Leyline

1. Leaving Song

Rides happen.

She didn't know where she was going or what she was looking for, and was only certain of that basic fact of forward motion. That, for the moment, seemed good enough.

She was a thin, slight woman with terrified eyes, and she looked so out of place walking down the side of the road with her thumb out that most drivers avoided her unconsciously. Her dark hair was drawn up in a tight bun, and she wore a knit cap. She was swaddled in an oversize Army jacket in faded camo and baggy jeans over three pairs of sweat pants. She wore two pairs of socks beneath hiking boots that remained a full size too large, so she had stuffed them carefully with newspaper. Her sex and size were therefore disguised with this armor from the Salvation Army. In her right front pocket rode her only weapon, a six inch folding case knife that she had stolen from the place she once called home and a man that she had once loved and called her husband.


Almost twenty hours since her last ride, and a solid thirty miles farther west, a car finally responded to the signaling thumb and pulled over. It was an old car, a boat, and the big block engine that powered it pulsed reassuringly as it puffed thick white clouds of carbon monoxide from the tailpipe.

As she moved toward it, the fear rose up. Fear of rapists and crazy men. Fear of the compromised position that riding in the passenger seat across from a stranger placed her in. But the tingling pain of frozen hands and face fought with the fear and beat it into submission. She put her hand in her pocket, squeezed the knife for reassurance, opened the door and sat down.

Involuntarily, she sighed as the warm air closed around her. The heater was on high and the car smelled pleasantly of pine with a vauge hint of upholstery shampoo. She turned and faced her benefactor, trying to keep the wariness from her eyes and failing.

The older woman smiled, nodded, and got them back onto the road. A few moments of silence passed, then:

"What's your name, my dear?"

"Faith." she lied.

The older woman raised an eyebrow and smiled again. "Well," she said "that's not an important truth."

The woman who was not named Faith swallowed past a dry throat. But that smile was genuine enough, and both the eyes and tone were kind. And, more importantly, she was warm for the moment and moving at a fast clip towards her unknown goal.

"Where are you headed?" was the next question, as if that last thought had been spoken aloud.

"West." Faith replied, truthfully enough. "Just west."

The driver accepted this as if it made perfect sense, as if she picked up strangers wandering towards general compass points every day.

"I can't take you far." the driver told her. "But every mile helps, does it not?"

Faith nodded. Suddenly she felt the urge to explain herself, to tell this stranger everything. Why she was running, who she was running from, the cloudy mystery of where she was going.

The driver laughed. "No need, my dear. That is another unimportant truth. At least for the moment. What is important is that you understand the why of things. Why you are leaving. Do you understand that, at least?"

Faith paused. Then nodded. She did.

The driver nodded back, amiably enough. "Perhaps a man beat you. Perhaps he did other horrible things. Perhaps that was not even the worst of it. Perhaps the worst of it was those long stretches where he did nothing. Those long stretches of peace that turned to dread and..."

Faith stared at the driver, her eyes threatening tears. A bizarre sensation swept through her, a feeling of vibration. The world outside the car, moving past them, seemed to haze over and cloud. The vibration reached into her body and set up a sympathetic trembling.

"I apologize." the driver said, quietly. "I overstepped my bounds."

The sensation was subsiding, but Faith remained uneasy. "I feel..."

"You feel the leaving song, my dear. More accurately, you sing the leaving song. You are not running from something, child. You are not leaving anyone. You are running from everything, and leaving everything."

Faith stared. Crazy, she thought. Just a crazy old lady.

"But...enough." the crazy stranger said. "Ten miles ahead is a restaurant that serves a fine soup and delicious sandwiches. You are hungry, aren't you?"

Faith's stomach growled in agreement.

The driver chuckled. "Until then, enjoy the warmth. There will be other rides, but you must remain wary, child. Promise me."

Unsure of what else to do, and seeing no harm in it, Faith did so.

The driver seemed satisfied. Guiding the car expertly with one hand, she reached into a compartment between them and brought out a bill. She reached it to Faith, without making eye contact. "Please take it." she said. "You will need it."

Faith began to demur, when the driver turned her gaze back. There was something in those eyes. Something that caused the vibration to return. Something that made refusal impossible. She took the bill, with a hand that surprised her by remaining steady.

A few minutes later they arrived at a lonely wooden building by the side of the road. Lights blazed out into dusk from two windows and the smell of soup hung thick in the air.

As Faith left the car the driver spoke a final time.

"When you began to hear the song, child -- was it in a dream?"

Faith hesitated. Then nodded.

"And what was the dream about?"

Faith sighed, feeling silly but compelled nonetheless. "I dreamt of my father's gun." she said.

"A good portent indeed." Those eyes flashed, and she sounded amused. "Make me a final promise, please.

Faith touched the money now curled around the knife in her pocket. What harm could there be?

"Listen for the cat." the driver told her. "He's looking for you, and he's a wily creature, but synchronicity is far from certain. Promise."

Faith did so, trying rather weakly to convince herself that this was simply a harmless madwoman asking for meaningless promises. But those eyes wouldn't let her, nor would that vibrating sensation that had now sank deep into her, barely discernable but defiantly there.

Before she closed the door, Faith asked a question of her own.

"What's your name?"

The older woman cocked her head. She gazed at Faith for a long moment.

"My friends call me Char." she said, simply. "And I must go. I have appointments to keep."

Faith thanked her and let the heavy door swing shut. The big car rumbled from the gravel parking lot and roared away down the road. East, back the way they came.

Faith pulled the bill from her pocket and started. It claimed to be a 40 dollar bill, and boasted a portrait of a strange man with blank eyes and a disturbing smile. In all other respects, however, it appeared real.

Just a crazy old lady after all.

But, having no other options -- and less than two dollars in change -- she entered the warm restaurant and ordered the soup of the day and a roast beef sandwich. To avoid a possible bad scene, she offered to pay in advance with the strange bill. It was accepted by the bored looking cashier without a blink and she was given thirty-four dollars in change in equally odd smaller bills.

She was too tired and hungry to worry for the moment. She sat down and ate, and enjoyed the warm atmosphere of the otherwise empty restaurant.

The soup and sandwich were as delicious as promised.


2. Cat Trap


Fatigue insists.

She slept that night in a drainage ditch a mile or so up the road from the restaurant, belly full and with a pocket of strange currency. She had in mind breakfast the next morning before resuming her westward trek.

She found a worn and suspiciously dirty wool blanket in the trash outside the restaurant. An odd and lucky coincidence to be sure, but it had been and odd and lucky day.

The mile she walked did her in. She wrapped herself in the blanket, snuggled up under a rough overhang, and tried to relax.

She was exhausted, but her mind was keyed up and seemed to cycle over the strange happenings of the day. One part of her wanted to drift into the past and re-examine old horrors, the way a tongue wants to probe the grisly edges of a shattered back tooth. With an act of will, she refused to let that happen.

Instead, she dug into her pocket and removed the knife. With it came one of the strange bills. In the bright moonlight, she examined it.

At least it was a normal denomination -- a five. But the similarity ended with the number. Rather than a smug and classic presidential portrait, there was a stylized dog. Quite a handsome one, in a pose of intent watchfulness. She smiled at it, because it appeared to be a mutt. She recognized the sleek head of a Doberman and the muscular chest and shoulders of a Rottweiler. Something about the haunches spoke of the grace of greyhounds, and the tail was a docked stub pointing in the unmistakable attentiveness of a spaniel.

She yawned and the bill grew indistinct before her eyes. She replaced it. Then she snapped open the knife and held it carefully, pointing away from her body.

So armed, exhausted, and in the silent light of the creeping moon, she slept.

In the dream she was being swallowed by the past, and it was a painful process.

She was bound again to the bed and she could tell by the raucous voices in the living room that this was a night her husband had decided to share with his friends. The fear and hate and disgust welled up and threatened to overwhelm her.

The suddenly she was a child again, opening the closet door. There, where it had always hung, was her father's gun. The big gleaming cannon in the worn leather holster. She had only seen him use the gun once, when three raving drunks broke their door down. Her father had stood placidly in the center of the room until they smashed the door from its hinges and staggered in. Then he carefully and quickly shot them down. She remembered them falling like pins in a trick shot, how sudden and effective it was. They died with laughter on their tongues.

"It's all right now, sweetheart." he had told her then. "There are bad men in the world, but daddy will protect you from them." Then he'd put on his hat and coat and took the bodies away.

She had believed that promise, in the way only small children can believe. She believed it so well that when she was feeling scared or nervous for some reason all it took was a glance at the gun in the closet to calm her.

She must never touch it.

But it came to her that she was not a child anymore, and that her father had been dead for ten years, and that she was bound and roped and raped just a blink away, and..

...and this wasn't her father's gun after all. It looked different now. Similar, but smaller. Meaner looking.

My gun, she realized.

She took it, unsurprised by the way it fit her hand, and stepped back across the blink. She walked quickly past her own bound and degraded form to the door. She kicked it open in a fluid motion and -- aiming by instinct and rage -- shot the four men she found there. She saved her husband for last, and smiled at him.

They fell like trick pins. She let out a howling laugh that...


...seemed to follow her up from sleep and meld into a yowl of pain.

Reality startled her and she reacted, stabbing out with the knife. Her jabs failed to wound the dark and empty air.

She looked at the knife in her hand. Stupid, she told herself. One night you're going to stab yourself in the leg.

The yowl came again, and froze her. Not a part of the dream then. It came again and she shivered. It was unmistakable; an animal in pain and distress.

A few moments of that pitiful sound was enough to vanquish fear of the dark and the warm inertia of her bundled self. She got up and moved as quietly as possible towards the noise.

She found the source a few minutes later, thirty or so yards away from the ditch. There stood a solitary post that bristled angrily with strands of rusting barbed wire, just where the thin shrubbery along the roadside gave way to a flat expanse of field.

Tangled miserably in the strands was a large, grey, strikingly ugly cat. When it saw her it broke from the song of misery, as if being caught in such a way was mostly a matter of embarrassment. Both legs were caught, in a way that had them snagged and re-snagged by several strands of the wire.

Two liquid green eyes stared at her. Wasn't me yelling lady, they seemed to say. Must have been some other cat.

A fierce knowledge glittered in those eyes. Knowledge of what she did not know, but the fact of its presence was certain.

She sighed, knowing what she had to do. The cat let her approach amiably enough, but that peace was quickly shattered.

It was a horrible few minutes, that seemed to last weeks. She had no recourse but to slice cat flesh from wire, and the cat had no recourse but to fight the crazy bitch attempting to free him. Three minutes, perhaps; a whirlwind of blood and mutual pain and mutual screaming. For every barb she freed it seemed the cat's thrashing sank another deeper, and it retaliated fiercely with claws and -- once, very memorably -- teeth that somehow managed to pierce all four layers of pants and take a sizable chunk out of her left buttock.

Then, suddenly, the cat was free and bounding away, and her knife broke as she slipped and drove it against the post.

She stared at the broken blade, furious. "You stupid goddamn animal!" she screamed. She grabbed a stick and chased the offending beast, taking huge clumsy swings that the cat dodged easily. A few swings were all she could manage, and exhaustion left her out of breath, panting on her knees.

The cat was gone.

She laughed then, at the insanity of the world and herself. About scars earned for good intentions. How a little cat in a huge field could find such danger. How the simple decision to walk away could make the world so weird.

She laughed until it turned to sobbing, then sobbed until she felt better.



When she made her way back to her bed, she was unsurprised to find the cat there. He was placidly cleaning his wounds. He looked up at her. Some temper you got there lady. What took you so long getting back?

"Ok." she told it. "Fine. At least you'll be a heat source. Goddamn animal."

But she was pleased, deep down. The road was a lonely place, and silent companionship beat out no companionship. Her bed heated up quicker with two, and the cat's rumbling purr against her chest was an oddly comforting sensation.

The broken knife vexed her still. It had been her only weapon. Now she was reduced to hands and feet and teeth. An image of the gun from her dreams came to her, and she thought an idle thought:

Tomorrow I'll look for my gun.

It calmed her. She slept like a rock, and the dreams that tried to come were chased away by a pair of green eyes that glittered knowingly in the dark.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

Leyline

This is the first two sections of a ten section novella that I've been working on for almost two years. The final section is complete (I actually wrote it first), and I'm polishing sections three and four. The rest exists as rather extensive notes and an outline.

Some questions:

Does the narrative so far strike a good balance between enigmatic and informative?

Have I managed to create a sympathetic character while retaining a sense of mystery and the deep rooted strength I want her to eventually discover?

Could it use more humor?

Of course, any critique or comment would be appreciated, in addition to those direct questions.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

Kyrie

I really, really, really want to read this through. It's seems really interesting (for me anyways), but it's 2 a.m. here so, I'm going to sleep and get back to you in the morning.

EDIT: Back. This is a really really good piece. It might need some work in some parts but I'm not sure I can explain myself well so I'll leave that to someone who can.

I wouldn't change the narrative at all, it draws me in and doesn't let me go, as for the humor I'd say use it sparingly, you don't want to ruin the mystery of your narrative.

Very good work. Keep writing!! Oh, and thanks for commenting on my story!

__________________

Paige Turner

As your audience, I feel like I can already see her deep rooted strength, even if she is still not aware of it. Your tendency is to make the reader feel the strengths and weaknesses of your characters, IMO. That adds to the intrigue and mystery, and makes this reader feel one step ahead. I think that's one thing that keeps me reading. I like having a bit of an upper hand because I am an unsure person myself. Your writing pulls a person in, willing or not, and sometimes very unwilling. Surely that is a sign of success in writing.

As per usual, your mystery and your knowledge go hand in hand. I wonder how it's possible for one human being to know so much about something or some situation that has no probablility...unless...well, let's just say your writing raises some suspiscions about what is real and what is fantasy in this world.

Use it to your circumspection. You're the avid writer here.

I would like to add something. I actually had a mother cat get caught up in barbed wire, her teats were full and without too much description here, I didn't find her for a few days and it was gruesome. You did an exceptional job of describing the ordeal.

That last line is what I'm talking about in her "deep rooted strength". She's not yet aware, but your audience is.
I do go on and on, but I am very sincere.

__________________



i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Leyline

Kyrie: Thank you for the comments. I'll more than likeky post the third and fourth sections this weekend. You're welcome in regards to my comments on your story. As I said, when you post more I may be able to help out some.

Paige: Thanks for the detailed comments and answering my questions so directly. In this case, I'm really wanting the opinion of a reader. In many cases, another writer can only explain how he/she would have approached the material. A reader will stick to how the material affected them. I'm glad that I'm doing the job so far.

I myself have had the unfortunate experience of a cat and barbed wire. 'Nuff said.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

Loulou

Paige is right about being able to pull someone in unwilling making a successful writer. Lazy as I am I was determined to read something short today and stubborn as I am was determined I'd just read the opening paragraphs of this as I'd liked your other stuff very much..... and I kept on and on and on..... my washing is now soaked because of you as I didn't notice that it's raining again...
I love the woman who isn't called Faith - good choice of non-name. Was it purposeful? You've really made me care about her, with the dreams, the history you've given me a peek of and the trauma she's going through. The narrative, yes it is enigmatic (love those strange dollars amd the old woman) and also informative.
More humour? Hmmm, much as I love humour, I think you've got it right. Any more might tip the balance.
Ah, you're a great writer, the kind who makes me try much much harder at my own!

__________________
You attempt to pull four story lines together in two-thousand words and nearly pull it off - Eggo
We rarely buy unsolicited manuscripts, but my editor and I thought that this was a superior piece of fiction - Sunday Express magazine

Leyline

Loulou:

Yes, very much so. In fact, it's not giving anything away to tell you that she will adopt the names Hope and Charity as the story goes on -- each a symbol of a stage in her journey.

The trauma is at the center of the story, the driving force. But the way that she deals with the trauma -- what she does in order to free herself and shape the world in reaction to those events, are what the story is about. All in all, I consider it a very optimistic and positive story.

Thanks for the comments. Sorry about the laundry.

I'll post parts 3 and 4 tomorrow.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

GunslingersRequiem

I read through this without a hitch--you have a very fluid writing style, I must say. With the fluid style comes the lure of the story--I want to know what happened, is happening, and will happen to this woman (who is not named Faith.) The forty-dollar bill intrigues me, as well as the other images dealing with the bill and the 'crazy' lady. Perhaps the crazy lady likes to hand over money that her craziness has rubbed off on. There's a reason you should be careful when handling money, and perhaps that is one of them. Heh. As for the cat, I have always found cats to be the best animal out there, and I can't wait to see how our furry friend will develop in the story. Or, perhaps, furry foe. One can never be sure with felines.

__________________

Leyline

3. Bonegift



Structure lingers.

Two days later found her walking, still looking, with more than a few changes made.

The most obvious concerned her clothes. As she headed west it seemed the days became hotter. The terrain she moved across became more arid and desolate, if no less beautiful. Field and forest gave way to long stretches of dry prairie grass and the first hints of cacti. She took to stripping down in the morning, bundling the jeans and excess sweat pants in the jacket, rolling that into a tight wad she could strap to her backpack. She kept the knit cap, as protection from the direct sun that grew intense as the day wore on. It also served to keep the sweat from her eyes. After the sun set and dark began to rise, she'd slowly re-acquire the clothes. The nights were still cold, and she was still grateful for every layer when she finally lay down to sleep.

The cat paced her as she travelled, keeping a solid hundred yards in front of her. His wounds healed with impossible speed, almost invisible by the second day, though a slight limp remained and always would. He rarely made use of the road, preferring the more challenging trail of the ditches and culverts. The plentiful wildlife also distracted him, and -- both days so far -- he had presented her with kills. Rabbits, prairie dogs, an unknown little beast that looked like a gopher. He'd drop them at her feet and dash back to his pacing lead, as if he were the navigator on this journey he'd joined.

She was grateful. There were no towns in sight and she'd seen only two cars since her dreamlike ride with Char. Neither of them had stopped, though the rust eaten and filthy Cadillac had slowed, creeping past her as the thin and hungry occupants stared out with less than friendly eyes. The cat had hissed viciously and fluffed into an image of malice. Whoever had been driving took that for what it was worth and moved along.

The two days of mostly silent walking honed her ritual. When night fell, she'd make camp. She looked for particularly clear and dry ditches for this, reluctantly moving onto the prairie farther from the road when her choice spots were damp or overgrown. She'd build a fire and clean whatever prey the cat had brought her, complaining to him all the while about her broken knife. She'd spit cook it and -- while she waited -- would try to set her thoughts in order. The cat would sit in the draft of the roasting meat and knead the dry ground with his paws, growling low in his throat in anticipation. Her stomach generally echoed him. This would be the background music of her jumbled contemplations.

While she had clear and detailed memories of her childhood and the early years of her marriage, there appeared something like a wall the closer to the present she attempted to remember. The days -- weeks? months? -- before setting off on her trek were the haziest and least clear. What had set her on the road? She knew that it was something that frightened her, something that had forever altered her life, yet the specifics of the event remained mired in haze.

The meat always interrupted. She'd learned to tell the moment it was done by the sound of the sizzle and the clarity of the juices dripping into the fire. She and the cat would eat in silence. She supplemented the meat with the hoarded trail mix and dried fruit from her pack.

After that, the cat would excuse himself for his late night business and she would give in to the sleepiness that a full stomach instilled in her. She'd bank the fire as best she could and lie back, staring at the stars or the clouds as the case might be. She was averaging 20 miles a day, so sleep found her quickly those two nights, and the cat never stayed gone for long. With him next to her, the dreams seemed afraid to bother her.

On the morning of the third day of travelling with the cat, she found her gun.

The sun was about halfway to noon, and the road was beginning to shimmer with heat when a gleam off to her right caught her eye. She slowed, staring. It bloomed again -- about a half mile off the road, she estimated.

She considered a moment. There was no sign of a car in either direction, and she wasn't expecting one soon. She needed to explore the area a bit anyway, since her canteen was near empty and she couldn't be certain of finding water after dark.

But two things made up her mind for her.

The first was the return of that bone deep vibration, the feeling Char had called the Leaving Song. It had faded in the days after that ride, but was back with a vengeance, buzzing through her like a fever.

And the second was the fact that the cat sprinted towards the gleam like a creature possessed.

She sighed, shouldered the weight of her pack into a comfortable position, and set off after him.

The ground away from the road was hard packed but far from barren. In addition to the scrub bushes and prairie grass, there was an assortment of cacti and all manner of insect life.

Ten minutes of walking brought her within discernable sight of her goal. She actually smiled at it when she figured out what it was.

The ancient camper topped pickup truck had seen better days. Where wheels had once lifted it proudly from the ground, only concrete blocks stood now. She slowed her pace and took in details.

It was a Chevy, a 50's model some voice inside told her. The round, almost sensual angles of the hood were a dead giveaway. Rust spread across the metal in a slow, inexorable tide. Rust had washed from the body through uncounted rainy seasons, digging deep red rivulet canyons in a spiderweb pattern around the truck.

The cat sat staring at the driver side door. It glanced at her, gave a rumbly meow, and returned its gaze to the window.

Faith sauntered up to it, annoyed by the odd behavior.

"You probably think it's funny," she was saying "making me chase you through brush and bushes, but.."

The words faded as she glanced at the window.

At the wheel, grinning towards the horizon, sat a human skeleton.

"Oh my." Faith muttered, at a loss for anything else.

She wasn't afraid though. Not until the head swiveled toward her, that permanent grin now leveled at her. The chill that coursed her spine caused her to hold her breath after a sharp intake.

It was the click of the door opening that caused her to whimper, however.

The boneman emerged slowly, carefully, as if worried his essential structure was unsound. The driver's door creaked open and a small shower of rust flakes sifted to the ground.

Faith stepped back. The cat didn't budge, just sat there swishing his tail in mild interest.

The door was left open as the boneman moved two steps towards her. It cocked its head, staring at her with empty sockets. The sun gleamed dully from the cracked round shape of its skull.

Faith met its eyes. Utterly non-plussed, she said, simply:

"Hello."

The gleam shifted as the head cocked the other way. A hand crept to the right hip. Faith followed with her eyes. They widened, partially in fear, but mainly because the sight that met her caused the vibration in her center to rev up beyond mere sensation. She moved another step backwards, and felt as if the world itself was vibrating, and she was the only still point.

Around his waist, the boneman wore an elaborate holster of deep black leather. It hung partly slack from the stripped bones.

Riding in that holster was a weapon at once both strange and familiar. The blue-gray handle that emerged, that a bone hand now hovered above, locked her gaze like a fetish. Her mouth went dry and she felt her teeth grit.

Still, the cat did not move.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Faith asked the revenant. "Why?"

The boneman stared. His hand remained an inch or so above the handle of the gun.

"No." he finally said. His voice was diaphanous and low, a distant sub-bass note throbbing in the earth. "I have waited."

"You were waiting for me?"

"Yes." There was a note of effort in that deep voice, a tone of pain. "For many years. The seasons passed and the body withered. The rains came and washed away the surface. But structure lingered, as structure will. Intent persisted, desire challenged the world."

Faith held her breath. The vibration within was almost painful.

"Now the moment arrives." The voice of the boneman drifted further toward the dissolute, becoming a sigh. "My watch is ending, the message delivered."

"What message?" The words were choked out of her. She felt as if she were climbing a wall, nearing the top.

The boneman drew the gun from its rest. He held it by the handle, and lifted it to her in offering, barrel pointing away, aimed at the red web of earth.

"Message and gift, in honest steel. Take this, and challenge the world."

Hesitantly, Faith reached for the weapon. As she took it, her fingers brushed the cool bones of the sentinel.

In that instant of contact, the vibration left her, and entered the boneman.

A memory slammed her, of herself and the gun and the stunned faces of four men. Of four explosions and how blood and brains had leapt and danced in the stark glow of kitchen fluorescent. Of vengeful angry triumph, a righteous howl...

...that passed through her like electricity, surprising tears from her.

Before her, the boneman shuddered apart, falling into a lifeless pile. Quickly, the pile itself shuddered into dust. The truck followed suit, sympathetic magic demanding its death along with its master.

A breeze picked up, out of the north, and the dust of bones and rust began their long journey across the world.

Inside her, the vibration was gone, the leaving song finished.

I have arrived, I suppose. she thought, and some deep part of herself knew that was true.

She examined the gun in her hand, enjoying the weight of it. It was a blunt, brutal and confident structure of grey steel and blue gleam. It belonged to her and she knew it.

She retrieved the belt and holster from the rapidly diminishing pile of dust. She strapped it clumsily on, figuring out how to tighten it to her waist with experimentation. The length of the belt held cartridges. They reminded her of shark teeth.

She slid the gun back to its rest and addressed the cat.

"What do you think?"

The cat was cleaning himself, unimpressed by her or the spectacle just passed. In answer, he turned and trotted back toward the road.

Faith sighed, and followed. She spared a single glance back to the disappearing shrine of her sentinel. The she cast eyes ahead, following the cat.

The weight of the gun on her hip reassured her with every step. Emboldened, she set out to find a world to challenge.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

GunslingersRequiem

Ah, so she has a death-dealer, now. Excellent. I merely hope she gets to use it while her will holds out.

__________________

Leyline

4. The Quiet Place


Peace surprises.

Before the sun set on that same day, Faith would find use for her gun, and -- as a result -- change her name.

It was, in her opinion, the hottest day since she'd begun her journey. A few hours after the confrontation with the boneman, she had stumbled across the trickle of a creek merging with the ditch.

Relieved, she had dug a shallow little pond with just enough drainage to allow it to clear. After drinking her fill, and refreshing her canteen, she had cleaned herself as well as she was able -- even washing her hair. The lack of soap was unfortunate, but she couldn't deny the improvement in mood her quick bath brought.

Refreshed and in better spirits, she and the cat (who had drank upstream as she bathed) had set off again, grateful that the dropping sun heralded a cool breeze.

A few miles up the road, just as the sun was touching the horizon, trouble found them.

It was the same dilapidated Cadillac that had passed them two days before. It came at them from the opposite direction, first dashing Faith's hopes, then filling her with uneasiness. Rather than pass them by at a crawl, it stopped.

Two men and a woman emerged. All were skinny to the point of emaciation, all were filthy, and all were armed. The woman had an axe. The two men toted baseball bats.

"Get inna damn car." the lead and largest of the men, said.

"Get inna car or we'll break ya damn legs and drag ya in!" screeched the woman. The smaller man just laughed, keeping a wary eye on the cat, who once again hissed and stood his ground -- placing himself in front of Faith in a show of courage and loyalty.

Faith's reaction surprised her. Instead of freezing or stiffening up, she felt suddenly loose and easy. The center of her mind suddenly seemed to be riding on her hip. The weight of the gun was suddenly the most important facet of existence, the absolute zero point of the universe.

The Cadillac crew moved toward her, but in seeming slow motion. Even the woman's threat emerged as a slow and dragging mumble.

They were a foot closer to her when she marked them as range points. They had ceased being people in her calm new state, they were nothing but vectors of mass and motion. She could see the x marks on each, denoting her best targets of opportunity.

She found herself in a warm and quiet place. A peaceful bubble between decision and action, where she could take her time and do things right.

At last.

The smile that flicked across her face was noticed by none but the woman. But the sight chilled her so suddenly and completely that she tried to halt in mid-step.

Too late.

Faith's hand dropped, drawing the gun and leveling it with such speed that the motion was a blur.

Faith's last thought before hell broke loose, aimed by her, was:

I wonder if it's even loaded?

Finger squeezed. Pressure acted. Hammer fell.

The gun roared. The larger man's head exploded, a flower of gore blooming on his shoulders in the dimming sunlight.

Arm shifted. Eyes tracked.

Another roar, and the woman toppled, her heart blasted into shreds and soup. From her mouth spewed dead air and bile.

Fractional shift, a step backward to reclaim balance.

Third roar, and the smaller man's neck ceased connecting head to body. He died with the same idiots laugh on his tongue, decapitated by the tooth of a shark moving at the speed of sound.

All three bodies hit the road within the same microsecond.

Faith dropped her arm, the gun finding its holster with new-born instinct, just as it had taken her to the quiet place and guided her hand and eye.

Of course it's loaded. her mind answered. The sentinel was a responsible sort.

The cat turned and looked at her. The gunfire had not scared him. The look on his face could be read as approval.

Faith smiled at him. "You got balls, cat."

The cat yawned. Good shootin', lady.

After a moments consideration, Faith dragged the bodies from the road and stretched them on the hardpack. The idea of burying them was ridiculous. Let the animals of the land have them, since they had chosen to be animals of their own will.

The car presented another problem. A search of it turned up nothing of value, and it stank horribly. The idea of driving it made her nauseous.

Still -- the fact that the crew had went west and returned was evidence that a town existed somewhere past the horizon. That she was nearing whatever might be considered civilization in this place.

The car could be a worthwhile trade good.

So, before setting off, Faith recovered enough blood from her attackers to scrawl a message on the windshield:

"Notice! This vehicle is claimed as salvage by the killer of it's former owners, would be kidnappers who picked the wrong victim. Do not touch it unless you wish to share their fate. Thank you.

She took the keys from the ignition and locked the car. She chuckled at her cold message in dripping blood.

Night found her before she found the town. Faith and Cat camped and enjoyed a dinner of rabbit. When full dark came on, she noticed the glow on the horizon.

Tomorrow, she was sure.

And so it was.

Faith arrived in Summertime City in midmorning, as the town was starting to stir.

The place was odd. Wood shacks and long cinderblock bunkhouses mixed self-consciously with jury-rig repaired office buildings. Every building seemed to have its own generator. Solar cells decorated the roofs of many. Along the less than impressive river, water wheels had been constructed.

There were cars, but they mingled with horses and mules pulling wagons and dredges. She even stood and, amused, watched a steam vehicle motor by, it's fat driver decked out in ragged top-hat and a monocle.

The pedestrians she passed minded their own business, despite the fact that there was a palpable curiosity directed at her. Most of it centered on the gun. The rest on the cat, who strode through the town with the air of a king on parade.

Faith was the opposite, studying the townies openly. Their clothing and manners were as mixed as the rest of Summertime City. Homespun and crochet mingled with Levi's and Ralph Lauren. Hand sewn moccasin material mended ancient Converse sneakers. She saw men bow to women and women flipping the bird to people who laughed when they passed.

The children smiled and stared at her. They seemed to have the run of the town, traffic dutifully stopping for them as they played and ran along the streets on secret errands. The cat even paused and allowed a few to pet him briefly.

A half mile down the main street, Faith came to what she was looking for: a well constructed wood building with a nice tin roof and a hand painted sign:


Inside the store was bright and cool, the air circulated by a row of ceiling fans. The space was used to maximum effect, shelves stocked with goods of every imaginable type.

Along the back wall, behind a tidy oak counter, stood a tall thin man with a shining bald head and a high wattage smile.

"Morning, ma'am!" he said as she stepped up. "Always good to see new faces walk through that door. I'm Thomas Fowler, proprietor!" He thrust out his hand for a shake. Faith complied.

She dropped the keys on the counter. "Would the car attached to these be something you're interested in?"

When Fowler brought his eyes up from the keys, his smile had faded somewhat. He glanced at the gun before meeting her eyes again.

"I know the car." he said. "Hell...I made this set of keys."

"Friends of yours?" Faith asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fowler snorted. "Hell, no!" He appraised her carefully. "They don't have friends around here."

"They're dead." Faith informed him. "They picked the wrong person to be unfriendly to."

Fowler just nodded. "Bound to happen, sooner or later." He scratched his chin. "You got the Caddy with you?"

Faith shook her head. "It'll have to be picked up. What could you offer?"

"It's worth 500 for parts. I'd go 600 as a friendly measure...seeing as you did the town a favor." His high watt smile was back in place.

Faith asked for quotes on a few items, to give her an idea of the economy. Finally, she nodded. "A deal."

Money and keys changed hands, the deal sealed with a nod and a shake. She examined the currency. It was coins rather than paper, but the noble looking dog was the same.

Faith inquired about a room to rent.

"Mizz Castleberry up the street runs a clean place and sets the best table in town." He glanced at the cat, who had curled up in the sun by the door as Faith dickered. "And she likes cats." He hesitated, then said: "That gun...I assume you can use it?"

Faith smiled. "I manage. Why?"

"Sheriff is looking for some steady hands and eyes for some tricky work. Pay is good, and he's a dependable fella."

Faith shrugged. "Something to think on, I guess." she admitted. "If I decide to stay a while."

Fowler laughed. "Won't find a better place for a long stretch. Summertime City is a good town. A quiet place, and the people are decent."

"Seems that way." Faith patted the pocket with the coins. "I'll be back later for supplies, once I settle in and see what I need." She turned to go.

"Open till dark!" Fowler called after her. As she pulled the door open, he asked something else.

"Ma'am! I didn't catch your name."

Faith paused. She turned slowly. The words that came surprised her. The most surprising thing about them was the truth she felt in them.

"Hope." she told him, knowing her faith had paid off and left a finer thing in its healing, quiet place.

"My name is Hope."

And, with a final smile, she was gone.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

Leyline

Oh, she'll be using it quite a bit...as the above forewarns.

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats

Kyrie

Ohhh..!! *shivers* Once again your writing has excited me and forced me to turn down the volume on the TV I use as background music.

The only part that got me a bit wrong was when the skeleton began moving. I was like "What? What? WHAT?" so I had to read it again to make sure, but afterwards it somehow made sense. And I loved their conversation by the way.

I hope you keep posting because I want to keep reading~

__________________

Leyline

5. The Smoke Man



Mysteries disperse.

She wore the name Hope with more confidence than she'd ever worn Faith. She figured that maybe faith was always a thing to be lightly held and wondered over. That maybe it was the very uncertainty of the thing that gave it a worth.

She grew to love Summertime City in the idyll she spent there, and fell into the towns odd and paradoxical rythms. What looked slow and sleepy on the surface was a sharp and practical thing beneath; she discovered that she did not need to introduce herself. Her walk through town and meeting with Fowler had been introduction enough, and on some invisible all hearing grapevine her arrival had been heralded. Even on the walk from the General Store to the boarding house she'd received smiles and bows and hat-tips, along with more than a few repetitions of 'Mornin' Mizz Hope.'

Carina Castleberry did indeed love cats. What's more, cats loved her. The reaction of the scarred gray tom to the plump, shining little woman was almost embarrassing. He purred and rolled and lost himself in an orgy of petting and clumsy affection. All the while, the hidden eyes of other cats glinted jealously from one nook or another -- none quite bold enough to challenge the newcomer for the attention of their missus.

"My husband, God rest him, always called me Catnip Carrie', Mizz Castleberry said, by way of explanation, as she retrieved a dish of milk for her trail worn guest, and a cup of sweet coffee for his human friend.

Hope dealt with the pragmatics of her situation after the cat had swaggered off to deal with his. She assumed hers was far less violent and much more amiable, however. She rented a second floor room with meals for 25 coins a week. One week paid in advance with the provision for first choice to renew the deal. Once again, the deal was sealed with a handshake. Mizz Castleberry introduced her own tradition, and broke out a bottle of brandy to toast their transaction with proper good cheer.

Five of those coins had gone to secure one of the few rooms with private plumbing, and that night Hope luxuriated in a hot bath. The simple delight of hot water and brisk lye soap made her grin foolishly for an hour.

The cat lay near the door, cleaning some new wounds. These were the products of his negotiations with the resident felines. There was a certain smugness about his eyes and the indolent way he stretched that informed Hope that said negotiations had ended in his favor.

"I like it here, cat." she told him, for no reason, soaping herself up for the third time, just because.

He purred, slit his eyes, and kneaded the wooden floor in answer.


Dinner was an informal affair, held right in the kitchen at a big table that could seat twenty by the look of it. Only three were in attendance that night. In addition to Hope and the Missus, there was a resident named Albert Combers, a charming elderly man who dressed with style and spoke like a Harvard scholar.

Mizz Castleberry made plates right from the stove, where her concoctions bubbled and simmered in the alchemy known only to good cooks. The menu was Salisbury steak, baby peas, early corn buttered and peppered to perfection and thick wedges of cornbread that tasted like heaven dipped in the steak gravy.

Hope ignored all manners and had thirds.

When everyone was done and sighing, Mizz Castleberry produced a bag of tobacco and rolled herself and Albert a trim smoke. Hope demurred.

The conversation became interesting after that. Mizz Castleberry had never even heard of The United States. Albert thought he might have come across it sometime in his study of ancient civilizations.

"Where are we right now?" Hope, asked, expecting laughter or questions.

She got neither. "The Borderlands, dear."

"What do they border?" was the only question she could think of.

"Something and nothing." Albert explained, butting out his smoke.

Hope excused herself then, and went up to bed. The cat was already crashed out, twitching with dreams.

She slept like a rock.

A week later, running an errand for the Missus, Hope met Ugly Jim Harris, the Sheriff of Summertime City.

They met at Fowlers. Fowler himself introduced them.

They called him Ugly Jim because, as a child, he'd been nearly burned to death in a house fire. His face was a mass of scar tissue. He looked like a skull partially covered with wax. But his eyes were blue and honest, and he radiated a sincere kindness.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for law work." Hope admitted.

"Not asking you to take up a career, ma'am." Ugly Jim reassured her. "But I could use a hand right soon."

"Things seem peaceful enough."

"Riders will be here in a few days. Bad every year. Gonna be a doozy this year though." He looked away. "Something tells me, at least."

They spoke of payment. Beyond coinage, Hope insisted that she needed answers to questions.

Ugly Jim's eyes narrowed. The misshapen lids gave his look an odd weight.

"You need to see the Smoke Man." he told her.

"Who?"

"He sets up camp outside town this weekend. He runs his business. He answers questions."

The journey to the Smoke Man was short, but Hope found herself with more company than she desired. He seemed a popular destination. She constantly had to turn folks away. They saw the gun and hoped for protection. Even after she turned them down she noticed that they stuck close.

The Smoke Man made camp in a clearing about ten miles north of Summertime City. As Faith approached she heard the boom of his trade. She understood as she drew closer.

The Smoke Man and a supplicant stood in a clearing. The machine behind them sent up disk after disk. They shot in turn. The supplicant didn't do a bad job, but he couldn't match the perfect record of the Smoke Man.

By the time Hope arrived she met the losing fellow as he made his way home. Despite that loss he seemed well pleased. Perhaps he was already planning a rematch.

The Smoke Man was reloading his thrower when she walked up. The thrower was a home-made affair, a challenging assortment of cogs and gears, tension and mismatched parts. I took up the entire bed of the Man's pickup. The truck itself was the dull gray of primer, though there was a diffuse and misty look to it.

Hope studied the shooter before her. He was tall, gaunt, hair cropped short on a perfectly round head. She couldn't judge his age, though she knew he was older than her. She saw instantly why he was called The Smoke Man. His skin was an even gray pallor, matching the truck. When he finished reloading and looked at her, she saw that his eyes were gray as well. And they held the mark of great age. He smiled at her.

"Care to sport a while?" he asked. "10 coins to enter, and I'll back a side bet to whatever you care to lose." His grin widened, became mockingly predatory. "You win if you tie me. I'm fair that way."

Hope stood her ground and smiled right back. She wished for a moment that the cat were with her, rather than lording it over the boarding house. She missed the steel his small solid form set in her spine.

"The ammo for this is quite precious." she explained, touching the gun on her hip. "But I'll go 20 coins if you'll answer a few questions."

The Smoke Man began turning a stout, ratcheting crank. His thrower was obviously a clockwork device. He never took his eyes off of her, and never lost his smile.

"I got fools a'coming to lose their coin to me. But it may well be high time for a coffee break." he admitted. "20 coins get you five questions. I only answer if I like."


The Smoke Man's coffee was strong and just shy of bitter. Hope added extra sugar and made the best of it.

"Where am I?" was her first question.

The Smoke Man sipped his brew. "The eternal question." He paused, thinking. "You stand between hell and heaven, in the great gray expanse of unknown. Call it The Undecided. Folks here call it The Borderlands and be done with it."

"How did I get here?"

"That's one I can't answer. Only you can answer that. It'll come to you eventually. It comes to everyone in time."

Hope accepted that. "I have the urge to go West. What lies West of here?"

The Smoke Man chuckled. "Far enough West and you find The Ends. The place where structure dissolves. Nobody knows what lies beyond that, since no one ever comes back to describe it."

"Who are you?" That one just popped in her head.

"I'm touched." he claimed. But the smile drifted away for a moment. "I'm not sure what I am. I travel. I take folks coin. I shoot. I know some things. That's all I'm sure of."

Hope asked her final question. "Will I ever go back home?"

The Smoke Man stood. "And that's one I won't answer. Not my place to go telling you what Home is or means."

Hope looked over her shoulder. By the truck, a small crowd of challengers had gathered.

"Back to work, ma'am." The Smoke Man said. "A pleasure to meet you."

Hope just nodded.

As she made her way past the truck, on her way back to Summertime City -- both secure and puzzled by the vague answers she'd received -- the thrower thumped and sent two disks into the air. Two guns boomed. The challenger missed. The Smoke Man's target puffed into a quickly dispersing cloud of dust and fragment.

"You made smoke out of that one." Hope called to him.

The Smoke Man laughed, tossing her that predatory smile again.

"In the end, darlin'," he told her, as she moved away "I make smoke out of 'em all."

__________________
"I write to find out what I know." - Flannery O'Conner


My stuff:
Stilled-Life The Liberators
Xangurl Tessellation
The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats