Florence watched the light melt from the sky to make way for twilight. The transient period between the day and the night had always been her favorite time, but here in the city the darkness was a relief. She had assumed that the ocean would have made Boston cooler than inland, but the paved streets and towering monoliths of brick and steel absorbed the sun, making the daytime feel like being smothered in a blanket. It made being stuck in the caravan even more suffocating.
Which made the evening’s embrace even more welcome. She watched the colors in the sky turn from gold to pink to violet. The first stars were starting to peek from their hiding places when she sighed and leaned back into the carriage.
The interior was dim, lit only by the candles she used for her readings. She pulled a set of matches from under the table and gave light to the lanterns scattered around the antechamber. A cushion rested in the back corner, which Florence settled into.
In the back room, she heard shuffling like leaves skimming across the ground. Frowning, she asked, “Zayne, are you still working on that taxidermy of yours?”
The sounds stopped. “It can’t be considered one if it was never alive to begin with.” She could hear the smug smile in his voice.
“It’s grotesque enough to be one, though.”
For a while she heard no response.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” Florence said. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time on that project of yours.”
“It’s a delicate process,” Zayne replied from the other room. “Need to manually place each feather.”
“But what about practicing for your performance? That’s only a few days away, and I’ve hardly seen you working towards it.”
“I don’t need to practice, I’ve already got a handle on the tricks.”
A very typical response from her brother, but she couldn’t help but worry. There was no doubt he had the charisma to hold the attention of a crowd, but one could easily turn on the entertainer if the illusion of magic was broken. She swore that his self-confidence would be his undoing, and she didn’t know what Zayne would do if he was barred from performing in the future.
“So, are you gonna go to the campfire tonight?” He asked. “Nan is gonna be back from visiting the nobility of the city.”
Florence couldn’t help but smirk. “Zayne, no one calls the rich that anymore, it’s the twentieth century!”
“Well, are you gonna?”
Before she could respond, there was a knock against the doorway of the wagon.
“We don’t have any more visitors, you can come on up,” she called out.
“Oh,” someone said from outside. “Is this not a good time?”
That wasn’t a voice she recognized from the troupe. Confused, she rose from the cushion. The voice was familiar from somewhere, but who had she really gotten to talk to recently that wasn’t her family or just some patron? Well, there was that one visitor from Britain –
“Now is fine, I just wasn’t expecting you!” Florence called back.
After a moment, a young man emerged from the dark up the stairs. It was the one she had been thinking of, the one with the short, curly hair and severe facial features. He looked just as sheepish as he did the first time, his eyes never settling on any one object and his hands tucked against himself like he was trying to make room for someone who wasn’t moving past him.
“Is it okay to be here at this hour? All of the crowds are gone,” the man said.
“We do like to have some time to ourselves, but one outsider is manageable,” she said. “You are welcome here, I’m merely surprised you accepted the offer to return at all.”
Zayne poked his head out from the other room. “If you don’t want someone to come back, you oughtn’t invite them!” he teased. He turned his attention to the man. “It is a good surprise to see you again, Mister Beckham! Took my advice of not being a stranger, I see.”
Beck started to visibly relax. “I am glad to be warmly received somewhere, at least. That hasn’t been the case where I’m staying.”
The mirth faded from her brother’s face. “That’s a right shame!”
Reading the man, he seemed to Florence even more guarded than he was before. Something must have rattled him since their first meeting. “Is your peculiar uncle being a nuisance?” she asked.
“That is one way to phrase it,” Beck said. “Ever since my first visit, things have been a whirlwind. Needing to clear my head was one of the reasons why I came here.”
“Did you find what you were chasing after?”
“I found the solution, but it only unlocked more questions. But I suppose that’s what you predicted would happen,” he said with a slight curl of his lip. “That is also why I am here; I am still investigating stories, searching for more answers. You told me that your mentor would be around in the evening, is that the case tonight?”
It was clear to Florence that Beck wasn’t giving them the full picture. That wasn’t something that bothered her – in her profession, that was the norm – but all of her other patrons had common secrets. Even though she had never traveled outside of their caravan train, she had experienced life vicariously through those that visited her. The man before her, there was something he was holding onto that was new. Something she couldn’t identify.
The curiosity welling inside her is what prompted her decision. “Yes, Nan is here tonight. However, as you know, favors are our currency, and if I introduce you to her I would require one from you.”
“What is it you want?”
“I would like to visit this house of peculiarities you’ve been talking about. It has piqued my fascination.”
Beck raised his eyebrows, but said, “I’m sure that could be managed.”
Zayne was the one that appeared more surprised. He looked at his sister in shock, but said nothing. She could guess what he was thinking; It had been a long time since she had left the wagon train on their journeys. There simply hadn’t been a reason to. The landscapes of America had long since offered up the last of its icons, contrary to what Nan thought.
“Excellent.” Smiling, she walked towards the stairs. “Follow me, I’ll take you to our matron.”
Having recovered his composure, Zayne said, “Going to the campfire anyways, it seems.” He didn’t move to join them, still too obsessed with his craft.
She led him out into the engulfing twilight. Lanterns hanging from the eaves of the carriages made pockets of light amidst the field, growing more numerous as they approached the biggest grouping of wagons. The sound of a lute being plucked and the crackle of burning logs began to be heard from within the center. The glow of the flames bled out from between the wheels, turning the circle of carriages into a shadowbox.
They slipped between two of the wagons. Inside the circle everything was bathed in orange. A series of logs made an inner loop on which a crowd of people sat, the campfire casting their flickering shadows across the sides of the wagons around them. Outside of their performing outfits they almost looked like ordinary folk, besides their modest clothing and air of gaiety which flew in the face of the modern age. Florence doubted her companion could tell one act from another in their current attire.
The exception of course was their matron. She stood on the fringes of those conversing with themselves and losing themselves in the soft music, overseeing the merriment with watchful eyes. Even if her stance wasn’t enough indication of her status, her outfit made her stand out like a jewel. It was difficult to tell where her royal-colored robes ended and her scarves and beads began. Ornaments swirled around her like she was the eye of a hurricane, and while Florence knew her for the kindhearted woman that she was, the display demanded that patrons give her their attention and respect.
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“Nan,” Florence called to get the woman’s attention.
She slowly turned her head to face them, her wrinkles and liver spots shifting like desert dunes as she smiled at her protege. “Hello, dear.” Nan’s voice was like stones on a riverbed, weathered and smooth. “I see you’ve brought a companion.”
“This here is Beckham, he has traveled from overseas and has requested to see you,” Florence said.
Nan eyed the man, who looked uncomfortable and out of place with his fancy slacks and jacket. “Usually the bourgeoisie send messengers to request an audience with me, which means you are here for something other than a reading. Curious.”
“Hello Madam,” Beck greeted. “I came to learn about the history and stories of your people, and Florence mentioned that you are the storyteller of this group. Is it okay if I take a moment of your time to ask some questions?”
The older woman pursed her lips. “If fairytales are what you are after, this city has a library you can visit.”
The man was momentarily struck by her words, but recovered shortly. “As full of knowledge as our institutions are, there is some that is only passed through word-of-mouth and lost to all except the record keepers of old. That is what I am seeking.”
Nan hummed, the sound Florence had grown accustomed to when her mentor made a realization about one of her clients. “Knowledge of the hidden aspects of the world can lead quickly into trouble, Mr. Beckham.”
Florence looked over at the man. He was chasing after something magical in nature? Judging by his temperament, that didn’t seem like something he would pursue on his own. If Beck’s words were true, this must be at the behest of his teachers. Another reason for her to investigate where he was staying.
“I think you have the wrong impression,” Beck said. “I’m under the tutelage of a man of science, we are researching an unidentified phenomenon and are checking to see if it is something that others have experienced throughout history.”
“Everything is supernatural until the explanations of science make it natural. Even fire was from the realm of the gods before it was tamed,” Nan told him. A large crackling noise emerged from the flames as one of the branches in it became consumed. A trouper fed it more to keep it satiated. “If your subject were merely something that could one day be natural, you would not have come to me searching for answers.”
“Is it so wrong to be informed of such matters?” the man asked.
The matron regarded Beck with a soft expression of pity. “When the world was younger, I had the same optimisms you have about the vast unknown. I dedicated myself to channeling such mysteries for a time, but there is a reason I turned my back on it.”
Nan moved towards the ring of logs around the campfire. The conversations between the performers began to cease, the lute falling silent as the player’s fingers hovered over the strings. “There is a story I wish to tell you that relates to your predicament, Mr. Beckham,” the woman continued. “I first heard this one when our group passed through the Great American Desert. It is a tale set in the same region of the Southwest, about a family who wanders into misadventure trying to lay claim to the wastes.”
Florence shot the matron a worried look. “Nan, are you sure that story is appropriate? We don’t want to frighten our guest now, do we?”
The woman ignored her ward. “Come, take a seat,” she gestured to one of the open logs.
Appearing unsure about the whole ordeal, Beck sat before the fire. She doubted he expected these theatrics when he broached the topic. Florence took a seat next to him. She doubted he expected these theatrics when he broached the topic. Both of them along with everyone else around the campfire turned their attention to the old fortune teller as she paced the outskirts of the circle.
“It is the turn of the twentieth century,” Nan began. “The sky was still unfurled, the sea still dancing, and the world yet to be tamed.”
“Hold on,” Beck interrupted, “That was only a couple of decades ago. The modern age had already started to come to fruition, and we’d already conquered the wilderness.”
Nan patiently waited for the man to finish. “There are stories that have yet to be told, so the world has yet to be tamed,” she responded, before getting back to her tale. “There was a man named Obadiah who was a part of the Gleason family. He had with him a wife, two sons, a dog, and a dream to live beyond his means. While his countrymen had all but bought out the lands of the East and the lands of the West, those between still presented promise to those hardy enough and stubborn enough to settle it.
“Seeing the opportunity in those wilds, Mr. Gleason uprooted his family to the territory of New Mexico. Now in the previous century it was assumed that the land was barren, only fit to be passed through as fast as possible. But an aquifer had been discovered north of the region that made the eastern reaches of the territory fecund, so it was there that Obadiah aimed to settle.
“After scouting the land for weeks to find the right location to start, Obadiah discovered a plot of open soil a few miles out from a settlement, ringed by the rocky cliffs of the region, perfect for protection against the elements and the wildlife. Mr. Gleason staked a claim to that land, and brought with him his wife his two sons, his dog, and the dream that had led him there to begin with. They started to prepare the property, building their homestead in the mild winter of New Mexico in preparation for planting in the spring.
“Now, Obadiah was a simple man. Not that he had a lack of intellect, but he took life as it came. When there was an unoccupied land ripe for the taking, he seized the opportunity. It didn’t concern him why such a pristine property so close to civilization hadn’t yet been taken.
“It wasn’t long, however, until people took notice of the Gleason’s settling of the land. They came during the height of the day, two men of the Navajo tribe, while Obadiah was siding the dwelling for his family. Usually meetings between the native tribes and the settlers were over land disputes, but this was not the case here; no, if only the Gleason family were so lucky. There were no prior claims to the land, the Navajo informed Obadiah, but there was a reason that the natives and the settlers alike had left it well alone. They warned him that the land was cursed; there were yee naaldlooshii – corrupt witches, the antithesis of the Navajo way of life – that had been known to stalk the area.
“Obadiah, being who he was, did not heed the warnings of the native messengers. He believed that the men thought it was dangerous ground, but they were not obstructing him from fulfilling his dream, so along with that and his wife, his two sons, and his dog, Obadiah finished building their farm. Come springtime his family tilled the soil and prepared their crops, waiting for the rain to come and bless their new home. Unfortunately, when it did come, it brought something terrible with it.”
Another branch from the campfire collapsed inwards, sending a gush of sparks into the air. In the heat shimmer of the flames, the matron’s figure flickered like a mirage, her voice a disembodied narrator that enraptured the whole company in her fiction.
“When the storm arrived one night, even one as skeptical of omens as Obadiah knew that it was no normal storm. It was like God himself swept across the desert. The sons trembled in their beds. Mrs. Gleason battened the windows. Obadiah gathered emergency lanterns and supplies. It was the first time fear had so thoroughly gripped the man’s heart.
“His wife was the one who heard the baying of the dog. The storm had arrived so quickly that the family had left their pet outside in the midst of it. She called out to her husband, who upon realizing his mistake rushed to the back door of their homestead. His dog was there, wailing to be let in. Obadiah hastily removed the barricades, and the wind yanked the door open. The dog shot inside like a bullet, but the man was sucked outside into the vortex.
“He was thrust out into the mud of his fields. The rain and wind was a turbulent wall of force all around. Obadiah looked up and saw into the wrathful jaws of nature, certain that his life was about to reach its end. It was a lightning flash that galvanized the man back into action, and he found the strength to crawl against the natural forces. Amazed, he was able to make it back to the doorway of his home and wrench the door back shut.
“Relief washed over the man as he realized the natural world had not come to take him that night. Soaked through, he stoked the fire in the hearth and hung his coat out to dry next to it. While in front of that warmth the brutality of the storm began to quiet, until the dregs of the rain splashed from the gutters.
“In the transition between the storm and silence, Obadiah’s wife called out again. ‘You still need to fetch your dog from out there,’ she told her husband. Obadiah was confused by her words, until he strained to hear what she had. Now that the monsoon had reduced to a drizzle, he heard the unmistakable barking of his dog out in the darkness, likely taking shelter under the shed at the edge of the property.
“Even though Mr. Gleason knelt beside the fireplace, he felt the cold, piercing sensation of fear return. Obadiah rose to gather his family, but there in the center of the space was the dog that he had let in. It wore the same form that his familiar hound did, but that’s where the similarities ended. The creature stood on its hind legs in a disturbing imitation of its bipedal counterpart, and the being’s mouth was stretched into a wicked human grin.
“And so by the morning the stretch of land was once again abandoned. Obadiah, his wife, his two sons and his dream were no more, having encountered the yee naaldlooshii, otherwise known as the ‘skinwalker’ in the English tongue. His dog, however, escaped into the wilderness, sometimes seen at a distance still wandering that accursed ground. Some say that what they are seeing is the very same creature that had brought the Gleason family to an unnatural end that fateful night.”
Nan’s story came to an end. The campfire was still burning as strong as it had at the beginning, but just like in the tale an unspeakable chill had settled over the listeners. Gradually, some of the other performers gave quiet thanks to their matron and went back to their conversations, while others simply filtered out of the circle of wagons to turn in for the evening.
Turning to Beck, Florence saw him staring into the fire and blinking, as though to burn the story from his memory. The man eventually got up, and Florence followed after him as he went over to the matron.
“Thank you for your time in telling the story, Madam,” Beck told her. The tone of his voice suggested he was disquieted by the tale. “However, I’m not sure I understand how it relates to my situation. Are you saying that we should be prepared for the unexpected?”
Nan gazed once more at the man, the lines of her face smoothed in a way that Florence interpreted as disappointment. “That is one way to interpret the story,” she said. “As for me, it seems like this: there are some things buried that were never meant to be unburied.”