“You have a lot of nerve coming here after what you’ve done, girl.”
“I could say the same thing about you, pal.” She glanced down at the gun. “I think you’re gonna need more bullets.”
A voice called through the doorway to Trejo’s right. “God’s sake, Trejo, put the damn shooter away. This ain’t the Alamo.”
Trejo lowered the gun. One of Grace’s men snatched it from him.
Todd sat in his usual chair, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. He filled the glass with amber liquid and set the bottle down on the floor next to him. Motes of firelight from the hearth danced along the glass, edges jiggling as he swirled it in a practiced clockwise motion. He sipped, grimaced, swallowed.
“Have a seat.”
Selena sat. “What’s the Alamo?”
“A bit of ancient history. One I don’t intend to be repeating.” He took another sip from his glass. “Funny to see you in the hot seat. I thought Miss Delgado was our new Jefe. You her ambassador or some such?”
“She prefers Alcalde, actually, but no. I’m just here to ask a favor.” She unfolded a strip of parchment, over which scrawled several sentences of ornately-lettered Mejise. “This is a writ surrendering your hold on me and rendering my brand invalid. I’d like you to sign it.”
Todd raised an eyebrow. “That’s some favor. You cost me an awful lot of pesos. I’m supposed to just give up property I bought and paid for?”
“Your property’s gone either way. The marcado trade is done. This is just for the outlying wranglers while the word is still spreading.”
“And you think a piece of paper’s gonna convince a cazadore to give up his livelihood?”
“The smart ones, yes. It’ll prove I’m not worth the trouble. As for the others, I’ve got other tools to persuade them.” She drew a knife from her belt.
“Well, well, abolition, easy as that huh?” Mr. Todd signed the paper and handed it back to Selena. “Welcome to freedom, kid. But I’d wait a spell before pinnin’ any medals to your chest about it. It’s easy to tear something down, you don’t like it. Puttin’ up something in its place is another matter. You ever think about how all these ex-marcados are gonna feed themselves? What’ll they do for work? Where are they gonna live? A lotta people are gonna be hurtin’ before long.”
“A lot of people are hurting already, Todd. And they’ve been hurting a long time. Maybe it’s someone else’s turn.”
Selena stood. The knife in her hand glinted in the firelight. For the first time, Todd’s mask of sardonic composure slipped. His tongue circled his lips.
“C’mon now, be reasonable, girl. I signed your paper. I never touched you wrong or pulled anything untoward. Think of where you coulda ended up if I didn’t step in. Compared to that, I was pretty damn good to you all.”
“You could’ve been better,” Selena said, and brought the knife down. It sank into the headrest half an inch from Mr. Todd’s right ear. “But you could’ve been worse, too.”
She straightened up, folded the paper in half, and tucked it away. “I’ve got my writ, so you and I are square. But that’s just me. The rest of these women have their own minds to make up about you. Better limber your wrist up some. I suspect you’re gonna be signing a lot of paper.”
46: The Sisters of the Iron Circle
Simon and Emily gathered stones from a nearby arroyo.
The ground was rocky, and hunks of stone weren’t hard to come by. Some peeked through the hardpan and had to be dug out by hand. Others lay strewn atop the dirt, abandoned by the vanished waters that had sculpted them to egg-like smoothness. Occasionally, one of them would spot a particularly good stone and point it out to the other, but for the most part, they worked in silence.
They set the stones around Otis’s body, forming an outline at first and working inward. Soon he was encased in a sarcophagus of red-grey rock, his face the only part of him still visible. Emily knelt next to his head, licked the ball of her thumb, and scrubbed a bit of dirt from a crease next to his eye. She whispered something in his ear, stood, and laid the final rock in place. As she did, a dusting of snow fell from the haze-grey sky. It settled on the cairn like a thousand petals from some tiny forgotten flower.
“Simon!”
Simon whirled. He saw Selena in the distance, limping slightly but unquestionably alive. A dark-skinned woman walked beside her, a hand pressed to her belly.
Simon’s heart battered his ribs like an animal in a cage. Building the cairn had distracted him from the looming question of Selena’s whereabouts, allowing him to avoid, at least partially, his growing assumption that she was gone. Now she was here, running toward him in a stiff-legged stride, and the assumption simultaneously emerged and dissolved. It was a disorienting sensation, a push-pull of impulses and emotions, and it rendered him paralyzed. He could only stand there, mouth flapping, as she closed the final distance between them.
First, she hugged him. It was a big hug, and it lasted a long time. When she finished, she took him by the shoulders.
“Do you still have it?”
The question triggered something inside him, allowing him control of his body again. Nodding, he took out the data stick and handed it to Selena, who studied it a moment before putting it in her pocket. He didn’t ask if she wanted it and she didn’t ask if she could have it.
She looked from the cairn to Emily. “Shit. What happened?”
Simon told the story while Emily stood over the cairn. He tiptoed around her running off and making him and Otis give chase, but otherwise gave a full account. Selena filled him in on her side, blushing at the look of naked sympathy with which he regarded her tattoo. He touched it as if inspecting the sight of a particularly nasty infection.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It itches sometimes, but that’s it.”
She approached Emily and put a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
Emily nodded in recognition, though her eyes remained fixed on the stone covering her father’s face.
“We’re heading west soon. I’ve got a couple things to sort out in town first, but it shouldn’t be long.”
“You’re going back in there?” Simon asked. “Is that really a good idea?”
“Things have calmed down. Once Thorin’s men found out he was dead, their whole side just sort of collapsed. He didn’t have a successor, and no one wanted to be the last man standing in a headless army.” She turned back to Emily. “You should come with us. I can’t say it’ll be easy or safe, but it’s the best I have to offer.”
Emily looked up, wiped her eyes. “That’s what he wanted.”
“Well, at least I can give him that much. What about you. Mary? Had enough of Juarez?”
“It ain’t the land of milk and honey, but I think I’ll stay all the same. This is home, good or bad.” Her eyes flicked to the side. “Grace invited all of Todd’s girls into the fold. Looks like I’m a made woman.”
Selena smirked. “You’re telling me you can really live under the reign of a marcada?”
“Marcadas are a thing of the past, girl. You know that.”
“I guess you’ll need something else to show you’re an Hombre.”
Mary rolled her eyes “You really are out of touch, northy. Los Hombres Sencillos are as dead as Thorin. New name for a new era.”
“Oh? So what are you?”
“Can’t you guess? We’re Las Hermanas del Círculo de Hierro. The Sisters of the Iron Circle.”
47: A Promise
As he held his mother’s hand, Marcus couldn’t tell which one of them was trembling. The tremors were slight but constant, a subcutaneous roiling of nerves at the end of their endurance. He raised his other arm and watched for movement. There was none. He exhaled a sibilant stream of relief, though guilt soured his next breath. It’s always about you, isn’t it, Marcito? Chided a voice.
No, his own voice replied. Too often,
perhaps. But not always.
Sighing, he stroked his mother’s hand. Her fingers squeezed—an almost imperceptible gesture, but it sparked elation somewhere inside him. A short sensation, birthing no flame, but welcome.
“I’ve done more evil work, madre,” he said, his voice now firmly settled into the comfortable rhythms of Mejise. “But it was for a good purpose. I believe I’ve made you safer, and that counts for much. La Santa will hold me to account, and I think she’ll judge me kindly.”
He heard footsteps but didn’t bother to look in their direction. There was no need; he knew who was coming.
“How is she?” Selena asked.
“Much the same. And you?”
“Better. Sorry for messing up your hometown.”
Marcus smiled. “Nothing it did not deserve. But perhaps California should fear your coming, yes? It seems wherever you go, revolution tends to follow.”
“It runs in the family.” Selena studied her shoes. She toed a bit of grout that had come loose from the tile floor, batting it back and forth before it went astray and skittered under the bed. “Look, I know this is shitty of me, but winter’s almost here, and I’d hoped to reach the Republic weeks ago …”
Marcus raised a hand in a soothing gesture. “Peace, ‘Lena. I remember my promise. The Grey Sisters have done more for my mother than I ever could, and they will do so as long as needed. With my debt absolved, I have paid them better than I could ever have hoped, and I trust the money will find its way into my mother’s care. There is nothing left for me here. I am simply saying goodbye.”
“Right. I’ll be outside.” She began leaving, paused, turned. “I’m sorry. About your mom. And your cousin. And just, everything.”
“And I, ‘Lena, More than you can imagine.”
“I don’t know about that. But thanks.”
Alone in their tiny corner of the room, Marcus kissed his mother’s forehead. He set her hand on her chest, patted it, and let it go. “I must go again, madre. I made a promise, and it is taking me farther than those I made before. I may never return. But if I do, it will be as a better man.” He closed his eyes.
“This I promise,” he added. Whether it was a promise to his mother, or himself, or someone else altogether, Marcus didn’t say. In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter.
As long as he kept it.
Acknowledgements
The road to publication for Iron Circle was much shorter than it was for Yellow Locust, but I still had a whole lot of help along the way.
Thanks first of all to the Month 9 Books team for their support throughout the publication process: Georgia McBride, Tara Creel, Emily Midkiff, Jennifer Million, Christine Hogge, and everyone else who helped out behind the scenes.
To the folks at the Ottawa Public Library, who ensure that great local books (I hope mine counts!) get onto their shelves and into the hands of readers: Christine Chevalier and Jessica Halsall.
To Alec Shane, my agent and foremost editor, who always sees the forest for the trees—and the best path to the clearing on the other side.
To my friends and family, who support me in ways too numerous to list here.
Most of all, to Chantal, my wife and partner of 17 years, and my three children, two of whom currently have names: Lavender and Hannela. Baby 3, whoever you are: I dedicate this book to you.
Justin Joschko
Justin Joschko is an author from Niagara Falls, Ontario. His writing has appeared in newspapers and literary journals across Canada. His first novel, Yellow Locust, was published by Month9Books in 2018. He currently lives in Ottawa with his wife and three children.
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