BURN IN HADES (20 page)

He wiped down the desk and shined the box that rested on it. All the elbow grease he rubbed into the box made it sparkle. Inscribed on the lid were the funny words:
Fais ce que tu voudras
. He lifted the lid and found the infamous weapon Mr. Carson had used to cut down the enemies in his tales. The Colt glinted. He had thought the box would be empty.

It was a wonder the boss had left the pistol behind. It had saved his life on numerous occasions. The boss never went anywhere without it. It seemed meant to be that Charles was alone with it just then. He couldn’t resist the urge to reach inside the box. He lifted the heavy pistol.

“Charlie!” Mr. Beckwourth called from another room.

Charles dropped the gun into the box and slammed the lid shut. His body ran cold as if he had been dipped in the November pond. He had missed the boss’s arrival.

Mr. Beckwourth loomed into the study. What little hair left on the old man’s head was all white. He had defined muscles from all the hard years of back breaking work. They bulged through his riding jacket. He looked more like a fighter than a majordomo. The bowtie he was wearing didn’t make him look any softer. He was the type of man one should never cross or get nailed.

Charles stood stiff, afraid of the whipping he was about to get for being late.

“You’re supposed to bring out the coffee,” said Mr. Beckwourth. “Get a wiggle on.”

Charles hurried into the kitchen, grabbed the coffee, and carried it into the parlor. He poured coffee for the boss and the lady of the house, and then he and Mr. Beckwourth waited off to the side while the family reunited. Mr. Carson reached into his suitcase and revealed a stack of books.

“Thank you!” Kate grabbed two books and clutched them to her chest.

She was a regular blue-stocking, the type of girl who always got what she wanted but never took it for granted. She was spoiled, but not like her close-fisted schoolmate Vivian. Often, Kate secretly shared her luxuries with Charles, even when everyone else would forbid her to.

The first thing she had done when he moved in last year was read to him all her favorite books. The first book she ever read to him was her favorite:
Romeo and Juliet
. She followed him outside that day and read while he mucked the stalls. Her past behavior was the reason why her next suggestion didn’t surprise Charles as much as it did the boss and lady of the house.

“Let’s go read them together, Charlie,” said Kate, beaming a smile at him.

“I’m afraid Charlie doesn’t have time for books.” Mr. Carson sat down in his favorite chair.

Kate slammed the books on the table in front of him. “Who does have time?”

“Pardon me, young lady.”

“No one ever has time to read anymore. You’re always gone. And mother—”

“We don’t use that tone in our home, Katherine.” Mrs. Carson stepped behind the boss and rested her hand on his shoulder. She stood with shoulders back and her chin held high. “Besides, Charlie’s kind doesn’t care about such things as literature.”

Mr. Beckwourth fidgeted with his rag and tossed it over his shoulder.

“I’ve read books to Charlie before,” said Kate.

Mrs. Carson’s eyes fluttered. “Have you now?”

Kate stared down at her feet. “I’m sorry, but if not for Charlie I feel like I’m always by myself. He’s the only one here my age. I only get to spend time with Vivian in school, and even that is too much Vivian.”

“Tell me you’re not saying you enjoy Charlie’s company more than Vivian’s.”

“Is that so bad?”

Mrs. Carson stared down the bridge of her nose at Charles. Her eyes pointed at him like daggers. “It’s just improper.” She flicked her gaze away and gripped her husband’s shoulder. “Don’t you agree, Sam?”

Mr. Carson drummed his fingers on the books. “If Mr. Beckwourth says it’s alright. I don’t see why you couldn’t read to him.”

“You’re considering this?” Mrs. Carson asked him.

Mr. Carson leaned back in his favorite chair. “My horizons have broadened ever since the evolution debate in Oxford. I sat in that audience and listened to those men speak, and five months later we did a great thing and put an honest northerner in the white house. Now, those two events don’t have any direct connection, except that I see them both as a sign of greater things to come. Everything is evolving into something worthy. Why shouldn’t we?”

Kate gazed up at the majordomo with her bubbly eyes. An awkwardly crooked smiled splintered across Mr. Beckwourth’s lips. He checked his trusty pocket watch.

“Ten minutes,” he said to Charles. “I’ll ring.” He pointed to the servant bell on the wall.

Kate thanked both her father and Mr. Beckwourth and handed Charles four of the seven books. She carried the other three, and they ran upstairs together to her room where about twenty dollies sat on shelves. They both plopped down on the throw rug in front of the floor mirror that Mr. Carson had brought back from his travels months ago.

“Which one first?” she said.

“What are their names?”

She shuffled the stack. “We have
A Tale of Two Cities
by Charles Dickens.” She took it off the top of the stack sat that one to the side. “
The Lifted Veil
by George Eliot.” She sat that one down. “
The Minister’s Wooing
by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
On the Origin of Species
by Charles Darwin.
On Liberty
by John Stuart Mill.”

Charles recalled that the man in the water had been reading that last book in his study.

“And this one,” Kate continued, “is called
The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe
.”

That last title sounded the least appealing. By the title alone,
A Tale of Two Cities
and
the Lifted Veil
struck him as more interesting tales, but poems tended to be shorter works than plays and novels, and he only had about eight more minutes. He could at least read one poem before he returned to his duties.

He flipped past the Preface, the Contents, the Illustrations credits, the Memoir of Edgar Allen Poe, and landed on the first poem. The top of the page featured an illustration of a man sitting in a chamber just like the man in the water.

“This one,” he said. “Start with the Rah-vin.”

She slid next to him and her shoulder touched his. “The Raven,” she said pronouncing it correctly, but not in a way that would diminish his efforts. She was teaching him.

Some words reached out to him like a face he hadn’t seen for a long time. He recognized them on sight, but most written text was still foreign to him. Kate even stumbled over the bigger ones and he only noticed her gaffes because his understanding of written language was improving. Before, she could mask her slip ups, and he would be none the wiser, but no matter how many words tripped Kate, she always picked herself up and kept going.

He could listen to her read anything. Her melodious voice stopped time like a spell. The outside world disappeared, and he immersed himself in the chamber with the raven. He loved every word of the poem, even though he hated the raven. He wanted to shoot the bothersome creature for torturing the narrator. His eight minutes stretched for hours in his mind. Yet, it was too soon when the servant bell rang.

Chapter 10 - Lost and Found

Hate for the Raven built up in Cross’s heart
and burned like a lump of coal in his chest. The Peacemaker in his hands renewed his confidence that he would cut her down like he promised. If he ever came across the ebony bird again, he would chisel the fear of the Great Goddess into her spirit and soul. He never made a habit of underestimating anyone, but she wasn’t so tough without old Ropey. All he had to do was separate her from that rope dart, and she’d be nothing.

Cross opened the cylinder of the Colt. A single bullet lay inside the bore. He shook his head. The hodder obviously didn’t know much about guns to leave the revolver lying around loaded. He removed the bullet, sat it on the counter, and closed the action. He thumbed the hammer back while pulling on the trigger and gently lowered the hammer all the way down, placing the revolver in full lockup. He checked the front and back of the cylinder for wiggle: it only had a bit of side to side wiggle, and that was fine. He eyeballed the cylinder gap, holding it sideways under the dim overhead light of the black fires outside beaming through the window. The gap was tight but not too tight. Perfect. All the cylinder bores lined with the barrel. The trigger felt like the Great Goddess’s bosom.

“Any more cartridges?” he asked the rat-faced hodder.

“Caw trij itz?” said the hodder. “I do not understand.”

Cross picked the round up from the counter. “More like this.”

“Sorry. No more of that kind. But if you want to try the weapon just step—”

“What do you mean try it? It only has one round.”

“It booms all the same.”

“And I’m sure it’ll fire,” said Cross. “One last time. Don’t you understand the concept of bullets?”

“No. I don’t believe I do.”

“This thing goes in here.” Cross placed the round in the cylinder and closed it. “Now when I pull this trigger it will fire a round. One round is one shot.”

“But, I’ve boomed it many times.”

“How the hell could you even work the trigger? The butt is bigger than your arms.”

The hodder stood on its hind legs and puffed up its chest. “No task is too big for me to manage.”

“Yeah? Well, you managed to waste good ammo you stinkin’ rodent.” Cross slammed the pistol onto the counter. “Finally found a useful object and I can’t even…”

“Now it is you who misunderstand me.” The hodder waved its clawed paws. “Come, I’ll show you. Bring the boomer. Step this way.”

Cross grabbed the Peacemaker and followed the hodder out the tail end of the flying coach. Outside were tin cans, stones, wood planks, and other objects set up for target practice. Most of the targets had already been charred, shot and sliced.

The hodder gestured towards the targets. “Now, boom it.”

Cross aimed the Peacemaker and hesitated. He should at least save that one last round for the Raven’s gut.

“Go on,” said the hodder.

Cross squeezed the trigger without aiming at any of the targets. The last round fired. “See, now that’s it.” He swirled the pistol in the air. “No more.”

“Try again,” said the hodder.

Cross stared at him for a few seconds, wondering what the rodent was getting at. He pointed the pistol in no particular direction, fully expecting it to click when he pulled the trigger, as there were no more cartridges left. But another round fired.

Cross jumped back in surprise. He opened the barrel and discovered the original cartridge still sitting inside the bore as though it had never been fired. He emptied the round into his palm. It wasn’t even hot to the touch. He laughed and drank more devil’s water.

He slipped the cartridge back in revolver, aimed, and fired three consecutive rounds at each target. Target one, a wooden plank, twisted sideways and then split in half. Target two, a stone, shot into the air and then exploded, the detritus sprinkled into the tin can. Target three, the tin can, launched up with a flip, and Cross cut it down in midair with the sixth and final shot.

The bucktoothed hodder gaped in surprise. “That boomer’s ability is unlimited firings, but not precise aiming.”

Cross smiled and gulped more devil’s water. It dripped down his chin and onto his new shirt. The spider-button slid down and cleaned the dribble.

“As long as that round, as you call,” said the hodder, “is in the burrow, the boomer will always fire. Remove it and it will not.”

They both returned to the flying coach through the broken tail.

“For the devil’s water, the knitter, and the boomer,” said the hodder. “I’ll trade you six objects.”

“Trade?” Cross laughed and aimed the revolver at the hodder.

The green flushed away from the rodent’s face and its ears drooped flat onto its head.

“What else you got worth six objects?” asked Cross.

The hodder pointed a clawed finger. “You said once you got your weapons you would leave.”

“Exactly. Weapons. I’m going to need more than one.”

The hodder wrung its paws together. “The gamp. Take the gamp.”

“The what?”

“You called it an unbrulluh.”

Cross shoved the barrel into the hodder’s chubby little stomach. It trembled.

“It’s the best object I have,” it said. “Worth more than six objects.”

Cross cocked the hammer back. The hodder flinched at the noise.

“It shoots lightning,” said the hodder.

Cross snatched the pink parasol from the floor. “How?”

The hodder shrugged. “Like all the other objects. Aim and hope for the best.”

Cross aimed the tip of the umbrella into a corner and squeezed the handle as if he were pulling a trigger on a shotgun. Lightning cracked out the tip. Objects exploded and flew every which way. It wrung its tiny paws together.

He slapped his leg in joy. He finally had a weapon that could match the Raven’s rope dart.

The three draggles met Cross outside of the flying coach. He walked briskly past them as a flock of barbots squawked above in the dark, sparkling flames. He aimed the tip of the parasol at the center of the flock. Lightning struck a barbot out of the sky. The others scattered. The draggles raced over to the bird like hunting dogs.