Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  “Wow,” I breathe. “Who made that one?”

  Gemma answers with a discreet smile and points at Skiss. Skiss returns the smile with an exquisite wistfulness and turns from the porch without a word.

  We walk back to Madame Rogger’s without much more talking. I learn that Hope and the girls come from Imago Dei, my brother’s church. A day earlier and I would have been ecstatic. I would have asking the ladies a million questions about Portland, about my brother, about passage across the Territory. But now . . . now my mind is caught between a whole snare of opposing tensions. I feel relief that we’ve caught up with Jenny and that she’s okay. I feel confusion over Milly and her mean, hurtful behavior. I feel fear over East and South and Yaverts and Maplenut and having to sort out who wants who dead and why.

  But most of all, I feel creeping over me an entrancing, tantalizing melancholy. Maybe it’s the sum of my colliding emotions, the desire for an inner peace that is always just out of reach. Maybe it’s the afterglow of so many hours living on nothing but adrenaline and will power. But my guess is that the melancholy mostly rises from glimpsing the hearts of these strong, intelligent, beautiful women. To enjoy their company and admire their grit makes me mourn the fools around me—men content to leave such women unwooed—men content to scorn the celibate ones as nuns and celebrate the cornered ones as whores. Men so satiated. Men so sapped. Men so quick to waste their lives, risk their lives, to piss their lives away. And so scared—so secretly terrified to give themselves away and test the mettle of their spirits in the crucible of a relationship that dares declare ‘I am not my own.’

  Yet who am I to judge? I may not have a truce with the status quo, but as yet I’m little more than a snippy theorist. That’s a big reason why I headed to Portland: to throw myself into a community that defies the gravity of our independence and to see if a city can embody the other-focused world of which marriage, at its best, is a microcosm.

  Haunted by these heady thoughts, I long to be alone and brood a while.

  Still, solitude doesn’t happen for hours. Madame Rogger invites me to dinner with her, the ladies from Imago Dei, and about ten of her girls who aren’t working. We all sit down at a giant, hand carved oak table set with Delft blue china, ready to be heaped with roasted stuffed goose, flaky sourdough rolls, goat cheese and pomegranate salad, goose gravy, rissoles and ginger cream. I can’t believe the spread. The way Madame Rogger waves away my questions about her chef, I suspect she herself was responsible for much of the feast. She asks if I would bless the meal, so we all holds hands—the Madame on my left, Skiss at my right—and Hope says grace.

  Over the course of the meal, Hope describes the work Imago Dei has done in Portland to fight the trafficking of children as sex slaves. Madame Rogger explains how she came to require that all her girls take a month of combat training. And Gemma retells in irreverent fashion how Rickard Yaverts won the Lobe Lopping. At one point or another, everyone asks me a question about my travels, offering to make the conversation center on me, but I’m more than content to deflect the questions back to any one of the lively ladies.

  After dinner, most of the house leaves for the Moat Push. Hope stays, along with her fellow Portlander, Heather. Madame Rogger stays, claiming Gemma’s reenactments are always better. And Skiss stays. She even changes out of her burlesque for a long lavender skirt and a white blouse.

  Somehow the ladies have managed to learn I can play the guitar, and, before I can escape, they have me seated in the mansion’s great room before a crackling hearth with a maplewood guitar on my knee.

  “I only know a few songs that aren’t mine,” I hem.

  “Then play your own,” commands Madame Rogger.

  “Well, they’re mostly protest songs.”

  Madame Rogger rolls her eyes. “Then enough protesting, Mr. Prose. Let’s hear one!”

  I’m tempted to stall, to lie and say I have a headache, or at least to remember how to play Let It Be. But one of my songs comes strongly to mind, a folk tune about facing the apathies that uphold injustice. So I strum. The guitar has a dark bronze to it. And I sing. My voice is something of a rusty copper, crackling along with the fire.

  By the end, all the ladies are humming with the tune. I’m glad. Performing political songs can often have such awkward conclusions. In this case, though, there is no excessive gushing or condemning silence. Everyone simply offers gracious thanks and warm smiles. Except Skiss, who is facing the floor. When she finally looks up, her luminous eyes fix on me. “Let’s sing it again,” she says.

  And so we do, again and again, until the fire has died down and Madame Rogger decides to retire.

  “Skiss,” she says, before leaving for her quarters. “I’d really like you to guard our guest tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Surprised by Rage

  No matter how much I insist, Madame Rogger won’t relent. We argue for five minutes before I give up, thinking Skiss will be easier to convince that I don’t need a bodyguard.

  But it turns out she’s not.

  By the time we’ve checked in on Enemy, bid goodnight to all the ladies in the lobby, and climbed the long labyrinths of stairs to my suite, I’ve tried everything short of spontaneous combustion to make her stop following me.

  “Look,” I say, lifting my hands in mock surrender. “I walked all over town today and came back just fine. If anybody wants to waste a good night’s sleep and try harming me now, I’m pretty sure they’re dumb enough to handle without much trouble. Besides, I’m at the top of the mansion. To get to me somebody would either have to get past all the Madame’s guards—every single one—or scale four stories without waking anyone. So I say let them bring it.”

  Skiss is not convinced. “I saw you arguing with the Eastern Ranger,” she says, grabbing the doorknob while my hands are in the air. “If there’s anybody in town who can break through our defenses, it’s him. I’ll go in first.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. I try to remove her hand gently, but she’s surprisingly strong. “Come on, Skiss. So I won a Dare. So what? I don’t even really know what that means. I certainly didn’t know what I was doing at the time. I can’t have you risking your life for me just because Madame Rogger has a hyper sense of hospitality.”

  Something in her eyes quiets me. I let go of her wrist. She’s not risking her life for hospitality.

  “All right,” I relent. “Let’s go in together.”

  The suite is as I left it, only cold with night. The stars are up, the moon too. The streets are oddly silent. I expected them to be more like New Pokey’s, more raucous. I murmur as much.

  “Sheriff Flinter enforces the curfew with whippings,” explains Skiss. “If you’re out after midnight, you’d better have a great reason. Controlling the night is part of how the city keeps from suffering a real outbreak.”

  She checks my solarium—the latrine, the closets, even under the blankets. She checks the hot tub, over the sides of the walls, even the soil beds of the garden.

  I break out in an incredulous laugh. “Skiss! Who would bury themselves in a flower bed? I’m not that important! Really! Sure, I’m a smart ass college boy who wears a cross, and maybe that’s bait for some. Sure, I’m a Ranger, and one in ten idiots daydreams about gunning me down. Sure, the other Rangers have chips on their shoulders, but—come on—this isn’t necessary. We should both get some sleep. Me here, and you . . . in your room.”

  Skiss raises a finger to my lips and says, “This is my room.”

  For a moment I think she’s going to kiss me. Instead, she takes my hand with an intensity that conveys something other—something deeper—than sensual passion. I let her draw me into the solarium, into the warmth of the glass room, where she shuts the door and turns out the gas lights.

  “You don’t understand, Blake.”

  She’s right, except that ‘I don’t understand’ is an understatement. She sits down on the edge of the bed and I join her. Moonlight drops through the g
lass ceiling and wraps us in its soft light. “You’re a major problem for them,” she continues, taking my hands in hers. “They want her, but they fear you . . . because they fear him.”

  “How about some proper nouns, Skiss,” I say, trying to sound gentle. “‘Them’ and ‘her’ and ‘him’ don’t give me much to work with.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Okay, listen. Just listen. What matters now is very simple. East and South and others I can’t name—powerful people—are very interested in your friend, Milly. They believe she will lead them to someone they are keen to locate.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Dr. Schlozfield.”

  “Yes. But you have Lancaster Moon’s gear. And they fear you because of that.”

  “Because they fear the Banshee.”

  “Yes. Because they think the Banshee is connected to the gear. And now you’re connected to the Banshee. They believe it must have let you live for a reason. They think you must be working with it. They think you can signal it somehow.”

  “Skiss,” I say. “How do you know all this? Why are you telling me this?”

  She withdraws her hands from mine and rubs them together as though trying to stay warm. “Blake, my name is not Skiss. Not really. My name is Abigail. Abigail Moon. Lancaster Moon was my father. After my father . . . after he was murdered, East and South came for my whole family. I was the only one who survived. I escaped into the wild. Eventually, I landed here, with Madame Rogger. Anyway, we hear things, Blake. We ladies hear more secrets than you’d believe. Most of the men think we’re nothing more than vapid fleshpots, so they often brag and banter in front of us without a second thought. As a result, Madame Rogger knows more about what’s going on in the Alley than anyone. And she knows that these people I mentioned want you out of the way.”

  I shake my head, not sure what to say.

  “Blake?” Skiss touches my arm.

  I stand and start pacing. “Abigail Moon? Lancaster Moon’s daughter? Does Madame Rogger know? Does anyone know?” I stop in my tracks. “Does he know?”

  “Who, Blake?”

  I study the dark shapes of town beyond our glass walls. “Why are you sharing this with me?”

  “Blake!” Skiss stares until I have to meet her eyes, bright in the moonlight. “They. Murdered. My. Family. What else has my life been about, other than listening for word of that badge you’re wearing? It’s the last tie I have to my father. It’s the last thing I know he touched. Other than Madame Rogger, it’s always meant hope to me. Every time someone new got the badge and the Banshee made the papers, people would gossip about how this terrible destroying angel was bringing justice to my family’s killers, and I would feel hope. I would feel like there was still a person in this world who remembered us, who cared about what happened.”

  Skiss’s cheeks are bright, the brightest spots in the room. I slip off a pillowcase and dab them with silk. I wish I had more comfort to offer. I wish I knew how to brush away suffering or soften the truth.

  “There’s something you need to know,” I whisper. “It may be wonderful to know or terrible or both. But you should know, all the same. Your father is alive. Your father is the Banshee.”

  For a moment, Skiss does nothing. It’s as though I’ve spoken in gibberish. She only stares at me with an expression caught somewhere between amused, offended, elated, and heartbroken.

  A moment later, she collapses backwards onto the bed as though struck. She rips the pillowcase from me and presses it over her face and lets loose a muffled cry. I try to pull her up and comfort her, breathing futile words of consolation, when I realize she’s laughing. Skiss—Abigail—is laughing hysterically.

  “I knew it,” she manages at last, squeezing the words through overjoyed gasps. She rolls around for a few minutes, flailing until she finally sits up, all laughter abruptly gone. “All these years I knew it was him. I knew he was alive. I even told Madame Rogger once. She only gave me a sad look. It’s so hard for people to believe. But he’s alive, and he sent you.”

  I hold up my hands in the darkness. “I don’t know what he was thinking, Skiss, other than that he wanted me to help Milly.”

  I catch myself. Milly was the reason Lancaster mentioned. But was she his only reason for sending me north? And if not—if his daughter played a part in his thinking—why not come north himself? Why me?

  “What is it, Blake?”

  “Who knows who you really are, Skiss?”

  “Only Madame Rogger.”

  “None of the other girls?”

  “No. Not even Gemma.”

  My hand, I realize, has gone to my side, checking to make sure Lancaster’s pistol is still there. “What about the other Rangers?” I ask. “Have they ever seen you? Is there a chance they could recognize you?”

  “No, Blake,” she laughs, sadly. “There is no chance they would recognize me.”

  Something in her tone catches me and I’m almost afraid to ask my next question. “How are you so sure?”

  The night sky doesn’t give enough light to see a blush, but I know Skiss—Abigail Moon—is blushing. “Because,” is all she says, and I know what she means.

  She’s been with them.

  My mind has only one response.

  NO.

  Without willing it, I’m up and pacing, all of my spectator’s melancholy metamorphosing with volatile, unforeseeable speed into spectacular fury.

  Calm proportion: gone.

  Stoic restraint: vaporized.

  My jaw is clenched to aching. My hands are balled into grinding fists. My skin seethes in a conspiracy of steam. The gleam of the moon on glass reminds me everything around us can break. And oh how I want to break something. I don’t know what, I don’t know why, but how I ache to break something.

  “It’s okay, Blake.” Skiss is suddenly beside me, pulling me to a stop in front of her. “Don’t sentimentalize things. I’ve learned to keep business as business.”

  I shake free—my head shaking, my hands shaking. “No, Skiss. No, Abigail. Business as business is unacceptable to me. Business as usual needs to die. Those shits killed your father. Those shits killed your family!” I stop and spin around, catching the line of her face’s profile in the dark. In my sudden mood, I see in her the likeness of Milly, of Hope, of Jenny, of Astrid. “Have you looked at yourself lately? All these years, have you ever looked in a mirror and caught a glimpse of your soul? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Do you have any idea how beautiful every woman in this house is?—how costly? Has anyone ever told you what your father must have wanted for you? And those . . . those poor, ignorant, arrogant, philistine bastards! . . . they strut to and fro thinking they can exchange piddly cash for . . . to . . . ” I can’t get the words out.

  Clementine is suddenly in my hand. I’m pacing, whirling, pacing. I don’t know what’s come over me.

  “Blake, please,” Skiss stops me again, grasping each of my arms. She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for your anger. You have a bold and generous heart. But the Territory has a way of crushing such hearts. It can turn justice to vengeance, and courage into domination. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen men who had hearts like yours become infected by their anger, and overrun by other people’s squalor. Any one of the men that you might now be most tempted to harm, may have gone wrong the day he set off to make things right.”—She spots my objection and interjects—“Not because he wanted to do right, but because he trusted in the power of his own hand and the righteousness of his anger.”

  I fight the impulse to shake free again. After a deep breath I ask, “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that all evil needs to triumph is for good men to do nothing?”

  Skiss reaches down and eases Clementine out of my hand. She sets it on a bureau. “I’ve heard that saying,” she says. “I’ve heard Madame Rogger say things will get better only as good people persevere. I’ve heard Sheriff Flinter say the only way to have order in the world is through good men using force. But there’s one big problem with al
l of that.”

  “Which is?”

  Skiss looks at me and loves me. “Who is good?”

  My mouth shoots open, ready to object, ready even to scoff. Who is good? Come on, Skiss, that’s absurd. But some quiet center in me demands a moment of surrender, a moment in which to truly release all indignant certainty.

  So with another breath, I exhale all of my common sense judgement and loyal belligerence. I set down my outrage. And suddenly I’m reminded of sitting on Yarely’s wagon, about to roll out into zombie country. I’m reminded of thinking that the line between good and evil runs right down my soul.

  I’ve seen it. I’ve seen men who had hearts like yours become infected by their anger, and overrun by other people’s squalor. Any one of the men you might now be most tempted to harm, may have gone wrong the day he set off to make things right.

  I don’t want to put any stock in Skiss’s warning. I want to call it gobbledegook and dismiss it as a victim’s mentality. So what if it echoes with the impression I had on the wagon? I suddenly want to believe that it’s all sentimental mumbo jumbo, misplaced moralism, idealist quackery. I want to be practical, capable, strong. I want to believe that I’m the good, that I’m the immune, that I’m the exception. But somehow, when I look into the young woman’s eyes, I can read a response to all my objections, a knowledge tempered by the fires of patience and suffering and childlike hope.