Cant hopped off his horse and led him to a nearby post. This particular horse had been his; the only horse in The Candlelight Infinite's to personally belong to a stable boy. It had been the horse he had rode in on, that first day he arrived after the long trip from Massachusetts. The horse had grown years older but retained its beauty, and had lost none of its stamina. Oddly enough, though they had spent many years together, and Cant had cared for the horse himself, daily, he had yet to name him.
Drewbell began to ride over and do the same but Cant held up his hand.
"Wait here."
She glared down from atop her horse, then dismounted anyway, walking her horse beside his. All of the other horses from The Catlight Infinite's barn had been tied up a few acres over, under makeshift shelter to weather the storm. Drewbell had no affinity for her horse and cared little for riding. She had little need for travel back home, and had grown accustomed to carriages; no matter how worn and haggard they were, before riding with Anson to the brothel, and then riding from the brothel here. Initially, she had assumed it would grow on her; it had turned out to be an incorrect assumption, however, and she had grown less and less enthused as the days went on.
"Why am I here?" she asked him, dramatically wrapping the horse's rope around the post so that the ends flung a bit wildly toward Cant.
He said nothing.
She tied a quick release knot and turned to him.
They stared at one another. She had the look of pain in her eyes and he was a bit confused by it. His reasoning had been that, whatever lay behind the doors of this red building, it may not be safe for her. And her safety was of paramount concern to him. It didn't make sense why his concern for her well-being would hurt her so?however, she had come from cover, gun drawn, when he had been in danger.
Instead of speaking, he reached over and took her hand in his.
Whatever was ahead, they would face it together.
And, hand in hand, Drewbell and Cant walked up the maroon steps of the maroon porch and opened the maroon door of the maroon building, and that's when they heard a voice laugh,
"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here?"
X
Novak was a cross-dresser. On the night Henri Ville visited his saloon, he was wearing a tight black top with a frilly, black-and-white dress, pearl earrings, thick, masking black eye-liner with lines drawn a half-inch long on the temple (similar in style to the French girls from The Catlight Infinite), and a thick rouge lipstick smeared across his lips. He had a cigar in his mouth, a bottle in his hand, and a look of boredom in his eyes, seated in the back with one hairy leg and bare foot propped up on a chair, the dress tucked between his thighs, his other knee spread outward. No one was sitting at his table but the place was otherwise busy and well occupied. He scratched his crotch. Burped. On the table beside him was a bonnet, pistol hidden underneath. There was a bar patron playing guitar in the corner but the music was near silenced by the commotion of the patrons.
It had been a calm night, to Novak's displeasure.
He liked ruckus.
No one took much notice of Henri Ville as she entered the saloon. Her bandana was off in the moment before entering the saloon. Her outfit was new, a conservative tan dress without frills. She had cleaned herself up. Polished her guns. Fresh tobacco was rolled. Her hair was cut much shorter, to her ears, and dyed black using the ink of pens. Her scalp was also dyed, as were the tips of her ears, and there were more black specks across the top of her forehead, but all of it was covered by a matching tan bonnet.
She felt better, clean. More prepared. Ready?
Though she hated the dress.
(Her revolver was strapped to the outside of her leg and hidden by the skirt of her dress.)
Henri's eyes searched the crowd and found Novak immediately. He was hard to miss. She sighed at the sight of a man resigned to scratching his crotch, seemingly indefinitely. His other hand brushed the thickening stubble of his face, unconsciously. His bored eyes lifted and saw Henri and they instantly jumped to life, filling with excitement, and a wide smile across his lips.
Novak leapt up.
"Henrietta!" he cried out in his gruff tone.
He hugged her and kissed her cheek, leaving a massive smear on her skin.
"Hello, Novak," said Henri, business-like but still overwhelmed by the enthusiastic welcome.
Novak looked behind her.
"Where's Anson?" he asked.
She didn't respond.
A glint of sorrow.
"Oh shucks?" Novak responded, the air from his breath. Neither spoke a moment, then Novak returned from mourning. "Um, sit. Sit." Then, to himself, "How the hell?" Back to Henri: "Sharpe was here a bit ago." They both took a seat, Henri in the chair once occupied by Novak's bare foot. "Maybe a month, not even. He came in - asked me for a few favors, a bunch of supplies to be shipped out to the middle of nowhere, and he asked me to spread word that you were at some whore house. I told him no but he kept saying it would help you. Crazy bastard, said he was plannin' a flytrap-no, no, sandtrap. Get all sides stuck. That'd it help you get home." His breath caught, eager to ask, "And where is your home? How is it so hard for you to get home? And how did Anson know-I mean, when he came in last, he left a black sketch book full of lord knows what - I couldn't make hide nor head of what he put in that book - and he says to me, he says, 'I'm gon' die,' and that I need to hold on to this book of his until you come, and you'll come here after you seent him die. And here you are."
The fact that Anson had left information in some sketchbook caused Henri's heart to skip a beat. This was all she had come for, all she had hoped would exist. Anson's back pocket note had been cryptic: Find Novak, he'll have what you need. Good luck, Saida. P.S. When you see Chaim, tell him he's an old bastard and then you kick that old bastard for me.
"Yeah, here I am," said Henri, reaffirming that she was, in fact, there. "What else did he say?"
"Mainly just stuff about his 'sandtrap' or whatever. Wanted ammo and small arms, bunch of weird stuff, too. Kept talking about how he was gonna pit everyone 'gainst everyone else. Let's-" and Novak raised his hand, signaling someone, "let's get some drinks. Share a drink."
"No alcohol," Henri added.
"Keep your mind sharp?" She nodded. "Hate it. You need ta let loose, always were the most interesting person I ever met. How did?" The barkeep brought over brown liquid in two large glass mugs, served cold. Novak poured Henri's cup into his own and then sent the empty glass back. "How did Anson go out?"
"Went out tough. Bullet through his belly. Bled to death."
"Oh hell." Novak looked over the rim of the mug, holding it paused in front of his lips. He blinked his long dark eyelashes several times. "Poor bastard. Here's to him." Henri received a new mug, filled with water, and they both drank. "Did he succeed?"
"I believe he did," answered Henri. She took another, much longer drink.
Novak did as well.
"Real quick - you still got that metal thing inside your thigh?"
Henri lifted the lip of her dress up her thigh to show the thin, 2 inch metal tube secured to her inner thigh; the very same that had scarred Pastor Rigby Briarwood and freed her of her bonds at the gallows. It had always been her good luck charm, taken at the moment of her abandonment in the west. She kept the metal pressed hard against the skin, so much so that it now felt like an extra appendage, an extra finger, often forgetting about its existence for days and weeks at a time.
"So?" said Novak, eyeing Henri, "?how are you?"
There was a moment when Henri was going to speak but didn't. She sipped from her mug, thoughtfully. Her eyes looked up and back at Novak.
"I'm not sure. It's been?it's been a while since I've been asked. I'm?close?"
"No. You. How are you?"
Her eyes looked into his and, for the first time he could make out just how tired they were. "Sad, mostly. Burdened. Tired." She finished the mug of water and, as she set it down, another fresh, cold mug was im
mediately brought over to replace it. "Very tired."
Novak watched her face closely. Her eyes were exhausted and there was no smile. For the period he'd known her, she'd always been a serious person; now, however, she was even more solemn, not just serious but sullen, beaten down.
"Do you think you'll be able to make it home?" he asked, hopeful.
"Maybe. I feel like it'll take an army but?yes. I do. In a way, I feel like I already have."
"Do you need help?"
"Yes. I do."
"Well, count me in."
Novak lifted his drink and laughed, cheersing the mug in Henri's hand.
"How are you going to get an army?" he asked.
"I already have one," she answered. "That's the next stop."
He laughed once more, and they both drank.
XI
It was just after nightfall.
"I don't want nothin' scary," Walter was whining.
Andrew stood over the fire, the rest of the kids seated and looking up.
"It ain't gonna be that scary, Walter!"
"Nothing scary," squeaked Walter once more, every bit the tiniest of the bunch.
"Don't be such a coward-ahh!" Andrew jumped, startled by a rustling from the darkness.
All of the kids gasped?
Two mysterious figures took shape, emerging from the darkness, illuminated by the fire. Their faces were wide and rounded and an unnaturally bright red, the features of their eyes caked in the heavy whites and exaggerated black lines of make-up, wild rings extending outward from all around their face.
There was a pause?
And then every kid in the group screamed.
"Hey-wait," Cant called out, removing the mask.
Drewbell had relished the moment a bit longer, pretending to hover like a ghost and pointing at Andrew (which terrified the young man through and through), but she too removed the mask off her face.
The group let out a collective sigh of relief.
"They're called Kabuki masks," Cant explained, holding out the mask. It was alien to the boys, something they had never seen before in any way. Cant handed it to Walter and the boys passed it to one another.
"Don't be such a coward," Cant smiled as he passed Andrew, giving him an encouraging shove. "And I got a story for you gentlemen." He walked around the fire, reaching into a barley sack filled with food to hand to each boy.
And then he sat down, with Drewbell beside him, to tell the story:
* * *
Inside the maroon building had been rings of seats around a small stage, and on that stage was a staggering amount of spinning and vibrant, flashing colors and bombastic music. Drewbell presumed it to be a church, as her only experience in theatrics this elaborate was in her trips to Warminster Parish. Cant, on the other hand, had seen a show once, some time ago, when he had been with his uncle in Massachusetts. They had seen a live performance of Grimm fairytales and, afterward, his uncle had taken him and his other children through the park on carriage and then to the soda parlor. It was important because it had been random. It wasn't a reward but a fine evening just for the sake of a fine evening.
Drewbell and Cant quickly scurried into two open seats in a nearby back isle, a miracle considering just how crowded the theater was. From their they watched an elaborate show performed by an all-man troupe, one involving elaborate sets that moved and flailed like paper, and music made with uncommon, high-pitched instruments and loud beating drums, and the storyline was silly and, though spoken in English, sounded quite nonsensical. At no point in time did either child truly understand what is was they were watching. It appeared to be a comedy, involving a group of people stranded on an island, with Gods, but the two sat silently in the back, both often bewildered by the flamboyant production, both watching with mouths agape. The audience was uproarious, some jumping up to holler at the stage (to which the actors onstage would often respond, in character), others applauding at lines of dialogue, and at the end of the show everyone leapt to hoot and holler and clap and scream with joy.
Cant and Drewbell were ready to sneak out when the show had finished, except Cant realized that, if they left, they would have no answers-really, they only had more questions after witnessing the show. So they stayed back near an exit as the crowd piled out, and once the noise dropped down, the young man approached an exiting theater patron and asked, "Do you know where the red rock bends?"
The patron, who was an older woman, looked the boy over with long-weathered eyes and stared into his face, obviously thinking the words over. Cant could tell right off that he hadn't confused her, or asked her something she found ridiculous, but instead that she was measuring her response, deciding how to answer. Instead of speaking, she gave an acknowledging nod and led Cant, with Drewbell close behind (but hesitant nonetheless), toward the stage, where the actors and stagehands were gathered. Those that had been in the play were still wearing their bright garb, spread out across the otherwise empty stage, some stretching, some standing and laughing with others.
"This young man," the woman called up to the group, "wants to know where the red rock bends?"
Then, she promptly turned and left.
At that, the group perked up. Each person - stagehand and actor alike - turned to look square at Drewbell and Cant, all of their faces blank. There was a dead silence that washed over the inside of the maroon building like an ocean.
"Well you found us, Sally," laughed one of the actors, with a feminine voice.
The rest of the men scattered around the stage began laughing, as well.
As if in salute, they all raised their hands and let their wrists fall limp.
Cant and Drewbell remained confused, as they had been for hours now.
"What's?uh, what?what?" Cant muttered.
"Looks like we got another Shakespeare on our hands," joked an actor, the only one to drop his arm and approach the two young'uns. (The rest remained scattered around the stage, their hands in the air hanging limply.) The actor got to the edge of the stage, not two feet from Cant and Drewbell, squatted down to better face them, and spoke in a sing-songy, girlish voice.
"We're the Red Rock troupe, young man," the actor turned back to the crowd on stage, as if taking inventory, "and I guess you could say we all bend from time to time."
"They were a?peculiar bunch," Cant told the boys.
Drewbell smiled.
"Sweetie," the lead actor chuckled to Cant, his voice with a twang of sass, "your info is long outdated."
The Red Rock troupe was gathering theatrical steam as they recited the riddle, sort of working its rhyme out as a group, repeating it and repeating it until they got the words down, the rhythm down, and they could sing the first bit together:
"Go to the place where the Red Rock bends,
50 paces east and then?
Into the valley of green and fend
Through the thicket and pricker
Of the devil's den."
While the troupe continued, linking arms and dancing around, repeating the first part and then beginning to rehearse the second half, the lead actor continued to speak directly with Cant.
"We're the Red Rock troupe but we took our name after this town, and the town changed its name a couple years back. So you're outdated there. And that 'thicket and pricker' business was a huge briar patch a couple miles east but all that got torn down by railroads a bit ago."
"The devil's den?" Cant asked, working out the details of rhyme.
"Pfft," scoffed the actor. "Used to be home to some wildcats, nothin' no fancy six-gun couldn't end. Certainly wouldn't call 'em-whoever set out these directions, they just might be more melodramatic than me."
The actor laughed heartily at his own joke.
"Miles to travel
Nevermore then Ten
Dawn's wait to begin again
Toward the winter's shadow
And Carpatheon, its end."
The Red Rock troupe had finished learning the riddle and rehearsing and chor
eographing and were circling the stage, stomping in rhythm and singing it in its entirety and dancing round each other arm-in-arm.
"The rest is nonsense, as far as I'm concerned. There's no town of Nevermore, no town of Ten, no Winter's Shadow, no Carpatheon."
They boys lost a bit of their enthusiasm during this bit of the story.
"So what'sat mean?" asked Vernon, unsure how disconcerted he should be.
"I got a baring. Tomorrow we head out. And?we ride, I guess."
Drewbell harrumphed at this news, as riding was not her favorite thing to do.
* * *
They rode for days, often singing a song (credited to a young British man named Jake Bug) that Cant and the boys had heard Anson singing as he went about his business in the days before his death:
Met her as the angels parted for her
But she only brought me torture
But that's what happens
When it's you who's standing in the path of a lightning bolt
Everyone I see just wants to walk with gritted teeth
But I just stand by and I wait my time
They say you gotta toe the line
They want the water not the wine
But when I see the signs I jump on that lightning bolt
Chances, people tell you not to take chances
When they tell you there aren't any answers
And I was starting to agree
But I awoke suddenly in the path of a lightning bolt
Fortune, people talking all about fortune
Do you make it or does it just call you.
In the blinking of an eye
Just another passerby in the path of a lightning bolt
It was silent, I was lying back gazing skyward
When the moment got shattered