1866
Summertime
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Silas Berkeley beams. “They don’t have anything this large in Europe.”
Harriet stares at the trussed-up brown rug, all that remains of a grizzly bear. Its mouth hangs open, and its eyes are glazed. In the wild, they were always too busy eating to notice her, and she, in turn, ignored them. They always felt so… big.
Not now. But then again, she’s not feeling big, either.
Silas slides an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close and launching her stomach into a new twisting mess. “I shot it myself, ya know. And’ll shoot more, once I’m back in British Columbia.”
The whiskey’s gone, replaced by a splitting migraine. She’s woozy, struggling to stand. Every sensation rattles her spine, makes the windchimes that much louder. But dammit, Harriet can’t show herself like this. She needs to look tough. She needs to show she’s not scared. They like it when she’s scared. Like when…
She forces a scowl. “The tanner messed up, Mr. Berkeley.”
“Pardon?”
She taps the bear’s face with her shoe. “It’s eye. Ya can see, wedged in there, a piece a’ obsidian. Injuns, I’m guessin’.”
Silas seems shocked as she forces herself from his grip.
“No gunshot killed yer bear.”
She enters what she presumes to be a luxuruious hall. They’re somewhere at the edge of town, a real big house with colourful walls and clumps of dirt she imagines will someday turn into a garden. There’s lots of gas lights and carved wood and an odd green paper coating the walls. It’s empty, save her, Silas, and the silent armed guard. Yet it didn’t feel empty, mostly because every shelf and table and free bit of space the house was filled with china sets and watches and doilies and porcelain dolls. Stuff. More than Harriet could ever want, and certainly more than Silas Berkeley would ever need.
The mine owner flusters as she plucks a dusty toy soldier off a shelf. “Uh, miss…”
“My Pa was a soldier,” she murmurs back, studying the dozens of similar figurines arrayed in formation. “Veracruz, Veracruz, he always talked ‘bout Veracruz. Ya know where that is? That’s where the army gave him ‘is-”
She gasps. Silas has grabbed her arm. His teeth are too white.
“Upstairs,” he smiles.
“Why?”
“That’s where the silver is.”
She gives him a look. “Ya wan’ me ta shoot yer silver?”
Silas laughs. She watches him slowly lower his hand, until it’s rubbing hers.
“No reason…” he entangles their fingers. “... ta get so clever.”
The windchimes are screaming. Briefly, she panics, pleading for Rowe, for Eddards, for anyone. Would they’d let him take her? Why’d they leave her behind?
Menowin. That little bastard. She should’ve known he’d turn them against her. His offer was a front. He’s fucking with her head.
Suddenly, she’s shaken, and brought back to the reality where her cheek is being nuzzled by this sharply dressed man. Harriet recoils, struggling to see through the fluffy white fog. She knows she’s being led up stairs, that someone’s loading a gun, but her mind is shrinking.
Eventually, he lets go, and Harriet regains herself in an ornate office. There’s a desk, and a fireplace and plump chairs and bookshelves and a fancy grandfather clock. A big portrait of the dead President looks somberly over the flames, and images all over his desk in glass frames. Photographs. They show Silas shaking hands. Holding guns. She’s never seen a photo before.
The guard sticks by the entrance, weapon in hand.
Silas pulls the portrait back, fiddling with something set in the wall. Harriet walks up to the desk, taking the largest frame in her hands. A gaunt woman, with a parasol, a poofy dress.
“So. Redheads.” Silas starts placing paper bills on the desk. “Imagine y’all go a lil’ extra-”
“Who’s she?”
Silas turns. Harriet flips the frame, shows him.
“Oh.” He laughs, shaking his head as he swipes back the frame. “Nobody important.”
She watches him set it face down.
Suddenly, there’s a force pulling at her back. Harriet swivels, wrestling with the guard who’s taking her gun. “STOP!”
Silas takes out an ivory pipe. “We won’t be usin’ it, girl.”
"I need it!”
“Stand down!”
A blur. Blackness, and stars. The guard’s hit her, slamming the butt of his gun right into her chest. Harriet falls into the desk, then springs up, hands in the air, putting as much as distance as she can between them. Her gun’s on the floor, the guard’s aimed at her. Silas is struggling to light the pipe, only half-interested in the scene.
“M-Mister…” Harriet shrivels as she touches the wall. “I… I don’ know what yer-”
“Don’t play dumb, girl. Ya’ve done this before. I can tell.”
Harriet pales. Her eyes twitch as she turns to him, desperate, wild. “But ya can’t wife me.”
That catches Silas off-guard. He stops working with the matches, furrowing his brow. “What’s that?”
“Wife. Ya wanna wife me. But ya can’t.” She nods her head to the downturned portrait. “Y-Ya already got one.”
Silence. It takes Silas a minute to realise what she’s saying. Then he laughs. Roaring, boisterous, and louder than the windchimes.
Louder than anything she’s ever heard.
He gestures to the guard. “Take off those rags.”
“NO!”
“Frontier girls…” Silas stands up, unbuttoning his shirt. “I swear, the Injuns or trappers must get inta ya. Ain’t met a bitch this side a’ the Mississippi that didn’t act hysterial-”
He’s cut off by a crash. Harriet flails into the guard, biting his wrist, scratching and scratching until something draws blood. His gun barely misses, churning through paper and wood. She’s thrown off, slams her head in the fighting. She sees her gun, feet away. Crawls for it, reaches for it…
“Urgh!” Something heavy slams into her head. She feels her body flipped around, hears the breath of the guard. Her eyes widen as his boot presses on her neck. Hard.
“K… kh-kh” She flops around, struggling for air.
“Ya like that!?” The man wipes blood from his face. “Ya like that, ya lil’ BITCH!?”
“Kh-kh… khhhh-”
The boot’s gone. She feels a rush of air, wind on her face. And a pool of warm blood spilling over her.
“Argh!” The guard screams in the distance, crashing into the balcony door.
“The fuck is that!?”
Harriet blinks, red all over her face, her hair, her clothes. Another figure leaps over her, bells chirring, curved swords drawn. She twists onto her belly, eyes on the Springfield, wriggling. Beyond her, she can hear shouts, screams, blades tearing flesh. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t see. The Springfield’s on the floor.
When she grabs it, she squeezes it, embracing, kissing, crying. She lets the metal cool her cheek, before it warms through her tears.
Model 1835.
“GET THE HELL BACK!”
.69 calibre. .65 buckshot.
“MOVE!”
Forty-two inch barrel.
Someone slams Silas into the wall.
Loaded weight ten pounds.
The Lincoln portraits flies off with a crash. Harriet can hear sparks, whirring, but doesn’t look, huddling over her gun. Her gun her gun her-
“FIRESIDE!” She looks up just as Gawen Rowe embraces her. He pulls her close, hand over her hair, and she moves in sobbing. “Thank God.”
She blinks back her tears. “Rowe…”
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”
“ROWE!”
He follows her eyes to the office behind him. It’s a ruin. Menowin stands over an uncovered safe, hand glowing, a terrified Silas cowering behind the desk. But Harriet’s focused on the two massive men fighting over the remnants of a bookshelf. One looks like a slab of meat.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The other is cutting through him with six inch long claws.
Rowe’s face collapses. “Don’t look!”
“I-is that Red!?”
“No.” Rowe pulls her away, taking her face in his hands. “Harriet, look at me.”
The guard screams. She tries to look back, but Rowe’s grip is tight.
“Look at me.”
Harriet trembles. “Wh-wh-what’re they-”
“Look at me. It’s just a dream. Just a bad dream. Look at me.” He cups her eyes, hiding her view. “What do we do when we don’t want bad dreams?”
Harriet can’t answer him. She can’t look away.
“Stories.” He smiles. “All we have to do is tell each other stories. Do you remember mine?”
She listens to the bleeding man gurgle. Harriet quickly nods.
Rowe starts. “Bedwyr was so skilled because…”
“He could fight with one hand,” she replies.
“And God let Galeas drink the Holy Grail because…”
“Galeas was pure.”
“And what about Llenleawc, Fireside?” The Black Prince’s eyes spark. “What made him more special than all of Arthur’s other knights?”
“B-Brave?”
“That’s right.” He hugs her, concealing her face. “Llenleawc killed a dozen dragons. He was very very brave.”
For a long time, they stay like that. Until her heartbeat calms, and they can only hear Silas’ whimpers.
“Rowe.” Harriet blinks, looks up, and sees Menowin standing before them. “It’s there.”
“All of it?” Rowe asks.
Menowin tilts his head to the safe. “If some part is missing, I really can’t tell.”
He briefly notices Harriet’s presence. To her surprise, he offers a smile.
Rowe’s face sharpens. He climbs to his feet with a scowl. “Bring it.”
As he starts to march, Red opens a balcony door. She can faintly hear the commotion of the folk outside.
“I need to speak to the crowd.”
Silas springs up when he realises the Black Prince is coming for him. But his protests are worthless. A hand on his collar, Rowe drags him out.
Harriet slowly gets up, her eyes never leaving Red. He’s drenched in blood, boots clomping through a glowing pool. He never turns her way. Keeps his hat pulled over his eyes.
She gasps as she’s slapped on the back. “Good work, rakli.” Menowin’s rings dig into her skin. “Good performance, good shooting. Still a liability, needing the rescue and all, but-”
“Ya left me,” she says through grit teeth. “Ya left me alone with him.”
Menowin purses his lips. “True. But how many times do I have to say? In this group, you play the part you’re given. I appreciate that you played good bait.”
Harriet looks at contents of the safe. He wasn’t lying about the silver. It sits there in a glittering heap, some jewellery, some silverware, others just big bars. “So we’re stealin’ this, ain’t we?”
Menowin folds his arms. “We can dream.”
She gives him a puzzled look before the crowd outside reaches a crescendo. Harriet scoops up her rifle, keeping it close as she approaches. Neither Menowin or Red try to stop her.
“BANDITS!” Someone shouts.
“CRIMINALS!”
“This is our town!”
The Black Prince throws Silas to the floor, forcing him onto his knees. Harriet can hear the townspeople’s anger, see the orange from their torch flames. Her eyes widen when Rowe pulls a Bible from one pocket.
And a revolver from the other.
“People of Berkeley!” He tries to shout over the crowd. “Countrymen! Children of God!”
“Let go of him!”
The Black Prince only barely misses the clay brick lobbed his way. Other folk start screaming.
“- DID NOTHING WRONG-”
“PAYS THE BILLS!”
“HE FOUNDED-”
“ARE YOU FREE!?”
The crowd stops. Harriet approaches slowly, still aghast. Rowe’s eyes have grown bolder, his presence larger. Something about his voice terrifies. Like it follows her from every angle. And yet… there’s a… a pull in those words.
Keeping her from looking away.
He lifts the Bible. “When your fathers came to this country, they were promised wealth! Liberty! Life under God! But where is that life, my friends!? Where is that liberty!? WHERE IS THE WEALTH!?”
“Don’t listen to him!” Silas angrily shouts. “He’s a vagrant! A thief! He’ll slit your-”
A massive rattling turns all heads. Menowin comes slowly onto the balcony, a smirk on his face, dragging a massive, heavy, patchwork sack.
Instantly, Silas pales.
“There was a time when all was common,” Rowe’s voice grows sombre. “When there were no rents, no wars! Your children would eat if there was food, the churches served you if you were sick, the law knew you were like you were their kin. WE HAD IT ALL!”
Menowin thrusts the bag onto the railing, churning the pieces within.
“And it was taken!” Rowe shouts. “Taken by those who employ! Taken by those who protect! TAKEN BY THE MEN WHO SAID WE’D BE FREE!”
“Someone shoot this guy!”
“He’s fuckin’ crazy!”
“Please,” Silas looks up at him, clutches his leg. “Please, don’t do this! You haven’t seen-”
He goes quiet when Rowe presses the revolver to his forehead. The crowd starts to scream.
“If you don’t believe my words… believe your eyes.”
Menowin unfurls the bag. Angles it towards the ground. And release.
Gasps. In a great cacophony, cascading like a waterfall, comes a rush of necklaces, snuff boxes, hand mirrors, soup spoons. Silver. It clatters across the dust to an awestruck crowd.
Pandemonium.
The crowd charges into each other, scrambling for the scraps. Harriet sees punches thrown, curses given. Women stuff bars down their shirts. Someone is being strangled with a silver necklace.
The Black Prince and Menowin watch, not interrupting. Silas looks aghast.
“People of Berkeley…” Rowe continues. “Could this money save your lives?”
They’re all too focused on gathering it to respond.
“I see.” The Black Prince smiles. “Silas never lets you see the hauls.”
From the mass of writhing, Harriet hears a gun fire.
“YOU ARE FIGHTING OVER SILVER YOUR MINE MAKES IN A WEEK!”
Half the crowd in their tracks. A few look up, and the Black Prince points his gun at Silas.
“But how much does this man pay?”
The owner scampers back from the railing, trying to dodge the crowd’s venomous glares. Rowe smiles, and lifts his Scripture. Harriet only just realises the extent to which his skin glows.
“PEOPLE! There is an enemy! Not the Negro of our cities, or the poor farmers of our South! Our serpent lies in the East, with jaws of brick, a heart of greed, a spine of steel! It will tear you from your farms, dismember your children, STEAL YOUR GOD! It will uproot you from your family, your church, your streets, YOURSELVES UNTIL WE ARE ALL ALONE! Even the Earth they destroy! ALL THAT IS GREEN AND GOOD AND PURE!”
He lifts a gun, and fires a shot to the sky.
“Silas Berkeley is the first. But more will come! Richer, crueller, with ever more tools to crush us! They will see you as numbers. THEY WILL BEAT YOU LIKE DOGS! They will churn you in machines until you’re the coin they’ll stuff their faces. How many have you already lost? To breakers? To debtors!? TO THE WARS THE RICH MEN START!?”
There’s a wall of noise. People screaming names, so many, and so piercing, that the mass is incomprehensible. Rowe listens to them all, his lip quivering, his brows set. Menowin watches, too, with more interest than she’s ever seen. But Harriet can only think. Think, and remember.
No monster came to her town. With big teeth. With scary eyes. But she remembers the railroad. But she remembers the railroad, how frightening it was, the first time it blared through. It brought workers, and drunkards, and bankers, and army men, and plague. She remembers the bodies, frail, yellow, buried together in stacks. She remembers the booze they brought in, the debt, the guns, the food. So much food, too much food. Everything to buy, nothing to sell, and when the bankers came, they sent letters and letters and letters
Her eyes lose focus. Her grip on the gun grows tight. She watches Rowe, still waving, still screaming, strange-coloured tears streaming down his face.
“WE WILL MAKE A NEW TOWN!”
She hasn’t been listening.
“WE WILL MAKE A JUST TOWN!”
His words are met with cheers.
“THIS IS YOUR MINE! THESE ARE YOUR TOOLS! THIS IS YOUR TOWN! WE WILL LIVE AS CHRIST INTENDED, BECAUSE THAT IS HOW THE MONSTER DIES! FOR OUR CHILDREN, OUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN, EVERY HUMAN THAT COMES AFTER US, WE MUST END ITS POISON NOW!”
The crowd is berserk. Calling for justice, fairness, shootings and hangings and prayer. Harriet is silent, her face frozen. Rowe stands there, clutching his book, tears in his eyes.
“Silas Berkeley.”
The mine owner is rocking, face hidden in his arms. But when he’s called, he looks up. Less of the monster Rowe has painted, Harriet thinks. More like a child.
“You are that Serpent’s agent. A rapist, a thief, a killer. The Barrabas of this world that Christ was compared to, but these people will not free you. Your fate is inescapable.” Rowe frowns. “You will join me in Hell.”
Silas sputters and shakes, but can’t form words. The Black Prince kneels down, speaks softly, puts his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“But I am one to kill a man first. Our God is forgiving. Our God loves. If you repent your ways, the path to His Kingdom might still stay open to you. But if you keep the wealth that blinds you, you will die as the men on the cross did. Screaming. In pain. With crows feasting on your eyes!
“I repent!” Silas manages. “I-I’ll give up the money, the house, everythin’, anythin’! I’ll do whatcha want, jes’ don’t kill-”
“Shhhh.” The Black Prince lifts his hand, and the owner falls silent. He turns to Harriet with an outstretched arm. “Your gun.”
Harriet hesitates. Her eyes flicking from Rowe to Silas to Menowin. But the Black Prince gestures again, and she runs. Letting Pa’s Springfield fall into his calloused hands.
The Black Prince rubs his palm over the chamber, until his fingers turn pitch black. Then he lifts them to Silas, pushing onto his forehead. Slowly, carefully, he draws out the shape of a cross.
“Silas Berkeley,” he says. “Today, you will join the workers in the mines. You no longer own. You are.”
The man who once owned sobs.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As the wagon trundles slowly, and she bobs in the saddle, Harriet turns around.
The town that was once Berkeley has changed. The open street is now barricaded. She can imagine the new world they’ve made - the saloon turned soup kitchen, the jail full of guarded silver, the mine men working in shifts - but she cannot see it. The men drink in the open now, their cheers echoing through the valley, along with the breaking glass. Only through the inferno blazing across Silas’ former mansion could one even make out the town.
“This isn’t over for them,” Rowe says above her, his arms looped around hers. “Silas wasn’t the only owner of the mine. His investors in the East will want their share.”
“So why we leavin’?” Harriet asks. “We should fight ‘em.”
Gawen Rowe bites his lip. “There are other towns.”
He reaches down, so that his hands lie upon hers, cold against warm. She blushes. She knows it means as little as the altar boy offering bread, but she’s still stunned by his speech, his voice, all these days later. That that sort of man would touch her…
“Won’t the army come?”
Rowe breathes. “When they realise the threat. But that’s why we must move, Harriet. Fast enough, and far enough, so they won’t smell the smoke until the fire’s ablaze.”
She blinks a few times, then looks back around. The smoke is billowing now, rising so high that it smothers the moon. It makes an outline of Red Eddard’s form, and Menowin’s, his many bells ringing along with him. She still doesn’t know what they are… but…
She squeezes Rowe’s hand. “Rowe?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen it.”
He blinks, and looks down at her.
“The monster. I… In the East, I saw it. I know what it can do. An’... I wanna help ya end it.”
“The train killed my home.”
She grips the reins as tightly as she can.
“The banks killed my father.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
2004
The room is dark. The sheets are soft. Harriet rises, and opens unrestful eyes.
Sleeping is different for the Nocturni. The act feels instant, and dreams are very rare. Falling into death-slumber should be simple. She can only barely remember the last time she tossed and turned, in the foggy days of childhood.
The plaid sheets are heavy, but she cannot sweat. No matter what she touches, the mattress is cold.
Harriet looks around. She can hear the course of the little stream, see the blinks of the door’s red light. She’s been locked in here for a couple hours, in a thin white dress she supposes is her nightgown. The things he brought her are cast to the side. The banjo. The dime novels. That obnoxious little visor.
It should be all the evidence she needs to not do what she's about to do. She knows how much he'll like it. Knows the position it will put her in. If it were anything else in the world, she would sacrifice it in an instant.
... but...
She can feel her throat clench up, her lungs compress, her heart furtively beat. She's shaking, rattling the bedframe. Her hand keeps reaching for something that isn't there. The thought simply can't leave her mind.
Slowly, she pulls the blankets back, lets her soles pad onto the floor. She walks through the room casually, already knowing her way into the ornate bathroom. She can see an orange bead of light by her feet when she passes the shower. She pauses for a moment, then knocks on the other door.
Silence. Harriet bites her lip, unsure if she should knock twice, or regret her choice, or start beating the door down. When she lifts her fist again, the lock clicks back, and the door opens. Revealing boxer briefs. Dishevelled hair. Muscles over a white shirt.
“Fireside?” The perfections in Soteris’ are gone. She can see that Nocturnal grey skin, the creases under his eyes. “I told you to sleep.”
“I…” Harriet stops, recoils. She shouldn’t have done this. She shouldn’t be asking for this. She should… “... I need a gun.”
The words hang in the air. She lowers her head, fiddles her hands.
“Fer sleepin’.”
Soteris leans on the doorframe, his eyebrows bent, his mouth frozen. Slowly, he twists his jaw, and the tone in his voice rattles her. “Harriet…”
“I-I’ve always slept with one! Since I was a girl. An’ without it, I-I-I-I’m jes’ feelin’-”
“So you want me to go to the store and grab you a toy?”
“No! No. S-Soteris,” She swallows, tries to sound firm. “I-It’s gotta be real.”
“Are you serious!?”
And the firmness is gone. She skirts back, hugging herself.
“Do you realise how insane this sounds?” Soteris raises his voice. “I give you a weapon? You, who broke Astrid’s arm. You who shot at me only yesterday!?”
“No, nonono. Soteris, p-please…”
“We should transition away from guns. That was the old Fireside, the bad Fireside. The Fireside I-”
“They make me feel safe!”
He stops. She manages to look up at him. Breath heavy in her lungs, heart frozen in her chest. Her nails are dug into her hair. Her eyes are wild. Like an animal.
“WhywouldI… whywouldI…” she breathes in a sob. “Why else would I be askin' you?”
Silence. She starts to shake. The way he's looking at her, pitying her, it makes her want to tear the room into shreds. But she just stands there.
Soteris reaches out, grabs her wrist, brings it down. Her entire body seems to tremble. “Fireside... If what you need is company…”
The windchimes start screaming.
“... I can sleep with you.”
SLAM!
She closes the door, fiddles with the lock, and sprints back into her room.
WEAPONS. She’s breathing hard. She could slam his face in with the chair. Spray hair mixture in his eyes. But she can’t she can’t SHE CAN’T. She can already feel the magic, keeping her arms back, her thoughts pure. But she needs to she needs to so she switches to herself, clawing at her skull. Get it out get it out “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! God God God God help me help me help me”
Pancakes. Pancakes pancakes. He made her pancakes but he doesn’t care none of them care THEY’RE FUCKING LIARS. She’s hyperventilating. Fangs out, hair over her eyes. Her hunger’s sated, but the Wilds still call. Ten more days ten more days. But what if it’s twenty? Thirty? Two-hundred? What if Aisling and Red never come AND THEY THINK SHE’S CRAZY AND SHE’S IN MAKEUP AND DRESSES FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER
The scream erupts from her lips half-stifled. A painful, piercing wail.
Suddenly, there’s a knock. She stops, tears falling. The light turns from red to green.
No. She won’t get it. No. She has to. No.
“Fireside.” She hears his voice, and her stomach sinks. “Open the door, please.”
Her eye twitches. She remains in place. It wasn’t a command.
“I know you aren’t sleeping.”
Soteris is how he was. Dishevelled, unclean. That little golden fire has dulled in his eyes. But there’s something heavy in his hands, held at the centre by a tight, closed fist. She looks down at it. Long and dark and instantly known, but still incomprehensible to her mind.
She knows of Holland & Holland. An anachronism. Craftsmen of a dead craft. Since before she was born, their guns were hand-made, custom-built, pricier than a modern sports car. She had never fired one, and would never want to. But she knows why others would, and knows that she’s staring at one of the greatest shotguns in the world.
Soteris silently holds it out for her.
Harriet approaches with quiet steps. Lets it fall into her arms, the weight pressing on her hands. It’s beautiful. Polished wood, with inlaid silver. Along the grip stands an ornate engraving, of wolves and lions and bears and bulls, all kneeling, before a shadowed man. Her fingers glide across it, the trigger, the lock, every corner and curve. She can tell that the chamber is empty, but her mind doesn’t care.
12-bore.
Nitro proof.
Thirty inch barrel. Sidelock ejector.
It weighs just under eight pounds.
Soteris doesn’t let go, even when she pulls at it. He watches her face, searching, waiting. She blinks, and whispers, “I got it.”
Only then is it left to her.
They pause for a few seconds, both waiting, until Soteris gives the first. “For sleeping.”
She quickly nods.
He lingers by the door, staring at her and the gun. She’ll wait until he’s gone. Until she hears the lock. Then she’ll fall to her knees, squeeze it, cradle it, and let a nightmare’s worth of tears fall. But not now.
Now is only them.
After a minute, he curls his face, and turns away. He only stops when she shouts, “Soteris!”
He looks back, but she’s silent. Too stunned by what she was about to say.
He doesn’t smile, or even express. He just acknowledges her with a “goodnight,” before closing the door.
Leaving his treasure behind him.