BURN IN HADES (29 page)

“How do I know which feeling is which?”

“One uplifts your spirit. The other, fortunately I’ve never felt it before. I’ve seen what it does to demons though. It annoys them at first and then it makes them ill. It only gets worse from there.”

If only she had the courage to allow such grace to touch her spirit. She was afraid she wasn’t worthy. The purity of the Great Goddesses breath might annihilate her.

Their travels went by uneventfully for a few sleep periods, which was uncharacteristic of the underworld. Gimlet and the pale horses pulled the boat up and down hills with little effort, and they quickly left the snowy mountains of Niflheim in the distance behind them.

The lack of danger unsettled the Raven more when an accumulation of Nothings increased, scattered across the valley. Thousands of black hands, feet, and heads protruded out of the ground, littering the underworld with the black plague of second death. An endless trail of Nothings lead directly into whatever force had wiped out all those souls.

While she steered the boat, Cross kept a keen eye on the map he had stolen from Clem Balfour. He planned their route to the Toran, but never announced the final destination. Nor did the selfish lump ever allow her to peek at the map.

“Here’s the Leipt River,” he said out loud to himself, pointing at the map. “If we go south and head through Kurnugia—cross the River Hubar. Go southwest through the hills of Ekera…that sure is a long way. But after that—”

“Then what?” asked the Raven stealing a glance at the map.

Cross rolled the map up. “Then we get there. I’ll let you know.” He reclined back in the boat.

“I noticed we’ll be crossing Anarchist and Tribulation lines a few times,” she said. “I thought you might tell me where we’re going.”

Cross leaned back up. “Towards a gate that’s gonna get us outta here. Is that good enough for you?” He lay back down.

That was good enough for her in a sense that he kept confirming where she stood with him. Obviously, he still didn’t trust her—understandably so. She still didn’t trust him entirely either. But that was probably because she knew how distrustful he was of her. He’d double cross her just because he might think she would do the same to him, and he would want to strike first.

But given what the two of them knew about the Toran and the fact that neither would reveal their half of the secret to each other and the possible trials that may lie ahead of them, they were going to have to stick together, which meant that eventually they would have to trust each other. They needed to have one another’s backs more than ever now. Unfortunately, Cross was just a little too self-centered and thick headed to understand that quickly enough.

It was a wavy ride through the twisted metallic city of Kurnugia. They stopped there for a rest. A lone Tribulation soldier fed them barbot soup and gave them beds. From there it was a topsy-turvy jaunt through the rocky mountain ranges of Ekera. The trail of Nothings that the Raven was keeping a note of thinned out over that week through the hills.

Cross and the Raven had taken turns steering the boat; one slept while the other sailed, and one day the Raven was enjoying a rare pleasant nap when Cross shook her awake. Initially, she thought he had disturbed her slumber just to be spiteful, but the underworld was against any soul having good dreams.

“Troops are coming,” said Cross.

She removed her top hat which covered her eyes from the bright blue burning sky. “Black or white?” she asked, her voice still groggy from sleep.

Cross leaned forward and paused. “I should have taken those stupid glasses from that hodder.” He squinted a little longer before ruffling his shirt. He brushed it with his hands vigorously and coughed as the soot sprinkled off into his nose. “This stupid soot is gonna get us burned. Stupid Nothings stole my button.”

They hadn’t had the opportunity to find new clothes, and the soot of the Nothing was still covering their outfits, making them look like members of the Anarchist gang.

She climbed to the front of the boat to get a look at the approaching troops. Dust swallowed the soldiers, kicked up by the animals they were riding. She could vaguely make out the white uniforms of the Tribulation.

Cross rolled the blanket open. “Gimmie the comb, Blanky. Hurry!” The blanket smacked him in the face with the comb. He fumbled with the comb. “I don’t know if this will work on clothes,” he said, and he scraped the teeth across his pant leg. In an instant, his trousers changed from black to white. He combed his shirt, and the Raven combed her justaucorps, slacks and top hat. They sparkled in immaculate purity.

“Now we’re white like them,” said Cross.

They may have been too shiny, too sterile even for the Tribulation. They might’ve identified themselves as holy, but they were still a gang after all.

The soldiers galloped closer. Cross waved his Latin cross in the air as a friendly gesture. The troop slowed down, and the dust settled around them. They were riding scorpions.

Only Anarchists rode scorpions, but these soldiers were dressed in the white of the Tribulation. The uniforms were a little more faded than usual though.

The troop surrounded the boat. Dingy helmets riddled with bullet holes sat above empty eye sockets and sewn mouths on the decaying spirits. Their captain slapped a coat of dust off his sleeve, revealing the black uniform of the Anarchists underneath.

Chapter 14 - Trials & the Tribulation

The Anarchists wrangled the ghost horses
easily, but Gimlet bucked in refusal of being captured. She crushed a soldier under her hooves.

“Thata girl,” said Cross. “Give ‘em hell.”

Soldiers held him and the Raven back from the action. The gang of about twenty members outnumbered the two of them anyway, and they all possessed objects of the dead. If he and the Raven had tried to fight them or resist arrest, they would have certainly lost.

Cross was forced to stand idly by and watch Gimlet scurry about, dodging the soldiers’ attacks. A handful of soldiers dove onto her back. She threw them off, slaughtered one with her spiked tail, and impaled another on her horns. They lassoed her neck, but she dragged them behind her.

She galloped towards Cross. Fright he had never seen her show bulged in her eyes. The terror spread wide across her smiley face. Normally, she wasn’t afraid of anything, except unusual rivers. She must’ve sensed something that he didn’t.

The Anarchists had plenty of scorpions to ride. They didn’t need Gimlet for transportation. They could have let her escape. The only possible reason they went through the trouble trying to capture her was because they wanted her meat. Those sons of bitches were hunting her! The ghost horse meat was inedible, and he hadn’t seen any barbot’s in the sky since they had been in Ekera. Gimlet was the only food around for miles, and they would have to eat her spirit flesh raw.

Cross pointed Gimlet away from the camp out into the underworld. His cornurus obeyed and banked left. Soldiers aimed their various weapons and unleashed a hail storm of many kinds of ammunition: bullets, arrows and spears. Gimlet belted out a horrible scream and flopped to the ground in a crushing thud. Cross flinched.

The firing ceased and the soldiers poked his innocent cornurus with a stick. There was a faint rise in Gimlets chest. She was still breathing. Under normal circumstances, Cross would have been happy, but he knew that wasn’t a good thing for the cornurus. The soldiers had to eat her alive or the meat would burn to Nothing.

The Anarchists dragged Gimlet back to camp and slaughtered her alive. Gimlet roared in agony with every tear of her flesh. Cross snatched the Raven’s sack and rolled the blanket open.

“Gimmie the Peacemaker,” he demanded of it. The blanket revealed the Colt Single Action Army.

“Not a good idea,” said the Raven.

He clutched the Peacemaker. A soldier stepped up to him carrying a tray and offered them raw pieces of Gimlet’s torn flesh. Cross’s insides fought their way up to the back of his throat.

“Git that outta my face, you bastard!” He smacked the tray to the ground and aimed the Peacemaker at the soldier who flung his hands up and chewed on a piece of straw as though not the least bit frightened.

Cross raced over to Gimlet, hardly able look at his mangled friend. She, like the Raven, was stronger than he was to withstand such torture. He crossed himself.
The mother. The maiden. The crone.
“May the Great Goddess, Magna Mater, please have mercy on your soul.” He placed the cold barrel of the Colt on Gimlet’s center horn. “Blessed be to my dearest Roaring Gimlet.”

His finger squeezed. The hammer boomed. A force tackled him from behind. His face splashed in Gimlets ash. The person sitting on his back snatched the Peacemaker from his hand. He flipped over. The Raven raised the Colt’s handle and struck him.

The last day of November brought extra chores for fifteen-year-old Charles, and he still hadn’t been able to enter any rodeos yet. He woke earlier than normal that morning and took care of all his usual duties in haste while Mr. Beckwourth limped about in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He was never quite right since his fall two years ago.

After Charles removed the ash from the fireplaces and prepared the fires, he dashed food in the animal bins outside, brought in fresh eggs, milked the cows, fetched water from the well, and gave the horses rub downs in cool water.

The peppery aroma swirling from the kitchen beckoned to his stomach. He and Mr. Beckwourth were never allowed to eat with the Carsons, but the two servants always shared supper between themselves in the attic where they slept.

Sharing meals was the only time Charles really felt close to the majordomo. It was Mr. Beckwourth who had taken him to church on Sundays and taught him how to recite the Lord’s Prayer. They knelt every night at the edge of their beds and gave thanks to God before every meal. In those moments the muscle-bound old man was less like a boss and more like a friend, but with so much work to do each day, even those moments seemed as few and far between as an invitation to join the Carson’s at the table for a meal. On that special November day, Mrs. Carson had done just that.

Charles carried the breakfast trays into the dining room as usual and sat them down in front of the mistress and Kate.

“Sit with us,” said Mrs. Carson.

She must’ve needed the company and was tired of sobbing over Mr. Caron’s desertion of his family. Just a few months after Charles had saved Kate from the runaway carriage, Mr. Carson left the ranch and never returned. And for the last two years of his absence, Mrs. Carson had been keeping herself locked in the boss’s study for days on end, howling. Sometimes, while locked in the boss’s study, it would sound as if Mrs. Carson were speaking to another person even though she would go in and come out alone.

Her angry scowl rarely lifted from her face, but the frown faded away that morning, if only slightly.

“Don’t be bashful,” she said. “Today there are no formalities. Sit down. Eat. It’s Thanksgiving day.”

“Very kind of you.” Mr. Beckwourth sat.

Charles followed and the four of them gave thanks to the Lord. Every time Charles peeked over at Kate, her eyes danced away, and he averted his eyes when she glanced at him. At one point, their eyes met, and he thought everyone at the table could hear his heart banging. He and Kate both focused their gazes down at the table and then glimpsed each other again.

Charles could hardly pay attention to his food. His appetite had vanished. He ate what he could though. If he didn’t put something in his stomach now, he’d regret it later. After everyone had finished their meal, he cleaned the table and went on to finish the extra chores in preparation for the big social gathering.

He pulled each carpet from the halls, hung them on the line, and beat the dust out of them. He dusted the chandelier, replaced dwindled candles, and filled the lamps. He swept the floors and scrubbed down the porch, applying enough elbow grease to leave them gleaming. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to join in with the festivities, he felt proud of his hard work and shuddered at the thought of how it would all go overlooked and end up stained by the time the party ended. His skills would go a lot more respected if he was breaking and training wild horses like he wanted to.