I had fled to the western frontier, hoping to outrun my own ghosts. So did a good many other settlers. If my granny were still alive, she would have told me that it was no use running, that the dead have a way of finding us wherever we go. There was not a whiskey bottle deep enough to keep me from recalling the expression on my brother's face as he died from a bayonet wound to the throat, blood gushing from the severed vein, spilling between his fingers to stain the soil black and turn the gray of his uniform dark blue, like my own.
I pulled the cork and took a sip. It burned my mouth like fire.
It's hard to gaze into a man's eyes when he knows that he's dying and there isn't a damned thing that he can do about it. It's even harder when the eyes are the same as yours and so is the face and the hand. Identical twins are two halves of the same soul, my granny said.
I took another drink from my bottle. It numbed my throat but not the ache in my heart.
Lots of men lost arms and legs in the war, and they carried on. A whole lot of people had lost brothers, fathers, husbands. Why did my grief feel so different from theirs? Was it because I had lost half of my soul in the war between the states? How does a man make a life for himself, if half of him is in the grave?
I raised the bottle to my lips. Before, I could drink, I was interrupted.
"Sheriff! It was my deputy, Ernie. He wheezed and huffed as he climbed the steps of my front porch. "I caught a prowler out behind the old mission. What do you want me to do with him?"
Several clever retorts were on the tip of my tongue. However, the whiskey was beginning to take effect, so I grunted instead.
"What was that?"
"Lock him up. That's what the jail's for."
Ernie cleared his throat. "I done locked him up. He keeps hollering. Something about cold iron."
"So give him a blanket!"
"I think it's the leg irons that's bothering him."
"Then give him a pair of socks." I took an extra long drink from my bottle.
The deputy shifted from one foot to the other. "He's a funny looking fellow."
So are you, I almost said. I stopped myself just in time. Ernie had a hare lip that the doctors never quite managed to close. "I'll be over first thing in the morning."
That seemed to satisfy him. He accepted my offer of a drink, then he returned to the jail. I sat on the front porch until well after midnight, thinking about how little difference there was between life and death and how a single bullet aimed just right could eliminate that difference.
The last thing I remember was wondering what my brother Terry would have done if his had been the winning side in the war and mine had been the blood that stained the earth black. Would he have gone west? Not Terrence. He believed in family obligations. He believed in tradition.
He believed.
The next morning, I had a splitting headache, and my mouth tasted like vinegar. As I dunked my head in a basin of icy water, I remembered what my deputy had said about a prisoner.
As I neared the jail, I heard a sound that was strangely familiar. A man with a clear tenor was singing one of my granny's favorite Irish songs. It wasn't often that we got a real Irishman this far west. I paused to admire his singing skill and the way the unfamiliar words with their long r's and hard k's rolled off his tongue.
The singing ended abruptly and was replaced by a loud wail. It sounded as if someone was being scalped. I sprinted up the steps and threw open the door.
"Earnest!" I bellowed.
"Holland! Thank God you're here. I think he's having some kind of fit."
I pushed past the deputy. The jail's single cell was occupied by a skinny, little man dressed in baggy brown clothes. His hair was long and black, like an Indian's, but his skin was pale. I could not see his face, because he was doubled up, with his knees on his chest and his arms over his head. He was moaning like a dog that needed to be put out of its misery
It only took me a moment to see what the problem was. The prisoner's bare feet were swollen to twice normal size and were blue-black in color.
"Earnest, you fool!" I snatched the ring of keys from the nail on the wall and hurried into the cell. I had a hell of a time getting the leg irons off the whimpering Irishman. The metal was stuck to his skin, and when I pulled the bands away, bits of flesh came with them. "Don't you have enough sense not to put leg irons on a man whose got gangrene of the feet?"
Earnest gaped at the open wounds which encircled the prisoner's ankles. "They weren't like that last night, Holland. I swear!"
"Then you put the leg irons on too tight." I picked up the prisoner. He weighed close to nothing. "I'm taking him to the doctor. You stay here and look after things." I kicked the leg irons with the toe of my boot. "Wash those things. Better yet, have the blacksmith melt them down."
Earnest followed me to the front door of the jailhouse. "He's so skinny, I was afraid he'd slip between the bars," he called. "That's why I put him in irons."
The doctor took one look at the Irishman's feet and said they would have to come off. He sent me to get his nurse. I was not relishing the thought of having to hold the fellow down while the doctor sawed off his feet, so I was relieved when the two of us got back to the doctor's place, and he told us that the prisoner had escaped.
"Jumped off the bed, hopped through the window and took off for the woods," Doc Grissom said. "I don't know how he managed to move so fast on those feet. But he won't get far."
A couple of weeks passed. I got a complaint from the pastor's wife that someone was stealing chrysanthemums from her garden. Flower rustling isn't exactly a hanging offense, but since there wasn't much real crime in our little community, I decided to put a stop to this petty thievery.
Three nights in a row, I camped out. The third night I got lucky. I was answering the call of nature, when I heard a rustling in the bushes.
"Folks that steal flowers from the pastor's garden ain't likely to get into heaven," I said aloud. I figured it was a kid doing it for a prank, and that almost being caught by the sheriff would give the rascal such a scare that he wouldn't leave his house after dark for a month.
"You can keep your Heaven," replied a man with a thick Irish brogue. He stepped out of the shadows. Lantern light revealed a short, slender man dressed in loose fitting brown clothes. His straight, black hair was long, his skin was pale and his chin was clean shaven.
"It's you!" I exclaimed. I glanced down at the Irishman's bare feet. They were back to normal. "Thank God the doctor didn't cut them off."
"You can keep your deity, too," he said tartly. "All I ask is for a little nourishment to keep me from wasting away, until Samhain comes around again, and I can go home." He popped a chrysanthemum blossom into his mouth and started chewing.
"What on earth are you doing?"
It was a big blossom, and it took him a while to swallow it. "Isn't it obvious? I am eating. A better question would be 'What are you doing on earth?' If that great, blundering ox who calls himself a deputy sheriff had listened to me, I would back with my own people now, dining on dewdrops and wood violets, instead of having to make do with these overblown, over bred monstrosities which you mortals call 'flowers'." He plucked another bloom.
"Stop that!"
He flashed an impish grin. "Make me!"
He was surprisingly light on his feet for a man who had been advised to have a double amputation less than a month ago. I lost him in the cemetery. Not that I tried very hard to catch him. What would I do with him? If he was what I suspected, then he did not belong in this world, much less in my jail.
I did not see the Irishman again, until the day after the first heavy snowfall, when I got up one morning and found him sitting in my kitchen. He had gathered every glass and jar which I owned and was in the process of placing a flower bulb in each. "If I force them a few at a time, I should be able to grow enough flowers to get by until spring."
It took me a moment to find my voice. "And just where do you intend to set up this greenhouse?"
He looked up. "Here, of course." As Ernie had said, his face was funny looking. Not ugly or deformed, just a little---odd. His skin was awfully pale for someone with hair so dark. His eyes were slanted, like those of a china man. His ears were just a tad too long, and his chin was pointed.
I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Why my house?"
"Because it was your incompetent assistant who got me into my present predicament. I told him that my kind can not tolerate cold iron, but he insisted upon clamping that hideous contraption on me. I thought I would go mad from the pain. "
"I heard you singing."
"Don't you ever sing to distract yourself from suffering? You should try it. It's better than whiskey." He gave me a look which was just a tad too knowing.
"Have you been spying on me?"
"Spying?" he echoed, all innocence. "I have passed by your house upon occasion and noticed you sitting on the front porch with a whiskey bottle in your hands. I have seen you cry when you thought no one was watching. I have heard you call out the name 'Terry' in your sleep. But I wouldn't say that I've been spying. Call it----studying. I have been studying your habits, and I've come to the conclusion that I can spend the winter months in your company without going mad."
"You can't stay here!"
"Why not?"
"What would people say?"
"That you've taken a boarder."
"You're not human, for Christ's sake!"
"Correction, I'm not human for my own sake." He stood up and made a bow. "I haven't introduced myself. My name is Sael. I'm a resident of the Summer Land and a go-between for the world of the dead and the world of the living. When your deputy apprehended me on Samhain, I was on a mission, one I never got to complete." His green eyes darkened. "The door between the worlds is closed now and won't upon again until next year. If I'm to survive, I have to find a place to stay. Your house is reasonably clean, and you don't have too many nasty habits."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"No, it's the truth. I should also tell you that my queen is very powerful. If any harm comes to me, she is likely to take out her wrath on you. On the other hand, if I return home safe and sound, she'll reward you for looking after me. Name your price. Eternal youth, limitless wealth----"
"How about peace and quiet?" I muttered under my breath.
"I heard that!"
Christmas rolled around. Sael, who could not abide anything that had to do with Christianity, had his own name for it. "It's called Yule, the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. " He had found holly somewhere, probably in someone's garden, and was decorating the mantle. "Did your grandmother even tell you the story of the Oak King and the Holly King?"
I had a vague recollection of the names, but I could not recall any details.
"The two kings are brothers. Twin brothers. In the battle of midsummer, the Holly King defeats his brother and becomes the ruler of the dying year. In the battle of midwinter, the tables are turned. The Oak King is victorious, and he rules the new year---" His eyes widened. "Is something wrong?"
I covered my face with my hands. I saw at all again, as clear as day. Terrence covered with blood. Me standing over him, frozen with shock. The world around us seemed to go quiet and dark. It was just the two of us, two brothers, identical in every way, except that one wore a blue uniform and the other wore gray.
Sael's hand touched my shoulder. "You lost a brother, didn't you?"
I shook off his hand. "I don't want to talk about it," I muttered. I stormed out of the room.
Later that day, I opened a trunk of my family's possessions that I had brought west with me. There were a couple of framed photographs. One showed Terrence and me, aged nineteen, standing side by side, wearing identical clothes. My grin was a little wider than his, and his posture was a little straighter than mine, but otherwise, we could have been the same person.
I found a spot for the photograph on the mantle, among the garlands of holly. Sael, showing unusual tact, did not mention the picture, though I caught him staring at it, a faint smile on his lips.
Spring came, bringing warm weather and lots of wildflowers, but Sael did not leave. The neighbors accepted the story I had concocted, that he was a botanist from Ireland, who had come to America to study plants. They were always bringing him gifts of flowers, which he accepted graciously.
"If I don't watch myself, I'm going to get fat and lazy," he said with a contented sigh, as he finished off a bouquet of blue and white larkspur.
"You'll never get fat," I replied. "Not unless you start eating something more than flowers. As for lazy...."
He cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to go on.
"I think you've got lazy down pat."
Spring turned to summer. The weather got hot and tempers flared almost as often as grass fires. Ernie and I were kept busy, breaking up brawls, protecting wives from their husbands and husbands from their wives. Fortunately, there was no Indian trouble. Not until August.
It was Earnest who brought me the news. "Grace Hillock 's youngest was stolen by Injuns!" he shouted, as he barreled into my kitchen.
Sael and I were playing cards. Or rather, I was playing cards. Sael was cheating, though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how he was doing it. I laid down my hand, two pair, jacks high and reached for my rifle.
"May I come?" Sael asked.
The request surprised me. Since I couldn't think of a good reason for him not to join the posse, I agreed.
A dozen men from town had gathered out front of the Hillock place. Most were armed with rifles. Ben Hillock was consoling his young bride, Grace. Her face was tear streaked. Her chestnut hair hung loose down her back.
"There were four of them," she sobbed. "I tried to run, but they had horses. They grabbed Jessie from my arms and carried her off."
The men exchanged glances. Indians had a fondness for red haired children, since red hair was said to give warriors courage and strength. The boys who were stolen from their families were raised to be braves. The girls were wed to Indian chiefs, in hopes that they would give birth to red haired sons.
Jessie Hillock was just under three. She had a good eight or nine years to go before some Indian decided to marry her. On the other hand, children that were taken young sometimes turned savage.
Luckily, most of the men were veterans of the recent war. We were making battle plans when Sael pulled me aside.
"The child is dead," he whispered in my ear.
I didn't ask him how he knew. Life and death were his business. I glanced at the Hillocks, to make sure that they hadn't heard. "Don't tell Grace," I whispered back. "Not till we know for sure." Meaning not until we had the child's body to show her.
"Grace knows," Sael replied softly. "She killed the child and hid her corpse in the cellar."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Grace Hillock killed her daughter in a fit of madness. To cover up her crime, she hid the body and concocted a story about an Indian raid. I mention it, not because I want to see the poor woman brought to justice, but rather to prevent a nasty, senseless war between the settlers and the Indians."
I hoped that Sael was wrong, for Ben's sake as well as Grace's. However, a quick check of the cellar revealed the young girl's body, wrapped in a burlap sack. There was a bloody wound on the back of her skull. Some of the men speculated that the Indians had done it, and they wanted to attack the nearest tribe in retaliation, but when Grace saw the corpse, she broke down and confessed to the crime.
It was a nasty situation. No one liked the thought of hanging a young mother who had already lost a child, and we were all relieved when Doc Grissom declared her insane and had her sent to an institution.
As the end of summer approached, I found myself wishing that time would slow down. Sael and I spent most evenings sitting on the front porch talking and drinking beer. I had given up the heavy stuff. All whiskey did was numb the mind for a little while. It didn't solve anything.
One night, as we watched shooting stars flash by, I broached a subject that had been on my mind for some time. "You didn't get stranded here in this world by accident, did you? You came here on purpose."
He nodded.
"Were you sent to prevent a war between the settlers and the Indians? I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't found the child---" Something about the way he was looking at me made me forget what I was about to say. I experienced one of those moments of startling clarity in which everything seemed to come together and make perfect sense. "You came because of me, didn't you?"
"Your brother sent me. He wanted me to deliver a message, to tell you not to hate yourself, because he died and you lived. When I saw you, I knew that a simple message wouldn't be enough, so I decided to stay for a while."
"You're my guardian angel."
He winced. "I wish you would stop trying to connect me with that Roman death cult. I'm a go-between. I carry messages from the dead to the living."
"How about from the living to the dead? When you see my brother, can you give him a message. Tell him that I've forgiven myself for living and that I've forgiven him for dying, too."
Sael raised his glass. There was a rose petal floating in the beer. "I'll give him the message."
Two stars flew across the sky at once, and I couldn't help but think of it as a sign.
Bio: McCamy is a long time contributor to Aphelion as well as Assistant Short Story Editor. You can find out all about her and her work by following the link below to her new and improved (Post) Millennium Fiction website.
E-mail: taylorjh@nationwide.net
URL: (Post) Millennium Fiction
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