The Twilight of the Gods: A Story of Mantra, Chapter 11

 Updated May 8, 2024

The TWILIGHT OF THE GODS -- Chap. 11

A story of Mantra and Black September

By Aladdin and Christopher Leeson 

CHAPTER 11

MANTRA'S DAUGHTER

You can have everything in life you want, 

If you will just help other people get what they want.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I was amazed by how grown up she appeared to be. She looked about seventeen and was the image of Eden Blake. To think that the last time I’d seen her she was only seven years old and a second grader.

I checked first to see if she looked underfed. Everyone else I’d seen in this tortured land had appeared hungry.

But my daughter's clone had not arrived alone; an excited Jamie stood beside her. Warstrike was looking at them. I wondered how he felt about his little girl breaking her promise so quickly.

"Evie, Jamie, come in," Brandon said. Evie now saw me and was apparently struck speechless.

Tark drew his daughter away from her – sister. It was still hard for me to put my mind around the idea that the family I knew had been expanded. "Jamie," he asked, "have you dreamed about the Flaming Woman again lately?"

She nodded. "Yes, Daddy. I wanted to tell you, but when I met Aunt Jennie I forgot about it."

"That's okay,"Tark said. "But it's important that you tell us what you dreamed. Mantra thinks that maybe a real-life Flaming Woman is coming. We have to learn as much possible about her before she gets here."

The little girl glanced back my way. "Have you met the Flaming Woman, Mantra? Is she coming to hurt us?"

"I do believe she's coming," I said, "but I don't know why. I'm hoping we can all make friends with her. I have a big favor to ask of her."

Jamie frowned confusedly. "But she's bad, isn't she?"

I tried to reassure her with a smile. "I'm guessing the Flaming Woman's not so much bad as mixed up. When she was back home, there was a big explosion where all her friends died. She hasn't been acting herself since that bad thing happened."

Jamie smiled uneasily as if her child's mind was trying to reconcile the idea of someone being both good and evil at the same time. When her age, I had mulled over things like that myself.

"B-Brandon," stammered Evie. “Our mother didn’t have any sister named Jennie. Didn’t you know that?”

"Aunt Jennie has explained quite a few things to me," said Warsrike, "but you ought to talk to her yourself. But first, Jamie has to tell us about the Flaming Woman."

"But this person can't really be Mantra!" Evie insisted.

"Speak to her. Decide for yourself," Brandon told her.

The father and his young daughter left then, and the guards shut the door to give Evie and me privacy.

"I refuse to believe that you're my mother," Evie said, her chin high and expression determined.

"My name is Eden Blake, but I'm not your mother. I come from an alternate dimension."

She blinked perplexedly. "An alternate dimension? Like in the science fiction books?"

"Yes. Your stepfather believes me, and I'd like you to believe me, too."

“Why are you here?”

"I have a job to do. When I left my own Evie and Gus at home a day or so ago, they were still in elementary school. To me, that was only hours ago, but when I look at you, I know what my daughter will look like when she's almost grown up."

“There aren’t any alternate dimensions!” she declared.

“Maybe if we talk for a while, the idea won't seem so strange."

She grimaced. "Whoever you are, you look exactly like I remember you – her."

She looked so full of hurt, but I thought it was too soon to take her into my arms.

"I dreamed a thousand times about my mother not being dead, that she would be coming back. But if you're not my real mom, nothing at all has changed."

"I'm sorry. I thought you might feel that way, so I decided not to meet with you. I knew that even if I could make you feel better for a moment, the hurt would come back even worse than before when I had to go away again."

She pulled back and broke eye contact.

“If you come from another place, why are you in this world?" she asked.

"I'm looking for the Flaming Woman, the one Jamie keeps dreaming about?"

"But they're only dreams, aren't they?"

"No. The woman is real, and she's an ultra with a unique power – a power that can save untold billions of lives."

Evie suddenly looked hopeful. "Will she save our world, too?"

I decided to hedge that question. "I'm not sure. I hope so."

“Was there any volcano in the world where you came from?”

"No, not yet. Maybe there won't ever be. As soon as I get home, I intend to do my best to stop it from happening." I might have to kill a few dozen Deep Staters to do the job, but I was game for that!

"I wish I could believe you."

"I know this is hard, and I think you've had too much hardship already. How badly have things gone for you?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I think the rebels are going to attack the castle soon. They want to kill Warstrike and Necromantra. Maybe they'll kill the rest of us, too. I don't know."

"Do you think that your – stepdad – is can win the war?"

She bit her lip. "No, I don't."

Reaching out, I took her by the shoulders. When my daughter reached her age, I wanted her to be enjoying a happy life. This world was a bizarre parody of my own; too many ghastly things had gone wrong here.

"I'm going to try to talk to the rebels and see if that helps," I said. "But the first thing I want to know is how has Warstrike been treating you?"

"He's been all right. He's good with our sister, too. He’s done some bad things, but I can't forget how he loved our mother so much. I can guess how much it must hurt him to look at you knowing you're not the person we both loved."

"I wish things could have worked better for you, Evie, but please tell me about yourself. Have you been keeping up with your studies?"

She stared into my face. "How can that matter to you?"

I forced a smile. "Because I'd feel better if you could have all the things I want her to have."

The teen girl shrugged. "I can read and write and do arithmetic," she said. “Brandon has made sure that we know about the world, at least how it used to be. I don't know why that's important. That world is gone, and what's left so terrible."

"What kind of a king has he been?" I asked.

Instead of answering, she glanced back at the door.

"Do you think someone out there is listening to us?"

"I – I don't know," she replied haltingly. "People are always spying. Stepdad has executed a lot of rebel spies, but he spies, too. And Necromantra spies on both sides."

Just the sound of that witch’s name sank my more tender feelings.

"Yes, I’ve been wondering about Necromantra. How has seen been treating you?"

Evie gave a shudder. "I hate her! She killed my mother."

"She killed Mantra? Are you certain of that?"

"Maybe she did, but I know for sure that she killed my first mother."

I nodded. "Has she tried to harm you?"

"She keeps her distance," said Evie. "She showed up right after Mother – Mantra – was killed. She ignores us, mostly. It's horrible that my first mother's murderer is living in the same house with us."

"Why does your stepdad put up with her?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. She's powerful, and Brandon needs power on his side. But it makes me crazy that they decided to get married."

“It makes me pretty crazy, too. Do they get along personally?"

Evie glanced to the floor, frowning. "I don't think he trusts her, but she has a way with people, even Dad." Evie lowered her voice. "There's all kinds of stories about her. Some people say she used to be a man. Does that make any sense?"

"Does she act like a man?" I replied evasively. I thought that Evie already had enough weirdness in her life.

"Not that I can see."

I smiled. "Well, then, maybe those rumors aren't true."

"Mom – Mantra, I mean. Are you just like my mother?”

“In what way?”

"She once told me that she had the ghost of a man inside her." Evie was watching my expression as if to see my reaction to the bomb she'd just thrown.

I sighed. When Necromantra attacked, Eden had been in her own body, and I was in the body of a male clone. Having no magic of my own, I was no match for the witch's sorcery. Eden, wounded and dying, urged me to reenter her body. I had to do it to defeat Necromantra, but Evie had been watching it all and knew something wasn't right. She asked me if I was really her mother. Rightly or wrongly, I very briefly explained what had really happened. After that, I was surprised that she hadn't asked for more information.

"By the time you grew up, I hoped you'd have forgotten what I'd said," I told her softly.

"I almost did. I didn’t want to know about something so strange. Whenever I thought about it, it worried me. I wanted you to be the Mantra I had always thought you were -- an incredibly special woman. I could never understand why you behaved so much like my mom when you were a completely different person. After a while, I didn’t think about what you'd said at all."

"I did my best to act like Eden Blake whenever I could. But I truly did like having a family after living alone for such a long time."

“Did you live a life just like the real Mantra’s?” Evie suddenly asked.

I smiled. "I've always thought of myself as being the real Mantra. I never knew your mother existed until today."

"Being with you makes me feel like Mantra has come back. Do you have to leave?" she asked with a hint of urgency. The poor kid was hoping for a redo of a life that had gone so haywire.

"Yes, I do. I don't have any choice about that. Many people on many worlds will die if I don't get help from the Flaming Woman."

"Then please tell me that you're a bad person so I won't miss you."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"If I hate you, I won't miss you when you’re gone."

"It's all right if you hate me if it will make you feel better."

"If you were really a man?" she asked. "What kind of a man were you?"

I could have told her many disgraceful things about myself. I had lived a very long time, and in trying to do good in crazy circumstances, I had gone into some dark places.

"Evie, I've made mistakes, and maybe your mother made those same mistakes. I'm far from perfect, but I'm not a monster either. Evie is my daughter now, and I do my best to make her happy. I only wish that you could have known a much better life than the one you've had."

"I still want to know if you were really a man?"

I sighed. "If I said yes, would that make you want me to go?"

"It would be strange and hard to understand. What kind of a man were you?"

I glanced away. "I was a soldier. Your mother and I met, fell in love, and wanted to be married."

She stood in front of me quietly before saying, "I'm not surprised you were a soldier, not after all the times I've seen you fight."

I very much wanted to change the subject. "What happened to your father, to Gus Blake?"  

She shivered; I'd touched a sore spot. "We never found out. He was away on a business trip when the volcano exploded. There was hardly any communication at all. Mobs, mostly illegals, started breaking into homes, stealing, and killing. Mantra took us to Brandon's house. The only thing I could take with me was Mr. Paws."

You saved Mr. Paws?"

"You know about Mr. Paws? How could you?"

"My Evie has a Mr. Paws, too."

"I still have Mr. Paws. He's about the only thing left to remind Gus and me about how life used to be. I love Jamie, but I didn’t let her play with Paws until she was big enough to take good care of her toys."

"Did you ever go back to your old home?"

Evie shook her head. "There was nothing to go back to. The looters didn't just steal and murder, they seemed to want to burn down the whole Los Angeles area."

I straightened. "Time is running out, and I have a lot to do. As bad as things are, be strong, be wise, Evie. Take care of your brother and sister. Also, let Brandon know how much you like him."

Evie nodded, wiping her eyes. "I will. Goodbye...Mom."

Carrying an ache with me, I started for the door. Before I could touch the knob, I heard Gabriel's voice:

"I decided to join you, Mantra."

I looked back and saw Gabriel, but that was all I saw. The room I'd shared with Evie wasn't there! The two of us occupied a misty, insubstantial place. "Where have you snatched me away to this time?" I asked.

"This is a location in zero-time where we can talk," he explained.

"Did you fix what was wrong with your communications system?"

"There wasn’t much to do. The psionic blast the ultra attacker gave you damaged your nano-receptors, but they're self-repairing. Though you couldn't hear me, I could hear and keep track of you."

"I messed up and involved myself with the folks here. It's hard to keep focused when I'm surrounded by people I think I know."

"You've proceeded splendidly. Your task was to contact the local leadership and get assistance with subduing Amber Hunt.  Warstrike has already agreed to help, and you are preparing to meet with the opposing faction. I commend you, Mantra; you have a natural instinct for time agent work."

"Spare me the flattery.  When is Hunt coming?"

"From all indications, she will arrive within several hours. We need to use our available time to establish friendly channels with both sides."

"What's going to happen to all the people here?"

Gabriel gave back a glum look. "If Amber Hunt takes the Time Gem away from this world, the local reality will be eliminated."

"That's it?"

"I'm sorry."

"Gabriel, I have a request to make."

"Yes?"

"We can't rescue everybody, but can't we take a few people away with us? I mean, take away Evie and her family?"

"It's possible. Do your best. I'll leave the details to you."

"I’ll do what I can! What now?"

"You should go talk to the rebel leaders, as Warstrike has asked you to do."

"I'll do that as soon as you start time again."

An instant later, Gabriel was gone, and I was back in the room with Evie. I heard her gasp.

"What's wrong, dear?" I asked.

"You blinked out of that spot and reappeared where you are now?" she said incredulously.

"What happened to me is one of those crazy ultra things. They're always hard to explain, Button."

Evie gave me an odd look. "Nobody has called me Button since – Mantra – died."

"That's probably because it's not a nickname that fits a grownup girl like you."

"Maybe not, but hearing you say it makes you sound just like my mother."
 
"I've got good news," I said. "When I vanished, I went to talk to a super-scientist ally I have. He says you and your whole family can come with us when we're ready to leave."

"Are we going to live together?"

"Not forever. I have to go back to my own family. But I promise we won't part until I find you a safe and happy home."

She smiled the kind of careful smile that children smile when they've already had their hopes shattered too many times to count.

"Can't we go now?"

"We could, but there won't be a happy ending for anybody unless we do some major league world-saving. In the meantime, find out whether Gus will be willing to leave with us. Do you want me to ask your stepdad to come along, too?"

"Yes, please!" she said.

I kissed her cheek and then made another attempt at leaving the room. My knock summoned a guard who unlatched the door in about five seconds flat.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWELVE

The Twilight of the Gods: A Story of Mantra, Chapter 10

 

The TWILIGHT OF THE GODS -- Chap. 10

A story of Mantra and Black September

By Aladdin and Christopher Leeson 

 

 CHAPTER 10

"Just what do you expect to accomplish by coming here?" Tark asked suddenly.

"I'm here to find someone. We have reason to believe that a very powerful ultra is going to stop here soon."

"Are you working alone?"

I didn't want to tell "King Warstrike" too much. I had to be on guard. This wasn't the Tark I knew and wasn't sure if he was a good egg or a rotten one. Tyrants are notorious for double-dealing. "I'm working with a group from the Godwheel. A kind of super-scientific race of geniuses. They have information that the woman can help us, but it will be tricky handling her since she's been a loose cannon and has trouble accepting discipline and teamwork."

"I don't care about her. I have enough crazy ultra-women right here in L.A. to worry about. By the way, if this disaster didn't happen in your reality, what's going on in the America you know?"

"Where I am, Brandon is president."

"Brandon!" he exclaimed. "In this world, he's dead. But is there any chance that Yellowstone will go off back where you come from!"

"Anything's possible, I suppose. We've got a dirty Deep State back home, too. But now that I know the danger, I'm going to be doing my best to prevent it.

Then there came a tapping at the door.

"It's open!" Warstrike yelled.

A uniformed man entered with a little girl. I saw at a glance that it wasn't Evie.

"Daddy?" she said, looking at Warstrike.

"Shut the door behind you, Maverick," he told the guard. Then, to the girl, he said, "Come here, Jamie."

Jamie?"

The tyke approached the king without fear, and then she noticed me.

This lady," the child began, "she's dressed like pictures of …"

"She's your aunt, Jennifer," her father told her, lying. "She's your mother's twin sister."

Jennifer? For some reason, I'd never like that name. If this Brandon knew that, it went to show that he had a rotten sense of humor.

The brown-haired youngster stood looking at me as if I were something marvelous. "I didn't know that Mommy had a twin."

"Ah, yes she did," Brandon said. "She was vacationing in Mexico and when she didn't come home, your mom and I thought she must have died. I never mentioned that you had an aunt Jennifer so the bad news wouldn't make you sad. But she's here now, so why don't you give your auntie a nice big hug?"

I knelt to make things easier for her. She came up and gave me a long, strong hug before easing a step back and looking into my face with wonder.

"Can I see what you look like without a mask?" Jamie asked.

I obliged.

"You look just like my mommy! And you also look like my sister Evie!"

"I never met your sister, Evie," I said. "But she can't be as pretty as you are!"

I couldn't help but wonder what, truly, was my relationship with this child. If her mother was my temporal clone, one could consider us identical twins That circumstance would truly have made me Jamie's aunt. I kind of liked the idea; since it made us close, but not so close as to create a messy relationship.

At that point, I looked to Warstrike. "Brandon, we've got to talk about serious things. Maybe Jamie shouldn't listen to them."

He nodded. "Maybe not. Jamie, I'm going to have the guard take you back to your room."

"Can I tell Evie and Gus about seeing Aunt Jennifer?" she asked.

Tark sent me a questioning look.

I said to the tyke, "Why not hold off for a little bit? I’d like give them the same kind of a fun surprise that I gave to you. What do you think?"

Jamie laughed and continued looking back at me while her dad led her to the door.

When Tark and I were alone again, I said, "Your Mantra must have been very different from me if she decided to marry you.

"Why? Am I so bad a catch?"

"Let's just say I'm still I'm a long way to go before I catch up with the Mantra you had."

Had? Damn, I hadn't put that right!

At least Warstrike wasn't smirking. "Even may lady had problems with the idea at first, but it was a forced decision. There was a baby coming."

"Perfect," I said sarcastically.

"Those were terrible times," he said. "We were becoming the de facto leaders of a city with a lot of very powerful and very traumatized people in it -- probably because we both had military experience. It was a lonely job. We had no choice but to shut people out emotionally so that no one would realize that the two of us were just about as messed up as everyone else. We didn't have anyone to turn to for support, except for each other."

"I get the picture," I said, not wanting to get into the subject of love and marriage.

"We lost so much when Mantra died. Nothing seemed to go right once we lost her."

"If she was like me, she was a great person. But just keep in mind that that other Mantra and I were two different people."

"How different are you?" he asked.

"Well, I’m the version who isn't going to jump into bed with you. No offense, but that's not where my head is at. Brandon Tark and I were just friends. Very good friends."

Tark and I had gotten along so well because he reminded me of my fellow knights of Archimage, whom I had worked with for so long. Now I could see that our relationship was one that I had to be very careful with.
 

The version of Tark in front of  me changed the subject. "Once Jamie talks to the other kids, I'm pretty sure you'll be seeing Evie. Of Gus, I'm not so certain. He's a hard kid to predict. What are you going to say to them if they drop in? They’re never going to buy into the auntie idea."

"It's best that I don't see them. I have a job to do. If I fail at it, history is going to change so much that the whole Big Bang might as well have never happened."

"Bing Bang? You come from the Dark Ages. When did you start believing in the Big Bang?"

"Not until the Twentieth Century, actually."

"Well, I used to believe in that scientific nonsense, too, but a lot of polluted water has flowed under the bridge since then."

"Ain’t that the truth?

"I just had a thought," Warstrike said. "Is there a possibility that you could go back in time and stop the Yellowstone thing?"

"Possibly, but it wouldn’t help my world and it wouldn’t help your world either."

"Why not?"

"Because changing past events doesn't change what's already happened. Meddling with past events will only create a clone timeline that will follow from any historical change. But the events that have already happened in other timelines are going to stay the same."

He scowled. "Well, aren’t you the good news kid!” He paused almost imperceptibly and then asked, “What about that woman you’re looking for? Have I ever heard of her, or does she come from outer space?"

"I don’t know if she ever existed in your world, but in my world she’s called Amber Hunt."

"Whoa! Amber Hunt? I know that name. She almost burned this planet to a cinder with gamma rays. How can an out of control nutcase save the Multiverse -- if there really is a Multiverse?"

"The people I'm working with think that she's salvageable. Horrible things happened to her and made her what she is. From all I can tell, she didn't start out bad. If there’s any part of her mind that isn’t crazy, we have find it and tap it."

"Well, horrible things happen to all of us," he said with a wry grin.

Then he stopped smiling.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I remember that converting energy is her big ultra power. Is it possible to describe Amber Hunt as a 'Flaming Woman'?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"My daughter keeps dreaming about somebody she calls the Flaming Woman."

My brow furrowed. "Tell me more."

"Lately, Jamie's been saying things that make me think that she may have inherited my power of precognition."

"If she can predict the arrival of a 'Flaming Woman,' why haven't you done so, too?"

"You know how quirky my power can be." Then he looked up. "Or is your Tark different?"

"No, he's not different."

He shrugged. "Anyway, Jamie has been dreaming that a Flaming Woman will come and she's going to “take me away."

"What would Amber Hunt want with you?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Did she have some sort of relationship with Brandon Tark back where you come from?"

"None at all, as far as I know."

"If she shows up, doesn't it make sense that I should kill her before she kills me?"

I shook my head. "No! If you kill her, the whole universe is going to be lost. She’s the only ultra we know of who has the right ultra power to stop a creature as powerful as the one called Nemesis. As things stand, the future timelines tell us that she will partially impede Nemesis, but she'll arrive too late to stop the Multiverse from collapsing in a couple of centuries. Our hope is that we can capture Hunt and give her information that will make her more effective in battle."

"And you’ve seen all this by time-traveling?"

"Yes! I've seen that final battle. If it plays out the same way again, we're all doomed. Here’s the deal. My allies’ information tells us that the Amber Hunt who will be coming here will be the Main Branch version of Amber Hunt out of her proper place, just like I’m the Main Branch version of Mantra."

"This is hard for me to put my mind around it.”

You?” I said. “How do you think I feel?’

“Well, excuse me if I leave that problems I don't understand to you. What I need to ask is whether you can do anything to help us out here.”

"I wish I could help. As far as I understand the situation, a lot of good people on both sides have been acting wrongheadedly. I have no clue how to fix an implosion that’s been going on for years during a stopover that's only about an hour long! If you’re taking suggestions, would it help if you relinquished power?"

"If I did that, the whole city would be out for my throat. History tells us what happens to most fallen kings."

"Sad but true."

"Listen, I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I'll let everyone know that some kind of Flaming Woman is coming very soon and she is to be subdued and captured, but not harmed. The trouble is that the rebels control most of the city. The rebels might get her, so you'll have to negotiate with the rebels before she shows up. It might help a little if you inform them that Hunt is going to be sent away with you, and that I’m not planning on using her as any sort of a weapon."

"That last part might help. There’s a lot of dug-in hatred around this city that can mess up everything. But we've been skipping around the crucial question," I said.

"What question?"

"Am I a prisoner here, or what? If you want me to talk to your enemies, you’ll have to give me freedom of movement. I've got a lot of loose threads to tie together and I can't do that from an interrogation cell, not even a convivial one."

"I see your point," he said forlornly. "But if I let you go, what will you do to...well, help my regime?"

"You shouldn't assume that I can do anything at all. All I can promise is to act as an honest broker. But the time that I can spend in this crazy place is limited. I still have plenty of ducks to get into a row."

The sad thing was that I was snowing him. The hour of failure for the Time Gem coming fast and there was nothing I could do about that. If I told Tark the hideous truth, it was just possible that he would throw off all restraint and do something that was apocalyptic and really stupid. Crazy in, crazy out.

"Mantra was the only person who never let me down," he declared resignedly. "It's torture looking at you. It's devilishly hard to remember that you're not the wife that I loved and cherished."

More than most people, I know how much the loss of a beloved mate hurts, but what could I do about it? “I appreciate the sentiment. But for now, what's next?"

"You're free to go. What do you need to get started?"

"First --"

My intent to speak was interrupted by another tapping on the door. I could feel a familiar bio-signature looming on the other side of it. A shiver ran through me. Was I up for this sort of poignant encounter?"

Warstrike went over and checked the security slot. Without saying anything, he opened portal.

Standing on the threshold was this universe’s version of Evie Blake.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 2

Posted 05-07-19 

Revised 06-09-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 1, Part 2

December 19, 1871, Continued 

The aunt and niece found Molly waiting for them at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. Reunited, they walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop. The owner was a young man in this thirties with a round face and brown, thinning hair.  His sideburns were robust, as was the mustache that flowed across his cheeks to merge with them.

“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”

Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”

The auburn frowned. “Tomfoolery for empty heads. I want to read about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have enough sword-fighting.”

The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”

Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”

“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his step ladder and drew down from a high shelf a fancily embossed volume with gilded edges. He climbed down and handed it to his young visitor.

“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though the pages. “I read a few stories about knights in some of our school books.”

“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”

Myra knitted her brows. “What does it cost?”

“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.

“Well, I don't have any money at all,” she replied.

“We'd better save this one for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any new dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”

“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.

“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't seem to get enough of those sorts of stories.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that so much blood and thunder would appeal to a young lady.”

“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”

“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.

“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. Then her perturbed expression transformed to whimsy. “Surely, the exploits of such black-hearted villains would keep an innocent girl awake at night. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”

“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his available stock and offered them to Myra.

While Kirby attended to her companions, Molly had been exploring the shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.

The latter accepted it and read the title: The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. Paging through it, she saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.

“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail that a young lady might not be ready for it.”

“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they'll be more different still.”

“I think that this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying a dime novel to her guardian.

“Very well,” consented Irene. Then she returned her attention to the tract in her hands. She was getting second thoughts. It might be better to allow Myra to read something written by a medical man, and in that way learn things about a woman's body that should not be broached by anyone other than a decidedly mature woman or a doctor.

Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and book separately, binding them with lengths of string. Once Molly and companions were back outside, she ushered them along the boardwalk to the news office. She did  not think they would mind getting a good story about a young lady who had been abducted by outlaws. It they published the story it would inform everyone of Myra's arrival at the same time.

The saloon-keeper only paused long enough to scan the advertisements posted on the shop's exterior bulletin board.
 
Then, looking through the glass, she took note that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of what might be important work, she rethought the idea of disturbing him. She mentioned her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.

“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want take the fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”

“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 1

Posted 04-07-19

Revised 05-07-19 

Revised 06-09-19  

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 1, Part 1

December 19, 1871, Continued

Chapter 1

Tuesday, December 19, 1871

A prairie chicken, bursting from the roadside weeds, startled the carriage horse. “Easy now, Hazel,” Mrs. Fanning shouted to the beast, tugging at the reins to settle it down.

Myra Olcott, next to her aunt, bounced once on the hard seat and then forgot about the mishap; she was too angry to care. All she could think about was how her life had crashed into flames like a burning building.

Abigail Myra Olcott hadn't wanted to make this trip but Aunt Irene was insistent: “Everyone knows that a young lady has arrived from 'the East.' They'll all be curious to meet you and we shouldn't keep you out of sight for too long. They might start wondering whether you have a contagious disease, or something worse.”

Those words struck Myra like a blow.

Irene Fanning realized her mistake. The girl's parents had died of cholera five years past, and she was still angry with the entire world because of that.

“What I'm saying,” Mrs. Fanning explained, “is that you can't afford to have curious people watching you too carefully. You have secrets to keep. Or have you stopped caring?”

“I've already met everybody in town,” the girl said, “and what I've stopped caring about is the whole pack of them.”

“But they've only met you as Myron Caldwell, who's supposed to be dead. You have to introduce yourself as a totally new person.”

Myra scowled. She distinctly disliked the “totally new person” that she had become.

“I asked Molly O'Toole to join us today,” continued Irene. “The storekeepers all know Mrs. O'Toole. If she seems to like you, it should carry weight with them. Make a good impression and they'll spread the word that you're a fine young lady.”

With clenched fists, Myra declared, “I'm sorry I ever came back from Stagecoach Gap alive.”

“You've said that before. But tell me, <i>my girl,</i> would you truly rather be dead and buried, with your soul very possibly in Hell, or would you prefer to be alive – even as you are?

The maid gritted her teeth. The term “my girl” was a magical code-word that compelled her to follow her aunt's orders. She hadn't really believed in magic, but since the week before it had come out of the brush like a rattler and stung her. It compelled her to tell the truth, for one thing, and truth-telling was something that could only get a person into trouble.

“I don't believe in Hell,” the maiden replied grudgingly , “but I sure wouldn't want to go there if it's real.”

Irene turned her head and spoke seriously. “Most of the people who fall into the flames don't believe in the bad place either, I imagine. People who don't believe in Hell can't honestly believe in Heaven. And only people who believe in God are allowed to live with Him.”

“The demons must believe in God,” Myra retorted. “They don't live with him.”

“Yes, but they don't love him or obey him willingly. That's the difference.”

“I'd rather be a ghost and live by myself.”

“Whatever you want, I rather believe that it's not you who will be judging such matters.”

“It's the parsons that fill people's heads with ideas like yours,” the ginger-haired maid returned. “What does a bag of straw like Reverend Yingling know?”

The two of them had argued along these lines before. This time, the woman just sighed and kept driving.

By now, the buckboard had passed the town welcome sign and Riley Canyon Road was widening into the main street of the town. Eerie, Arizona was small compared to many Eastern towns, but here, south of the Superstition Mountains, it was the largest settlement to be found, except for Phoenix, sixty miles to the west. As they passed the false-fronted buildings on either side, people turned to look. Few could have missed the very attractive young lady seated next to the Widow Fanning.

Irene waved to those who waved at her first, but her forced smile was masking tension. How would Myra behave in public? Only a few people in the world knew the girl's real identity. Not even George Severin, the neighbor boy who helped them on the farm, had been told the truth.

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 1

THE WOUNDED WORLD

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

Originally written 2006

Revised Sept. 21, 2018
Revised April 26, 2020

A NOTE FROM CHRISTOPHER LEESON

I never enjoyed a comic-book series better than I did Malibu Comic's MANTRA, one of its Ultraverse titles. It ended in 1996 due to a series of bad business and creative decisions, first on the part of the management staff of Malibu Comics, and then by the leadership of Marvel Comics, which had only lately purchased it.

Mantra vanished along with the rest of the Ultraverse.  Out of all the darkness, there came a faint light five years later.  The stories of Aladdin started to appear, new tales of Mantra (published at Fictionmania.tv) which were professional in quality and presented a Mantra that ran true to the original. But Mantra's revival in fan-fiction was to be sadly brief. 

In all, Aladdin completed five stories inspired by Mantra's adventures. The last of them was Part I of a two part adventure called “The Wounded World.” It was intended to be concluded with a follow up, “The Twilight of the Gods.” Unfortunately, the pesky business of making a living foiled Aladdin's intention to bring out the latter story, at least to date. The text of “Twilight of the Gods” does exist, fortunately, as something between a rough draft and a very detailed outline. 

As an admirer of Aladdin's work, I made contact with the author. I must have made a pest of myself, urging Aladdin to, somehow, find time enough to finish the uncompleted novel. I was told that work has been keeping him pinned down. Nonetheless, he held out a hope that he could eventually go back to fan writing after retirement. Finally, I could wait no long and made the best of Ultraverse fan writers an offer. I would finish and revise “Twilight of the Gods” myself, if he pledged to give me as much editing and creative advice as he had time for. The last part was important; I wanted to turn out a finished product that held on to as much of Aladdin's original vision as possible. In exchange, we would be considered joint authors. It was an immense vote of confidence that Aladdin said "Yes." 

Consequently, I have started working on The Twilight of the Gods, based upon Aladdin's original work. It will be slow going, considering that I am currently working on the next "Eerie, AZ" novella, The Belle of Eerie, Arizona. The latter I hope to have ready for posting in about a year.

Okay, given that background, why, one might ask, am I offering what amounts to a third project, The Wounded World, starting today?

The reason is not so simple. Aladdin and I agree that readers would find Twilight of the Gods hard to understand if readers do not first get familiar with events of The Wounded World, which sets up the universe-shattering conflicts that Mantra struggles to resolve in The Twilight of the Gods. So, while I am putting most of my time into writing and editing the other two books, I'll also be doing some rather light editing on The Wounded World and posting it chapter by chapter into my personal TFTGS space.

The effort will take more than a year, but should leave me time enough to work on the other books also. Readers of TFTGS will be presented with a roughly 10-page chapter each month. My readers at TFTGS will already be familiar with this posting method.  Anyway, segmented adventures should be familiar enough to comic book fans.

As editor, I have made this pledge to Aladdin: That he will have approval rights over all modifications done to his original work. Incidentally, that is the best relationship that all authors and editors should seek to achieve. Too often, editorial ego gets in the way of smooth cooperation. Bad editing is more the rule than the exception. I will make it a priority to change that.

Now a word from Aladdin himself.

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 1, Part 2

Posted Aug 20, 2017 

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Chapter 1, Part 2
 Humphreys led Mrs. Fanning to the upper floor.  The Judge rapped urgently on the O'Toole's apartment door and it opened a moment later.

“Land sakes!  Judge!” said Molly O'Toole.  “What a surprise!”

“Parnassus,” muttered Shamus, her husband, as he stepped out from the bedroom.  He was a tall, sturdy red-haired man in his early forties, sporting a trimmed mustache.  “Ye’re always welcome, yuir Honor, but m'Irish instincts tell me that this must be a wee bit more than a social call.”

“Indeed it is, and we must settle the issue swiftly.  A life is at stake.  This lady and I should speak to you in confidence, Shamus.  Perhaps, if Molly doesn't mind...”

Shamus grinned.  “We can be starting out in secret, but I can't promise that such a stubborn woman as me Molly won't have it wheedled out of me before ye can find yuir way back to the street.”

“Oh!” said Molly in exasperation, “How you go on, Shamus!  Find out what the Judge wants.  Didn't ye hear someone is dying?  Let me tend to the crowd while ye're busy.”

Shamus nodded.  With a few quick steps, Mrs. O'Toole was out the door.

“Who's life is at stake, if ye don't mind me asking?” the Irishman inquired.

“Have you heard the name Thorn Caldwell?”

Shamus grimaced.  “The young hellion who was always in trouble -- the horse thief?  Is he back?”

“He robbed a stage along the canyon road.”

Shamus made a hmmm sound.  “‘Tis sorry I am to hear that.  But ain’t that a job for the Sheriff?”

Humphrey sighed.  “It's damnably complex.  From what Dan and this lady have told me, her nephew, Caldwell, is with Doc Upshaw.  He's been shot and isn't expected to make it.”

Shamus regarded Mrs. Fanning with a nod of sympathy.  “I'm grieved to be hearing that, Ma'am.”  Then he regarded the jurist.  “Are ye hoping I can save the pup?” he asked with a suspicious lilt.

“It seems that it's the boy's only chance.  Do you have any of the... medicine prepared?”

Shamus pursed his lips.  “I've been keeping a small supply on hand, ready to go, ever since Elmer O'Hanlan had his accident.”

Humphreys cocked his head.  “What do you think about that?  Was it something that you regret?”

The barkeeper shrugged.  “I don't regret saving a kid's life.  But I ain’t happy ‘bout his father swallowing the stuff by accident.”

“Thorn is with the doc.  There may not be much time.”

“Is the boy worth saving?”  O'Toole stopped abruptly when he saw the awful look on Mrs. Fannings' face.

The jurist sighed.  “Do you regret how the Hanks gang turned out?  It seems to me that you treat them as if they were your own daughters.  Is there any one of God's creatures who is absolutely not worth saving?”

Their host looked away thoughtfully.  “I figure I've met a few of that kind, mostly in San Francisco.”  He then shifted toward Mrs. Fanning.  “Are ye sure about this?”

“Are the... potion girls miserable?” she asked.

The Irishman shrugged.  “They have thuir good days and thuir bad, like everyone else.”

“Then the potion doesn't make all that much difference?” Irene asked hopefully.

Shamus' look became grave.  “It makes a wee bit of difference in the sort of life they're living now.  Do ye realize how hard this is going to be for Thorn, even if he heals up fit as a fiddle?” 

“Horse thieves hang, stage robbers go to prison.  There are no good choices left.  I owe it to my sister -- his mother -- to save him if I can.”

“Just don't be blaming me if what happens gives the pair of ye a hard row to hoe.” 

“I won't, I promise.”

The taverner crossed to the wall rack and drew down a woolen coat of red and black plaid.

“Another thing, Shamus, my friend,” added the Judge.  “I'd like you to get Molly or R.J. to spread the word that Dan needs to have a posse put together for tomorrow morning.  Is Paul Grant here?”

O'Toole squinted thoughtfully.  “He'll probably be down on the floor listening to Jessie sing.”

“Good.  Pass on Dan's instructions to go ring the fire bell and form up the volunteers.  They'll have to be ready before sunup.”

“A posse?  For who?”

“Caldwell wasn't alone.  There are still three desperadoes on the dodge,” Humphreys replied.

“I hear what ye’re saying,” Shamus said.

                                                                      #

“Doctor, how is he?!” Irene Fanning asked urgently from the waiting room.

Upshaw looked up.  “He spoke a few words, but he's senseless again.  I doubt he knows where he is.”  To the men with Irene, he asked, “What all have you decided?”  Shamus and the Judge looked at one another, but let the lady give the answer.

“Can you wake him?” Irene asked.  “Then I can ask him what he wants.”

The physician exhaled with a whistling sound.  “I'm afraid that no talking is going to be possible.  What do you want to do, Mrs. Fanning?”

Now that Irene actually had the means to save her nephew, the faithful words seemed to catch in her throat.

“Under the law,” began Judge Humphreys, “Thorn is a minor, and you are his legal guardian, Madam.  The course of his care in such an emergency is legally yours to decide.  Our Dr. Upshaw will be able to use his own discretion about what happens in his office, if you happen to ask Shamus to use... a controversial treatment.”

The widow stared at the ashen-faced boy.  “He'll hate me.  But if an outlaw dies unrepentant, he'll goes to Hell, doesn't he?”

“Here's what _I_ know,” suggested the physician.  “Potion or no potion, he won't last more than a few hours if I don't take out that bullet.  But abdominal surgery may actually shorten his time.  If he doesn't live through the extraction that I have to do immediately, you won't have any decision to make.”

Irene nodded.  “While you take out the bullet, I...I have to pray.”  She hurried away to the doctor's waiting room, where she sank to her knees and cupped her hands.

Upshaw now faced the two men whom he knew so well.  “I need to do this in my operating room.  Help me carry the lad there.”

                                                                        #

Under the lamps of his surgery room, Upshaw operated on Myron Thornton Caldwell for about a half hour.  While the others continued to wait, he stitched the incision.  When the physician called Shamus and Humphreys back into the room, his expression told them just how bad the situation was.

“Well?” the latter finally asked.

“I have to have the lady's final consent, or else there is nothing more anyone can do.  Anyone except the Lord, that is.”

“I'll go get her,” volunteered the jurist.  He hurried from the surgery.  When the barkeeper turned to follow him, the doctor whispered, "I need to talk to you."

Shamus stepped closer.  “What is it?” he inquired in a low tone.

“If the lad wasn't a minor, I'd prefer to let the Lord's will be done.  I vowed not to do any patient harm, but is saving a life by changing a patient's sex doing harm?  My medical ethics books have no answer for that one.  My best course is to respect what the boy's next of kin decides.”

“It's all ye can do,” nodded Shamus. 

“How many souls have received the potion so far?” Upshaw suddenly asked.

The barkeeper's expression pinched.  “Eight, here in Eerie, I mean.”

Doc frowned.  “Yes, I recall that there was also a Cheyenne warrior.”

Shamus squirmed slightly.  “Ay, I told ye about him… her last summer.”

“How did that one turn out, in the long run, I mean?”

The Irishman shuffled uneasily.   “About as good as a person who drank two doses could have.  She made a life for herself working in a cat house.  Then, the last I heard, she married one o’her customers and made a _better_ kind o'life with him.”

The surgeon sighed.  “As a man of medicine, I've learned to accept death as part of the natural order.  Sometimes I still wonder whether we have any right to preserve a life without a patient's 'by your leave'.  I've gone along with saving soldiers whom I knew would be legless, blind, disfigured, paralyzed...”

Shamus smiled wanly.  “When I have me doubts, I always think about Laura with Arsenio, and Paul with Jessie.  Without me potion, thuir lives’d be a whole lot different from what they are today.  I think taking a drink o’me potion’s like having surgery.  It hurts like hell for a while, but healing makes things better, and life can be good after that.”

Upshaw glanced away, his expression uncertain.  Just then, there came footfalls from without.  Shamus peered toward the adjacent room and saw the Judge and the farm widow at the door.

The surgeon came to meet them.  “What will it be, Mrs. Fanning?” he asked.  “I don't think we have a second to waste.”

“Doctor,” she began, “I think He has heard my prayers.  It was like I was hearing His voice.”  The surgeon searched her face; it looked somehow inspired.  “I wept and I prayed; then suddenly His purpose came to me.”

“What purpose?” the doctor asked.

“'He wants to save Myron.  He said, ''male and female he created them,'” she quoted. 

“And so you believe that we should use the potion to save his life?” Upshaw inquired carefully.

“Yes.  Words can mislead, but what He has put into my heart tells me that there is no doubt about His intentions.”

“Are you sure?” the physician pressed.

“Lord help me, Doctor.  Whatever happens tonight shall be God's will.  Please save my nephew's life.  He will watch out for Myron in his time of trial; that He has promised.”

The surgeon resignedly nodded and shifted toward the Irishman.  “If this is God's will, let Him bring the boy around long enough to be able to swallow the draft.  I'd appreciate it if someone other than myself holds the glass.”

Shamus muttered an agreement and reached into his coat pocket, to draw out a vial containing a couple ounces of greenish-colored liquid.  “I have it, Doc.  I'll need a cup or glass with a little water in it.”

Upshaw glanced toward the others.  “Judge, would you take Mrs. Fanning to the other room?  What happens next might be too upsetting for her.”

Without a word, Humphrey escorted the young woman away.

                                                                      #

“I'm first going to try to bring him around with smelling salts,” explained Hiram Upshaw.  He uncorked a small brown bottle.  Shamus took a place next to him, holding a tin cup of water liberally laced with potion.  He had deliberately made the dosage strong, on the chance that the lad was too weak to take in very much of it.

Upshaw was passing the ammonia fumes of the salts under Thorn Caldwell's nose.  Nothing.  It began to seem that he would never again awaken in this lifetime, when, of a sudden, the lad's shoulders lurched and his eyes popped open.

“Boy,” said the doctor, “do you know where you are?”

Thorn just stared at the physician for a moment, before going into a fit of coughing.  Upshaw, believing that the outlaw didn't have much time left, stepped aside for Shamus.  Shamus drew in a deep breath and eased the cup toward Thorn's lips.  “This here is medicine, me bucko,” he said.  “Drink what you can; it will make you feel a lot better.”

Thorn still didn't seem to understand, but closed his lips around the rim of the cup when he felt it.  Shamus now tried to push the mug between the boy's teeth, but Thorn turned his face away.

"Maybe I should try," said Irene Fanning.  "He knows my voice."

Shamus glanced up.  The widow had returned and was standing at the threashold.  "I thought I should be here for him."

"Aye," replied the Irishman.  "It'd be better if ye was.”  He passed the glass to Irene when she approached within reach.

"Myron?  Do you understand me?  I'm your Aunt Irene."

The boy gave no reaction.  When she repeated her words, his head slightly stirred.

“Myron.  Those outlaws shot you.  But you'll be all right if you take this medicine.”

Her nephew blinked; his glance glassy and unfocused.  Irene kept coaxing.  “I'll hold the cup up to your mouth, darling, and I want you to sip as much of the medicine as you possibly can.  It'll be good for you.”

The men watched intently.  Doc still wished that he was certain about the ethics of what they were doing.  But he had seen too much death from sickness and war.  He had played host to Mr. Death many times, but never learned to like his company.  If this happened, though, would he ever see the same sort of smiles on Myron's face that he had already seen on the lips of Laura, Jessie, Bridget, and Maggie?  At the moment, he was only an observer, and that was all he cared to be.

Shamus, beside him, gave a relieved sigh to see that Thorn was able to drink.  In fact, the boy seemed extremely thirsty.  Just then, the Judge touched Shamus' arm.  “If it works, who’s going to be giving her… orders?”

“I don't know,” the barkeeper admitted.  “But I don’t think it should be meself.”

Humphreys frowned thoughtfully.  “He's gotten into a hell of a pickle not listening to his aunt.  You can fix that.”

“Aye.  But shouldn’t there be somebody else besides the lady?”

The jurist shrugged. 

“I suggest ye, Judge.  Ye’re used to deciding important things for people.  It might be that the widow can't always be available.”

Humphreys sighed.  “Very well.”

The Irishman looked like he had another idea.  “I'd also suggest that me Molly be party to it, too.”

“Molly, but not yourself?”

Shamus shook his head.  “The lady will be needing advice... on some very ‘girlie’ matters.  Molly knows better than I do what t’be expecting from a potion gal.”

“You make sense.  Would Molly want to get involved?”

“She's a hard one t’be guessing about.”

“Then I'll tell Molly that it was my idea,” Humphreys offered.

The taverner seemed satisfied.

The doctor called, “Shamus!”

The two men saw Caldwell's body shuddering.  The Irishman came up quickly.  Thorn's sandy brown hair was growing out at a miraculous rate and getting a little darker.  His strong arms were looking willowy.  In moments, the figure on the operating table had become lightly-built and lithe.   The bandages over his wound loosened and shifted as he transformed.  The alarming convulsions lasted only seconds longer.  When they passed, the patient was left flat on his – on her – back, gasping for breath.   

Doc reached over and removed the loosened bandaging from what was now blood-smeared white skin.  “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.  “There’s no sign of the wounds.  I'll take those stitches out after she's rested a bit.”  In the interest of modesty, he threw a sheet over Myron’s chest.  Just then, her gasping stopped and she settled into a trance-like slumber. 

Shamus realized, somberly, that this was the moment to act.  He leaned in and shook the girl's shoulder with two fingers.  She responded with a bleary stare.

“’Tis another part of the magic,” he said to Irene.  “Ye need t’be telling him – her – who she’ll obey from now on.”

“Obey?  I-I don’t understand.”

“The potion’ll make her obey whoever ye tell her to obey.  Doing what she's told’ll help her t’adjust to being a gal.  Just say yuir name and the Judge’s, oh, and me wife's, too.  Molly O’Toole.  Just tell her, and it’ll stick.”

The young widow blinked.  “Amazing.”

“Doc, give him – her -- another whiff of those smelling salts.”

The physician complied.  The girl reacted with a cry; her eyes widely opened in alarm.  

“Myron, listen to me,” the woman said.  “From now on, you will obey any order I give you.  And you’ll obey any order from a Mrs. Molly O’Toole or from Judge Humphreys.  Tell me if you understand what I've just told you.”

“I-I understand,” the new girl muttered, her voice a tight whisper.

Shamus came to stand beside the woman.  “Yuir new niece is going t’be needing a name, too.  Do ye have one, Mrs. Fanning?”

The woman seemed overwhelmed.  “I-I…”  A thought came to her, like a whisper from an angel.  “My sister dreamed she was going to have a little girl when she was carrying Myron.  She'd picked out a name, Myra, after our mother.  But when she got a boy instead, she baptized him Myron.”

“A workable plan,” adjudged Humphreys.  “She'll be Miss Myra Caldwell.”

Mrs. Fanning's pondered that.  “No, she can't be a Caldwell.   But... but wait a minute; maybe I can say that she's the daughter of my late brother, Amos.  The real girl is living back East with her mother and grandparents.  But we can give out that she's alone in the world, and that I'm her only living relative.  That would make her Myra Olcott.  Better still, Abigail Myra Olcott.  Amos' girl is named Abigail.”

Shamus nodded in approval.  “Ye’d best be telling her then, and be quick about it.  The magic won’t be lasting much longer.”

“Very well,’ Irene replied.  “Myron – or Thornton – is not your name any more.  From now on, your name is Abigail Myra Olcott, but you’ll answer mostly to Myra.  Do you understand me?”

There was a look of bemusement on Myra’s face as she whispered, “Y-Yes, Aunt Irene.”  She seemed to relax after that and snuggled down on the operating table, closing her eyes.  In moments, the girl was asleep, exhausted from all that she had gone through that day.

Shamus nodded.  “All right, Myra it is.  But whatever name, yuir... niece... uses, she's going to need some rest.”  He glanced over his shoulder.  “Doc, shouldn't ye make ready your infirmary?”

Upshaw answered with a throaty “Yes.”
 
“Mrs. Fanning,” he continued, “do you still want the girl's identity to be kept secret for now?”

Irene nodded.  “I do.  Myron can't stand to be laughed at.  When angry, he does things that he shouldn't.”

“Well,” replied the doctor, “we'll all do the best we can.  She... Myra... can rest in one of my infirmary beds until she's fit to go home.  She'll need girl's clothes, so no one sees her dressed like a boy.  A little thing like that in a town like Eerie can let the cat out of the bag.”

“What will we say about Thorn disappearing?” asked the doctor.

“It's for the best that no one be told that Thorn ever came back after the robbery at all,” said Humphreys.  He glanced to Irene.  “A boy who's unaccounted for and a new girl showing up in his home at the same time could make people wonder.  Let's hope that the story about her being your niece keeps people who are too smart for their own good from making any easy guesses.”  

Humphreys rubbed his chin.  “And, Shamus, if Molly has any ideas how to help Mrs. Fanning, it would be a good thing for them to chat.”

The barkeeper scratched his head.  “I'm thinking that Molly should be getting Myra some clothes over at the Silverman’s right promptly in the morning.”

“Fine,” replied the Judge.  “Fortunately, the girl is too old for school, so she won't need to be enrolled.  It's for the best that she gets settled down away from view before having much to do with people.”
 

Shamus stepped closer to Irene.  “I think the best thing’d be for ye to go easy on her at first.  Let the filly have her head out at the farm as long as she don't behave badly.  It is hard to be telling ye more.  We won't really know what to expect.”

“How do you mean?"

 The Irishman was remembering the amount of strongly-mixed potion that the boy had gulped down.  “I've seen a few potion girls in me time.  As the weeks pass, she'll start t’be acting differently, more like a girl.  Me wife can explain it a whole lot better than I could.”

Irene shook her head.  “The Lord has given me a bewildering task.  But He answered my prayers, so I will not let myself fail.”

“It won't be easy for you or for... Myra,” said the Judge.  “But, don't coddle her.  She brought these troubles down on her own head, and we're only trying to do right by her.”

Then he added, “I'll be sending Deputy Grant out to your place.  He'll have some serious questions for Myra, such as who exactly helped her with the robbery, and where they've hidden the gold.”

To be continued in Chapter 2

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona, Chapter 1, Part 1

 Posted July 21, 2017

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

In our prologue last month, Myron Thornton Caldwell, seventeen year old runaway and would-be stage robber, had been accidentally shot during his attempt to steal a gold shipment from Eerie, Arizona.  He had led the gang to his own neighborhood to commit the crime, which is lucky for him, because the only person in the world who cares if he lives or dies is his aunt Irene, who lives just a couple miles away.  With his life at stake, that is the place to go.  But things have changed in Eerie since the last time he has been there. . . .

*****

Chapter 1, Part 1

December 13, 1871

Irene Fanning made the whip snap over the horse's back, wincing at the thought of what the joggling must be doing to Myron's injuries.  She was forcing the buggy down Riley Canyon Road as hastily as she dared.    Though only twenty-six, it had taken all of her strength to hoist him into the carrier behind the driver's seat.  Since then, under a woolen blanket, he hadn't made a sound.  This had alarmed the widow so much that she had stopped once to check on him, to gratefully find that he was still breathing slowly.  Then she was on her way again.  If she couldn't reach Hiram Upshaw's office in time, her nephew didn't have a hope.  The doctor had been an army surgeon during the War, she knew; if anyone in Eerie could save a badly wounded boy, Upshaw could.

At that moment, the buckboard was rattling past the familiar wooden sign that was painted with the words “Eerie Arizona – Welcome, Friend.”  The first of the town's lamp-lit houses were showing up ahead.  She dreaded to think what might happen over the next few hours.  Myron was an outlaw that the law would be ready to arrest the moment that they learned he was back.

Irene Fanning slowed her buckboard when it entered the town proper.  Eerie wasn't large, and in just a minute they were halfway through it.  She pulled up behind the doctor's office.  It was supper-time, after regular hours, but Doc Upshaw lived in the rear section.   She was whispering prayers that he would be at home.

Irene drew up and braked.  She wrenched her ankle springing to earth, but didn't stop before she was pounding on the back door.  Though she was striking the panels as hard as she could, the widow didn't shout.  She didn't dare attract attention. 

“Hold on, hold on, I'm coming,” sounded a resonant but muffled voice. 

A few seconds later, the door swung open.  The man looked questioningly into the face of the young woman whom he'd met several times before.  “Mrs. Fanning?  You look a sight,” Doctor Upshaw remarked.  “What's the trouble?”

“M-My nephew.  He's been shot!”  Breathless, the farm woman had to put her shoulder against the door post for support.  Hiram helped her inside, to a chair beside the door. 

“Thorn?” he muttered.  “Shot?  Where is he?”

“In – in the buckboard.”

The doctor spied the one-horse vehicle through the window.  In the back was what looked like a body covered by a blanket.

“Don't tell anyone he's here!” Irene said.  “He broke the law.”

The words were hardly spoken before the Hiram Upshaw was outside, closing in on the buckboard.  Almost covered by a quilt was a boy's face.  He'd seen that sort of face many times before, on many young soldiers who had been brought to the infirmaries of General Joe Johnston's Confederate army.  Drawing the blanket lower, he saw the blood, so much of it that it looked like a spill of warm tar in the fading twilight.  It seemed to be a gut-shot wound, and that was always bad.  Upshaw called for the widow's assistance and together they moved the boy inside. The doctor had lost hundreds of patients in the late war, but had fought for the life of every last one of them.  He didn't know any other way to do his job.

Moving a belly-shot man, the surgeon knew, could kill him right quickly, but every second counted.  He was already guessing that the case was hopeless, but with a family member looking on in horror, he couldn't let himself think like that.

The doctor and the widow took Thorn Caldwell down a central hall that connected his living and work areas, and into a room with three infirmary beds.  As they eased him down on the sheets, the sufferer cried out, which at least informed Upshaw that the boy was not so far gone that he couldn't feel pain.  Fortunately, his blood loss inside the buckboard hadn't given evidence of a full-blown hemorrhage.  But if his bowels were leaking into his bloodstream it would poison him in a day or less. 

Hiram banished the boy's aunt to the waiting room and then lighted the whale oil lamp on the night stand by Thorn's bed.  Examination told him that the bullet was still lodged inside the youth's body, making a bad situation worse.  He wiped his hands on a towel and joined Mrs. Fanning.  “Whether I take out the shell or not, I don't think the poor boy will make it... ” he trailed off.

The surgeon felt rather than saw the widow blanching in the gloom.  “He's too young,” she said. 

Upshaw shook his head.  “In a better world than this one, he would be too young to die.  But during the war, I saw hundreds of boys like him pass from less serious wounds.”

“Lordy, lordy,” the woman moaned.

“We'll have to keep him warm and reduce the pain with laudanum, until...

Irene groaned and covered her face.

The doctor surprised himself when he blurted, “There may be one way to save his life... ”

The widow looked up hopefully.  “If you can save him, do it!”

He was immediately sorry that he had spoken.  Death was an everyday thing.  But was the cure that he was about to suggest… ethical?  He’d read through the few books he had on medical ethics: “the patient can refuse treatment” versus “the physician should do what is best for the patient” and “do no harm.”  He still wasn’t _completely_ sure what was right.  “I'm not sure you would like saving your boy’s life the way we'd have to.”

Mrs. Fanning looked excitedly into his face.  “I don't care about the cost!  You can have the cattle.  Even the farm.”

Upshaw shook his head.  “It's not the cost.  The medicine...does things that might horrify you.  I'm not sure that Thorn himself wouldn't want to die instead.” 

‘Just as Elmer O’Hanlan had refused the potion,’ the physician thought.  ‘His father had to trick the boy into taking it, but the trick backfired; the father had been transformed as well.  But… Elmer – Emma now -- _was_ still alive.  And wasn’t having one's patient survive the goal of every doctor?’

“What kind of medicine is it?”

“Indian medicine man medicine.  Magic.  Maybe magic.  Probably.”

Irene drew back.  “Magic?”  Then her eyes opened wide.  “You're thinking of doing what Shamus O'Toole did to save that O'Hanlan boy?”

Upshaw turned away.  “I should have said that better.”

Irene wheeled away, her mind reeling.  “I've heard the stories...  I've seen Patrick O'Hanlan and his... son.  People are saying all sorts of things about the potion, and how it messed up their lives.”

The doctor shrugged.  “That it surely did.  My work is science, not sorcery.  If you wish to get advice from somebody else, you ought to talk with Sheriff Talbot.  He has more experience with potion girls than I have.”

“I don't know what I should do,” Irene answered back.

“I suggest you pray.”

Hiram Upshaw returned to his patient.  From a shelf, he took a brown-glass bottle of laudanum, unstopped it, and put the open neck to the stricken boy's lips.  The cinnamon, added to subdue the drug's bitterness, wafted pungently.  After setting the vial aside, the physician used his scissors to cut away the dirty and bloody shirt that was pasted to his patient.  That done, he cleaned the wound with alcohol and stuffed the bullet hole with gauze. 

'Inoperable,' he was thinking.  Whatever Mrs. Fanning decided, under no circumstances would it be his hand that administered the bewitching draft; not while he still had so many ethical questions.  But should he do more?   Did he have the right to say no if -- _when_ -- she asked for it?  The War had driven God out of the hearts of many of his fellow doctors, but that hadn't happened to Hiram Upshaw.  He had seen miracles – many of them -- during those four awful years, and even later.  Maybe Shamus’ potion was one of those miracles.

The office had grown as silent as the tomb.  He looked into the drawing room and realized that he was alone. 

#

The coal-oil lamp he was reading hung by a black chain from the beam above Sheriff Dan Talbot.  He was deep into _Castle_ _Dangerous_ by Sir Walter Scott.  There wasn't much else for a man to do at such a quiet hour.  His deputy, Paul Grant, was due in at ten.  Paul liked the night shift; nothing ever happened during the small hours, and the younger man's only address was the jail storeroom.  Dan smiled.  Right now Paul would be over at the Eerie Saloon, where his lady love worked.

He shook his head.  That match-up was one that he had never seen coming.  He wondered how long the two of them could stay a couple.  An outlaw and a peace officer?  Miracles happened.  They really did.

Talbot glanced up when pounding hooves stopped in front of the jailhouse.  A moment later, the door flew open.  Dan swung his heels off the desk and turned in his swivel chair.  The lawman knew his excited visitor.  It was Hank Durst, a cowpuncher from Abner Slocum's ranch.

“Sheriff!” he exclaimed.

Talbot set aside the book and stood up.  “A problem, Hank?”

The cowboy's head bobbed up and down.  “Big problem.  Stage robbery!”

The sheriff gritted his teeth.  The stage often took on nuggets and dust from the assay office.  But it had been a long while since a robbery had occurred near Eerie.

“Where?”

“Riley Canyon Road, up in the gap,” replied the young man.

“Anyone hurt?” Dan asked.

“One bandit got shot.  Old lady Deeters thought it was Thorn Caldwell.”

Talbot scowled.  “Who shot him?”

“A ricochet off the strongbox, the guard said.  “The bandits let the stage go free, with Thorn just lying there on the road.  They kept the chest.  The stage men flagged me down when I ran into them.  They was going on to Phoenix to alert the authorities.”

The sheriff scowled.  He knew Thorn Caldwell – a quick-tempered kid with a chip on his shoulder, some seventeen or eighteen years of age by now.  The boy had done a lot of fist-fighting and could always be found practicing target-shooting and the quick-draw.  He was suspected in some thieving, too.  Once Dan had had to go out to the farm to reprimand the lad for reckless gun-play.  Not too long after that, Caldwell had disappeared, run away.  A neighbor had accused him of stealing one of his horses.  That had been back in January, and the boy hadn't shown his face in Eerie since.

“What are you going to do, Sheriff?” Durst asked.  “I'll join the posse if you're starting one.”

Dan took a deep breath.  “First, I'm going to send out alerts.  All the towns on the telegraph line have to be put on the lookout.  Tell, me, Hank, how many long riders were there?”

“The stage people saw four, including Thorn.  They thought they were all young pups.”

“If Caldwell was wounded, that might slow them down,” Talbot mused out loud.  Dan decided to leave organizing the posse to Paul, who could get things ready for him to lead out after a night's sleep.

“Lad, hang around until the emergency bell rings if you want to hunt bandits.  We'll start at first light.  Get yourself a little rest before then, if you can.”

“Sure enough, Sheriff,” Durst said.  The young man then hurried out into the street. 

Dan Talbot had just started putting on his guns when there was a tapping at the door.  He yelled over his shoulder, “It's not locked.”

A woman stepped in and he recognized the widow Irene Fanning, Thorn Caldwell's aunt.  This couldn't be a coincidence.

“Mrs. Fanning.  Did you hear about your nephew?”

She blinked, amazed at how swiftly terrible news could travel.  “That he's hurt?”

“That he's robbed a stage!”

“He robbed?”

Talbot frowned.  “You didn't know?”

“I know he's been shot!”

The peace officer nodded.  “A rider came in.  He said the stage was relieved of a strongbox up in Stagecoach Gap.”

She looked pained.  “He came to the farm badly wounded, about an hour ago.”

“How is he?”

“He's with the doctor.  Doc Upshaw says that he's... he's probably... lost.”

Talbot sighed.  “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“He says that the... the potion might save him, like the O'Hanlan boy.”

Dan sent her a hard look.  “I see.”

“Dr. Upshaw told me to tell you.  What should we do?”

“Ma'am,” he said, “do you know what that potion does?  A lot of men would rather die than take it.”

Irene's anguish was writ large.  “Maybe it isn't as bad as him dying.”

The tall man shrugged.  “Are you sure?  Is he able to speak for himself?”

“He's lying like dead.  He can't talk,” Irene explained.

Dan nodded.  “I can't make that decision for another person.  I think you should talk to Judge Humphreys.  He's the one who orders up the potion for outlaws, sometimes.”

She looked despairing.  “Will he let Myron have it?”

The sheriff shook his head.  “I can't say.”

“I just --” Mrs. Fanning began, but couldn't find the words she needed.

“We've got get a move on, ma'am.  While you and the Judge talk, I need to get on the telegraph, so the robbers won't get away.”  As courteously as he could, he led the farm woman outside.

#

Judge Humphrey's lamps were lit.  Sheriff Talbot banged on the door and, when it opened, the jurist stood regarding him, looking like he was ready for news concerning some new trouble.

“Dan?” Humphreys asked.  “What's the emergency?”

Talbot let Mrs. Fanning lead the way out of the night's chill.  “The Prescott to Phoenix Stage has been robbed,” he told the Judge.

Humphreys frowned.  “My word!” he said.  “Do we know who did it?”

Dan nodded.  “It was Thorn Caldwell, along with three other kids.  Caldwell is with the doctor now.  Wounded.”

“Thornton Caldwell?” the Judge muttered.  Only now did it dawn on him why Dan had brought along the woman, one whom he knew from church.  “Your nephew?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “He's dying.”

Humphreys rubbed his thin hair.  “I regret to hear that.”

“Your Honor,” said the lawman, “she's got something to consult with you about.  I'll abide with your decision, whatever it is.  But, right now, I have to send out the warning that there are thieves on the road.  If you're going over to the saloon, let Paul know that he has to form up a posse.”

“The saloon?” the Judge repeated. 

“Mrs. Fanning will explain.”  Talbot tipped his hat and withdrew.

Parnassus C. Humphreys shifted his attention to Irene Fanning.  “How can I be of assistance, my dear?”

She hurriedly explained.

The Judge pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “If that's what you want, it might be the judgment of fate.  If a boy with Thorn's record for trouble-making was ever found guilty for stage robbery in my court, I'd be sorely tempted to give him the potion, even if it were only a first offense.  It may be that justice is about to be served, with no trial required.”

“Thank you, Your Honor, I think,” Thorn's aunt replied bemusedly.  “But one thing... ”  She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I'm not sure giving him the potion is the Christian thing to do.”

Humphreys' brow wrinkled.  “I'm not sure either.  Mostly, I've let it happen because I don't like hanging an outlaw.”

Irene shook her head.  “Myron tried to grow up too quickly, I'm afraid, and grew up angry.  But if he takes the potion and changes, it's important that no one knows about it.”

The Judge nodded.   “I dare say that being humiliated would make him even angrier.  I assure you, Madame, no one will find out such a thing from me.  But if you really want to do this, we have to hurry over and see Shamus.  He's the only one who can prepare the potion.”

#

There were few lights along the benighted street.  Many buildings were full dark; the shops had mostly closed, thought the several drinking establishments were lit.  Long before they reached the batwing doors of the Eerie Saloon, the pair heard music and a girl singing:

`      When the blackbird in the Spring,
`      On the willow tree,
`      Sat and rocked, I heard him sing,
`      Singing Aura Lee.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

Judge Humphrey led the widow inside and guided her between the tables.  From his companion's darting eyes and curious glances, he guessed that she had never set foot inside a saloon before.  Shamus had a good-sized crowd tonight.  There were card games and layers of conversation going on.  A slim blond in blue was holding people's attention, delivering a version of the soulful Aura Lee.  These war tunes usually hushed a house, bringing back memories of  hardship and lonely nights in camp. 

`      In thy blush the rose was born,
`      Music, when thou spake;
`      Through thine azure eyes the morn
`      Sparkling seems to break.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

`      Aura Lee! birds may flee
`      From the willow bare,
`      Flying 'gainst the winter's breath,
`      Through the stormy air.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

`      When the mistletoe was green,
`      Midst the season’s snows,
`      Sunshine in thy face was seen,
`      Kissing lips of rose.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

`      Says thy beau, sweet Aura Lee,
`      Thy smiles warm his heart,

`      So let the sadness that I see
`      From thine eyes depart.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Take thy wooer`s ring;
`      Love and lightness welcome thee,
`      As robins hail the spring.

`      Aura Lee, Aura Lee,
`      Maid with golden hair;
`      Sunshine comes along with thee,
`      And swallows fill the air.

“That's Jessie Hanks,” remarked Humphreys to Irene Fanning.

She had heard the name before.  “One of the outlaws?”

Humphreys nodded. 

She stared, amazed, at the gaily-dressed, petite girl.  Embarrassed, she changed the subject.  “Please, we must hurry!”

Humphreys scanned the crowd.  “I don't see Shamus.  We'll ask the bartender where he's at.” 

A dark-haired man in a deep blue silk vest and white shirt stood behind the counter serving customers from brown bottles.  He glanced up as the pair neared.  “What's your flavor tonight, Judge?”

“No time for that, R. J.  This lady and I have urgent business with Shamus.”

R.J. Rossi looked across to the stairs.  “He's in his rooms; go on up.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 1, Part 2