The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 18

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

THE WOUNDED WORLD:
A Story of Mantra

Originally written 2006

Posted February 21, 2020
Revised March 15, 2020
Revised April 21, 2020

CHAPTER 18

FRIENDEMIES

Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache:
Do be my enemy for friendship's sake.  

                            William Blake
 

A quarter hour later, Strike and I were stopped in a dense shadow along Hollywood Boulevard. Before us stood a decaying 1950's-style warehouse. It was in this place that Lauren had run into Necromantra, but I didn’t dare use a magical probe to confirm it. Any use of active magic could potentially alert her. Nonetheless, my passive senses were detecting that strong magic was leaking from within the structure. My enemy was certainly performing sorcery, though I couldn’t ascertain the nature of it.

"Are you sure about this, Eden?" my backup asked.

"There’s a wizard in there,” I assured him. “It has to be Thanasi.”

“Thanasi?”

“That’s the real name of my former best friend.”

"If that’s what you call her, how has it come to this?"

I shook my head. "He went psychotic, made a deal with Boneyard, and betrayed Archimage’s knights. That was when he was still a male. He was a man of honor once; now he’s casual murderer. He – she – has to be stopped, one way or the other.”

"Are you sure you’re up to this? You’re played out and Necromantra's no pushover – not if she’s still as powerful as was back when she was possessing your body.”

"I don't intend to meet her at ten paces, Brandon. This won’t be a duel of peers; I have to make it simple pest control."

"You were friends. Aren’t you afraid that you might choke at the wrong moment?"

"Don't worry about it."

Strike shook his head. “Necromantra is a mean bitch and I know she deserves to die. But maybe you shouldn’t be the one who takes her out. You’re not as much of a hard case as you think, Luke. You seem to carry your mistakes around with you."

I balled my fists. "It’s a dirty job that has to be done. If you're so worried about saving somebody’s soul, start with your own."

Strike blenched. "I’m at a dead-end, I think. I won’t be getting much better than I am now."

I calmed and touched his arm. "You're not a bad guy, Brandon. Unless you’re a damned convincing liar, you’ve only done as much as you’ve had to."

He smiled. "Do you mean that I was a good man of business, Mr. Scrooge?"

I snorted and looked away again, wondering where inside that building my enemy was standing.

"I've been wondering," Strike said, his voice kept low. "Who, exactly, is Thanasi's spirit possessing now?"

He had the right to know, but I had to force the words out: "My... my daughter’s."

That threw my companion for a loop. "What? Evie? You mean --?!"

"No, not Evie. Eden and I had another daughter. Marinna."

"I don't get it. When did you two have time enough to make another daughter?"

"Just believe me; it's true."

"If you say so. But if the witch is actually your daughter, how...how can you even consider --?"

"Necromantra possessed Marinna in the womb,” I told him. “She killed our child before she ever had a chance to live. That's just one of the things she has to die for."

Tark didn’t press this touchy conversation.

“I have to tell you something, Brandon. As bad as this night has been, the days ahead are going to be even worse.”

“Should I know more?”

“You’ve got to know about it, so you can avoid what’s coming. A good part of New York City is going to be blasted, as if by a small nuclear missile.”

He looked amazed. “Yeah? Who's going to hit it?”

“No one knows. But right after it happens, you and some – companions – are going to be seen amid the rubble and you’ll be blamed for causing it.”

“What companions?”

“The newspapers are going to mention only you and Amber Hunt.”

“Amber Hunt? The nutcase that almost destroyed the world last year?”

“The same. With her ability to absorb energy and release it in any form that she wants, I’m supposing that she’ll be the one responsible for the destruction. But, for some reason, it’ll look like you're associating with her and the authorities will jump to the wrong conclusion. You’ll have to stay away from both Amber Hunt and from New York City. Promise me that you won’t leave your own house, not until after you hear that the disaster has already happened. Future history can be changed; I've done it several times.”

“What a minute! You’re telling me that something horrific is going to come down, but I shouldn’t try to stop it?”

“Maybe you did try to stop it, in that other timeline, I mean, but failed. We don’t know enough to be able to make a sound plan that will change the outcome. Getting involved will only ruin your life. You’ll be hunted as a world-class terrorist.”

"Grim choice," he muttered.

“Brandon, there’s something else. If Evie is left with no one...I mean, if I die or if I blink away to another time and place – would you be willing to help her out?"

He looked at me with perplexity. “Like, you mean, adopt her? Wouldn’t she still have a dad?"

I closed my eyes, knowing that he was right. The billionaire Brandon Tark didn't have any known relationship with the Blake family. Evie's guardians -- probably her dad and grandmother – would never permit a total stranger to come anywhere near their little girl.

I looked back at Necromantra's lair. "We're going to have to have a good long chat later on," I heard Strike say behind me.

"Yes," I responded distractedly, "but not now. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. Do you have anything in your pack that could soften Necromantra up? Fighting her in top form would be like flipping a coin.”

“I’ve got a knockout gas,” he replied, and then explained how it worked.

“Good, bring it along.” 

He detached a tank from his cycle carrier and then I led the way, keeping in the shadows as much as possible. Tark followed after me, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size and weight. A couple minutes later, we reached the side of the brick building. There were boards nailed over the windows; the nearest boards had a knothole in one. I peered through it, but the glass underneath was filthy dirty and I couldn’t make out anything.

Still determined not to use magic, I ventured to pry one of the boards off with sheer muscle power. My woman’s strength impaired me, as it so often does.  “Here, let me,” Brandon said, and then he tore the board off with little apparent effort.

“Do you have a glass cutter?” I asked.

“I never leave home without one.” The dexterous mercenary needed only a moment to cut out a small disk from the windowpane. He then held the tank of gas in place for me while I manipulated the dispensing tube.

It was a piece of Soviet-era battlefield nastiness, purchased for Tark's arsenal from a Euro black-market dealer. I pushed the nozzle through the cut windowpane and opened the valve. The released gas came out with a faint hiss. The chemical was supposed to be odorless and not deadly, it's primary purpose being to neutralize enemy bunkers and provide the KBG with prisoners for interrogation. If the toxin could knock Necromantra out, or at least reduce her capacity for self-defense, I'd simply go in and slice off her head with the Sword of Fangs. In a sense, I would be committing murder. But so what?

Just then, I sensed a magical surge from within the edifice, like a powerful generator switching on.

"Look out!" I warned Strike, sensing the magical equivalent of a berserk elephant charging at its hunter through a canebrake.

Springing into the air, I tossed a force field around myself. Doing that would start Necromantra’s spell-detecting senses ringing and be a bright beacon for her to follow -- but it would also be a distracting one. I didn’t want the witch to turn her attention to Strike; she could assassinate him with a mere concentration of malicious thought.

I sped skyward, feeling my pursuer behind me, her sorcery sputtering indignantly, like an Independence Day sparkler. “You bitch!" Necromantra was telepathically yelling "You'd actually try to kill me with poison?"

"It wasn’t poison,” I shouted back. “The gas was only meant to soften you up."

"How low have you sunk?” she taunted. "I’d never have taken you down with a back-shot! I too much want to see the agony defeat in your dying eyes!"

I kept ascending, but erratically so that she couldn’t get a clear bead on me.

When we were high enough to minimize doing damage to anything or anybody below us, I seized the magical ring that I carry on my belt and activated it with surge of directed will. In a flash, it transformed into the Sword of Fangs.

Contrary to my prior hopes, I was going to have to fight a battle royal. Well, so be it! This feud had to be ended, and I dearly wished that it be ended here and now. With gritted teeth I braced, anticipating what I thought might be the fight of a lifetime.

Necromantra gave a ripple of laughter. "What do you expect to accomplish with that butter knife? You ran me through with it once; the wound barely even slowed me down."

Her taunt put me on alert; Thanasi oftentimes hurled abuse at a foe just to get him off balance -- just before his strike to kill. Oh, yes, we knew each other’s behavior, even in in stressful situations, so very well.

True to form, the woman sprang at me suddenly, that spiked whip of hers whirring through the air. I dodged and tossed a magic bolt her way -- a discharge powered by the incandescent power of my hatred. That bolt could have burned a hole through a stone wall, but – as Strike had warned -- Necromantra was no pushover. What should have been a kill-stroke flared harmlessly against her magical force field. 


My false daughter launched her reprisal, hurling a wad of fire like a pitcher would throw a softball. My energy shield fended it off and I and I answered with a sizzler. The brawl had become a free-for-all. To recite the exact choreography isn't possible; everything happened too quickly. The heavy bolts we were trading rattled the windows below with thunderous peals. To anyone on the ground, our death-duel must have looked, and sounded, like a fireworks display on the Fourth of July.

I wasn't at my peak. Necromantra, contrariwise, should have been better off, but she seemed to lack her usual edge as well. Maybe the spells that she'd been weaving inside the warehouse had taken something out of her. Or had she, instead, gotten a debilitating whiff of that KGB gas?

Yells were coming from below; a good many onlookers had been drawn in by the light-show. The down-and-outers of the blighted street were feasting their eyes on two sorceresses, showing a lot of skin and fighting one another like a pair of foxy boxers. Had the street people seen the pair of us tilt a couple years back, we would have resembled a pair of grunts performing for Wrestlemania. The situation seemed absurd, even to me.

My survival depended much more on reflex and instinct than on any thought or plan. My opponent and I kept maneuvering, firing at one another from possible every angle. Being evenly matched, a single wrong move could have ended the contest. We were scoring off one another's force-fields repeatedly and my exertions were making me fatigued. When stung by some bleed-through, despite my shield, I concentrated additional power toward the side that faced off with Necromantra. This redeployment, unfortunately, made me vulnerable to flank attacks, should my foe get in a telling shot from an angle where my defenses were second-rate.

This was a battle of attrition, for sure. I cursed at the necessity of making this a knockdown, drag-out slug-fest. My resources seemed to be on a descending graph line, but, all of a sudden, I experienced a surge. It's funny how a second wind can come out of nowhere, just when a person thinks that he has already given away all that he has. I immediately bore down, determined to burn my way through my enemy's formidable shielding while I still could. Emotion counts a lot in combat and it's especially potent when using magic.

Thanasi must have been following the same plan, trying to finish me off quickly. It was life and death for her was well as for me. Maybe it would all come down to one factor -- inner rage -- with victory going to the combatant whose hate was the stronger.
 
But – damn it – a thread of our old comradeship still clung like cobwebs to the back corners of my mind. I wondered whether Necromantra – maddened and morally debased as she was – could feel it also.

Suddenly, there came a jarring blast that rived the darkness. By the time that I had shaken off the shock wave, I could faintly see Thanasi in free-fall toward the warehouse roof. I witnessed her striking it like a bag of meal. She then started to roll, sloppily, over its edge -- to bounce upon the concrete walk below. Hanging there in mid hair, I wondered if the ordeal was really over. Had my deadly enemy been reduced to a helpless pile of broken bones? Someone had shot her down? But was the shooter a friend, or was someone gunning for me, too?

#

I descended with measured speed, wary of a trap. Having alighted alongside Necromantra's broken body, I saw blood streaming out of her nose and mouth, saw some shattered bones protruding through bruised and abraded skin. The woman should have been dead already, I thought, but my magical senses told me that Necromantra was still holding on to a flicker of life.

It was then that I heard shuffling boots to my rear. Strike was hurrying up, clutching a rocket-launcher. "I didn't know whether you'd want me to butt in,” he huffed, “but like you said, this is only pest control."

I nodded to him, dazed. Everything around me felt unreal. My emotion, so overheated a moment before, now felt like a dead lump inside me. Did I resent his intervention? Had I really wanted to be the one to kill my former friend?

Wake up, Lukasz!

Not wanting to be recognized in public as Mantra, I flashed into my Blackbird outfit. As soon as I'd done so, some of my magical strength seemed to go out of me. I needed that golden armor to remain a first-class sorcerer. People looking my way, must have been wondering who I was and what I was going to do next.

A low moan drew my attention back toward the sufferer. Aghast, I realized that Necromantra wasn’t about to die. In fact -- against all logic -- she seemed to be reviving! Her magic, as I now remembered, could autonomically repair what should have been mortal wounds, and do it with breathtaking rapidity. This pathetic  human wreckage would be on her feet and at my throat again in mere minutes -- if I permitted it.

“Let me finish this, Eden,” the mercenary said in a low rumble. 

“No!” I said. I couldn't allow Strike the coup de grace. I thought too much of the man to have him drink from the cup of murder-guilt meant for me. But, at the same time, like a drowning person, I was receiving flashes from the past, images of the good things that my fallen foe and I had once shared. It didn't seem to matter that these memories were dead ones. All that had formerly been good between us had gone away; only the hurt and injury remained. When she rose, this terrible ordeal would continue, unless I prevented it. 
 
And to do so, I realized, I would have to channel my inner barbarian – the barbarian that I had been born to be.

I raised the Sword of Fangs over my head; it hung there as if stuck against the sky. I felt a shiver; Thanasi’s execution would obliterate my last living link to sixteen hundred years of life. It would leave me alone, a sole survivor. Yet such thoughts rattled against me like wind-puffs off an ash heap. They were a lie, a wish for normality that could never be attained. What I was feeling was detachment, as if I were somewhere else, my concentration unfixed. 

I don’t even remember striking the blow. The overriding impression was of Necromantra's head rolling from her slim neck, of the arteries in the stump pumped scalding gore over my thigh-high boots. Then, an instant later, I my nerves crashed. I had just slain my daughter, my friend, and my bitterest enemy, all in one. The finality of the kill-stroke left me horrified. Sick at heart, I shuddered as the heat of the spilled blood turned cold. I wondered how I could ever feel clean again.
 
Thanasi, why did you cause this? I mentally asked of the corpse.

A collective gasp broke the stillness. The crowd had just witnessed a Dark-Age-vintage vengeance-killing. It had shocked them, had shocked these soft modern people who couldn’t understand the legacy of the terrible world into which I had been born. That world that had hardened my heart – once so young and alive. I realized, too, that I had just announced to the world that Blackbird was an evil-doer, a murderer. That was how she would always be remembered. She would have to disappear; I would need to create a new alter-ego. In a sense, I had assassinated part of myself along with Thanasi. I would miss the sanctuary from the downside of being Mantra that Blackbird had afforded me.

I could hardly meet the glances of the people around me. They'd been shocked by the killing, though they hadn’t known the victim. They wouldn’t realize how cruel and destructive she'd been. All they would ever know is that she had been a been a beautiful young woman with auburn hair, and they would pity her.

As I would.

I took on last look down on the enemy, the former friend, the flesh of my flesh whom I had destroyed.
 
Why did this have to be, Marinna?” I whispered.

#

I was in a bad state, but not so bad that I didn't remember that Strike and I had to get away. We ran from the crowd, reaching his cycle a couple minutes later. The look that my comrade was giving me only added to the awkwardness of it all. We stood silent for a few uncomfortable seconds.

"Feeling better?" he finally asked.

"Don't be funny."

"What happens now?"

What indeed? I shut my eyes, trying to block out the red stain that flooded my memory. Already it was becoming hard to remember that I had killed an enemy and not a comrade. That bloody head will haunt my nightmares forever, I think, but even in that awful of moments I had a grasp on the fact that even worse nightmares lay ahead.

Soon, so very soon, I would have to confront Evie and let her know how her brother died. How could I tell her without making her hate me for as long as she lived? It was also true that I could tell her that I have avenged her family against mother’s murderer, but I didn’t think that I should impose that upon her. Would she be shocked by it, or would she smile? It would have been gut-wrenching to see that kind of smile on a child’s face. I’d tried hard to keep faith with Eden and be a good parent, but ever since I’d entered Evie’s life it had become filled with so much grief. Why did every attempt I made to protect her always have to go wrong?

Strike was shifting impatiently, waiting for some sort of answer from me, but I didn't have one. Instead I turned my back to him and phoned in to Aladdin. The Outside Desk patched me through to Wrath.

"Where in hell did you disappear to?" the commander of A-Team demanded.

"It's hard to explain," I said, before the hard lump rising into my throat strangled off my voice.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 6, Part 1

Posted 01-07-20 
Revised 04-07-20 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6, Part 1

Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued


"I watched the first dance," George remarked with steady casualness, as if he was overlooking her stumble. "I didn't see you in it."

Myra tossed her head. “That's because I wasn't in it.”

“You really dislike dancing, don’t you? You’re different from almost any other girl I know.”

“I’m sure I am. Maybe it's because I like to read.”

“A lot of girls tell me that they read all the time.”

Myra gave a snort. “I’m not talking about Friskie the Pony or Little Prudy. I like to learn things. The world's a big place, but most girls can’t get their minds around anything bigger than a wedding ring.”

“What do you call a ‘big thing’?” asked young Severin.

“James Fenimore Cooper, maybe. He tells how the country started out. A lot of his stuff is worth a read, but if you ask me, I think his character Natty Bumpo talks too much. How can a man stalk a deer if he can’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes?”

“What else are you interested in?”

“I finished First footsteps in East Africa not too long ago. Richard Burton didn’t sit around dreaming up wild adventures; he actually lived them.”

“Well, you’re different, all right. Were your girl friends just like you?”

“Living way out in the country, I didn’t...” She paused, focusing her mind. When lying, a person had to be careful. 

“The only girls I knew were at school. Suddenly they started talking about clothes and boys all the time and I started preferring to be away from them. I could depend on my brain to keep me company.”

“And what did your brain talk to you about?”

“Sailing off to strange lands, for one thing.” She paused, frowning. “By the way, Aunt Irene told me that I didn't have to talk to you unless I want to.”

“Is that how it is? Do you always do what your aunt tells you?”

“Not when I can avoid it.” She looked back at the exit. “Excuse me, I'm too busy for all this yakking about nothing.”

“Busy doing what? Eating?  If you don’t slow down, you’re going to fatten up like a spring calf.”

Myra scowled. "Anyone who doesn't like the way I look can leave me alone.” 

“Right now you look real fine. I’d even put my name on your dance card, if you’d let me.”

“What dance card? No body gave me a dance card.”
“That was a figure of speech."

“Well, then, you ought to work on your figures of speech,” observed Myra.

“I’d rather work on my dancing. From what I’ve seen, you could use a little more practice, too.”

“Why don’t you find someone who actually wants to dance, if you’re so fired up about it.?

He glanced around the room. “As far as I can see, every other girl I know is already paired up with some fella or other. That makes it hard for a man.”

“Why ask me to dance? You don’t really like me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If you did, you wouldn’t work so hard at being the most frustrating person in the world to talk to.”

“If you could get over being so snappish, I could like you a whole lot.”

Exasperated, Myra turned to leave, but then paused. In truth, she had no place to go and nothing to do.  If she were too standoffish, someone would surely notice her “odd behavior” and start gossiping. That could hurt her in the long run.

“If you want to dance,” she said, “fine. I've got nothing better to do until about eight. But I’m telling you, I won’t enjoy it and I’d only be doing it to kill time. It won't mean that I like you and if you start jabbering too much, I’ll leave you cold.  Agreed?”

He grinned. “Who do you think I am? Natty Bumpo?  Sure. What a lady wants, a lady gets. But I have a condition, too.”

“What?”

Let’s not get ourselves roped into square dancing. I’ve had all the square dancing I can stand for one week.”

“At least we agree on one thing,” said Myra.

#

Myra and Irene didn’t leave the party until nine and were by no means the first family to do so. Dancing had made the time speed up.  When the caller told the people to get into line for a square dance, George drew Myra out of the crowd. Noticing that Dale and Kayley were sitting together on a bench, he led his dance partner over to join them. The couple discovered them in good spirits, having found male dance partners.

After the objectionable square dance was over, George and Myra went back to join in a mazurka, while the farm girls went scrambling to partner up again. After about twenty minutes on the floor, they were game for more rest.  This time, Rosedale’s and Kayley’s partners brought them glasses of punch and then hung around, even joining into the conversation. 

Within so large a group there was a lot of chatter, some of it annoying. Whenever a person expressed an opinion that Myra disagreed with, she'd answer back. In the course of the debating, Miss Olcott noticed that it was usually the girls who were most tenacious in having their own way. That figured; boys didn’t like quarreling with girls and would generally let them have the last word when it became clear that gentle prodding wasn't going to make them see reason.

When Myra got around to asking about the time, she found out that it was a little after eight. Excusing herself, she sought out Irene to ask her about going home. The Swedish galoot was close by, naturally, hanging at her aunt's elbow, smiling like a prospector clutching a handful of nuggets. Against Myra’s wish to go home, Irene made a plea for patience. She was then in the midst of a pleasant conversation and wanted it to continue. Rather than hang around and be subject to the pair’s silliness, Myra trudged back to rejoin her young neighbors. Soon, they were on the dance floor again and it was about nine when Irene Fanning showed up, being ready at last to return to the farm.

The morning of Christmas Eve required that they do their regular chores with added haste. Irene was bound and determined to attend the Christmas service and introduce Myra to additional people. As it turned out, a good many of the congregation chose to to greet her before the service started. When some of them launched into chit-chat about unimportant things, the girl did her best to endure the ordeal. It was almost a relief when Reverend Yingling’s sermon began. 

The introductions, good wishes, and empty complements resumed when the kinswomen stood in the lunch line following the service. The church ladies had donated a good many savory treats, some of them being leftovers from the party. 

While the two were filling their plates, Mrs. Netia Severin, a handsome woman arrayed in her Sunday best, approached them, expressing regret that Thorn's body couldn't be found. The lady assured Aunt Irene that her husband and the other men had done absolutely everything possible to locate him. 

Irene replied with profuse thanks for the menfolks’ unselfish effort. At that point, Mrs. Severin extended a holiday invitation. “The two of you shouldn't be alone with your grief on Christmas day, of all times. And we don't want Myra to start thinking that Eerie is an unfriendly town. The whole family would be very pleased to have you both over for our Christmas dinner.”

“I think that would be wonderful, Netia,” replied Irene. “Myra, what do you say?”

The girl gave a neutral shrug and a forced smile. She could hardly be enthusiastic about spending more time in the company of George. 

It was then that the dancing Swede, Tor, showed up and again engaged Mrs. Fanning’s attention.  Once their plates were full, he and Irene drifted away to one side. Myra gladly sought out a quiet corner where she could chow down undisturbed.

After lunch, back home again, they changed into their work clothes and got busy. The shadows were long and the afternoon chores needed doing.  Myra fed and bedded the animals and milked the cows as usual. Meanwhile, Irene fixed them both a light supper. In the midst of their dining, Myra heard steps outside.

Immediately after, a knock sounded; Miss Olcott went to the door to welcome the caller.  “Sheriff,” said Aunt Irene when she set eyes on the man outside, “whatever brings you out at such an hour? By now, I’d think that the townsfolk must be settling down to their meals.”

“I’ve had a busy day of it, but because I was passing by anyway, it seemed like a good opportunity to speak with the young lady,” replied Dan Talbot.

Mrs. Fanning glanced curiously to her niece, and then back at the lawman. “What is it, Sheriff?”

“Don’t fret. We’re having a deuce of a time catching those outlaws. I’m hoping that Miss Myra might offer some opinion about where the three of them have holed up in the past. I'd like to speak to her privately, if you don't mind.”

“Is the matter extremely serious?”

“It’s routine. But I wouldn’t want to stir up any bad memories for you, ma’am.”

The hostess regarded him soberly.  “Very well. When you two are finished, please do come back in for supper.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fanning,” the tall man replied. “I’ll gladly take a bite, but won’t be able to stay long. On Christmas Eve, my Amy always makes our supper a fancy one.” He smiled. “She wants to make every minute of the holiday as special as possible.”

“Your home life must be very pleasant,” Irene said.

“It satisfies me,” Dan replied. Then he looked to Myra. “Miss Olcott,” he addressed the potion girl, gesturing toward the door.

Myra followed him outside into the dark. The air felt colder than it had before.
Talbot paused by the corral fence.

“If you’ve been so all-fired busy, did you have time to check out what we were talking about?” the girl asked.

Sheriff Talbot nodded. “What kept me occupied was making holiday calls on Ozzie Pratt, Dwight Albertson, and Judge Humphreys.  Ozzie has an archive of old newspaper issues from the war years, and he has a pretty good memory, too. The judge only came to Arizona after the war, but he has the records that were passed on to him by the former justice of the peace.”

“Yeah, so did those three know anything?”

“Some things, but the information I have is pretty sketchy.”

“I didn’t say you had to make a rush of it. I want to know the whole truth, no matter how long it takes,” replied Myra.

“I know how impatient young people can be. I thought you’d prefer if I kept you filled in.”

"I appreciate that, Sheriff.”

"I first wanted to find out if your folks had had a motive to steal. I checked at the bank with Mr. Albertson. He was willing to tell me quite a bit, since the people under investigation have been passed away now for a long while. He said that they'd been late with several payments on their bank loans. He also had heard talk that the couple had exhausted their credit with most of the merchants around town. 

"Then things changed. In the early summer of 1864 they started making prompt payments to the bank, until the loans were settled. They didn’t take out any more loans and they made decent deposits. As far as Dwight could see, they were paying off their store bills, too."

Myra looked away uneasily. "My aunt has said more than once that my parents left the farm debt-free."

"Do you have any idea how they could have improved their situation in some honest way?"

"No, I don't," Myra said solemnly. "They were always worried about the bills, and then things were suddenly better."

“Be that as it may, I was also interested in learning about old robberies, especially those where the outlaws never became known. Nothing I found out seemed to fit the situation, not until Ozzie brought something up. He he showed me a story from May of 1864. There was a robbery and it was an important one. Just bear in mind that it might not have anything to do with your parents. I wouldn’t you worrying for no good reason.”

The girl stood quiet for a moment. “I can take a punch,” she finally said. “The worse thing is standing around not knowing what to believe.”

“Are you sure? You can’t squeeze an orange and then put the juice back.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right, if that's how you want it." Myra Olcott waited expectantly.

“A couple of prospectors struck it rich back in 1862 and then sold out to a small company, the first professional mining outfit that ever set up around Eerie. It was called Rexler and Colby.”

“I’ve think I've heard the name.”

“You may have. They pulled out of Eerie a little after the war, moving over to the big strike at Red Dog. But in 1864 they were doing well enough. That spring something bad happened.  A trusted clerk, Thomas Mifflin, emptied their on-site safe and got away with some cash and a good number of rough-cast ingots.

"There was a determined manhunt, of course. A soft-handed clerk shouldn't have been able to outsmart experienced trackers, but they never caught him. All they ever found was his horse, which turned up in Phoenix. Someone had brought it in to the marshal there, saying that he’d found it hitched to a tree at the edge of town. It was carrying no useful evidence. The general opinion held that Mifflin must have acquired another mount and abandoned the one he had because it could be identified as his.”

“Another horse? Are you sure? Don’t you think that he could have left town by stage?” offered Myra.

“That possibility was considered. The trouble is, no stage man remembered anyone matching Mifflin’s description, nor anyone who was carrying a suspicious piece of heavy luggage.  No stable man or local would admit to selling a horse to Mifflin, either. Likewise, there were no reports of a recently stolen horse in the vicinity. Possibly, a confederate had purchased a fresh horse somewhere and swapped it with him somewhere near Phoenix.”

“Are there any ideas about who this confederate could have been?”

“No, there isn’t. There's no actual no proof that he ever had a helper. All that’s certain is that, from the day of the robbery, no one ever reported seeing anything of Mifflin again. His friends and relatives, even those back East, were questioned, but none of them had heard from him in months, if not years. No evidence ever came up to gainsay them.”

“So, what does any of this have to do with my folks?”

Dan grimaced. “I don't like to speculate.”

“Maybe you’re supposing that they could have been in with the thief on the plot.”

“Possibly so, but I hope that I’d be wrong.”

“What are the other possibilities?”

“They'd all be be guesswork. Hell, the whole picture is just guesswork.”

Myra shook her head. “From all you’ve said, there’s no good reason to think that Mifflin knew my parents at all.”

“That's the likely truth of it. It would be hard to break open a case that’s so old, but if you think that your aunt could give better information, you should be talking to her.”

“I don’t dare bring it up with Irene. She might use that potion magic to make me shut up about the whole affair. But the fact is, I know that she knows something. I think there must be another letter that would tell us more. I asked the neighbors if any mail had come in for my folks soon after they’d died, but they said that they’d left it to the postmaster to handle. They supposed that Irene must have picked up any letters there soon after she arrived.”

The lawman frowned. “If your aunt had written an incriminating letter to your ma, she might have destroyed it once it got back into her hands.”

“Maybe so. Are you going to keep investigating?” 

“I'll do what I can. People like to talk about outlaws, if you give them half a chance. Maybe somebody has a new piece of the puzzle, one that I don’t know about yet. I can dig through all those old records and news stories. They might cite some other crime stories that might send us down a different trail. The search could be time-consuming, though. Don't expect anything from me too quickly. Maybe there won't be anything at all.”

“Can't you be the one to question my aunt?” Myra asked suddenly. “Like I said, I don't dare do it myself.”

“It’s a sad business, lad. Think about what it would mean if she did know something. For all these years it would have been eating on her just as badly as it’s eating on you now. There are times when we should let the past bury the dead. Whatever she may know, she’s probably not guilty of anything under the law, except protecting her family’s reputation. I’ve always thought of Mrs. Fanning as a good woman. Am I wrong about that?

“She’s decent enough, but if my folks turn out to be completely different people from anything I supposed, maybe that’s true of Irene, too.”

Dan regarded her thoughtfully. With an effort, he said, “If you’re hoping to find out that your parents were perfect people, you never will. Everybody’s got something to hide. Hell, there are plenty of lawmen around today that were once wanted outlaws themselves. If you keep turning over rocks looking for something ugly, you may regret it. Digging up lost secrets can hurt people, and -- as like as not -- it can hurt you, too. If you loved your ma and pa, the wisest thing would be for you to hold on to those feelings. Don’t muddy up something good with unproven suspicions.”

Myra had no more talk left in her, and so they went back indoors. Dan Talbot accepted a plate of savory chow and when Irene asked whether Myra had given him any good information, the lawman answered laconically. “She mentioned a deserted cabin near Yuma that the gang used once in a while.  I’ll wire the local sheriff to check it out.” After that, his answered were hard to pin down.

Dan soon excused himself and rode off home. Myra was left at the table with dark and heavy thoughts. Later, in bed, she decided that the decent thing would be to stay mum until after Christmas. Then, if there were no other trails of evidence to follow, it would be time to put some serious questions to Irene, no matter what the consequences might be.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6, Part 2

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 17

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

THE WOUNDED WORLD:
A Story of Mantra

Originally written 2006

Posted January 21, 2020
Revised February 21, 2020

CHAPTER 17

THE ROAD TO HELL

 Some are born to Sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night..

                            William Blake

I did a high-speed swap to remove my Blackbird uniform and get into my golden armor. I needed its magical enhancement to rev up my magic for the coming encounter with Gus. If my son was to be saved, I would need access to every watt of power available to me. "Here I am, Gus! I yelled into the sky. Surrender now and you won’t be harmed!"  

"I don't want to hit a girl,” a telepathic voice came back, “so I'm going to have some of my friends do that for me!"

Distantly, I saw a shimmer. Using my wizard sight to make up for the lack of light, I saw a variegated troop materializing into terrible reality -- a surreal mob that looked like characters out of a low-budget video game. About twenty feet above their heads, Gus was shouting orders, while brandishing a Nintendo joystick like a bandito would wave a revolver.

Lauren had witnessed Gus creating creatures like these before.  Tibetan mystics called these things "tulpas." I understood that they were not really alive and needed to continual energy injections to keep from powering down and fading away.

“Get them!” my little boy bawled out. The command started a rush in our direction: ninjas, thug knights, aliens, G.I.'s, golems, zombies, barbarians, fish-men, karate babes, and some tentacled horrors that looked seafood gone bad. This was an assassination attack aimed explicitly at me. Would Gus have been less homicidal if he’d known that behind my silver mask I was his mother? Somehow I doubted it. He simply couldn’t access his better nature.

I sent thought-alerts to Yrial and Strike, who were hidden in the vegetation.  “Get ready, set….”

Hardcase and I fell back from the tulpa warriors, luring the attackers into a cul-de-sac in which we could hit from three sides. At the last possible moment, I gave the mental shout of:  “Go!”

Yrial flew from her hiding place and deployed herself with me front, while Hardcase did a high jump to gain a new position on their left flank. Simultaneously, Strike rushed to a position on their right.

I began firing magical bolts, harsh, unvarnished magic which both burned and shocked whatever it hit. The “soldiers” were never alive, so there was no reason for anyone to hold back. I took out a pair of zombies off of the leading edge, mostly because they were the ugliest things I could see.  Though they staggered and fell, they didn't stay down. It seemed that Gus’s assault plan called for rebuilding the tulpas as quickly as they were knocked down. These manifestations were only game pieces, puppets obeying the rules that Gus was unconsciously laying down.

These video characters came on wildly, but without order. On our side, Hardcase and Strike were hammering at the enemy’s flanks, while Yrial I represented a wall in front of them, an entrenchment defended with magical firepower. As fast as we'd burn off limbs or blast torsos, the missing body parts would rematerialize.  Pretty clearly, we weren’t going to win by fighting a defense; we’d only waste our ammunition and sap our magical energy. A direct attack on the puppet-master was going to be needed.

"Grownups never play fair," the lad complained from aloft. "They won’t let kids gang up, but they do it all the time!"

Amazing! We were only four people while he was trying to overrun us with a small army. To Gus, this lethal business was just a sport. On the good side, the damage we inflicted was draining the boy, but, unfortunately, he didn't seem to be tiring very quickly, though he was using off-the-scale magic. Gus couldn't possibly be that strong on his own; he had to be feeding off some outside energy source. Instinct told me that he had a tie-in with whatever power supply was creating those green bolts in the sky.

With near-godlike potential, it was only the lad’s lack of experience that was holding him back. Unfortunately, if he somehow got inspired with better tactics we were dead meat. Myself, drawing on the method that Lauren had used to foil NM-E at the Mall, struck the entire tulpa host with a ghosting spell. All of a sudden, their fists, blades, zaps, and bludgeons were falling on us as harmlessly, as if we were empty air.

"Good thinking, Mantra!" Yrial shouted. I acknowledged her, but without much pride. How could I crow, having borrowed from an innovation created by a high-school kid with no real battle or magical experience?

Overhead, Gus just hung there, seemingly perplexed. He hadn’t yet grasped what, exactly, had gone amiss. His state of bafflement, fortunately, left me with an opening. Inspired by Lauren once again, I discharged a narrow magical bolt to strike the Nintendo stick clutched in his fist. The boy, physically stung, gave a shout and dropped the device. The loss of his security blanket seemed to throw him into a tizzy.

"Hardcase, the plan!" I yelled.

Tom Hawke charged through the mass of ineffective phantoms, a gas grenade in each hand. With an amazing jump, he bounced up to Gus’s altitude. Before the startled boy could react, the bombs clutched in Hardcase's nearly invulnerable fists went off. The explosions threw him to the ground, but he landed on his feet.

Gus, too was blow away, like a feather on the wind. Still airborne, but moving erratically, he was overcome by a coughing fit. 

“Hit it, Strike!” I yelled. My badly-dressed buddy launched his rocket-propelled capture-net. The netting enveloped Gus while subjecting him to a series of painful electrical pulses.

The shock-treatment messed up Gus’s concentration and brought him down to the grass with an audible thump. Even as we hurried his way, the lad rose above his distress and threw everything he had into the fight. He struck out in all directions using lethal magical bolts. But his simultaneous cries of pain affected me worse than would any physical attack that I could have suffered.

"Move, Mantra, now!" Yrial shouted. She was right. We had to get this over with, so we could stop hurting him.

At that moment, Gus’s tulpa army seemed to be losing its material substance, fading away like ghosts.  Yrial and I dodged though their mass as if they were not there. The next step was mine; I had to put my boy to sleep, and then stand aside while the Amerind witch rendered him unconscious with a coma spell. I ran up while carrying out my spell-casting effort. Strike, on his part, was waiting for our signal to cut the current.

But as bad as things were for Gus, the lad was refusing to call it quits! The more we did, the more aggressive be became. His magical resistance seemed to be operating instinctively and, to my dismay, my slumber spells weren’t having any effect. The bolts of energy kept coming, wild and unaimed, striking about us like whips of lightning. One of them hit my magical shield and enough of it filtered through to make me cry out with pain. Additionally, its flash had filled my vision field with colored blotches that kep me from observing what was going on in detail. I staggered up closer and resumed throwing dreamland spells at Gus. If this wild fight didn’t end quickly, I guessed, there was a very real chance that someone was going to die.

Suddenly, the magical lightning storm blinked off, as if by the throwing of a switch. Hardcase was bellowing orders: "'Strike! He's out of it! Kill the charge!"

"Stand back, Mantra!" shouted Yrial as she slipped in past.

"Quick, Yrial!" yelled Hardcase. "Do your thing! Now!"

The witch shoved me away from Gus and stood over him with her arms performing ritual passes, but right seconds later she gave a gasp. Instead of pressing her enchantment attempt, she abruptly knelt down to examine the boy.

"Yrial!" I cried.

"M-Mantra," the green-clad Stranger stammered, “he’s fading away!”

I threw myself down on the grass beside to her.

"Careful, ladies!" Strike warned.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 5, Part 2

Posted 01-06-20

Revised 02-07-20  

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 5, Part 2

Saturday, December 23, 1871 Continued

“I think there must be a lot more bad outlaws out there than good ones,” Dale responded soberly.  “I could have liked Myron better if only he was nicer.” Suddenly she blinked.  “Oh, say, I almost forgot to mention that I'll be attending the church service for your cousin. It's too bad it happened. I like Mrs. Fanning a lot, and I like you, too, Myra.”

“Look!” exclaimed Miss Grimsley. “Some boys are looking at us!”

“I hope one of them asks me to dance,” said Dale. “If no one does, I'd rather be partnered with with a girl if it means being left out entirely.”

“If no boy asks first, I'll dance with you,” Kyley promised her friend.

Myra grimaced inwardly. Soon, the two of them would be shuffling off together, leaving her behind to look like a wallflower. Maybe if Tor Johansson didn't show up soon, Irene would get tired of being ignored and decide to go home. That would be a blessing.

“I think I'll go inside and get something to eat,” Myra told her companions.

“You'll miss the first dance!” Kayley warned.

“I'm not much of a dancer. It's no big deal to me.”

“You shouldn't be so shy,” Dale stated. “I used to be, too, but I got over it the first time a boy called me pretty.” Just then, the Miss Severin looked up and announced, “Here comes the band.  They're going to set up!”

Myra took a critical look at herself. The way she was dressed would give men the wrong idea about her. No good could come from staying where she was.

“I'm really hungry,” Myra reminded them.

“We'll see you later,” chirped Dale.  “We want to watch the band get ready.”

“See you later, Myra,” Kayley added in parting. The Olcott girl watched them walk away.

#

Irene Fanning had been passing time with people she knew. She'd already been asked several times about the carefree style of her dress. She repeatedly needed to explain how she had bought it at the last minute from the limited stock available at the Silverman's store.

“They didn't have anything I liked this year,” said Zenobia Carson. “Their rack looked extremely picked over.”

“Mrs. Fanning,” Livinia Mackechnie put in, “doesn't the cut of that dress leave you feeling chilly?”

Irene, smiling patiently. “I have a warm shawl on the buckboard. I'll fetch it promptly should the night grow unpleasantly cool.

“How is your spirit holding up?” asked Grace McLeod.

Irene wondered whether this was a subtle form of censure.  “I'm sad for Myron,” she explained, “but I'm also overjoyed that Myra has come to stay with me. She's new to the West and I wanted to bring her to a place where she could make new friends right away.”

“I haven't met your niece yet,” mentioned Hilda Scudder. “Maybe we can exchange introductions at the memorial Tuesday.”

Irene nodded. “Yes, she'll appreciate that, I'm sure. For one so young, she's had more than her share of sorrow.”

“Isn't that always so?” said Hilda. “Especially at Christmas, it's important that all of us open our hearts to the stranger.”

At that moment, Irene was straining to see over her companions' heads, hoping to locate Tor Johansson. She was actually trying to suppress any feeling of eagerness. She couldn't keep from thinking about Darby in heaven, and how her behavior might make him feel.

Suddenly, she espied a man taller than anyone else next to him.  He seemed to be carefully scanning the crowd. When his fair eyes fixed on her face, her nerve almost failed. Irene clenched her fists and made a brave effort to show a pleasant face. Tor flashed a smile and started her way.

When the Swede was at a small distance, he remarked,“Mrs. Fanning, how nice it is to see you again.  Have you had a nice veek?”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Irene said as she stepped out from the knot of church friends and toward the big Swede.

“The last few days have been busy,” she confided, “but I have been looking forward to this gathering.”

“I like your new style of hair. You look like a lady of high society.”

Irene's cheeks warmed slightly. “I'm hardly that. But the bun I usually wear would scarcely have been in the spirit of the season.”

“I vould agree.  And your dress is very handsome.”

“I'm happy you think so. Some of the ladies seemed to imply that it's too bold.”

The prospector grinned broadly. “Ladies!  Tat's vhy we love tem so much.”

Irene nodded, feeling awkward but trying not to show it.

Tor beamed. “Vhen I came in, da band outside vas ready to start da music. I suppose you have a dance reserved already?”

“Not at all. And it would be sad to miss the opening dance.”

“Yes, dat vould be yoost terrible,” he said. He offered her his arm.

The ladies standing nearby took note of everything. The faces of the majority did not register approval.

#

Myra and her aunt passed one another, going in opposite directions. They exchanged glances, but neither spoke. Tor Johansson, next to Irene, looked huge. It occurred to the redhead that Irene would be lucky if Tor's big ox feet didn't leave her toes black and blue. Then the girl continued on, toward the tables. She was glad for the interior warmth, due to the lightness of her apparel.

Myra, looking at the clock behind the teacher's desk, winced. So little time had been passing. Eating, she hoped, would kill a good piece of it, so she paused to sample several delicacies: bread pudding, a jelly omelet, mince pie, cheese, and stewed prunes.  All this fare she washed down with glasses of punch, but was disappointed that it hadn't been spiked. 

“Hello, you must be new in these parts,” someone remarked.  Myra looked over her shoulder and her lips pursed at the sight of Winthrop Ritter.

“I'm new in every part,” Myra answered back flatly. “Aren't you the Mex I saw cleaning pens over at Ritter's stable?”

The young man scowled.  “I don't clean pens. And I'm sure not any Mexican. My pa owns the stable, like he owns a whole lot else in this town. I'm Winthrop Ritter.”

Myra pretended to sniff.  “Did you come straight over from work? Sometimes things get stuck to a person's shoes.”

Winthrop exchanged one scowl for a harder one. “There's a lot of poor folk hereabouts. One never knows what they drag  in.”

“If you say so.”

He didn't didn't feel charmed by the girl's tone, but, with effort, he maintained an amiable front. “I saw you coming in with some sort of fancy gal,” he said.

Myra shrugged.  “That was my aunt, Mrs. Fanning.”

“Irene Fanning?” He shook his head. “I really didn't recognize her. She looks like she could be one of Lady Cerise's gals.”  Then he caught himself.  “Maybe I shouldn't talk that way in front of a nice girl.”

“Where in tarnation does one find nice girls around here?”

“One is standing in front of me,” Winthrop answered with an ingratiating smile. “What's your name?”

“I'm traveling under the name of Abigail Myra Olcott.”

The youth laughed.  The frontier was full of rascals who'd come out from the East. A lot of them were trying to keep out of the hands of the law. What's your  name? was considered to be an impolite question if put to an outsider. Instead, folks would ask, “What name are you traveling under?” This girl Abigail had answered like a horse-thief on the dodge, and that tickled his funny-bone.

“That's a mighty fine handle. When I hear a name like Abigail, it always makes me imagine a lady of distinction.”

“And I always think of some old grandma with a cane. People call me Myra, and that doesn't set very well with me either.”

Winthrop nodded. “I hated my name, too. Back in school, there was a smart-mouthed kid who'd always try to make me sore by calling me 'Winnie.'”

Myra regarded her unwelcome companion. There was about a ninety-nine percent chance that he was remembering Myron Caldwell, who'd been just a grade behind him. “Did you let him get way with it?” she asked, wondering what he'd say.

“Not a bit. I whooped him a few times and that taught him some manners. Before I graduated, he was bowing and scraping like some sort of black slave.”

'You lying S.O.B.' thought Myra. The only time Ritter had ever hit him without getting get hit back worse was when two of his bully friends had been holding his arms.  The boy had gotten revenge, though.  He'd slipped a carmel-covered onion into his enemy's lunch pail and laughed like hell to see Winnie's face change when he bit into it!  For a different offense, Myron had put a “Bankrupt, Going Out of Business” sign on Clyde Ritter's office door. He'd purposely done it on a Sunday morning, when there was only an illiterate hired man there to tend the horses.  The stableman couldn't read the placard, so he'd left it up all day, supposing that his boss wanted it to be seen.

Outdoors, a lively tune had just started up.

“Say now,” Winthrop said, “they've commenced the opening dance.”

“Do you like to dance?” Myra asked.  “You don't look like the type.”