Redemption Pass

Redemption Pass

 

Out of a haze of heat and dust, three horsemen rode across the prairie towards Redemption Pass. The closer they drew to the town, the more skittish their mounts grew: ears pricking and eyes rolling as they shied from following the trail.

One of the men leaned forward in his saddle and spoke softly to his horse, stroking its neck to calm it down. He pulled firmly on the reins and brought it back into step.

As he straightened again, he spotted a strange object at the far outskirts of town. He narrowed his dark eyes and squinted against the sun as he tried to discern the nature of the tall structure towering over the low wooden buildings.

“Tree,” he rasped, throat dry.

“What’s your savage croakin’ about, Marshal?” demanded the youngest of the men, twisting to face the oldest.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy,” the grizzled man dismissed him, not bothering to return his gaze. Instead, he kept his attention on his native scout. “What do you see, Hunting Owl?”

The scout raised one arm – tanned sinews glistening with sweat, like oiled leather – and pointed. “Tree,” he repeated. “A redwood.”

The Marshal removed his hat and rubbed a gritty forearm across his brow. “In these parts? Sounds like Warlock work.” He turned and spat in the dirt. “Think we should take a look?”

“I’m more concerned ‘bout what I cain’t see,” the young man protested, forcing his horse to face towards town. “The church spire should be over yonder, but there’s no sign. His voice quavered. “Something ain’t right.”

“That’s surely an understatement,” the Marshall agreed. “But I’d rather get an idea what we’re up against afore we go ridin’ in.”

Hunting Owl nodded in terse assent and clicked his tongue to coax his horse off the main trail, then set off trotting in the direction of the mystery redwood.

“I got no patience for that. I rode all night and brung you here for justice,” the young man urged. “That cussed Warlock burned my pa down in plain view and no one lifted a finger ‘gainst him. Even that Shamen buck had him dead to rights, with his fancy spear pressed to his chest and didn’t strike the killin’ blow.”

“Cool down, James Junior.” The Marshall reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a shiny metal badge. “You done the right thing, callin’ in the law. I don’t take kindly to the death of officers just doin’ their duty.” He rubbed his thumb over one of the badge’s seven points. “Even so, I didn’t reach my time o’ life by runnin’ towards a fight without knowin’ the odds.” He slapped his impressive paunch with his free hand to show it was firmer and more muscled than it appeared.

“Damn you then,” said young James, tensing to gallop away.

“Catch, boy,” yelled the Marshal, tossing his badge so that it hit young James on the chest and landed in his grimy palm. “If you’re gonna be a hothead, then do somethin’ useful. Be my deputy. Raise a posse, on my authority.” He cocked his thumb and made a pistol of his fist. “And make sure they’re sensible, god fearin’ men who won’t become a lynch mob.”

Young James pinned the star to his shirt grudgingly, then wheeled his horse and kicked his heels. “Suffer not a Warlock to live,” he bellowed as he raced towards the town limits.

The Marshal ran a hand through his thinning hair and settled his hat back on his head. “Dang fool,” he muttered as he kicked his own horse to follow and catch up to Hunting Owl.

The two men rode side by side in silence. Normally, it was companionable between them, but today there was a rising sense of unease. Much to the Marshal’s surprise, it was Hunting Owl who spoke first.

“Was that wise?” he asked.

“Waste of breath tryin’ to stop him,” replied the Marshal. “Thought I might give him a mission, maybe keep him out of trouble.”

Hunting Owl grunted and silence fell again, heavy as a saddlebag full of lead. The Marshal could not bear it for long. “OK, spit it out. What’s troublin’ you?”

Hunting Owl considered his reply while staring at the roofline of the town, which looked as ragged as a row of snaggled teeth about to take a bite out of the sky. “You spoke of your God,” he said at last. “Do you still hear His voice?”

The marshal was taken aback and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I reckon so,” he hesitated. “Though I’m not so sure He’s heard mine for a mighty long time.”

Hunting Owl nodded. “That is because, whenever Sorcery walks upon our world, It brings Its/r own world closer to ours. It has already driven the Gods of my people from the land. My tribe is without spirit and fading into the darkness that follows close on Its heels.”

“Pretty speech,” said the Marshal. “Probably the longest I ever heard from your lips. But I don’t believe God can be railroaded out of His own creation.”

“Maybe.” As they approached the tree, Hunting Owl regarded its long shadow. He had almost expected it not to cast one. Yet, it did not look like the shadow of a tree. Rather, it was as if a great Beast with a multitude of limbs were blocking the light of the sun.

They circled the trunk and noticed a large fissure at its base, shaped like an archway under which a man might seek shelter. Or like a womb out of which some unnatural creature had been born.

Hunting Owl drew his knife from its patterned sheath. A rainbow patina of age rippled over the cruel curve of its blade as he reached up and cut some of the thinner branches from its lower boughs. They were as tough as iron and he had to wield his knife more like a saw. Yet its edge was keen and he was gradually able to whittle the branches down to form a dozen crude arrow shafts.

The Marshal let him get on with his ritual. There was nothing here that was within the comfortable range of his expertise. Instead, he shielded his eyes and regarded the nearby town.

Nothing seemed to be moving. There should have been a bustle of people and animals on the main street. There was no smoke rising from cooking fires or from the blacksmith’s forge. No sounds were carried when the breeze blew in his direction. Instead, he caught hints of a smell that his stomach recognised only too well.

He unholstered each of his revolvers in turn, making sure the barrels and chambers were clean, the action of the triggers smooth. He checked the sights and wiped the grips, then loaded them with his small supply of custom bullets. They were only nickel silver, yet should still give a Warlock pause.

“What do you figure happened here?” he asked, fearing the answer.

Hunting Owl was re-sharpening his knife with a stone. Without looking up from his task, he said, “There is desert sand in scattered piles upon the prairie dust, which bears the impressions of two people and an animal whose kind I do not recognise. There has been a struggle, a fight, a small battle?”

The Marshal rubbed the stubble on his jowls. “Then there’s more than a showdown between a Warlock and a Shamen occurrin’?”

Hunting Owl shrugged. He knew it was a rhetorical question. “Have you noticed the town?” he asked in response. “It is a place of death.”

“Yup,” was all the Marshal could manage to say.

*

James Junior rode at breakneck speed along what he told himself were deserted streets, searching with increasing desperation for a few able bodied men. His horse had worked itself up into a panic, lathered and bucking beneath him.

They turned a corner too fast. The splintered remains of a wagon filled the whole width of road. The horse cleared it with space to spare, but took advantage of the moment to unseat its rider and gallop away, unencumbered.

James was airborne for part of that moment, with the reins still in his hands. Then the ground leapt up to meet him... He thought of doing chores for his ma. Of hanging the parlour rug over the yard fence. Of beating dust from its heavy fibres. Of the blood red pattern in its weave...

He opened his eyes. There was a weight on his chest. Had the horse fallen on him? No, he had forgotten how to breathe. Silver ants crawled at the corners of his vision. With a conscious effort, he forced air into his lungs. His ribs were blazing brands lit from the bonfire of his heart.

He felt... broken. Like the other bodies he had seen on the sidewalks. No. He forced the memory aside.

The church. The church was on this corner. He allowed his head to turn, though the tendons in his neck creaked like an ungreased hinge. Yes, those were its whitewashed timbers, shining bright as the promise of Heaven.

Its roof was crushed, its spire tumbled, its dented bell bare as a disinterred skull.

“Jesus,” he pleaded. And Jesus answered him by lighting a lamp deep in the darkness beneath the vault of shattered planks.

He recalled running errands for the widow over the road, the painting in her hallway: Jesus holding a lantern, the exposed ruby of His heart, the overgrown door in shadow. Light Of The World, she called it.

“Light of the world,” he whispered.

Something emerged from the church, too fast for his eyes to follow. A terrible, high pitched shriek echoed down the street. The pounding of his horse’s hooves abruptly halted.

The darkness within the church began to move, to untwine coils of shadow, to rise and force the wooden beams apart. A second lamp was lit. The lamps were eyes. The darkness exhumed itself and assumed a form that James could not comprehend. Nor would his mind admit what was impaled upon the creature’s bristling spikes.

Welcome, child. Welcome, last morsel of Redemption Pass and fulfil the geas placed upon me so that I may finish my repast and stalk again along the hunting trails of the Forest of Ghosts, in company with my Brothers: The First Who Walked.

*

The destruction was more extensive than that wrought by the worst tornado season. The Marshal and Hunting Owl rode slowly into town and followed the straight course of what had been the main street. Both were alert for danger.

The Marshal carried his revolver cocked in his left hand while struggling to control his spooked horse with the reins clutched in his right. He wore a kerchief over his mouth and nose to deter the worst of the stink.

Hunting Owl had his bow over his shoulder and knife within instant reach. Despite his uncanny skill with horses, he was also having difficulty with his mount, which wanted to turn tail and flee. He was not masked against the stench of decay, except for the grimmer set of his visage.

There were bodies strewn everywhere; an indiscriminate litter of slaughter. Not only men, women and children but also horses, dogs, birds and rats.

Beneath the fallen lintel to the doorway of his store, the Marshal glimpsed the sprawled remains of a butcher in his apron, his limbs and torso somehow even more raw than the part rendered pig carcass dripping on his slab.

For his part, Hunting Owl was unnerved by the stillness and quiet, which was far from natural. Apart from the occasional shifting of rubble in the smashed buildings, the creak of broken wood under stress, the town wore a cloak of silence that made it feel gloomy, despite the intensity of the high desert sun.

The Marshal lost patience with his recalcitrant steed and dismounted with a grunt at the impact on his knee and hip joints. Cursing, he dragged his horse to a hitching post that was still standing and looped its reins round the rail. There was a crunching and grinding as he flexed the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back, then brushed the trail dust from his clothes.

Hunting Owl slipped from his own horse in one lithe movement and led it to the rail with a few gentle words of command.

Although they had not been watered since the day before, both horses backed away from the drinking trough, baring their teeth and continuing to struggle.

“We should not delay,” warned Hunting Owl. “This is not a place for the living.”

“I hear ya,” agreed the Marshal. “Let’s find young James, then see if we can pick up the Warlock’s trail and git the hell out of here.”

“See how there are no flies and the corpses are not marked by carrion,” continued Hunting Owl. “We must not eat or drink nor sleep within the boundaries of Redemption Pass, for it will not sustain us.”

“Fair enough.” The Marshal adjusted his gun belt around his waist. “I was gonna suggest we split up to search quicker, but somehow I don’t fancy the idea none.”

Without a word, Hunting Owl unslung the bow from his shoulder and started to lope down the street. The Marshall puffed along behind him, boots pounding the packed dirt like a funeral drum.

Before long, Hunting Owl picked up James Junior’s trail. He knelt briefly and examined hoof prints: fresh marks of a horse moving at speed. “This way, Clayborn.” He indicated the twisted ruin of a church at the far corner, which looked as if its beams and boards had been arranged to form a crude but massive nest.

“You used my name,” remarked the Marshal.

“A name is a thing of power.” It could not be said that Hunting Owl showed fear, but there was a certain reluctance in the way he straightened his spine and strode onwards. “A name is not to be invoked lightly.”

“So, them’s the odds.” Marshal Clayborn checked his gun and fell in step beside him. Though he trusted his scout, he had more faith in honest lead than in native mumbo jumbo, which was too close to Warlock lore for his taste.

Alongside the church, they skirted the fractured struts of a wagon that barred their path. Hunting Owl knelt again beside a deep impression in the dirt, which bore a strong resemblance to the imprint of a man. There were splatters of blood around its edges, still glistening wet.

“The boy was thrown from his horse,” announced Hunting Owl, confirming Clayborn’s own obvious conclusion. “There are no further marks. He did not stand or walk, nor even crawl away.”

Clayborn was distracted by a glint of sunlight on silver. A small metallic object arced out of the church’s shadow, spanged off the sidewalk and landed at his feet.

It was his badge. One point was missing and half the remainder bent out of shape.

Hunting Owl rose to his feet and nocked one of the redwood arrows to his bow. He found that his soul was seeking a sign from one of his ancestor Gods. “Father Above All, guide my aim and let it be true,” he prayed as he pulled back his bowstring.

*