by James Burke
‘These half-dozen giants were from nine to ten feet tall and they had six digits on each of their hands and feet,’ Green exclaimed holding his newspaper. ‘Incredible. Who knows how many other things are under all those mounds in the Midwest,’ he added before reburying his head in the broadsheet.
Quintus nodded. He was familiar with the mounds and the Indian legends of giants made extinct because they lacked a sense of decency. He had no doubt that giants once existed, Roman historians, such as Titus Flavius, wrote as much as well. Other cultures likewise had similar tales.
As Green continued to read his newspaper, Quintus looked out the window at the passing high-desert country. Decades before large numbers of Europeans arrived he passed through the region on saddleback. It was then a land inhabited by remnants of three tribes — the Paiute, the Shoshone and the Washoe — those who survived introduced diseases. He was not there to see how the sparsely-populated tribes later fared against the powerful pale-skinned newcomers. He correctly guessed the likely outcome. The clash of cultures he witnessed in the Americas over the course of two hundred years was not a pretty thing.
But that is how history rolled and he had to roll with it whether he liked it or not. He had to wait until he was called upon. Whenever that was to be.
It was as if Green read Quintus’ mind when he began talking about the misery he’d witnessed in displaced native communities.
‘Man, or beast, all shall suffer. But “It is through much tribulation that we enter the kingdom of Heaven,” so says the Apostle Paul,’ Green said before shifting the conversation to Quintus.
‘So why are you going to San Francisco for. Work I presume?’
‘Yes, to help build a new city hall,’ Quintus answered.
‘First time there? It can be a wild city.’
Before Quintus could respond, a mustached conductor passed through the carriage making an announcement as he went.
‘Okay folks, two minutes and we will pull up in Reno. We’ll be stationed there till 3 o’clock and when the whistle blows, we then continue on,’ the conductor said. ‘What’s more, it looks like it might rain outside, storm clouds are gathering, so don’t wander off too far without an umbrella or coat.’
Soon enough, the coal-fired locomotive and its carriages pulled up at the Reno train station. Once it stopped, Quintus stood from his seat and stretched his body. As the steam engine calmed down, he heard the familiar swoop of crows landing on the station’s timber roof just outside. It wasn’t long till several of them were cawing.
Given his Ireland experience such sounds got under his skin. No matter if it occurred ten or a thousand years ago, he could recall everything as if it only happened yesterday, which could either be a blessing or a curse.
The crows’ cawing rebounded inside the carriage forcing him out of his seat and wanting out, away from the noise. Green offered some advice as he moved past, carrying his sack coat and wide-brimmed hat.
‘Remember at 3 o’clock the train departs,’ Green said. ‘Have a nice stroll around town.’
Terrible Trio
Sherman Chivington was a mean man, as loathsome as they come. Ever since he was a boy he had enjoyed inflicting pain on living creatures, people included. His heartbroken mother was mystified why her third son had such a cruel streak about him.
It was perhaps a small blessing that she was no longer of this world when it became known that he participated in a terrible massacre at a lonely place called Sand Creek. Chivington was then a 25-year-old volunteer with the third Colorado Cavalry in the territory’s southeast. The American public were horrified on learning how more than 130 peaceful Indians were killed on the morning of November 29, 1864. Chivington personally slaughtered 15 of them, mostly Southern Cheyenne and Arapahoe women and children. Several official investigations were conducted yet Chivington or others were not, in the end, held to account.
For years after the atrocity, he reveled in the killings. He bragged about it in saloons, often showing off souvenired body parts such as a dead Indian’s finger or an ear. Proof of his supposed fierceness. It was during such a session that he met Georg and Karl Grossman — twin brothers just shy of 40 — who had escaped from a lunatic asylum near New York City.
For reasons mysterious to all three they hit it off and became a tight-knit gang committing acts of wickedness across five states with Chivington leading the way. Most of their lawbreaking was committed in the bigger cities on the Atlantic where it was easiest to find prey, mostly fresh off the boat immigrants.
Now they were heading west, seeking to somehow strike it rich in San Francisco’s lucrative gambling scene. To get there they chose to travel by train, which happened to be the very same one that Quintus was on in 1871. They were in the seventh carriage on a journey that was meant to take six days.
In a bid not to attract attention they tried being on their best behavior but on day three they began drinking. By the time they got to Reno they’d been blind drunk for 24 hours and things, well, they got out of hand.
The Fury
With hat in hand, Quintus twice walked up and down Reno’s dusty main street. Such an exercise was meant to help clear his mind, but he was shadowed by the crows first seen back at the railway station. They cawed at him and made short flights from roof to roof to keep pace with him as he strolled. It was if they were blaming him for the approaching thunderstorm that threatened the town.
The crows followed him until he returned to the station’s timber building which he entered and cut through to get to the platform where he found a drama unfolding, one ugly enough to make him promptly forget annoying birds.
Right there in front of him, on the platform, the Grossman brothers were bashing a family man who stood little chance defending himself. He was cowering on the ground, holding up his arms for protection as fists rained from above.
Chivington was standing to the side and cheering on the fight. He’d been assigned to ensure no one would try intervening in the one-sided brawl. He’d already shoved the family man’s 11-year-old son away and warned off the wife. She was now holding her crying boy while pleading for help from any of the dozen or so other people on the platform and from anyone inside the carriages. When Quintus stumbled onto the scene she turned to him.
‘Stop them please. They’re killing him!’ she begged.
Chivington cut in, screaming drunken threats and pointing at Quintus.
‘Don’t even think about it. You come any closer I’ll kill you. I’ll kill y’all!’ he yelled.
For several seconds Quintus stood holding down Chivington’s mad stare which had something familiar to it.
‘Yeah I’ll kill y’all!’ Chivington repeated.
Since Quintus left the mountain there’d been a half-dozen times where he used the fighting skills his master taught him. On each of those occasions, he did as little harm as possible and he left those he fought with no long-term injuries. Before it got to that stage, he always sought a peaceful resolution, but sometimes this met mixed results like in Ireland.
Initially he was unsure how to handle the volatile situation on the platform but the sight of the innocent family being terrorized infuriated him.
Chivington sensed that Quintus would not skulk away, and he yelled to his partners still bashing the family man.
‘Fellas! Just kill that chump and give me a hand ripping the head offa this clown will you!’ Chivington yelled, referring to Quintus.
‘Kill him with what?’ replied a brother referring to the family man. ‘Our bare hands?’
From a pocket, Chivington pulled out a cut-throat razor and threw it in the brothers’ direction. It was a dud throw. The razor landed on the platform and skidded off. It ended up out of sight down on the tracks beneath the train.
‘Bare hands it is then!’ Chivington manically laughed.
That mad laughter. It was the same as Entwistle’s. Is it him? Quintus thought.
Chivington laughed some more.
It is him.
The memory of Entwistle and what occurred in Ireland hit Quintus like a ton of bricks. He let his wide-brimmed hat fall from his hands and he advanced towards Chivington. By the time the hat landed on the platform he was in striking distance of the madman who had little time to react or dodge the furious right that he threw.
It was hard and blunt. Much more powerful than what a mere man could throw. There was little art or technique to it, but it knocked Chivington off his feet and onto his back. It also shattered his jaw and knocked out four teeth. If he lived beyond that day the punch would have permanently disfigured his face.
In a daze Chivington somehow managed to sit himself up. He spat out the loose teeth and looked at Quintus standing above him with fists raised, fire in his eyes.
‘Hell of a punch. Why’d you go do that?’ Chivington managed to slur from his broken mouth.
‘I’m your comeuppance,’ Quintus told him.
There was enough time for Quintus to step back and deal with the brothers beating the family man. He also could have left Chivington as is. The drunk was no longer a threat. There was no fight left in him. But Quintus didn’t move, nor did he drop his arms. He kept them raised, primed for another swing. Chivington offered Quintus a sneering smile wet with blood that dared him to throw another punch.
‘C’mon tough guy. Don’t just stand there. Do it,’ he mumbled.
The loathing in Quintus was more than willing but before his downward punch hit, Chivington had a look of triumph about him. A glint in his eyes. The same mad glint that both Meng and Entwistle had.
This punch was even more powerful than the initial blow and it killed Chivington outright. He slumped over into a lifeless pile on the platform with Quintus standing over him.
The brothers belatedly saw what had happened and they went to rush Quintus who quickly dealt with them just as brutally. Powerful blows to the head, the temple region, killed them both. He now found himself standing over three men who he killed with his bare hands.
It wasn’t long until a numbness replaced the rage that drove him to commit what a judge would undoubtedly rule as murder if it ever came to that. Soon enough dread mixed with doubt emerged. A sense of shame followed. He could hear Tai’s words in the back of his mind warning against this type of madness.
A grey shadow cast over him. Thunder rumbled above, and heavy rain cursorily followed. Through the downpour, Quintus saw the woman assist her beaten-up husband to his feet. She glanced at Quintus and he saw fear in her eyes.
Now drenched and doubting himself, he began feeling tired, sapped of energy. He left the dead bodies and made his way up the platform. He felt someone looking at him and he turned to a carriage, where at a window, Green was wearing a look of disbelief.
‘Mister, what have you done?’ Green asked.
Quintus ignored the question, and, through the downpour, he made his way off the platform. At the front of the station he stole a horse, a chestnut American Saddlebred, and rode away, heading south. Our hero was now a killer and a thief. A fugitive.
A Decision to Be Made
Quintus placed a shard of mirror on the outside window sill, so it could best capture the light of the early morning sun to help him shave. Next, he lathered soap and spread it across part of his face. After shaving off his stubble with a straight razor, he hand scooped water from a leather bucket and splashed it across his face. Drops of water fell to the sandy Mexican ground.
With a cotton rag he patted down his cheeks and took one last look at his reflection in the mirror. Five years since the events in Reno he’d aged equally as much. His hairline had climbed back an inch and there were a few wrinkles on his forehead. He now looked like a typical gringo around 40 years of age.
It was a superficial reminder of how much of what Tai had trained him for had been lost. Likewise, he now had no supernormal powers to speak of. No ability to do without food or sleep and he certainly wasn’t able to free float down any mountains. His limited celestial eye vision that allowed him at times to see fairies and ethereal beings, disappeared as well. Not that the Franciscan monks who took him in were aware of these issues. To them he was a shy, sincere character of few words. Needless to say, they were somewhat more doubtful when he first stumbled upon their mission, in a half-dead state on a half-dead horse, half-a-decade earlier.
Despite occasional drunkenness during his first year at the mission, in time this man, who the Francians knew as Quintus Acardi, gained their trust while remaining an enigma. He did not talk of his past, nor did they enquire. They were though impressed by his knowledge of construction and use of Latin. Quickly, he became their go-to man capable of any building repair work and in that way, he earned his keep. He was busy and often in demand.
The Franciscans had nine mission churches in the Sonoran Desert area, a few constructed during the 1600s with sun-dried mud bricks or stone. A series of repairs at one of them — two days ride away — was planned after that morning shave. There, Quintus would spend several weeks repairing the church’s interior and building an exterior wall.
Following his shave, he took the soapy water to a small garden at the front of the mission where he used it to water a lemon tree. It wasn’t much but every drop counts in the Sonoran. As the water disappeared into the soil, he heard a young squeal of laughter behind him. Three native Tohono O’odham children from the village served by the mission ran up to him wanting his help to squash a black scorpion they had cornered in the nearby cemetery. He waved them off with a smile, he knew they were savvy enough to handle such things themselves.
After packing supplies, building materials and tools into a horse-drawn cart, Quintus left the mission. The horse that pulled the cart was the very same chestnut American Saddlebred he stole in Reno. But he didn’t need to be reminded by the horse about his killing of the three thugs. Internally he’d been stewing over it for the past five years. The guilt was there when he woke up. It was there when he fell asleep. Who really was that first madman killed at Reno? Likewise, who were the other two killed?
During his trip to the church needing repairs he mulled over more. Was everything now in vain? Was there any hope of clemency? Was there still a purpose? His questions may have gone unanswered, but Quintus was now at the point where he had to make a choice himself.
It could also be fair to say it was one forced upon him by circumstances. You see, his once acute memory, was now fading fast and for someone like him that was fatal. On occasion he wasn’t even sure who he was. He now only had vague recollections of his life as a Roman soldier and his memory of his time with Tai was starting to dim. Quintus knew if he lost White Dragon Mountain, if he lost those memories, then there was no hope of his resuming the Way. He would live and die as any normal man does. If that was the case, then he’d be dead within several decades. And then what? he wondered. Eternity in Hell?
By the time Quintus and his horse-drawn cart reached an overnight camping area situated on a dry riverbank, he had made up his mind. Ultimately, he knew he had to resume his practice. He had come too far to throw in the towel. The crimes he committed in Reno had to be left behind, somehow reconciled if that was at all possible.
After lighting a fire and eating dried beef, he sat to meditate and then did his Tao Yin exercises for the first time in five years. As he did so, he was somewhat rusty. He just hoped his master, if he was watching, would take him back and that the Gods would forgive him.
While it was the beginning of a comeback, I have to tell you, his name remained on the list of those damned to hell. Once your name is listed there, it’s no small feat having it removed.
The Great Unseen
In another realm — yet physically still meditating in his cave — Tai was exultant when Quintus returned to the Way. Since the Reno incident he had been more than concerned and worried. Despite what occurred on the railway platform, he remained by his disciple’s side. He was unseen and mostly unnoticed but was busy, often blocking other unseen beings that sought to harm
his disciple. These beings are what you would describe as demons. If you could perceive them, you’d see they come in all shapes and sizes.
After Quintus decided to return to the Way, these nefarious creatures attacked in droves but luckily for Quintus, Tai was able to fend them off, much to the displeasure of the 13 demon kings. What was once just a passing interest in Quintus had become an obsession for the 13. Following what transpired in Reno, the demon kings thought he was now theirs. If these sinister beings got cheap thrills from anything, it would be watching a good man fall, especially one of which there was so much expectation. If he was among the best examples of humanity, then there is little hope for the rest of them, something they repeatedly told each other after the punching deaths of Chivington and the mad brothers.
It is true that the demon kings had a point, to an extent at least, but it was self-serving. The incident in Reno was actually a set up. The demon kings planned it all. They even arranged the crows to set the mood. Another test of worthiness for Quintus, they said, just like Ireland and the gibbet which they argued was inconclusive.
But now that’s history.
Thanks to his master’s unseen protection Quintus successfully returned to the righteous path, back to the Way. After the decision on the dry riverbank, he spent another five years helping the Franciscans. Then he moved on and drifted around Mexico for several decades. His abilities quickly returned but plateaued to a point where they weren’t as powerful as before the Reno killings and his celestial eye vision never returned. As for sleep or food, if compared to regular folk, he was supernormal, but he needed some. A meal every second day was fine. Two hours of sleep daily was best. His aging stopped, and he actually regained the appearance of someone around the age of 30.
Just prior to World War I he left Mexico and returned to the United States. He may not have served in that conflict, but he did in the second one as a U.S. Army medic. Given the scale of that fight he found it hard not to get swept up in it. After 300 or so years absence he was back in Europe, this time patching up the bodies of soldiers and civilians from both sides.