The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 19

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

THE WOUNDED WORLD:
A Story of Mantra

Originally written 2006

Posted March 21, 2020

CHAPTER 19

ALL OUR YESTERDAYS

Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
                        William Blake

 

“Blake, are you all right?” asked Wrath.

 "F-Fine,” I said. “I’ve had a rough time of it.”

“What happened?”

I had a spin ready for him.  “After you left Evie and me alone in the van, I suddenly heard Gus's voice calling. He was ordering me to come to him. I think he was using mind-control. I couldn't hold myself back.  I told Evie to stay with the driver, and then I ran off into the dark. I didn’t even know where I was supposed to go. The next thing I knew, I was in a construction site with my ankles and wrists tied. I was gagged, too, and couldn’t attract help from anyone. The bonds must have been magical, because, suddenly, after a while, they dissolved and I could get up. I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

I didn’t like falsely casting blame on Gus, but telling the truth could get me into too much trouble.

“What’s your location?” 

“I don’t know. I need to find a sign, or ask somebody. There aren’t very many people on the street.”

Several seconds of silence followed. "Well, I’m sorry I have to tell you this, Mrs. Blake,” Tunney said at last. “We've intercepted a police call. I’m afraid it’s very bad news."

"It's about Gus?" I asked, bracing myself to hear a bout the boy’s death.

"Yes...it is." Then he told me what I already knew.

"W-Where's Evie?" I stammered.

"She's still with us. I thought she'd be safest if we kept her with the team."

"Y-Yes, thank you," I replied. "Does Evie know yet?"

"No. Telling a little girl something of that kind is no job for a stranger. I'm willing to stand with you -- when you talk to her, I mean.”

“What ultras were with Gus when...it happened?” I asked.

Two of the big-name, Hardcase and Yrial, that Indian girl from the Strangers.”

“Did they attack the boy?” I asked, letting my feelings seep into my tone.

“The report said that they’d pursued the boy from the school, intending to apprehend him. He turned at bay inside Runnymede Park and fought back powerfully. It’s their contention that they used no lethal force, but that the little guy died from some sort of seizure."

"D-Do you think that's how it really was?"

"Damned if I know. For the time being it’s in the hands of the city police.  The body is being taken to the Woodland Hills Medical Center. I’ll notify the Company about what I know. What do you want me to do -- about your little girl, I mean?"

"Would you take her to her grandmother's house? That’s where I intend to go next." I gave him the address.

"You don’t sound good, Mrs. Blake. Should we come pick you up?"

"No,” I said. “I can deal with this. There’s a restaurant close by.  I’ll summon a cab from there."

At that moment,  I found myself listening to a mutter of voices in Wrath’s background. Then Tunney’s voice returned, crisp with excitement:

"Something else has gone down."

"What?"

"There was a sighting of two new Mantra-style babes in an aerial fight over West Hollywood. One of them fits the description of a flying woman that we sighted near the school. The other one is described as having a snake tattoo on her leg."

"Two new Mantras? That doesn't make sense."

"There must be a whole sorority of them. Anyway, the pair of them were going at each other like they were crazy. The snake girl was blasted out of the air by some sort of explosion. Then the one in black followed her down and cut off her head. Oh, I should add that the killer had an accomplice, a heavily-armed male in a mask. One witness thought that it might have been Strike. We'll have to check out that angle. The suits around the office would be damned happy to have an excuse to go after him."

"H-Happy?” the break in my voice was real. “I-I’m sorry; I just can't talk anymore."

"I believe it.  We’ll see you soon.” With a simple farewell of “Out!” he disconnected.

"Any problem?" Strike asked.

I shook my head. "None that I can't handle. I need to contact Yrial?"

"Yeah, do it."

I made good on the telepathic linkup and Yrial brought me up to speed. She and Hardcase were still answering questions at the Canoga Park police department. There wasn’t much more that she could tell me.  I clicked off and passed along to Tark what little I’d learned.

My companion gave back a thoughtful frown before asking, “Do you want a ride over to your mother’s place?”

I shook my head. “No, you should lay low. We might run into Aladdin otherwise. They know that you were near Necromantra when she died and that makes you a suspect. But you’ve got worse problems to think about.” I then reiterated my advice that he should go inactive for the next couple days.

He nodded gravely, but didn’t let on that he would heed my advice. With a mumbled "goodbye," Strike mounted and rode off. I was left alone, there on Hollywood Boulevard, watching his exhaust fade into the night.

Up to this point, my adrenaline had been keeping me functioning. But now that it was leaching from my system, I shivered. My emotional state was going south. That wasn’t like me, not the old me.  I had lost thousands of comrades in battle across a long span of centuries, but I’d always toughed it out. Now I was living a whole new kind of life and dealing with having a whole new emotional structure. That night I learned how much worse it feels for a parent to lose a child than for a another person to lose a mate or a lover.

But letting go would solve nothing. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. Consequently, I mounted into the air currents and soon, flying west, touched down close to Barbara Freeman's home. Thereupon I switched into civilian garb and went inside by the front door. She'd only just returned from her date and the first topic that came to her mind concerned who was watching the kids. The heartbreaking news just poured out of me after that. The flinty old lady, the army wife, was visibly shaken, but I knew that the worst was yet to come. Wrath would be arriving with Evie very soon. Once that happened, it would be up to me to tell a tender little tyke the worst news that she had ever heard -- at least since the death of her real mother.

As Barbara forlornly sat sobbing on the couch, I drifted to the window to watch for oncoming van lights. Part of me hoped that I wouldn’t see them before the next calendar year.

To get my mind off that faithful arrival, I took stock.  My powers were back. Lauren was alive, and so was Evie. Necromantra couldn’t threaten my family any longer.  Heather Parks and her friends were probably all right, though I hadn’t had a chance to confirm that. On the down side, the damage to the school would be a sore loss to the neighborhood. But what really made my heart sink was knowing that I was still stuck in some alternate realty. What was happening at home? Were my own Gus and Evie well?

In August, I had been in a similar fix, having appeared in an alternate world where no one had ever heard of Mantra. After a period of reorientation, I had made a dimensional portal that led home, but I didn’t know if the same enchantment would work now. Even giving the best case scenario, I’d be be leaving the Evie of this world alone at the moment of her worst despair.
 
I suddenly had an idea!

If I could find my way home, I might be able to take the local Evie with me! Once on my world, she would have a brother again -- one without the curse that had brought her family such woe. She could have a whole new life. 
 
Come off it, Lukasz! It won’t work.

I wasn’t thinking logically. How could I explain to my neighbors, the school, and the social services that Evie had suddenly acquired a twin? The sensation-loving media would pile on and my secretive life might not be able to stand up to their feeding frenzy. Worse, how would either of my daughters react to suddenly becoming part of a pair? How would Gus deal with such a thing? And by taking her away, wouldn’t I be doing injury to other innocent people -- her father, her uncles, her cousins, and her grandparents? They surely cherished the Evie they knew and would never allow me to remove her to another diminsion, especially if I were honest enough to admit that I wasn’t her real mother. Spiriting her away without their consent was out of the question. The child's mysterious disappearance might blight the lives of the entire family, and there could be no expiration date for that type of emotional torture.

And besides that, what kind of reality would I be going back to?  If this present version of myself was composed of my spirit in the body of this world’s Mantra, what was the state of alter ego back home? Was the Eden Blake of that world comatose? Was it walking around, oblivious to the ghastly adventures that I had been having? If I arrived there, would my world suddenly have two Mantras? Which of us would be the more justified in laying claim to the life that we both wished to have?  Would we have to fight it out, or would one of us need to gracefully bow out and go away?  Any way I looked at it, returning could mean trouble and sorrow -- and this world’s Evie would be mixed up in all the anguish and confusion. I didn’t want that.

Feeling bummed, I took another glance outside. The street seemed so empty. The moon above was masked behind a blanket of green vapors. The locals were probably shocked by the destruction of the school. How very dark the Night of Terror loomed. The neighbors were probably anxiouis and staying indoors. Had the night’s stock of abominable things finally run out, or were other strange magicks still going on nearby? Should I head out on patrol after I told Evie the bad news? I couldn’t leave her when she needed comforting the most. I was tired of fighting and planning. I wanted some peace and quiet, so I could sit alone nd weep. One of the worst things about being a woman is having womanish emotions.
 
Then, at just that moment, I saw myself backing away from myself.

I was time-shifting again! But why? I'd only been in this time frame for a few hours. Was my condition getting worse? Was I completely losing my anchorage in time? Was I about to become a leaf in a hurricane, blown randomly – until something – maybe even my own hand – would end my misery in an unnatural way?

#

Then, in what seemed like seconds, I was sitting elsewhere, surrounded by different people -- all sorts of people. I moved my left arm in startlement and was barely aware of having struck something. It was like I was half in a dream or half out of it. I fought to focus.

There was the sound of a chair being shoved away and I heard a complaint: "Hey, Mom, be careful!"

Astonished, I turned toward what was a familiar voice.

What I saw froze me in place.
 
Gus was alive again.

And, also great, Gus was Gus!

He was sitting across a table from me. He wasn't disfigured. I was seeing the same Gus that I had known before.

And he was scowling at me.

"You're looking spacey, Mom," the boy remarked. "People are going to think you're creepy."

I glanced around. Evie was seated to my right. Then it dawned on me that we were back in The Mall in Canoga Park. I looked down at myself and found that I was wearing the same shirt and jeans that I’d worn on Thursday night.

Did I dare to hope that, by some providence, I’d come home?

I touched my little girl's arm, wanting tactile proof that she was really there. Her flesh felt soft and warm. My voice sounded very shaky asking her, "Button, what d-day is this?"

"Ahh... it's Thursday, Mommy."

"Thursday the fourteen?"

She looked to her brother. "It's the fourteenth, isn't it, Gus?"

"Yeah, it is."

But then I felt something cold and clammy. Coca Cola was dribbling off the table and into my lap. I pushed my chair back, stood up, and attacked the wetness with a napkin.

Sitting down again, I glanced at the child. She seemed calm and bright, so unlike the woebegone tyke of that other world, the one so full of fear and sorrow.

Was I home?  Was I really home?

"Mommy, why are you looking that way? Are you mad about something?" Evie asked.

Shaking the cobwebs from my mind, I said, "No, Pumpkin. How could I be mad? Here I am with the little girl that I love the most."

She smiled again, but with uncertainty.

"Kids," I began slowly. "I think I must have blacked out for a few seconds. I'm still a little mixed up. We shopped for school supplies tonight, didn’t we?"

"Yeah," said Gus, who was looking at me as if I were an odd amphibian specimen from his nature-studies class.

"And then we got into line to eat at this restaurant -- the Kids' Club?"

"Yeah! Mom, are you putting us on?"

"Was I with you the whole time, or did I go off somewhere?"

"You were with us, Mommy," replied Evie. "You said, 'Let's eat at this one,' and we all sat down. Then you looked around and spilled your drink."

What did it all mean? What did anything mean?

Whatever you do, Lukasz, keep calm. Don't scare the kids.

"Umm, did I act funny at this table, or say funny things?”

"Not until now," Gus opined.

It seemed like I had lost about ten minutes, but during those ten minutes I had lived for days in the future. But it actually hadn’t been the future of this world.

What, exactly, had happened?
 

TO BE CONCLUDED IN CHAPTER 20.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 6, Part 2

Posted 03-07-20 

Revised 04-07-20 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6, Part 2

Monday, December 25, 1871

“Myra!” Aunt Irene called up into the loft from the kitchen.  “It snowed last night!”

The girl took the news with interest. She hurriedly threw on a robe and then clambered down the ladder to take a look outside.

Myra, standing at the threshold, a cold wind blowing in her face, could see that the farm had been buried under a white blanket. She noticed no break in the cottony covering, except where there were tallish stands of dry, brown weeds. The farm girl bent down, poked an index finger into the snow and estimated that its depth had to be about four inches. While she had seen heavier winter covering in Pennsylvania, she had never witnessed more than a dusting here and there in Arizona. She supposed that the newspaper was going to sell very well this week, with people buying copies so that they could clip and save the news story describing the big snow.  

In contrast to the excitement provided by the weather, Christmas morning’s breakfast tasted bland. Irene had left all the fancy party food at the schoolhouse. The hostesses there would see that the leftovers would be kept in a cold room and delivered to the church in time for the Sunday Christmas service. What was left over would be distributed to the poor of the town, including the men living in the squatter shacks. Thinking about that kind of charity made Myra frown. Giveaways always seemed to be taken advantage of. The ne’er-do-wells, like Lydon Kelsey to name one, would no doubt have lingered after the party to be able to go home with a bag of eatables tucked under each arm.  

Abruptly, Irene left the table and stepped into the walk-in pantry. When she emerged, she was carrying a wrapped box. The sight of what she guessed to be her Christmas gift made Myra feel awkward. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think about getting you anything.”

“Sweetheart,” Irene responded, “that's all right. I know you don't have any money.”

That was bitterly true. “Is that my fault?” Myra asked distastefully.

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Christmas is not the time for fault finding. Don't worry about presents. This has been a season of miracles, and I'd be ashamed to ask the Lord for more blessings than He has already seen fit to send us. Until last week, I thought I would have to pass a Christmas without you, but that didn’t happen.”

Myra pursed her lips. The “blessings” that the Man Upstairs she had been dealing her seemed like raw deals.

Instead of venting her feelings, the girl opened the parcel and found a book inside. When Myra started tearing at the paper, she was assuming that the tome might be Le Morte d’Arthur, but that wasn’t so. “Innocents Abroad? What's this about?” she asked.

Irene replied with a smile. “It's the story of Mark Twain's trip to Europe and the Holy Land a couple of years ago.  I know how much you like to read about far away places.  And Mr. Twain is a very good writer.”

“I've heard of him.”  She hefted the book.  “This one is one big sucker, anyway.”

“I hope it will give you some good reading. By the way, there'll be no unnecessary work done today. Just help me keep the animals well tended, the eggs gathered, and the cows milked. Oh, and we're both going to have to take a bath right away, since the Severins will be expecting us for dinner.”

Socializing wasn't something that the girl looked forward to, but she didn’t think that she could wheedle out of it.

Myra set her new book aside and dressed warmly for outdoor work. It would be a morning to remember, since she had to walk through ankle-deep snow while leaving distinct footprints behind. Later on, when the chores were done, the girl went back inside and found that her aunt had been heating water to fill the tub. As was the custom, the older person bathed first. It startled Myra to realize that that Irene was no longer shy about undressing in front of her. That, more than anything else, let her know that her aunt was thinking of her as another female!  

A while later, soaking in her own bath, Miss Myra couldn't help but wonder whether there were any more letters hidden around the farmstead. She was much more interested in that subject than in visiting the neighbors. To make a search, however, she would need to be alone on the grounds. But that wasn’t going to happen until after Christmas. 

The girl was resigned to act like nothing was going on.  After bathing and donning presentable clothing, they put on their coats and went out together to hitch up the buckboard. Upon setting out, they could see that the snow wasn’t deep enough to impede their short trip.

The Serverins met them in their front yard. Escorted indoors, they found the air fragrant with fresh baking. Myra had known from childhood that Mrs. Severin was a good cook. The meal that she and Rosedale served up just a short while later was a strong reminder that this really was Christmas Day. 

After the holiday dining was finished, Aunt Irene remained with Mr. and Mrs. Severin in the kitchen, while Rosedale coaxed Myra to come along into the “family room.” This was an add-on that had made the small original house more comfortable for a growing family. Besides George and Dale, the neighbors had two younger sons and another daughter. The smaller kids became as noisy as ferrets as they played with their Christmas gifts. The new whistle that one of the boys kept blowing made Myra want to throw a piece of firewood in his direction. 

Rosedale and George were full of questions, wanting to know about Myra’s impressions of Eerie so far. They also wished to learn more about her New Jersey home. Spinning a yarn about an imaginary home taxed her imagination, forcing her to make up everything on the fly. She stitched together a plausible story based on her male boyhood, while holding back as much detail as possible. Myra described a farm girl’s life vaguely based on Myron’s experiences, but made it sound better and less impoverished than it had really been. 

Rosedale, inspired by the local weather, wanted to know about the snowy winters back East. Myra claimed that she had liked them and then threw in a few flourishes, mostly taken from incidents from past reading, such as playing fox and the goose with friends and making snow angels. Then Dale coaxed their young visitor away to the little room which the Severin girl shared with her smaller sister. 

She proceeded to show off her favorite girlish do-dads. Myra had a hard time pretending that she was even remotely interested, but by calculation kept her demeanor friendly. The ginger took care not to ask too many questions about the display, so as to not show off her ignorance regarding the daily lives of girls of Dale’s age.

The visiting continued until the mid-afternoon, when the elder Severins sent Dale and George outdoors to begin their end-of-day chores. Myra was left alone with the three younger children while the adults carried on their conversation for a while longer. After another hour, the Nettie and Walter Severin left the table and started dressing for their own accustomed chores. At the same time, Myra and Irene got ready to leave, having a couple hours of work waiting for them back home also. The light, after all, would not last forever. 

#

On the return buckboard trip, Myra could see that the snow had mostly melted. To the girl, snow was like a piece of art; it was pretty but useless. Even so, she liked seeing it once in a while because it gave the drab landscape a fresh look. Miss Olcott actually felt sorry that everything was going to be left bare again so soon. The melting too obviously served as a metaphor for the shutting down of the holiday mood, such as it was. 

Once home, they changed again and set to their chores. The drudgery that followed drained away all the lingering magic of Christmas Day. While at work, Myra thought ahead to Monday, when there would be a church service held for Thorn Caldwell, as if he were really dead. The author of the hoax wished that she could avoid the agony of it all, especially since staying home would have given her a needed opportunity to search the house. But women like Irene Fanning put great stock in keeping up appearances. In her aunt’s mind, their attendance at the memorial was an absolutely necessary. 

With the sun down and the lanterns turned off for the night, Myra lay quietly in the dark loft, still wondering where Irene might have concealed a box containing keepsake letters. She clung to the possibility that the important missives had, in fact, been preserved, if only because of her aunt’s hopeless sentimentality. 

The cluttered pantry, with shelving climbing so high that they required a stepladder to look at, would be a logical place to start a search, or so Myra reasoned. Myron hadn’t been a snoopy child and had not explored every corner of the home nor opened every box in it. There was, to be honest, a lot that he could have missed. And it also occurred to Myra that her guardian might very well have moved things into new places over the last year, maybe even making use of the loft for storage. After all, her nephew had gone away without any promise to return. It was therefore conceivable that a box containing what she sought might lay only a few feet away from her bed. That would make things easier. 

The mystery concerning her family nagged at the girl fiercely, but she knew she needed to brake her impatience. Sometime, soon, there would come an opportunity to search the house thoroughly. In fact, during the upcoming week, Irene would have take their fresh milk and eggs into town to resupply their customers, which now included the Eerie Saloon.

Myra gritted her teeth at the mere thought of that den of witchery. The very sound of its name made her angry.

The wind had picked up outside, blowing noisily through the farmstead. With so much on Myra’s mind, sleep didn't come swiftly. She couldn’t help but think about the old days, back when she had been living in a normal way, a way that would never come again. 

Some memories made her wonder. Why had her parents suddenly started mentioning the Grimsley name more often at a certain point? And why did they usually do it in such a sneaky way, oftentimes looking around to make sure that they couldn't be overheard? It didn’t fit in logically. They had been cordial with the Grimsley family, true, but had always kept stronger ties with the Severins. 

Personally, Myra had not liked Matt Grimsley. It had been the Grimsleys who had taken Myron in after his folks had died. He had gone there because the family had the larger house, especially since the Severins had not as yet constructed their expansion. Mrs. Grimsley had been gracious and welcoming, and so was Kayley, but the head of the house had treated Myron like an indentured servant. He was always being reminding that the chores he did would pay for his bed and board. And, later on, Mr. Grimsley had offended him even more severely. He'd been caught trespassing upon the Caldwell land a number of times, mostly prowling about the margins of the property. Whenever Myron had encountered him in the act and asked what he was doing, the man would avoid a straight answer and instead ask to know what the big fuss was all about. 

Trying to remember bygone times was like stepping into a dark room and lighting a lantern. With effort, she recalled bits and pieces, but oftentimes Myra could make no sense of the random details. Like, there was that spring day when Myron had walked home from school and discovered a strange horse feeding in the corral. He had asked his pa about it and was told that it belonged to a traveler. According to him, the man had fallen sick as he was riding by and was unable to continue. Ma had led him to a mound of hay in the barn where he could rest warmly, covered by a spare horse blanket.  Then the girl remembered something else, that her dad, right off, had ordered Myron not to go into the barn to get a look at the stranger, explaining that he might have something catching. “We don't want to be taking any risk, not until we're sure we know what's ailing him.”

“Won't Ma be catching what he got?” young Myron had asked.

“She knows how to be careful,” was his pa’s only answer.

What happened then? When happened then? Myra demanded of herself.

Still gripped by sleeplessness, Myra dredged up another kernel of memory. The folks had not let Myron go into the barn for the next couple nights after that, for safety’s sake, they said.  Finally, on the third day, he had come back from school to find that the stranger’s horse was gone. The boy asked his ma about it and she said that the man had ridden away on it. 

“Is he all right now?” Myron had asked. 

“He just had a flu. Don't worry about it anymore,” she told him.

Slowly, bit by bit, other memories floated to the surface, odd recollections from Myron's school days. But they all added up to a very incomplete puzzle. Even so, among all the ragged memories, one thing stood out. It was at about the same time that the man had gone away that Ma and Pa had started to act sad all the time.

With a sigh, the tired girl snuggled deeper into the meager comfort of the straw-stuffed tick under her, one ear pressed to the goose-down pillow for warmth. Because the other side of her face felt cold, she covered it with the woolen blankets, leaving only a gap for breathing. The snow, obviously, had summoned in colder weather and a howling wind. She supposed that there was going to be a good share of frosty nights coming, now that winter was settling in. 

#

Tuesday, December 26, 1871

Though Christmas had regrettably come and gone for another year, the next morning was a busy one. She and her aunt worked hard to finish the chores in time to attend the memorial. Dinner had to be taken a little earlier than usual, to give them time to wash and scrub. Irene didn't insist that the two of them take another bath, since they’d had one the day before. By the time they had dressed for church, it was time to leave.

Despite it being Tuesday, school would not be resuming until after New Year’s Day. Myra noticed that the neighbors were all in attendance. The Grimsleys had brought the kids along, but Tully Singer and his wife were alone. All the Severins had come, even the youngest. When George tried to catch her eye, she glanced away. 

Not far from the Severins was a cowboy that Myra recognized, Carl Osbourne. Sitting beside him was his sister, the schoolteacher Nancy Osbourne. Myra had always thought that Nancy was pleasantly pretty and only now did she recall that the young schoolmistress hadn’t been at the Christmas dance. 

Mrs. Cullings, who had taught in the school before her, had always gone to festivals and parties. The difference was that she had been married and could decently avoid gossip by dancing with her husband. A single school teacher, folks always said, shouldn’t be socializing, lest she set a poor example for the children. While conducting class, Miss Nancy had come across as being smart and firm, but not mean; she smiled a lot and regularly gave good answers to the children’s questions. But away from the schoolhouse, she was hardly to be seen at all.

Still, at the moment, Myra Olcott was more concerned with her own problems. What riled her most keenly was the fact that none of the people around the room had ever cared so much as a dog's hair for Thorn Caldwell. Almost everyone had considered him a bad kid. So why were they piling into his memorial service now? There wasn't any food being served, after all. It frustrated her that no one, not even the Severins, were apt to miss the person whom she had been. Maybe coming to a funeral was just something that people did to make themselves look compassionate.  Did any of them really care that the entire Caldwell family had been erased from the earth with the supposed death of Thorn?

She shook her head. It seemed like the family name was doomed to be forgotten. Some families were large and extended, but her pa had not talked much about having any relatives other than his parents. The Caldwell line had, as far as she knew, ended, really ended. What was most galling of all was that it had ended in a way that was so insane.

Who was this new person that she was supposed to be? What was she anyway? A ghost?

What a depressing thought! Myra felt like the last of the Mohicans. Why was she still on the earth? What did she have to live for any longer? What part of her life had, in fact, ever been worth living? Aunt Irene, on the other hand, seemed to think that every life had some God-given purpose. Well, Myra wished that someone could spell out to her, in understandable language, exactly what that purpose happened to be.

When the service got underway, Reverend Thaddeus Yingling went to the podium and offered up a prayer for the soul of the departed. Previously, Thorn had kept as far away from the Eerie preacher as he possibly could. What Yingling was saying now made it sound like he didn’t know much about the man he was memorializing. His recollections about Myron Caldwell were so sketchy and unspecific that they could have been spoken about any saddle tramp who had lately wandered in, or about some nameless transient found in the dirt, dead of snakebite.

The whole experience came across for her as something awful. Myra wished it would just get done with, so she could go home and feel bad all by herself.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7, Part 1

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