spine, that might be viewed as a tail of sorts. So . . .” He lifted his chin. “I can detect no evil purpose in Warmaster Varaa-Choon and will contemplate further whether Mi-Anakka are ‘man’ or not.”

  “I’m honored,” Varaa said, with just the right mixture of sarcasm and appreciation, Lewis thought with amusement. He personally believed the “image” of God was spiritual, not physical, and the only aspect of Varaa’s appearance that had troubled him was how the men would take it. Now, since they were getting used to it and Harkin seemed disinclined to make it an issue, Lewis was muc
h relieved.

  “Indeed,” Harkin murmured suspiciously, then raised his voice again. “But it’s abundantly clear we have in fact found ourselves in a different . . . manifestation of the world we knew.” He glanced at Orno. “As papists and even some of the more unenlightened Protestants have long assumed purgatory to be.” He sighed. “And my own eyes and fears made me wonder at first. But the mysterious presence of otherworldly creatures and beings, not to mention the existence of”—he arched an eyebrow at Orno—“a dubious and misguided sect of Christianity—which would only be required if the inhabitants of this place might still be brought to the Lord”—he frowned—“however imperfectly—do not scripturally or even scientifically support any Wesleyan notion of purgatory. On the contrary. I’ve . . . long been troubled by growing evidence that fossil remains in various places around the world might indeed be those of creatures now extinct. But how can that be? The very idea that any of God’s creations are subject to extinction implies they’re imperfect in some way. I’ve wrestled with that to no end,” he confessed, “but at last we may have an answer!” He suddenly beamed, waiting for everyone to grasp his meaning. When they didn’t, he rolled his eyes. “They’re not ‘extinct,’ you see? They’re here! I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t eventually discover all manner of things we’ve despaired of locating where we came from! Wooly mammoths! Iguanodons! Even Dr. Lund’s dagger-toothed cats—whose bones he found with those of humans, I might add!” His eyes darted to Varaa. “Doubtless there are others as yet unknown to science.” He glanced again at Orno. “We may even find the Lost Tribes of Israel!”

  Suddenly noting his excitement seemed to be generating more relief and amusement than wonder, Harkin frowned again and clamped his puffy jaws.

  “You amaze me, sir,” De Russy soothed. “But ultimately, since there are few New Testament differences between Reverend Harkin and Father Orno, they’ve agreed to focus on ministering to their separate flocks and refrain from active poaching upon each other’s while they explore the implications of these theories together.”