The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 13

 

 

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Posted September 21, 2019

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Night of Terror

"Alas for woe, alas for woe, alas for woe,
They cry and tears forever flow." 

 
                                                        William Blake 

 

 

When the world finally stopped spinning, I was holding on to a kitchen counter to keep from falling to the tiles.

 

And this particular kitchen counter, by the way, happened to be my own.

I glanced around, trying to focus. Light was coming in through the window. The sun was setting against the backdrop of a purple haze. Was I ever bleary! It was even hard to think. But, despite that, I was aware enough to glance at the wall calendar.  Under a vintage Norman Rockwell schoolroom painting was hanging the month of September.

But that didn't tell me a lot. 
 
Buck up, Lukasz!

To better fix my time in history, I looked at the digital display on the kitchen clock.  7:16 p.m., September 15.

I frowned without really knowing why.  My gut was telling me that this was not a good date.  But what, exactly, was wrong with it?  Part of me was on alert for something bad to happen, because nothing good had come my way since all this craziness had begun at the Kids' Club at the mall.

Then it hit me -- like a ballista bolt!

"Mommy!"

Evie's frightened cry sent me sprinting into living room – which was empty, by the way. Wanting to check her room next, I took a couple steps forward on rubbery legs, before stumbling to a halt.

Idiot! This was September 15!  Of all the God-awful times and all God-awful places to parachute into!

I 'd been set up to live through "the Night of Terror," and that meant facing all the ghastly disasters that had then stricken the Blake family!

Without a pause for thought, I projected my wizard-sense ahead of me, focusing on the children's bedroom doors.  The feedback was like a hot puff of dragon breath. I mean, it was like getting a big whiff of Boneyard close up. But this thing, whatever it was, smelled even worse; I hadn't had to gag on anything so noxious since confronting Loki, the Norse god of evil.
 
Just a cotton-picking minute! What was I doing?

I was using magic. 

That meant –

In the wink of the eye, my materializing golden armor was firming itself up around my body! I had found myself in the cockpit of a disaster, but yet I was experiencing something good. Something great! Whatever it was that had robbed Mantra of her magical powers hadn't hit me – at least not yet.

And now that I had my mojo back, I was going to hang on to it for dear life!

But Evie's situation was dire.  Gus was now a super-wizard, and Evie was no better than a hostage. Why couldn't I have jumped back in time just ten minutes earlier? Then I would have had room enough to think and to act. 

As things stood, my angry little son had become an angry little wizard – one armed with the powers of a god.  In his state of mind, he was like a cocked revolver.  I had to keep Gus from injuring anyone, especially Evie and me, but going through that door was no kind of answer.  I'd be toast unless I went in hot, slamming into Gus with a rain of my best power-blasts, each one of them strong enough to incapacitate a triceratops.  But if he managed to get in even one solid hit against me, he could eat me for lunch.

The trouble was, I didn't dare fight Gus like I would confront an adult ultra, because I had no way of knowing how strong his defenses were.  Going in too soft would let him take me out, like he'd taken out the other Mantra.  Going in too hard might kill him.  He was a menace to the entire town, so I had no choice about subduing him, and quickly. But I needed to do it without risking anyone's life.

All my choices were bad, but the worst one of all was to stand where I was looking dumb.  If Gus came out and saw me, the battle would be on. The only way to take out the youngster without unleashing mass destruction was to strike with the aid of surprise, and there was no leeway for surprise on this game board.  Reluctantly, I turned phantom and fled from the house through the ceiling.
 
Forgive me, Evie.

#

Out in the open air, I hung suspended above a neighbor's old tract home, my mind racing. Gus didn't hate his sister, I knew. Even so, Gus was programmed to kill anyone who made him angry. I was sorely tempted to teleport Evie out and catch her in my arms. But I knew better.  Teleportation was one of the most exhausting magical feats inside my bag of tricks.  If Gus came looking for his sister, my condition would be pathetic.  I would hardly be able to do so much as fly.  Because my magic was the only thing I had going for me during this crisis, I needed to conserve it -- until I could act with an economy of force.

While mentally groping for a battle plan, I made for the best vantage point around, a location where I could see what was happening while I sorted things out.  The highest structure nearby was the Cangoa Park Elementary School on Topanga Canyon Blvd. It was the kids' own school -- conveniently located at only a short walk from our home on Leadwell Street.  The school building wasn't very tall, though, and its meager height permitted me to see no more than the shingles of our house.

How had I gotten into a position like this? The hardest enemy to fight is one whom a person doesn't want to harm.  That was my predicament. Fortunately, my recent Though-the-Looking-Glass experience had given me some incite into the future. Likewise, I benefited from two years of using magic in difficult situations.  Gus would act like a rampaging bull, green as grass and eager for his first fight. I had to face-off with him like a caped matador, the veteran of many bouts. If I didn't defeat Gus before he made himself a public menace, someone else would.  If that happened, he would become the prisoner of Aladdin with a very uncertain future. 

Despite my worked-up state, it was becoming easier to focus. I gazed upwards; the sky was still glowing with a repulsive a raw-liver hue.  Here and there, I saw rippling patches that reminded me of nothing so much as the Aurora Borealis. But, beyond that, there were sinister green streaks in motion against an ethereal backdrop.  They did not so much resemble lightning as humongous, gliding serpents.  Something told me that these were energy bolts – and that it had bee one of these that had stuck Gus in the supposed safety of our home.

The newspapers hadn't described this kind of sky on September 15th; that suggested that, to ordinary people, the  atmosphere hadn't looked as crazy as it did to me. Maybe I could see more because I had wizard-sight. Whatever this alien energy was, it had to possess some sort of magical component. Magic dark and wild. In the hours ahead, some very bad things were going to happen all across the face of the globe.  But I couldn't worry about the world; it was up to me to bunch my fists and defend Canoga Park.  With Lauren already killed by NM-E, I had to....

Wait a minute! Lauren wasn't dead. She couldn't be.  She didn't die on the Night of Terror.  She would die, instead, at the Mall on Sunday, and that was almost two days away!

Lauren Sherwood was still in terrible danger, though.  She was due to drop by my house in just a few minutes, to pick up her baby-sitting wages.  Gus would then make a pass at her and she'd reject it.  That would trigger him to go crazy and attack her.  Without me being there to draw his fiery indignation toward myself, as the other Mantra had done, he might actually kill her!

I sprang into the air, looking every which way while I criss crossed the neighborhood between the Shepherd home and my own, trying to catch sight of the teenager. 

For once, Fate seemed to be smiling. I spotted Lauren's light-bodied, tow-haired shape walking along Wyandotte Street, a vulnerable-looking and solitary figure under the lampposts. I moved in on her from above; the schoolgirl must have heard my cloak fluttering, for she suddenly glanced up, wide-eyed. 

"Mantra!" the girl exclaimed.

Even though I was doing my best to seem calm, my heels contacted the pavement with such a jar that I had to struggle for balance. Breathlessly, I muttered: "Lauren, you shouldn't be out tonight! Some kind of wild magic has been turned loose. Go home. You'll be safer there."

"Whoa!" the girl responded. "The Blake house is just a couple of blocks ahead. Can't I go pick up my wages first?"

"You're wages aren't as important as your life! I'd stay and bodyguard you, but there's danger everywhere!  Other people are going to be needing my help. Now, vamoose!"

"But Mrs. Blake is expecting me. Maybe I should stay at her place and help protect the kids."

"Eden has enough problems without adding you to them! Do her a favor and go home! Your own dad could be needing your protection, if things get as bad as I think they're going to." I was exaggerating in the hopes that the ferocity of my warning would make her more cooperative.

"Okay," she grimaced, "I'll go head back, but I'll call Eden and tell her that she has to lock up and hunker down."

I couldn't let her do that. Gus would probably pick up the phone and urge her to come over. The impulsive teen would almost certainly fall for that trick.

"Listen, Lauren, you shouldn't be on the phone tonight. Ah...there's some kind of evil energy in the air and it might infect telephone lines and radio waves. You and Mrs. Blake could draw black magic down on your heads!"

Oh, Lordy, did that sound as dumb to her as it did to me?

Apparently it did. Lauren returned a bemused look. "Uh, Mantra, I've got a feeling that there's more, or maybe less, going on around here than you're willing to tell me."

"No more time for arguing, young lady. You're heading home!" I scooped Lauren into my arms and carried her aloft. With her weight reduced by levitation, she felt as light as a bag of potato chips.  Even though she had flown as a Mantra knock-off before, this was the first time that she was soaring with the real-deal Mantra. The girl's surprise kept her from protesting. That was all to the good, but sterner measures were called for. The atmosphere around us was magically hyper-charged, and past experience informed me that Lauren was magic-sensitive.  Her Mantra-type powers might be switched on by the freakish environment at any minute.  She'd love to be an ultra, but giving a kid a false sense of invulnerability could lead to a very short lifespan.
  
Consequently, while holding the teen close, I started drawing in a portion of her bio-energy. That may sound vampiric, but it's something that comes naturally to me.  The life-auras of plants and animals are what charge my “batteries.”  But from “feeding” off the girl, I was getting more juice than I'd bargained for! It was like the time that I had tapped into Prime's life-force, but this experience was even more intense. Lauren was a soon-to-be ultra, no mistaking that! But if the change came tonight, the results could be tragic.

As we flew, I put all of my will into siphoning away her surplus energy at a rate even faster than it could expand.  Wow!  This was a sort of fix that could become habit-forming. It was like getting the biggest chocolate high in history!

By the time the two of us alighted beside the Sherwoods' welcome mat, the girl I held was nodding off. I guessed that she would sleep for a dozen hours, which was fine with me. I rang the doorbell and then took off to avoid being seen. Blythe Ashwin was Mantra, as far as Aladdin knew, and I didn't want that dirty crew to find out differently.  Even if I rescued the woman, as I'd thought about doing, I wanted them to go on thinking that she was me.

A departing glance assured me that Mr. Sherwood was helping his sleepy daughter indoors. From her condition, he would probably surmise that she was coming down with the flu.

Had I changed history enough to save Lauren's life? I hoped so. It was a shame, in a sense, because I knew that she would make a selfless and heroic public defender. She still could become one but, before that happened, I wanted her to be a woman guided by good sense, not a schoolgirl jazzed up with enthusiasm.
 
That being said, I yet recognized that I was robbing a person -- one whom I liked very much -- of the greatest moment of her entire life -- at least for the time being.  Did I have the right to do that?  There are no easy answers.  It was Lauren's long-term welfare that seemed at stake just then.  A girl like her deserved more than a flash of glory and an early grave. 

#

While it gave me satisfaction to have solved Lauren's problem, rescuing Evie had to be my top priority.  To do that, I needed help – big league help.

I knew several powerful ultras, but which of them would be best to contact in a pinch? There was Pinnacle, for one, but she was an emotional wreck.  Besides, she was about five-hundred and sixty miles away.  Teleporting her to L.A. was out of the question.

Who lived closer in? Warstrike – or Strike as the locals knew him? Brandon Tark was always my go-to guy.  He couldn't move mountains, but he was cunning, fearless, and tech-savvy. Moreover, we were two of a kind.  We both dealt with problems in the practical manner of soldiers. Although physically no match for Gus, Strike had a psychic ability that could forewarn him of danger. On the other hand, he and I had to do some serious talking.  He was very soon to be implicated in a heinous act of terrorism. Was he guilty?  I hoped not, but I couldn't be sure.  This version of Brandon Tark could be stark, raving mad.  Be that as it may, whatever the state of his sanity, I had to warn him about the dark place where he was going, unless he altered his direction.
 
But, at the moment, I'd be needing a lot more backup than just Strike and his rocket launchers.

The original Wrath, a.k.a. Thomas Hunter, had been trained by Aladdin to take down ultras and was good at doing it.  Greg Tunney had had received similar training and had, accordingly, given a good account of himself against Gus, even if NM-E had flummoxed him.  I would have liked to bring Hunter in, but the man had vanished into private life.  He wasn't even showing up in the Aladdin databases lately -- probably because he'd gone to ground under a high-quality false identity and had an insider's knowledge about how to keep off the Company's radar. Because I had never shared energy with the ultra-fighter, I lacked the link that I needed to call him up telepathically. 

Get serious, Lukasz; if you're going up against magic, you'll be needing magic more than muscle.

As an ultra, I haven't been very outgoing. I'd even turned down the chance to join Ultra-Force.  But I did know two magic-users who had the right stuff. One was Shadowmage, the alien girl from the Godwheel. After somehow showing up on Earth, she'd joined a mercenary team called “The Solution.” Unfortunately, this squad-for-hire had dissolved after it's leader, Lela Cho, had changed course and settled down to manage her family's company. I just hoped that Shadowmage hadn't returned home after that, the Godwheel being in another part of the galaxy.  Sure, I had the means to travel there – I'd already made the trip on four occasions – but right now I didn't have the time.

The other mistress of magic that I'd previously worked with had been Yrial, the Native American sorceress who was part of “the Strangers.” If I had my druthers, I'd have called in the entire team. Unfortunately, the effects of the Night of Terror was striking everywhere at once and I'd earlier learned from Internet news sites that the Strangers would now be off in Oakland fighting zombies. But maybe a personal appeal to Yrial would be enough to persuade her to split off from her buddies and come help me.

Regardless, the first person I needed to call wasn't an ultra.  My daughter Evie wouldn't know where I'd disappeared to and would be terrified. Touching down on the roof of Canoga Park Elementary School once again, I tuned into my daughter mentally. A moment later, I felt her mind touch mine:

 "Mommy? Where are you?"

"Evie, darling. I'm -- I'm outside the house. Are you all right?"

"How can you be talking inside my head?"

"It's a secret ultra power I have, honey. But shhh! Don't think too hard or Gus might be able to hear you, just like I can. Do you see him? Does it look like he knows that we're talking?"

"I don't think so. He's been yelling about how he's gonna smash everybody. He's even mad at you and Daddy, and Mantra --"

"Hush, Evie, don't think about Mantra, not until we're sure that Gus can't hear us."

"Mommy, I'm afraid that Gus is gonna remember all the tricks I used to play on him before he got magic and will wanna smash me, too."

"You have to be very brave, Pumpkin. Something very bad has given Gus the worst sort of magic. It's made him wild.  He's so powerful that I'm going to need some ultra friends to help me stand up to him.  If we all go to talk him together, he might give up without making us fight him. "
 
"What should I do till you come?

"Try to be as friendly to your brother as you can. He's not thinking clearly and if he gets excited he might hurt you before he knows what he's doing."

"Mommy, can you see us? You sound like you know almost everything."

"I can't explain now, Sweetheart. But I promise to rescue you just as soon as I can."

"Mommy! Don't talk!"

And then our mind-link broke off.

#

What had happened? Had Gus realized what had been happening?  If so, what would he do to punish Evie?  I had to save her as soon as possible. I touched my gloved fingers to my brow and concentrated.

"Brandon, this is Mantra. Can you hear me?"

I repeated this call several times. When it works, telepathic communication is amazing.  Usually, people can hear me thousands of miles away. 
 
"What? Mantra?"  A familiar voice was coming in over my ethereal walky-talky.

"Brandon? That's you, isn't it?"

"Sure it is, Eden. Sorry. You woke me up. Jet lag.

“Something important's come up!

"I sort of guessed that. Well, lay it on me, beautiful. What are you up to?"

"A total disaster!  I need your help."

“How bad is it?”

"It's trouble in spades, Tark. Both my kids are in danger.  Listen! Can you help me cage a magician who's at least twice as powerful as I am, and do it without causing him any real injury?"
 
"What magician? Is Boneyard back?

“Boneyard is dead!” I said.  Strike should have known that, if the Godwheel incident had happened in this reality.  Or, was it one of the quirks of this world that the local Boneyard was still alive?

“Death doesn't mean as much as it used to” he said. “Are you so sure that he couldn't bring himself back?”

Well, I had to give Tark that one. In a world as screwy as ours was, a person could never count on the dead staying dead. I'd died hundreds of times myself. Even Eden Blake had come back from the Great Beyond -- for a tragically short while.

"No, I'm up against someone much, much stronger than old Tall-Gray-And-Ugly."

"Where exactly are you?"

"Canoga Park. I'm a couple blocks away from my house --"

"What?  Do you mean that something came after you in your own home?

“In a way, yes.  That's too complex to go into now.  I'll explain everything if us two can link up before it's too late!”

“Sure, Luke.  I wouldn't stand around and see you lose your kids like I lost mine.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Tark paused for a couple seconds before asking, "How big is your problem?  Should I plan for an overnighter?"

"I think we can wrap things up by dawn, but the job will be too big for just the two of us. We'll need serious magic to give us an edge. When we sign off, I'm going to try to contact Yrial and Shadowmage. Do you know of anyone else who'd be available on short notice?"

"Not a sorcerer, unfortunately. But Hardcase called me up last week. Now that he's washed his hands of UltraForce, he wants to form a new super team, one that doesn't lick Aladdin's boots.”

"Great! Hardcase is one of the best. Contact him if you can. If we put together a squad that's powerful enough, the – antagonist -- might give up without a fight."

"Why not knock the joker around a little first? He has to be a bag of crap if he's threatening your kids."

"It's not so simple, Brandon. The bad guy is Gus."

"Gus?"

"Dark magic has a hold on him and he can't control himself."

"You're up against your own ex-husband – Eden's ex-husband – for the third time?"

"No. It's worse than that. I'm up against...my own son." 


TO BE CONTINUED IN Chapter 14....

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 3, Part 2

Posted 09-07-19 

Revised 10-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 3, Part 2 


Wednesday, December 20, 1871, Continued

“If you just help us with the square dance,” suggested Kayley, “Dale and I will be able to teach Myra the simpler dances.”

“I guess I can lend a helping hand,” George conceded. “But if this foolery runs on for too long, I'll be needing to come back to finish the work later on.”

“You won't get paid for anything you don't do,” Miss Olcott reminded him.

“Well,” he smiled, “if Miss Myra is so determined that I should be dancing with her, I'd be right honored.”

“That's perfect!” beamed Dale. “George, let me wear your hat.”

“What for?” he asked.

“So Myra can tell who the men are while we're dancing or else she'll get confused.”

“I can be one of the men,” offered Myra.

“Don't be silly,” Dale replied. “You hardly have enough time to learn how a girl dances.”

“Let's get on with this, so George can head back to his chores,” the ginger said with a moue.

“Well, Myra,” Dale said, “if you know any square dancing at all, you'll know that two people start out side by side and end up together, too. In between, though, they're dancing with everybody.”

“I wish we had a caller,” remarked Kayley.

“I know a couple dancing songs!” said Dale. “I just hope I can both dance and sing at the same time! Come on, choose your partners.”

Miss Severin stepped up to take Myra's hand, leaving George and Kayley to form the second pair. The two couples took positions facing one another.

“All right then,” Dale continued. “Kayley and George, you start things out with the Salute.”

Kayle put her right foot forward and turned to face George. Then, after giving him a curtsy, she straightened up and turned toward Dale, who was representing a gentleman. She gave “him” a curtsy, too.

“Nice,” said Dale. “Show it to Myra again, but don't move so quickly this time.”

Kayley did as asked and this time Dale gave a satisfied nod. “Now you try it, Myra,” the latter coaxed. Myra moved up uncertainly. “Do just what Kayley did,” Dale told her. “Face me, curtsy, then turn and curtsy to George.

This maneuver was easier said than done. “Oh, come on, Myra, that's not a curtsy,” teased the butterscotch. “That's more like a dip.”

Myra's next curtsy passed muster. But Dale's instructions kept coming. “Left foot back, straighten up, turn to George. Good! Right foot forward. Curtsy again.”

After Myra performed, the gentlemen did their moves. She watched the regimented motions, but it was hard for a novice to follow them.

Dale called for the next maneuver, which was called the “Right and Left.” When the sequence was through, it was followed by the “Balance.” Next came the “Ladies' Chain.” The ladies, which included Myra, were directed to cross from opposite sides and touch their right hands in passing. The gentlemen did the same. The finishing steps brought the original pairs back together again. After that, the “Balance” move had to be repeated.

All these actions taken together were called the “First Figure.” But the First Figure was followed by a Second, Third, Fourth, and a Fifth, each a bit different. It was enough to make a man, or a woman, dizzy. By the time the young people had worked their way through all the mandated figures, Myra was wishing that she'd was anywhere else, doing anything else.

Without calling for a rest, Dale put them all through a second set of five. Following that, they felt like refreshing themselves with water from the kitchen jug. Without allowing too much dallying, Dale put them through the whole routine again, but without so much verbal instruction. They pretty soon fell into a jumble of bodies and Myra cursed her own clumsy feet. The jam up had been mostly her fault.

“We'd better do it over,” Dale suggested. She started a rhythmic song to keep everybody in step. 

'Oh, Dem Golden Slippers! Oh, Dem Golden Slippers!'

'Golden slippers I'se gwine to wear be-kase they look so neat.'

'Oh, Dem Golden Slippers! Oh, Dem Golden Slippers!'

'Golden slippers I'se gwine to wear, to walk de golden street!”' 

By the time all five movements were wrapped up, even the usually lively Kayley was panting. Breathless, she told Myra, “You'll be fine. After two or three dances, no boy on the floor will be able to keep up with you.”

“I can hardly wait,” said the glum hostess.

“Can I go now and do something that won't wear me out so much?” asked George of his sister.

“Oh, no,” Dale said. “The lesson won't stick with Myra unless we work through the whole thing a couple more times.”

“Ay yi yi! Where do you girls get your energy from?” he asked with an exaggerated sigh.

“Lazy bones!” the younger Severin accused. “How are you going to build up your own farm from nothing if you can't hold your wind better?”

“I haven't decided to be a farmer yet,” he said. “I've been thinking about going to sea. At least it'ld take me out to where those island girls are.”

“Go to sea?” Dale exclaimed. “You've never set eyes on an ocean in all your born days!”

“Yes,” added Kayley, “and I bet those island gals aren't half as pretty in real life as they look in the drawings. There must be prettier young ladies right here in Eerie!”

“You may have a point,” agreed George. “Some of the girls around town would be awfully hard to beat.”

“Are you talking about those potion girls?” asked Kayley. “They make me nervous. Don't they seem spooky to you?”

“I haven't had a conversation with any of them, except a few words with Trisha at the feed store,” he said. “Myra, do you think that them potion girls are spooky?”

“'Potion girls' again! I'm going to have to ask Aunt Irene what in tarnation you're talking about.”

“I'd be glad to fill you in, once we get this dancing over with,” offered George.

That reminded everyone of the matter at hand, and within a minute they were all back at practice.

By the time that the square dancing was finally wrapped up, the four of them felt as tired as bull-riders. Dale, especially, was left hoarse and breathless from having sung about all those golden slippers.

#

The young people took refreshment with some milk and canned apples. George, afterwards, went out to work, but Kayley and Dale remained very animated, chattering about what other dances they should teach Myra. The latter wasn't eager for more, but tried not to show it. As far as the farm girl could see, the only passable thing about dancing was that it allowed a man put his hands on a fetching gal without everybody in the room making a fuss about the propriety of it.

“Myra,” said Dale, “we're still hoping to see that party dress of yours. It must really be something. George couldn't stop complimenting it. Normally, he laughs at the best dresses that Kayley or I show him.”

“Don't worry about George laughing,” Miss Olcott said. “He enjoys making a person fly off the handle. He's does that with me all the time.”

“Maybe,” Dale allowed.

“Did you have a lot of good dresses before they got lost in the stream?” asked Kayley.

“Oh, I had some,” Myra said dismissively. “But I don't know why people always go on about clothing. What the Sam Hill difference does it make what you have on, as long as you're decent?”

“You surprise me, Myra,” said Kayley. “To hear folks tell it, all that Eastern women and girls want to talk about is clothing.”

“All the silly women and girls, you mean,” replied Myra. “Good clothes are deucedly expensive. There are better things to be talking about, or to spend money on.”

“Like what?” asked Dale.

“Like good meals, maybe.”

“Restaurants? But would you want to go into a restaurant if you weren't dressed your best?”

Myra shook her head. “You can't always live your life worrying about what other people think. If somebody's going to like you or dislike you, it won't be because of the clothes you have on.”

“I'd still like to see your party dress?” importuned Kayley.

“I can't show you now,” Myra said. “Aunt Irene took it over to that Mexican woman in town. She's supposed to be pretty good with the needle. It needs to be fitted before Saturday night.”

“That's too bad,” said Dale. “We came on the wrong day.”

“Myra?” spoke up Kayley.

“What?”

“A little while ago, you talked like you didn't know what a potion girl is.”

“No, I don't. Why should I?”

“A body can't live around here for very long without finding out about the potion girls.”

“Kayley,” broke in Dale. “I think we should leave it to Mrs. Fanning to explain something as important as that to Myra.”

“Sure, that's fine with me,” agreed Miss Olcott, not wanting to go into the subject.

“But Irene hasn't told her anything about it yet, or else Myra would already know,” pressed the Grimsley girl. “And if Myra finds it out all by herself, she might be afraid, or even have nightmares.”

Myra threw up her hands. “Whatever it is, it sounds unpleasant, and I don't want us to be talking about unpleasant things. If the subject is so all-fired important, I'll make Aunt Irene tell me about it tonight.”

“That may be the best way to go,” affirmed Dale. “Just remember, Myra, even though it might sound awful, it really doesn't change the way that people live around here. It's mostly just a sad story when you think about it.”

“Wouldn't a hanging be even sadder?” asked Kayley.

“Yes, I suppose it would. But it wouldn't be any stranger.”

After that, Dale urged them back to the lessons. Fortunately, none of these other dances were as difficult as square dancing. There was the polka, the waltz, the Virginia reel, something that Dale pronounced as the “quadrilly,” and a dance that was like a slow polka. Even though it came from Germany, it was called a “Scottish dance.” Myra supposed that the Germans misnamed it because they didn't want to get the blame.

Before too long, Irene's buckboard was heard rattling on the carriage road. Before Mrs. Fanning appeared on the threshold, the other two girls already were gathering up their things. Irene greeted her young neighbors, but they were running late and couldn't chat for very long.

“Those are nice girls,” she told Myra after Dale and Kayley had gone outside, “but they always seem to be in a hurry. What did the three of you talk about?”

“Do I have to tell you everything that I do and say?”

Irene regarded her niece with heightened interest. “Is there something about their visit that you'd rather not talk about?”

Myra knew that she couldn't hold back anything that her aunt really wanted to know. “They wanted to show me how to dance, in case I went to the Christmas shindig.”

“That's very nice of them. How it it go?”

“Dancing is simple. But it's a waste of time, if you ask me.”

Without replying to that particular notion, Irene went to open the bindle from town that she had placed on the table. While her back was turned, Myra shoved the box of her mother's letters farther under Irene's bed, using her heel.

“Carmen will need more time to finish my dress,” Irene reported, not looking Myra's way. “She said that she should have it ready by tomorrow afternoon. If we find any problem with the fitting of your dress, I can take both you and it over to her home for finishing adjustments.”

Her aunt then drew the yellow party dress out of the bundle and held it up. “I want you to try this on again in the morning light so we can check the fit. By the way, did you get much work done before the girls came by?”

“The morning work, sure. But they came in early enough to kill the whole rest of the day.”

“That's fine,” her elder replied. “It's a good idea to start introducing yourself to people. If neighbors drop by, you should do your best to make them feel welcome. Just don't use visiting as an excuse to be neglecting necessary work whenever you feel like it.”

“They wore me out with all that prancing around. I think that chores would have been a lot easier on my feet.”

“That's a good attitude. But now it's time to be milking the cows again. It's best to get that out of the way; the light will be failing before you know it.”

Myra drew on her chore coat and went outdoors, happy enough to stop talking about the visit.

George was still out by the pen, but was packing up. She could see right off that he hadn't finished the whole job. “You ain't done yet?” she asked.

“That was a lot of time we lost dancing. Don't worry, I'll get it all finished before Christmas. By the way, did the girls show you how to waltz and reel?”

“What's it to you?”

He didn't break eye contact. “I think you have a knack for dancing. I can stay around for a little longer, if you're hankering to show off what you learned today. Oh, dem golden slippers...” he began to sing.

“If I had any hankers, they wouldn't concern you, Mr. Severin. Now stand aside; I've got a mess of work left to do. Around here, we can't get away with keeping a casual schedule, like you seem to do.”

“Okay, then. I'll be back here before too long,” he said, stepping out of her way, “maybe even tomorrow. I'm not sure yet.”

“Well, don't make any snap decision just on my account,” she advised. 

# 

Thursday, December 21, 1871 

The next morning, Irene carefully examined Myra's dress while her niece modeled it. There were a small number of imperfections, but these were little details that she could confidently adjust herself.

From that point on, the twenty-first of December turned into a busy day. Myra did the usual morning chores while Irene got the yellow dress ready for Saturday's party. After finishing the stitching, there was more party food to make. Every woman, except Myra, perhaps, felt duty-bound to contribute her honest share to the festivities. To the girl, it looked like there would be good eating ahead. That was something she could look forward to. Myron had gone to Christmas parties a couple times before, in the company of Lydon Kelsey. The lads had chucked down plenty of food each time but, unfortunately, boys so young weren't allowed to share in the beer, wine, and whiskey. Irene was against drinking, too, but Myron had managed to get drunk a few times on the sly, before heading out of Eerie on his own.

Thinking about Myron's break for freedom couldn't help but bring back memories of her outlaw days.

Myron had experienced some good times and some bad times along the roads. The best of the good days had been the rare moments when he could get his hands on a glass of decent liquor. On the bad days he wasn't only lacking beer, but everything else, with scarcely a bite to eat. At times like those, he got to thinking that there had to be a less painful way to die. But as empty and unprofitable as the wandering had been, it had turned out to be a terrible mistake to come home – even if he had only done so to rob the stage.

Irene, meanwhile, kept herself busy making pies, cakes, and biscuits. But after lunch, she had to break it off so as to go and pick up her own dress at the Diaz house. She told Myra to keep a watch on the baking and to make sure that nothing burned. With that admonishment, she had dressed and gone off on her errand.

It infuriated Myra to be left doing a woman's work again. It wasn't that she disliked good food, but the business of turning flour, lard, and sugar into something edible seemed like undignified labor. Sure, there were plenty of men who cooked, too, but Myra didn't think much for their ilk. She much preferred eating the victuals, not rustling them up.

Deep down, the girl had the feeling that a warm bed and good grub were never enough. There was no freedom in living here, no way to cut loose and behave like herself. But what was the alternative? Could she really endure being homeless, cold, and hungry again? Sometimes, when passing by a fort, Myron had be tempted to ride through the gate and sign up, just so he'd have a claim to two or three meals each day and a roof over his head. The trouble was that federal soldiers only cleared about $15 per month. That was worse than a cowpoke's wages, which stood at around $25.

True, the government provided grub and a bed, but the soldier's life was bad in every way. The officers and sergeants were mostly bastards who liked to remind the enlistees that they were hardly better than slaves. They thought of their men's lives like other people thought of firewood – something to burn up. During the war, they hadn't been ashamed to ordered drafted recruits to charge against emplacements defended by grapeshot batteries. Soldiers who shied away from the guns were called cowards, put up against a wall and shot. The army had even executed bone-weary soldiers just for falling asleep, too.

One thing that Myron absolutely couldn't stand was being pushed around and taken for granted. So, when a fort was near, he had never felt quite desperate enough to ask for enlistment papers. But by remaining a civilian, he was only avoiding one kind of hell and running square into another. Drifting from one dirt-poor countryside to another, the youth had spent the winter, spring and summer flat-busted, eating whatever he could beg, steal, or shoot. He had begun to wonder about his situation. If there was a better way to live, he couldn't seem to find it in the stunted towns and cactus patches of Arizona.

Most of his nights had been spent out in the open, even in the rain. He'd counted himself lucky if he could run down some stray chicken every now and then. But doing that had taught him something.  A chicken's life counted for more than a poor man's, since every irate farmer seemed quick to shoot. There had been a time when all his anger had been focused on Eerie and he had only wanted to escape from the feeling of being boxed in. But living a vagabond's life on the road had given him a grudge against the entire world.

People didn't seem to see much difference between a man with no money and one who was an out and out bandit. He got to thinking that if he was going to be treated like an outlaw, he might as well become one and make a little easy money. One afternoon, when he was in a dark mood, Ike and the Freely boys had come stomping into the same saloon where had stopped to fill his canteen. They'd talked. The Freelys brought up the topic of rustling, since the pair of them knew a little about that business. The four went out together, got a running iron, and took a plunge into the cattle business. Afterwards, the selling of an occasional beef or two was enough to keep them in beans and, occasionally, let them buy a beer and a meal.

Starting in early November, with the prospect of winter ahead, the gang started thinking that they couldn't keep going the way they'd been going. Their options seemed few, unfortunately. Rustling was either feast or famine. They'd already tried robbing lone horsemen, but had never got much for it, and sometimes nothing at all. Winter was coming.  They came around to the idea that they'd have to start taking bigger risks to keep from starving. From all they'd heard, banks were hard targets.  Holding up stages, on the other hand, seemed to be a little safer. Myron had offered a suggestion at that point. After all, he had grown up next to a stage line that routinely carried precious metals past his home from out of the mining country.

But that was then and this was now. Myra, her hair blowing in the wind, looked around the farm yard and took stock. Her recollections of the outlaw life had begun to seem like someone else's dream. The present reality was different.  She had stumbled back in time and become a child again. To be a child meant doing what grownups told her to do, and disobedience wasn't an option. Like a child, too, she had lost a lot of her physical strength and with it the impression of toughness. Not being able to scare scare people off put a lot of obstacles into a person's path. If she had a choice, she realized, she'd go back to Myron's old life, as bad as it was.  But being as she was -- slight and female -- it seemed to rule out living a life on the dodge. Myra had never heard of a real outlaw woman. Oh, sure, there were stories about some woman who stole a horse now and then, but no one talked about any of the fairer sex getting involved in hard riding, robbing, and shooting.

It was funny, if one paused to think about it, how the simple differences between men and women required that they live very different lives. 

What could what a woman do that was interesting and exciting?  She remembered a novel that she'd read – Captain Steel: The Life of a Highwayman. Steel was a rascal with several shady ladies to dally with. Some of these sly “wenches” lived by crime. She found herself wondering how difficult it would to pick pockets or cut purses like they did. It would take a little practice, and some advice from someone who knew the art.  Even if a robbery went wrong, couldn't she get out of trouble with a derringer? Then a depressing thought came to her.  Would she be able to shoot a person whom she had provoked herself? 

Robbing people on the street was probably a pipe dream.  What else could someone like her do to earn some money? There was school-teaching, laundry and needlework – awful trades. Cleaning? Irene had mentioned that she had made about $8 per month back when she was housekeeping as a widow. That was only a third as much as a cowhand got. If that was all she was left with, she wouldn't have been able to live. Fortunately, there was her small army widow's pension, but work and pension together barely kept her in food and shelter. Cooks earned better than cleaning ladies, Myra reckoned, but with so many men having wives – including common law wives – the need for hired cooks was scant. Anyway, Myra couldn't cook decently and didn't want to learn.

The only women with the chance for decent earnings seemed to be the cat house girls. Gilana had once told Myron that painted cats could take in each month almost as much as a US marshal. The trouble was, there was something about the work that wore them out and made them age fast. An old whore had to work for pennies. But even the young gals had a hard time of it. A woman with money was always an easy mark for robbery. Many shady ladies found protectors, but such a man would like as not be a bully who'd take for himself most of what she eked out.

It seemed to Myra that only one sort of female made out well. That was the fortune-hunter. A woman with looks and decent clothes could go after a husband like a bear goes after a trout. And her kind could afford to be fussy. A flashy gold digger using her wits could get married up with some hombre with jingling pockets. If the marriage was a bad one, and it almost always was, she'd light out in the night with everything that she could cart away.

Any way that a person looked at it, a girl in Myra's situation was looking ahead ahead to grim prospects. The odds were that it wasn't going to be easy to turn the losing hand she'd been dealt into a sure bet.

Close on to sunset, Irene came back from Eerie, her new dress carried in a package. Following a hurried lunch, the two of them went back to baking. Before eight o'clock came, they had no choice but to light up most of the lanterns and candles in the house, just to be able to see their hands in front of their faces.

Doing her duties sleepily, Myra couldn't stop thinking about that box containing her mother's letters. She wanted to skim through them all as soon as possible, but was worried that if Irene found out what she was doing, she would take them away. After all, there had to be a reason that they'd been hidden away in that old feed box. But if they contained something that Irene didn't want anyone to see, Myra was bound and determined to find out what it was. Besides, reading about how things were in the old days served to fill up the holes in her memories. Her life up to the age of twelve had been the best days she had ever lived -- and probably they were better than any she would ever see again. She wanted to remember them as clearly as possible.

“I'll need some rhubarb from the root cellar,” her aunt said suddenly.

“Do I have to go get it?”

“No, I've been on standing in one place for hours; I need to stretch my legs. Sweep up the flour and the other spills off floor; I'll be right back.”

Mrs. Fanning went outside, and this left Myra with a chance to act. She dragged the letter out box from under the bed and hurriedly carried it up into the loft. It took her only a moment to fit the case into a back corner and throw an old ragged dress over it. Then the girl hurried down the ladder and started sweeping.

A few minutes later, Irene came through the door holding a jar of rhubarb.

TO BE CONTINUED