Wraiths of the Broken Land

Zahler

Summer, 1902

Part I

This Ain’t No Sojourn

Chapter I Shaking Hands

The woman who had forgotten her name shifted upon the damp mattress, and the raw sores across her back, buttocks and arms sang out in a chorus of pain. She turned onto her left side to relieve the wounds. As her legs closed, something hard and unfamiliar pressed against her vaginal walls, and she said, Lord... The woman slid her right hand to her pelvis, poked her fingertips inside, touched a hemispherical lump and withdrew it like a pearl from an oyster. After a moment of lightheadedness, she opened her eyes and looked at the thing pinched in-between her right thumb and index finger and saw that it was a dead baby turtle.

The sight of the deceased creature should have shocked her, but the woman who had forgotten her name felt only a detached curiosity regarding the extracted inhabitant, as if she were listening to nearby strangers discuss a topic of mild interest.

Beside her bed and nestled within small cubbyholes were two candles that yielded the overripe smells of flowers, cinnamon and vanilla and a small amount of amber light. In this cloying luminance, the woman appraised the dead baby turtle that had been inserted into her for some obscure purpose by a man whom she thankfully could not remember. The creature had died with its head and legs withdrawn into its shell, wholly isolated from the world, and she envied it.

Far fouler things had intruded upon her during the past eight months of her subterranean perdition.

For no reason that she understood, the woman set the circular corpse upon her pillow, beside tangled locks of her long blonde hair, and ran a fingertip gently across its crenulate shell. The baby turtle’s head slid from the front aperture and dangled, flaccid.

Reina! The voice was male, and it penetrated wood and stone.

The woman looked away from the tiny corpse and across the chamber, at the thick, iron-braced wooden door set in the far wall.

Foods, announced the man.

Unable to locate her nightgown, the woman pulled a blanket that was coarse with dried semen over her bare body.

A line of yellow light appeared at the edge of the door and grew into a seven-foot tall oblong. Within the rectangle of luminance stood the man with the wooden nose, the hombre who brought the canister. The candle flames glinted upon his rubber slicker.

The woman said, Not hungry, and shook her head. No food. No comida para mi.

The man with the wooden nose ignored her statements and rolled the canister into the room, steering it by the lever that jutted from its top. The wheels beneath the vessel squeaked like tortured rodents, and the abused woman felt the shrill sounds within the fluids of her eyeballs.

Foods, announced the man with the wooden nose as he parked the canister beside her bed. He leaned over and unwound a corporeal tube from the side of the device.

Repulsed by the thought of eating, the woman said, No food. Her quavering body needed something else.

The man with the wooden nose brought the dripping end of the pig’s intestine toward the woman’s mouth, but she pursed her lips and turned her head away. The tube dribbled viridescent drops onto the blanket.

Reina must eat and keep beautiful. Air whistled through the nostrils that had been drilled into the man’s false nose, and his small obsidian eyes stared. He raised the end of the pig’s intestine to his mouth, licked a drop of soup from the tip, smiled and nodded. Bueno. Is good.

The woman pointed to the dark marks upon her bony arms and said, I need more.

No more medicine.

Like a fire throughout desiccated woodlands, fear consumed her interiors. I…I need more. Her mouth dried up. I need more medicine, it’s been days since—

No more. The man with the wooden nose raised the dripping tip of the pig intestine. Por favor reina, tu—

I won’t eat until I get medicine.

A fist slammed into the woman’s stomach. She gasped for air, and the pig intestine entered her mouth. The man with the wooden nose clamped her jaw shut and pumped the canister lever with his right foot. Soup that tasted like garlic, mildew and rotten chicken flooded down the woman’s throat and into her stomach. She tried to call out, but instead sputtered sour broth through her nostrils.

Bueno.

The man with the wooden nose pumped another sour burst of soup into her, watched her swallow, withdrew the tube and began to coil it around the canister. You needs sleep. In three days is big fiesta. You have muy important customers, and the boss wants—

Get me medicine, demanded the woman.

No more medicine. It is making you sick. Customers complain that you have cold hands and your hairs is falling out.

Without the opiate’s protection, the woman could not endure another fiesta. I’ll make trouble if you don’t get me medicine. I’ll mess the bed again.

No. The man with the wooden nose frowned. No do that.

You get me medicine or I’ll mess the bed when a client is here. Make big trouble for everyone.

The man with the wooden nose whistled through his nostrils, turned away from the recumbent woman, rolled his canister from the room, shut the door and twisted the key.

Alone and full of foul food, the prisoner grew drowsy and fell asleep. In her dream, she was a happily-married choirmaster who lived in San Francisco. Her name was Yvette.

Yvette awakened. Her negligee (which she did not remember donning), face and hair were damp with the sweat of withdrawal. She opened her eyes and saw less. The bedside candles had guttered while she slept, and the room was dark, excepting the small amount of light that crept beneath the oaken door. At the foot of her bed she descried a vaguely triangular shape, like that of a cloaked figure, and felt fear.

The intruder wheezed.

Who’s there? asked Yvette.

The intruder breathed, clicked his tongue and sneezed explosively. Yvette gasped and released a small amount of urine.

A wet tongue slid across the bottom of her right foot, and she hastily retracted the appendage. The triangular shape sniffed thrice, orbited the bed, paused beside her pillow and panted. The smells that reached the woman’s nostrils were those of meat and marrow.

Yvette placed her right hand upon a damp snout. The dog whimpered with pleasure at her touch, unfurled its meaty tongue and licked the salt that had dried upon her wrist.

After she emptied her bladder into the metal pot that she kept beneath her mattress, Yvette struck a match, shared the flame with a candlewick and snuffed the phosphorous head inside a crack in the wall.

The dog was a rusty, fifty-pound male mongrel with pointy ears, wise eyebrows and a big beard that sprouted in all directions from its long snout. The guileless animal stared at her directly, as would an innocent child or a lover.

It had been many months since Yvette had looked into the eyes of anyone that she did not loathe, and she felt tears track down her cheeks. The drops lingered at the edge of her chin and dripped onto the sodden mattress.

Unimpressed by its surroundings, the distinguished dog scratched its side and inspected a toenail.

Howdy, Yvette said to the creature.

The dog’s mouth opened and shut, as if the animal had intended to speak, but then decided against so doing. It sat upon its haunches and lifted its right paw.

You know how to shake hands?

The beast eyed her imperiously.

Yvette leaned forward to clasp the proffered appendage, but was seized by the sickness of withdrawal in a horrible flood. She reached beneath her bed, retrieved the metal pot and violently dislodged the major part of the soup that had been forced into her earlier that evening. Sweat coated her flush, down-turned face and she heaved again.

For a ponderous and inert moment, she dripped.

Yvette pulled tangled twines of hair from her mouth, spat sour detritus into the collected excreta and did her best not to inhale the mephitic odors that would certainly bring about another round of retching.

She replaced the pot, laid back and stared up at the cracked ceiling. When strangers slobbered upon her breasts, as if she were their mother and could somehow return them to a state of ecstatic infancy, or entered her canal, she gazed up at the riven stone and imagined that she was a bug crawling across its coarse surface. Some fellows wanted her to look at them and playact affections, but not until the man with the wooden nose had given her medicine had she been able to render these services.

The hope that she would be saved from her terrible perdition had dwindled each month, and although it had not yet disappeared, it was a miniscule mote of dust. Whenever she spoke to the Lord, Yvette asked Him to send rescuers or call her up to be at His side. She had suffered for far too long. Perhaps the dog was a friend sent by Him to comfort her as her life came to its miserable conclusion?

Yvette sat up, felt a wave of pain, pulled her bony ankles across the bed and set the soles of her feet upon the carpet. Trembling, she reached out and said, Shake hands.

The dog sneezed and yawned, but did not proffer a paw.

Yvette pondered the animal’s reluctance and said, Mano, which was the Spanish word for ‘hand.’

As if it were about to take a solemn oath, the distinguished canine raised its right paw.

The captive woman shook the appendage and released it. So you’re a Mexican?

The dog sneezed.

I won’t hold it against you. Yvette ruminated for a moment and remembered the Spanish word for ‘talk.’ Habla.

The dog woofed, and the burst of loud air made its beard flap.

Metal squeaked on the far side of the room. Yvette and her distinguished roommate looked at the door. Beyond the open portal and silhouetted by a torch that was ensconced in the hallway stood the man with the wooden nose. Instead of his usual slicker, he wore brown trousers and a fancy burgundy shirt. His small eyes caught the candle flames and shone like two distant stars.

You like Henry? inquired the man with the wooden nose.

Yvette felt evil creep into the room.

The man scratched his neck and pointed an index finger at the dog. His name is Henry. You like him?

I sicked up the food you gave me. Yvette leaned over and retrieved the metal pot filled with her yields. In here. Can you—

Henry is circus dog from Mexico City, said the man with the wooden nose. The ringmaster die, and his daughter sells away the animals to buy him un coffin.

I am hungry, Yvette said in an effort to redirect the conversation. Tengo hambre. Would you—

Henry. The dog looked at the tiny pinpricks of light that were the man’s eyes. ¡Vengaqui! (Yvette knew that this meant ‘Come here.’)

The dog walked toward the man with the wooden nose.

¡Alto!

The dog paused.

¡Sientate!

The dog sat upon its haunches.

Yvette’s stomach dropped. Don’t!

The man flung the door. Wood and stone impacted the dog’s skull, and it howled.

Leave him be! Yvette rose from her bed, grew dizzy and collapsed upon the mattress. Don’t hurt him!

The man with the wooden nose reopened the door. The animal whimpered pitifully, staggered back a step, regained its footing and shook its head.

¡Vengaqui!

The dog ambled forward. The door slammed upon its snout, and something cracked.

Stop! yelled Yvette. Stop, stop!

The man with the wooden nose opened the door. Twisting its head weirdly, as if it were watching the flight of a drunken bumblebee, the dog hobbled back into the room. Blood dripped from its nostril and right ear, and a sliver of bone, white and agleam, jutted from its crooked snout.

The man with the wooden nose walked toward the captive. Atop his moccasins, ornate beads clicked like dice.

The dog collapsed upon its side, rose to its feet, walked in a circle and shook its concussed, dripping head.

One yard from the bed, the man stopped. Reina. Mirame. Look at me!

Yvette wiped tears from her eyes and looked up.

You will give good lovemaking to the clients or I will make Henry suffer very bad.

I’ll be good.

No mess the bed?

I won’t, confirmed Yvette.

Bueno. The man with the wooden nose turned away and strode past the stumbling dog. Now we can be good friends.

Chapter II A Quiet Squabble

Nathaniel Stromler strode from the stable toward the Footmans’ house, ruminating upon squabbles, which were his least favorite form of communication. His mother and father had bickered throughout his childhood back in Michigan, especially during wintertime (when the heat of their verbal battles often superseded the blazing emanations of the hearth), and by the time he was ten, he had decided that such dialogues only occurred when people were unable to think clearly, speak precisely and remain rational when confronted by opposing viewpoints.

Kathleen O’Corley, Nathaniel’s fiancé, had a different opinion about squabbles. She believed that such interactions were normal and cleansing, and that they proved a person was an impassioned individual. (He had courteously disagreed with her surmise.)

Nathaniel walked along the pebble pathway, toward the black square that was the house within which he and his fiancé lived, and the chill night winds of the New Mexico Territory tingled his skin. He feared that the folded advert he carried within his vest would incite Kathleen to argumentatively demonstrate her love for him, and for this reason, he had shrewdly awaited the hour when all of the Footmans were indoors and able to hear raised voices.

Evenin’ Mister Stromler, said the white-haired negro named Sir, amicably waving his four-fingered right hand.

Nathaniel absently reciprocated the gesture, but his mind was so busy arranging words for his coming discussion that he forgot to proffer any in reply.

Upon the façade, the dark living room curtains informed him that the little ones had already eaten and been sent to bed. Kathleen would not be able to raise her voice.

Nathaniel ascended two steps and landed upon the unpainted wooden porch that circumscribed the edifice’s south and west sides.

The front door disappeared, and the screen swung out. From the home’s amber interior strode its owner, a squat cattle rancher, clothed in workpants and a red union suit. You missed dinner, Ezekiel Footman stated with mild concern. The forty-nine-year-old man put an ancient pipe into his mouth and tamped down the bowl’s hirsute contents with a splayed thumb. Harriet saved you some, he added as he disappeared onto the western landing, where two benches depended from sturdy iron chains so that five or six people could comfortably rock to and fro while watching the sun sink below the distant mountains.

Thank you, said Nathaniel.

Mmhm.

Around the corner, a match hissed and flashed, dazzling a moth that had previously fluttered unnoticed just beside Nathaniel’s left ear. The opalescent creature was the size of a small bat. He puffed air at the phantom insect and sent it gently toward the stars.

Nathaniel walked through the screen door and across a checkered rug that dirt and abrasions would only improve and stopped before a substantial looking glass, which was tastefully decorated with a vine motif and golden filigree. This mirror was precisely the type of accoutrement that he had hoped to hang within each deluxe suite of Stromler’s Very High Quality Hotel.

Staring back at him from the reflective glass was a tall, blonde, fully-mustachioed man of twenty-six, who was fairly handsome, but aged prematurely by his large nose, receding hairline (which had yielded an inch of territory during the last two years) and haunted blue eyes.

Nathaniel Stromler had not slept well or felt hopeful or eaten lustily since the day the storm blew down the eastern wall of his half-built hotel and killed a laborer, a young Comanche, who had fallen asleep in the adjacent alley after a long day of construction work. After the event, all of the native employees had refused to work on the edifice (they felt that the death was portentous) and all of the available Mexicans had raised their fees. Nathaniel had all but exhausted his savings to build what stood and the loss was too great to overcome with his remaining funds. Construction halted.

The gentleman and would-be hotelier from Michigan wiped dust from his lapels, put a dab of oil in his palms and slicked back his lank hair. He checked his teeth for corn skins (two salty ears were all that he had eaten that day), saw with irritation how many lines a simple grin etched into his face and returned his lips to horizontal ambivalence.

Nathaniel turned away from himself and strode up the stairwell, across an ugly spotted rug and to the enclosure that he and his fiancé had shared like prisoners for sixteen months, since the day that the winds of catastrophe had blown. Because the furthest any tenant of ‘the baby’s room’ could be from the door was less than four yards, he rapped very gently upon the wood.

Is that you Nathan?

It is I. Are you clothed?

I have on my nightgown.

Nathaniel thought of Orton, the eldest Footman boy, who had more than once inappropriately eyeballed Kathleen (but was good-natured whenever the dog of puberty was not barking in his groin), and he looked over his shoulder. A sparkling white eye peered out of the thirteen-year-old’s darkened bedroom.

Orton Footman, said Nathaniel.

The door closed, slowly and quietly, as if a sudden movement or telltale creak would confirm that he was indeed trying to steal a glimpse of Kathleen.

Nathaniel turned back to the baby’s room, put his key into the lock, twisted it around and pressed his free palm into the wood. Seated upon the raised bed that filled most of the enclosure and dressed in a rose nightgown was Kathleen O’Corley, a tall twenty-four-year-old woman with delicate features, reluctant freckles, emerald eyes and loose black hair.

The gentleman withdrew his key from the outside lock, entered the room and shut the door.

They kissed. Kathleen tasted like Harriet Footman’s apple cobbler (which was good, but contained far too much nutmeg). Nathaniel withdrew from his betrothed and readied himself for the unpleasant conversation that was a necessity.

Illuminated by the lamp that hung upon the opposite wall, the woman’s eyes and teeth glowed, as did the stack of handwritten papers that rested upon her lap.

A letter from your uncle arrived today, announced Kathleen.

Nathaniel’s pulse raced—perhaps the folded advert that laid within his vest pocket could be discarded without any discussion or squabble. Did he locate any investors? The thought of returning to their abandoned child, the half-built hotel, caused the gentleman’s blood to quicken.

Quite possibly. He sent us the names of three men who might be interested in investing, but are currently undecided. Your uncle has recommended for us to send out letters of solicitation in order to sway them. Kathleen raised the stack of papers from her lap. I’ve written the missives already—all that each requires is your signature. She became perplexed. Aren’t you pleased?

Certainly.

Your face has a peculiar way of conveying that sentiment.

I am pleased—truly, I am—but when you mentioned a letter from my uncle, I had hoped for something more substantial…more…more immediate. Nathaniel thought for a moment. Where are these investors located?

Two are in Connecticut. One is in New York.

Within the gentleman’s chest, the risen hopes sank. Then it will take days—possibly weeks—to get responses from them.

We’ve been lodgers for over a year. A small amount of irritation sharpened Kathleen’s voice. This is the best opportunity we’ve had in some time.

It is. Indeed. Nathaniel squeezed his fiancé’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. I appreciate you taking the initiative and writing out those solicitations.

Peruse them so that we may send them off anon.

Nathaniel nodded, sat upon the footstool, read the first letter (the solicitation was flawless), said Perfect and signed its nether region with the gold fountain pen that he had intended to set upon the lobby desk of Stromler’s Very High Quality Hotel for guests to use in the registrar. He scribbled his name upon the other two immaculate documents, set them upon the floor to dry and turned to face his fiancé.

I found a job.

You have a job. Kathleen’s voice was flat.

I found a different job. One that offers far better wages than does a cobbler’s assistant. The verbal articulation of this lowly profession brought a shameful flush to the gentleman’s face, but the point had to be made.

What is this new job of which you speak with so much hesitancy and circumlocution?

Nathaniel withdrew a folded advert from his vest, and Kathleen snatched it from his hands.

I would prefer to read it to you.

I am a quite capable reader.

Nathaniel did not disagree with his fiancé’s statement.

Kathleen unfolded the document and read it three times. She did not look up from the paper when she asked with a dry, quiet voice, Who are these men?

I do not know. Fabrications often precipitated squabbles, and Nathaniel was an uncomfortable liar whenever he spoke to somebody for whom he cared.

For what purpose do they require the services of a ‘a gentleman with fancy dress who can ride long days and is fluent in Spanish?’

I do not know.

How did this very wonderful opportunity come to your attention? Kathleen’s sarcasm was poisonous.

Miss Barlone was operating the telegraph and—

She is meddlesome.

Miss Barlone is aware of our predicament, and last month I fixed her son’s shoes for free when her purse was light. She showed me the advert before she posted it, so that I might claim the opportunity. Nathaniel paused for a moment. She has already wired my acceptance.

You’ve already accepted? Disbelief flashed across Kathleen’s green eyes and was summarily replaced by something hotter. You’ve agreed to work for men, about whom you know nothing, way out in some far-off place?

You are getting loud. And neither you nor I know whether the job is in a far-off location.

The advert stipulates that the gentleman with fancy dress must able to ‘ride long days.’ What do you suppose that means? Ride around in great big circles!?! Kathleen’s voice would be audible to any person awake on the second floor.

After his heart had pulsed ten times, Nathaniel calmly replied, The long ride could be out to a far-off location, as you have suggested, or away to a nearer one and then back by sunset each night.

It seems far more likely that you’ll be required to ride into Mexico, since they’ve stipulated that the gentleman rider must be ‘fluent in Spanish.’

That is a realistic possibility, admitted Nathaniel. I do not know.

But you intend to leave me here and ride off with strangers to wherever they might lead you.

I intend to earn four hundred and fifty dollars in one week.

Kathleen pursed her lips as if she were about to spit venom into her fiancé’s eyes. The proffered wages are substantial enough to call into question the safety of this job…and its legality.

Unless I am required to do something unlawful or immoral, I will do what is required of me.

Incredulous, Kathleen shook her head back and forth. And I shall have no influence upon this decision?

You have spoken your mind.

At a time when you were deaf to contrary opinions—you had decided the matter long before our discussion.

I had, agreed Nathaniel. This is something that I must do.

The woman snorted through her nostrils. What if I told you that I would leave the New Mexico Territory and go back east to my family if you took this job?

I love you deeply, but if you are no longer certain that I can be a proper husband—if you no longer believe that my actions will advance us toward a greater happiness—you are encouraged to seek out a better life with someone else. We are not yet married.

Kathleen was stunned.

Nathaniel’s stomach shifted, anxiously. He did not think that Kathleen would abandon him, but the possibility existed—she was a smart, educated and attractive woman, and she had not taken a locomotive to the frontier so that she could work as a maid for the Footman family while her fiancé cobbled shoes. Like every couple, they were two separate individuals tied together by a rope with an indeterminate snapping point, and this conversation certainly strained their line. Distant animal noises and more immediate house creaks intruded upon the heavy silence.

Unable to breathe the thickening air, the gentleman said, It would take five months to earn that much money at the shop.

Four months. The woman’s voice was sharp.

Kathleen. If the job is hazardous or illicit, I will not go. Looking into his fiancé’s doubtful face, the gentleman added, This is a very significant sum.

It is. The woman’s voice was gentler.

Weight came off of Nathaniel’s shoulders—the squabble had ended. And, the gentleman added, the possibility exists that these employers are simply wealthy men to whom four hundred and fifty dollars means very little.

The diction employed in the advert doesn’t intimate good breeding, the woman replied, but I suppose it’s possible.

Nathaniel traversed the room with a small step, sat upon the mattress and kissed Kathleen. She admitted him for a moment and withdrew, hastily, as if they were courting teenagers and the condemning head of a parent had just materialized in a window.

Don’t look so distraught.

You closed the door on me, stated Nathaniel, who was very rarely shut out. He reapplied his lips to those of his fiancé, but she kept her mouth closed in firm denial. As he withdrew, the gentleman remarked, I did better the first time.

Not tonight, stated the woman. My mind is too full of concerns to be present with you in a romantic way.

Nathaniel placed his right hand upon the canvas of bare skin that was framed by lace décolletage and pressed forward, gently urging Kathleen to lie down.

The woman resisted. I’m too preoccupied by your departure.

Through a smile, the gentleman said, Please lie down.

Nathan. I am not of a mind to—

I understand. And I promise that I shall remain fully clothed. Nathaniel looked into Kathleen’s emerald eyes and felt her heart beat significantly beneath the palm of his right hand. This is wholly for your benefit.

The woman’s cheeks admitted several clandestine freckles, and she nodded.

Lie down.

Kathleen laid into the locks of her long black hair and the iridescent fabric of her rose nightgown, and was gently received