The Falling Star: Chapter 5, Part 1

Posted 11-10-17
 

An Angel From Hell story

Chapter 5, Part 1

By Christopher Leeson
 

Driving fast along Federal Highway 80, Jezebel checked every car she passed, looking for a silver Subaru Forester.  She was a hard woman, but the odds were beginning to worry.  How many failures would the Father tolerate before she was back on the Lake of Fire track?

No, buck up, the Watcher told herself.  She hadn't actually failed at anything.  Not yet.

Frustrated, the fallen angel increased her already-law-breaking speed.

Then she heard the siren and saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror.  Too pressured to stop, she unwisely gunned the engine to outrun the patroller. 

Two car chases in twenty-four hours!  Once again the speed of her Toyota Corolla was disappointing her.  An hour before, Jezebel had let another speed cop off lightly, with a mental command to go away and to stop making a pest of himself.  Before he'd gone, she had thought to ask, “Wait, did you send my license number in already?”  When he answered affirmatively, she decided to take precautions.  At the next roadside gas station, Jezebel deftly removed a random motorist's license plates and affixed them to her own vehicle.  This would, she wagered, afford her some needed anonymity.  These were only humans, after all.  It shouldn't be overly difficult to outsmart them.

The highway patrol car came up even beside her and the driver pointed to the shoulder.  Jezebel pulled over, trying to decide whether or not this problem was serious enough to warrant a homicide.

The uniformed man who came out of his car flashed his light into her face.  She couldn't take his measure through the glare.  But her night-blindness drove home the fact that her power was fading yet again. 

“It's not good manners to force law enforcement to chase you, Miss,” the state trooper told her. 

She was already concentrating, attempting to fog the man's mind.  The officer, however, seemed to shake off her effort.  Frowning down at a hand-held device, he asked, “Why aren't your license plates registered for this make of car?  Also, you don't look like a man named Maurice Linnsey.”

The girl shrugged.  “A lot of women are given boy names.  Modern parents are idiots.”

Supposing the under-dressed motorist was up to no good, he became wary.  “Step out of the car, please, and show me your driver's license.”

Jezebel carefully emerged, her skin starting to prickle with goosebumps.  Despite her best efforts to keep out of trouble, switching plates had only made things worse.  Jezebel started to open her purse. 

“Pour the contents out on the shoulder, under the headlights, please,” the man said, his right hand resting on his holster.

She remembered that the purloined Walther that was inside her bag.  A policeman would probably ask about a permit.  That's what they did in the movies, anyway.  The girl was guessing that lame excuses wouldn't cut it, nor would a seduction attempt be useful.  That left only violence. 

Jezebel let the contents of her bag tumble out upon the concrete, weapon included.  The sight of the formidable handgun startled the patrolman, a reaction that gave her the second of distraction she needed.   

Two rapid blows had the officer down, all the fight knocked out of him.  Jezebel swiftly added his Smith and Wesson 940 to her collection of firearms.  Then she frisked the downed man while he still lay stunned, but didn't find his handcuffs or other restrains.   Why was nothing ever simple on the planet Earth?  How the angel wished that the trooper was a full-fledged Cabalist agent with a purple aura.  Her license to kill would come in handy.

“I'd prefer to keep you alive,” the Watcher told the trooper, “but only if you don't make things difficult for me.  I need your handcuffs, keys, and something to tie your legs with, too.  Cooperate and you'll get home with no more than the few bruises you already have.”

Though shaken, the trooper's indignation blazed hot.  “You crazy bitch!  You don't realize how much trouble you're in!”

Jezebel wasn't afraid of very much, least of all bluster, but she wanted to avoid the inevitable all-points bulletin for committing homicide.  So far, her face had been in the shadows, except for that brief flashlight glance at close range.  Probably the police officer would only remember that she had been a knockout; without a real license number, there wouldn't be much evidence to track her with, nor any crime so serious that they would spend a lot of resources on it.  Jezebel now cocked the Smith and Wesson.  “I'm not a criminal, just a...lady who's tired of being pushed around.  If you want me to be nice, you have to be nice right back at me.  And stop trying to make out my face or else – Oh, hell, I might as well just show you what I'm talking about.”

She kicked him in the gonads.

With her victim assuming a fetal position, Jezebel adjudged that the demonstration had made its point.  Just then, a stray car came their way, driving under fifty, as most people do when passing a flashing police car.  The stranger wouldn't be able to the officer on the ground and the latter couldn't yell for help, since he was gasping for breath.  The sedan simply moved past.  A little ways beyond them, it picked up speed.

“If you don't want another toe in the crotch, tell me where your cuffs are,” she advised her prisoner.

“In the utility case, on the passenger side,” he groaned.

“Roll over on your face and spread your legs,” she said.  When the officer complied, she opened the patrol-car passenger door, keeping the the gun ominously pointed.  She plucked the case from the floor and found it unlocked.  There were things inside she could use,  including zip-strips and handcuffs.

“Stay the way you are,” the Watcher said, “but put your hands behind your back.”  When the man had done this, Jezebel quickly figured out how to work the cuffs and secured her captive.  Then the girl took the longest zip-strip available and fastened his ankles together.   As a finishing touch, she took a loose handy-wipe from his car, stuffed it into his mouth, and held it in place by means of another long zip-strip. 

She stepped back.  It didn't look like a bad truss-up job, but as a precaution she turned off the police car lights, took the keys out of his ignition, locked all the doors, and then tossed the key chain into the nearby field. 

“This should slow you up for a while.  If I get into trouble over this, it will be because your bosses are too full of themselves to appreciate how lenient I've been.”  She re-stuffed her purse, taking whatever seemed potentially useful from the officer's utility case.

Jezebel, seeing the distant lights of more cars approaching, hurried back to her own vehicle and pulled out.  Having resumed an eastward trajectory, she came upon a highway patrol turnaround and it gave her an idea.  Cutting the headlamps, she made the turnaround, and then clicked the lights on again.  This way, she reasoned, when the trooper was rescued, he might send searchers in the wrong direction.  The angel still wasn't sure how clever this generation of human beings might be, but over the last couple days it hadn't earned her respect.    

#
 

The Watcher didn't want to go far in the wrong direction.  When she saw an exit sign marked Brady, she took it.  Once out of sight of the highway, the young woman stopped to check her map. 

The police encounter had been a near thing and she had made unforced mistakes.  By making them, she had lost time and had made the present situation even messier.  Among her problems was the ridiculous way that she was dressed.  It made her stand out as something unforgettable.

Worse, even if Jezebel could find Holly, she lacked any certain means to rescue her.  She had two guns, but the opposition would have many.  She absolutely had to get her powers back to even the playing field, but there was only one way to do that. 

The girl put her car into gear and drove through the town of Brady.  It had a population of over three hundred according to the welcome sign, and she took note of a roadside tavern.  Such a thing might have been a good place for a recharge, but Jezebel didn't want to in a population center, should the police start combing the area for a young blond in a short red dress.  Suddenly, the angel noted directions to a highway rest stop.  If people were parked there, it might serve her as a convenient place to acquire a change of clothes. 

Jezebel reached the rest stop quickly, and could see that it was not only a auto rest stop, but also had a turn-off lane for overnighting trucks.  She could make out several tractor-trailers lined up along a parking strip.  She continued on into the car section, but found it empty.  There would be no women's clothes to acquire, but she got an idea.  Upon stopping, the first thing she did was to switch back the plates. 

Then Jezebel drove back to the trunk area  She could safely assume that there would be an assortment of men available, and she needed a man, the right kind of a man.  But how could she arrange to interview the truckers in a non-suspicious way? 

The Watcher parked close to the vehicles.  At this hour, the tractors were all empty empty, the drivers no doubt being settled down in sleeping bags or fold-away cots inside their boxes.  The casual approach she'd used to meet a male in Alliance wouldn't work here; this was neither the time nor place for subtlety. 

She pressed the horn to start a series of irritating honks.  After a couple minutes, sleepy men started lumbering out of their rigs.

“Stop honking, you idiot!” the closest one yelled at her headlights.  She let the gaggle of truckers stomp even closer before she cut the noise and stepped outside, into the lights of her vehicle.  From the way that the men's grumbling fell abruptly to silence, they must have been suitably impressed with her silhouette.

“Lady, what's wrong.  Why all the racket?” one asked.

“I'm sorry I had to wake you all up, but this is an emergency.”

“What?  A wardrobe crisis?” one guffawed. 

That her clothes were being appreciated was a good sign.  She smiled at the one who had spoken and he smiled back.

Someone else stepped up, a husky man of about forty, wearing an unclosed winter coat thrown over makeshift pajamas, these being comprised of a sweatshirt and jogging pants.

“I – I need a lift into North Platte,” the girl said.  “My car has been making these terrible transmission noises; I'm afraid that I'll wreck it if I drive any farther.  But it's important that I get into town by breakfast time.”

“What's so important?” a trucker asked.

“The reason is very personal,” she said coyly.  “But, really, I can use some help.”

“Call a repair truck out of North Platte,” said the man with the jogging pants.

“I was hoping that there might be a mechanical genius among so many males in their prime.”

Another of the several truckers shook his bearded head.  “Transmissions are serious jobs, Missy.  You're going to need a regular shop for that kind of work.”

She felt a sensation that informed her that the men were reacting as wished.  The tingle was making her goosed-bumped flesh feel warmer already.  Encouraged, the Watcher stepped closer to the men, trying to sense which one was beaming those hot shots of unbridled lust at her flesh.  “Can we talk about this inside one of your trucks?” she asked no one in particular.  “My luggage got stolen in the last club parking lot I stopped at, and I'm freezing.”

“Turn on the heater,” said Jogging Pants.  “That should be good for a few hours.”  He then turned back toward his truck with indifference.  That was one cold hombre, she observed.  A family man?

She shifted her attention to the trucker wearing a Stetson-styled hat, the one that she suspected of being the randiest man there.   He had wide sideburns and big arms, and presented a figure that seemed to suggest a fondness for  beer and donuts.   “Your companion is not very gentlemanly,” she said with a pout.  “How would he like to have a daughter out all alone and half-dressed on a night like this one?”  She now affected naivety.  “I'm not use to planning my own trips.  I make mistakes and so often have to depend upon the kindness of strangers.”

“What do you do?” the man with the Stetson asked.

Jezebel made a wry face.  “It's not nice to ask a person questions like that before you've bought her a drink.”

“I mean, what's your job?”

“I sing with a band.”

“Yeah?  What kind of songs?”

“Anything you want,” she promised, “for a thick blanket and something warm to drink.  I was hoping that some generous person would let me sleep over inside one of these big, exciting trucks.”  She surveyed the faces around her.  “If someone is going toward North Platte in the morning, and wouldn't mind a little company, he could drop me off close to a fix-it garage.”

Most of the men seemed well-disposed to the proposition.  “That sounds like an idea,” said the Stetson hat.

“Oh, I'm just full of good ideas,” agreed Jezebel.

The man held out his hand.  She took it pleasantly.

Jetrel had lived among humans for centuries, and had spied upon them for millennia.  Shortly after Creation, he had come to the conclusion that women could get away with delivering a great deal less than they seemed to be promising at the outset.  It wasn't so important what Jezebel did over that hour, but how the trucker felt .  And, clearly, he had a lot of pent-up lust to give away.  Jezebel drank it in like a health tonic. 

#

When the man became too yawny to carry on with his petting and pawing, the Watcher used her revived mind-power to put him into a deep slumber.  She also hypnotized her host to remember a wild and wicked night of action.  Then the fallen angel stole silently from the truck and returned to her car.  Though the air must have grown even colder by then, the breeze felt like room temperature as it brushed over her energized flesh.

Angels didn't come naturally with wings, but as mankind came to expect wings, they often assumed such a shape.  What angels could do was teleport, a talent that the mortal mind had equated with flight.  Fresh from her energy bath, Jezebel felt strong enough to give transposition a try.  But she stayed just where she was.  Maybe, the girl thought, a human body couldn't dematerialize, or it could be that it needed more power than Jezebel had stored away.  

It was something to experiment with later.  But for now, having no other choice, the Watcher  headed back to the town of Brady and from there took a secondary highway, L, to Gothenburg, where there was another entry ramp onto Federal Highway 80.  Hopefully, if the handcuffed trooper had told his story by now, they would be looking for a Toyota at points east from where she actually was.  Regardless, as long as she had a few angel powers, she didn't much fear encountering the eager beavers of the law.

Jezebel glanced at Jill's tiny wristwatch.  How much time did Holly have before she would be sent like a bundle to the West Coast?  Once the Cabal got her outside of Nebraska, her rescue would be immensely more difficult, and her present resources were few.

But, at some level, what bothered her seemed to be more than than the prospect of failure.   Had the girl somehow gotten under her skin?  Had she imperceptibly come to think of her as something like – a pet? 

 

Jezebel would have liked some help and wondered, briefly, whether she should pray.  Being in a human body had many downsides, but, curious enough, the Father wanted mortals to pray.  Maybe a prayer from her in this form would reach his ear.  But she still had her pride.  He who had created the angels had punished them severely for every disobedience, while at the same time pardoning his human creation with shocking ease.  He simply held mortals to be superior to angels, and that wasn't right.    If she sank to praying as a human for something that had been denied to angels, it would be like admitting that the angel kind was indeed an inferior breed.  She felt certain that most of the rebel angels had rebelled because they had been confronted by that outrageous proposition. 

#

Jezebel expected to reach Kearney well before her energy dwindled to usability.   She had to go after Holly wherever she could find her well before dawn.   There would be almost no chance for her to acquire some inconspicuous clothing, not unless she broke into a shop, and that would cause additional time to be lost.

Had Shekinah acted out of mere whimsy by hiding a red dress, with all its accessories, inside her luggage?  Probably not; back when the archangel had still been a graybeard named Enoch he/she had displayed not the slightest nugget of playfulness.  It had to be the Father himself who had put her up to it. 

The Father, for certain, had a whimsical side to his nature.  He had shown it to the world only two months earlier, when had taken the American election away from the Cabalists' choice for president and gave to his own Chosen One, a man who was as unlikely deliverer as Gideon had been in ages past, one who had never held elective or appointed office before.  So what sort of whimsy did the red dress represent?  It wasn't that the Father cared for immodest display nor, of course, for fornication.  In spite of that, he had saddled her with a custom-made Jezebel spirit, one intended to incline her toward both?  

Were his inexplicable actions merely a rebuke to Jetrel's pride?  Was it a harsh payback for the Watchers' previous use of demons to steer people into perdition?  Or did the Father wish her to give her no choice but to sin constantly, just so he could cast her into Hell?  She shook her head.  It had to be more than that.  He didn't need any additional reasons to damn her.  The very first prophecy in Scripture had been spoken to Satan by his Creator, promising that for what he had done in the Garden he would die.  The sins of the other fallen angels had been of lesser degrees, but were still damning.

Jezebel knew that even if she never sinned again, ever, she would still be doomed to the Lake of Fire.  Everything that the Father did had a purpose, everything.  This thing that concerned her also had a purpose.  What was she not seeing?  Was it possible that it was not she, but Jill Arendel who was the main principle in this mystery?   Though the fallen angels held humans to be of no worth at all, the Father saw things differently.  Still, how could the murdered adulteress be considered any sort of factor in this affair? 

Suddenly Jezebel received a flash of recall, the tapping of a  memory buried in Jill Arendel's physical brain that she had never tapped before. 

The very idea of it! 

“The worthless bitch!” the angel exclaimed out loud.

For the next twenty or so miles Jezebel tried to bury, to forget that recollection.

She couldn't.


To Be Continued in Chapter 5, Part 2

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

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Chapter 2, Part 2

 

December 14, 1871, Continued

"Put this in yuir pipe and smoke it, lassie.  Ye say ye want people t'think yuir a regular sort of girl.  If that's what ye want, ye'll have t'learn how a girl dresses, talks, and behaves.  I reckon yuir unschooled in doing that, but yuir aunt can give ye a lot of good advice.  Ye should take it.”

Then the woman glanced toward Irene.  “Mrs. Fanning, what's Myra's full name?”

“It's... Abigail Myra Olcott.”  She paused, and then added, “I'll be telling folks that she's my orphaned niece from back East.”

Molly nodded and again faced off with Myra.  “Missy, there's a lot that ye'll have to do differently from now on.  A girl don’t get into fistfights over trifles, for one thing.  Don't be hitting anybody or insulting anybody just for treating ye like a lassie.  What else can a body expect?  Or maybe ye'd prefer that everybody finds out that ye used to be Thorn Caldwell?  Ye might give some folks a good laugh, but it'd be an easier row to hoe in the long haul.  Wouldn't ye like that?”

Myra's stare could have killed a flock of prairie chickens.  “No!” she said emphatically.

Molly shook her head.  “Then I'd advise ye to keep clear of folks when possible, till ye've figured out how a decent young lady handles herself.

At that point, the matron paused.  “That's enough for now.”  Standing up, she faced Mrs. Fanning.  “I think it's time to have a powwow about... certain subjects that perhaps yuir niece isn't quite ready to start fretting about.”

Irene nodded disconcertedly and then picked up the green robe that the doctor had provided.  She held it out to Myra, who was wearing a gray patient's gown.  “Myra, please put this on, and then go out into the other room and eat your breakfast.  I'll join you after I've spoken to Mrs. O'Toole.”

Myra wanted to balk, but something, some sort of… voice in her head, repeated what she had been told, and did so with an intensity that compelled her to pay heed.  She crossed into the next room on bare feet, slamming the door behind her.

“She'll need a bath,” Molly said after Myra had gone, “but we shouldn't be raising a lot of questions over at the bath house.  The doc has a tub from out East.  And after ye get her home, see that she cleans up every day or two.  Most of all, remember what I'm telling ye about not letting her have much to do with people before she's ready.”

“How can I make her behave when you're not around?” Irene asked. 

Molly looked doubtful.  “Didn't Shamus explain it?  Ye have just as much control with her as I do.  Just tell the lassie what ye want, and she'll feel obliged to do it, as long as ye make it clear that it's really an order.  Don't be worrying too much.  The colleen'll be shaping up on her own in two or three months, if she's like the girls over at the saloon.  When that happens, ye'll have a whole new set of issues, but everything in its own time.  Meanwhile, ye’ll have t’be schooling her about girl-things, like clothes and having monthlies.  Just teach her what yuir ma taught ye.”

“What do you mean about there being other 'issues'?”

Molly sighed.  “Don't be surprised if she soon starts acting all flustered-like – around boys, I mean.  That sort of thing seems t'come natural with the potion.” 

Astonishment transformed Irene's face.  “Boys?  She'll like boys, like the saloon outlaws do?”

“Don't fret about it,” advised the older woman.  “’Tis for the best.  Loving and being loved ain’t a bad thing.  But there's many a slip between the cup and the lip.  Myra is just at the age when a girl can go wrong.”

The widow's eyebrows went up.  “Do you mean she might become a... a hussy?”

Molly met her glance intensely.  “An ordinary girl is brought up t’be right sensible about the lads.  Thorn never got that sort of teaching.  If that niece of yuirs  starts thinking about boys the way too many girls his – her – age do, she might run square into... consequences... ”

Irene needed to sit down.

#

Molly led Irene into the back rooms of Dr. Upshaw’s office, the part that served for living quarters.  There, in a cubical, was placed the physician's personal bathtub, also used by his patients when they needed it.  “I got clothes for the gal,” she told her younger companion, extracting a bag from her big carryall.  “They ain’t much, just some old things from when Jessie Hanks started, umm… working for me and Shamus.”

“Won’t Miss Hanks mind?” Irene asked.

“Not likely.  She's all excited about showing off in flashy stuff now, like that fancy blue gown she wears when singing, and them frilly unmentionables for when… well, let’s just say when Paul Grant likes t’be seeing her in ‘em.”

Mrs. Fanning returned a doubtful glance.  “I think I understand.”  Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Irene went to check on the heating bathwater.   An extra-large kettle sat on the hot griddle, a thin trail of steam wafting from it.  When she dipped the tip of her finger, it hurt but didn't scald.  Going to the door, she called, “Mrs. O'Toole, could you help me carry this hot water?!” 

The saloon proprietress joined her directly and, using potholders, they carefully and slowly carried the heated vessel to the bathtub.  Bracing the pot on the edge of the fixture, they poured in its contents.  Then ladies put more water on the fire and continued the process until the tub was half-filled.

At that point, Irene tested the bathwater to see if the tub had cooled enough for comfortable bathing.  “Perfect.  Come back here, Myra!” she called.

The girl, who had long since finished breakfast, emerged from the reception area, where she had been sitting alone, feeling sorry for herself.  Myra was keeping her eyes downcast, her lips pursed in disconsolation.  As Thorn, she’d gotten over her bashfulness about being undressed in front of a woman, but this was so very different.

“Time to shuck off those clothes and lose that trail-dust,” said the Irish woman.

Myra sent a frown to each of her tormentors.

“Why so shy?” Molly asked.  “Ye ain’t got nothing that yuir aunt and me ain't seen ten thousand times.  But since ye’re not used to having what ye have, Mrs. Fanning and me’ll be strolling outside to continue our chat.”

Irene stepped up to her niece with a fluffy white terrycloth towel and a small washcloth.  The latter was wrapped around an oval bar of soap.  “Ye be sure t’be washing yuirself all over,” Molly instructed her.  “Every inch o’ye, and when yuir done, dry yuirself well.”  With that, the two ladies went out the back door, to the enclosed porch behind the building, and took their ease upon a white-painted bench suspended from chains.

With the women departed, Myra worked quickly, wanting to be done and covered up before they barged back in.  She slipped out of her robe and peeled off her cotton gown, draping them both over a nearby chair.  Then, using the same chair to brace herself, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the water.  It felt hot against her newly-sensitized skin.

Hurriedly, Myra used the slippery bar of soap to work up a lather on the washcloth.  This she rubbed over her arms and torso.  Upon touching her breasts, she gasped in surprise.  Curiosity aroused, the girl persisted in stroking them, the curious sensation growing more intense.  The feeling was not a bad one.  Now she could imagine why Gilana moaned so much when Myron had…

“Oh, my Lord… Gilana!" she exclaimed, her eyes open wide.  Molly O'Toole had said that any man who drank that damned potion would become the double of the “fetchingest” gal he'd ever known.  The prettiest girl in Myron's acquaintance had been Gilana Hulbard, a young cancan dancer of Yuma.  Myra thought back to her reflected image in the mirror.  'Shit, I look just like her!'

The bemused maiden leaned back against the end of the tub, remembering her last visit with Gilana.  As the shock wore off, Myra grew curious about her present body, so like Gilana's.  At last she realized that she was as beautiful as dancer was.  That thought inspired Myra to touch her breasts, which caused her to wince.  

She continued caressing them, but now more gently.  In her mind’s eye, she became Myron again, and it was the cancan girl's breasts that she was petting.  'Ooh… ooh, God!' The pleasure of it!  It felt so wrong to have breasts, especially the sort of breasts that would make men sit up and stare.  But here they were.  It felt good to touch them -- and no one was watching…

A moment later, a curious hand, as if it had a mind of its own, slid down to that… place between her legs.   It was the place that Gilana had so many times encouraged him to stroke.  Why had the girl liked it so much?  Myra couldn't hold back soft sighs while rubbing the sudsy cloth against that special place.  She squirmed, savoring the moment.  'Are all women’s bodies like this?' Myra wondered.  'Maybe that's why gals want to take so many baths.'

Myra finally let out a low moan and sank lower into the tub.  She kept stimulating herself with the cloth, luxuriating in the enjoyable little jolts the action triggered.  Thorn had always disliked bathing, but this was different....  'Oh, Lord, I could do this forever,' she thought.

No, she couldn't.  Another voice in her mind had scolded her.  Molly had said that she had to wash every part of her body, and Myra couldn’t do that if she kept obsessing about her new source of pleasure.  She shook her head, at first refusing to listen.  But that voice was insistent, powerful.  Slowly, reluctantly, she sat up and started to scrub her neck and behind her ears.

But the parting was not at all sweet sorrow.  “Damn!” she muttered, looking forward to bathing again, when not under the strict instructions of a mean old hen.  She lifted her left leg so that her ankle rested on the side of the tub.  Then she covered it with lather.  The girl shifted, shimmying deeper into the tub and then repeated the process with her right leg.  Her pace had quickened.  'Maybe I can get back to the better part after I finish washing.'

It seemed like a good idea; if she had had a mirror, she would have seen herself grin.

But, just then, the O'Toole woman and Aunt Irene came back into the room.  “Ain’t ye done, yet?” Molly asked, a sly smile just curling her lips.

“J-Just finishing,” Myra answered, her cheeks warming from embarrassment.

Irene picked up the towel she’d draped over a chair and handed it to the girl.  “Dry yourself,” she told her niece.

“Aye, but be careful,” Molly added.  “Ye’d do best t’be patting yuirself dry.  Yuir skin’s a lot more tender than it used t’be.”

Myra came out of the tub and began following Molly’s instructions, not liking being nude in plain sight, but trying not to show it.  The older woman watched closely.  ‘The way she’s doing some o’them places,’ Molly thought, a knowing smile curling her lips, ‘she knows exactly what I'm saying.’

“Done,” the girl said a few moments later.  She tossed the towel to the floor and looked around.  Spotting the robe, Myra picked it up and wrapped it around herself. 

“Let's go back to the infirmary,” Molly suggested.  When the three reached that destination, the Irish woman held out to the girl a pair of light gray drawers with white lace trimming on the legs. 

Myra scowled.  “These’re girl’s drawers.”

Molly nodded.  “Aye, and ye’re a girl.  There's no changing that fact, so ye'll have t'get used to the idea.  Now…” her voice grew stern.  “Put ‘em on and no more guff about not wanting to.”

The girl tried to protest, no words came out.  She glared at Molly, even as she grudgingly stepped into the drawers.  With her hands trembling, she pulled them up and snugged them around her waist.  Myra did notice that the material felt softer against her skin than Myron’s old cotton drawers had.

“Now tie ‘em so they won't slip down,” Molly said, “and then ye’ll be standing there – not talking – while I measure ye.”

Myra did as she was told.  Molly took a rolled-up cloth tape measure, a pad, and pencil from her reticule.  “Take notes o’what I’ll be telling ye,” she told Irene, handing her the pad.

“Very well,” the other woman said, taking it.

Molly walked over to the potion girl and began measuring.  Myra was five-foot four, a full six inches less than Myron’s five-ten.  Her neck was a slender ten inches around.  Shoulder width and arm length were all quickly taken.

“Just above the breasts, it reads… 32 inches,” Molly called out.  Then she shifted the tape down, so that it circled bare breasts.  The girl squirmed as her nipples were touched.  “Hold still,” Molly scolded, adding a few seconds later, “Tape across her bust… 35.”

The inseam length was measured, as was the girl's waist and hips, 30, 22, and 35, respectively.  Finally, Molly had her sit down while she checked the length and width of a foot.  “For shoes,” she explained.   

“All right, Myra,” Irene said, “Mrs. O’Toole has finished with her measuring, so you can get dressed.  As she spoke, she handed her niece a gray chemise that matched her drawers.  Bands of lace trim ran down its front, and there was a small lace rose in the front of the collar.

The girl grimaced as she inspected the garment.  ‘Too damned girly,’ she thought to herself and tried hard to resist putting it on.  But she found herself slipping her arms through the narrow straps and letting it slide down her body.  The fabric felt cool and the weave tickled her… tits.

“Ye can be sitting down now,” Molly said, “and putting on yuir stockings.”  She gave Myra a pair of yellow and green striped stockings.  “Ye tie ‘em up above yuir knees, and then ye bring yuir drawers down over ‘em and tie those off there.”

The girl obeyed.  She could guess how feminine she must look; it bothered her, but the damned magic had her its grip.  When Myra was done, she stood up and saw Molly holding…

“A corset,” she whimpered.  Out of all the outlandish, girlish things forced upon her, this was absolutely the worst.  “Do – Do I gotta?”

“I'm afraid so,” Molly replied.  “With yuir...figure, ye need the support.”  The woman chuckled.  “Or ye'll be jigging for all t'see.”

Irene smiled for the first time that day.  “Can't have that, can we?”  Then, realizing what a bad time it was for humor, her expression grew sober.  “Put it on, Myra.”

The new girl took the garment and wrapped it around herself, as she'd seen Gilana do.  It had hooks in back, but because she needed her left hand to hold the thing up in front of herself, the other hand, working alone, couldn't get the hooks into the eyes.  “How is this done?” she asked, her voice strained.  Irene stepped up and began closing the hooks.  It felt different from what Myra had expected.  As Myron she had heard men joking about corsets while sitting around the winter fire, but her corset felt like it was hugging her, and not uncomfortably. 

“Now the most important thing.”  Molly held up a dark brown...

“A dress,” Myra groaned.  “Ain't all this other stuff bad enough?” she asked, gesturing at her body.   “I gotta wear a dress, too? 

“Yes, you have to, if you don't want people to think that there's anything unusual about you,” Irene answered.  “Just take care not to rip it.”

Myra sighed and slowly, carefully, stepped into the garment.  Having pulled it up, she inserted her arms into the sleeves.  Then, gathering the fabric to her shoulders, she worked herself inside it and started buttoning.  “These buttons are on backwards,” she complained.

“Them buttons are on the other side from what you're used to,” Molly explained.  “Just go slow; ye’ll be getting used to ‘em in a minute or two.”  She was holding a pair of used shoes, which, kneeling, she set down at Myra's feet.

With the closed frock drawn flush with her flesh, could see how the underlying corset held her breasts so that they pushed out the material.  When someone saw her, they would probably be the first thing that they'd look at, she realized, and didn't care for that idea at all.

To put on the wooden-soled clogs that Molly had provided, she needed to sit down.  “At least these ain’t too girly,” Myra muttered.  They allowed her feet to slip right in; a buckled strap, going back around each heel, held them snug.  “There,” she said, rising, “I’m finished.” 

“Sit back down,” Irene admonished.  “You’re not done.  Your hair…”

“Your hair is full o’knots,” interjected Molly.  “Boys ignore their hair something fierce, and when it grows long it just makes things worse.”  She took a wire hairbrush from her apron pocket.  Each bristle ended in a tiny bead.  “Now try not t’be squirming.  It’ll only be making the job more painful.”

The comb hit a snag immediately.  “Ouch!” 

The Irishwoman spent a full hour – or so it seemed to Myra – working through the morass of tangles.  She yelped more than once as Molly showed the snarls no mercy.  When there was no other choice, a mat of hair had to be snipped off with scissors.  But, finally, the torturer had finished the session and lustrous red-brown tresses flowed smoothly down past her shoulders.

“Now, Missy,” Molly said, “let's take a look at ye.”

Myra stood up, her fists clenched, her brows knitted, her lips pursed. 

Mrs. Fanning looked the girl over discerningly.  She didn't think that a person passing by the girl by in the street would judge any aspect that Myra presented as out of order.  In fact, though plainly dressed, it was her prettiness that would attract attention.  “What should we do next?” she asked Molly.

The Irish woman motioned the widow to step outside the room with her.  When they were alone she advised, “I’d say ye should be getting her home, away from prying eyes.  She'll be needing some private time t'get used to...to everything that's new.   It’ld be a good idea t’be keeping her busy with chores, so she won't be moping around too much.”  The matron then added,  “I shouldn't be wasting any time before taking the stage t’Phoenix.  Somebody needs to be shopping for that young lady, away from where local people can see – and be asking questions.”

“You're very kind, but I don't know you.  I would hardly expect so much charity even from my closest friends,” replied Irene. 

Molly shook her head.  “And I’m glad to have -- and t’be -- a new friend.  Ye got into this trouble without asking for it; the climb out’ll be steep for a while, for both ye and Myra.  I'm willing t’be helping ye carry a bit o’the load.  Anyway, I’ll be enjoying an excuse t’be going into the big town.  Christmas is getting close and there're things a body just can't buy in Eerie.  And if ye find yuirself needing more help later on, ye just let me know.”

“I could use another friend,” the widow admitted.

Molly then led them back into the infirmary where she started to gather in her belongings.  Irene stepped up closer to ask an urgent question.  “Molly?”

“Aye?”

“What should I tell people when they wonder where Myron is?”

The older woman frowned.  “I don’t think ye should be saying a word.  Most folks’ll figure that Myron died from that ricochet and them outlaws hid the body.  And even if he didn't die, they wouldn't be expecting him t’be paying a visit back home, not with the sheriff out t’arrest him.”

Irene, surprisingly, felt better.  “I guess I should be grateful that none of that is true.”

“That's the spirit.  There was times when I was absolutely at my wits' end about how t’be getting them potion girls to shape up, but the good Lord somehow got us through.  By the way, I've heard that the deputy is coming out to yuir place tomorrow.  Tell... yuir niece... to be upfront when she's talking t’him.”

“What is he going to ask?”

Molly smiled wanly.  “The main things he’ll be after are getting the gold back and catching them other outlaws.   He won't be interested in making things harder for Myra.  She already got hit with the worst punishment Judge Humphreys was ever likely t'be handing out for what Myron did.”

“She looks so angry,” Irene observed.  “Could we tell her to feel happy?”

Molly shook her head.  “The magic won't make a soul feel things that it doesn't really feel.  Happiness can't be put into a person's head through the ears.”

She finished filling her carryall.  “I'll come out to the farm right after me Phoenix visit.  By then, ye'll probably have a laundry list o’ new questions.  Until then, Mrs. Fanning....”

“You can call me Irene,” the farm widow said.  “And I have to pay you.”

Molly shrugged.  “For the clothes, for breakfast, I suppose.  Not for any Christian help.  I look forward to us talking later.”

“We will.  Thank you so very much.”

 TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 3, Part 1