Author's Note: This story refers to the Romani people, sometimes known as Roma, Rom, or Travellers, by the more archaic English term for the group, 'Gypsies.' Whether or not one considers the word 'gypsy' to be a slur varies wildly by culture, locale, and individual. In America, the word is considered offensive, and Roma or Romani are increasingly replacing it in common parlance; in Eastern Europe, however, 'gypsy' is still widely used, even by members of the Roma themselves. This debate, however, was not present in 19th century America or Britain, and while Menowin refers to himself as 'Rom', he has little issue with whichever word people use. In his mind, discrimination and exclusion are inevitable, either way.
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“Our scouts reached St. Ives on midday the 16th, delayed some hours by the storms that so regularly rock the region. There they found a dockyard emptied of both ships and sailors. Interviews with the locals at first proved unproductive; the Cornish clearly hold some lingering affection for the Levellers, and the fallen Crown besides. Only when the Lord Protector’s men threatened to raze the town did they speak; Gawen Rowe had not, as we believed, fled to his allies in the Isles. He’s abandoned them entirely, taking what remains of his faction to our colonies in the New World.”
“This is our boon; with Charles’ son in Scotland, the Irish in revolt, and Unbound still occupying vast swathes of the land, this ‘Black Prince,’ small as he is, can no longer drain resources we can’t afford to spare. The Lord Protector has made clear that he has little patience for our requests, and until Sunwalker can restore his influence, Parliament will stand behind him. I say, let the Prince run. He enters a land filled with nothing but heathen outcasts, failing enterprise, and the war cries of heart-eating savages. Perhaps they’ll better suit him.”
“The soldiers still torched St. Ives. Cromwell’s orders.”
Excerpt of a letter by Deputy Lucian Sinclair to his Keeper, Reeve Caedmon of London, towards the end of the Sixth Revolt. Dated February 19, 1649.
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1866
Springtime
“Ay - bee - cee - dee - ee - eh-eh-ehhh-”
“Eph. Ephhh.” The Black Prince lifts his finger, emphasising the sound. “Don’t release your lips too early. And remember, relax. The throat is just a muscle. No different than your arms and legs.”
Harriet meekly nods, then tries again. “Ee - eh-eh-ephhhhh… gee!”
“Excellent!” He lights up. “By Jove, you’ve made such progress already.”
Gawen Rowe lies. Harriet’s voice is still grungy, and it fails to fully speak even the simplest words. But the girl smiles back anyway, her hands squeezing the barrel she sits on. Trying to ignore the red stains by her hands. Or the acrid stench of smoke still flooding her nostrils.
By the wagon, Menowin marches over the many corpses, uncaring if he tears flesh or crushes ribs. Some still gather flies. Others are mere piles of charred bone. Red’s on the ground, nose parallel to the soil. Sometimes he finds a headband, a rifle case, a bead necklace, and sniffs at it like a bloodhound.
The camp was empty when they arrived, but signs of battle were obvious. Bits of blue cloth, broken arrows, and fabrics from the tippees that escaped the burning. She’s not quite sure what happened. Perhaps the Injuns tried to sacrifice their prisoners. A raid went sour, or they stole one wife too many. She could tell by their faces that the three men knew.
But for whatever reason, they refused to give answers.
“Alright.” Rowe shifts in his seat, high up on the wagon. “Sentences next. My name is Harriet.”
“Muh-mmm-My name i-is H-H-Har-ie-et.”
“I am happy."
“I-I am ha-a-ppy.
"I am free.”
"Ah-Uh-I-”
“Rowe.” Red approaches them, a revolver in one hand and a red-stained cloth in the other. “Got the scent.”
“Are you sure?”
“Whiskey, gun smoke, lingerin’ trace a’ gangrene? Yeah, it’s them. We goin’?”
Rowe looks briefly at Menowin and the corpses. The man with bells gives a curt nod.
Harriet scooches forward on the barrel, concerned. Rowe leaps off the wagon and kneels, so that they’re eye-level.
“Harriet. I have a mission for you. It’s very important. Do you think you can handle that?”
He puts his hand on her shoulder while Red preps the horses. Her eyes on the steeds, she nods.
“I need you to take the oxen and lead them far off the trail. Find a cave, or even a gorge. We’ll find you-”
“Why?” The word is scratchy, barely heard. She breaks into coughs and has to clear her throat.
Rowe’s brows wilt. “It… will keep you safe.”
“Rowe, c’mon!” Red rears up in front of them, his Clydesdale kicking the air. Menowin follows on an Appaloosa, its black and white patterns bright beneath the moonlight. Rowe sighs, stands up, and gives Harriet a final stern look.
“Please, no games. Just this once. I know you’re scared, but I promise, I’ll explain everything when you’re older.”
Then he takes the reins of his black Friesian, and mounts. She sees something stick from the saddlebag. Small, and antique, showered in tiny gold dots against a wood as dark as the horse’s mane. Ebony.
But then he takes off at a gallop, and the box, the horse, the man, leave a cloud of dust behind them.
She waits a half-minute, then looks about the ruined site, trying to map out a cartrail in her head, when she spots something in the smoulders. Yellowed paper, sticking out from the grey. When she swipes the muck off, she sees that it’s a book. A cheap book, its pages already sliding from its binding. It’s called Buffalo Bill, King of the Bordermen. The cover shows a man with a coon cap and cowhide, firing his rifle horseback at a stampede of colourful Mexicans.
Harriet pulls it close, looks back to the distant dust-cloud that’s formed behind the three men. They’re riding towards their own adventures, and she’s still here.
In a field of ash and flame.
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Harriet quickly surmised they weren’t normal settlers. For one, they only travelled at night. And while it feels like they’re travelling everywhere, in all directions, it never seems to be closer to California.
Forest rows. Desert treks. Rocky cliffs. Running streams. Always in the distance, perilously tall mountains. Always hidden in the shade, slowly melting fields of snow. Menowin leads, Red takes the rear. Harriet likes calm nights most, when Rowe lets her ride with him, and they awkwardly try to stuff themselves and her rifle in a single leather saddle. He’ll tell her stories of Cornwall’s ancient castles, or ask her to point out all the stars. She’ll silently wonder why his arms are so cold.
It seems rather rude to ask.
She's told him she wants her own horse before. Rowe said he think’d about it, which is his special way of saying that he doesn’t really trust her.
But tonight is not a clear night. She’s supposed to be sleeping on the wagon floor. But the trails are rough here, every cut trench and loose stone rattling her and the tools that dangle precariously above. And she doesn’t really want to sleep, either. This is the only time she can listen to the men speak freely.
Though with Menowin, sitting at the wagon’s front with Rowe, that might not be a good thing.
“You’re not bothered by the way she…” Menowin slides his hand over his face. “... fades out?”
“I’ve known war, Menowin. Red has too. When a soldier, a boy, is faced with such carnage, such horror, his mind can freeze. He disconnects. From a world he’d rather not understand.”
Menowin laughs. “And what war has she been fighting?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask.” Rowe smirks. “Ply some of those fancy parlour tricks first. I’m sure they’ll entertain her.”
Menowin growls. Harriet’s not sure why. “I’m not playing in the dirt with a mute.”
“She’s less silent by the day.”
“I’ve caught on,” Menowin sneers. “Pidză. Have to love waking up to her screeching.”
Harriet makes herself small. That wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want that. Rowe keeps insisting she practise. But Menowin doesn’t care. It was just like when she relearned table manners. He only wants an excuse to tease her.
“Ya know, Gypsy, I gotta ask. What in the blazin’ fuck is yer problem?” Red rides up to the wagon, scowling. “ Ya see that girl, strugglin’ ta climb outta the mud, an ya jes’ wait on the goddamn top, hopin’ ta push her back down?”
“You’ve taken quickly to the woman who bit you, Red.”
“Not a woman. A victim. A child.”
“Except she’s not. Is she?” Menowin rises slightly, his voice growing heated. “A trage cuiva, karbaro. How long was she in that wilderness? A year? Two? And half that time spent with her head in the clouds?”
“The hell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”
“No mortal could survive that, Red. Much less one half-grown. Something’s strange. Something’s not right. And in all the warnings of my people-”
“I don’t have time for travellers’ superstitions,” Rowe replies curtly. “My faith is in God alone.”
Menowin is silent. Even Harriet can feel his rage. But its subsided by long, heady laughter. The man leans over the wagon and spits. Violently. As he turns back, the bells ring on his clothes.
“Farmečev, gadjo.” He makes a gesture. “I wasn’t talking about those people.”
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“I met Red in Louisiana. A veteran, by then, of three different wars.” Rowe looks at the man blankly, studying the man’s desperado hat, his long brown duster. “The oldest was in Texas. An underdog fight, to cast tyrants from his home. He won. His land was independent, and free to know peace. But the men who led his state grew arrogant, thought better. Twice more he marched beneath their banner. His homeland had suffered for it, by the time I came.”
Harriet watches the giant man from her perch by the fire. squinting. Rowe didn’t mention it, but she knew Veracruz was his third war. That was the one Pa fought in.
Strange. Red looks young. But the Texan war...
... that was thirty years back.
“I didn’t find Menowin,” Rowe continues. “He found us. A month or so later, among the Acadians and their bayous. But he was born beyond the sea, even further than I. Christian lands, still held by the Turk.”
Menowin leans against a tree, his eyes closed. Harriet would assume he was asleep, if she couldn’t see his lips softly moving.
“Beyond that, we don’t know. He does not share his past, or my ideals. I’m not even sure why he stays. But I’m glad for it.” Rowe turns to her with a smile. “He’s a good fighter, a skilled healer, and a leader can only be as strong as their opposition. He’ll come around to you. I promise.”
Harriet wrinkles her nose. Rowe really likes to promise things.
“Well…” With a heave, Rowe lifts to his feet. “It nears dawn. I have to hunt, then retire. But if you have any more questions, write them down. I’ve-”
He’s cut off by a rush of movements. Harriet presses something against his chest. Rowe lifts it slowly, inspecting it by firelight. “Buffalo Bill. A dime novel. What of it?”
She mimics opening the book. Points at her lips, then at him, then back to her.
“You… want me to read it?”
She smiles and quickly nods before scooching into the dirt. He watches her slowly carve out the letters.
I L I K E H E A R I N G Y O U T A L K.
“Because of my accent, right?”
Her fingers weave through the mud. A L I T T L E B I T.
He snorts. “Alright. I can read the story. For an hour. Nothing more. And in recompense, you’ll hunt our supper. Is that clear?”
She grins. Pats the massive rifle slung over her shoulder.
“Thought so.” Rowe smiles. “And also, no more writing in the mud. Bad habit. You’re not a pig in their trough. You’re a girl. Use a girl’s words.”
She does her best pig impression, to his delight. As he sits back down, she huddles up to him, ready to lose herself in the story. But she’s quickly interrupted by sounds of rustling, down below. She sees Rowe’s hand shift through the saddlebag. Passing by that black wooden box.
He catches her gaze, meets it with a smile. “Heirlooms. Nothing more.”
Then he closes his bag, and they start reading, together.
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“Aaaannn’ there.” Red holds up the mirror, its glass glistening against the moonlight. “Don’ be modest, now. Ya like it?”
Harriet grabs her hair with bone-thin fingers. Presses up against the intricate braids that hold it into a bun. Red’s cut off three quarters of her locks, maybe more. Said it was the only to keep out the tangles and fleas. But she didn’t ask him for the rest, and now her head looks…
… tiny.
Seeing her confusion, Red sighs and turns back to his fire. “Well. Least it ain’t a frown.”
He uses a poker to shift the logs, delicately. There’s an unusual caution around all three men when they get near fire, always ready to leap back. Harriet’s not sure why; surely they have fireplaces across. It’s just one of those questions she knows she’ll never ask, like, ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ ‘Why are you so worried about courts?’ And her personal favourite:
‘Who made all your teeth look pointy?’
She winces. The pain down below has gotten tight again. She looks at the origin, clutching her chest. All day, it’s been twisting, and she feels ill, bloated. And… and the other part…
She dares to look up. Red’s tending the fire. Rowe’s hunting. Menowin’s sharpening his swords somewhere in the campsite’s far corner. Nobody’s looking. For once. When she was holding the skinner’s knife, Red was all over her. Giving instructions she’d long known, advice she’d always heeded. It took her slamming a rabbit’s clean heart on the table to finally stiffen his lip. But now…
She can feel moss on the log. She just has to move quick enough. Draw no attention. She starts unbuckling her trousers…
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Red sniffs the air. Rapidly, the way one savours the waft of a Sunday ham. “Blood.” His brows furrow, he turns around. “Harriet, get back, we’ve got-!”
He catches her mid-stride. Jaw open, eyes wild, her pants pulled half down. Two clumps of moss rest in her hand. One freshly gathered, the other sticky.
And smeared red.
“T-t-tehh-hh.” Harriet swallows, panic in her voice. “T-ehhhh-”
“She wants you to turn around, karbaro.” Menowin calls. She watches him waltz from a tree. “Thought you and the girl were practising talking.”
Red bristles. Harriet shrivels back, desperate to cover her privates. Menowin knew. Fuck fuck fuck. No wonder he-
“H-how long?” Red turns around. “Harriet, when did this start? Ya’ve been with us fer months. Haven’t ya had yer other cycles?”
Cycles? She whimpers. It just… happened, after she left the forest. And then on and off, at random. Sometimes weeks pass. Sometimes seasons. Wh-why are they looking at her like that? She doesn’t know!
“Peh-peh-pluh-please.” She raises her hands, fear in her eyes. “Duh-duh-don’t-”
“When we next find a river, make sure her clothes are washed separately.” Menowin sneers at her crouch. “It’s marime. Unclean.”
She lets out a frightened squeak.
Red just looks confused. “Ain’t that why we wash ‘em?”
“Spirits, you dog. I’m talking about her spirits. The bad ones, the impurities, they're seeping from her sex.” Menowin marches up. “My people, we have Romanipen. A code to keep us pure.”
“What, like some kinda Gypsy Ten Commandments?” Red smirks. “Cuz I always thought yer folk were missin’ a few of those.”
Menowin growls, unamused. “When a woman bleeds, she shan’t be touched. Nor the clothes. My people would have them burn.”
“Yeah…” Red winces, looking at her threadbare pants. “I don’t think burnin’ is much of an option.”
“Then go to town. Buy a skirt. We ought to stop playing into her delusions anyway, and start dressing like a goddamn-”
“NO!”
Both men turn. Harriet’s screamed. And then she sputters into a rapid fit of coughing. She wobbles on the ground, seething at Menowin, feeling something wet on her cheeks. “I-I-I-I’m n-notta-”
“Not a girl?” Menowin breaks into laughter. “Xoxajipe!”
Her breathing turns ragged. The windchimes are getting louder.
Red watches her a moment longer, then shifts. “That’s enough, Menowin.”
“Tch. Really? Just because she cuts her hair and swings that gun around, doesn’t mean-”
“I said enough!” Red growls, storming towards him. “Ya wanna dictate that girl’s life, Gyspy?”
“Maybe I do.”
“Then go back ta yer own fuckin’ people!”
“What?” Something in Menowin’s changed. His voice has dimmed.
Red doesn’t let up. “Get a wife. Tell some fortunes. Ya can be as Romanipen or marime as ya fuckin’ want. But if you come here, don’t ask us ta run on yer people’s fuckin’ clock! Why’d ya even leave them?”
“I didn’t-”
Harriet gasps. Menowin’s skin is flush, all his usual bravado missing. When his eyes meet hers, she senses something deep inside.
Fear.
For a beat, Harriet swears she sees Menowin’s lips tremble. Then his face hardens. His eyes narrow, and he spits. “It’s none of your fucking business.”
He marches away from Red, bells ringing as he goes.
“Separate wash. At least do that, you gadje cunts!”
They lose him to the dark. A few more seconds pass before Harriet breathes again. She dips her forehead in the mud, struggling to hold herself in. But she stops when Red jostles her shoulder.
“Hey. C’mon.” He holds up a knife, and a strip of gauze. “Let’s at least getcha outta that.”
There’s hesitation. But she shuffles over and takes them. Slices a piece off and starts wrapping around her waist. Red’s hands fidget through the air, following her movements.
“That’s right, that’s right. Wrapped around. An’ yer gonna wanna a few good layers, jes’ in case-”
Harriet gives him a look, her cheeks blushing.
“Right. S-sorry, I’ll…” He awkwardly turns away. His ears prickle as he listens to her. “Clever trick, with the moss. But not clean. An’ trust me, last thing ya want on top a’ coursin’ is an infection.”
She gives him a look. Mouths the word. ‘Coursin’?’
“Uh, yeah. Yer, uh… the blood.” He lowers his hand. Her expression doesn’t change. Finally, he realises. “... shit. Nobody ever…?”
She slowly shakes her head.
“... well,” Red huffs, looks around. “Okay! I, heh, ain’t the best ta tell ya, but, uh…” He shuffles his feet, starts making more gestures. “When yer, uh… yer womb is ready fer a kid, but uh…”
He catches her face. She looks like a frightened doe.
“Ya know what? Nope. Nope. Not gettin’ inta that.” He awkwardly laughs. “Y-ya bleed once a month. Other side effects, too, but they don’t mean nothin’. Good sign, probably. Happens ta every girl.”
Harriet lifts an eyebrow, then points at him.
“How do I…?” He laughs again as he sits down by her. “I had a wife. An’ a daughter. When y’all livin’ in a one room house, it makes folk mighty familiar.”
Harriet chuckles. It makes him smile. But she can’t help but notice the way he mentioned them. Had.
“Ya know,” Red looks back. “Menowin mighta been actin’ like an ass, but he wasn’t wrong. A skirt will help- Okay, okay! Dresses off the table, got it. Ya don’t have ta hiss an; bite at me.”
Harriet replaces her hiss with an impish smile.
“Well, alright, ya little demon, lemme offer somethin’ else. When Abigail had her first, she got this crazed cravin’ fer… chocolate.” He smirks, leans down. “Wan’ me ta run inta town an’ get some?”
Harriet’s eyes glisten. Her mouth already waters.
“Well, guess I got an errand.” Red Eddards stands back up, but not before he takes off his wide-brim hat and plops it over her head. “Hold onta this fer me.”
The hat’s so big, it completely covers her eyes. She starts reaching around blindly.
Red laughs as he starts to walk away. “Rest up, Harriet. Much as ya can. I’ll be back ‘fore sunrise. And one more thing?”
Harriet tilts the hat up to look at him. His face is stern.
“Did ya not tell us ‘bout this cuz ya didn’t wanna look weak?”
Her cheeks turn red. She doesn’t answer.
He gives a soft smile. “Well, no worries. No idea how y’all women put up with this. Makes ya real soldiers.”
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Her skin prunes as she scrubs across the washboard. The sun’s just set, the stars not fully out, and she can still see all the green that comes with spring. The stream is biting cold. Rowe insisted that she didn’t have to go and please Menowin, but she felt called to, all the same. For one, it made her feel useful, and Red and Rowe rarely gave her such chances. But also, she wanted to do it for him.
She knows it won’t change anything. That he’ll still be - God forgive her - a cock. But… she understands what it’s like, to miss home. Maybe she can help.
Or… do anything, at least. That’s what Rowe promised, right? That she’d be… blazing trails, joining his dream. Not stuffed in the wagon like the rest of the cargo. When will he-
“You’re lying.”
Harriet leaps back. Right into the water. Everything’s suddenly a flash of cold and wet and blue and brown. She pulls herself back out, gasping for breath, and looks angrily at the man in front of her. But that anger soon shifts to fear.
Menowin.
He’s scowling.
“How long, I wonder, are we going to play this game?” He shifts his body at strange angles. Like a predator. “Where you act the starry-eyed, dumb-as-rocks child, so that the gadje never ask who you were and what you’re after?”
He takes a slow step on her gun. Harriet hears herself gasp. He scans her like her skin is about to peel off.
“Chavaia! I can see it in your eyes. Smell it in your blood! The instincts are inside you. Or you wouldn’t have survived!”
Her lips tremble. What’s he talking about? She tries to explain, but her voice fails.
“But I see. I know! From one jakhalo to another.” He makes a gesture, a circle. Thumb and index finger entwined, just before his forehead. “You thought you could come here and hide. Didn’t you, coyote!?”
She freezes. Her skin turns pale. Her eyes wide.
Menowin licks his lips to show off fanged teeth. “You should have learned, before you left. For us, there is no hiding.”
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“Pilgrims, them bandits has got us, and thar’s far too many ta be foolin’ with yer guns.’” The Black Prince clears his throat and turns the page. “The young man turned to the fine, noble lady. ‘Have no fear, miss, for they would hardly attack a woman of your bearing.’ ‘Sí,’ said the Mexican, twirling his moustache. “But surely, you don’t have any valuables about you?’”
Harriet giggles, leaning back and keeping her grip on the reins firm. Rowe’s letting her steer the horse while he reads, and she wants to be absolutely sure she doesn’t do anything to bungle it.
Beyond is a full moon, and a clear sky, so bright and wonderful among the desert cliffs that countless stars shine above her. Orion’s Belt. The Little Dipper. Andromeda. Gawen Rowe fills her ears endlessly with their names.
But every time, he speaks with a hint of sadness.
“‘Just my jewels and several thousands in dollars,’ the woman replied. And that made the Mexican smile. For when the highwaymen came, Latins all, their fellow passenger sprang up, withdrew his gun, and shocked them all with his signature black mask. For he was not merely a boon friend to these vagrants, he was their leader…”
There’s a hint of hesitation, even discomfort, as he rereads the lines. But then Harriet’s head tilts up, so they can meet each other’s eyes. He leans forward with a smirk, speaking with great inflection.
“They called him…” He pauses for effect. “The Bandito!”
Harriet starts to giggle, and Rowe soon joins her. “No, come on, come on! It’s the villain! The illustrator put painstaking effort to make sure-”
His breath hitches. Harriet’s started leaning further back. So far that her head rests on his chest, and those blazing red locks fall over his shoulder. She doesn’t stop until her cheek nudges his arm.
Warm flesh against icy cold.
Rowe pauses. She can hear it in his breath, worry, fear. But slowly, that starts to fade. He lifts his hand. Rests it gently on her head. And for a moment, they ride on like that, in silence.
“Rowe.” They’re both startled by Red, caught up to them on his Clydesdale. “Reached it.”
The air fills with the sound of a massive, blaring whistle. Harriet has to squint to see it. A darkened shape, travelling through the sky, piercing the night with a blinding orange light. Only after she blinks, does she see the smoke, the engine, and the long wooden bridge. Towering over the valley like the mountains. It all inspires awe.
She’d seen trains, of course. Little bundles of a dozen cars. Nothing like this, pummeling across the earth.
But she can feel something in the air shift. Rowe dismounts, marches to the wagon. She watches him squeeze his fists, tighter and tighter.
“Menowin,” he speaks. “How far can you get us?”
Menowin starts to laugh. “It’s moving.”
Rowe yanks a crate open, rifling through the contents. “It’s big.”
“Let’s jes’ track ‘em to a station,” Red suggests. “I want this as much as you, but if somethin’ happens up there, those people-”
“We’ll improvise.” Rowe finds what he’s looking, leaps back to earth. “A station attracts others. And I’m not letting that man run for-”
He stops. Harriet’s placed herself right in front of him. Brows bent. Face confused. Her Pa’s Springfield still slung over her shoulder.
Rowe inhales, stepping back. “... This doesn’t concern you, Harriet.”
She fills the gap, pressing closer to him. She tries to make herself look hard, demanding. She doesn’t think it works.
“I made an appointment with the man who owns that train. He missed it. Now I’m giving him a second chance.”
Appointments? She mouths.
“I have appointments all the time. I just…” He bites his lip. “... Don’t always invite you.”
She doesn’t let up. Something’s not right. What, she’s not sure. Her mind flashes to those stories of masked men and Mexicans, but… those were just stories, right? She’s… she’s imagining things. He’s Christian.
But…
He grabs her shoulder. She flinches. Harriet’s eyes turn to the other men, gathering ropes, tools. Menowin playfully flicks his swords. Then Rowe forces it back.
“Harriet. Do you trust me?”
No. But she nods.
“Are you scared that you’ll be alone?”
Yes. But she won’t answer.
“Tell you what. Feed the oxen, set camp, start a fire. I’ll be back before midnight.” Gently, he moves aside. “And I promise, the moment I get back,we’ll hop right into that story. You’ll know exactly what happens to those dastardly masked marauders.”
He turns away with a smile, remounting his horse. In his absence, Harriet tries to smile back. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
And the Black Prince rides off. Leaving yet another promise behind him.
As she watches the men leave, Harriet sighs. She’d best start finding a spot, but she hates oxen duty. When Red was around, they always seemed calm, even eager to march. Without, they were just dumb beasts. Well, maybe she can find a prod, a bell, something to goad them with. Harriet walks along to the back of the wagon… then freezes.
Right there. On the crate Rowe was using. A little black box, with painted gold circles. Its bronze lock glistening in the moonlight.
A second passes. Two. There’s the distant sound of crickets. Then she races to find a key that fits it.
The wagon’s a disorganised, jumbled mess. Crates and nets and barrels were constantly rearranged to fit the needs of the daytime sleepers. But atop a pile of straw, Harriet fishes it out: Rowe’s worn leather bag. And sure enough, as she rattles it, she hears metal clinking.
Only when her fingers are inches from the lock does she stop. Pulls back. This… has she lost her mind? Rowe trusts her. Put her in charge of the camp, for chrissakes, and this is how she wants to repay that? How is she going to show she can pull her own weight if she keeps acting like a child? He already said, he’d tell her when she’s-
She feels her breath rise. Older. Always older. Never now. He invited her to join him. So why keep secrets?
Harriet stares at the box again. And throws off the lock before her judgement can get the better of her.
When she opens the case, her breath leaves. Even in the poorly lit wagon, in the darkness of night, she can see the colourful jewels glitter. Necklaces, rings, brooches. Gold and silver and amethysts and amber.
There’s no rhyme or reason in the box, things bunched together like buckets of nails. It’s nothing like the set she once sold. No love. No sentiment.
These aren’t heirlooms. At least, not Rowe’s.
A flash, then noise. It’s coming from behind. Harriet twists around, just in time to see the silhouette of the train. It’s stopped on its tracks, the billowing smoke now thin. She sees another flash, hears another roar.
It’s followed closely by screams.
A trembling hand reaches back, slowly squeezing cold metal. As it’s pulled from sling, and pressed tight against her ragged chest, little facts about the gun burst through Harriet’s mind.
Paper cartridge. Forty inch barrel. Nine and a half pounds.
And it didn’t kill him.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Gawen Rowe rides back in exhaustion. It’s clear from his face, his eyes. His clothes are rough and dirty and beaten, and he slides off the saddle, almost like a drunkard. But the more searches, the less tired he gets. The longer she’s unfound, the more she’ll know he’ll start to call. Grow worried.
Eventually, he finds her by the fire. A flame she started herself. She’s sitting on top of a stump, legs pulled tight into her chest, gun resting along the wood, in easy reach. She didn’t turn when she heard them.
She hasn’t moved at all.
Red approaches first, his concern clear. Then, he looks back to row. The Black Prince with quiet steps. Almost soundless, like the night he first met her.
“Harriet.” She can hear the lie in that soft, worried voice. “We were late. I plead mercy. Things did not go the way I-”
Thwak! He’s cut off by a surge of dust; the ebony box, thrown to the soil. Between the scattered jewels lies a book, cheap pages stapled against a cheaper cover. There’s a drawing there of a masked man, sporting a hideous smile, a desperado hat. Between his two blazing revolvers, Harriet’s scrawled something with charcoal. She mouths the word just as he reads it.
“You.”
There’s a pause. Rowe’s calculating. “Stories share souls with their authors, Harriet. They aren’t the real world.”
She gives him a look. Reaches for her gun.
“They’re jewels. They were created to show excess and affluence. Compared to the money we need to not starve, I-”
Harriet growls. He can see her eye twitch.
Rowe pauses again. Studies her face. “I lied to you. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t let up. Sorry won’t cut it. She-
“Do you want to know why I did it?” He asks so abruptly, that it catches her off guard. “Why I don’t think it’s wrong, and I’ll do it again?”
She doesn’t know how to respond. Rowe swings around, stoops down to the box, and pries back out the book.
“Harriet, let me ask you. What makes the masked man bad?”
Harriet reaches over for her piece of charcoal-
“No.” He taps his throat. “Use your words.”
“Thieves.” She swallows down a cough. “Steh-steh-steal.”
“They stole from the woman. Several thousands of dollars, and all her jewels.” Rowe’s face turns harsh. “But how did she get that money, Harriet? Did she work for it? Mine the earth, or smelt the metals? Has she ever spoken to anyone who sweat and bled for that necklace? Or was it all given? And her deepest connection to all that suffering merely the way the diamonds made her eyes sparkle?”
Rowe leans down, his voice growing heavy.
“What claim does she have to those jewels compared to the men who took it from her?”
For a moment, Harriet just blinks. But then, she manages. “Th-the law-”
“What law?” Rowe shakes his head. “Buffalo Bill could have robbed that woman. Shot that woman. Hunted her down like a dog. And they wouldn’t hang him on a justice’s noose. No. He’d come back to cheering crowds. She was a hag, he’d say. Crazy beyond repair. He didn’t have a choice. And they’d let him keep all that he robbed. For he claims to be a hero, and who in town could possibly stop him?”
“No,” Harriet’s breaths grow ragged. “That… tha… th-th-they wou-wou-wou-”
“They have. They do. You’ve seen it.” He frowns. “And if they had called it a red man’s raid, you would have believed them.”
Her breath hitches. Red man’s raid. He… he doesn’t-
“There’s nothing between a lawman and an outlaw,” he says. “Except that one wears masks, and the other wears badges.”
With a flick, he throws the book straight into the flames. They shoot up, greedily drinking. Harriet watches the lights dance across his face, hints of the skin she knew was mottled and rotten.
“Do you think I’m a monster, Harriet? Because I am.” He swallows. “But there’s a monster out there. Larger than any serpent, more tempting than the Devil himself. It burrows in our minds, warps our very thoughts. From the moment we’re born, to the moment that we pass, it whispers, right beside us.”
He looks into the ash.
“It claims that it’s always been there. That without it, you are nothing. Every house is its crib. Every road, another tendril. It speaks to your friends, your kin, your neighbours. Telling them where they’ll live, how they’ll act, who they’ll worship, and when they’ll serve.”
“And while you listen, its agents steal. Bandits in a gang so large that no one on Earth can count. They will rob, and murder, and take from you all that was once freely given. But these bandits don’t lurk on highways, girl. They stand behind desks, sit upon thrones. Offer loans from their banks and salvation from their altars! And when the people are crushed, when they have nothing left, when it’s fight or starve… well. Have you ever seen the lawman protect them?”
Harriet stares at him blankly. The barrel of her gun, falling to the dirt.
“The monster goads it. The monster orders it. It watches all this suffering, and it can only think to laugh. Everyone it whispers to, be it bandit or victim, thinks the monster works for them. When it marches, they salute. When it kills, they cheer. When they hear that monster’s name, they will only feel pride. It doesn’t matter in the slightest how many its slaughtered. It’s whispered in their ears for so long, they think it's part of them.”
The Black Prince closes his eyes, and folds his hands. She can feel the weight in his breath. No trace of anger. Just sorrow, and pain.
“When I meet an agent of the monster, I always give the man a choice. He can offer his wealth. His land. His power. Serve the Lord he claims to love, and live a human life again. Sometimes, they accept. Most times, they refuse. But I drive the greed out, all the same. They can never crush again.”
Harriet’s small again. The gun too heavy for her arms. She’s waiting for the windchimes, waiting to be taken. But they’re not coming.
They never do.
“The monster’s growing, Harriet. It’s swallowed my home. My people melt in its furnace, crushed beneath its jaws. Numbers on paper, soulless and starving, so that rich and powerful men can make bridges of their bones. I thought this country would be different. I thought we would hold it back. But it’s marching West, ever further, with steel teeth and red-brick claws. That is why I steal. That is why I kill. Because the monster will not stop at this country. It will not stop at our shores. The monster will feast the world. ”
He closes his eyes.
“Unless we can feast on it first.”
Silence falls over them. The Black Prince looks back. At Menowin, at Red, at the smoking ruin of the brutalised train behind.
His head tilts the ground, and he starts to walk back.
“You don’t have to agree. You’re not wrong for believing in the monster. But I was kept here for a purpose. And I will not-”
“Rowe.”
He turns back towards the quiet, crackly words. Harriet stands before the flames. A face shrouded in shadow, a large gun in her hands. He watches the light play across her freckles, and glow against her hair. The fire shoots up as she stares at him, with impossibly deep blue eyes. He sees her thoughts, her feelings, her past. He knows she’s seen the monsters.
In stories she’ll never tell, with words she’ll never say.
“Is this yer dream?
He nods.
Harriet leans close, and speaks as clearly as she can.
“I. Want. In.”
She sees his hesitance. A twitch, just barely contained. But there’s nothing more. The Black Prince merely looks down, forms a cross, and mutters a prayer.
“If you’re going to join us, you’ll need something.”
“What?”
The Black Prince doesn’t speak. But as he stares at the small, wild girl, bathed in orange light, he’s already chosen.
“Your second name.”