West Wheel: The Twin Machines Chapter 10: Poison House By: Joel 'Cop' Furches All the stories that we tell   All the words we ever say They only last a minute An hour, or a day. And no deed lasts forever For better or for ill So you bring me one good hero And I’ll show you how to kill.

If he were above-ground, Able Crowler might have seen the breeze playing in waves across the fields of cotton plants in the clear-blue, early summer skies as the morning sunlight spilled cheerfully over the pastoral scene.  He might have seen the great-white plantation building sprawling wing and hall over one-hundred and fifty of the thousand-acre plantation. 

            Of course, if Able had been so fortunate as to be gazing on this particular scene, he would have felt somewhere in his bones the electric excitement that this particular season engenders in young men, and his thoughts might start playing back to Sally Struthers, Lucy McFea, Amelia Treador, and Martha… whatever her last name was.  These were the short list of a much larger group of local girls he would very dearly like to take up to the haystack.

            Able was not so fortunate.  Underground it was only mildly damp, but uncomfortably cool, and the discomfort did not stop with the mere temperature of the place.  Able was looking at a sight he had never seen before, and not through lack of trying.  A few years ago he and his brother and their friends had whiled away furtive evenings conspiring to get the key to the mausoleum and take a nighttime raid on the family plot and into the ghoulish interior of this sad monument to past generations of the Crowlers stretching back to the colonization of this land.

            At the time, the boys had felt that it would be exciting to sneak into the crypt where he now stood.  None of that feeling remained.  He reflected bitterly about how his brother was here now, too.  It was his body they were laying to rest.

            Able’s father, the venerable Colonel Andrew Crowler, turned from where he had been paying his respects to the body of his son.  He appeared solid, controlled.  But ever muscle in his face was tight.  Placing his stylish white straw hat with the scarlet band back on his head, he addressed the small group of mourners gathered around, family and close friends and their minister.

            “Friends, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for your kind wishes and attendance at this unspeakably sad occasion.  It does my soul good to know that we have such a community of support in hard times.  The Crowler family has been a pillar of this fine community since we set foot on the shores of Landfall five generations ago.  I don’t need to tell you, my friends, how it was that my Great, Great Grandpappy single-handedly built this community with his sweat and blood.   Now the Crowler blood in this community is running thin, and it brings me mighty low to have to live to bury my own son.

            “So please, dear friends, allow me a moment alone with my two remaining sons to pay our respects to Mordaci as we give him a final send off into the great beyond.”

            Muttering their respect and affirmation, the few mourners shuffled up the narrow marble steps to the light of the family plot above them.  It did not escape Able’s notice that SHE lingered last before ascending the steps, her face all pity.

            Alone now with his father and oldest brother, Able felt very alone indeed.  In the dim light, he could make out the fine white suite his father wore, the cotton-white suite-jacket pulling taught at his expansive waist.  His father stared for long moments down at the coffin of his older brother.  His hands were gripping the rim of the coffin in white-knuckled strength.  When he finally turned, it was with a heave, violently.  There was no more control in his face, it was a picture of rage and misery.

            “This is YOUR fault!” he railed, his accusing finger shaking as it weaved from Able to the eldest son, Isaac.  “You, both of you, and Mordaci!  All of you, scheming and plotting behind my back.  You MADE me do this!”

Able had rarely seen his father loose control to this level.  He didn’t know what to do or say.  He looked toward Isaac, as if that would be any help.  Isaac was just as quiet and inscrutable as ever, his eyes calm, even dreamy, behind his spectacles.  He was more frightened of Isaac than he was his enraged father.

            Colonel Crowler grabbed at the closest free object, a urn of some ancestor’s ashes, and flung it across the chamber with a roar.  It smashed, filling the room with a haze of disturbed ashes.  “Do you think I WANTED to do this??  Is that what you think of your father?  That he’s a murderer?” the man grabbed at the opening of his stylish white jacket with both hands.  His whole body seemed to grow under the tailored suit, then there was a loud ripping sound and the jacket was in pieces.  “All I wanted to do was to secure the foundations of our family for the future!  For forever!  That’s all I’ve EVER wanted!  For US!  For the Crowler name!”  The man collapsed to his knees and sagged his face into his cupped hands.  “Why?” he cried, sobbing now, “Why why why why why.” 

Able could answer the question, he thought.  He could explain exactly WHY.  But he suspected his father didn’t want real answers.  He glanced once again at Isaac.  The man was studying his crying father, like a lawyer looking at a document under a glass.

            At last, Colonel Crowler pulled himself off the floor looking exhausted and red.  “You boys are all I have left,” his voice was low and gravely, “and I’ll be DAMNED if I see the Crowler name fall in my lifetime!  We are going to walk up those steps, and we are going to have this funeral, and there will be no more of this defiance.  I reckon we’ve all seen what happens when we stand against one another.”

He turned to walk up the stairwell.  Isaac began to follow him.  Able saw him smirking.

            Life on the trail had been like a balm to the weary foursome.  Of them all, Lilly had felt like the only person with a shred of life left in her.  Tavery had never been a cheerful man, and the abuse he had taken in Plinkton had seemed to dig pits where his eyes had once been.  He sat for hours at the reigns jiggling them gently and clicking with his tongue while staring out into nothing.

            Helen had lost her husband to what was, quite bluntly, murder, her only child had run off she knew not where, and she had been abused for weeks at the hands of the black-hearted Cliff.  Cliff was gone, and her son was back, and she spent the evenings before they bedded down clutching the boy to her chest and sobbing.

            Peter had suffered loss as well, but he seemed to recover more quickly.  In the months since the two of them had found themselves tied back to back, the boy had begun to accelerate his development to manhood.  His trousers now hung several inches up his calves, and the hair above his lip was darkening. 

            Lilly also noticed that Peter’s reactions to her had changed.  He had become shy around her, stuttering when he tried to talk to her, and sometimes just giving up angrily and walking away.  He would try to sit down next to her in the back of the wagon, or sometimes would anxiously avoid her.  Helen would cast her secret smiles about this, but Lilly didn’t care for it.  It was hard to know how to treat him, and a little embarrassing.

            Most aggravating to Tavery, though, was the fact that the boy would not stop eating.  Their trail rations had been generously loaded and should have lasted them two months at least, but within several weeks it became apparent that they were no match for Peter’s increasing appetite.  When Tavery grumbled that Pete would be picking the meat off all their bones pretty soon, Helen tossed him a killing glance and he shut his trap up good.

            The next morning, before the sun had actually peaked over the horizon, Tavery awoke Peter by dropping a riffle on his bedroll.

            “Come on, boy,” he said, “It’s about time you learned how to provide for that bear you got livin’ in yur’ belly.”

The two were out for less than an hour when the women heard rifle-shots echoing off the hills, and minutes later Tavery and Peter came traipsing back, both carrying a deer over their shoulder.  There was an unspeakable light of joy and excitement shining in Peter’s face.

            They all pitched in on skinning and gutting the deer, and Tavery began to teach them some songs they had never heard before, haunting tunes about betrayal and revenge.

            “Are those songs from Stella-Terra?” Peter asked excitedly.  Tavery said that they were, and went back to working.

            If Lilly had to pick a moment on the trail that they became a family, that would have been the moment.  Peter had spent weeks not liking Tavery.  He didn’t care for the sharp way Tavery had spoken to Rider.  Peter was ready to sign on with the way of the gun, and Tavery made it clear that he didn’t truck with them ideals.  On this Lilly had to reluctantly agree.  Eric had helped them, certainly, but picking up a gun was no life for a boy.

            However, after that day, Peter was rising every morning to hunt with Tavery (and taking copious naps throughout the day).  Sometimes the two would fish as well.

            Not to be outdone, Lilly and Helen would gather roots, herbs, and berries from the woods and fields, and spent time curing the skins of the deer, beaver, and badgers that the boys would bring home.  In truth, Lilly would have preferred to hunt with Peter and Tavery, but Helen insisted that that was “men’s work.”  What she really meant, Lilly suspected, was that Peter needed to feel that he was a man, and indeed Lilly had to admit that Peter was turning into quite a good hunter.

            With the long hours spent together, there was a real bonding that occurred between Peter and Tavery.  Helen seemed very pleased with this.  Evidently she felt strongly that Tavery was a good influence for the boy.  Lilly was forced to agree.  Tavery seemed to be a good man.  Maybe a bit gruff, but ultimately gentle and industrious, and Peter was doing more than his fair share of the work to keep the group on the trail.

            By the time the four rolled into Cottonseed, they were truly a family.

            When they rode into view, only Tavery seemed unimpressed by the sheer scale of the city.  Cottonseed was the opposite of Plinkton in every way.  It was a sprawling metropolis with wide, well packed streets.  The buildings were tall and white washed and full of lattices and enormous porches.

            The lattices were all hung with banners of red, white, and blue, the colors of the West Wheel flag.  Both flags in fact.  Lilly was fairly certain that, given the prosperity of Cottonseed in the post-war years (if you could truly say the war was over), that the flag these colors represented was the Majestic Cross of the Baron rather than the Old Spade of the Republic. 

            The whole town seemed to be turned out for some event.  At first Lilly thought it might be some sort of celebration, or a may-day of the sort she used to wish they would do in Plinkton.  However, the man speaking on the stairs of some official-looking building with tall, white pillars, did not sound celebratory. 

            “We are all saddened by the sudden and untimely death of my middle son,” he said as if he was comforting the entire town for his loss.  From the calls of encouragement and saddened looks of the gathered multitude, Lilly was finding herself truly believing that this entire community was, indeed, sorry for the loss of his child.  She suddenly found herself angry, furious at the cold-hearted creatures who had lived in Plinkton.  Those hard-faced lumberjacks who had ignored her father’s death as she and her mother had stood alone, leaning only on one another on Boot Hill while Slow Joe Crow had put her father under.  She had to hide her reddening face.         

“Mordecia was a blessing to this community, and close to many of your hearts, even at his young age,” the man on the steps was saying.  Lilly’s eyes were on his family standing close to him.  They looked like a rich family, well dressed in stylish clothing.  Lilly noticed that, while the man’s wife was dressed in dark mourning clothes, the man himself was dressed in an almost blinding white suite.  Standing a little to the left of the family was another woman, beautiful and suggestive in her form-fitting black funeral dress.

“I know many of you are wondering, as I do, why a young man, so full of life, should be taken away from us.”

The eldest child looked to be a man in his late twenties or early thirties.  He was tall, thin, and had blonde hair whitened even further by the hot, southern sun.  His eyes were not visible beneath his round spectacles that reflected the morning sunlight blindingly, but his head was bowed in solemn reverence.   The next child was a daughter who looked a bit younger.  She was also blond, and her hair fell in carefully maintained curls about her shoulders.  Unlike her mother, she wore a light blue dress that spread out like a bell from her hips.  She carried a parasol, but it was folded up and tucked beneath her arm.  Despite her lack of mourning clothes, her face was red and puffy and she was vigorously dabbing her face with a blue-checkered handkerchief.  Lilly felt deeply for her, but a bitter voice in the back of her head murmured that at least THIS girl had support of family and community in her time of sorrow. 

The youngest boy looked to Lilly’s eyes as if he was not much older than Peter.  Unlike the other children, he had dark hair that looked tousled rather than combed and kempt.  He was standing next to his weeping mother and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.  His face looked sharp and brave, but Lilly suspected that was just a show.  As the youngest, he would be particularly affected by his older brother’s death, she thought.  His teenage fantasies about invulnerability and eternal life would have been shattered before his eyes.

“It is with these thoughts in mind that I and my family would like to invite all of you to join us in some refreshments to celebrate Mordeci’s short life.  The picnic tables have been set up on main street, and the entire women’s planning committee from South Archwood Baptist Church has been working all weekend to prepare the food and lemonade.  We encourage all of you to conduct yourselves in a way becoming the spirit of this meal.  Amen.”

            Lilly was contemplating this strange ending to a speech she had not taken to be a prayer when she heard Peter turn to Helen and say, “Well, Ma’?  Can we go?”

            “Oh,” Helen replied with a worried sigh, “I don’t think it would be right.  This is a funeral reception, and we don’t know any of these people.  It ain’t respectful, is it Charles?”

The older man appeared to stare thoughtfully for a moment and then turned with a shrug.  “It’s free food,” he said with the hint of a smile.

            “Mr. Tavery!” Lilly protested, stifling her laugh.  The older man was already steering the wagon toward the livery.

            As the wagon made its way to the stables, Lilly thought she caught something out of the corner of her eye.  Something that looked like a colorful circus wagon and a sign that made her shudder with the memory.  It said “ELIXIRS FOR SALE!”

            Peter noticed that Lilly was especially quiet when they entered the party.  He fully intended to wait for the right moment and then ask her what was wrong.  He hoped it wasn’t him.  How Lilly felt about him had become increasingly important lately.  She was almost like a big sister in many ways, but she was so pretty, that he sometimes had difficulty talking to her.  These kinds of feelings embarrassed him, and he didn’t want them to be obvious.

            He had plenty to distract him from these thoughts, though.  His mother insisted that they all go over and pay their respects to the family hosting the party. 

“If we’re going to take advantage of someone’s generosity, we should at least have the common decency to thank them and to tell them we’re sorry for their loss.”

Peter rolled his eyes and said, “Ma’!”  Mr. Tavery didn’t say anything, but it was clear that he wasn’t exactly looking forward to a social exchange. 

            The party was set up sort of like a cross between a picnic and a wedding party they had held once in the streets of Plinkton. The picnic tables ran down the street, loaded down with steaks and pork and bacon and fresh garden vegetables of all varieties, boiled, steamed, fried and raw.  There were also untold bounties of fresh bread with the smell of the oven still rolling off them, wrapped in checkered cloths and steaming through the straw baskets that held them.  More interesting still were the pies and cakes and tarts and cookies that Peter passed on the tables further up the street.  His stomach groaned loudly, and he had to swallow several times in order to keep drool from running down his chin.

            Further up the street, the family hosting the affair was seated, apparently already having filled their plates.  Groups of people were lining up in front of their tables, apparently expressing sympathy, and then heading down the line to taste of the feast.  His mother fussily lined them up at the back of the line and told Mr. Tavery to stop shuffling his feet and to raise his head.  This made Peter laugh until his mother shot her son a chilly look. 

            People, Peter reflected, had a lot to say on the subject of this kid’s death, because the line was taking forever, and he had to exercise self-restraint like none he had ever mustered simply to keep from slipping a warm biscuit from the basket and enjoying furtive bites of the honey-smelling delicacy.  He must never, he felt, have been this hungry before in his life, which was impressive, considering how often he had gone hungry.

            To distract himself from this, he began observing the crowd.  After all, he thought, that is what Rider would do in this circumstance.  He wouldn’t let his hunger distract him.  He would take notice of the whole event, and the people at the event, looking for danger, looking to take control of the situation if necessary.

            As he surveyed the crowd, it was hard for even his fertile imagination to place danger in every corner.  This sunny town full of smiling, sympathetic faces seemed like the safest place on the globe.  It suddenly dawned on Peter that his searching, suspicious gaze was mimicked in Mr. Tavery’s face.  He wondered if the man saw something that he had missed.

            As they approached the table, one of the family, the eldest son, he guessed, rose from the table, made some curtious mumblings to the family, shook the hand of the man standing before them expressing his regret, and then hurried down the street away from the picnic.  As the young man passed Peter, the boy looked up into his face.  It was utterly unreadable.

            Peter surveyed the rest of the family.  He had never had any siblings, so the loss of a brother was hard for him to imagine.  The death of his father, however, especially by violence, had been devastating.  He wondered how the boy had died.  In a town like this, he could not imagine some act of cruelty cutting down anybody.  It must have been an accident or some illness. 

            When his father had been killed, it had left him angry and hardened.  But he had at least had a target for his feelings.  Now that Cliff was dead, he just had a general feeling of emptiness inside.  He was still hard, he felt, but the experience had made him more vigilant for his loved ones to protect them against the sort of people who had taken his father.

            But what if no one had murdered his father?  What if he had been claimed by his illness instead?  There would be no one to get angry at, unless that person was God.  Instead, he imagined a feeling of helplessness, loss, and fragility.  He wondered which was worse.  Rider, he thought, would never let himself be murdered.  He would be able to defend himself under any circumstance.  But even Peter’s hero could not fight off illness.

            With the eldest son gone, Peter looked at the remaining family. The father was a man considerably different than his own father.  His father had been a thin, hungry man who worked too much and ate too little.  This life had aged him considerably by the time he died.  Peter could not imagine this well-fed man with his soft hands and well kept hair and mustache as a father.  He associated such men, perhaps unfairly, with those that prospered off the hard work of men like Peter’s father.

            The mother of the family had pulled back her mourning veil to reveal a face scrubbed and brushed with powder that seemed to accent rather than hide her age.  If she was as old as her husband, she could not be over fifty.  However with her hollow eyes and tear-streaked face, she looked easily ten years older.  Peter could not look long on that face, because it frightened him, and his fright shamed him.

            The daughter was a pretty girl about Lilly’s age.  She was achieving a look of almost pouting sorrow at the sympathies of town members, and the thought of speaking to her nearly put Peter in a panic. 

            Instead, he turned his gaze to the youngest boy, who was a bit older than him.  The boy’s head was bowed and he seemed to be mumbling and avoiding the gaze of the well-wishers.  Peter’s eyes narrowed.  The boy was trying to hide it, but he could see in his eyes the same angry defiance that Peter had felt at his own father’s death.  Peter felt an immediate kinship with the boy.  He would like very much to talk to the kid.

            Then there was the woman sitting with the family.  Peter didn’t know what to make of her.  She didn’t look to be another one of the children.  Peter dismissed her as a cousin, or some relative, but she was undeniably beautiful, with dark hair falling from beneath her mourning veil.  As she lifted the veil to take a sip of her drink, he saw that her face was pale and shaped with just a touch of the exotic, as if she may have some foreign blood in her veins.  She was nodding and speaking with the well-wishers as if she was one of the family members, and Peter noticed that she was constantly touching Colonel Crowler’s arm, or leaning to whisper in his ear.  He seemed to be drawing strength from her, as if she was some intimate that he could not do without.  The Mrs. Crowler, on the other hand, was some distance from the Colonel, and she seemed utterly alone in her grief.  Peter glanced once again in the direction of Mr. Tavery.  His gaze had hardened at the Crowler family.  Peter wondered what it was he saw.

            Allen Danfield was listless.  He had been for months now, drifting aimlessly through Landfall making a modest living at cards.  He had even picked up a new game, which was nigh unto shocking for him.  He would have bet his jack boots that he knew them all.  It was a little variation on Tenten River, called the Suevring Seven-Spot.  This was a pleasant diversion, because it mounted up to a much-needed challenge.  Suevring Seven-Spot at first appeared to be a fairly straight-forward game, but it had one subtle difference.  In addition to the cards placed in the middle of the table, and the ones in your hand, there were an additional four cards dealt face-down in front of each player.  On your turn you could exchange anywhere from one to four of your hand-cards for one of the cards in front of you.  You could exchange back again on your next turn if you wanted. 

            Allen was further shocked to discover this variation had been a direct tribute to him and his underground book of card-reading.  As such, he should have been the immediate master of the game.  This was not the case however.  He picked it up well enough, and could beat your run-of-the-mill saddle-tramp, but honest card-sharps who had been playing Suevring Seven-Spot for years were able to put him down each time.  Allen was having more fun than he comfortably should have been having in learning the stratagems of the game.

            But the cycle completed itself, and joy lead unfailingly to the deep depression he had never learned to overcome.  It was only the knowledge that he had a purpose to fulfill that kept him from eating his gun on these occasions, and he would saddle up and drift on to the next town.

            He had tried to stop the card reading.  He knew it was the purest form of evil, and wished desperately that he had never invented it in the first place.  In his reckless youth, prophesies regarding the evil of gazing into the future had meant nothing to him.  There was no sophisticated philosophical or moral maneuvering he did to get around these prophesies.  He simply didn’t think about it.

            Now, in what he considered rather melodramatically as his twilight years, as the flames of hell crept ever higher around his soul, he had become philosophical to excess. 

            The problem, Allen reflected, with reading the future is that it essentially robs you of free will.  In many ways, it was like an opiate without any of the pleasure.  At first you simply dabbled, looking into the broad picture of the future, or looking forward to specific events.  However, the sheer knowledge that, at any time, you could simply draw five cards and have any forbidden knowledge you desired was too much.  You were drawn, compelled, even forced to look.

            Once Allen had discovered and perfected the technique, he had begun using it chiefly to cheat at cards.  For a time it was a thrill, then it simply became a routine.  It was with dawning horror that Allen started to realize that it was not him that was controlling the game with the knowledge, but rather the knowledge that was controlling him.  If the cards said that his opponent was going to win the hand, he HAD to fold to his opponent.  He could, of course, attempt to bluff, but his opponent would call his bluff, and he would lose either way. 

            It was with further despair that Allen found the cards dominating his every move.  They would tell him that he would move on to another town.  That he would get into an argument with a saloon keeper.  That he would meet a woman and spend the night with her.  He would simply repeat the actions the cards already told him he would do by rote with no will, no passion, no surprise.  Time found Allen dead in his boots, a possessed man with a bottle in one hand and his deck in the other, constantly shuffling, drawing, and obeying.

            Eventually, of course, he had run away.  He had not defied the cards, for the cards could not be defied, but he had found the strength to cast them into the wind and run, run, run until he had found himself in Grim Ranch, a guest of ‘Crazy’ Chuck Bishop who had, for some reason that Allen had never determined, been his friend.

            For a time Allen had found the strength to avoid consulting the cards.  He still played cards, but he would not do his special shuffle, the one that would only bring the forbidden fruit.  He had actually been as happy as he could ever remember living there on Grim Ranch amidst the legends of the Western Wheel, shoulder to shoulder with men and women who were his betters.

            But all things, good and bad, come to an end.  Allen had felt it coming on for months.  He had tried desperately to hold it off the only way he knew how, with booze.  The depression, however, would always steal over him in time.  That night he had found himself perched on the high rocks overlooking the canyon deep below Grim Ranch.  He was gazing up into the face of the moon, a lady flinging her head back, whether in laughter or anguish he could never tell.  At her throat was the glorious gem blazing across the lunar face.  The Queen of Diamonds. 

            Allen crept into the stables and pulled his cards forth with shaky hands.  Shaky as they were, they did their shuffling trick unfailingly, and there he had read of the fall of Grim Ranch and its worthy heroes.  .

            The depression that followed this revelation was deeper than any he could remember until now.  He lacked even the strength to cast himself off the cliff.  Eventually the good feelings had returned, and he had sat there with his doomed friends, smiling and putting on a casual act, knowing that if the cards said it was so, he could do nothing to stop the fate that was coming on spurred heels. 

            This was all behind him now, and Allen did all he could not to think about it.  He had wandered after the Dust Devil had set him free, wandered and played cards.  Now he was in the prosperous Deep South in the town of Cottonseed, whose wealth had soared under the magnanimous hand of the Baron.  And he was listless.

            Usually, listless meant he was somewhere between the good feelings and the depression.  The depression must be coming soon, because he had been pretty high on the horse when he had been busy mastering Suevring Seven-Spot.  But this, like most of the rest of his life, was best if not dwelt upon.  The game was the thing.

This particular dive was not ideal in Allen’s mind.  There were rich towns and poor towns.  These two types of towns could be further divided into two sub-types: sin towns and pious towns.  The best kind of town for gambling was, of course, a rich sin-town.  This city was rich, alright, but they were also pious, which made gambling an underground affair, to avoid the mobs of the torch and pitchfork variety.

            Like any pious community, Allen reflected, they were also damned hypocrites.  Looking around the basement tables of the Speakeasy, Allen could easily pick out a hand full of community pillars languishing in this den of sin.  It made him smile.

            His view was cut off by a slender young man who stepped in front of him.  Allen broadened his smile and began to stand.

            “Allen Danfield,” he said, extending his hand, “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The young man had combed, blonde hair and his face was expressionless behind his round spectacles.  He seemed to consider Allen’s hand extensively before he took it with a limp one-shake.

            “I’m Isaac.  There’s been a lot of talk around town about you.”

Allen raised an eyebrow.  “I wasn’t aware.”  He really wasn’t. 

Isaac nodded.  “Apparently you’ve been raking in a fair amount of the community’s cash at Suevring Seven-Spot.”

Allen was complimented.  His game must be improving.  Still, it was never good to make a reputation in any one spot.  He should probably stop winning so much.  The man in front of him was deadpan, and it was difficult for even Allen, an experienced reader of men, to dig beneath his expressionless face.  Even so, it was clear the man was looking for a challenge, and Allen could honestly use one himself.

            “Try your luck?” Allen gestured to an open chair across from him.  Isaac smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

            “Try something,” he responded, taking the seat.

            Peter had just finished wrapping his face around a butter-fried biscuit stuffed full of fried chicken that he had hand-shredded off the bone.  His mother had given him a disapproving look two plates of food ago, but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop him from eating himself to death if he possibly could.  It was the best possible death he could imagine.

            He was vigorously gulping away at a glass of cold mint-tea to wash away the tremendous lump of food stuck in his throat when the bench on which he was sitting jumped with the weight of a new occupant.  Looking up, Peter was surprised to see that Able Crowler, the youngest son of the bereaved family was his new bench-mate.

            “Howdy,” Peter croaked over the food that was slowly making its way out of his throat.

            “You ain’t from Landfall, are you?”

Peter considered the question.  He wasn’t strictly FROM anywhere.  The Achean Mountains upon which Plinkton was situated formed the border between Flagland and Landfall.  He had already seen how the people from the flatlands regarded Achean Folk.  They were considered to be uneducated, backwater, inbred hayseeds.  Not that Achean Folk were all that fond of flatlanders and their uppity ways, either.  Considering these facts, he decided to go with a simple “Nah.”

            “Knew’d it,” Able said with satisfaction.  Then he extended his hand sideways from where he sat to Peter’s right.  “Able Crowler.”

Peter swiped his hand across his trousers in an attempt to rid it of some of the grease from the fried chicken.

            “Pete Corvus,” he replied with as friendly a smile as his crumb-dripping face could manage.

            “So what brings you and your family down to Cottonseed?”

            “Things up North was getting fairly un-friendly,” Peter abbreviated his story, then added, “I doubt we have any similar problem in your town, though.”

Able grinned sarcastically.  “Depends who you are, I guess.”

“Oh,” Peter said, remembering the occasion for the food in the first place, “I am sorry about your brother.” 

He had already muttered similar words when his mother had dragged them all past the reception table, but now that he was engaged in friendly conversation with one of the bereaved, he felt it necessary to do something in the way of consoling them.  He knew from personal experience that there were no magic words to make the hurt go away, but it did help to have someone willing to listen.

            “Yeah,” Able mumbled, his eyes falling to his lap.

            “My dad died a few months ago,” Peter offered, but couldn’t quite find the right words to follow it up with.  ‘So I know what you are going through,’ seemed wrong.

            “How?” Able asked. 

            “He was kill’t by them as was acting unfriendly toward us up North.”

            “So who’s the old man ya’ll came riding in with?”

Peter shrugged.  “A friend.”

Able nodded as if he understood.

            “So how did your brother die?” Peter finally asked.

 Able held Peter’s gaze for a while, his eyes narrow in some sort of critical consideration.  Finally, Able said, “Can you keep a secret?”

Allen Danfield had lost his customary two games to Isaac, and was mystified.  Ordinarily after the first two hands, which he intentionally threw, he was master of the game.  Or at the very least, he had a solid idea how his opponents thought and operated and could match their maneuvers.

            Isaac was proving a tricky one, though.  He had no tells that Allen could identify, and his face had been unreadable since he sat down.  Of course, skill was only part of it.  Allen believed in a force of will that existed in remarkable men.  The Eastmen called it Chi, the Scraelings called it Medicine, and he called it Luck.  Allen was trying to will the cards his way, but they came up unremarkable. 

            He had even chanced a Reading, shuffling his cards that special way, dealing his five.  They said that Isaac was going to win.  Inwardly rolling his eyes, Allen tried to change fate by replacing the Isaac card.  The new reading said that “his opponent” was going to win.  Readings could be very frustrating sometimes.

            “Are you a drinking man, Isaac?”

A tight little smile curled the corner of Isaac’s face.  “Not my vice of choice.”

Allen rolled out a clever little gasp of surprise, “I had heard that the South harbored a bevy of teetotalers, but I did not believe my ears!”

This admonition drew no reaction from his opponent, although the tight little grin stayed on his lips as he shuffled the cards.  Danfield studied his shuffling technique.  It shifted before his eyes.  For a moment, Allen was certain he was looking at his own predictive shuffling method.  Now it was a standard poker shuffle.  He blinked and it had turned into a Tenten Closed-end shuffle, which was borderline-illegal.  And then there was that little flick of the thumb that Isaac executed expertly at the end of his shuffle to place the card he wanted most on top of the deck.  Allen smiled.

            “Mind if I cut the deck?”

Isaac’s eyes floated up his direction, a placid, milky blue.  Unreadable.

            “Certainly,” he said, sliding the deck to the center of the table.  Allen picked up the top card only, and placed it next to the deck.  Isaac stared hard at him.  Allen could almost see emotion welling up in those eyes.  Wordlessly, the young man picked up the deck and placed it on top of the single card.  Now let’s see if he’ll bottom-deal, Allen thought.

            But, of course, Isaac wouldn’t pay into THAT game.

            The hand he received from the dealer was mediocre, which always bothered him because he believed himself to be lucky enough to receive a good hand every time.  Usually he did. 

            As the cards began to be laid out before him, though, it looked like he had a decent flush lining up.  He chanced an exchange from the four cards in front of him, with pleasing results.  Isaac was as impossible to read as ever.  Allen’s technique was always to play the player, not the cards, but Isaac wouldn’t play that game.  It was time to make a new game.

            “I raise,” Allen said, pushing a single chip to the center of the table.  Isaac matched the bid without comment.  Cards were dealt, and Allen kept the hand he had.  He raised again, this time with half his remaining chips.  Isaac matched.

            Allen had figured this much out about Isaac.  He didn’t play recklessly with showy bluffs and high raises, but he didn’t back down either.  Isaac, Allen determined, was in it for the long game, not the quick win.  The man was probably unmatchable in chess.

            Allen was not a big fan of chess, himself.  He preferred a game that took full advantage of his best talent: lying.

            The play was over, they both showed their hands.  Allen’s flush was countered quite well with a full-house.  Allen settled a convincing smile on his features.  “Luck must be in your corner, Mr. Crowler,” he purred reassuringly.  He didn’t like this man.  It wasn’t just that Isaac was cleaning out his pockets.  There seemed to be a malevolent certainty about this man.  He had specifically come to find Allen for this confrontation, and now he seemed so self-assured of his winning every hand.

            There was a purpose for his being here beyond just taking his money, or beating him for the hell of it.  It was almost as if he was sent.  Allen’s usually self-confidence bordering on indifference was shaken.

            It was his deal, and he decided it was time for another Reading.  Of course, if Isaac knew the technique of Reading, and it seemed as if he must, then the young man would be able to predict a future of his own.  It all came down to luck.

            Allen dealt.  At first he didn’t see it. 

When it finally registered what the cards he had laid out were reading, Isaac was leering at him, the first real expression that Allen had seen him wearing.  Allen knew he was in deep, deep trouble.

Peter wound through back streets and increasingly broken down tenements, following his new friend at breakneck speeds.  Able seemed to know every fence and fire escape and drainage pit, traversing them with absolute surety.  Peter had to struggle to keep him within sight.  The town of Cottonseed did not look nearly as friendly here.  Comparing it once again to his home town, Peter reflected that, as bad as Plinkton could sometimes get, at least it was all out in the open.  They didn’t keep their filth a dirty secret hidden behind white-washed fences and emptily smiling faces.

            They soon came to a high brick wall that seemed to stretch interminably in both directions.  It was pock-marked and there was a maze of writing scrawled over the wall in a variety of paint colors, some freshly scrawled in chalk or charcoal, overlapping one another and running over and under in a way that hurt the eyes.  Peter tried to peruse the writing.  Most of it made no sense to him, but what little he could read was harsh, shocking words of hatred and racial slurs. 

            “What is this place?” Peter asked.  Able didn’t answer, instead running toward the wall, then running UP the wall two steps before gravity started to pull him back.  With a lunge, he grabbed the top of the wall with both hands and boosted himself up.  He reached a hand down to Peter.  The boy reluctantly took the hand and found himself swinging upward.  Grabbing at the wall, he managed to get a purchase with his right hand before his whole body slammed into the brick, scraping his knee.

            With Able’s help, he was able to get on top of the wall.  The view from on top of the wall caused the blood to drain from his face as he stared, wide-eyed down into a wholly different Cottonseed.

            “Welcome,” Able said, spreading his arms wide in a sardonic gesture, “to the Ghetto.”

            The Ghetto was a muddy expanse of gullies and odd little hillocks overflowing with dirty little lean-to shacks nailed together with spare boards and topped with rusty tin roofing.  It was absolutely patchwork, as if someone had made the best possible use of the worst possible trash-heap.

            And the place smelled like a trash-heap, too, wafting up to them on the smoke of a hundred open fires built it perforated drums and stone heaps.  Moving through this mess was its tattered populace.  Peter missed them at first, for they blended so well with the tight-packed clutter that made up their world.  Most were bare-foot and clothed in nothing but rags and patches.  They were the first Negroes that Peter had ever seen.

            “THIS is your secret?”

            “Well,” Able drawled, “Cottonseed folk ain’t exactly proud of our Ghetto, but it ain’t no big secret neither.”

            “What is a ‘Ghetto,’ anyways?”

Able shrugged in the direction of the camp.  “This, I guess.  Don’t know where the name came from, but I never heard of no Ghettos besides ours.”

Peter was still in wide-eyed disbelief at the repugnancy of this place just beyond the beauty of Cottonseed.

“Why did you bring me here?” Peter asked uncomfortably, as he noticed some of the hollow faces looking up at them.  The children had bloated stomachs and stick-thin arms, and their eyes were large and mournful.  They all looked old.  Every child, woman, and man.  Old and worn thin.

“Because,” Able replied evenly, “It was for these people my brother died.  That’s the big secret.  He saved a handful of them, and lost his life for his trouble.”

Able cast a considering glance downward on the upward turned faces and their wide eyes, some pleading, some distrustful, some downright hateful.  He looked like he was eyeing a dubious horse someone was trying to pitch him.  “Mordaci  thought I should help save these folk.  What do you think?”

Peter’s head was reeling.  “Why are they here?”

Able looked at him like he was stupid.  “They’re slaves.”

“I thought President Rider ended slavery fifty years ago.”

“Sure, and that made him right popular, didn’t it?  No, the Baron didn’t exactly give us slavery back, but he doesn’t stop anyone from mistreating these people.  Many of them come back and work just for the free food and shelter.  The ones in the Ghetto here are those too proud to give themselves back to a life of slavery just to keep their bellies full.  They are waiting for their brothers and sisters fighting in the Buffalo Soldiers to come back and free them.  They’re dying while they wait.”  The scorn in the boy’s voice was clear.

“Seems to me,” Peter said, “That you aren’t real fond of the idea yourself.”

Able plopped down on the brick wall and dangled his feet over the edge.  His shoulders were slouched and he looked tired.

“I’m just so sick of this whole thing,” he blandly.  “Boy my age shouldn’t have to make these decisions.”

Peter shrugged weakly.  “You’re older than me.”

“And not likely to get much older, this nonsense keeps up.”

Peter sat down next to him sullenly.  He felt the weight of Able’s difficulty.  He’d spent most of his life feeling sorry for himself, and for this he was ashamed.  Able wasn’t aching just for himself, but for hundreds of people who’d known troubles Peter couldn’t match if he tried.

“So how, exactly, DID Mordaci die?” Peter asked.  Able flinched at the question, and Peter was sorry he asked, but still very curious to hear the answer.

“He was caught in a cave-in,” Able replied glumly.

“What kind of cave in?”

“Well now, that’s a puzzle, ain’t it?” Able turned a sarcastic gaze on Peter.  “Turns out an underground tunnel weakened the foundation of an abandoned building, and the whole mess just sorta tumbled down one night with Mordaci inside.  But let me ask you this: cave-in’s should fall down, not blow a mess all over, shouldn’t they?”

“I… don’t…” Peter sputtered to a stall.  He really didn’t understand what Able was trying to say.

“Anyway,” Able waved away Peter’s stuttering and returned his head sullenly to his hands, “They dug through the building and pulled Mordaci’s body out.  What he was doing there in the middle of the night, no one could imagine.  Guess all them Negro bodies they just left lying there weren’t enough of a clue.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed.  The whole thing was starting to make a certain sense to him now.  “So your brother was caught helping the slaves to escape through the underground passage, and someone… what?  Used dynamite to bring the building down on their escape passage?”

“Well that’s the tragedy of the whole thing,” Able’s voice cracked, and he stopped to swallow hard.  His face was growing red with emotion.  “Nobody ‘cept me even KNEW that Mordaci was helping with the underground.  They wanted to stop the escapes, show them that they KNEW how they were getting away, and wouldn’t allow it.”  Able had to stop again to wipe his face against his sleeve.  “Mordaci just sort of got himself in the way.”

“Your brother, Mordeci, he was a good boy,” came a low, rumbling voice from below.  Peter glanced down to see an old man leaning against a single post jutting out of the ground and serving no obvious purpose.  The white stubble covering most of the man’s face and head stood in sharp contrast to his dark skin.  He leaned over his post, spat on the ground, then looked up, squinting towards the boys on the wall in a casual way that suggested he was carrying on a bit of chit-chat over the weather.  The skin around his eyes folded endlessly. “The Baron don’t got no power over thems as resist him.  It’s those that have already given in, handed heart and soul over to the idiot ditty he’s got ‘em jigging to, THEM he uses to torment those poor souls that won’t give in.  Now maybe,” the man made an expansive gesture with his hands, “its because we always been low, but the Baron never saw fit to even tempt me and mine.  Them as has wealth or power?  Sure, the Baron’ll offer them whatever they wish to get them dancing his tune.  But it rankles us something fierce that he’s never had a bit of use for us.  So far as we’re concerned, we ain’t got no use for his sorry self.”

“My brother is dead,” Able glared down at the old timer.  The man nodded slowly.

“Ehyup.  It is a loss.  Terrible, terrible loss.  Jest like all them other’ns.”

Able continued glaring down.  Finally he said, “I don’t think I should help you.”

“In which case, son,” the old man answered evenly, “I don’t think you should either.”

            “I had heard that we had Yankees among us,” came a teasing voice over Lilly’s shoulder.  She turned to see Helen being addressed - in a tone calculated to draw attention - by a slender, beautiful woman in a stylish mourning gown.  She had noticed this woman earlier with the Crowler family.  Helen blushed shyly and murmured a response that Lilly was unable to hear. 

            “What brings you pilgrims south in such uncertain times - not that we aren’t all charmed to have you - ?” the woman continued.  Lilly could see Helen was fairly curling up in embarrassment with the sudden attention as heads turned throughout the crowd of picnickers to see whom the eminent lady had chosen to single out.  Mr. Tavery put an arm protectively around Helen’s shoulders, but he was no better equipped to handle the pressure and Lilly realized she was going to have to jump in if any of them wanted to leave town with dignity intact.  She set down the pie she had been nibbling at and took three long strides in the direction of the scene.

            “Howdy!” Lilly shoved between Helen and the lady, wiping her hand on her apron before extending it with a wide smile, “I’m Lilly Favor, who might you be?”

The lady, to her credit, did not miss a beat as she switched her attention to Lilly.  She took her hand in a warm gesture and smiled pleasantly, “I’m Lady Morra.  So pleased to meet you.” 

            “Oh, pleased to meet you too,” Lilly kept a big smile on her face, “And so are my friends here,” she gestured at Helen and Charles.  “Please excuse us, though.  We’ve been on the trail for quite a while now, and we’re still getting used to being around folks.”

            “Of course,” Lady Morra said, her face contrite, “It must be difficult for you to be cast straight into the midst of all these people after so long in solitude.  I’m surprised that you all chose to attend an event in honor of the life of a person you weren’t acquainted with.”

Lilly was momentarily speechless.  A look back was enough to see that Helen had gone from blushing to white as a sheet.  “We…” Lilly started talking without really having anything prepared to say.  She tried to press on regardless.  “We didn’t mean to just bust in on the party!  Of course we were sorry to hear of a death in the family, and we came to give our condolences!  We just got the idea from Mr. Crowler’s speech up there that all was invited to the picnic.”  Lilly realized her voice had become shrill as she blurted out these defenses, and she tried to bring herself under control.  Lady Morra’s face had remained sympathetic, however, Lilly notice that several more people were watching the conversation now.

            “I apologize,” Lady Morra said, “If I gave you the impression I was accusing you.  I suppose I stated the question poorly.  Please stay with us if you still feel comfortable doing so, and tell us all about life on the trail.”

            “I think,” Lilly said, gazing down at her shoes, “that we should go.”

“Well of course that would be a shame,” Lady Morra replied, but she didn’t seem to be fighting to keep them there.  All three of them turned to go.  Helen’s head suddenly jerked around.

            “Where’s Peter?”

            “I saw him talking to another boy, but I didn’t see where they went,” Mr. Tavery said, scanning the crowd.

            “Peter!” Helen called out.  Lilly took her hand and pressed close.  “Why don’t you and Mr. Tavery find us some place to hole up for the night.  I’ll find Peter.”  Helen looked distressed, but didn’t argue as Charles pulled her down the street.  Lilly looked around.  Where to find a boy who disappeared into a big town like this?  Assuming he wandered off to explore, he would probably come back here or to the wagon.  She decided her best strategy was to wander around the crowd a bit to see if he showed up and then head back to the wagon.  She was suddenly angry at Peter for running off like that without telling any of them where he was going.  As a girl who had been forced to be responsible from a very young age, she hated irresponsible behavior.

            A hand brushed her shoulder and she turned.  Standing behind her and looking nervous was the young woman she had seen with the Crowler family.  This was the only daughter of the family.

            The girl didn’t say anything at first, she just looked with a nervous hopefulness into Lilly’s eyes.  Finally Lilly offered a forced smile and said, “Hello.  Is there anything the matter?”

“I’m Rebecca,” the girl replied, “We met when your family came around our table.”

“I remember,” Lilly nodded.  Rebecca shot a look around the crowd, then went on nervously.  “I know where your brother went.”

“Oh,” Lilly exclaimed in surprise, “He’s not my brother.  Just a boy I’m traveling with.”  She searched for some easy explanation of what her relationship to Peter was, and came up blank.  He was, actually, kind of like a brother.  Instead, she said: “I would be gratified if you could tell me where he went.”

            Alan Danfield was trying to collect himself.  He felt as if he was being toyed with and tormented on all sides by powers higher than himself, and, of course, that was unthinkable.  His experiences with reading had been enough to test his mind with savage bouts of paranoia, and this may well be the same thing.  Still, it would be imprudent to remain in Cottonseed any longer. 

            If he were a little more organized of mind, Alan may have been seriously considering buying a horse, getting a stage ticket, or looking into the possibility of reserving a seat on the next train riding out of Landfall.  As it was, though, he was just looking for a quiet place to drink, where he was unlikely to be discovered. 

            Alan had been stumbling blindly street to street as he tried to clear his head.  Now he made a real effort to straighten up and look around him.  The streets seemed oddly deserted.  He was standing in a wider thoroughfare that looked as if it served as an open-air market most days of the week.  The merchant fronts were all closed up and had a look of dismal loneliness.

            The one exception he noticed was a colorful wagon more fit for the circus than the marketplace.  It was hung with a banner proclaiming “Elixirs for Sale!” and was festooned with various colorfully painted signs promising miracle cures and exotic potions from the Far East to the distant western trench.  Eye catching as all this was, what his eye was particularly drawn to was the young woman dickering with the merchant leaning far out from the window propped open from the side of the wagon.

            Alan could tell that the merchant was trying to keep their conversation discreet, but he had a natural showmanship about him, and his voice occasionally rose to within Alan’s hearing.  From what Alan could tell, the merchant was agitated regarding the price that the girl was willing to pay him.  The girl for her part seemed to be calm and unflinching in her resolution to pay whatever price they had agreed to and not a mite more. 

            Alan smiled at this.  Pretty and strong was a combination he could rarely resist in a woman.  Forgetting for a moment the dire prophecy he had seen reflected in the cards, Alan sidled boldly up next to her and leaned on the window in the wagon, putting on his best of smug grins.

“The price we agreed upon is all that I’m paying,” the girl was saying.

“In that case, my young and tender child, ask Crowler to come down here directly, and I’ll explain the little pricing difficulty to the source.  Unless you want me showing up at the very door of the Crowler estate with a vile of Sparrowroot and a grin.”

The girl glanced nervously at Alan, then back at the lean, wolfishly grinning salesman.  “You do that and you can expect to be run clean out of Landfall.”

The salesman entertained a smile across his lips.  “Your employer may be very powerful indeed, however I have connections of my own to higher powers yet, and I can assure you my passage is secure throughout this Western Wheel.”  The salesman’s smile broadened into a sneer, as if challenging the girl to test him.  The girl drew in her breath and released it slowly.  “I will explain your lack of cooperation to my employer.  I don’t have the amount you are asking with me.”

“Well until then,” the salesman smiled, “I await your return, my belly all a-tingle.  And now,” the merchant turned his gaze on Alan, “What can I do for you young sir?”

Alan extended his hand, “Alan Danfield, and you are?”

The merchant had a look of surprised recognition at his name.  “You are THE Alan Danfield?  Sir, this is an honor.  I must confess, I am a fan,” he fished a copy of ‘Fate in the Cards’ from a shelf somewhere and waved it in Alan’s face.  “You are probably aware that your book is contraband on the open market,  I’ve never mastered your techniques myself, but I sell copies to discerning clientele.

            “But of course I have neglected to introduce myself,” he now grasped Alan’s hand firmly, “I am the Professor Jinglo, a simple traveling salesman.  And what can I do to help a noted author such as yourself?”

Alan glanced back at the girl who had lingered a moment after her conversation was so abruptly terminated, drawn in by the interaction between Jinglo and himself. 

“How about a wager?” Alan said, casting an obvious wink in the direction of the girl.  Her eyebrows arched, and she seemed interested in spite of herself.  Jinglo, for his part, seemed amused.

            “Mr. Danfield, I am certain you are aware of the old adage that you can’t kid a kidder.  I am thinking I would be very foolish to engage you in a game of chance.”

Alan answered Jinglo with an amused smile of his own.  “It is precisely because we are both kidders of the highest caliber that you should accept my challenge.  Or do you already judge me the better man?  If so, I accept the compliment.”

            “Very sly, sir, very sly indeed.  I do, I daresay, have a trick or two up my sleeve that you’ve never witnessed before, but I fear my most astounding talents would be lay bear to a man who can read the future.”

The look on the young woman’s face became confused, but Alan could see she was drawn in by curiosity all the same.  He was playing to a double audience now, and he found himself enjoying it.

            “The technique I mention in my book is a generalized piece of hokum I used to make a few quick dollars some years back.  An embarrassment, really.  I’m surprised a man like you fell for that ruse.  Besides, if it DID work, it would require a deck of cards.”  Alan paused long enough so that Jinglo started to speak again, then immediately cut him off.  “How about we do this: you name the game, I name the stakes.  That way everything is fair.”

Jinglo didn’t reply immediately, but Alan could tell he had the man hooked.  He could see the salesman’s eyes shifting ever so slightly toward a shelf behind him in the wagon, and Alan knew the game he would pick before he said a word.  But of course, Alan had already suspected that some variation of this game would be picked, had even had it in mind when he suggested the challenge.  A game of cups and ball was the classic of the traveling showman.

            “Let’s hear the stakes before I pick the game,” Jinglo said, the slightest hint of distrust entering his voice.

            “Of course, that’s fair,” Alan remained cool, but he knew Jinglo already knew what stakes he would be asking.  “If I win, you sell this young lady her item for half your asking price.  If you win, I will match whatever she is paying for the product.”

The girl’s face lit up with surprise as Alan had hoped it would.

            “Absolutely unthinkable,” Jinglo responded instantly, but Alan read a different answer in his eyes, and said what Jinglo was already thinking.

            “You have nothing to lose, my friend.  If you win, you double your profits, if you lose, you only lose a very small amount.”

Jinglo waivered momentarily, then smiled.  “Well, in the interest of sportsmanship, I suppose I can indulge you in one game of my choice.  If for no other reason than gratitude that your ‘generalized piece of hokum’ has brought me so much revenue over the last several years.”

Jinglo spread his hands, showing them to be empty.  Then he closed them fist down and, with a flourish, produced three cups and a small white ball seemingly out of thin air.  Alan was sufficiently impressed.  It was a typical slight of hand, but Jinglo preformed it seamlessly.  Suddenly Alan was doubting that he would catch the trick when it happened.

            Jinglo followed this up by commencing to juggle the ball and cups lazily, the objects moving through the air as if floating there against the pull of gravity.

            “You are familiar with the ball and cups?”

            “No,” Alan said, straight-faced, “explain it to me.”

Jinglo smiled and went on juggling.  Suddenly, he bounced the white ball on the counter-top and slapped the cups down all at once.  The ball disappeared.

            Fluidly, Jinglo set right in to sliding the cups around one another on the countertop, twisting and spinning them so smoothly, it was almost hypnotic.  “Twistle-turnel, round the hill, wish me well, don’t wish me ill,” Jinglo chanted as he spun.  He played the game like an expert, not bored with a game long-mastered, but ever striving for the greater art of the thing.  “Spinnel, spinnel, round the trail; people try and people fail.”  Alan glanced over at the girl again.  She seemed utterly engrossed by the fluid sliding of the cups around the counter-top, forgetting for a moment her anger at Jinglo.  “Jiggle-jiggle, round the pass; life is good, but life won’t last.”

            Now Jinglo began to lift the cups, but the game was far from over.  As he lifted, he bounced the ball from beneath the cup, and caught it under another cup.  He did this again, and again with a quickness that made it seem as if there were several balls bouncing across the countertop at once.  Alan wasn’t altogether sure that there weren’t. 

“Bouncel- bouncel, round the bend; when we die, it does not end!” Jinglo shouted this last bit of verse in excitement as he slapped the two cups he was holding down at once with a clapping sound.  The bouncing ball disappeared with a suddenness.  The Professor leveled his gaze at Alan.

“Now, Mr. Danfield, where is the ball?”

Alan returned Professor Jinglo’s gaze confidently.  Play the man, not the cards.  The ball and cup game was age-old, and it was always a trick.  The problem was that there was more than one method of performing the trick.  Danfield had never seen this trick performed with such mastery.  Generally, the trick was to palm the ball before you began spinning the cups.  Whatever the trick, the object was to make certain that whatever cup the player chose, there would be no ball beneath it.  Jinglo had his fingertips still resting on tops of the cups.  Alan began running his fingers along the countertop and glanced up at Jinglo.  “May I?” he asked, making as if to take one of the cups.  He saw the flicker of nervousness across Jinglo’s face, but the showman put on a smile and removed his hands just the same.  Alan took hold of the cup at his left hand, and lifted it.  The counter was empty beneath.  Alan’s face sank in disappointment.

            “Don’t be sad, Mr. Danfield.  I daresay cards are more your game, anyway,” Jinglo said as he began sweeping the cups off the table, “And how many men can ever truly call themselves masters of ANYthing in this life?  This alone is a tremendous blessing.”  Jinglo reached to take the cup that Alan was holding, but Alan moved it from his reach.

            “What’s this?” Alan proclaimed, turning the cup over, and showing the girl.  Stuck firmly in base of the cup sat a small, white ball.  Jinglo stopped mid-sentence, a sheepish grin across his face.  Alan responded with a confident look of his own.  “I don’t think it’s too much of a leap to guess that there is a similar ball in each cup.”  Jinglo continued to stare in embarrassed silence.  “Don’t be sad,” Danfield smiled, “Your downfall was your showmanship, which, by the way, was beautiful.  When you began to bounce the ball from cup to cup, you bounced more than one ball at a time.  That’s what gave you away.”

Jinglo gave a sour grin of his own.  “Always a pleasure to learn.”  He turned to the girl.  “Now then, young lady, thanks to your champion here, it looks as if we can do business after all.”

The girl shot Alan a smile, and it was everything he had been working for.

Lilly had never met anyone from a wealthy family before.  She was surprised to find herself sympathetic to the girl.  She had felt a twinge of envy when she originally met Rebecca, feeling simultaneously that the wealthy girl would look down on her for her plain, unfeminine cloths, worn and soiled from many weeks spent on the trail; and shame that she was not as pretty or well off as this girl.

Instead, however, she found the girl clung to her.  Not literally, of course, but the girls large, anguished eyes kept seeking hers for a sign of leadership, or guidance. 

            “I think,” Rebecca was saying, having a difficult time keeping emotion from cracking her voice, “That my brother must have taken your friend in the direction of the ghetto.  He and Mordeci were always hanging around there.”

            “Mordeci must have meant a lot to you,” Lilly ventured.  She had been working up the courage to say something comforting, and she could feel the red creeping into her face even as she said it.  Rebecca turned her sad eyes on Lilly. 

            “He’s the only decent one in my whole family,” she stifled a small sob.  “He’s the only one that everyone liked.  He could be clumsy, but he had an earnest, trustworthy way about him.  Everything he did was out of the goodness of his heart.”

            “What happened to him?” Lilly asked, cautiously.

            “He…” Rebecca faltered, “he was caught in an abandoned building when it collapsed.  Or that’s the story mother and I were told.  The men are always keeping things from us.  I have a terrible feeling about it.  If Mordeci was involved in something… bad… I just don’t want to know about it.”

Lilly could understand the girls desire for ignorance to preserve her memory of her brother.  She knew her world would be shattered if she discovered some terrible secret in her father’s past. 

The town they were walking through was making a rapid transition from white-wash siding and plaster to dingy bricks more grey than red.  With the transition, Lilly’s discomfort grew.  She was relieved to see Peter and his new friend approaching up the same alley they were descending. 

            “Hey, Lilly,” Peter greeted her with a shy smile that looked as relieved as she felt.  “Able has invited us to dinner at his plantation.  Help me talk to Mom.”

Beside her, Rebecca was grasping at Lilly’s hands.  “Oh, could you?  Mother’s inconsolable, and I am anxious for someone to talk to.  Living with all those men gets to be so oppressive at times,” as she said this, she shot an apologetic look at Able.  Able didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her in all his brooding.  Lilly sighed.  “We’ll see.”

Alan discovered that his beau, whose name was Olivia, was a maid of the Crowler estate.  This, of course, was the explanation for the conversation he had overheard between her and the Professor Jinglo. 

            Alan still remembered his encounter with Isaac Crowler earlier in the day, and when Olivia playfully suggested that they head back to the servant’s quarters, Alan was briefly reminded of the sense of impending dread that was filling his heart just before he had run into the girl.

            Unconsciously he reached for his cards.  He was already shuffling them one-handed when Olivia said, “What are you doing?” looking suspiciously at the hand with which he was shuffling.  He had been doing it tucked away at the corner of his jacket in a manner he had learned to hide the action from the casual observer.

“Oh this?” he held the hand with the cards up and offered a disarming smile.  “Nervous habit of an old cardsharp.  Never you mind.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “What was it that Jinglo was saying?  Predicting the future through the cards?”

“That’s just a…”

“…Piece of hokum?”

“Yes,” Alan offered lamely.  In a sudden movement, the girl grabbed his hand and placed her other hand over the cards.

“Let me see them,” she teased, pulling at the deck.  Alan reluctantly let go of the cards.  The girl looked them over with interest.  She handled them clumsily, and Alan guessed that she had never actually held playing cards before, which was not surprising.  Many proper women looked down on card play of any kind.  Alan could not imagine what they did to entertain themselves. 

            The girl grew tired of them quickly and shoved them back into his hands.

“Tell my fortune,” she commanded. 

It was always like this when people discovered his ‘gift.’  If there was one thing Alan hated more than seeing his own future, it was seeing other peoples.  How do you tell people the naked, honest truth about what is going to happen to them?  How do you answer them when they lose their amused, tolerant grins and reel with the shock of what you are saying?  When they scream at you that you are a liar and a charlatan, or pleadingly ask you if their fate is sealed?

            The answer was simple.  You gave them what they expected from you anyway: a lie.

            Alan forced a tight grin and began to shuffle the cards, his fingers sorting through the deck, finding the cards he wanted and placing them in the front of the pile.  His stacking of the deck had occasionally fooled seasoned gamblers, and this girl was no gambler.  Still a craftsman always strives for perfection, and he felt he did a good job of making the intentional organization of the deck look like random shuffling.

Still, he could make THIS deck in his sleep, so practiced was he.

When he was finished he slapped the stack down on his knee and gave a long, dramatic look at the girl.  She arranged her face into a look of seriousness, the smile hiding underneath in a way that made Alan’s heart flutter.

            “I must stress that this is a performance and nothing else,” Alan announced.

            “Oh, do get on with it already MISTER Danfield.”

Alan winked and pulled the first card, holding it for a pause, and then turning it to show the face.

            “This card tells us when this prediction will come true based on the phases of the moon.”  Placing the card gently in her lap, Alan revealed the King of diamonds.  He gave a small gasp of surprise.  “Moonrise tonight!  That’s mere hours from now!”

A gleam of excitement entered Olivia’s eyes.  “Go on,” she prodded.

Alan smiled and pulled the next card.  He showed it to be the Ace of Hearts. 

“This card characterizes the whole hand.  Your destiny is love this very night.”

The next card was a two of hearts.  Allan smiled, “This is a rendezvous of two hearts.  Yours and one other’s.”

The next card was a five of diamonds.  “The man you will meet is a man of fortune,” Alan proclaimed, “Only one more card to go.”

This card was an agonizing draw.  Alan pulled it out as slowly as he possibly could, fixing Olivia with his eyes the whole time.  As the card emerged, his eyes drifted slowly, reluctantly, away from her face down to the card.  A smile crept upon his lips, and he turned the card up, his eyes flitting back up to hers.

            It was a seven of hearts. 

“Perfect love,” he said.

            The carriage ride out to the Crowler estate was the loveliest ride Lilly had ever enjoyed.  She had never ridden in an open surrey, and the comfort was only surpassed by the beauty of the estate itself.  When they rode through the wrought iron gates of the estate, Lilly assumed the ride was over, but it was a full ten minutes of further riding before the surrey pulled up in front of the neck-wrenchingly high white pillars of the estate hall.  The ride was full of swaying and sadly elegant willows surrounded by white-washed wooden benches, cobblestone pathways, hedgerow mazes and fountains tracing delicate rainbows through the humid southern air.

            Lilly was sad to see it end, but also excited at the prospect of exploring the estate on foot.  Rebecca quickly put an end to this dream by announcing that they must go straight away to see Mother.  Rebecca’s brother silently followed along without protest as they entered the hall, and they all fell into a line to go see Mother.  Lilly felt terribly uncomfortable with the prospect of being present for such a meeting at this emotional time for the family, and she could only imagine how Peter must feel.  Surprisingly, though, Peter didn’t look uncomfortable.  Just interested in these new surroundings. 

            Helen and Charles had politely bowed out of the early tour of the estate, agreeing instead to attend dinner served later on.  Charles had insisted that they not spend the night at the estate.

            They had entered the hall in the foyer, a vast, dimly lit room with deep carpeting a dark, rich velvet color with intricate patterns which might have been flowers.  There were tables stained a deep mahogany with china vases filled with floral arrangements.  In the center of the hall, framed by the broad staircase that split at the landing and gracefully rose in two separate staircases extending to the second floor balcony of the east and west wings, hung a massive chandelier.  It was unlit now, but Lilly imagined the thousand points of brightness glittering all about the foyer when the great light was turned on.

            “Come on,” Able said impatiently, motioning the group toward the west hall.  Lilly was immediately struck with how this luxury was lost on those who lived with it.

            “Mizz Penelope is not receiving,” said servant standing at the high white double doors.  Able did not even pause at this, walking directly up to the old Negro in a white jacket with tails.

            “Scram, Babista.”

The servant offered no fight to this, turning and going without a word.  Able pushed the high door which slowly yielded and drifted open.

            The drawing room lay at the extreme end of the west wing, and during this time of day, was brightly lit with the rays of the setting sun.  The Misses Crowler sat at one of the large picture windows, her back to the group that approached.  Peter, Lilly, and even Rebecca paused at the door, but Able continued to stride boldly in the direction of his mother.  Lilly could tell what would happen next.  They would be witness to a display of private family affairs that were none of their business.  She started to turn to Rebecca and excuse herself and Peter, but before she could say anything, an inhuman sound erupted from across the room arresting all of their attention.

            Able had reached his mother, and seemed ready to confront her on something when the woman swung around, a look of frightening, exaggerated mirth on her face.  The sound that burst from her throat was somewhere between a scream and a laugh.  Even Able was stopped short by this.  Lilly looked desperately from Able to Rebecca for some sign that this was a family joke, a family secret, anything that would explain this behavior.  The two children seemed as shocked as her.

            “All of this!” the woman shouted, waving her arms about wildly, “LOOK at all of this!  The most beautiful estate in the entire Wheel!  Acre upon acre of fertile land, servants and houses and fountains, and I never take the time to LOOK at it!  Well?  LOOK AT IT!”  She was in hysterics now, and Lilly was desperate to escape the room, flee back to the wagon they had come from and never again stick her nose in the affairs of other families, but there was no stopping this scene.  The woman shot up from the love seat she had been gracing and took a step toward Able.  For the first time since Lilly had first laid eyes on him, Able was not the determined rebel, but truly lost as to what to do.  He retreated a step.

            “THIS,” the woman continued, “was all I ever wanted.  My entire life, spent fussing over this and that to keep this estate maintained, and to build upon it.  I never recognized you children for the blessings that you were.  And now that Mordeci is gone, I realize that I would give it all up and live in rags if I had to just to get him back.  It’s just so… damn… FUNNY!”

            And with this proclamation, the woman collapsed into Able’s arms, sobbing.  Lilly placed her hand on the shoulder of the stunned Peter and turned to Rebecca.

            “We should go.”

Lilly was surprised to see the utter panic in Rebecca’s eyes.

            “Please…” the girl pleaded hoarsely, “don’t leave me alone with them!”

Lilly looked from Rebecca’s face to Peter’s, both of them looking to her for strength.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered how it was that she found herself in these situations.  She didn’t consider herself particularly strong, but lately everybody seemed to want her to be the one making the decisions.

            “Peter, wait outside the room,” she sighed, “I’ll be along in a bit.”

Alan Danfield had seen enough sprawling Southern Estates to consider himself well versed on the subject, and he could easily admit that this was one of the nicest he had been to.  He began to regret he had run away from the card game with Isaac.  The man seemed like the sort so obsessed with winning that he would bet the family farm on a promising hand.

Then Alan recalled why it was he HAD run from that encounter, and was struck by a moment of unease.  He swallowed it and turned to Olivia.

“Fine estate.  I can imagine worse places to work.” 

Olivia rolled her eyes in his direction.

“The scenery is the least part of the job, Alan.  Meet the people I work for and then tell me if you still consider me so fortunate.”

They had been strolling for the better portion of the trip, and the lightning bugs were just beginning to float about the yard of the estate.  Alan comforted himself with the thought that, fortune allowing, he never would have to meet any more Crowlers, and he could enjoy this scenery unreservedly.

They took a turn down the path that Olivia indicated lead to the servants quarters.  An older negro man in white gentleman’s clothing was making his way toward them along the path, and as his head rose from his hobbling pace, his eyes crinkled and he waived at Olivian.

“Curse the luck,” Olivia muttered, “I’ve been spotted.”  She smiled alluringly at Alan, indicating in her silent way that she regretted any interruption of their time together.  It was a sentiment Alan could get behind.

“Mizz Olivia, the Madam need her medicine something fierce!”  The man said when he had managed to hobble the rest of the way up to them.

“Thank you, Babista.”  She turned to Alan.  “I had to take this to her anyway,” she said, indicating the paper parcel she had purchased from Professor Jinglo.  “I might as well get everything taken care of so that we can be alone.”

Alan frowned.  “I thought you said you were buying that for Colonel Crowler?”

Olivia shrugged, “I used his name to threaten Jinglo, sure.  The Colonel has a name and respect in this area, but it was the Madam Crowler that I was fetching it for.  Listen, the servant’s quarters are right over there, and this won’t take long.  Could you wait for me until I get back?”

As she asked this last, she shifted her hips and toyed shyly with his tie.  Alan smiled smoothly.  “Not an easy request for a gentleman to refuse,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.  “Of course I will wait.”

Alan waited until Olivia was down the path and just out of view before he began to follow her.  This wasn’t something he had a great deal of experience with.  He was no Scraeling or woodsman, but the sun was almost gone from the sky now, and Olivia was too preoccupied to notice him.  Additionally, the estate seemed to be abustle with servants rushing about.  Alan reasoned there must be some meal they were preparing for.

Olivia didn’t use the main door to enter the house, hurrying instead on a little flagstone path around the back of the mansion, then down a staircase set into the ground.  She fumbled and brought a bronze key from inside her apron, turned it in the lock of the below-ground door, and entered, shutting the door behind her.  Moments later, Alan could hear the lock click back into place.

Now following people unnoticed may not have been Alan’s greatest skill, but locks presented much less of a challenge for him.  Reaching into his breast pocket, he brought out his billfold and removed two thin tools.  He measured the lock for less than a second before he figured out what he was dealing with.  This model was built to look and feel sturdy.  It would probably take a good sized brigade wielding a small tree to batter their way into this door, but the lock was never made to foil a pick, and it was the work of a moment to let himself in. 

The area he had let himself into was what appeared to be a combination wash-room and store room, and there were three servants engaged in hanging laundry from strings that crisscrossed the room.  One glanced up at him and frowned.  Alan smiled back and tipped his hat, then hurried in the direction of the stairs.

There appeared to be an entire back portion of the mansion which was devoted to descrete passageways and rooms wherein the servants walked and carried out their various tasks out of sight of the family and guests.  The immediate purpose of such passages was obvious to Alan, but there was something deeper about them that struck him as an afterthought.  Discretion could easily descend to deception, and he had had enough experience with the evils lurking just beneath the skin of polite society that he could easily imagine the nasty business that might be conducted late at night in these narrow halls.  He had socialized extensively with both high class socialites and low-down dirty scoundrels, and he found the scoundrels to be the more honest of the two.

When he had reached the passageway, Olivia was just visible turning the corner.  He hurried as fast as he dared along the hallway, avoiding the bustle of servants, and walking with confidence.  He had long ago learned that confidence will get you into places no set of lock picks ever could.

It worked fairly well.  The servants mostly ignored him or looked at him with some surprise, then continued doing what they had been. 

He reached the corner just in time to see the light disappear from a door closing.  He hurried to the spot and was confronted with what looked like a blank wall.  Looking the spot up and down, he did see a slight seam in the wall, but no obvious latches.  He tried pushing on the spot, and the wall separated and opened.  As it did, he could see the hinges and chains hidden within the wall when it closed.

The opening lead to the mansion proper and he found himself in a long hallway with beautiful wooden paneling and gently shining lanterns flickering their way down the hallway.  Along the opposite wall were family portraits stretching back six generations to the first Crowlers in Landfall.  There was something out of place in the portraits, but he couldn’t stop to inspect them, because the sound of Olivia’s footfalls were fading to the west. 

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Alan followed after her.  He didn’t have far to go before she came to a pair of tall white doors and walked through them, conveniently leaving a crack open behind her.  Alan approached the doors and cautiously peaked through the crack.

He could not see much from this perspective.  The room beyond seemed to be some sort of drawing room.  From the sound, it seemed that there were a number of people in there.  There was the sound of women’s crying, and Alan could not honestly tell if it was one or several people crying.

“Ma’am, I brought your medicine,” he could hear Olivia coaxing with professional concern for her Mistress. 

“Nevermind the medicine,” a woman’s voice, ragged with emotion, replied, “Did you get my package from the market?”

“I have it here, Ma’am.”

Before Alan could hear more of the conversation, I hand closed on his elbow, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

            The hand belonged to a fair-haired and lanky boy.  “What are you doing, Mister?”

Alan gave the kid a once-over and immediately decided he was no threat.  The kid was obviously not any part of the Crowler family.  He was dressed like a ragged Pilgrim, and his bare ankles and arms stuck far out of his knickers and sleeves.  He had clearly not had the opportunity to update his wardrobe since he started his growth spurt.

            “Geez, kid, you nearly stopped my ticker!  What’s a squirt like you doing sneaking around a place like this?”

            “I was about to ask you the same question,” came the kids even reply.  Alan grumbled inwardly.  Kids these days had no respect for their betters. 

            “Come on, Son, beat it before I get the Colonel out here to tan your hide with his ceremonial saber.”

            “I’m a guest of the Colonel.”

            “As am I, kid, as am I.”  Alan could tell he wasn’t going to intimidate this boy into backing down.  The boy seemed sharper than most gamblers Alan had met, and if he wasn’t such an accomplished liar, he feared this boy might dismantle his impeccable wall of bullshit. 

            Alan was saved from further verbal sparring by a sudden bustle of people bursting out of the drawing room nearly knocked him over.

            “I have to oversee dinner preparations!” a reedy woman’s voice announced, as she pushed everyone out of her path, clutching Olivia’s paper parcel to her chest.  Alan had the impression that the older woman, who he took to be the Mrs. Colonel Andrew Crowler, was acting in an abrupt and peculiar manner.  This annoyed him greatly because it put him in the awkward position of coming face-to-face with Olivia.  She gawked at him momentarily, then re-arranged her expression into one of cool professionalism, taking the extra effort to make sure a look of icy scorn was involved in the transformation.

            He was spared, momentarily, by the presence of the others from a severe tongue lashing.  This new crowd included two other young women and a boy of similar age to the one who had confronted him outside the room.  Alan felt like he should probably start finding names to associate with all these new faces.  He could see a family similarity in the new boy and one of the young women that made him reasonably sure that he was faced with more Crowlers.  This, he had to allow, stood to reason, given that he was in their house.  The overall mood of the crowd was somber, which was a shame because both of the young ladies were attractive enough to take the sting away from Olivia’s scorn.  If things went south with her, so much the better.  The young lady who was not a Crowler looked to be another pilgrim, but despite her trail-worn look, he could tell that she was possibly the most attractive of the three women.  At least her eyes were not puffy or tear-streaked like the other’s.  All indications were that the Crowler women were unsteady.  He hadn’t much liked the Crowler men he’d met so far, either.

            “Olivia, Darling” he said, smiling his charming best, “I missed you dearly.  I trust you are finished your delivery?”

Olivia glanced at the milling group of young people and shot him a warning look.  Not in front of my employers!  It said.  But he could see her anger melting away.

            “If you have no further need of me,” Olivia addressed herself to Rebecca, “I will escort Mr. Danfield here back to the guest house.”

Olivia nodded mutely, still caught up in whatever emotional maelstrom was afflicting her, and Alan extended his elbow.  Olivia pretended to be cross with him a moment more, then took his elbow, and they were off.

            Alan stared up at the ceiling from the bed where he lay.  There was a slight glow coming through the window, and it looked red and unflickering.  He wondered idly if it were the moon casting this red glow.  That would be a bad sign. 

It probably was. 

He didn’t care.  Minutes ago he had been feeling very good indeed, but now as Olivia stood over him hastily dressing and tying her hair back in order to go serve supper to the various damned guests and the twice-damned Crowlers, he felt the depression sink down upon him like a leaden curtain.

            “You’re welcome to stay here and rest,” she said in a kindly voice, probably sensing something was wrong with him, “I’ll bring back some of the supper for you if you like.” 

Alan didn’t answer her.  He had known men like himself who swung from high spirits to deep depression.  Many of them would spend the low times sunk in bed, unmoving.  The very thing about his depression was that it made him restless.  He could not stay here.  It would kill him.

Olivia sighed.  “I would really like you to stay,” she said, kissing him lightly.  Then she hurriedly added, “I really have to go.  Mizz Crowler is going to be cross enough already.  See you soon.”

Alan waited a few minutes to make sure she was really gone, then he rose, dressed quickly, and walked quietly out of the room.

            The sensible thing would be to simply leave.  Go back to his hotel room, grab his things, and hop a train out of this town.  And so when Alan found himself following Olivia for the second time, he could not really say why it was that he chose to do so.  Earlier the sneaking around behind her had been a playful thrill.  Now it held very little interest for him. 

            He waited for the door attendant to be busying himself with stashing away the various coats and hats of the guests, and slipped right past him, heading toward the dining room.

            He was, however, brought up short when he came to the partially open doors of the dining hall.  There, at the table, sat someone far worse than any prophet of doom.  This person was doom itself.  It was the girl who had once called herself ‘Birdie Kulp,’ the girl whose name was Lady Morra.   All at once, Alan remembered the hand he had pulled when playing against Isaac Crowler earlier that day.  The hand had shown the queen of spades coming to town, and then it had shown death.  Alan turned and ran.  He ran and ran and did not stop until he was at the train station.

            Helen and Charles had arrived in time for a pre-dinner tour of the mansion.  They were both cleaned up and dressed in the finest clothes they owned.  Lilly was grateful when Helen handed her the prettiest dress she owned.  But she had not gotten it on before Rebecca insisted that she find Lilly something better to wear in the mansion.  Despite Lilly’s insistence that this was totally unnecessary, Rebecca dragged her to a large bedroom and began bringing out dress after dress until she found something truly beautiful for Lilly to wear.  Lilly even had to admit that it took her breath away to see herself so finely dressed. 

            By the time they were finished, Helen and Charles had finished their tour.  The Colonel had personally met them at the door, but he was not looking well, and apparently Isaac had completed the tour while the Colonel rested for dinner.  They all gathered at the table, and there was some small talk about how fine everything looked.

            Then Helen said, “Where’s Peter?”  Lilly noticed for the first time that Peter was gone.  In fact, she wasn’t quite sure when she had last seen him.

            “He told me,” the youngest Crowler spoke up, “That he felt a little ashamed of his clothes, and was running back to the wagon to grab a better suit.”

            “Oh,” Helen looked concerned, “I don’t think he has anything much better’n what he has on.”

            The boy, Able, smiled awkwardly and shrugged.  “I reckon he’ll be back soon enough.”

            “I had better go after him,” Helen said, but Charles lay a hand on her shoulder. 

            “The boy is a man now, Helen.  Let him be, he’ll be alright.”

Helen was reluctant, but let this be.  There was more small talk, and everyone began to wonder where their host and hostess were.

            “It’s not like Dad and Mom to be so late,” Rebecca commented, and then asked a servant to go check on them.

            Before the servant could get out the door, however, the Colonel and Mrs. Crowler came through the same door.  Mrs. Crowler was looking disheveled and red in the face.  The Colonel was leaning heavily against her, some small beads of sweat standing out against his forehead.  He reached his chair, steadied himself, and forced a smile across his face.

            “Friends.  Welcome to our humble home.  We are all so eager to hear your stories from up North.  Allow me to grace our meal.”

            He bowed his head and quickly mumbled out some words of thanks, Amen-ed with a heavy sigh, then collapsed into his chair, looking exhausted.

            “I am not a man to begin drinking at the beginning of a meal, but I feel I need something to steady myself.  It’s been a long day, as you can imagine.”  He looked at Charles, “Would you care for some brandy, sir?”

Charles mumbled that he wouldn’t thank you very much indeed, but he would be glad for a small shot of whisky following the meal.  The meal came out on plates, and Penelope Crowler made a fuss of ensuring that everyone was given the correct plate that had been prepared for them, although Lilly could see no difference between the platters.  The Mrs. Crowler had gotten, if anything, more erratic than she had seemed earlier in the evening.  She was weaving as she walked, talking in nonsense phrases, and would occasionally allow a bit of wild laughter slip out of her lips.  Lilly seriously wondered if she might not be a little drunk.  The fussing over platters continued for an embarrassingly long period of time during which the Colonel simply put his head back and breathed deeply, and everyone else tried to sit as politely as possible.  Lilly was pained to see that Helen’s eyes kept glancing toward the door, looking for her son to return.  Finally, Charles Tavery’s stomache let out a loud rumble, and the poor man put his reddening face down.

            The Colonel’s eye’s popped open and he cried “Sit DOWN, Penelope!”  The woman looked at him with a cool contempt, then wove her way back to the seat and plopped down.

            Everyone dug gratefully into their meal except for the Colonel.  He toyed with his food, and took a few hesitant bites, but mostly he nursed his brandy. 

            After everyone was sopping up the last of their food, the Colonel rose unsteadily and clinked his glass.

            “I would like to offer a toast to the Crowler family.”  Everyone raised their glass and repeated “To the Crowler family,” except for the Mrs. Crowler who just suffered another spurt of wild laughter.  The Colonel pressed on ignoring this.

            “Our family has suffered a loss, but the loss will only make us stronger.  I have some authority with the Baron’s Riflemen now, and that authority will continue to grow.  As you know, our ancestors were scholars, philosophers, and politicians, but most of all, they were fighting men!  And we will continue to fight, just as my ancestors did…”

Finally Penelope could take it no longer and bursts out “Your ancestors??  Your ancestors!!  Your ancestors were a bunch of horse thieves and moonshiners from the back hills of South Durdsbury!  Isn’t that right, Andrew Buck!”

The Colonel glared back at her through a haze of sweat, now running freely down his face.  He sat heavily back in his chair, then hissed,  “Sit down Penelope!  You’ve come unhitched at the seams!”

Penelope’s southern accent became more pronounced as she continued to rant.

            “Chillun’ let me tell you about your father!  I met this man when I was fifteen.  My Uncle Burtrom Crowler was the sheriff of the town, and he caught this backwater hillbilly a-tryin’ his best to make off with the sorriest horse in town.  Now ya’ll know that horse-thievin’ is a hangin’ offense, but I, in my foolish, girlish heart, took pity on this man and begged for his life.  My Uncle had a soft spot for me, and let him go provided he would make up the cost of the horse he stole by plowing my father’s plantation for a spell. 

            “Well you kids know your father, he couldn’t keep himself from plowing of a different kind!  When my belly full of child began to show, your dear Paw and I were given a shotgun wedding and put up in the servants quarters to work alongside the slaves.”

            “Penelope, please!” The Colonel seemed to really be pleading, now.  He was clenching his hands hard to his gut, like it was going to burst, and almost falling out of his chair in pain.

            “Well your dad was mad, but not half so mad as was I!  Put out as a common slave by my own family!  So I bribed one of the slaves to give me some of a rare little herb we have called sparrowroot.  It grows in swamps, and it’s as insidious a poison as you ever did see.  See, the thing about sparrowroot is that it don’t kill all at once.  Oh no.  It builds up in a body’s guts over time.  The person just gets sicker and sicker and finally one day they just keel over.”

            The Colonel was heaving now, his eyes closed in pain, his face blanched a dark scarlet, digging his big fingers deep into his guts.

            “So,” Mrs. Crowler continued, “Every evening I would cheerfully serve my family their evening meal.  Everyone told me what a fine cook I was, and how cheerful I was taking my recent change in life, and how they would probably see fit to bring Andrew and I back into the house soon.  Maybe even cut Andrew a small portion of the property if he proved to be as hard a worker as I was, even with my new-born.

            “None of them knew how soon we would be back in the house, or how big a portion of the property Andrew would receive.

            “Well, that poison did its work.  The whole family got terrible ill, and the town was certain an epidemic might be on us and quarantined the property.  I just nursed my ailing family, making sure they got their nightly medicine, but I just couldn’t do enough and they all perished in their darling daughter’s arms.

            “My Uncle was the only one who suspected foul play.  He blamed Andrew entirely for the deaths, and stormed the property with a passel of men.  Well you know Andrew just sort of strolled out on the porch carrying a sack full of my family’s golden eagles and he told them men he would pay them all a king’s ransom if they would walk over to his side.  So my Uncle watched in horror as all but two of the men he had swore in as deputies walked over to the other side, then gunned him and his faithful deputies down in cold blood.

            “From that day on, Andrew started calling himself a ‘Crowler,’ and claiming my ancestors as his own.  Eventually the town forgot the true Crowlers, and I think even Andrew became convinced he was actually from the Crowler line. 

            “Well you kids all have some Crowler blood in you, anyway.  As for this useless saw-toothed, red-necked, child-killing bastard, well, in a few minutes, he won’t be no use to no one.  Right, Andy Buck?”

            Andrew opened his eyes a slit and coughed a laugh flecked with blood.  “You… got me, Penelope.  Just like you got your family.  Damn, but you’ve always been one cunning bitch.  But… ol’ Andrew ain’t going down without one spot of revenge.  While you’ve been feeding me sparrowroot for the last few weeks, I’ve been lacing your medicine with the redweed juice.  You’re mind is hanging by a thread, and by the time I’m gone, you’ll be insane.  I knew you were siding with that good-for-nothing Mordaci.  And I didn’t kill him!  He did that to… himself!”

He spit at her.  Penelope screamed and grabbed him by the hair, yanking the man from his chair and trying to drag him across the carpet. 

            In unison, both Isaac and Lady Morra rose calmly from their chairs and shoved the couple through a dark doorway at the back of the dining room, then Isaac locked the door behind them.

            “I’m sorry you had to witness that bit of unpleasantness,” Isaac smiled in an approximation of re-assuring.  “I am truly sorry, brother, sister, but as you can plainly see, both our mother and father were far too weak to hold this household.  With the help of Lady Morra, here, we now have the land, the house, the inheritance to ourselves.  I will have controlling power, of course, but you will each get your share if you cooperate.  Oh, and Able, as for your precious blacks, we can no longer afford to have them leaving to build the numbers of the Buffalo Soldiers, rebels against the Baron.  I am afraid they will all have to go.”

Charles had Helen by the shoulders and they were backing toward the door.  Lilly hurried to join them.

            “Oh, no, don’t go!” Lady Morra said sweetly, “You simply have to meet the rest of our guests!”

            On that cue, the main doors of the dining hall burst wide and Lilly gave a little scream as Charles Tavery glared with pure hatred.

            There stood the Dust Devil, exactly as Lilly remembered him from ten years ago.

            He came into the room, flanked on either side by Riflemen.  Following on his heals was a tall and slightly ragged looking gentleman dressed in a threadbare grey suite and holding a cane.  He had the look of a showman.

            Charles stepped instinctively in front of the women in a protective gesture.

            The Dust Devil moved like his namesake whirlwind, striding to the center of the room and speaking rapidly.

            “Looks like you two got your jobs finished just in time,” he said, addressing Lady Morra and Isaac.  Isaac tried to bow and say, “It’s an honor, General,” but the Dust Devil was already speaking over him, talking now to the showman behind him. 

            “Well, what say you, Professor?   We’re one Scraeling Witch Doctor short of another expedition to Pio Drodidi.”

            “I would prefer to avoid such a trek again, Sir,” the showman tried to say, but the Dust Devil just kept talking.

            “Frankly, I find both of your methods to be far too subtle.  Nothing can be accomplished with charm and poison that can’t be done quicker with a bullet.  That’s why my men are carting a passel of Gatling Cannons to this town’s quaint little Ghetto district even now.  And speaking of bullets,” he wheeled quickly around to Charles Tavery, his gun somehow magically appearing in his hand, “Didn’t I tell you to stay in Plinkton, Blacksmith?  I’m sure I told you there would be some sort of penalty for you leaving.  What was that again?  Oh, right, I was going to destroy the town.  Well I am afraid my men are stretched a bit thin right now to ride hundreds of miles north just to burn one little town to the ground, so I will have to settle for killing you and your friends here.”

It was just then that a rumble of distant thunder shook the room, then another, and another.  It was Able’s turn to smile.

            The streets of Cottonseed did not seem nearly so safe or interesting to Peter as they had earlier that day.  As he hurried on his dangerous task, every shadow seemed pregnant with menace.  He prayed dearly that he did not end up another Mordaci, dying for a cause that, two days ago he didn’t even know existed.  Peter wasn’t certain there was a cause left in the world he was willing to give his life for, but he had to admit that there was a thrill in doing something truly meaningful.

            It must have been this willingness to put his neck on the line for something worthy that Able had seen in him when he had recruited him for this deed.  After the conversation they had had with the old black man, Able had told Peter the rest of Mordaci’s story.  The night Mordaci had died, he was helping those men escape as a diversion.  It was a risky plan, but they felt it had a real shot at working.  They had purposefully leaked information to Isaac, who was the real brains in the Crowler family, that there would be an attempted escape that night.  The plan was that Isaac would report the escape to his father, and the Colonel would lead his men to intersect the escaping slaves.  Mordaci would act as their hostage.  They would pretend to be holding him, and the Colonel would not have his men fire on his own son.  The slaves would manage to escape, and a day later Mordaci would wander back into town on foot with a tale of daring escape.

            This, of course, was all a diversion from their REAL plan.  While those few Negroes were effecting their escape, a small group of Buffalo Soldiers were going to sneak in from the opposite side of town and deliver barrels of powder to the Ghetto.  The men and women trapped in the Ghetto would spend the night planting charges around the wall of the Ghetto.  In a few days, when everything was ready, the Buffalo Soldiers would ride into town in force, the walls of the Ghetto would blow sky-high, and every last man and woman in the Ghetto, most of them family to the Buffalo Soldiers, would ride out with their deliverers.

            What they didn’t count on was Isaac.  Rather than doing the predictable thing when he came upon this information of the escape, Isaac instead told his father that the Negroes were digging a tunnel under the building, and suggested that he dynamite the building to close down the tunnel and teach them a lesson.

            The resulting fire and rescue had brought the whole town out, and caused the same diversion that the Buffalo Soldiers had needed, anyway.  In his death, Mordaci had managed to succeed anyway.

            Able told Peter that they could not hold off any longer.  His father and mother were both becoming unstitched, and Isaac was planning something big.  If they waited another day, they might lose their chance. 

            In dying, Mordaci had passed the burden of executing this plan down to Able, and in a way, Able hated him for it.

            One of the slaves in the Crowler mansion, a man named Babista, was a spy for the Buffalo soldiers, and had recently been urging Able to take action. 

            “Tonight,” Able had told Peter, “When everyone has gone to bed, I am going to sneak out and signal the Buffalo Soldiers.  Then I’m going to light the fuses and watch the walls tumble around the Ghetto.  After that, I will probably run away with the Buffalo Riders.  If Dad doesn’t kill me after that, Isaac will.  I’m still half convinced that Isaac knew Mordaci was in those tunnels when he told Dad to blow that building.”

            It was only that evening before dinner that Able came to Peter, looking wide eyed and frightened.

            “We can’t wait until tonight,” he said, as if Peter was now his co-conspirator.   “What do you mean?” Peter responded.  Able shoved him into an empty side-room and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his paper.  Peter looked at it for a moment before realizing what it was.  The paper had been rubbed with charcoal or something, showing the impression of words in it.  It was a sheet of paper that had been beneath the one written on.

            “What is this?” Peter asked. 

            “It’s a telegraph my brother wrote this morning.  I only just got a chance to sneak into his room.  I’ve been keeping track of Isaac’s telegraphs this way for a while.  He’s been making regular reports to someone he calls ‘Master General Jared Mann.’  He’s a high ranking officer in the Baron’s Riflemen.”

Peter tried to read the impression of words on the smudged paper.  What he could make out was this:

            PLEASE ARRIVE TONIGHT 1900 STOP

            EVERYTHING ENDS STOP

            HAVE BUFFALOS WHERE WE WANT THEM STOP

“What does it mean?” Peter asked.

            “It means that all the Baron’s men are going to ride in here tonight while we are having supper, hold us hostage and wait for the Buffalo Soldiers to ride in to save their families, then ambush them.  In about three hours, Cottonseed is going to be a battlefield.”

Peter’s eyes widened.  “What are you going to do?”

            “I…” Able’s brow furrowed in frustration.  “I…  I wish Mordaci was here.  He was almost as smart as Isaac is.  He could come up with a plan.”

            “What if…” Peter said, thinking frantically, “Okay, the charges are all planted around the walls of the Ghetto, right?  What if we wait for the Riflemen to gather around the walls and then set the charges off?  That would wipe out most of the Baron’s forces, and the Buffalo Soldiers are sure to hear the blasts.  They would ride in, and then THEY would be the ones ambushing the Riflemen!”

Suddenly Peter found himself in an unexpected embrace from Able.  When he came out of the hug, Able’s eyes were moist.

            “You would have made someone a good brother,” he said.  “Okay, listen, I can’t go tell the watchmen in the Ghetto about the change of plan.  Isaac is watching me closely, and he won’t hesitate to kill me if he has to.  Mordaci did me the favor of proving THAT.  I need you to sneak out just before dinner and tell them about the change of plan.  Remember the old man who talked to us while we were on the wall?  He’s the one you need to tell.

            “Now this is the most dangerous part, so listen closely: the fuse for the charge is on the OUTSIDE of the wall.  The old man will tell you where.  Once you tell him, I need you to stand on the wall and wait until you see the Riflemen riding toward the Ghetto.  They are going to have to fit their men and horses down those narrow back-alleys, so you will have some time once you spot them.  Tell the old man to get everyone back away from the walls, then jump down and wait until the Riflemen are right on top of the walls.  If you set the charges off too soon, most of the riders will be too far away from the wall, and be protected from the blast and the debris by the buildings around them.  When they are right up against the wall, set the charge and run!”

            Peter stared at him.

            “Look,” Able said, “I know it’s dangerous.  I know that!  But I need you to do it!  You will be saving hundreds of lives.  Heck, with the additional men, the Buffalo Soldiers might be able to overthrow the Baron, and then you will be responsible for saving the whole West Wheel!  Please.”

            Peter sighed.  “Okay.”

            The biggest problem Peter initially ran into was that he was having a hard time finding the Ghetto.  Things looked a lot different in the dark than they had in the light, and the back alleys of Cottonseed where not very friendly at night.  It was still early for the drunkards and riff-raff to be out in full force, but a very persistent beggar who smelled like he had died several days ago and no one had told him nearly threw himself on Peter.  Peter didn’t get the opportunity while running away to ask him directions to the Ghetto.

            Things got worse.  Peter was just starting to see what he thought were signs that he was near the Ghetto.  Scrawling of obscene language started to litter the walls around him, and he remembered that part.  Then he heard the sound of hooves on cobblestones.  Lots of hooves.  He also heard the sound of wagons creaking, and the shouting of military orders.  Peter had never been near a regiment of any sort before, but he was certain that’s what he was hearing.  It was too late!  They were already closing in on the Ghetto, and he hadn’t even found it yet! 

            Then he spotted the wall.

            The next problem he faced was getting up on top of the wall.  Able had simply leapt and grabbed, but Peter seemed not to be able to master that skill.  The sound of horses was getting closer.  Peter began to run along the wall, looking for a low point he might be able to jump too.  His running brought him into a narrow alley where he was between the wall of the Ghetto and the wall of a building.  He thought suddenly about Eric Rider.  A crazy thought came into his head.  Not having the luxury to sit and contemplate it, Peter simply did it.  He took a running start, ran two steps up the wall of the building and the pushed off to grab the wall of the Ghetto.  He nearly let go when his knee slammed into the wall, but he held tight.  Straining, he pulled himself up to the top of the Ghetto’s wall.  He looked down into the darkness of the pit behind the wall.  Little spots of light punctuated the darkness where fires had been built.  He could see no people.

            “Hey!” He called in a loud whisper.  No one answered.  “HEY!” he shouted as loud as he could.  Voices came from behind.  Well the Riflemen had heard him, anyway.  “HEY!  HEY!” he shouted frantically, walking along the wall away from the sounds of horses.

Faintly in the distance he heard someone tell a Corporal to begin mounting the cannons along the wall.  A voice drifted up from down below.

            “Boy, what you doin’?”

            “The Baron’s Riflemen are here!  Right now!  You have to tell me where the fuse is, then get everyone back from the wall, its your only chance!”

            “Okay, son, calm down.  It just so happens the fuse is right down below you.  Jes’ give me a minute to get my people to safety.”

            “You’d better hurry!  There’s no time left to…” Peter didn’t finish the sentence because a rifleshot rang out, and he felt flecks of stone explode from the wall in front of him and dig their way into his leg.

            He fell.

            Peter wasn’t exactly knocked out by his fall, but he did discover that he couldn’t breath.  There was a frantic moment when he thought he never would be able to breath again.  Then, in spasms, he was able to pull breath back into his lungs.  The panic didn’t stop there, though.  Which side of the wall did he fall on?

            “Alright, whose there!” a commanding voice echoed from in front of him.  Okay, so he was on the right side of the wall, but now he had two new problems.  A Rifleman was looking for him, and he had no idea where in this dark alley the fuse was.  Peter figured the fuse had better be in the direction behind him, away from the searching Rifleman and not in front.  He began to crawl on hand and knee groping along for anything that felt like a fuse.  He wasn’t exactly certain what a fuse should feel like, but he felt several slimy things that he was certain were NOT fuses.  The sound of the searching Rifleman continued behind him.  The man sounded like he was striking the walls and ground with the bayonet on his rifle.

            Finally, Peter’s hand came to rest on what felt like a rope.  “This had better be the fuse,” He thought, and found its end.  He pulled the match out of his pocket and struck it off the wall.

            “Hey!” came the voice from behind him.  Frantically, Peter held the flickering match to the end of the rope.  A shot echoed deafeningly down the alley. And ricocheted off the wall next to him.  The rope suddenly exploded with light, shooting sparks everywhere as the sparkle of lit powder travelled rapidly along the rope toward the Ghetto wall.  Peter hoped that the man had had time to get all the people back from the wall, but he had a larger problem.  He had to get far away from the wall in the next few seconds without getting shot.  Fortunately, the Rifleman suddenly recognized what he was seeing, and began running away as well, shouting to his compatriots.

            The explosions shook the ground as far away as the mansion.  Isaac looked in surprise and hatred toward Able.  “What have you done!” he screamed.  The Dust Devil was not so interested in placing blame.  Instead, he simply turned and ran from the room to go attend to his men.  Able, Charles, Helen and Lilly all ran to the window.  Streaming across the plantation, they could see night-riders rushing inward, toward heart of Cottonseed and the Ghetto.  Standing in the yard, the Dust Devil spun and fired, taking rider after rider from their horses, but they continued to stream past him.  At last, when they began to thin, the Dust Devil leapt to the back of a horse he had shot the rider from, and spurred it on in the direction of his men. 

            Charles turned to Able.  “Where is Peter,” he demanded.  Able saw Charles face, and whitened a bit.  “Sir,” he replied, “I asked Peter to do something for me that I was unable to do myself.  He agreed.  I dearly hope he is okay, but I can’t say that.”

            “WHAT DID YOU DO??” Isaac screamed, charging Able with his hands outstretched in a strangling gesture.  Charles rounded a haymaker on the thin man.  Isaac spun twice, crashed into the table, and sagged to the ground.  Charles turned to Able, Lilly, and Helen.

            “Let’s go get Peter and get out of this place.”

            “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” a voice said sweetly.  The group turned to see Lady Morra holding a pepperbox on them.  “You see,” she continued, “as an agent of the Baron, it’s my duty to see that you come to justice for your defiance.  I would say that for the three of you, justice is long overdue.  Now if you’ll just…”

            She was unable to complete the sentence because Lilly had slapped the pepperbox aside and then brought her knee up into the woman’s stomach.  As the woman doubled over in pain, Lilly spun and delivered a fairly solid punch to the woman’s jaw.  She turned toward the others.  Able goggled in surprise.  Charles looked at her with a new respect in his eyes.  The group turned toward Professor Jinglo.  The showman held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

            “None for me, thank you kindly,” he said with a sheepish grin, “I’m just a simple traveling salesman.”

As they shuffled out the doorway, a timid voice behind them said, “Please.”  They turned.  There stood Rebecca.  “Please,” she repeated tearfully, “Take me with you.  I have nothing left here.” 

Helen looked at her kindly and placed an arm around the pitiful girl.  “Of course, you’re welcome with us.”

Then they walked out.

            At first Peter thought there were bells ringing.  As he picked himself up, shoving the rubble and debris off his back, and looked through the one eye that was not swollen shut, he realized that there was a battle going on around him.  Black shapes fighting black shapes, and guns blazing on both sides.  Yet all he heard was bells.  He suddenly knew that his ears must have been damaged by the explosion.  In a distant, emotionless way, he wondered if he would ever hear again.

            Peter began stumbling along, unsure of where he was going.  He headed for the cover of the ruined walls that were still partially standing, and tried to think.  If his family was still at the mansion, that’s where he should head.  He began to stumble westward.  Still, he began to think, they might need a quick escape, so perhaps he should find their wagon in the stables.  He began to stumble eastward.

            All at once, he felt a strong hand on his back and he was being hauled upward.  He panicked, fighting the grasp, trying to free himself.  Hands all around him were trying to hold him.  Then he looked.  He saw the faces of his family.  They were speaking, but he couldn’t hear their words.  He wrapped his arms around his mother and dug his face into her chest.

            They were together again, and that was all that mattered.  Able was there, and so was Rebecca.  Blood ties or no, they were a family now.  Elsewhere, Peter knew, other fathers and brothers, wives and husbands and children were being reunited in the ranks of the Buffalo soldiers too long separated by walls and slavery, as the Dust Devil sounded a retreat among the few of his men that still remained.

            Together, they rode away from the dying battle.