Elsewhere. A homestead lies in ruin. The fences fallen apart and toppled over. Not that they were keeping in anything. The cattle were sold long ago, and they were barely worth anything. The ground was near barren, brown and rocky. What little grass remained was the same clay-brown as the earth that bore it. The building itself was slowly separating, even now the boards that made the shell, were loose and would rattle in wind. The house looked like a skull, decayed on the deserted ground. But none of this bothered the occupant. He was living on borrowed time.
A young woman approached the homestead. She looked back at the wagon that brought her here. The driver, turned elsewhere, so that his attention did not seem transfixed on her. She returned her attentions the house and moved up old stairs and onto a porch. Both groan and wheezed as though she stepped on the near dead.
She crossed the threshold into that house. Dust and dirt had come in through every available open and settled here. Everything was clay-coloured. The walls rooms were bare, only vast plains of boards could be seen. There was no furniture. A crate of food, salted meats and tinned sundries lay in the corner. The woman turned to a closed door. Pushed gently, it creaked loudly, protesting. Inside the room was a man kneeling as if in pray, but not quite so. He his hands were not clasped together and held under his chin, but instead lay relaxed on his lap. He did not seem bothered by her entrance, all announced by the house. Around in this room lay the bare few items: a simple mattress and worn blanket, a blackened chamber pot lay in the corner. Some books lay piled in the corner. Against the wall sat a large leather case, worn, dusty and locked.
- Cassandra, he said, what brings you out all this way?
She turned her head, to look around the house.
- I heard you sold all of your things. At least that’s what the people in town said. And that you were selling it all for pennies.
- That’s true. Some felt strange for taking it for free. They wanted to pay something.
-But –
-I didn’t need those things. They weren’t important. No one seems to make sense of that.
He smiled, trying to reassure her with this. But it did not. She was certain that her father had begun to lose his mind. A lifetime of guilt and regret had finally corrupted him.
- What if you come back to town with me? Set you up in the hotel -
She pleaded but was cut off again.
- No. Why don’t you understand what I want is right here? Those things, all of those things, were a burden. The table, I never ate at it. The chair, I spent too much time sitting on hardscrabble under the stars to get used to it. And the bed…
He paused, hiding his true feelings.
- The bed was too comfortable.
Cassandra knew the truth. All of these things were his wife’s, her mother. Every piece of furniture reminded him of her, and his failure. He had fought and survived and won so many battles that he lost the home front. She read it in him plain like an open book, just as he did for her. He made these excuses as if to pretend for her sake. As if everything were normal. Despite the mistakes of the past, he pretended to move on. But this house felt like it was dying. She wondered if her father reflected this house. She wondered if she would have to bury another parent. That’s why she came out here. She dreamt a shadow fell over this place. Something that strode across the desert. It moved slow and steady, but nothing would stop it. Not heat, or dust, or starvation, not storms and not fire. It was inexorable. And it would claim him. She wondered if her father was just waiting for Death to come knocking.
Her father turned his head towards the grimy window. Something was coming. Her father always felt it before she did. Before either of them heard it, or even the other senses registered. Then the thudding of hooves and grinding of cartwheel against the hard ground came. The wagon outside came to a stop. The horses whinnied restlessly. Cassandra felt the shadow of a man as it drew itself across the ground from the lazy afternoon sun. She felt darkness, but not the darkness in her dream.
- I think I better be going, Cassandra said.
Her father nodded in agreement. She quickly stepped outside. As she opened the door she recognised the man connected to the shadow. He was middle-aged, hair turned grey and silver. The body had become slightly rounder, but was once fit and strong. The clothes were expensive, too expensive for anywhere nearby or any honest career. He had one foot on the first step. It didn’t groan for him.
- Hello Colonel.
Cassandra spoke with feigning dignity.
The Colonel tipped his hat.
- Afternoon, my dear Cassandra. My you are looking lovely as ever.
Fake platitudes for fake platitudes. The Colonel continued:
- I take it your father is inside.
- Yes he is.
- Well, I wonder what brings such a lovely creature like yourself out to a depressing place like this? The Colonel gestured with his hand to the house and the empty, dead farm.
- Just visiting my father. Nothing more.
And wanting to say nothing more, Cassandra headed for her wagon. The Colonel wore a sidewinder smile.
- You be careful there. Dangerous days for a beautiful young woman like you.
Cassandra told the driver to go and the horses drew the wagon around in a slow circle and made their way back to town.
The Colonel watched them for a moment, before turning his attention to the house. He moved up the steps without a sound. And old trick he had kept in practice. It allowed him to sneak from unwanted guests that his wife had brought. It let him to move around the house at Christmas as a proxy for Saint Nick for his children. With this skill, he killed men in their own encampment, their throats cut like a second smile.
Despite his silent steps, he knew the man inside was expecting him. He entered the house and then stood at the bedroom door. He looked around the house as if admiring the place for its ability to continue standing.
- I like what you have done to the place, Shaman. The Colonel noted. – Nice décor.
Shaman still looked out the window towards the horizon that Cassandra disappeared on.
- Do you want a drink, Colonel?
- Sure.
Shaman moved out the bedroom, past his old comrade, towards the kitchen. He reached up into a cupboard with both hands and pulled out two small glasses and a clear glass bottle. There was a small amount of amber and gold liquid in the bottle. Shaman set these things on the stove.
Shaman immediately read the Colonel's intentions
- So you want insight?
- Yeah.
The Colonel replying as he looked around for somewhere to sit, but realising that there was none.
– Came here for advice. And to bring news.
- News?
Shaman looked up at the Colonel. He rarely asked questions.
- Yes. You hadn’t heard? Clara’s dead. Gunned down outside her own home. In front of her kids. Terrible thing for children to see. But this is the problem. We think the same fellow killed Ichi, and Clarke and Jackson. Hell, he’s even got to a card shark down the Mississippi and a few others.
Shaman uncorked the bottle slowly, the cork making a lengthy squeaking sound.
- What I want to know, the Colonel continued, is that if this guy is hunting us. And what I need to do to stop him.
Shaman poured the amber whiskey out into one of the small glasses.
- I can see a man dressed in the same colour of his shadow. He goes everywhere by foot, as no animal will carry him. He is moved by something that robs him of sleep and stays his need for food and drink and safety.
Shaman poured the other glass that perfectly emptied the bottle and at the same time, perfectly filled the glass.
- He is a hunter. Like you and more than you.
Shaman handed the Colonel the glass. The Colonel nodded his head.
-Salud.
They both drank.
Swallowing the last remnants of the burning whiskey, Shaman reminisced, picking up the empty bottle.
- Do you remember when I got this bottle?
The Colonel smiled, the memory coming back.
- Yeah. I remember, we picked it up after the whole valley thing. Your whole strategy about setting those fires paid off.
Shaman was holding up the bottle looking through the crystal clear glass
- Do you remember what I said when I got this bottle?
The Colonel shook his head slightly.
– No…
Shaman looked directly at the Colonel, as if looking down upon him.
- I said that the last time we would meet would be when this bottle was empty. It would be when I would give my last piece of advice to you.
- And that is?
Shaman looked back at the bottle, as if it were a prism that could separate the light.
- One day, we all find ourselves hunted. This man, who has killed our friends is a force of nature. He cannot be bought with coin or a lover’s warmth or a safe place. You will not be able to outrun him or hide from him. You will need to stand and fight.
The Colonel wiped his mouth. There was a bitter aftertaste in the face of this advice. His smile had gone. Taking this in, the Colonel nodded. Shaman had always told the truth. And it always came true.
- Well. Best of luck then. See you later.
Shaman did not draw his attention away from the bottle.
- There is no later. Goodbye Colonel.
The Colonel left. Shaman could hear the wagon pull away, the sound of the horses and wheels disappear into the dusk.
Shaman place the bottle on stove, returned to his room and sat down on the floor cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The sun had sunk lower and lower. Everything had become dark. Except behind Shaman’s eyelids. There was a light that only he could see. It was strange the way it rose, like sun setting in reverse, clouds traced across the sky like fingers. Shaman’s sight raced across the land, a wide barren desert of rock, stone and mesa. An empty wilderness that tested everyone who dared to cross it and claimed most. His vision raced across the landscape at an incredible speed. Shaman knew the thing that he was looking for. Suddenly from the edges of the horizons sprang a great mountain. Alone in the desert it was a behemoth standing over everything. This mountain was old as the sun it now blocked. Let shadow meet shadow, said words in Shaman’s voice, but not his. This would be his battleground. This would be the place to test who was the hunter and who was quarry.
Shaman opened his eyes. The sun had long left the day. Even in the darkness, Shaman moved over to the leather case and opened it. He knew where everything was. He picked up his guns, put in his coat, rolled his blanket, and picked some food out of the crate. Then he was out the door into the darkness. Speeding towards his final stand.
Preceded by: Part 1
Continued in Part 3
A young woman approached the homestead. She looked back at the wagon that brought her here. The driver, turned elsewhere, so that his attention did not seem transfixed on her. She returned her attentions the house and moved up old stairs and onto a porch. Both groan and wheezed as though she stepped on the near dead.
She crossed the threshold into that house. Dust and dirt had come in through every available open and settled here. Everything was clay-coloured. The walls rooms were bare, only vast plains of boards could be seen. There was no furniture. A crate of food, salted meats and tinned sundries lay in the corner. The woman turned to a closed door. Pushed gently, it creaked loudly, protesting. Inside the room was a man kneeling as if in pray, but not quite so. He his hands were not clasped together and held under his chin, but instead lay relaxed on his lap. He did not seem bothered by her entrance, all announced by the house. Around in this room lay the bare few items: a simple mattress and worn blanket, a blackened chamber pot lay in the corner. Some books lay piled in the corner. Against the wall sat a large leather case, worn, dusty and locked.
- Cassandra, he said, what brings you out all this way?
She turned her head, to look around the house.
- I heard you sold all of your things. At least that’s what the people in town said. And that you were selling it all for pennies.
- That’s true. Some felt strange for taking it for free. They wanted to pay something.
-But –
-I didn’t need those things. They weren’t important. No one seems to make sense of that.
He smiled, trying to reassure her with this. But it did not. She was certain that her father had begun to lose his mind. A lifetime of guilt and regret had finally corrupted him.
- What if you come back to town with me? Set you up in the hotel -
She pleaded but was cut off again.
- No. Why don’t you understand what I want is right here? Those things, all of those things, were a burden. The table, I never ate at it. The chair, I spent too much time sitting on hardscrabble under the stars to get used to it. And the bed…
He paused, hiding his true feelings.
- The bed was too comfortable.
Cassandra knew the truth. All of these things were his wife’s, her mother. Every piece of furniture reminded him of her, and his failure. He had fought and survived and won so many battles that he lost the home front. She read it in him plain like an open book, just as he did for her. He made these excuses as if to pretend for her sake. As if everything were normal. Despite the mistakes of the past, he pretended to move on. But this house felt like it was dying. She wondered if her father reflected this house. She wondered if she would have to bury another parent. That’s why she came out here. She dreamt a shadow fell over this place. Something that strode across the desert. It moved slow and steady, but nothing would stop it. Not heat, or dust, or starvation, not storms and not fire. It was inexorable. And it would claim him. She wondered if her father was just waiting for Death to come knocking.
Her father turned his head towards the grimy window. Something was coming. Her father always felt it before she did. Before either of them heard it, or even the other senses registered. Then the thudding of hooves and grinding of cartwheel against the hard ground came. The wagon outside came to a stop. The horses whinnied restlessly. Cassandra felt the shadow of a man as it drew itself across the ground from the lazy afternoon sun. She felt darkness, but not the darkness in her dream.
- I think I better be going, Cassandra said.
Her father nodded in agreement. She quickly stepped outside. As she opened the door she recognised the man connected to the shadow. He was middle-aged, hair turned grey and silver. The body had become slightly rounder, but was once fit and strong. The clothes were expensive, too expensive for anywhere nearby or any honest career. He had one foot on the first step. It didn’t groan for him.
- Hello Colonel.
Cassandra spoke with feigning dignity.
The Colonel tipped his hat.
- Afternoon, my dear Cassandra. My you are looking lovely as ever.
Fake platitudes for fake platitudes. The Colonel continued:
- I take it your father is inside.
- Yes he is.
- Well, I wonder what brings such a lovely creature like yourself out to a depressing place like this? The Colonel gestured with his hand to the house and the empty, dead farm.
- Just visiting my father. Nothing more.
And wanting to say nothing more, Cassandra headed for her wagon. The Colonel wore a sidewinder smile.
- You be careful there. Dangerous days for a beautiful young woman like you.
Cassandra told the driver to go and the horses drew the wagon around in a slow circle and made their way back to town.
The Colonel watched them for a moment, before turning his attention to the house. He moved up the steps without a sound. And old trick he had kept in practice. It allowed him to sneak from unwanted guests that his wife had brought. It let him to move around the house at Christmas as a proxy for Saint Nick for his children. With this skill, he killed men in their own encampment, their throats cut like a second smile.
Despite his silent steps, he knew the man inside was expecting him. He entered the house and then stood at the bedroom door. He looked around the house as if admiring the place for its ability to continue standing.
- I like what you have done to the place, Shaman. The Colonel noted. – Nice décor.
Shaman still looked out the window towards the horizon that Cassandra disappeared on.
- Do you want a drink, Colonel?
- Sure.
Shaman moved out the bedroom, past his old comrade, towards the kitchen. He reached up into a cupboard with both hands and pulled out two small glasses and a clear glass bottle. There was a small amount of amber and gold liquid in the bottle. Shaman set these things on the stove.
Shaman immediately read the Colonel's intentions
- So you want insight?
- Yeah.
The Colonel replying as he looked around for somewhere to sit, but realising that there was none.
– Came here for advice. And to bring news.
- News?
Shaman looked up at the Colonel. He rarely asked questions.
- Yes. You hadn’t heard? Clara’s dead. Gunned down outside her own home. In front of her kids. Terrible thing for children to see. But this is the problem. We think the same fellow killed Ichi, and Clarke and Jackson. Hell, he’s even got to a card shark down the Mississippi and a few others.
Shaman uncorked the bottle slowly, the cork making a lengthy squeaking sound.
- What I want to know, the Colonel continued, is that if this guy is hunting us. And what I need to do to stop him.
Shaman poured the amber whiskey out into one of the small glasses.
- I can see a man dressed in the same colour of his shadow. He goes everywhere by foot, as no animal will carry him. He is moved by something that robs him of sleep and stays his need for food and drink and safety.
Shaman poured the other glass that perfectly emptied the bottle and at the same time, perfectly filled the glass.
- He is a hunter. Like you and more than you.
Shaman handed the Colonel the glass. The Colonel nodded his head.
-Salud.
They both drank.
Swallowing the last remnants of the burning whiskey, Shaman reminisced, picking up the empty bottle.
- Do you remember when I got this bottle?
The Colonel smiled, the memory coming back.
- Yeah. I remember, we picked it up after the whole valley thing. Your whole strategy about setting those fires paid off.
Shaman was holding up the bottle looking through the crystal clear glass
- Do you remember what I said when I got this bottle?
The Colonel shook his head slightly.
– No…
Shaman looked directly at the Colonel, as if looking down upon him.
- I said that the last time we would meet would be when this bottle was empty. It would be when I would give my last piece of advice to you.
- And that is?
Shaman looked back at the bottle, as if it were a prism that could separate the light.
- One day, we all find ourselves hunted. This man, who has killed our friends is a force of nature. He cannot be bought with coin or a lover’s warmth or a safe place. You will not be able to outrun him or hide from him. You will need to stand and fight.
The Colonel wiped his mouth. There was a bitter aftertaste in the face of this advice. His smile had gone. Taking this in, the Colonel nodded. Shaman had always told the truth. And it always came true.
- Well. Best of luck then. See you later.
Shaman did not draw his attention away from the bottle.
- There is no later. Goodbye Colonel.
The Colonel left. Shaman could hear the wagon pull away, the sound of the horses and wheels disappear into the dusk.
Shaman place the bottle on stove, returned to his room and sat down on the floor cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The sun had sunk lower and lower. Everything had become dark. Except behind Shaman’s eyelids. There was a light that only he could see. It was strange the way it rose, like sun setting in reverse, clouds traced across the sky like fingers. Shaman’s sight raced across the land, a wide barren desert of rock, stone and mesa. An empty wilderness that tested everyone who dared to cross it and claimed most. His vision raced across the landscape at an incredible speed. Shaman knew the thing that he was looking for. Suddenly from the edges of the horizons sprang a great mountain. Alone in the desert it was a behemoth standing over everything. This mountain was old as the sun it now blocked. Let shadow meet shadow, said words in Shaman’s voice, but not his. This would be his battleground. This would be the place to test who was the hunter and who was quarry.
Shaman opened his eyes. The sun had long left the day. Even in the darkness, Shaman moved over to the leather case and opened it. He knew where everything was. He picked up his guns, put in his coat, rolled his blanket, and picked some food out of the crate. Then he was out the door into the darkness. Speeding towards his final stand.
Preceded by: Part 1
Continued in Part 3
1 comment:
Awesome so far dude. Keep it comin!
*Whip crack*
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