The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 15

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Posted November 21, 2019






CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Blackbird"

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

 
                                                        William Blake 

Evie and I hurried away from the magic shop. Around us, the strange play of lights across the sky was still making the shadows of the night pulse strangely. A little way from Mrs. Fisher's door, we paused, cloaked by the darkness of a moon shadow.  

The way I saw it, protecting Evie meant everything , but if I knew magic, Gus could psychically hone in on his family's location. He could arrive at any second and, unable to give ground for my daughter's sake, it would lock us into a power duel -- and that hadn't worked out so well for me before.  In the midst of my quandary, a van came from west to east -- a van that looked disconcertingly familiar.

It was Aladdin again!

As much as I wanted to avoid its agents, it wasn't a good idea. The Company, I knew, had come into Canoga Park to check on me. To give it credit, Aladdin protected its own.  In a crisis like this one, I had to think of what was best for Evie.

I sprang out of the darkness waving my arms. The vehicle skidded to a halt; a bald young black man leaned out the window. "What is it, lady?" Greg Tunney asked.

"You're from Aladdin, aren't you?" I inquired, pretending not to recognize him.

"From where?"

"Please! I know what the A-Team's van looks like," I explained, trying hard not to show agitation.

"A-Team? Do you mean that old TV series?" Wrath was stonewalling, like a good company man.

"Can the comedy, fella. We've never met, but we work for the same organization. Maybe you've heard the name 'Eden Blake'."

He frowned. "Eden Blake?! Well, if that doesn't.... We were heading for your house."

"Why?" I asked ingenuously.

He shrugged. "There was some kind of energy spike at this end of Canoga Park. I guess it was pretty unnatural. Colonel Smekes knew that you live around here and so gave you a call for an on-site report. When neither your land line nor your cell phone would pick up, he got worried.  We all know that Aladdin agents have been targeted by hostiles before.  He knew you'd made a lot of enemies in Europe. How did it feel when the surge hit?"

"Surge? I didn't feel even a tickle. But if something weird came down, it might explain what happened to my son Gus."

I hated bringing up Gus's name, but what choice did I have? The boy was running wild, something that Aladdin would find out soon enough. Then, once they knew the score, they'd be suspicious as to why I hadn't come clean from the start. 

"What do you mean? What happened to your boy?"

"All I know is what I saw. He turned violent, like he'd gone out of his mind. He was angry at everybody. He started using world-class magic.  That's when I grabbed Evie and ran for it. We were looking for some place safe, just in case he came after us. That's when we saw your van."

“You should have called in for help!”

“Unfortunately, I didn't have my cell on me, and how does a person find a public phone in this day and age?”

"Well, magic or not, I don't think there's any kid alive who'll be able to stand up to the A-Team."

"Easy, Wrath," I admonished. "It's my son we're talking about, not some super-criminal. He's just a grade-schooler. Something we don't understand took hold of him and he can't help himself."

"I'm with you, ma'am; we'll be careful. But how did you know my code-name was Wrath?"

Sharpen up, Lukasz. You're making mistakes.

"Well, you've heard about me. It so happens that I've heard about you, too. Your evaluation reports are impressive, by the way." A little flattery can sometimes sweeten an otherwise sour situation. I hoped that Wrath was no by-the-book type that who'd be looking to nail every leaker he came across.   I had no one I could name as my informer.

But Tunney remained amiable. "Yeah? Then I guess the suits aren't half as good at keeping secrets as they think they are."

I hurried to change the subject. "I'm worried. It was like Gus's liked and dislikes have been turned upside down. He talked like he hated us. This is bad. Some ultras can automatically find people, you know. Even a police station wouldn't be a safe place, not against that kind of power. Remember that precinct-house that got trashed in the Terminator movie?"

He nodded. "Street cops aren't trained to face down ultras, but we are. You and the little girl can ride with us."

"Yes, by all means take Evie, but as for me...."

"Why not you? You surely can't go home; that's the first place the boy'll look."

"I know the risk, but maybe if I found him alone he wouldn't feel so threatened. I might be able to calm him down." I didn't believe that, but I wanted to be out of Aladdin's sight before Strike and the other ultras showed up looking for me.

"We came this way to find you, Mrs. Blake, but now taking that youngster of yours off the street has to be our new priority. For the little girl's sake, you should come with us. When we meet up with your son, you might just be able to talk him into surrendering quietly."

"What do you plan to do with Gus?" As if I didn't know.

"Get him some medical attention, of course."

Yeah, by strapping him down and letting mad scientists experiment on him. But the way that he'd tendered his appeal made it hard to argue -- without arousing suspicion.

"And if the lad does want to come looking for his family," Tunney went on, "that's good. It will save us the trouble of scouring the city looking for him."

That was cold. "So Evie and I will be the Judas goats?"

He stepped down to the asphalt opened the van's rear door. "Mrs. Blake, you know how the Company works and you know what it expects of us.  Besides that, think about the boy's welfare. If he's got ultra powers and he's out of control, sooner rather than later someone is going to start sending bullets his way. It'll come down to kill or be killed for one of them. Think about it. We've got to take the little fellow out of the line of fire." He patted the van. "Come on now; you and the tyke should get inside. That's an order."

I raised my chin. "I'm not sure you're authorized to be giving me any orders, mister."

He grinned. "Whatever the pecking order, the A-Team has a job to do, and you two seem to be in serious danger.  This is one hell of a time to stand around arguing."

That was logic I couldn't talk around. I cursed myself for not switching into my Blackbird outfit before stepping into view. Blackbird, as a mystery ultra, could have left Evie in Wrath's care and then flown off to do whatever she needed to. As things stood, I was pinned down. The best idea seemed to be to go with the flow, and then slip away as soon as possible.

The red-garbed ultra helped Evie and Mr. Paws into a passenger seat. I got in after them, noting that the vehicle held five agents besides Wrath, all of them, except the driver, wearing toe-to-neck body armor. They were obviously armed for war, toting along an impressive array of weaponry fitted into compact racks. Compared to Wrath, the soldiers were silent types. The woman among them and one of the men gave us nods of welcome, but neither said anything.

Evie wriggled in close against me, intimidated by the fiercely-caparisoned warriors. Her eyes were full of worry, full of hope. I put my arm around her and touched my cheek to hers. It was so easy to forget that this wasn't my own Evie.

The driver spoke up, saying, "Wrath, we've just intercepted a police call. There's a flying ultra burning down the Canoga Park Elementary School, and -- get this -- he's doing battle with Hardcase!"

My heart did a double-flip.

"Get the coordinates and take us there fast!" the team leader barked. Then he looked back at me. "Elementary school? Does that sound like something your boy might want to do?"

"Maybe. I --"

Words failed. He would very well like to burn down the school. Gus had  been lonely, ostracized, and resented the way that the staff, the child psychologists -- and even the students -- didn't want him attending regular classes.

"Ow, Mommy!" Evie blurted. "You're squeezing too hard!"

I let her go and stared ahead, into the darkness beyond the headlights.  Out there, my son was locked in a duel against one of the world's most seasoned ultras. Would Hardcase realize that he was up against a boy of twelve?

Gus versus Hardcase? The world really had gone insane.

#

Hardcase had been one of Gus's favorite heroes. He claimed to have all of the man's collector cards, and had coaxed me into buying him the most expensive action figure to boot. But the boy wasn't in his right mind and he'd probably be throwing out all stops to defeat and destroy the famous crime-fighter.

How hard would Hardcase fight back? I hoped that he had gotten enough information from Strike to know what he was up against.

Hardcase -- Tom Hawke -- and I were not well acquainted. At the time that I'd shared a case with the UltraForce, Hawke had been away on a mission of his own. One difference between this local Hardcase and the one back  home was that he had quit the UltraForce in anger, opposed to its growing involvement with the federal Deep State, the same power block that had had the President besieged in the White House for years. I would have given the members the same advice, too, if anyone had asked.

"If Gus burns down the school, where will I go on Monday?" Evie suddenly asked. "And aren't the people at school getting hurt?"

I hugged her close. "Easy, Button. The school let out hours ago.  If anyone was inside, janitors or somebody else, we'll just have to pray that they were able to escape in time."

She looked up into my face. Those big blue eyes were the very image of Eden Blake's.  “I think I should pray for them, Mommy,” she whispered.

“That's a very good idea,” I said.

She placed her fingertips together, her head bowed. I did likewise, but it was hard for me to find the words I needed with so many  sirens sounding off from the direction of the school. If Gus was responsible for arson, it was much worse than anything he had carried in the other time-line. My earnest attempts to keep him from making trouble had -- so far -- been very disappointing.

#

The wide, two-story building was blazing furiously. Squadrons of emergency vehicles were drawn up close-in; their crews were setting up frantically. Sensation-seeking throngs were already pouring out of the surrounding neighborhood, pressing avidly against the emergency cordons. The van slowed to a roll and our driver started honking rhythmically, warning the crowd to get out of our way.

A policeman hailed us to a stop and demanded identification. Wrath shoved some sort of document at him -- which had to be a phony, seeing as how Aladdin was a secret agency. But whatever nonsense the thing imparted, it did the trick and the uniformed man backed off. Just then, a bolt of green energy streaked to the ground from somewhere overhead. Looking up, I made out a stubby, manlike being outlined by a lurid emerald luminescence.

My fists tensed. Now that we had found Gus, my next question was, where was Hardcase?

"Stop here," Tunney ordered his driver. The vehicle turned into the curb and its tires met it with a bounce. Wrath was first out, with the rest of the heavily armored A-Team, except for the driver, clattering after him. I whispered to Evie, telling her to remain inside the van. “If I don't come right back, stay inside with the nice policeman until I return for you.” Then, with a dash, I followed in the wake of the other Aladdin agents.

I knew that the anti-ultra  hit squad would be less interested in combating the fire than in capturing the arsonist. That would put Hardcase himself in danger, considering the list of grudges that Aladdin bore against him. I doubted that Wrath would order an assassination on his own authority, but these hardcore agents with him had been trained by others -- black ops scoundrels through and through. Would they let an opportunity shot go by?

When no one was looking, I ducked down and rolled under a television news van, flashing into my “Blackbird” garb. Hardly anyone on Earth had ever seen me wearing that an outfit and local observers wouldn't know who I was -- as long as I wasn't too obvious about doing Mantra-type things. Out of sight, I ghosted away through the subsoil, coming up a couple of blocks away. Without my magically-charged, burlesque-style golden armor, I wouldn't be so powerful.  But I'd mess myself up if I appeared as Mantra in front of Aladdin agents.  Mantra was supposed to be in lock-up.  I was in need of a new public identity.  Let them open up a file on someone called Blackbird, if they wanted to.

Ignoring the noise, smoke, and fire all around, I kept my mind fixed on the game.  It was dangerous to get attacked by Gus while in an under-powered state. The boy could probably crack Blackbird's best defenses like a chocolate Easter egg. If he got me cornered, I would have to switch costumes and power-up, regardless of who saw me afterwards.

The air above the burning school was bad and so I summoned up a force-field to serve as an air filter to help myself breathe.  Suddenly, I again spotted the glowing outline of my deranged son. He was ignoring the firemen teeming below, while concentrating on something else, something I still couldn't see due to the smoke.

"Look! Is that Mantra?!" someone shouted.

Not wanting Gus to be alerted, I cloaked myself under a dark mist to stop people from talking. It was then that I caught sight of Tom Hawke – darting around the cluttered, hose-strewn ground, dodging like a ricocheting pinball. The fight with Gus was still in progress and the ultra looked like he was playing it defensively. The boy, all spleen and aggression, was shooting magical blasts, as if the world was his video game. Did the pipsqueak wizard even grasp the enormity of playing with the life of another human creature -- one whom he had actually hero-worshiped not so long ago? I wondered how Hardcase could have spared with him for so long with no magic of his own.  Was the boy going easy on his opponent because this fight was a dream of a lifetime and he didn't want to end it too quickly?

Nonetheless, Hardcase was a formidable gladiator -- as strong as Hercules and possessed of an astounding leaping ability. The ultra was holding a four-foot-wide hunk of sidewalk over his head and this he hurled at Gus with all his strength. My heart skipped a beat; it was all I could do to keep from knocking that slab out of the air. But if I interfered, it might throw Hardcase off his game and let Gus take him out. If I didn't, how could the child fend off that kind of hit? What was I supposed to do when I didn't want either one of the combatants to be injured? Fortunately, before the concrete weapon struck its mark, the youngster intercepted the thing with a magical flash, instantly pulverizing it into a spray of  sand and lime. The debris rained down on the fire-fighters beneath us.

I had to stop underestimating Gus. My son was appallingly good at being bad.

At that instant, while the lad's attention was fixed on Hardcase, I threw my mightiest burst of force at his back -- meant to stun, not kill. It struck home and Gus tumbled earthward. On impulse, I dove in close, hoping to soften his landing if he was too stunned to react.

That was a mistake. Gus's changed his trajectory by force of will and alighted on the grass, feet-first. He veered my way, his fists clenched, his brutal face a mask of rage. As quick as thought, incandescent bolts arced between his hands and the boy seemed primed to unleash a megabolt of death.

At me!

#

That's when another cement projectile glanced off Gus's protective shield, its impact startling the boy enough to spoil his aim. His laser-like attack sizzled past my face, but the assault redirected the child's attnetion toward his other foe.

"You're cheating!" Gus shouted at Hardcase. "Two on one isn't fair!" Unhappy with the odds, he launched himself into the sky, leaving behind a viridian trail of flame. I could have followed, but didn't want to force a serious confrontation with his caliber of super-wizard until I had my backup. Anyway, the most pressing concern had to be controlling the fire, which blazed so close by my family's home and neighbors.

A quick bio-scan of the inferno warned me that there were still living people inside the school building -- firefighters and maybe even trapped victims. Still cloaked in mist, I projected force capsules into the worst parts of the conflagration, isolating several of its centers, while yet leaving paths open for the human beings to escape. The areas I'd sealed up would be starved for oxygen. Time was not on my side; to speed things along, I drew down the air pressure within my barrier. For a couple minutes, I maintained what amounted to a mystical "death grip" on the combustion, until its most threatening parts started to go out.

It looked like the firemen had taken heart from the smothering of a large part of the fire and were rallying. But my intervention had cost me a good part of the extra "umph" that I'd acquired through vampirizing Lauren. I had to link up with Hardcase, and so darted toward the source of his bio-trace – making a wary approach upon what was Earth's senior and, arguably, most famous ultra.

I really didn't want him to mistake me for an enemy, so I thinned my smokescreen enough to let him see “Blackbird.” Whatever his reaction, he at least didn't throw any concrete my way.

"I've been waiting for you,” I said as I alighted in front of the muscle-bound ultra.  “We can't talk here. Can I carry you off to some place that's more private?"

"Okay," he said, warily – no doubt at a loss to know what to make of me.

He was a hard mass of muscle in my arms. I negated enough gravity to make the two of us as light as helium balloons. Then a conjured air-stream swept us swiftly away from the smoke and steam.

A dozen blocks away, I brought the two of us down in some local resident's backyard. When I released Hardcase, he backed off.  I noted that he still wore the same costume that the god Ogma had conjured for him back on the Godwheel. One difference, fortunately, was that the face-mask that he'd been using to cover his scarred features was discarded. His movie-star good looks had made a triumphant comeback. I'd earlier learned that one of his abilities was fast-healing.

"T-Thanks," I panted, the smell of smoke making me want to choke, “for not swinging a hay-maker at me when I first dropped in."

He smiled tightly. "I always try to avoid hitting pretty ladies. Anyway, I was guessing that you might be Mantra in disguise.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's complex. While I'm dressed this way, you can call me Blackbird.”

“Nice code name. Strike told me that this get-together was your idea, Eden." His grin grew more genuine.

I did a double take. How in hell had he come across my real name? My real inherited name, I mean. Where was the leak? The Warstrike I knew would never have outed me, not to anyone.  Did this mean that Hardcase and Mantra were better friends on this world than we had been back --?

Then the stark truth dawned on me.

During the Godwheel incident, I had thoughtlessly blurted out Mantra's identity in front of witnesses. The incident had slipped from mind, mostly because so many trials and tragedies had dogged me during the months that followed. Now I was choking down a big gulp of dread.  It hadn't only been good guys within earshot back then.  Unknown to any of us until later, there had been a very evil enemy lurking nearby, mingling among the rest of us in disguise -- a superior being who stood high on my short list of most-dangerous foes. I'd been left vulnerable to a surprise attack without even knowing it.  The danger was still real. I would have preferred to go up against Boneyard, or even NM-E, than to be cornered into another death-match with that monster from a realm of evil.

If he came after me again, no one anywhere around me would be safe.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 16



AFTERWARD by Aladdin

I want to thank Christopher Leeson again for the fantastic job he's been doing as an editor-polisher of my old novel. But Christopher has asked me to explain to the readers the reason why Hardcase appears in a Black September story, though most people who remember the BS (which is an apt anagram) would say that he was one of the characters that ceased to exist, just as Contrary had. My reason for bringing in Hardcase is to illustrate a theory I have about how the world of Black September really works.

The issue arises from the fact that few of the great Malibu writers (mostly long-standing professionals with years of experience elsewhere) were able to remain after BS. Mantra's Mike Barr stayed on for 5 issues, but for good reasons soon left.  After Steve Englehart's NIGHTMAN miniseries was finished, he departed, also. The continuing comics were mainly written by newcomers and unknowns -- and edited by people who had not edited Ultraverse books before. A discerning reader will soon decide that these new people lacked any detailed knowledge about the Ultraverse. They apparently didn't even know the minutia regarding the details that had been established for the world after Black September. 

As it turned out, many favorite heroes like Hardcase, the Jimmy Ruiz Prototype, and the Strangers lost their comics. But clues in the stories indicate that most of the missing still existed post-Black September. Hardcase's footprints, for instance, were pictured after BS, set into concrete at the TLC Chinese Theater (or a similar place). But later stories dropped all reference to Hardcase, until there was a very late UltraForce story where the hero returned. He told people that when the disaster had struck, he had been hurled into an alien dimension. When he came back, he found that people couldn't recall that he had ever existed. What is this?  How can he exist but not exist at the same time?

Why was the internal history of the Black September universe done in such a sloppy manner? Well, as we have said, everyone who knew the Ultraverse inside and out were gone.  A fan writer needs make sense of this tangle. But I haven't wanted to pick and choose what is real. Instead, the author has preferred to treat everything that appears on the pages of Malibu comics, even after BS, as being true. But trying to make sense of the senseless has forced us to be bold. 

For example, before BS, Gus was a normal boy. In the changes of BS, he became a strange-looking dwarf. But, get this, not his mother, his sister, or his baby sitter ever react to seeing that the child has been grotesquely transformed. Why not? This was a puzzle that I had to solve. [In reality, according to my information, Mike wrote the story and its dialogue w/o a change in Gus, but the artist was told by his editor to jazz up the story by making Gus into a freak.] I decided that the heroines didn't see Gus's change as something surprising, because it had happened months earlier. Their history had been changed. I allude in “Wounded World” to an unwritten back-story about how "trolls" captured Gus months before and magically changed him to look like themselves. (Chris has encouraged me to write that story, suggesting the name “The Garden of Eden” and also offering to collaborate with me. "Maybe we can do that," I've told him).

But back to Hardcase. Clearly, if history is continually changing inside the “wounded world”, then everything about that reality has to be unstable. As I see it, from one hour to the next, the inhabitants can't be sure what the world will be like; they won't notice any change, because their memories will change along with the reality. The Hardcase presented in "Wounded World" I believe really was on Earth after that terrible night. But he would be fated to be erased from the memory of the world some short time afterwards (as reality makes another hiccup).

Despite the slick razzle-dazzle that this author has been forced to perform, he is the first to admit that the world of the post-Black September is a hot mess not worth saving. Everything new that was introduced into it was bad (look at the pathetic new characters instantly added to Ultraforce), and everything that was preserved from the great original Ultraverse was cheapened and corrupted (like exchanging the real Mantra for Lauren? Ugh.) To fix this ruination, people who love the Ultraverse have to step forward and do something really major. And that is what Chris and I intend to do soon, in our sequel to Wounded World, “The Twilight of the Gods.”

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 14 - repaired, Nov. 9, 2019

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Posted October 21, 2019

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"The House of the Coven


Why art thou Terrible
And yet I love thee in thy Terror
Till I am almost Extinct
And soon shall be in a shadow in Oblivion,
Unless some way can be found
That I may look upon thee and live.... " 

 
                                                        William Blake 

 

After Strike signed off, I stood there for at least two minutes, sending out intense mental summonses to the sorceress Shadowmage, but to no avail. I'm able to tell a "dead line" from an unanswered "ringing phone" and, to my frustration, Shadowmage, definitely, seemed to be outside my service area. Flummoxed, I switched my appeal toward another ally whom I knew.

"Yrial! This is Mantra. Are you reading me?"

After about thirty seconds, I heard, "Mantra? Is it you? I didn't know that you possessed such a power!"

"I'm discovering new talents all the time," I explained hastily. "My friend, I'm undergoing a crisis! Can you rally the rest of the Strangers and give me some help? A lot of bad stuff is going down in Canoga Park. There's a possessed boy using powerful magic. Right now, he's holding his little sister hostage. Their mother seems to be -- missing," I added belatedly.

"A child? Can one so young be a match for you, Mantra?"

I was gratified; only a year before, this same Yrial had rated me as “powerful, but amateurish,” though she hadn't stated things quite so bluntly. "Whatever's going on in my home town,” I said, “is very...unnatural. How are things with you?”

“I would say that everything is very unnatural here, too.' People are fleeing a zombie rising. I come from the Caribeaan and know that zombies are very real. But, for some reason, there is a mortuary in Oakland where the dead are walking away to feast on the flesh of the living."

“I was afraid that there was trouble all over, too, but were I am I'm faced with a wizard who has me completely outclassed. I've been trying to put together a battle-hardened ultra squad that can overwhelm him without anyone getting hurt."

"Mantra, terrible forces are sweeping the entire world. None of us here understand it.”

"I don't either, but I need magical backup right away, or else children might be injured. Even if the other Strangers are fully engaged, can't you come down here by yourself? If you do, I'll owe you big time."

After a brief pause, the shamaness replied, “No.” Before my heart had time to sink, she continued: “If children are in danger, you will owe me nothing. I have heard of Canoga Park. It is near Los Angeles, isn't it?"

"It's a suburb on the north side of L.A,” I told her. “I'm going to keep watch on what the boy is doing until you arrive. Send me a thought message when you get close and I'll be able to guide you in."

"I shall make all haste. 

"Just one more thing, Yrial. Have you heard whether or not Shadowmage is still on Earth? I haven't been able to reach her."

"I have heard naught of Shadowmage, not for months, I am sorry to say. Her team peacefully dissolved last winter. But I shall do all that I can to contact our sister in sorcery, even while I am hastening to your aid."

"Fantastic. Strike's also agreed to join us. Maybe he can bring in Hardcase, too. See you soon."

#

Having signed off, I didn't dare let grass grow under my feet. If I didn't act swiftly, the monster Coven would soon appear and add to the chaos. Accordingly, I made haste to Heather Parks' address, fearing that I might already be too late. When I caught sight of the Parks' two-story clapboard home, nothing appeared amiss. The domicile seemed at peace and there was no hole in the wall, such as the one that Lauren had described. Ether I was arriving earlier than Lauren did, or else I was in a slightly different parallel world. I was hoping that the latter was not the case, because I wanted help people whose suffering I had already seen.

Heather's upstairs window was lighted, so I flew closer to investigate. Through the parting of the drapes I saw all four of the Mantra fan-club devotees, each wearing their cosplay gear -- replicated pieces of my action costume. The teens looked at ease and very normal, but I was determined to act quickly to keep them that way.

The girls squealed alarmedly when I came ghosting in through the closed window, but the instant they recognized me their yelling turned to ah's and gasps.

"Mantra!" exclaimed Heather, "Why didn't you knock? You scared us." 

"We don't have a second to waste," I told the quartet. "I'm -- I'm here to rescue you -- I think."

"Heather!" a man called from downstairs. "What's all that screaming about?"

"Nothing, Dad," Heather yelled back. "We're just watching a spooky video on TV!"

I shook my head. Teens seemed always to be quick with credible excuses. Sometimes – as in this occasion – that could be a good thing.

The girls, still excited by my sudden appearance, were quietly waiting for me to explain myself. I glanced at the clock. Not even a half hour had passed since I'd fled from my own home, though it felt much longer. Apparently, the green bolt hadn't struck this house as yet. But it could hit soon and I didn't want either the girls or myself to be on the receiving end of it. We needed to evacuate immediately.

It was only then that I noticed something on Heather's small table, half-covered by a magazine opened to a Mantra-themed article.

"Have you girls been playing with a Ouija board?" I asked sternly, keeping my voice low for obvious reasons.

"We were just about to," Miss Parks replied diffidently, picking up on my censoriousness tone. She was probably remembering my past admonitions against kids getting involved with mysticism. "It's only a game," the schoolgirl protested weakly.

"No, it's not!” I told her. “Ouija boards are tools for necromancy. And necromancy is a dark art and only bad wizards want to have anything to do with it. It's too dangerous to play around with.”

"But we've read the instruction sheet," the girl protested. "Anyway, they sell them in hobby stores. I got mine at Mrs. Fisher's magic shop at the strip mall."

I shook my head. "I like Mrs. Fisher, but she's into all sorts of silly New Age ideas. Some of the things she sells are dangerous and she doesn't even know it. I once had to help a little girl who got a magic charm from that shop. It granted one of her foolish wishes that almost got her mother killed. Worst of all, wild magic is loose tonight. This room is dangerous because you girls once summoned a demon here. That sort of thing turns a room into a birdhouse for bad spirits. You all have to get far away from this place for the rest of the night, and it'ld be best if you separated. Do any of you need help getting home? Who lives the farthest away?"

"Me!" said the one named Trisha. She recited the address.

That was east of Canoga Park, in Winnetka. "How do you usually get home?" I asked.

"My parents'll pick me up at nine."

I shook my head. “That isn't soon enough.”

"I'm closer. It's a short trip by bike," put in Jessica.

"Heather,” I said, “can you make up some excuse to your parents and go with the other girls to Jessica's house? As soon as possible, you should each call your folks to come and get you from there. Except you, Heather. You should stay away until morning. The danger should be over by then. Uh, Jessica. You haven't been casting spells at your home, have you?

The schoolgirl threw up her hands. “Are you kidding? My folks won't even let me bring The Lord of the Rings into our house. I had to argue and pout for weeks before they'd let me join your fan club."

I nodded, satisfied. “Heather, do you think that Jessica's folks would let you overnight with her?”

“I think so; they've let me do it before. But we'll need to think of a good excuse.”

"Mantra," said the one named Samantha, "you're frightening us. What's going to happen?"

"I'm not sure," I fibbed, "but random magic is going through this area like a storm. It's already hurt a little boy who lives not far from here."

"Will my parents be safe?" Heather asked urgently.

“They should be,” I said, “if they stay out of this room and haven't been practicing magic themselves. But when you talk to them, don't say a word about sorcery. They just won't understand.”

"Okay, Mantra," Heather muttered bemusedly. "I'll tell them that Jess forgot to bring along her new CD and we want to go over to her place and listen to it."

"Fine. I'll wait out back until I see you come outside, and then I'll protect you along the way. But remember, once you're at Jessica's, separate quickly. You four have been acting like a coven, and if you stay side by side it could draw in bad magic like a magnet."

Without another word, I phantomed away.

For the next few minutes, I waited high in the boughs of a backyard maple tree. Hopefully, the measures I was taking would prevent the creation of Coven. If that bothersome monster did not spring into life, I could concentrate on helping Gus.

#

It took only minutes for the four girls to emerge. Over our heads, the eerie violet glow still loomed, as did the snakelike green bolts. Despite the atmospheric instability, the air felt very still. Nature seemed to be gripped in a state of suspended animation.

"Mantra?" Heather whispered, looking around.

"I'm up here," I said. "Head for Jessica's house. I'll stay aloft and keep a lookout for trouble. How soon do your folks want you to come back, Heather?"

"I can stay all night with Jess, but Sam and Trish are going to call home for their rides."

"That'll work out," I said. "Just be sure that they get on the phone right away. Have your parents to come right away. Okay, move it!”

The four of them took off. Jessica led the way, riding her bike slowly; the others came after her at a brisk walk, frequently stealing uneasy glances upward.

It bothered me that Jessica and Heather would have to stay in the same house, but I didn't have time to take extraordinary precautions.

Just before Heather went inside Jessica's home, she waved me goodbye. I waved back. Having done all I could think of for the members of my fan club, I made an aerial U-turn and sailed back toward the Blake house.

#

I settled down on the rooftop of the schoolhouse again. The neighborhood still looked deceptively normal, but I knew that Gus, whom I was still sensing inside the house, was a ticking time bomb. I directed a cautious telepathic probe toward my endangered daughter.

 "Shhh. Evie. Can we talk?"

 To my relief, she made reply. "I think so. Oh, Mommy, Gus is scaring me. It's almost like he's stopped being Gus."

"I know, baby. Why did you end our talk so suddenly before? Did your brother hear us?"

"He started to. He said, 'Mom's around here somewhere!'"

"Well then, Buttercup, I can't tell you what I'm planning, since we don't want Gus to know. But if he acts like he's about to hurt you, just think the magic word Hogwarts really hard and I'll come save you, no matter what."

"Is Gus tougher than you, Mommy?"

"I think may be. He's probably the toughest sorcerer in the world right now."

“Like Voldemort?”

“Yeah, a lot like that.”

"How did this happen?"

"I think he was hit by some bad magic from outer space."

"Oh, no! Be careful, Mommy. I don' t want you and Gus to start fighting and hurt each other."

"I don't want that either, Button. I'm going to do all I can to make us a happy family again."

"We weren't too happy before, she said. “Doesn't Gus have any magic to make himself look like he used to, before those fairies got him?"

"I don't know, Evie, but..."

Suddenly, a green jet of light came shooting up through the Blake rooftop, like a miniature comet.

"Mom! I know you're hiding somewhere out here," Gus's thoughts yowled. "You hit me and I'm going to get even. Then I'll go back and fix Evie for talking to you without asking me first."

To prevent him from doing the latter, I leaped into the air and fixed his attention on me by creating my an eye-catching green flare.

"Your mother's not here," I informed him. "I've been tricking Evie, talking to her as if I were her mother. I knew you'd overhear us. I wanted to lure you outside -- so we could speak privately," I said. This explanation didn't make a whole lot of sense, not even to me, but Gus was just a kid. If I said confusing things, he might think that I was simply too smart to be understood. That could make him more wary of me and put him at a psychological disadvantage.

"Mantra! I hate you even more than I hate Mom and Dad!" the boy hollered, verbally this time.

I could feel the power of his aura like spiders crawling over my skin. Dark magic was rippling through every fiber of his being, keeping him in a state of perpetual rage. So far, he hadn't done any fighting, and that meant that the lad would still be near the peak of his vigor. But I couldn't fight him like a super-wizard; if he fumbled his defense, I could hit him too hard. I needed a distraction to help me slip away. Facing him him head-on was out of the question, at least until my ultra allies arrived. But for the time being I had to decoy him away from Evie, make him so mad that he'd give me chase. With that in mind, I created a sudden burst of light, bright enough to dazzle him and cover my escape.

I let a jet of wind carry me away by like an autumn leaf. "Evie!” I called out mentally, “I'm keeping Gus busy trying to catch me. Run and hide with that nice Mrs. Fisher at the magic shop!"

Even though I wasn't sure that Evie had heard my cry, I didn't dare risk Gus overhearing if I tried a second contact. The boy had already collected himself and was coming after me, propelled through the air on a blast of verdant fire, like an Independence Day rocket.

At that juncture, I went phantom to protect myself from the blasts I knew he was capable of. At ghost-density I unfortunately lost the ability to ride the air currents, since the wind would blow right through me. Flight while in phantom-form requires of me a form of magical propulsion that I've found to be quite draining. I needed to make Gus think that I had turned chicken and was only fleeing because I was afraid of him. I skated through the air erratically, making myself a hard target for a novice marksman.

But the barrage of magical shots under, above, on either side, and through my ghostly body was putting me into the role of a target in a shooting gallery. I felt safe for the moment, but Lauren had mentioned how quick Gus was at learning the use of his new powers. Fortunately, over the last two years, I'd learned a few fancy tricks of my own.

Just then, one of my son's mega-bolts hit me a glancing blow. I felt like I'd been bashed by an ogre's club. Gus might not have been any great shakes at doing school lessons, but he was showing a real flare for super-villainy. What shocked me most was the way that he had so quickly intuited that I was out of phase with the material world. He had, accordingly, compensated by adjusting his bolt-density. How could one so young and inexperienced be so clever? If a demon wasn't running the show inside his head, he had to have internalized too much mayhem from those violent anime cartoons he'd been watching!

How could Gus channel so much power through such a youthful body? Were the goblins to blame? Had they made him over into magical fairy being like themselves? Even so, energy on such a scale couldn't all be sourced by his personal energy aura. He had to be getting input from some outside reservoir. I myself draw magic from the biosphere; on a dead world such as the moon, with no living auras to tap into, I found myself running down quickly. I had only survived in such an environment by taking life-energy from my comrade Prime, who had power enough to spare. But what exactly was empowering Gus? Was it that aberrant celestial energy field that had Earth in its clutches? Fortunately, I knew that the anomaly, whatever its origin, was fated to fade away with this awful night. When it finally dissipated, would his sorcery be reduced also?

I turned my protective shielding up to full power and opted for the old killdeer trick, letting myself plummet awkwardly, feigning both weakness and injury. A precipitous drop without the use of evasion tactics would make me an easy target, but I was banking on the wicked nature of small boys. Hopefully, Gus would want to hold off from the kill shot long enough to see me bounce off the solid ground, like a real-life Daffy Duck.

I gave the risky ploy a try. By finagling the angle of my descent by a couple of degrees, I plunged into a dark mass of trees and hedges, putting myself out of his line of sight for just a moment. Being still in ghost-mode, I fell painlessly through the branches and down into the subsoil, which I intended to be my refuge of concealment. I checked my plummet once the turf had swallowed me up, chose a direction, and slipped away using magical propulsion.

The downside of this trick was that Gus might trace me by sensing my use of magic. Wanting to avoid this, I exited the earth only a few streets away, banished my force shield, and abruptly stopped channeling sorcery. Such a move would, I hoped, cause the lad to lose my "scent." This was, in fact, the way that I had kept my presence secret from Boneyard on the Godwheel while I was preparing to confront him. But Gus could also have located me at any time just by homing in on his mother's familiar bio-signature, something that he would surely have the talent to do. I could only hope that the boy still didn't know that Mantra and his mother were one and the same person. Without that knowledge, he would have no incentive to try such a ploy.

Though not actively using magic now, I remained sensitive to Gus's expenditure of it. Interestingly enough, instead of getting closer he seemed to be drawing off. Thank Providence for the short attention span of children! But if the boy was heading away on a tangent, what new mischief might he be concocting? He wasn't steering in the direction of Mrs. Fisher's magic shop, which was a relief.

I thought about trailing after him, but first had to reassure Evie. Events were moving very quickly now; Aladdin agents were due to show up before long. Although having the A-Team on my side could be an asset, I couldn't allow Gus to fall into their hands. If that should happen, he'd be hard to rescue and his fate might be dire.

As I stepped into the light of the street lamps, someone remarked, "Nice Mantra outfit." I looked back to see a couple of teenage boys sauntering up nonchalantly, despite the chaos of the night. Apparently, except for the unusual sky color and the halo around the moon, most people on earth were unaware that anything out of the norm was occurring.

“I'd love to see you dressed that way again this Halloween!” said the other one. “Where's the party going to be?”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I'm the real Mantra!” I said.

“Don't give us that! We know there's a Mantra fan club near here. But nobody ever told us that there were any adults in it.”

Ignoring the hormonal juveniles, I used my wizard sense to renew my bearing on the errant young warlock. To my consternation, I felt two "blips," their "flavors" distinctly different. One magical trace had to be from Gus, and the other, I feared, was Necromantra. Trouble always comes in pairs, it seems, but Gus was presenting the more pressing problem. Lauren had found the witch-bitch hunkered down within her hideout. She might have been lying low because of the magical anomaly that she could sense outside. If Necromantra was left undisturbed, she might remain quiescent all through the night. That would keep a little more trouble off my plate.

Where, exactly, was Gus going? Maybe he'd zeroed in on his dad. That could be tragic. Though August Blake could be a neglectful father, his children loved him very much. His death would devastate his daughter Evie and Gus might never forgive himself, if he should regain his reason. But all I knew for certain was that Evie would be frightened and confused. I needed to go to her. Consequently, I took off for the magic shop, riding on a whirlwind.

With that kind of velocity, the strip mall lay only seconds away. I saw that Mrs. Fisher's magic shop's "closed" sign was already up, but I knew that she was fated to be inside at this hour. Anyway, the main lights were still showing in the rear windows. Such was my state of mind that I almost knocked on the door without pausing to think about what I was wearing. I reflexively flashed back into the same clothing that I'd lately shed -- a black dress suit.

Then, hoping I looked presentable, I knocked. An instant later, a worried face peered through the lace door curtain. Mrs. Fisher seemed relieved to recognize me. She hurriedly fumbled the lock open.

"Mommy!" yelped Evie, now able to see me. She ran my way and sprang into my arms. I picked my little girl up; her excited grip about my neck was almost a choke-hold.

"Oh, honey, I was afraid for you," I gasped. "W-Were you awfully scared?"

"Yeah, I was! Is Gus...is Gus...?"

"Shhh, darling. I'll tell you later. We don't want to alarm Mrs. Fisher."

"I didn't 'larm her, Mommy,” the tyke whispered, “I just said that a bad person came into our house and I ran away!"

 The proprietoress spoke up. "Mrs. Blake, what's been happening? The child tried to tell me, but I didn't understand it all."

"E-Evie got frightened by a burglar," I said with a deep gulp, having loosened the youngster's tight hold. "He must have slipped into our home to rob it. I saw him leaving just as Mantra showed up. Maybe she'd been on his trail; I don't know. I ran through the house looking for Evie. Then, hoping that she'd gotten away, I came down this way trying to find her."

"Is...the bad person still outside?" asked the little girl.

“Maybe," I said. “We have to be careful.”

"You know,” Mrs. Fisher put in. “I had a feeling that this was an evil night. Did you ever see a sky like that?”

"Never,” I said, easing my daughter down to the floor. "Thank you for taking Evie in, Mrs. Fisher. She was lucky to find your shop open."

The proprietress nodded. "I was doing the accounts after closing time. I heard your little girl rapping on the door."

The girl was again nudging me, this time holding out her teddy bear. "See, Mommy, I saved Mr. Paws, too! I was afraid that -- that the bad person -- might torture him, to make him say where I went."

I touched her cute little nose. "That was quick thinking, darling! You rescued your best friend just like a real ultra would." Then I said to Mrs. Fisher, "I'm taking Evie to a motel. I'll call the police and report the break-in from there."

"You're welcome to stay until the sky clears up. I don't want to even walk home until it does. I could use the company. I can't get rid of the feeling that something is terribly wrong."

It sounded like Mrs. Fisher was slightly psychic. That might have been the reason why she had gone into the mystical merchandise trade. I felt for her, but I needed to get clear of witnesses and prepare for the arrival of my ultra team. "Thank you, but I'm so shook up that I need to be where there are a lot of people. Maybe after a good night's sleep I can come out of the shock of having someone intrude into our home," I said.

"I understand," Mrs. Fisher sighed. "May the good Lord watch over you both." Then she added, "Evie has a brother, doesn't she? Will he be all right?"

I didn't want to say too much. "Gus went to a ball game with his father. He was going to spend the whole night at his dad's place."

"That's lucky," the shopkeeper murmured distractedly. She was looking out one of the windows, staring up at the haloed moon that glowed so ominously against that weird, violet sky.


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 4, Part 2

Posted 11-07-19 

Revised 12-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 4, Part 2

Saturday, December 23, 1871

It had been a restless night for Myra. She lay on her mattress thinking – or trying not to think -- about Irene's strange letter. The maid was trying hard not let her imagination run wild. This was all very unexpected and worrisome; she needed to find out exactly what had happened. 

Though tired, the girl felt not at all sleepy. Time seemed to hang. She could heard the palo verde tree behind the house rattling in the December wind. Outside, darkness still held sway. Chores only began at dawn, when there was no longer need for a lantern. Until that hour, the Myra had nothing productive to do, other than to collect her thoughts and try to put together a plan to prove that her parents were good people.

What she knew was that Irene had been told something about the mystery of 1866, something that had upset her and made her write a peculiar letter. Later on, she might have found out even more about what had gone on.

Damn it! If it wasn't for that stupid Indian potion, Myra told herself, she could simply go to her aunt and demand answers. Instead, as things were, she didn't dare let on what she knew, or suspected.

The seventeen-year-old knew – and knew for certain – that before 1864 her folks had talked a lot about money problems. She had watched them scrabble for extra income, cut corners, and pinch pennies. But, suddenly, all those worries about money had seemed to vanish. How could that have been, unless they had suddenly become prosperous? But how does a person bring that off in Eerie, Arizona? 

It seemed to her that to get ahead, a man had to find gold, or else do a robbery or a swindle. If the Caldwells had hit upon gold honestly, they would have crowed about it and let everyone know. But whenever wealth came to somebody through flim-flam, he almost always had to fly by night. But her parents had lived peaceably in Eerie for years afterwards and no one had anything damning to say about them. 

The other  way to get rich quick, the one that Myra was most familiar with, was to commit theft. But what could Addie and Edgar Caldwell have stolen in a countryside so barren? One possibility, she thought, was that they might have robbed a store. But that couldn't really explain it. A single cash box wouldn't have kept them going for the next two years, not after paying off all the debts that they'd been carrying. If something was stolen, it would have to be both compact and very valuable. If not actual cash, it needed to be something that was easy to turn into cash.

Like, could they have robbed a traveler, some person with a fat wallet? People from the East sometimes carried satchels of currency with them into the West, to invest in land or mining projects. Or, might her folks have stolen a big poke of nuggets from some prospector? If that had happened, there should be some record concerning the prospector's complaint -- unless the prospector had died and told no tales. Myra didn't want to think about that, not in connection with her ma and pa.

Myra made fists in frustration. There was just too much about those days, the days of her childhood, that she didn't remember. She needed to talk to people who were keeping track of public affairs back then. But going out and questioning random citizens would attract a lot of attention. Folks would be wondering why a young newcomer was asking about acts of brigandage that had occurred in years gone by. 

No, she had to be very selective in choosing which people to question.The question was, who should those people be? Wouldn't the best information come from lawmen and newspaper publishers? But if she was making suspicious inquiries, wouldn't it get back to her aunt lickety-split? If it did, wouldn't Irene shut down her searching with just a few words? She sure as hell would – if it meant saving the family's reputation, or protecting herself. Yes, the girl wouldn't have been surprised if Irene's hands had gotten soiled, too. It was easy to do, whenever easy money came within reach.

Suddenly, Myra realized something. A lot of the old-time locals would be turning up at the Christmas party! And the party was going to be held that very night! If she went to it, she could speak to almost anyone, and do it in a completely innocent setting. Suddenly, the Eerie town Christmas party looked very different in her mind. It had become an affair that she'd be a fool not to attend!

#

 

Just after the farm girl and her aunt had finished with breakfast, George Severin arrived at the barn. At the window, watching him setting up, it occurred to Myra that the snoopy hired man might be a good source of information. He must, after all, have learned a few things after eighteen years of prying into other people's business. In that light, the timely appearance of George presented her with a fortunate opportunity. 

Putting on a coat and stocking cap, she went outside. 

“Finally showed up, huh?” the ginger said to the youth, hoping that merely looking him in the eye would start the chatterbox chattering.

The farm boy stabbed his manure fork into the ground and touched the brim of his straw hat in greeting. “Howdy, Miss Myra. I figured to come by yesterday, but my pa got it in his mind to have me help him fix up one of our old sheds, before worse weather comes in. He himself was going to be away, looking for your unfortunate cousin. The sun was sitting pretty close to the hills by the time I'd finished, so it've made no sense for me to come over so late. By the way, I'm plum sorry that Pa and the neighbors couldn't find any trace of Thorn. I hope you and Mrs. Fanning aren't feeling too badly.”

Myra shrugged. “We were upset enough yesterday, but life goes on.”

“That's the spirit,” George said. “Anyway, I've come over for an early start because I want to go into town as soon as I can and take one of those fancy baths. After that, I need to be getting ready for the Christmas Dance.”

“George, I've been wondering,” Myra began, “was that stagecoach robbery last week the biggest crime that ever came off around Eerie?”

Her question made his eyebrows rise. “Well, now,” he began, “I reckon that it would be one of the biggest. But Eerie can oftentimes be a rip-roaring piece of real estate. Like, last summer, the Hanks gang rode into town. It seems like they were dead-set on shooting down Sheriff Talbot like a mangy dog.”

Myra frowned; the boy had potion girls on the brain! She remembered wheln the news broke. The papers around Arizona, the previous July, had carried the story of how the whole gang had been gunned down on the streets of Eerie by a posse. Only too late had she found out that the public record had been a pack of malarkey. The outlaws were all still alive, as saloon women! She had even met the one of them, the one who was now calling herself Bridget Kelly. Had Myron known that such a goshdarn horrible thing was even possible, he'd have never come within ten miles of such a crazy town.

“What's wrong, Miss Myra? You've got on the most peculiar expression.”

“I'm all right. What makes Eerie so rip-roaring? What else has happened around here? Was it already so rough and tumble back during the war years?”

“The war years?” George found himself getting a smidgen curious. “That's an awfully long time ago, missy. When the war started, I was only about eight. What makes you so interested? Have you been reading too many of those dime novels?”

She gave a toss of her right hand. “I read them sometimes. They make me think about how a person's life doesn't have to be so dull and ordinary.”

George scratched his temple. “After the rowdy way that the Bertram gang treated you, I'd have have put money down that you'd never want to think about outlaws again.”

Her blue eyes challenged his hazel ones. “If you think I'm yellow, I'm not.”

George grinned. “I'm glad you're not yellow. Blondes are fine, but I like that red hair of yours a whole lot. Say, I've got some magazines at home, full of deeds of blood and thunder. Would you like see them?”

“Sure. Bring them over.” Myra was doing her best to come across as friendly, so she could keep him talking. “I like hearing about old-time crime better than the recent stuff. Those vintage tales of hard-riding outlaws aren't so sad and ugly. They seem more like something out of a storybook.”

Young Severin shrugged. “Well, it just so happens that I caught wind of a few good yarns back when I was just a kid.” 

Myra tried to smile. A girl's smile could warm a man quicker than a shot of whiskey, she knew. While she didn't care at all for her present situation, it made sense to take advantage of it as much as possible. “I really would like to hear about what went on back then. I want to hear it all.”

#

 

George told his employer's niece about several cases of claim-jumping, gun-play, and robberies -- of prospectors, stagecoaches, banks, and assay offices. Most of them had occurred at nearby towns, not in Eerie.

After a lengthy stream of jabber, he said, “But the biggest robbery that I ever heard of hereabouts was of a mining company.”

“Bigger than the stage job?”

“I'm not sure. But that slick mine thief got away with the loot.”

“Who was involved?” Myra asked carefully.

“Just one man.”

“How did he do it?”

“He didn't use a gun. He was more of an embezzler. The company'd hired him on as a clerk and trusted him enough to leave him working alone after hours. One night, he opened the safe and cleaned it out. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't been rounded up to this day.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Back several years ago. I don't recall exactly when.”
Though George was enjoying the conversation, he'd already passed along all his best stories. With his crime-related recollections growing vaguer, Myra started to look uninterested. 

“I really got to started with this cleaning,” the youth said of a sudden, deciding not to wear her out with jabber. “I'd be fine with chatting with you, except that your aunt is counting on me to get this parcel of work done. Maybe we can speak longer at the party tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said without much conviction. 

“So, you've really decided to go?”

“Why not? It wouldn't hurt if I got to know a few more of the people around town. I'll have to live here for a while, it appears.”

“Is there anyplace you'd rather be?”

“Not exactly -- not until I figure out how to make some decent money.”

George smiled. “That's fine -- that we'll be neighbors for a while, I mean. If you want to meet the local folk, there'll be some great characters at the bash. And I bet those old timers keeping warm around the stove will be able to tell you even better robber stories than I can.”

“That's something I'd like to find out,” she agreed.

#

 

George set to work with determination, needing to free up the afternoon for himself. When the last forkful of dung was loaded into the manure cart, he drove it out into the field and spread it around as spring fertilizer. Pen-cleaning was long, hard work for a solitary man, but he'd gotten used to it on the home farm and doing the unpleasant work was a necessity. He couldn't expect Mrs. Fanning's struggling farm to lay out wages for extra help during the off season. And Myra didn't look like the pen-cleaning type.

When he had wrapped up the arduous job, he headed out directly, without pausing to take lunch at Mrs. Fanning's table, as he so often did. Once in Eerie, he tied his mule to the hitching post at the stage depot and then waited there, seated on the bench by the door. Only a short while later, the Prescott stage entered the town from the east. Its canvas curtains, as usual, were shabby and dirty, its wheels bounced along kicking up a consarned volume of dust. Nonetheless, the kids, and even some of the adults who saw it were watching with an air of excitement.

When the creaking coach drew near and braked, George walked toward it. He didn't know the company men on the high box seat by name, but the station manager, Matt Royce, had given him the monikers of the guard and driver who had lately been robbed. “Hullo!” he yelled. “Are either of you gents Harry Cole or Robert Moorman?” 

One of the dusty coachmen glanced his way. “I'm Rob Moorman, kid. What of it?” 

“Hello, Mr. Moorman. I take it that your driver isn't Mr. Cole.”

“Not today. What's your business, kid?”

“If you've got a minute...” George began.

“What we've got a schedule.” Moorman said, climbing down from his perch and striking the ground with a short hop.

“You were the guard on the stage that was held up?” the youth asked.

The older man stepped past him, toward the depot door. “I was, lad. Is that important? You don't look like a reporter.”

George, trailed along, ready with a plausible story. “My family lives on the edge of town. We were expecting a visitor to come in on Wednesday last week. Our wagon didn't arrive until after you'd pulled out, but she wasn't around the depot. 

"Stranger still, Mr. Royce told us that he'd never seen such a miss. She still hasn't shown up and we've started to get concerned. Might you have seen her? She's a pretty girl with ginger hair, about my age. Was she on last Wednesday's stage?”

“A relative, or a lady friend?” the man asked wryly.
George grinned. “My cousin. We got her telegram from Ogden. It said she was about to take the stage south, but there's been no word since then. Ma's beside herself, thinking the young lady might be lost somewhere between northern Utah and Eerie.”

The company man paused at the depot's threshold. “I don't know nothing about it! No girl was on that stage. No one got off in Eerie at all, except a rough-looking man in his forties. Another feller boarded us here, and so did an old lady, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in the likes of them.”

“No, sir,” George said. 

“Well, I hope the lass is all right. Maybe you'll be getting that letter you're hoping for soon.”

“That would be a relief,” the youth replied. “My folks aren't going to calm down until we hear that she's safe.”

“Best of luck,” Moorman said with a nod. “This is a big country; too big. There's more than enough room for a greenhorn to get lost in it. Excuse me now, boy, the wheels have got to keep on turning, you know.” He went inside the station office.

It was a thoughtful George who walked away. Moorman had said what he'd expected him to say, that Myra Olcott had not been on his run the week before. So, how in blazes had she gotten into town, and when?

One thing he knew for sure, Miss Myra wasn't a ghost, she wasn't a fairy. She was somebody real who had come from some real place. But where was that place, and why were both her and her aunt trying to throw dust into people's eyes? And, also, he had to ask himself, why did he care so much about it?

George thought on that. Maybe it was because mysteries always fascinated him. But more than that, having something fascinating hanging over Myra's head made her even more interesting than she would have been otherwise.

The youth grinned inwardly. Beauty and mystery seemed to go well together. Part of him was glad to have an out of the ordinary situation to think about, the days being humdrum otherwise. Still, a lot of people had secrets, he knew. Maybe this secret was no big deal. Maybe the best thing to do would be to hang back, to watch and listen until it all became clear. 

But what if it turned out that the women had something to hide? Would that make it any business of his? He liked Mrs. Fanning and didn't want to get her into trouble – not unless she was involved in something that would hurt people. As for Myra, well, the gal was a fireball, a light in the night that made a person look and wonder, but he didn't want to hurt her, either. 

For the moment, the farm boy seemed to be up against a blank cliff. He had business to get done and couldn't just stand in the street puzzling over things that didn't add up. He first needed a bite to eat, and then he had to hurry over to the bath house to clean up and change his clothing. The bath would be vital, otherwise no gal at the party would tolerate standing next to him for as much as two minutes! 

Just then, a moving cloud spread sunlight across downtown and the young man looked up. The sky was clearing and the breeze out of the hills felt more pleasant than it usually did this close to Christmas. From all appearances, there would be fair weather for the dance. Since Myra's mood had noticeably improved, this was going to be a party that he surely didn't want to miss. The thought of seeing her prettied up in that trim yellow dress again made him feel all warm inside.

#

 

Carrying a crate of prepared food, Sheriff Dan Talbot led his wife Amy into the schoolhouse. He set his burden down next to the already-loaded tables. Mrs. Talbot was looking fine, gussied up in her best socializing outfit. Behind him, their son Jimmy walked distractedly, gazing right and left. Dan knew that the boy would soon catch sight of some friend of his and make a beeline away from his parents. The lawman was thinking that the youngest Talbot, almost before they'd known it, had stopped being a toddler. Hadn't it been just a little while ago that Jimmy couldn't take more than a couple steps at a time before falling down?

His lips pressed together as he considered that. One could really appreciate how quickly time flew when taking notice of the changes in a child of one's own. Jimmy was growing fast, while he and his wife were simply getting older. He realized with some regret that he and his mate were not so much a youngish couple anymore. They were, in fact, middle aged, or soon would be. That was a tough bite of skunk pig to swallow down.

He sighed and looked around. The school's pot-bellied stove was warming the big room sufficiently well, the night being so mild. Lamps were lit in the far corners, ready for the darkness that was soon to fall. Near the unlit fireplace, a fresh-cut jack pine had been set up, topping out at seven feet. The ladies had dressed it up with festoons, strings of popcorn, colorful beads, ribbon bows, and candles. At the top of the tree, there had been fixed a metal star, obviously snipped from the lid of a large tin can.

Dan saw that the beams above their heads had been decorated with pine boughs with additional cones fastened to them, apparently with fishing line. The tree and the evergreen trimmings together scented the room very agreeably. 

The row of tables nearby held an admirable spread of good eating. Bread, pastries, meat confections, jellies, jams, salads, soups, and even a box of store-bought chocolates were presented to all comers. Jimmy was going down the line, picking out treats for himself. “Dan,” said Amy, “I'd better put the things we bought on these tables while there's still room enough to hold them.”

“You do that, dear,” the sheriff agreed. “I see Otto Euler. I'd like to say hello to the fellow.”

“Ask him about his wife, Marcha, would you?”

“I will,” promised Dan.

The lawman picked his way through his jostling neighbors and reached the side of the brewer. 

“Howdy, Otto,” he said. “Are we going to be sampling any of your fine wares tonight?”

“Hello yourself, Sheriff,” he replied. “If you move fast enough, you can get all da beer dat you can svollow, I dink!”

“My wife is busy setting out her baked goods, but she wanted me to inquire after your wife's health.”

Euler's broad face became more sober. “Her cough ist much better, but she vonted to stay home tonight. She doughted dat she should risk da season's drafts. But da veather ist much better dis year dan last year. People den vere coming in to varm up betveen every dance, I recall.”

“Pretty near,” agreed the lawman.

“Oh, and by da vay, Dan, how did dat hunt for the outlaws go? I hear dey slipped da noose.”

“They did. Those varmints are young but foxy. They let us ride out, then doubled back and made another try at the strongbox that they'd hidden close-in. I feel damned bad about getting hoodwinked.”

“But dat deputy of yours got back most of da gold. He ist a good man! Hast Paul come home yet? Last I heard, he vas still oot with anutter posse.”

“That's so. They found the outlaw's pack horse between here and the Gila River. It's looking like the rascals are hightailing it toward Yuma. They can't have much loot with them anymore. We don't expect Paul's posse to chase them all the way to the California line, though. We've already sent Yuma an alert to be on the lookout.”

“The bandits vill get a breather if dey get all the vay to California,” Euler said with a scowl.

“That's the truth. It's touchy business to go chasing outlaws over a state border.”

The brewer just then shifted his glance toward the door. “Who are doz loverly ladies? From out of town, maybe?”

Dan turned about. “Well, well. That's the widow Fanning. She's dressed up right fancy tonight. I see her now and then, but never in a dress like that one. And the young lady with her must be...” Dan tried to remember the name that Shamus had told him. “...Myra. Myra, her niece from back East.”

This was the first time that Dan had set eyes on the new potion gal. As always, the changes that it ushered in amazed him.

“Doz two vill get a lot of dancing ift they're villing,” said Otto. “It ist at times like dees that I vish I vasn't a married man. Almost vish, I mean.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5, Part 1