Eric t marin ed, p.19
Eric T. Marin (ed), page 19
Water in manageable amounts posed no threats to Angeline. But she hadn’t submerged herself in water since the day she’d grown cold as her Daddy cal ed it, and she’d taken care to avoid the rain.
She often had nightmares about being caught out on the plains without shelter. Ugly storm clouds erasing the blue sky, lightning bolts screaming to the ground, and rain coming down like a fal ing ocean, covering her, hardening, turning her into a frozen shel . Her screams cut short by suffocation. She’d wake up sweating. Wishing someone could hold her without getting frostbite. Wishing she’d have let her Daddy kil her like she knew he’d wanted to.
She’d always loved rainstorms. Before.
Angeline shut her eyes and tried not to dream.
Three weeks later, in another town that hardly warranted the name, Angeline waited behind the tent for Jim. She loved their cigarette dates, and when Jim missed them, it left her in a funk the rest of the day. The show that day had gone particularly well.
The crowd had shown the appropriate degree of astonishment, and every effect had gone off without a hitch.
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Gunshots and applause cracked in the distance. She waited a few more minutes, wondering if she should just go and watch the roping exhibition or one of the hatchet throwers for the thousandth time. Maybe help the Queen of Beards clean dishes.
Then an Indian man appeared in front of her wearing a thread-bare brown suit, removed his hat, and smiled. Age grooved his face, and his eyes were mismatched storms. One was the harsh gray of approaching menace, and the other the pale pink light that colors the clouds when the storm has passed. They were eyes that had seen more hardship than any human should have to bear. Angeline understood this, but didn’t know why. She felt a shiver go through her as the man continued to stare, and it felt as if he was giving her a bit of his soul. And perhaps taking some of hers in return.
“Do you need something?” Angeline wasn’t a rude person by nature, but the man made her nervous.
“No,” he replied. “But perhaps you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The old man reached into a hide bag that dangled from his waist and removed a misshapen block of amber about the size of his fist. He took one of Angeline’s hands in his, placed the amber in her palm and closed her fingers around it. Pale lights flickered inside the stone, yet Angeline was more astonished by the man’s touch. He continued to hold her hand around the amber. He hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t even flinched.
“What’s this?” she whispered. The Wild West Show swirled around them like a noisy, colorful maelstrom. But she and the 221
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Indian were apart from it. In some other world where she could touch and be touched. Where she watched freaks from the audience, not milled with them backstage.
“This is a choice,” he said. “This is warmth.” Those eyes fixed her again, and she understood.
“No more ice?” she asked.
“Release the warmth inside this stone, and you will be no different from anyone else. Keep it intact, and you will remain the Ice Witch.”
Angeline shook off his stare and pulled her hands away. She still held the amber block. “I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about magic. Why are you doing this?” The man shook his head sternly. “This is not magic. This is nature. Just like your ability.”
Ability? This man was one of the few who’d ever stopped to consider that what she did could be scientifically explained. Most folks believed she was an illusionist, and those given to fancy believed her a creature of magic. Angeline knew it was neither.
Her father’s voice howled from the past, calling her a witch.
Cursing the ability she couldn’t control. Calling from his pulpit for fire and a stake. Seemingly unaware that people were no longer burned for their differences. But Angeline was not a witch.
Just a woman with a problem.
A problem this amber could solve?
No. That was impossible. That was magic.
“Your ability comes from the earth.” The man knelt and sifted the soil through his finger. “Just as all gifts do. And curses.
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When I was a boy, there was a woman in the tribe who could coax water from a dry stone. She was beloved of all. But there was another woman who drew fire from the earth, whether she willed it or not. Yet her abilities had positive uses as well, and she would not relinquish her ability. The men drove her into exile.
“Nature touches us for reasons unknown, yet we are not all equipped to bear the life we’ve been given. This is why the earth gives us a choice. You need not live with this ability any more, if you believe it a burden.”
“It’s not a burden.” She didn’t believe her own words.
The man stood and shrugged. “If this life is for you, then enjoy it. But if you would leave it behind, then you now have the ability. I’m only here because your spirit called.” Angeline was fairly certain the man was insane. And yet that didn’t explain the way the world seemed to slow in his presence. Or the way he touched her. Light danced inside the stone, and she allowed herself to imagine what he said was true.
Breaking open the stone. Feeling the warmth spread though her body for this first time in fifteen years. Leaving this place behind and seeing her mother again.
Seeing her father too.
Angeline grimaced as her thoughts turned to burning witches. She had no real desire to return to Virginia. Then she thought of the way Jim’s lips felt against hers, and she thought of other things. She stared at the stone in her hand and considered every possibility. Someone tugged at her dress. Purdy grinned up at her and touched one tentative finger to the amber.
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“Pur-dee.”
“Yes it is,” said Angeline.
The wind spun Purdy’s hair into a nest of tangles. She swat-ted at the air and giggled. Angeline allowed her to touch the amber again, holding tight to it so it wouldn’t fall and break.
Wouldn’t that be her luck? One more choice taken out of her hands. She realized that magic or not, she believed what the old man told her about the amber. A hundred questions popped in her mind, but when she looked up from Purdy’s gleaming face the man was gone.
“Did you see where that man went?” she asked.
Purdy shook her head. Angeline couldn’t tell if that meant she hadn’t seen him leave or that she had no idea who Angeline was talking about.
“Listen, Purdy,” she said. “Have you seen Jim around? I’ve got to talk to him.”
Purdy nodded, tearing her gaze reluctantly away from the amber. She pointed across the show grounds.
“Show me where?”
Purdy nodded and set off into the crowds, dodging a herd of goats wearing beaded saddles. She led Angeline past the animal cages and sleeping tents and finally stopped short of the sway-ing grassland that surrounded them. Purdy pointed to a stand of trees on the outskirts of the show’s temporary domain.
A woman in a romanticized version of a pioneer dress—probably one of the chorus members from the singing troupe— leaned against a tree, and Jim pressed against her. Their lips were joined 224
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in a kiss, and when he pulled away, she laughed and kissed him again. Jim leaned closer and lifted one of her legs. It slid from beneath her skirt, and he ran one hand along it, letting it linger.
His touch on the woman’s skin. His lips moving to her neck.
Angeline’s heartache came out in a ragged cough, and Purdy stared at her with a concerned expression. Those hands that had been so afraid to touch her seemed destined to touch every inch of this other woman, and Angeline suddenly fell victim to the realization that there could never be anything between her and Jim. All the futures she’d imagined with him were built on childish fantasies. Even if Jim did love her, and that seemed less likely than it had mere moments ago, she couldn’t offer the same things other women could. Women who could be touched and women you could share a room with. A life with.
Anger coiled in her gut, and she bolted for the depths of the grassland. Purdy called out behind her, but Angeline kept moving, desperate to distance herself from Jim and from her whole miserable existence. Her hands held the amber against her breasts, and it filled her chest with a warmth she hadn’t felt in years. Grass hissed against her legs, and the scent of rain rode in from the west on a sudden blast of wind. Fear momentarily chased away the anger, and she wondered if Jim had somehow managed to bring the rain. The thought of him stabbed at her heart, and she realized that she didn’t care if it rained.
She had her amber choice, and she intended to use it. And if the old man who’d given it to her was crazy, then she’d die encased in ice.
Either way, she’d be better off.
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A slab of rock protruded from the grass, and she fell to her knees in front of it. A raindrop slapped her face and became hail. Another followed. Angeline looked up and saw a swirl of gray clouds, one of those sudden, fearsome thunderstorms the region was known for. The horizon was a green haze, and a line of heavy showers marched closer. It was oddly beautiful, a sight she hadn’t seen since her Daddy had taught her to fear the rain, and she allowed herself a few seconds to admire it.
The amber grew hot in Angeline’s grip, as if understanding its time for usefulness had come. She tested it against the rock, giving it a sharp tap. It wouldn’t take much to break the amber, and when she did she could forget about the freak show. Forget about everything but carving out some semblance of a normal life. She thought about Jim touching her the way he’d touched the chorus lady and dismissed the idea. She wasn’t doing this for him; she was doing it for herself.
Purdy reached her side, gasping for breath. She pointed at the coming rain and whined, knowing Angeline’s aversion.
“Don’t worry, honey,” said Angeline. “I’ll be fine.” Tears streaked Purdy’s face, and rain began to pelt down around them. Angeline flushed with new fear. A few drops wouldn’t hurt, but imagining the ice cocoon that could form in seconds caused her heart to race. Purdy lunged forward and gave her a crushing hug. Her arms touched the back of Angeline’s neck and Purdy jumped back with a yelp of pain.
“Honey!” said Angeline. “You know not to touch me. What are you doing?”
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Purdy came at her again, and pul ed her close. Angeline shoved her away, and Purdy stood crying in the wind. Lightning slammed into the ground just beyond the city of blowing tents, and the resultant thunder silenced Angeline’s attempt at protest.
Purdy shook her head violently, as if trying to deny what she must perceive as a suicide attempt. Angeline’s name carried on the wind, Edgar cal ing out for her. She looked up, and he was approaching at a run through the tal grass. The Queen of Beards was behind him, and in her wake Seamus the Pincushion, Lady Starva-tion, and several of the others. They must have seen her flee the camp. And like Purdy, they wanted to save her from the rain.
Angeline fended off another of Purdy’s hugs.
Then the sky broke open and released a torrent.
Angeline screamed as the rain hammered her, and the amber became so hot she almost dropped it. She hadn’t felt true heat in so long the pain was almost a curiosity. Frozen raindrops rang like bits of broken glass as they struck her and bounced away.
She looked at Purdy, knowing she had little time to break the amber if she hoped to save herself, yet not wishing to leave her friend alone in her misery. The others were close, though their shouts drowned in the downpour. Angeline scooted across the ground on her knees, feeling the water pooling against the soil begin to solidify beneath her. She stopped short of giving Purdy a hug, but drew as close to her as she possibly could without causing her further pain.
“I’m fine Purdy. See this?” She held the glowing block of amber up for inspection. “This is going to make everything better.” 227
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Purdy reached for the amber, and Angeline allowed her to take it. It continued to glow, but didn’t seem to burn her hands.
Together, they studied the stone, but when Angeline pulled her gaze away, she realized Purdy was laughing. A smile broke across her own face in response.
“What’s funny?”
“Rain!” said Purdy.
The raindrops continued to bounce from Angeline’s skin, and she realized the rain had grown even heavier. Surely this storm was enough to wrap her in ice forever, but it wasn’t doing anything of the sort. Angeline rose tentatively to her feet and reached her arms out to the side. The rain was comfortably warm, and she felt the dust of days cleansed from her skin. Purdy continued to laugh as rain flew from Angeline like a shower of diamonds. Every drop tickled, and each one brought with it further confirmation that the rain wasn’t going to kill her. Angeline spun beneath the spilling sky, and her laughter joined Purdy’s.
Angeline lost track of how long she danced, but eventu-ally she was on her knees again, the last of her laughter coming out in fits and starts. Her surrogate family surrounded her, and Edgar had wrapped his old fur-lined cape around her wet shoulders. Pink sunlight washed across the world, and the storm retreated like the defeated foe that it was. Frozen raindrops encircled them, and Purdy took up handfuls of the stuff and threw it in the air, giggling. Seamus laughed as it clattered against his head, and the Queen fretted over Angeline like a mother, seizing her through the cape and helping her to her feet.
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“You’ll catch your death from the rain, child,” said the Queen.
Angeline grinned, shook her head. The forgotten piece of amber lay nestled in the ice, and Angeline picked it up. She brushed away a layer of frost from the surface, but the Indian’s gift had lost its glow.
“Pur-dee!” Purdy stopped playing and put her hands on the amber. She seemed far more interested in it now that it was just another bauble for her amusement. Angeline let her have it.
“For you, honey.” Angeline watched the joy spread across Purdy’s face. It was the face of a friend. A face from this life. Not the one she’d left behind.
Angeline smiled as her family closed in around her. Not close enough to touch, and certainly not close enough to hug.
But close enough.
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THE HANGMAN
ISN’T HANGING
JAY LAKE
The Dunes south of the San Luís Valley is a death trap for white man and red alike. Only the hardyest and wiliest Adventurers can trade across them sands. Not Mormon nor Texian nor even them Russian bastards can track a man there neither. Only a right smart Injun or a Chinee witch doctor can take you down there. And them monsters in the sky, what goes without saying.
But cross La Veta pass and there’s the Wet Mountain valley, prettiest country God ever laid His finger on.
—Journal of Jed “Spade” Wolters, mountain man, ca. 1850
Courtesy of the Founders’ Collection of the Denver Temple Library, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints
JAY LAKE
Red Eyes Parker was leading a string of pack ponies two days north of the Burrista trading post at the far south end of the Wet Mountain Valley when they began to spook.
Loaded down with ironwork and kitchenware, the ponies were louder than mission bells.
Parker cursed inventively in a mixture of French, Spanish and Ute. He halted to calm them one by one, stroking the muzzle of each pony and whispering the names of their mothers. Then he scanned the scrubby pines that surrounded the trail. There wasn’t much underbrush, but the lay of the land was sufficiently rough to hide an army of Americanos, Mormonistas, or worse.
Eyes closed and mouth open, he breathed deep. His ears brought him nothing. There should have been mountain blue-birds, scrub jays, woodpeckers—this was not a quiet forest. His nose brought him …
… a mix of rot and blood and cold bone. Something dead or dying.
Perhaps.
It was the “perhaps” that worried him.
Reluctantly, Parker hopped off of his horse, Poquito, telling the mount to watch over the ponies. He took his axe and his crutch and followed the odor. Faint stirrings of breeze led him stumping up an embankment away from the pony line to a point where the smell was much stronger. He looked down, studying a ravine that opened on the far side of the ridge.
An angel lay amid the stones at the bottom. The black 232
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of its skin and wings blended with the shadows around it.
Parker’s hand flexed for his absent musket before he realized the creature was folded into an impossible position down there.
Angels could be slain. It had been done. But he’d never heard tel of someone fighting one of the white God’s creatures to a standstil and then wedging it into a crack in the earth to die.
The angel’s head tilted upward. Even in such terminal pain its face held an impossible beauty, dangerous as flame, sterile as stone. Its eyes were gold beneath a mountain stream. “Attanaski-amie,” the angel said in the secret language of Parker’s medicine lodge. Slay me.
He would have tried to do just that, except the asking made him suspicious. Not that he was sure he could have killed it regardless.
“Esas palabras no son las suyas a utilizar,” Parker said. “Usted los ha robado de mis pensamientos.” The angel had stolen the words of his secret language from his thoughts. They were said to have many fantastic powers.
