Well, except for the excellent Christopher stuff, I haven't found much good that I can share, really. I would love to hear from you all, though, over on Discord!
https://discord.gg/3Cwy39v
Thursday, June 27, 2019
Saturday, June 22, 2019
The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 10
By Aladdin
Edited by Christopher Leeson
Edited by Christopher Leeson
The Wounded World
Originally written 2006
Posted June 22, 2019 THE CHAOS FACTOR
I see the
Past, Present and Future,
Existing
all at once Before me;
O Divine
Spirit sustain me on thy wings!
William Blake
CHAPTER TEN
What was going to happen now?~
As the 'copter continued its descent in, I realized that this would be Mantra's first meeting with Dr. Sarn following the Night of Terror. That meant that I would have to be careful about what I said. My information would be more informed than hers, but she wouldn't know it. To have my supervisor thinking that my experience had made me delusional would not be helpful.
I was thinking hard and fast about my situation. As far as I could see, there was nothing that that I'd done or experienced that should have triggered another dislocation in time. Had I become like a floating bottle in a storm? Would this temporal shifting never stop, like what happened to that guy on Quantum Leap? If I'd really become unstuck in time, how long would it be before I landed into a situation that would kill me? I pressed my hands together on my lap, hoping to keep the pilot from seeing them shake.
But he was a sharp one. "Lots of people get jumpy riding in a 'copter," he was saying. "You'll be yourself once you get your feet back on solid ground."
Yeah, and you'll be happy enough to be rid of a flaky passenger, too, I thought.
As the helicopter settled into the Alcatraz hanger, I saw Dr. Sarn waiting on the tarmac, this time garbed in a lab coat and brown slacks. The fashion she affected helped me to remember that she was a scientist, not just a Gestapo-style thug.
Of course, Mengele had been a doctor, too.
Friday, June 7, 2019
The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 2, Part 1
Posted 06-07-19
Revised 07-07-19
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 2, Part 1
While
the Mexican helper at the Feed and Grain store loaded Irene's
purchases onto the buckboard, the woman herself stood nearby, talking
to Patricia O'Hanlan. Myra had been told that the latter represented the new form and the new
face of Patrick O'Hanlan. This was a hard idea to
choke down, but, over all, she liked the idea of someone else besides herself suffering. Myra
remembered Pat O'Hanlan as a plain, fortyish man, hard to pick out
from a crowd. But this girl “Trisha,” even wearing pants and a
shirt, was something to see. A shape like hers should have been painted for a theater
poster. She wondered whether Trisha, being decidedly of the pretty persuasion,
was having much trouble with men trying to keep company with her.
“Well,
hello, Myra,” a male voice made address from behind. She
recognized that timbre and turned to face her accoster.
“George!”
she exclaimed. “Have you trailing my aunt and me like some sort of
Injun scout?”
“Not
a bit!” the farm boy responded, his grin broad and confident. “I
came into town to pick up a few hardware items for Ma and Pa.”
“Well,
if you're going to the hardware shop, this isn't it.”
“No,
but I thought I'd look over the new merchandise here at the feed
store. It appears to be of high quality.”
She
tossed her head. “If that's a sneaky way of saying that you like
the way I look, I've got a good mind to knock you into the street!”
“Temper,
temper. Haven't you learned yet that women shouldn't be hitting
men?”
“And
why not?”
“Because
if women started to hit men, men would have to start hitting them
back. A man could really hurt a light-bodied little gal with a hard
punch, if he was inclined to give her one.”
“So,
now you're threatening me?” the maiden challenged.
“No,
I'm just letting you know why smart mothers teach their daughters not
to go around punching men.”
“Well,
you shouldn't go popping off about how a girl looks, not if you don't
want to get hit.”
The
youth's smile seemed undiminished. “That's a strange way of looking at
things. Most girls like to be told they're pretty.”
“I
ain't like most girls!”
Wednesday, May 22, 2019
The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 9
By Aladdin
Edited by Christopher Leeson
Edited by Christopher Leeson
The Wounded World
Originally written 2006
Revised and posted May 22, 2019
THE BOY IN THE GRAY COCOON
And this he always kept in mind
And formed a crooked knife
And ran about with bloody hands
To seek his mother's life.
William Blake
With dusk coming upon us like a dark frown, I made the helicopter connection and was soon skimming over the bay. The destination, my pilot informed me, was Alcatraz Island.
That notorious name struck me like a glacial blast. During the Thirties, I'd been occupying the body of a career criminal. Things had gotten messy and the police intervened into a skirmish that we knights were having with Boneyard's men. I'd already been stunned by a head blow in the course of the fight and was apprehended in a place that a legitimate parolee should have been avoiding. Judged guilty of having broken parole, I'd been dispatched to the new federal prison, and there remained until rescued by Archimage in his own good time.
It had been a bad experience. The guards upon “the Rock” were permitted to use brutality as a matter of course. It was perfectly acceptable to shoot to kill every real or suspected escaping inmate. Even the location for the prison had been diabolically chosen, a barren island squatting inside a climactic anomaly where the arctic winds blew continually. A favorite “practical joke” was for the guards to turn on the cell-block air conditioners on the coldest nights of the year. It was a challenge for even the most hardened thug to endure the soul-destroying miseries of the Rock.
In 1963, the then-president shout down the prison as a blot upon the Republic. Was it only a coincidence that he was assassinated later that year? For years following its closure, the island was kept as a tourist attraction. Then, suddenly, it was declared off-limits again. The media barely put out the story, except convey the official line that Alcatraz was being reconditioned as an anti-terrorist training center. I'd learned the truth in good time. The installation had been designated as an Aladdin black site for the internment of ultras, some of them illegally kidnapped, as in the days of the French Bastille.
According to the information I'd gleaned, the Eden Blake of this world must have visited Alcatraz on Saturday the 16th, shortly after her son had been incarcerated. I had no way of knowing what she'd learned while there, and so would have to bluff my way along. If necessary, I'd cover my cluelessness by making it seem that I was distracted and distraught due to the awful things that had occurred in the Blake home Friday night.
As we hovered over the complex, my pilot took to the radio and called in. A voice from below “welcomed” us to what it called “Alactraz Ultra Confinement Center.” Upon setting down, the first face I recognized on the tarmac was Dr. Sarn's. Tall, classically handsome, blonde, hard-bodied, Sarn was really stacked. Though pushing forty, the doctor didn't look it. Agency rumors held that that she had a colorful past. Sarn supposedly started out at eighteen as an Aladdin version of the classic “honey-trap,” an international femme fatale spy. She was built for the role, admittedly, though it was hard to imagine Sarn ever counterfeiting enough warmth to entice enemy agents into vulnerable, controlled situations.
Though head of my division, she'd let her subordinates supervise the lowly job that I'd been performing. That changed when I was preparing for my covert mission to Britain. From my frequent contacts with her then, I had learned that Sarn was ice-cold and all business. She didn't offer, nor tolerate, any unnecessary chit-chat. While “knowing” her, I still hardly knew anything about her.
Having met me outside the 'copter, the doctor extended no greeting but curtly told me to follow her. While doing so, I did my utmost to memorize every twist and turn along the way, just in case. It was not outside the realm of possibility that I'd soon need to mastermind a prison break from Alcatraz Island.
We paused before a sealed portal that looked about as formidable as a bank vault. Gaining entry required Sarn to provide both a thumb-print and an eye scan. Once we were inside, we proceeded along a long row of cells, where I saw prisoners being held, captive ultras, probably. Then I recognized a face that amazingly resembled my own.
THE BOY IN THE GRAY COCOON
And this he always kept in mind
And formed a crooked knife
And ran about with bloody hands
To seek his mother's life.
William Blake
With dusk coming upon us like a dark frown, I made the helicopter connection and was soon skimming over the bay. The destination, my pilot informed me, was Alcatraz Island.
That notorious name struck me like a glacial blast. During the Thirties, I'd been occupying the body of a career criminal. Things had gotten messy and the police intervened into a skirmish that we knights were having with Boneyard's men. I'd already been stunned by a head blow in the course of the fight and was apprehended in a place that a legitimate parolee should have been avoiding. Judged guilty of having broken parole, I'd been dispatched to the new federal prison, and there remained until rescued by Archimage in his own good time.
It had been a bad experience. The guards upon “the Rock” were permitted to use brutality as a matter of course. It was perfectly acceptable to shoot to kill every real or suspected escaping inmate. Even the location for the prison had been diabolically chosen, a barren island squatting inside a climactic anomaly where the arctic winds blew continually. A favorite “practical joke” was for the guards to turn on the cell-block air conditioners on the coldest nights of the year. It was a challenge for even the most hardened thug to endure the soul-destroying miseries of the Rock.
In 1963, the then-president shout down the prison as a blot upon the Republic. Was it only a coincidence that he was assassinated later that year? For years following its closure, the island was kept as a tourist attraction. Then, suddenly, it was declared off-limits again. The media barely put out the story, except convey the official line that Alcatraz was being reconditioned as an anti-terrorist training center. I'd learned the truth in good time. The installation had been designated as an Aladdin black site for the internment of ultras, some of them illegally kidnapped, as in the days of the French Bastille.
According to the information I'd gleaned, the Eden Blake of this world must have visited Alcatraz on Saturday the 16th, shortly after her son had been incarcerated. I had no way of knowing what she'd learned while there, and so would have to bluff my way along. If necessary, I'd cover my cluelessness by making it seem that I was distracted and distraught due to the awful things that had occurred in the Blake home Friday night.
As we hovered over the complex, my pilot took to the radio and called in. A voice from below “welcomed” us to what it called “Alactraz Ultra Confinement Center.” Upon setting down, the first face I recognized on the tarmac was Dr. Sarn's. Tall, classically handsome, blonde, hard-bodied, Sarn was really stacked. Though pushing forty, the doctor didn't look it. Agency rumors held that that she had a colorful past. Sarn supposedly started out at eighteen as an Aladdin version of the classic “honey-trap,” an international femme fatale spy. She was built for the role, admittedly, though it was hard to imagine Sarn ever counterfeiting enough warmth to entice enemy agents into vulnerable, controlled situations.
Though head of my division, she'd let her subordinates supervise the lowly job that I'd been performing. That changed when I was preparing for my covert mission to Britain. From my frequent contacts with her then, I had learned that Sarn was ice-cold and all business. She didn't offer, nor tolerate, any unnecessary chit-chat. While “knowing” her, I still hardly knew anything about her.
Having met me outside the 'copter, the doctor extended no greeting but curtly told me to follow her. While doing so, I did my utmost to memorize every twist and turn along the way, just in case. It was not outside the realm of possibility that I'd soon need to mastermind a prison break from Alcatraz Island.
We paused before a sealed portal that looked about as formidable as a bank vault. Gaining entry required Sarn to provide both a thumb-print and an eye scan. Once we were inside, we proceeded along a long row of cells, where I saw prisoners being held, captive ultras, probably. Then I recognized a face that amazingly resembled my own.
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 2
Posted 05-07-19
Revised 06-09-19
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 1, Part 2
December 19, 1871, Continued
The aunt and niece found Molly waiting for them at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. Reunited, they walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop. The owner was a young man in this thirties with a round face and brown, thinning hair. His sideburns were robust, as was the mustache that flowed across his cheeks to merge with them.
“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”
Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”
The auburn frowned. “Tomfoolery for empty heads. I want to read about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have enough sword-fighting.”
The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”
Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”
“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his step ladder and drew down from a high shelf a fancily embossed volume with gilded edges. He climbed down and handed it to his young visitor.
“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though the pages. “I read a few stories about knights in some of our school books.”
“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”
Myra knitted her brows. “What does it cost?”
“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.
“Well, I don't have any money at all,” she replied.
“We'd better save this one for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any new dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”
“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.
“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't seem to get enough of those sorts of stories.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that so much blood and thunder would appeal to a young lady.”
“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”
“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.
“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. Then her perturbed expression transformed to whimsy. “Surely, the exploits of such black-hearted villains would keep an innocent girl awake at night. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”
“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his available stock and offered them to Myra.
While Kirby attended to her companions, Molly had been exploring the shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.
The latter accepted it and read the title: The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. Paging through it, she saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.
“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail that a young lady might not be ready for it.”
“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they'll be more different still.”
“I think that this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying a dime novel to her guardian.
“Very well,” consented Irene. Then she returned her attention to the tract in her hands. She was getting second thoughts. It might be better to allow Myra to read something written by a medical man, and in that way learn things about a woman's body that should not be broached by anyone other than a decidedly mature woman or a doctor.
Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and book separately, binding them with lengths of string. Once Molly and companions were back outside, she ushered them along the boardwalk to the news office. She did not think they would mind getting a good story about a young lady who had been abducted by outlaws. It they published the story it would inform everyone of Myra's arrival at the same time.
The saloon-keeper only paused long enough to scan the advertisements posted on the shop's exterior bulletin board.
Then, looking through the glass, she took note that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of what might be important work, she rethought the idea of disturbing him. She mentioned her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.
“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want take the fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”
“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.
The aunt and niece found Molly waiting for them at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. Reunited, they walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop. The owner was a young man in this thirties with a round face and brown, thinning hair. His sideburns were robust, as was the mustache that flowed across his cheeks to merge with them.
“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”
Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”
The auburn frowned. “Tomfoolery for empty heads. I want to read about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have enough sword-fighting.”
The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”
Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”
“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his step ladder and drew down from a high shelf a fancily embossed volume with gilded edges. He climbed down and handed it to his young visitor.
“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though the pages. “I read a few stories about knights in some of our school books.”
“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”
Myra knitted her brows. “What does it cost?”
“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.
“Well, I don't have any money at all,” she replied.
“We'd better save this one for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any new dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”
“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.
“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't seem to get enough of those sorts of stories.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that so much blood and thunder would appeal to a young lady.”
“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”
“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.
“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. Then her perturbed expression transformed to whimsy. “Surely, the exploits of such black-hearted villains would keep an innocent girl awake at night. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”
“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his available stock and offered them to Myra.
While Kirby attended to her companions, Molly had been exploring the shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.
The latter accepted it and read the title: The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. Paging through it, she saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.
“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail that a young lady might not be ready for it.”
“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they'll be more different still.”
“I think that this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying a dime novel to her guardian.
“Very well,” consented Irene. Then she returned her attention to the tract in her hands. She was getting second thoughts. It might be better to allow Myra to read something written by a medical man, and in that way learn things about a woman's body that should not be broached by anyone other than a decidedly mature woman or a doctor.
Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and book separately, binding them with lengths of string. Once Molly and companions were back outside, she ushered them along the boardwalk to the news office. She did not think they would mind getting a good story about a young lady who had been abducted by outlaws. It they published the story it would inform everyone of Myra's arrival at the same time.
The saloon-keeper only paused long enough to scan the advertisements posted on the shop's exterior bulletin board.
Then, looking through the glass, she took note that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of what might be important work, she rethought the idea of disturbing him. She mentioned her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.
“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want take the fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”
“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 8
By Aladdin
Edited by Christopher Leeson
The Wounded World
Originally written 2006
Revised and posted Apr. 21, 2019
Chapter 8
ALL ABOUT EVE
"Thy fear has made me tremble,
Thy terrors have surrounded me.
All love is lost. Terror succeeds,
And [there is] hatred instead of love."
William Blake
ALL ABOUT EVE
"Thy fear has made me tremble,
Thy terrors have surrounded me.
All love is lost. Terror succeeds,
And [there is] hatred instead of love."
William Blake
Evie was glancing down at her knees, biting her lower lip. I squeezed the little girl's hand and asked, "What did he do, Button? Can you talk about it?"
Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Yeah, I can talk, Mommy. Gus grabbed Mr. Paws and tore his head off. He shouldn'ta done that. I didn't say anything bad, and Mr. Paws didn't say anything either. We both felt sorry that Daddy wasn't gonna keep his promise. When Gus did that awful thing, I started to cry. You got so mad that you slapped him an' told him to stay in his room until he 'pologized to me and Mr. Paws. He told us to go away, that he hated everybody.
"I was feeling just awful 'cuz Mr. Paws was dead. I couldn't stop crying. I asked if you could fix him an' you said maybe you could. That's when Lauren called."
"What did Lauren say, Honey?"
"I didn't hear, but you said she could come right over. Then you and me talked some more about Gus. You felt bad about slapping him an' said you were gonna tell him how sorry you were.
"After that, you heated up some soup for Gus an' put it on a tray with some other things. I asked if I could take it in to him. You said okay and Mr. Paws an' me carried it into him. I figgered that when Gus saw how hurt he was he might say he was sorry. But when me and Mr. Paws went in to see Gus we just couldn't believe it! There was fire and smoke all over, an' Gus was glowing green! He was floating up in the air, like those bad wizard guys do in the cartoons. I was scared an' asked him how he could do that. He said he could do anything. That's when he saw how sick Mr. Paws was and used his magic to fix him, just like – magic."
“Did I heat the soup in the kettle or in the microwave?” I asked.
The question took Evie by surprise and she blinked. “In the microwave, Mommy.”
“Was it thundering outside?” I pressed.
Bemused, Evie shook her head, “No.”
From this, I reasoned that would take only a couple minutes to have opened a can of soup and heated it in the microwave. That meant that between the time that Mantra and Evie had left Gus's room and the time that Evie returned to it, only minutes could have passed. In that very short space of time, the energy from space must have struck. The newspapers had said that it happened at about 7:12 P.M. Evie had heard no atmospheric noise, so it had apparently struck with silence. But how was it that Mantra, who was sensitive to magical manifestations, had been taken unawares? All I could think was that if the energy had been a form of magic, it must have been a very strange form of magic.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 1
Posted 04-07-19
Revised 05-07-19
Revised 06-09-19
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 1, Part 1
December 19, 1871, Continued
Chapter 1
Tuesday, December 19, 1871
A prairie chicken, bursting from the roadside weeds, startled the carriage horse. “Easy now, Hazel,” Mrs. Fanning shouted to the beast, tugging at the reins to settle it down.
Myra Olcott, next to her aunt, bounced once on the hard seat and then forgot about the mishap; she was too angry to care. All she could think about was how her life had crashed into flames like a burning building.
Abigail Myra Olcott hadn't wanted to make this trip but Aunt Irene was insistent: “Everyone knows that a young lady has arrived from 'the East.' They'll all be curious to meet you and we shouldn't keep you out of sight for too long. They might start wondering whether you have a contagious disease, or something worse.”
Those words struck Myra like a blow.
Irene Fanning realized her mistake. The girl's parents had died of cholera five years past, and she was still angry with the entire world because of that.
“What I'm saying,” Mrs. Fanning explained, “is that you can't afford to have curious people watching you too carefully. You have secrets to keep. Or have you stopped caring?”
“I've already met everybody in town,” the girl said, “and what I've stopped caring about is the whole pack of them.”
“But they've only met you as Myron Caldwell, who's supposed to be dead. You have to introduce yourself as a totally new person.”
Myra scowled. She distinctly disliked the “totally new person” that she had become.
“I asked Molly O'Toole to join us today,” continued Irene. “The storekeepers all know Mrs. O'Toole. If she seems to like you, it should carry weight with them. Make a good impression and they'll spread the word that you're a fine young lady.”
With clenched fists, Myra declared, “I'm sorry I ever came back from Stagecoach Gap alive.”
“You've said that before. But tell me, <i>my girl,</i> would you truly rather be dead and buried, with your soul very possibly in Hell, or would you prefer to be alive – even as you are?
The maid gritted her teeth. The term “my girl” was a magical code-word that compelled her to follow her aunt's orders. She hadn't really believed in magic, but since the week before it had come out of the brush like a rattler and stung her. It compelled her to tell the truth, for one thing, and truth-telling was something that could only get a person into trouble.
“I don't believe in Hell,” the maiden replied grudgingly , “but I sure wouldn't want to go there if it's real.”
Irene turned her head and spoke seriously. “Most of the people who fall into the flames don't believe in the bad place either, I imagine. People who don't believe in Hell can't honestly believe in Heaven. And only people who believe in God are allowed to live with Him.”
“The demons must believe in God,” Myra retorted. “They don't live with him.”
“Yes, but they don't love him or obey him willingly. That's the difference.”
“I'd rather be a ghost and live by myself.”
“Whatever you want, I rather believe that it's not you who will be judging such matters.”
“It's the parsons that fill people's heads with ideas like yours,” the ginger-haired maid returned. “What does a bag of straw like Reverend Yingling know?”
The two of them had argued along these lines before. This time, the woman just sighed and kept driving.
By now, the buckboard had passed the town welcome sign and Riley Canyon Road was widening into the main street of the town. Eerie, Arizona was small compared to many Eastern towns, but here, south of the Superstition Mountains, it was the largest settlement to be found, except for Phoenix, sixty miles to the west. As they passed the false-fronted buildings on either side, people turned to look. Few could have missed the very attractive young lady seated next to the Widow Fanning.
Irene waved to those who waved at her first, but her forced smile was masking tension. How would Myra behave in public? Only a few people in the world knew the girl's real identity. Not even George Severin, the neighbor boy who helped them on the farm, had been told the truth.
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