Hidden Meanings

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From Clarinda Blaumer’s perspective, supper that evening was a perfectly normal affair. She and her two boarders talked, joked and acted just like always. Unbeknownst to her, though, there was a dance of subtext going on beneath the conversation. Every sentence Deke directed at Taylor had extra meaning as he circled around, looking for an opening, trying to spot a weakness. Taylor’s responses were insultingly open, bragging of his superior position, inviting Deke to make a play. The two used Clarinda’s innocent words to launch feints at each other, each daring the other to overcommit.

“So how are things going at the mine, Taylor?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re going great, Miz Blaumer. We’re really working as a team now. Everyone’s on the same page, you know?” He looked straight at Deke as he emphasized the word “page,” and Deke knew that Taylor knew he had seen the blank book.

“Is Porfirio helping you boys?”

“Time and again, Miz Blaumer. We definitely couldn’ta done all of this without him.” Taylor grinned and added, “Speaking of, Pa, when’re you coming up? That arm’s looking pretty well.”

“I’ll be along presently,” Deke said. “Coupla days, most likely. Gotta tend to my snares tomorrow. Ain’t right to leave something out there to suffer once it’s been caught.”

“Sure hope you manage to catch something, Pa. You’re starting to look poor as Job’s turkey.”

“Taylor!” Clarinda admonished. “That’s no way to talk to your pa.”

Deke waved her off. “I ain’t worried if the boy wants to run his mouth. Porfirio showed me some good places to set ‘em. I’m feeling downright confident.”

Taylor and Deke smiled at each other, teeth bared.

Clarinda smiled as well, happy to see the two getting along so well. The town, such as it was, had been so strange lately. It was good to see them still in such good spirits.

“Clarinda,” came a call from the other room. “Come spare me a minute, darlin?”

Clarinda rose. “If you’ll pardon me,” she told her boarders. “Let me just go see what John wants.”

The two men watched her leave. Deke stirred his spoon slowly through his porridge, then took a mouthful.

“John Blaumer’s dead,” he said conversationally.

“Funny thing, that,” replied Taylor. “Just don’t seem to be sticking like it used to.”

He idly scratched his chest, just below his heart.

“Got something there bothering you?” Deke asked. “Bug bite or some such?”

“Nothing major. Had a scorpion try to sting me. But I fixed him up good.”

“Did you now. Squished him with your boot? You sure you got him?”

“Oh, I’m positive. I didn’t squish him. I trapped him under a glass. Left him out there in the desert with no way out. I know right where he is. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“Yeah? You worried about him breaking out after all?”

“No sir.” Taylor smiled. “But it surely is funny to watch him raise up his claws like he thinks he’s still got a fighting chance.”

Taylor stared Deke down brazenly. Deke returned the gaze, calmly spooning more porridge into his mouth. “Ain’t that a thing.”

“You’re looking kinda tuckered out, Pa. You thinking about turning in early?”

“I am, at that. Expecting something of a long day tomorrow. You?”

“I think I’ll stay up for a while yet.”

“Haven’t seen you sleep much lately, boy. You ought to take care of yourself.”

“I’m sleeping as much as I need. It just don’t seem to be catching me like it used to. Appreciate your concern for my welfare, though.”

“I aim to take care of you.”

“And I appreciate your efforts. Pa.” Taylor raised both hands and clicked his fingers like a scorpion’s claws.

Deke pushed his chair back from the table. “Well, I believe that’s enough banter for me for an evening. Good night, Taylor.”

“Need some reading before you go to bed? I have a book you can borrow.”

“I know where it is. I can just grab it if I’m feeling literary.”

“Help yourself, Pa. I read it so many times I know all the words by heart.”

Deke, at a loss for a counter, simply nodded and left the room. Taylor’s laughter escorted him upstairs.

Once in the room, Deke eyed the thin wooden chair and contemplated wedging it under the doorknob. After a moment he shrugged and set the chair aside, but left it behind the door so that it would scrape across the floor if someone entered the room.

Deke knelt in front of Taylor’s trunk, opening it quietly to lift out the worn leather satchel. He drew forth the book it contained and flipped quickly through its pages. They were all still blank. Deke nodded and set the book aside, then replaced the satchel in Taylor’s trunk and closed it.

Taylor had been taunting Deke with the book. Clearly, he felt it was no threat to him. And with its pages completely blank, he was obviously right. Deke had tried to refill those pages before, and they had resisted. But an idea had occurred to him over supper, and so Deke took out his pencil, flipped to the first page and started to draw.

The symbol he had seen on Ray’s leg still shone boldly in his head, as did all of these words. They were not the sort of thing one forgot after seeing them. With bold strokes of the pencil, Deke drew in the swoops and interlocking lines of Contain.

The book struggled against him. The air seemed to thicken, gripping the pencil and making it like pushing through molasses. The page undulated in Deke’s vision, attempting to throw off his design. Deke closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and forced his hand forward, drawing the symbol he saw burning in his mind.

Some time later, Deke opened his eyes. Sweat dripped from his brow and stained his shirt. His pencil was dented in at the sides where he had gripped it, his fingers tight enough to leave impressions in the wood. But the page before him said Contain in its dark language, solid and unwavering.

Deke stared at the symbol he had written, then seized up his pencil again and began to write. Symbols tumbled swiftly from the end of his pencil, line upon line of ancient text filling the page beneath the heading of Contain. Even as he wrote these words, Deke could not precisely read them, but he knew that they were the instructions and the power for the symbol above. They were somehow within it, and it was within them, and they were one and the same.

The words flowed out of him like water from a broken dam, filling two pages before they finally stopped. Deke regarded what he had written for a moment, then closed the book with a shudder. The interlocking circles on its cover regarded him balefully from the floor, a triad of overlapping eyes.

“Didn’t much like that, did you,” Deke told the book. “Well, I got bad news about what tomorrow holds.”

Deke tucked the book under his mattress and got undressed for bed. He laid down, one hand on the knife under his pillow, feeling the lump of the book beneath him. If he was lucky, he’d be able to use the book to crack through the glass he was trapped under. And if he wasn’t lucky—well, Deke was working on a plan for that, too. He liked to be prepared for every eventuality.


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Burning Questions

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Indecision held Deke in place in the street for a moment longer, and then he heaved a sigh of resignation. No situation had ever been improved for long by ignoring it, which meant that there was really only one thing to do here. Like a moth drawn by the light, Deke walked slowly toward the blazing saloon.

The flames put off no heat and no wind. Deke took his first tentative step onto the saloon’s porch, which was burning feverishly beneath his feet, and still felt nothing. He smelled the char, but it was the scent of old ashes kicked up by a wind, not new-burnt wood. Staring at his feet, Deke experienced a painful tripling of his vision. He could see the dusty wood of the saloon porch, worn but unburnt. He could see the fire eating it, gorging itself on the planks. And he could see the charred remnants, a treacherous blackened platform threatening to collapse beneath his feet at any moment.

These three things could not coexist, and yet they did. The impossibility made Deke’s eyes throb. He looked away from the porch, but the rest of the saloon was no better. The entire building seemed to exist in three states at once: unburnt, burning and destroyed. It did not shift between them. All three were happening at once. Time was as folded in on itself as the sky.

Deke stepped through the saloon doors. Deke passed through a curtain of fire. Deke walked through charred beams framing an empty hole where the doors had once been. All of these things were true. Deke’s mind struggled to process, buckling under the overwhelming onslaught of input.

In desperation and self-defense, Deke zeroed in on the bartender, taking quick steps across the filthy/blazing/burnt floor to cross the saloon as quickly as possible. He raised his right hand to his eye as if shielding it from the sun, closing out the view of as much of the saloon as possible.

“What’ll it be, Deke?” Will was a horror, and yet a relief compared to the rest of the saloon. He was actively burning, his skin crisping and curling away while the muscle and fat beneath popped and cooked. The left side of his face was a shattered ruin, shards of white bone floating in a gristly soup of flesh. Deke could see Will’s back teeth when he talked, his tongue writhing grotesquely within his mouth. Will occupied only a single state, though, and Deke nearly let out a cry of relief as he focused all of his attention on him.

“Whiskey.” Deke’s head pulsed as Will took a bottle from the shelf/from the shelf/from the floor and poured it/poured it/passed it over. The amber liquid reflected the overhead lamps. The blue flame danced merrily on the surface of the whiskey. The bottle was shattered, empty but for ash and dirt. Deke squeezed his eyes shut and pushed aside the glass/the glass/the bottle. He focused again on Will.

“Not to your liking, Deke?” Will grinned knowingly. His left eye rolled unpleasantly in its broken socket.

“Don’t think it’d sit right just now.” Deke waited for Will to say something, but Will seemed content to let the silence grow. The flames raged around them, consuming everything. Will’s face dripped blood and fire.

Deke finally broke the silence. “Will, you’re the bartender.”

“Correct so far. You going somewhere with this?”

“It’s your job to know what’s going on.”

“It’s my job to pour the drinks.”

“Like hell it is. If all you did was pour drinks, you’d end up—” Deke stopped.

“End up what, Deke?” Will looked down at Deke, fixing him with a stare. His left eye was tilted slightly. Flames crawled up the side of his face, igniting his hair. He was still easier to look at than the rest of the bar. “End up letting folks drink too much? End up letting fights start? End up shot? With my bar burned down? That where you’re going with this?”

“So you do know.”

“I know some things, sure.” Will relaxed. “Too little, too late, but ain’t that always the way?”

“I don’t believe it has to be, no. Ask the right people the right questions and you can get ahead of just about any situation.”

Will laughed. “Ahead? Then ask your questions.”

“What—” Deke started, but Will raised one burning finger to stop him.

“Not me. Go ask him.”

Will extended that same finger across the saloon, and Deke reluctantly tracked it. Ray was sitting at a card-strewn table/flaming column/empty spot in the char, bragging with fellow miners/corpses/no one at all. As he talked, he chewed noisily on peanuts/cinders/squirming grubs. Deke’s stomach churned, bringing it in line with his brain.

Like Will, Ray was easier to look at than the rest of the bar, as long as Deke focused on him and not anything he was doing. Unlike the rest of the bar, Ray was unburnt. The flames had avoided him entirely except for his hands, and even there they did not burn him. Both hands were wreathed in orange flames which spread to everything that Ray touched, but beneath the fire his own hands were undamaged and pristine.

“You come to lose some money at cards, Deke?” Ray asked. The other miners rolled their dead eyes to regard him. They burned like candles, flesh dripping away from their bodies, the flames nearly hiding the lethal wounds each bore from bullet and bludgeon.

“I’ll play, though I can’t guarantee I’ll lose,” Deke said, keeping his gaze tightly focused on Ray, to blot out the rest of the saloon. Ray shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. His pant leg rode up as he did so, briefly exposing the glyph carved into the side of his leg. To Deke’s eyes, the symbol glowed more brightly than any of the flames.

“What’s that on your leg?” he asked, more to see what Ray would say than anything else. A single glance at the word had been enough to sear it into his mind. Contain.

“That? Oh, some damn fool thing your boy talked us into up at the mine. Got Elmer to do it, too. Said it’d bring good luck, or some such.” Ray spoke dismissively, but Deke heard the tone in his voice that indicated lies mixed with truth.

“Has it worked?” Deke let Ray think he’d gotten away with the lie for now. Easier to pursue the question later when his guard was down again, if necessary.

“I think it just might have. I’m sure feeling luckier than these boys tonight. Wouldn’t you say so, boys?” Deke let out a roar of laughter.

“Luck’s a word for it,” said one of the men. His eyeballs had burst and were running down his cheeks like thick tears.

“You calling me a cheater?” Ray’s momentary good humor was gone, and the flames around his hands flared up as he pushed his chair back, hand near his gun.

“Nobody’s calling you nothing, Ray. Sit down and play your cards.”

“That’s right,” said Ray. He slowly pulled his chair back to the table. “That’s right. I will.”

Ray tossed another peanut/cinder/grub into his mouth. It popped audibly between his teeth as he chewed while talking.

“So you joining us, Deke?”

“Well, if you’re as lucky as you say you are, I may just sit this one out.”

“Your arm’s looking decent healed. Come join us at the mine. You’ll have all the silver you can lose.”

“I aim to do that real soon, Ray.”

“All right. Well, if Deke’s not in, what’re we sitting around jawing for? Deal the cards.”

Deke turned and made his way back to the door, picking his way around gaping holes in the floor that he was only mostly sure were there. He exited the dusty/flaming/ruined building and stood silently on the street for a moment, ignoring the dancing firelight at his back and letting his eyes readjust to seeing only one thing at a time.

While he waited for reality to resettle, Deke turned Ray’s lie over in his head. He’d said that Contain was Taylor’s idea, that Elmer had it too, and that it brought luck. The last part was obviously a lie; its purpose was clear to anyone who looked at it. The middle part, about Elmer having one too, was probably true. The boy was a born follower.

Which left the first part. Had it been Taylor’s idea? That felt like truth. Ray liked to seize on other people’s ideas. If Taylor had shown him some advantage to having Contain on him, he would have gone for it in a heartbeat.

Deke was struck by a sudden desire to know what exactly Taylor looked like through the eyes of Reveal. He set out for the boarding house to find him, but he hadn’t taken two strides before he was seized from behind and something heavy, wet and rough was dragged across his face.

“It’s me, Pa! It’s me!” cried Taylor, dancing back as Deke whipped his knife from its sheath. He held a dirty towel up in front of him like a shield. “Damn, I’ve never seen a man so unhappy to have mud cleaned off his face.”

“Sneaking up on a man like that is a good way to get yourself killed,” Deke said, heartbeat slowing back to normal. He touched his face, his fingers coming away with no sign of the black gunk that Porfirio had slathered onto him.

“Sneaking up, nothing. I called your name a half-dozen times. You get a little too much of Will’s poison?”

Deke glanced around. The saloon was whole and unburnt. The constellations were back where they belonged in the sky. And Taylor looked completely normal, untouched by any revealing visions.

“Miz Blaumer sent me to find you,” Taylor continued. “Said you seemed to have gotten lost on the way to the washroom.”

“Just taking the long way around,” Deke said. He was sure that Taylor was lying to him. Worse, he was sure that Taylor knew that he knew that, and didn’t care. For the moment, he was trapped, which meant that there was nothing to do but play along. “Appreciate you coming to find me. You ready for supper?”

“I hear there’s more porridge on,” said Taylor, making a face. “You have any luck with those snares?”

“I might have,” Deke said. “We’ll see tomorrow.”


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Awareness

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Deke landed heavily on his back, cracking his head against a straw-strewn earthen floor. Dazed from the impact, it wasn’t until he heard a horse whicker that he realized he was somehow in the stables. The strange living walls of Porfirio’s monument had been replaced by familiar wood planks, the confusing geometry abandoned for the comforting simple angles of the stalls.

The stench of Ol’ Sal’s death still lingered lightly here, seeming to ooze out from the walls themselves. Deke climbed slowly to his feet, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head, and made his way out into the final grey light of evening.

Something was wrong outside. Deke noticed it well before he could put his finger on what it was, a lifetime of carefully-honed instincts screaming caution at him. He breathed slowly and looked casually around himself, but the area around him was empty and the night sounds were normal.

It wasn’t until Deke looked up that he spotted what was bothering him: the stars overhead weren’t forming any sort of constellations that he recognized. He could see bits of what might have been familiar patterns, but the pieces were fractured, scattered across the sky. It was like the sky had been bunched up and sewn together along the creases. The seams were invisible, but the effects were obvious.

This didn’t seem to be the sort of problem that Deke could address at the current moment, so he filed it away and headed for the boarding house. The problem of not having supper was one that could be fixed in a timely fashion.

As he headed toward the house, Deke realized that between the trip to the monument and whatever had gone on inside of it, he hadn’t managed to set a single snare all day. He cursed quietly to himself and began sifting his brain for an acceptable excuse or deflection. Plenty of wild animals with sharp teeth; plenty of ways for simple traps to fail. The trick was not to paint himself in a bad light.

Deke was still sorting through his options when he saw Elmer and Cora Everill up ahead, walking along the main street toward their house at the edge of town. They were accompanied by a stern-looking woman closer to Deke’s age walking a pace behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders. Deke thought at first that they were leading her, but as he drew closer he saw that her hands were not supportive, but restraining. She appeared to be trying to push the two apart, perhaps to wedge her way in between. If Elmer and Cora were bothered by this, though, or even noticed, they gave no sign.

“Evening, Deke!” called Elmer. Cora gave a small wave. The unfamiliar woman ignored him completely.

“Evening, Everills. Ma’am,” Deke said politely. Cora gave him a slightly quizzical look, but changed it to a smile.

As he walked along, Deke wondered idly who the woman was. Either Elmer or Cora’s mother, likely. He could have made a case for either one of them based on similarities in facial structure and build.

Deke was opening the front door of the boarding house before the import struck him. There was someone new in Rosin’s Hollow. Who this woman was didn’t matter compared to how she had gotten there. If there was a way in, there was a way out. Presumably, at least. And if not, at least there was a way for the supply wagon to arrive.

“In or out, Deke, but close my door either way,” Clarinda called down the hall.

“Apologies, Miz Blaumer.” Deke hesitated a moment longer, uncertain whether he should go after the Everills now. “Who’s the new arrival?”

“The what?” Clarinda stepped out of the kitchen to hear Deke more clearly. A look of amused shock crossed her face. “Deke, what have you done to yourself?”

“Your—” Although Miz Blaumer was dressed as neatly as ever, her right hand ran with blood, great rivulets of it dripping from her fingers. It should have been forming a small lake on the floor, but where it hit the ground it vanished entirely. “Sorry, what?”

“Your face.” Clarinda raised her bloody hand to her own eyes, gesturing. Droplets of blood flew everywhere, disappearing where they should have landed. A bright red handprint stood out on her left cheek, the edges slightly raised against the surrounding skin as if she had just been slapped. At her neck, the edges of a symbol glowed, something painted onto her skin beneath her dress.

Clarinda seemed unaware of any of this. “Did you fall into something?”

“Oh, this.” Deke touched his right eye where Porfirio had smeared the black gunk. It felt dry to the touch, but his fingers still came away blackened. Pieces began to click into place. Father McCaig, who could see too much. Reveal. The wolf consuming Porfirio. The stern woman. Miz Blaumer’s bloody hand. Deke didn’t know what any of it meant, but at least he understood why it was happening.

“Yes, that. What did you think I meant?”

Deke smiled, slipping into the expression like a familiar lie. “It’s been a long day in the sun, Miz Blaumer. Could be any of a number of things wrong with my appearance at this point. But to your question, I was digging in a mudhole to get some water. I aimed to soak my shirt, cool off a bit. Managed to snap a root in half, I think. I didn’t properly see what happened, but one minute I was digging and the next there was this stick quivering in the water and I had two eyesful of mud. Had the devil’s own time cleaning it off, too. And I never did get to any water I was willing to dunk my shirt in.”

Clarinda laughed. “Well, there’s water and soap here, and you can’t sit at my table looking like that. Go clean yourself off and I’ll see what I can do for you for dinner.

“Much appreciated.”

As soon as Clarinda had returned to the kitchen, however, Deke slipped back outside. He had a mind to see what the path out of town looked like, find out if anything was clearer. Even by moonlight, he might learn something new.

These thoughts were driven from Deke’s mind as soon as he stepped outside and saw the raging inferno burning down the street. The saloon was on fire, flames leaping upward to touch the broken sky. The entire building was engulfed. Fire spat from every window and danced through gaping holes in the roof. The interior was a hellscape.

Deke broke into a run, but his steps faltered as three things processed. The first was that the fire made no noise. There was no crackle, no rush of air, no groaning of falling timbers. It burned brightly but completely without sound.

The second thing that slowed Deke’s steps was that he could see figures inside, moving about as if nothing was wrong. Even from here he could see the gangly shape of Will Long, tending bar even as his body burned. He showed no signs of distress.

And the third thing, which finally brought Deke to a complete halt in the middle of the street, was that he had seen this before. Not the calm figures inside, and not in eerie silence—but the saloon had burned down before. Shortly after he had arrived in Rosin’s Hollow, it had caught fire and claimed the lives of a half-dozen of the remaining citizens of the town. It had been one more nail in the coffin of Rosin’s Hollow, and with so few people left, the saloon had never been replaced.

Which raised the question: where had he been drinking so many nights recently?


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Within

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The assembled rocks seemed solid enough, and they had held up under Porfirio’s weight, but Deke still gave them a tentative kick before taking the first step into the structure. Nothing budged, and so he plunged in.

The passageway was a narrow cleft between the towering rocks. It was lit well enough from the sun overhead, but shadows gathered and seemed to move at the base of the pillars. The passage twisted and turned, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Porfirio was nowhere to be seen, but as there had been no branches off of the path, he still had to be somewhere ahead.

A small spiral staircase built of flat rocks took Deke to a second level within the structure. He had no idea how far into it he was, his sense of direction tangled by the tortuous path. The walls were smoother now, large slabs of stone that looked far too heavy for even Porfirio to lift. They were a reddish sandstone, their colors seeming almost liquid in the shadowed light.

Step, turn, twist. Long minutes had passed without a sign of Porfirio. Deke was starting to question whether he’d missed a turning after all. The sandstone slabs in the walls were interspersed with enormous white pillars embedded in between the slabs now, great towering structures as broad as Deke’s waist that looked like nothing so much as tremendous bones. The red in the walls had deepened. The floor was slightly sticky underfoot. Deke looked down, but saw nothing but darkness. He could barely make out the shapes of his own feet.

“Porfirio!” Deke called again. In the narrow confines of the rock, he expected his shout to ring in his ears, but instead there was no echo at all. It was as if he were in the middle of an endless void, with nothing anywhere to hear his voice. Deke touched a wall for reassurance, and found it warm and slightly yielding to his touch. His fingers came away sticky and red.

Up ahead, the path split at last. Deke paused at the three options, unsure which one to take. He started down the leftmost, only to hear a strange squelching sound from ahead.

“Porfirio?” he called, drawing his gun from its holster. Again, his voice returned no echo. Deke stepped cautiously forward, gun at the ready.

Four steps took him to the next twist in the passageway, where he was hit by a stench intense enough to make his eyes water. Through the haze of tears he saw some sort of white, dog-sized creature rearing up at him from the ground. He staggered back a step, thumping his back into the semisoft wall, and the creature advanced. Deke fired two shots at it and was rewarded with a squeal and a thud.

Wiping away the tears and covering his nose and mouth with his hand, Deke knelt to examine the thing he had shot. His bullets had torn through it like soft cheese, splattering the walls with a pulpy white mass. The creature itself appeared to be some manner of grub, only grown to incredible size. Deke had never seen anything like it. The smell, however, reminded him of the rot that had festered inside Ol’ Sal. Deke wiped his hands on his pants, spat on the ground, and turned back to try another path. It seemed unlikely that Porfirio had simply stepped over this thing.

The next option Deke tried also had a grub, but this one was dead, its body split open from where it had been kicked into the wall. Deke covered his mouth again and hurried past, glad to be on the right track again. He had lost track of both distance and time, but it felt as if he had been in here for half an hour or more. He glanced up to see where the sun stood in the sky, only to realize that the walls now closed together in a vaulted ceiling overhead. The light within was unchanged, seemingly coming from the walls themselves. The sandstone was redder than ever, its swirled patterns standing out against the stark white pillars still appearing at regular intervals.

Up ahead, the path forked again, but this time one wall was marked with a smear of lumpy white pulp from a grub. No dead grub was visible nearby, so Deke assumed that Porfirio was simply carrying a handful of that with him. He imagined the smell and nearly gagged. A man might never get that stench off of his hands.

Deke followed the path, dependent entirely on his unseen leader. At one point he had thought to turn back, and had retreated to the previous junction only to discover that he did not know which tunnel he’d come from. Deke pictured being lost in here among the endless red walls, day and night unchanging, eating rot grubs to survive. His stomach lurched, and he turned back to follow Porfirio again.

For miles, the path seemed to stretch on. Deke simply followed, eyes alert, hand on his gun. The red walls were soft enough to yield to a finger’s touch now, bending like a thick sheet of rubber. Even with his knife, though, Deke couldn’t manage to make a scratch, and the white pillars were as hard as any granite. From deep within the walls, however, Deke could hear a slow grinding noise, a steady chewing. He did his best to shut his ears against it.

Without warning, the path opened up into a large, dimly-lit chamber. Deke couldn’t make out the ceiling or the far wall, but he could see in front of him clearly enough. The main feature of the chamber that Deke could make out was a pair of pits carved into one of the walls, a dozen yards ahead on the left. One was packed full of the oversized grubs, a restless, squirming pile of them which seemed about to spill out onto the floor. The other was a smooth, inky black, flat like a mirror.

Porfirio stood in front of the pit with the inset black disc, staring at his dark reflection. Deke hesitantly approached him.

“So,” he said. “I came all this way with you. Want to tell me what I’m looking at?”

Porfirio looked at Deke intently, then reached out and placed his hand against the blackness. The disc bulged slightly, and then suddenly Deke was staring at Father McCaig, as close as if he’d been sitting in the first pew at church. The padre was in the middle of a sermon, his face red and the scars around his eyepatch burning as he preached.

“‘But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect! And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain, “Why art thou wroth? Why is thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well: sin lieth at the door!”’

“Wonder not to whom I speak, Deke Dambacher!” Father McCaig thundered. Deke started, hand twitching for his gun. “I speak to you, for though you be distant, I know ye be listening. All is revealed to me now. All!”

Father McCaig reached up a hand and tore away his eyepatch with a flourish, revealing that horrible, marred hole where his eye had been, and the terrible word carved into his flesh. As if to make sure that Deke could not avoid it, the picture zoomed in, allowing Father McCaig’s ruined eye to fill the entire disc. Its pustulent streaks and tarry ichor loomed large in the cavern, and Deke stumbled backward as the eye enlarged.

Porfirio, however, reached out and into the picture itself, his hand reaching into Father McCaig’s magnified eye to scoop out a thick handful of the black tar. Father McCaig roared, a booming sound that shook the cavern, and then the picture went black, the disc returning to a dim, featureless mirror.

Porfirio advanced on Deke, his hand dripping with black ooze.

“Oh, no,” said Deke, backing away. “You keep that away from me. I don’t need no part of that.”

Still Porfirio came, closing the distance with large strides, and Deke pulled out his knife.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Porfirio, but I ain’t letting you touch me with that.”

Deke held the knife in front of him, and when Porfirio stepped into range, lashed out. He intended to score a hit down the outside of his forearm, a cut designed to hurt, not to damage. But Porfirio stepped into it, grabbing Deke by the upper arm and causing the knife to stab him in his side.

Deke felt it glance off of Porfirio’s rib and winced, trying to pull the knife free. Porfirio clamped down on his arm and held him in place, making it bite in deeper. With his other hand, he reached out and smeared the black goo from Father McCaig’s eye across Deke’s face, slathering it across both of his eyes.

“Hell! Get it off!” Deke cursed, staggering away as Porfirio released him. He reached up to wipe his face clean, only to feel his wrists seized in two giant hands. “Let go of me, you big damn idiot!”

Deke opened his eyes to aim a kick at Porfirio, but what he saw froze him in his tracks. Were it not for the winestain birthmark covering what remained of his face, the man in front of Deke would have been unrecognizable. Half of his face was missing, all the way down to the bone underneath. The eye sat loosely in its bony socket, staring unblinking at Deke.

The rest of his body was no better. Skin, muscle, even organs were gone, ripped away in large chunks. At his feet sat a large wolf, its muzzle buried in the calf muscle of Porfirio’s right leg. It tore it away as Deke watched, blood spurting to cover the wolf’s face. Ice-blue eyes locked with his above a bloody grin, and Deke recognized the eyes of the grey-suited man from the park.

If any of this hurt Porfirio, he gave no sign. His skeletal hands still held all of his usual strength, and he dragged Deke across the floor. Deke followed numbly, unresisting, trying to piece together what he was looking at.

Before he could find the words to ask the question, Porfirio pushed him through the black disc, and Deke fell into darkness.


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Memories

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Behind Porfirio, the ground shimmered in the rising heat. For a moment, the scrubland behind him disappeared in a mirage, replaced by the fleeting image of a dark, still lake. Its vivid appearance brought a memory to the surface of Deke’s mind unbidden.

In the memory, Deke stood on a path in a well-manicured park, a place of solitude and tranquility. It was a cool and peaceful day. Puffy white clouds drifted languidly across the sky. Lush grass grew on either side of the path, a thick green carpet completely unlike anything in the desert. It stretched down a gentle hill on each side of the path, leading to a pair of lakes.

Each lake was alive with fish, tiny darting shadows flitting briefly in and out of view. In one lake, the fish were silver, their scales bright enough that they reflected the sun back in sudden glints when they came close enough to the surface. In the other, every fish was black. Their subtle shapes were harder to see in the murky waters, but they were no less lively for that.

As Deke had stood there watching the fish, a man in a neatly tailored grey suit had approached him. The man’s poise and bearing spoke of an easy confidence learned through years of practice. His smile was open and friendly, his manner warm. Everything about him was welcoming. Deke liked him immediately, and trusted him not at all. He recognized too many of his own attitudes in this stranger.

“Hail, fellow,” the man had said, a smile resting lightly on his lips. “Fellow artist.”

Deke had raised an eyebrow, and the man had shrugged. “Artisan, if you prefer. We know our own.”

They had looked at the lakes in silence for a while before the grey-suited man spoke again. “Amazing that they can contain so much life, is it not? And so much more beneath the surface, so many we’ll never see.”

He had paused reflectively before continuing, “And yet—every one is the same. Seems almost a shame, does it not? No variety, not truly.”

Deke had noticed then that the man carried with him a metal pail filled with water. Inside it was a jet-black fish twice the size of Deke’s hand, swimming in slow circles. Its body curved to avoid the edges of the bucket, but even so its fins and tail regularly bumped up against the sides. The container was far too small for it, and Deke had felt an urge to seize it from the man and release the fish into the lake.

Instead, he had asked, “You get that from that lake over there?”

“No,” the man had said, surprise tingeing his tone. “Rather the other way around, in fact.”

“You saying that the lake got the fish from you?”

“Indeed, but there are more interesting questions to be asked here.” The man had cast his gaze up and down the path, as if searching for someone. Finding no one, he had shrugged.

“Well, let us force the issue.” The grey-suited man had indicated the lake full of silvery fish with a tilt of his head and a slight heft of his bucket. “Do you mind?”

“Ain’t my lake.”

“You’d be surprised.” With that enigmatic statement, the grey-suited man had stepped lightly down the hill, heading for the lake. He had closed to within a half-dozen feet and was lifting the bucket to dump it in, when a sudden turmoil in the water caused him to stop.

Silver fish had scattered in every direction as Porfirio strode forth from beneath the lake, water cascading off of him. He had come to a halt before the grey-suited man, his body a physical barrier separating the man from the lake.

“Porfirio,” the man had said pleasantly. “Or did I leave you even that? No matter. We all must be called something.”

Porfirio had simply stood unmoving, giving no sign that he had even heard the grey-suited man.

“I wasn’t going to trade him, you know,” the man continued. “We made no deal. He would have gotten this for free.”

The grey-suited man had twisted around then, calling back out to Deke, “You still could! Would you like this?”

He indicated the bucket again, and added, “It’s a simple thing, this one: knowledge of how you survive Cerro Muerte. I can give it to you. Free of charge.”

Deke had shaken his head slowly. “In my experience, there’s nothing that costs more than a stranger’s free gift.”

The man’s smile had slowly expanded, revealing sharp white teeth that seemed to stretch farther back into his mouth than they should. For a moment, though nothing obvious changed, he had looked more wolf than man.

“You would know, fellow artist. Fare thee well.”

Still smiling, he had turned his back on Deke and Porfirio and walked away, bucket swinging at his side. Deke watched him until he disappeared into the forest surrounding the park. As the man had entered the wooded area, Deke swore he saw him drop to all fours, but between the distance and the shadows he couldn’t be sure.

Deke had turned back to find Porfirio sitting on the far side of the path, looking down at the lake filled with black fish. He had felt he should say something, but was unusually at a loss for words. So instead he had simply taken a seat next to him, and together they had quietly watched the dark fish trace patterns in the water.

Deke shook himself, scattering the memory. He still stood sweating in the heat with Porfirio, not sitting on a hill by a calm lake. Around them was scrubland, not manicured grass and carefully arranged paths. And above him still loomed the earthen monstrosity whose shape he could not quite fix in his mind. He was not at the park, no matter how vividly he recalled it.

In fact—had he ever truly been at the park? He could not recall where it was located, how he had gotten there, or what he had done after. It was a disconnected moment in time, unattached to the rest of his life. And surely impossible, for he had only met Porfirio after arriving in Rosin’s Hollow. None of it made sense.

An image from the park briefly resurfaced in his mind: the lake full of silver fish. And in between them, almost unnoticed among their glinting scales, a single tiny black fish swimming with the school, pretending to be one of them.

“Porfirio,” Deke said. “The park. Was that—were you there?”

If Porfirio was listening, he gave no sign. He was turned partially away from Deke, staring up at the monolith before them. He seemed to be waiting for something.

And then, without warning, Porfirio stepped forward, closing the final distance between them and the towering rock edifice. He walked to its edge and then into it, disappearing into a previously hidden crevice between its stones.

“Porfirio! Porfirio, hey!” called Deke. There was no reply.

Deke hesitated, cursed himself and followed Porfirio inside.


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Snares

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Morning brought no clarity with it. Deke awoke late and came downstairs to find Miz Blaumer in the kitchen of the boarding house, carrying on a one-sided conversation with Porfirio.

“Morning, Miz Blaumer.” He nodded to Porfirio. “Morning.”

“Morning, Deke!” Miz Blaumer chirped in response, setting a bowl of porridge in front of him. Porfirio simply stared at him, blinking slowly, before finally nodding back.

“How was your walk with Father McCaig yesterday?”

“Unprofitable, ma’am.” Deke spooned porridge into his mouth, thinking about the spreads of foods that usually graced the table of the boarding house. Time was not on their side.

“That’s a shame.” Despite her words, Miz Blaumer did not seem overly bothered by the news. “I’m sure we’ll figure this out soon.”

“I can’t imagine you and Will have much left in the way of supplies, keeping a town fed and watered. Even a small town.”

“Will?” asked Miz Blaumer.

“Yeah, Will Long. Bartender over at the saloon?”

“Of course! Sorry, I was just—” Her brow knitted, confusion clear on her face. “I misheard you, sorry. Well, we’ll make do. Won’t be the first time we’ve had lean times because the wagon was late.”

“But it’s—” Deke stopped himself. Miz Blaumer knew the situation. If telling herself that the wagon was simply late was how she was dealing with it, then so be it. “I believe I’ll head out to set some snares today, see what I can do to supplement our supplies.”

“Is your arm up to that?”

“Just about healed, ma’am.”

“Oh, good. Taylor will be excited to have you up at the mine.”

“Pardon?” Something in her turn of phrase made Deke’s neck prickle.

“Well, I’m sure you’re as keen as everyone else about getting your share of the silver!”

“I tell you, when that road opens up, I may sell my shares and skedaddle.”

Miz Blaumer tsked her tongue. “I think your boy’s got the fever. You may not be able to take him away from the mine.”

“Maybe I’ll sell my shares to him, then. Be like getting his inheritance early.”

“An inheritance that he has to pay for?”

“We all pay for our inheritances one way or another, Miz Blaumer.”

She laughed. “I suppose we do at that, Deke.”

Deke stood up from the bar and stretched briefly. “Lovely as it is chit-chatting with you, those rabbits ain’t gonna catch themselves. And though I have no complaints about your porridge, I’m not disposed to have it for three meals a day.”

“Things aren’t as bad as all that.”

“Glad to hear it, ma’am. I’ll do my part to keep them that way.”

Deke retreated to his room and packed his knapsack with rope, spade, pegs and other trapmaking supplies. He felt an urge to bring the blank book along with him as well, but could think of no reason why he might need it.

Obey pulsed briefly in his mind, and Deke shook his head vigorously, like a dog drying off.

“See, and this is exactly why I ain’t bringing the book,” he told the empty room. “I got a strong suspicion that I ain’t the one doing the wanting here.”

He turned his back on the room and resolutely tromped down the stairs, stopping uncertainly near the bottom when he saw Porfirio standing motionless by the front door.

“Everything okay?” Deke asked. “Uh, que pasa?”

Porfirio gave no response, merely continued to wait.

“All right. Well, I’m out to set snares. Meat? Carne?” Deke made motions toward his mouth with an invisible fork, then stopped, feeling ridiculous. “Well, you’ll get it when you see it tonight.”

He reached past Porfirio to open the door. As soon as the door was open, Porfirio lumbered out onto the porch, ducking his head to avoid the doorframe on the way. Once on the porch, he stopped again, waiting for Deke to catch up. He and Deke walked down the porch stairs together, setting off down the road in sync.

“Oh, you’re coming along?” Deke asked. “Glad for the company, I suppose.”

Porfirio said nothing, and Deke added, “Such as it is.”

The two traveled in silence to the outskirts of town, where Deke knelt to set his first snare. No sooner had he unslung his knapsack, though, then he felt a large hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Porfirio shaking his head.

“No?” Deke asked.

In response, Porfirio pointed, stretching his hand out into the desert.

“Sure, you may know something I don’t,” Deke said. “Let’s try it your way.”

They set off again, Porfirio slightly in the lead. Though there was no visible path or trail, something had been this way before. Deke noted broken branches on the scrub, torn clumps of grass where something heavy had uprooted them.

It wasn’t until he saw the rust-colored smear on a white, flat rock that Deke realized what path they were following.

“Hell, is this where you took the mule? No thanks. I like my meat a fair sight fresher than that.”

Deke turned to head back to town, but as he did Porfirio’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Deke attempted to tug free, but it was like trying to move the mountain itself. Porfirio simply waited, implacable, until Deke gave up.

“So we’re going to see Ol’ Sal, huh? Guess I don’t get a whole lotta say in the matter.”

Porfirio released his wrist once Deke was moving in the correct direction again. Deke thought about bolting for freedom, but didn’t fancy the idea of being tackled by the giant if Porfirio decided to give chase. Deke had his knife on one hip and his gun on the other, of course, but so far the most threatening thing Porfirio had done was hold him in place. Hardly a killing offense.

So the two men trudged out into the desert, following the trail of a dead mule. The sun beat down on them and made the sands dance with waves of heat. The landscape seemed to ripple, giving their trek an otherworldly quality.

After walking for at least an hour, Deke spotted something rising out of the sands ahead of them. It was some sort of rock formation, but the heat distortion made it impossible to make out clearly.

“Is this it? Is this what you wanted me to see?”

Porfirio continued walking, not even acknowledging the question. Deke shrugged and kept pace. The rock formation was still a quarter-mile away or more. He assumed that things would become clearer as they approached.

A half-mile later, Deke realized that the formation was much larger than he had at first thought. It towered above the surrounding landscape, its details still wavering in the baking heat put off by the ground. Deke thought that they might still have as much as another quarter-mile to go, too, though he was no longer certain of his ability to judge the distance to the monolith.

Eventually, the two men stood at its base, staring up at the incredible structure. It was not in any way natural. It had clearly been intentionally built, not naturally formed. Even though Deke was close enough to reach out and touch it, its details still somehow eluded him, skittering across the surface of his mind like cakes on a greased griddle.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice hushed and reverent.

Porfirio opened his mouth, his throat twisting around strange syllables. “Know.”


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The Congregation

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Father McCaig left his hand on Deke’s shoulder as they walked, a move presumably intended to provide both guidance and comfort. It was hard-pressed to do either, though, as more and more footsteps joined the first that Deke had heard.

At first, Deke attempted to count the number of those behind him by listening to the footsteps, but they followed no pattern with which he was familiar. Both he and Father McCaig walked with a regular tump, tump beat, but the noises coming from behind them sounded nothing like that. The ones that Deke’s practiced ear could pick out included a rapid tump tump tump followed by a pause, a steady tik tik tik tik like marbles bouncing off of each other, and a continuous soft swishishishish. There were many more, their quiet sounds joining together and echoing off of the rock wall until even though Deke could see the clear path ahead, it sounded as though they were completely surrounding him.

Deke’s neck prickled, but Father McCaig’s gentle grip kept him facing forward. After a short while, the padre began to speak.

“‘And all the congregation of the children of Israel journeyed from the wilderness of Sin, after their journeys, according to the commandment of the Lord. And there was no water for the people to drink.’

“‘Wherefore the people did chide with Moses and said, give us water that we may drink. And Moses said unto them, why chide ye with me? Wherefore do ye tempt the Lord?’

“We are all of us in the wilderness of sin, all of us thirsting for that water of truth and knowledge and salvation. But in our error, we feel that we can demand it, that we can earn it. This water, this life-giving truth, is not a thing to be found by man, but a gift to be given by the divine. We cannot deserve it. We can only humble ourselves and hope to be given it, if the Almighty believes it right.”

Not a thing to be found by man, Deke thought. But what about by whatever follows us?

“We are all of us mortal,” Father McCaig intoned, his voice booming off the rocks. “We are all children of the Lord, seeking his grace and mercy. Though we be imperfect in form, still were we made in the image of the Lord. Still he loves us. There is a way out of this wilderness, out of the mountain that surrounds us and the sin that envelops us. That way is Jesus, for did he not say ‘Where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know’?”

A mutter arose from the following crowd, but whether it was of agreement or censure Deke could not say.

“Father,” he murmured, his tone low enough to carry only to the priest next to him. “Don’t you think you ought to know what you’re preaching to, to make sure they’re getting the message right?”

“There is no message but the Truth,” the padre declared, his voice echoing. “And the Truth needs no modification to be received. ‘Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’

“Jesus!” he barked, his volume increasing to nearly-painful levels. “Jesus is our savior! ‘At the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord!’ Obey!”

The last word left his mouth as a physical force, a wave of compulsion that Deke felt wash over him. As the word traveled, the path ahead of them changed without moving, bending in subtle and impossible ways. Nothing was altered as the word rolled over the landscape, except that it was no longer the same. Deke tried to find the words to describe it and failed. Somehow in that moment the twisting path had been recreated just as it had always been, while retaining none of the characteristics it had always had.

“Is that—” Deke began, but Father McCaig squeezed his shoulder and Deke quieted. Behind them, the sounds of the congregation began to fade away, dissipating by ones and twos. There had been no branches to the path, yet still the followers split off until none remained.

At last, Father McCaig removed his hand from Deke’s shoulder, and Deke looked back. The trail behind them was empty, the rock wall unbroken.

“Was that it, Father?” Deke asked, his voice hushed.

Father McCaig shook his head. “Not yet. On the day my faith is rewarded, my congregation will remain. We will leave this wilderness together, and the path will be opened for all.”

“But the path—”

“Is altered, as it is every day I walk it. Satan lays his tricks thickly here, and though I wield the words of God, I do so imperfectly, as a mere man. It will take time and trials to overcome.”

“Father—these words. How can…” The feeling of Obey burned like a brand in Deke’s mind, its painful demand pulsing. Nothing about it felt holy.

“How can I be sure they’re God’s words, you mean?”

Deke nodded.

“He has given me the sight to see them truly. For even in my weakness he has restored me, made me more than I was that I might serve him better. Behold!”

Father McCaig pulled aside the patch covering his ruined right eye. Deke, expecting a closed lid or maybe a milky orb, recoiled. The priest’s eyepatch covered an empty hollow torn into his face, a tarry hole which stretched to a concerning depth. Its edges were red and raw, its sides lined with a thick black sludge shot through with yellowish-white streaks. It throbbed and oozed like a heart turned inside out.

And yet all of that faded into insignificance compared to what surrounded it. Slashed into Father McCaig’s flesh was a symbol, another word unfamiliar yet instantly understood.

Reveal, it said, a baleful razor-edged eye rooting through Deke’s thoughts. Deke cowered away from it, knowing even as he did so that there was nowhere to hide, nothing it could not see.

An eternity elapsed beneath its gaze before Father McCaig settled the eyepatch back into place. Nothing could remove the knowledge that the symbol was there, but without it directly before him Deke found himself able to move forward again.

After a scattered moment, he found his voice. “Fath—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed and started again.

“Father, how can you be sure—?”

He trailed off, but Father McCaig understood his meaning. “With this, I can see all that is hidden. It is a tool for revealing evil, for finding the true nature of things. Surely such a power could only come from God. I have faith that it is so!”

Madness burned fervently in his remaining eye. Deke was far from convinced, but said nothing—knowing even as he remained silent that it did not matter. Father McCaig knew what was in his head.

The day wore on into evening before a turn of the path brought the two men down a slope and back to Rosin’s Hollow. Deke’s shoulders sagged, but the padre appeared undaunted.

“Tomorrow I try again,” he said, clapping Deke on the shoulder. “Will you join me?”

“Perhaps, Father,” said Deke, meaning no.

Father McCaig smiled. “Doesn’t take the eye of God to see what you mean there. Not to worry, boyo. You’ll find your path.”

As Deke turned toward the boarding house, the priest continued walking.

“Not joining us for supper, Padre?” Deke asked.

“I have some business at the church! I’ll make do tonight.”

While taking off his boots, Deke thought back over the day. Although the journey had been long and taxing, he had not seen Father McCaig eat so much as a bite of food on the way. Nor take a drink of water, come to think of it.

Deke’s own throat was parched, so he simply filed this information away until he knew what to do with it and headed into the boarding house for some much-needed food and rest.


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Wilderness

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“I’m glad for your company today, Deke. Your arm’s improved, then?” Father McCaig walked with an easy stride, the kind designed to be maintained all day. Deke marveled again at the man’s rapid weight loss. In the last week, the padre had easily dropped fifty pounds or more. He had been a hefty man, and certainly the amount of walking he was doing would take the pounds off, but that much that quickly was worrisome. Deke’s previous attempts to address it had been shrugged off, though, and so he did not bring it up today.

“Better’n it was, for sure. Ain’t staining the bandages yellow no more. Not much, anyway.” He flexed the affected arm, feeling the bite where his muscles were only just beginning to knit back together. It would take significant time and effort before it was back to full strength, but the arm  was at least functional now.

“This is, in any case, a day for legs,” Father McCaig said. “Unless you were planning on attempting another climb?”

“Can’t say as how that worked out well for either of us last time, padre. I believe I’ll stick to the path today, such as it is.”

“Perhaps a second set of eyes can reveal the true way.”

“A second set, padre?” Deke cast a glance at the priest’s eyepatch.

Father McCaig smiled. “As you like. I see more than you’d think. But the path still twists beneath me, leading me back here every day.”

“Why do you still walk it?”

“It’s what I’m meant to be doing, boyo. I cannot yet understand it, but I hope to in time.”

The two men entered the narrow cleft that marked the start of the path out of Rosin’s Hollow. A large eyeball was drawn onto one of the rock faces, staring down at them.

“That’s new,” remarked Deke.

“Aye, it’s been there since I lost my own.” The priest seemed unperturbed by it.

“Father, it don’t disturb you that manmade things are appearing where no man put them?”

“No man, perhaps,” Father McCaig replied cryptically.

“But—”

“Deke, m’boy,” the priest said, turning to look at him as they walked, “you are a liar. I don’t say that to cause offense. It’s just a fact. It doesn’t bother me; we are none of us perfect, and we need Jesus to redeem us all.

“But a liar expects to be lied to. So when you see something you cannot explain, you assume that there is man’s agency in it. You look for the person behind the trick.”

“And you’re saying this ain’t a trick?”

“I’m saying, Deke, no person is behind it. Observe the ground.”

Deke did as he was instructed. At first he saw nothing in particular in the earthen path, just stones, sand and small, struggling plants. The occasional footprint was visible from where Father McCaig had passed before, as well as the prints of some sort of hoofed animal.

Deke frowned. He could think of no animal on Cerro Muerte that had hooves like that. There simply wasn’t enough vegetation to sustain any sort of wild herd. Looking closer at the ground, Deke saw other, stranger prints as well. Three-toed tracks like from a bird, but the tracks were almost the size of Deke’s own boot. The bird that left those would have to be ostrich-sized or larger. There were dots like someone had been walking with a cane, but there was never a footprint near the dot. Some parts of the path looked to have been brushed, as if something heavy had been dragged across it and swept it clean.

“You see them, then? I do not walk alone out here.”

“What are they, Father?”

“I do not look upon them. They are my congregation, and that is enough. They follow me and I preach to them. They are lost, just as we are. My hope is that if I can save them, my job will be done and I’ll find the way to Contrition at last.”

“You don’t look at them?”

“I’m only human, m’lad. I think it would disturb me to see what follows while I walk out here. So I keep me eyes forward and my voice strong, and I do not think about what my congregation of the lost might look like.”

The symbol Obey throbbed down at them from a rock wall, demanding their attention. Father McCaig made the sign of the cross and continued walking, but Deke drew slowly to a stop.

“A minute, padre.”

Deke unshouldered his knapsack and withdrew the blank book he’d found hidden in Taylor’s trunk. Although he’d replaced it yesterday, this morning he had found himself again drawn to the book, thumbing through it as if he had missed meaning in its blank pages. Finding nothing again, he had put it back where it came from—or so he had believed until he had been placing water bottles in his knapsack for the day’s trip, and had spied the book tucked into his own bag. With Taylor right there chatting with them, there had been no way or time to return the book to where it belonged, and so Deke had simply closed his bag again and said nothing.

Deke had not forgotten the Obey glyph, though he had been trying hard to do so. He could have drawn its sinuous, sinister form blindfolded. Seeing it here on the rock wall reinforced its power in his mind, refreshing its demands. But just as Deke knew what the symbol meant without knowing how he knew, so too did he know that that symbol belonged in the blank book. The book should have been full of that language. Instead, it was blank and the words were at large, twisting the world.

With the steadiness and precision of a forger’s hand, Deke opened the book to the first page and began to draw the symbol. But though his hand was firm and his lines were clear, before his eyes they faded away. The lead beaded up on the paper like ink, running down the page to vanish in a puff of dust as it reached the edge. Deke tried again on a new page, with the same result. Any stray marks he made stayed on the paper, smudging slightly if he rubbed his finger across them. Any lines that should have been part of the symbol, though, refused to adhere.

“It seems it’s not yours to have, boyo.” Father McCaig stood a short distance away, watching the process.

“Never seen a drawing with an opinion before,” Deke muttered, putting the book away. “I swear it belongs in there.”

“Perhaps. But it must serve a greater purpose by being out.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If it did not, you would surely be able to draw it like anything else.”

“Faith again, Father?”

“Always faith.”

A footfall sounded on a rock behind them, and Deke started to turn. The priest grabbed his shoulder, keeping him facing forward as they walked. “Do not look! My congregation approaches.”


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Containment

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Ray woke reluctantly from a dreamless sleep, roused by the pressing need in his bladder. He briefly considered rolling over and ignoring it, but even the slight shifting of his weight as he thought about that intensified nature’s insistent call.

Resentfully Ray sat up and swung his feet over the side of his bed. He groaned aloud as he did so, every muscle aching. His legs throbbed as they took his weight, his arms complained as he pushed off of the bed to stand, and his back spasmed briefly as he found his balance.

“Day I get that silver, I’m never working again,” Ray mumbled as he pulled on his boots. “Get me one of them beds on poles, hire people to carry me around.”

Ray stepped out the front door, nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces, and relieved himself against the side of the house. He sighed in satisfaction as his bladder emptied. The puddle gleamed darkly in the night, the dry ground drinking it in.

From the main part of town, Ray could hear music, chatter and occasional bursts of laughter. He looked in that direction to see light spilling out of the saloon’s windows, a beacon in the night.

“Piss on you, too,” said Ray, buttoning his fly. He laughed at his own joke.

As Ray made his way back inside, he glanced up at the sky, trying to determine what time it was. The stars spilled across the sky, gleaming against the pitch black background. There was not yet any hint of morning’s light.

“Idiots’ll probably be at it until the sun rises,” Ray muttered, shutting his door. “Drinking and playing cards even though they all got too drunk to play proper hours back—”

He stopped as a thought occurred to him. They probably were all too drunk to play properly. He, on the other hand, had just had a full night’s rest—or most of one, at least—and hadn’t had anything to drink all day. This was the perfect time to go win back his money.

MInutes later, Ray ambled through the saloon’s doors. A table full of familiar faces looked up as he entered.

“Evening, Ray,” said one. “Come to give us your new takings from the mine?”

The others laughed. Ray gritted his teeth in a smile.

“I suppose we’ll see about that,” he said, eyeing the collection of drained glasses on their table. “Deal me in.”

“Not that we don’t trust you, Ray, but: cash on the table.”

They made room for Ray as he pulled up a chair, clearing table space in front of him. He shook out a small leather pouch, scooping the rocks that tumbled out into a small pile.

“That’s all you got? Gravel and tailings?”

“It’s enough,” said Ray, grinding his teeth. “Don’t you worry. You’re never going to win it anyhow.”

That earned a laugh from the assemblage. Ray pushed a small silver chip into the center pot, the dealer passed out the cards, and the game began.

Ray’s assessment of their likely level of drunkenness had been correct. Within an hour, only one of the original players was still in. The other four had been knocked out one at a time, their reserves whittled away by incautious plays and sloppily concealed expressions. Ray and his opponent regarded each other warily over their accumulated wealth, trying to suss out what cards the other held.

Ray’s own hand was middling at best. He held two pair, sixes and queens. It was adequate, but far from a guaranteed win. He studied the man across the table, trying to read his cards in his eyes, but the man’s face gave nothing away.

A round of betting bought Ray another card, but the nine he received didn’t change his fortunes at all. He glanced down at the pot to gauge how much he would lose by folding now, when a flicker of motion at the edge of the table caught his eye. One of the washed-out players seemed to be moving something beneath the edge of the table, out of Ray’s line of sight.

“What’re you doing there?” Ray demanded. The man looked up guiltily, the very picture of someone caught in the act.

“Nothing, Ray. Just watching. You’re on a real winning streak tonight.”

“Stand up,” Ray ordered.

“What?”

“Stand up.” Ray pushed back from the table, standing up himself. “What’ve you got in your lap?”

“Nothing, I swear it.” The man stood, his hands rising nervously to the table to push his chair back. Concealed in the motion was a subtle flick of the fingers across his leg, so slight that Ray barely saw it. Ray dropped to one knee in time to see a card flutter to the floor beneath the table, landing face up to display its single central spade.

“You dirty cheat!” roared Ray. “Passing him cards?”

He rose from the ground in a rush, shouldering past the table to tackle the offender. Ray’s shoulder caught the man in the gut and he went down heavily, the chair splintering beneath their combined weight. His head cracked against the rough wood of the saloon floor and Ray followed it up with several wild swinging punches to the jaw before someone caught his arm.

“Get offa him, Ray. He ain’t—”

Ray spun and struck upwards with a punishing uppercut, clacking the man’s jaw shut halfway through his sentence and rocking his head backwards. He staggered backwards, releasing Ray’s arm, and Ray regained his feet as the other three men closed in.

Ray gave them no opportunity to gang up on him. Seizing a glass from the table, he flung it into the face of one attacker, shattering it against his forehead. He followed that up with a kick to the gut and a haymaker to the side of the face, sending the man sprawling to the floor.

Punches were raining down on Ray from both sides now, hard fists slamming into his  sides, but he barely felt them. He grabbed one of the men by both ears and smashed his face into the table. Glasses broke and coins leapt into the air like startled rabbits, rolling off the edge of the table as if they were looking for places to hide.

The last man standing was the one who had still been in the card game. “Dirty cheat,” Ray growled, eyeballing him as he looked for an opening.

“This ain’t on me,” he protested. “I didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Wasn’t gonna stop you taking the card, though, was it?”

The man shrugged, then lunged for Ray. Ray stepped backward to avoid him, but his untied shoelaces caught under his own bootheel and Ray’s step turned into an awkward tumble.

As Ray fell, he had a momentary glimpse of the surprised expression on the bloodied face of the man who’d sneaked up behind him with a chair, swinging it at where Ray’s head would have been if he hadn’t fallen. The man tried desperately to arrest the chair’s momentum, but to no avail. It completed its swing directly in the face of Ray’s charging opponent, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Cheats,” Ray snarled. “All of you, cheats!”

His would-be assailant turned to run, but Ray leapt onto him, thrashing with fists and elbows as he bore him to the ground. The man lay still and Ray clambered to his feet, delivering one last kick to his side for good measure. He looked around, but everyone was on the ground groaning.

Behind the bar, Will looked on, ostentatiously cleaning a glass. Ray locked eyes with the bartender, daring him to say something.

Will shrugged. “Can’t have cheats in my bar.”

Ray grinned. The fight had invigorated him, and the thrill of victory filled his veins. He felt strong, ready to take on another half-dozen men if they came at him.

Taylor’s words from yesterday popped into Ray’s head. You want to wait until you’re feeling great, real flush with life. That’s when you want to mark it on. It’ll keep that feeling in you then, keep it in your bones. I ain’t had a bad day since I got this on my arm.

“I could use a few more good days,” Ray said aloud. He sat down, picked up a chunk of shattered glass from the floor and hitched up his left pant leg. With quick, precise strokes, he drew Contain into his calf, the glass biting deeply into his flesh. Blood ran freely at first, then slowed as he completely the symbol’s interlocking lines. It pooled then, some unseen force trapping the vital liquid within the edges of the wound. When Ray touched his hand to it, his fingers came away smeared with red, but the blood no longer ran down his leg of its own accord.

“Sorry about the mess, Will,” Ray said, pulling his pant leg back down as he rose to his feet.

“Split that pot with me and we’ll call it even,” Will said. If he had seen Ray carving into his own flesh, he said nothing about it.

Ray scowled, eyeing the money. “Clear my tab, too.”

Will nodded. Ray scooped up a bit more than half of the money, figuring that Will could find the coins and silver that had rolled free to make up any difference. He stuffed his pockets, tipped an imaginary hat to Will and walked out into the night to make his way home. The stars had dimmed slightly, the first light of false dawn starting to lighten the backdrop behind them.

Far out in the desert, Porfirio worked tirelessly, piling rocks together in a cairn of ever-increasing size. He continued without pause even when the landscape around him momentarily rippled, a pulse of power echoing through reality as Ray and Elmer, unbeknownst to either one, had simultaneously etched Contain into their bodies. Porfirio noticed the motion, but did not cease his labors. If anything, he worked faster. Time was growing short.


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Progression

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At the end of the day, the three men convened again outside of the mine. The differences between them were even more striking than they had been at lunchtime. Taylor, though sweaty and encrusted with rock dust, exited the cave with a spring in his step and his tools held lightly over his shoulder. Elmer, on the other hand, looked to be barely putting one foot in front of another. His gunnysack hung heavily across his back, slowing him still further. Envy crossed his face as he looked at Taylor standing tall in the evening sun.

Even Elmer looked fresh as a daisy compared to Ray, though. Ray slumped forth with his eyes fixed to the ground before him, too exhausted to even lift his head. He was a man in search of a bed, or any reasonably flat surface that could serve as one.

“Ray?” Elmer asked. “You still with us, feller?”

“I had it,” mumbled Ray. “I had it!”

“I know,” said Elmer soothingly. “I know.”

Ray had been convinced that they were just one well-placed blast away from exposing a large swath of the silver vein and walking out rich beyond their wildest dreams. Nothing that Elmer or Taylor said could dissuade him from planting the dynamite. They tried to counsel reason and patience, but Ray would have none of it.

“You’ll see,” he told them, nestling the dynamite into place. “You were gonna bang around at the edges, getting scraps for weeks. I’m saving you from that. We’re all going home rich tonight.”

Ray lit the fuse, and all three men vacated the area. As soon as the explosives blew, though, they knew it had gone wrong. The initial bang was followed by a long, sustained rumble, one that the miners knew meant that the blast had been anything but clean.

Ray’s face fell. “Maybe it ain’t so bad,” he offered. “There was always gonna be some rock to have to clear away.”

When they trooped back to investigate, however, the extent of the damage became clear. Ray’s blast had, as intended, sheared away part of the wall, but it had also brought down a significant section of the roof. Far from freeing the silver, it had buried it behind additional tons of fallen rock.

The three men stood in silence until Taylor broke the awkward moment.

“Well,” he said, giving his pants a hitch, “guess we’d better get to moving all of this.”

That had been long, exhausting hours ago, and the progress they had made was minimal. To his credit, Ray had worked the hardest of them all, relentlessly pushing himself onward without breaks. Despite that, it was clearly going to take days just to get back to where they had been before, possibly longer if what remained of the tunnel ceiling was no longer stable.

“It shoulda worked,” Ray muttered, bringing Elmer back to the present moment. “I had it all figured out.”

Elmer said nothing. Taylor clapped Ray on the back. “We’ll get it back. The silver’s not going anywhere without us. Go home and get some sleep now before you keel over here in the desert and end up food for the coyotes.”

Ray dragged himself away down the path, too tired to even utter a response.

“It’s sleep for me too, then,” said Elmer bitterly. “And back at it tomorrow.”

“It’ll be all right!” Taylor told him. “Don’t let this setback get you down.”

“Easy for you to say! Some of us are going home beat. We ain’t all got magic keeping us going.”

“I told you, it’s not magic. You’ll find your time to apply the symbol. Once you do, you’ll never run out of energy again. We’ll get through this cave-in in no time, especially if Ray carves his on, too.”

“Ray looks like he’s gonna have to sleep for two days just to raise his status to ‘dead.’”

“And if we don’t see him for two days, and then he shows up marked and indefatigable, that’s time well spent in my book. Can’t rush things, Elmer. Gotta let them take their own time.”

“So long as they start taking their own time a bit faster, that’s all,” muttered Elmer.

When Elmer arrived home, Cora greeted him at the door with a kiss. “Evening, Elmer! How—oh. That kind of day?”

That kind of day,” Elmer agreed glumly, dropping heavily into a chair. “Tell me you got something hearty for dinner.”

“It’s rabbit tonight, Elmer. I’ve been setting snares. It’s getting a little thin without the supply wagon, but I patched together enough for a pot of rabbit stew. It’ll keep us for a few days, at least.”

“I love you, baby,” Elmer said as Cora put a bowl of stew in front of him. “You take good care of me.”

“You only say things like that when you think I might feel like I ain’t getting enough attention. I guess you’re planning on going to bed right after this, then?”

“I’m sorry, Cora, truly I am. But I am absolutely beat. It ain’t fair to you, and I know that, but I promise you it’ll be worth it. We just gotta get through this last bit.”

Cora smiled wryly. “Sure, Elmer. We’re almost through it.”

By the time Cora was done clearing away the bowls, Elmer was in bed and snoring. She picked up his clothes from the floor by the bed and took them outside to shake off the worst of the dirt. They’d be good for another wearing yet, she reckoned, hanging them on the line to let the sweat dry.

Back inside, she glanced in the stew pot. Already lower than she’d expected, and once that was gone, there was nothing left but what they could scavenge from the mountain. Rabbit was only going to keep them going for so long with nothing else to go with it.

Still, she thought as she climbed into bed next to her snoring husband, at least we got each other. And maybe we really are almost through the worst of it.

She was awoken hours later by the feel of Elmer’s hand running down her side.

“What is it, baby?” she asked sleepily. It was still dark outside, with only the barest touch of grey starting to lighten the night.

“Nothing,” Elmer whispered. “Sorry I woke you. I was just looking at you and thinking how lucky I was.”

His hand strayed lower, producing a tingle as his fingertips brushed down her hip and across her thigh. Cora rolled over in bed to face him.

“Yeah? And how lucky are you?” she asked teasingly.

“I got you,” he said with sincerity. “That’ll do for luck.”

She kissed him, sweetly at first, then with growing passion as their bodies pressed up against each other. The sheet was tossed aside as Elmer pushed her onto her back and moved on top of her.

“Guess you got your energy back,” Cora said, running her hands across his body.

“I guess I do,” Elmer agreed. He blinked suddenly, startled, as if something had just occurred to him.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, absolutely. You stay right there. I gotta do something real fast.”

“What?” Cora sat up and looked at him in confusion.

“I ain’t gonna get you fired up and leave you unsatisfied, baby, but I gotta do this real quick. Just you lay there and think about what we’re gonna do in just a minute. I promise this won’t take no time at all.”

Cora lay back in bed, nonplussed. She heard Elmer rustling about in the small house and twisted her body to see what he was doing, but in the darkness she couldn’t make it out. She heard a hiss of pain through clenched teeth, the clatter of something metal on the counter, and cloth ripping. Then Elmer was back, tying a knot in a rough bandage around his left upper arm.

“Elmer, what was that?”

“Just something I had to do. Come on, where were we?”

“No, you can’t just do a thing like that and expect me to leave it be.” But his hands and mouth were on her body again, and hers were on his.

“You’ll tell me what that was about, Elmer Everill,” Cora whispered, biting his shoulder.

Elmer nodded fervently against her. The bandage on his arm slowly reddened, the blood seeping through in a surprisingly contained pattern, a perfect image of the eldritch symbol he had carved into the flesh beneath it.


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