How the Stars did Fall Page 6

  “This is Mr. Lynch,” Tennyson said. “He’s a traveler like us.”

  “Are you? And where are you headed, Mr. Lynch?” Faraday asked.

  “Just Lynch is fine. And I am a wanderer, more properly. A traveler implies I have a destination in mind, whereas in truth I let the wind take me wherever it may. With my instrument, I have been welcomed into many houses.”

  “It is a rare craft, that.”

  “And a most noble one,” Tennyson added.

  “You flatter me, doctor. But I am not speaking of music, precisely. I practice another, older craft.”

  “And which one is that?” Faraday asked.

  “I will leave it unsaid.”

  “A painter, perhaps? Though who can say which came first, painting or music?”

  “I do not know for certain, but I would venture music is older,” Tennyson said.

  “Faraday, may I speak to you of something grave?” Lynch asked.

  “Grave, you say. What do you mean?”

  “It is about your sister. You should find her. Help her. I see darkness ahead for her. Something pursues her, and will to her death if it is not stopped by some exterior power.”

  “You know of my sister. Is this your craft, after all? Are you a seer?”

  “I practice many disciplines.”

  “I’m not a believer in seers.”

  “Take it as you will. But I will give you another token to prove the truth of my words. Many years ago a great calamity occurred in the heavens and it appeared as if the stars themselves were falling from their perches into the great dark beyond. The Leonids, they called it. Well, I tell you, look to the heavens tonight, for the stars will fall once again and you will know I speak the truth.”

  These words disquieted Faraday and he stared at Lynch’s face for a few seconds trying to read it, to sniff out a lie, but the musician stared back, his eyes steady. Faraday’s response was to leave, despite Tennyson’s protestations that they had paid to stay longer than the short time they had so far spent in the place. But Faraday prevailed and they took their horses from the stable and rode down the mountain and back onto the road.

  “Hold on now,” Tennyson said, trying to get Faraday to stop his horse. But Faraday would not stop, so the doctor made his horse go faster until they were close enough that Tennyson reached out and took hold of the other horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop.

  “We paid to stay the night there. Where are we going to sleep out here? What are we going to eat? Come on, let’s go back. She will allow us in again.”

  It took a moment, but as soon as Tennyson had stopped talking he noticed that Faraday’s eyes were moist.

  “Are you crying?” Tennyson asked.

  “Of course not. It’s the cold wind in my eyes.”

  “Have you let that trickster get the better of you? I have known many charlatans in my time and every one of them hid behind some religious or mystical veneer. He is no different.”

  “And what if he is right? You know why I came out here. What if my father’s debtors have found another way to satisfy their claim?”

  “So you intend to do what? Ride to your father’s farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you ride all through the night? Could you not leave in the morning?”

  “I cannot stay there. Not while my family suffers without my aid. Will you ride with me?”

  “I cannot go with you to your father’s farm.”

  They rode all afternoon and into the evening until the road passed by a forest. Then they rode into that forest, seeking shelter among the trees. They rode on until the forest grew thick enough to block out much of the dying sun’s light and a moist air hung around the ground. They stopped only to give the horses a drink from a little stream, then they kept on, until suddenly, like a column of light, the last rays of the day entered in through a clearing that opened up among the trees. All around the clearing they found what looked like the remains of a large Indian camp. There were clay pots and plates, empty baskets, leather cots, garlic cloves, broken boughs, spoiled cabbage and many chipped arrowheads brought together to make a mound. A burned-out remnant of a large fire stood out at the center of the camp. Faraday approached it and felt the ash and the dirt where the fire had been.

  “It’s cold,” Faraday said, “at least a few days old. Maybe a whole lot more.”

  Inside the clearing they found enormous boulders of sandstone squatting over the grass. Set in a circle, the stones made a clearing within a clearing, and hiding in the center of the circle sat another stone, this one polished and cylindrical with a smooth and flat top. An altar. There were no inscriptions but Faraday guessed the position of the stones was itself an inscription of a kind.

  They tied their horses to the trees and laid out blankets on the grass near the center stone. Tennyson collected kindling from the surrounding brush and piled it up and made a fire. At night while they drank from their skins and ate dry jerky they looked up at the stars and watched and waited. They saw no stars falling. While they were eating, Tennyson brought out a bottle of wine and uncorked it and poured it into wooden cups, one for each man.

  “It is a pity that we must separate, but I will not dwell on sad things. Rather, let us toast to our accomplishments…” Tennyson paused, then added: “And the continued health and security of our families.”

  Faraday held the cup in his hands but would not taste the wine. He got up and felt the cool rock. Signposts and stand-ins. Tools with which to measure out the end of the world. Then he looked up, checking the sky again for falling stars. Finding none, he felt a relief, for it meant Olivia might be safe after all. Still, he had to be sure and going home was the only way.

  He allowed himself a sip of the wine. Then he took in the whole cup and more. The bottle soon fell empty onto the grass. Then as they lay around the fire, sleep threatening to overcome them, Tennyson got up and blessed the sky thrice in mockery of the pious.

  “Holy Father, please forgive us our sins. Let our sleep be safe and our dreams filled with the images of naked women,” he said.

  “Let up the silly superstition,” Faraday said.

  “You are right,” Tennyson said and, lifting his plump mass, he looked up and intoned: “Bless us our daily bread, thy kingdom come, as it is in the heavens, let it be so in the earth.”

  “The wine’s gone up to your head.”

  “And not yours?”

  “I can handle my wine.”

  “You can barely speak without stuttering.”

  Before long they slept and the fire died down until only faint embers still burned and then even those last gasps were no more, a wisp of smoke the only remnant. They slept huddled close to the center stone, covered in fur blankets, until the sky came alight with falling stars, the brightness interrupting their slumber. The Leonids appeared above them like the warring legions of the heavenly host, their numbers countless, and the two men, still drunk, could do nothing but stare in awe. One hour passed, then another, and the skies gave no sign of letting up. Halfway into the third hour those burning bodies began to peter out, and as if following them, another set of figures appeared. Not in the sky but on the earth. They came on foot, pulling their horses behind them, and Faraday and Tennyson only heard them once they reached the clearing. By then, the Indians already loomed over them like grinning shadows. They had come in the dead of night in numbers, armed with bows and arrows and long spears and tomahawks. With strips of hide, the Indians blindfolded Faraday and Tennyson, and they set the white men down over their horses like cargo and rode out away from that ritual ground deeper into the forest, the last few Leonids still passing over them.

  Chapter Seven

  Arriving at his home, Daniel found Molly sitting quietly in front of the fire, drinking water. She had cleaned her face up somewhat, all of her youthfulness and beauty now unmarred. Daniel sat next to her.

  “You need to leave this city. Tonight. It’s not safe here.”

  “Is my father d
ead?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “He told me he would kill my father.”

  “The Good Man?”

  Molly nodded. “Told me how he would do it, too. Is my father dead?”

  “Yes, I saw him die.”

  Now Molly turned her face towards the fire and drank some more of her water.

  “Where will I go?” she asked.

  Before Daniel could answer there was a rap at the door. His hands went to his belt, where his black revolvers hung like dormant predators waiting for their chance to strike. Then he got up, expecting the worst, and when he looked through his window he saw assembled in front of his house the Good Man himself and a retinue of armed militiamen. Daniel told Molly to hide in a cupboard and opened the door.

  He was certain he had been found out and that he would die for his disobedience, but if that were the case he had no recourse. Instead, he acted cool and normal, betting on the chance that the Good Man did not know about the girl. His bet paid off, because as soon as he opened the door, the Good Man gave him a good clasp on the shoulder and came in. Alone.

  “I didn’t see you at the gathering,” the Good Man said.

  “I left early.”

  “Daniel, remember what I spoke to you about last night. It is a serious thing, The Way. It is a path with no return. No changing minds; no half-measures. Will you go forward with us?”

  Truly, Daniel was uncertain. Not only because he did not know what saying yes would entail but because the nature of the Good Man’s beliefs had heretofore been clothed in vague abstractions, playing more on populist sentiment than the intellect of those he would convert. But the Good Man had told Daniel more than once that there was a secret core to The Way which only a few received and only when they were ready. At the same time, Daniel was not so naive to believe he could say no. He had attached himself to the destiny of this strange and violent man and he could not turn back. Not without bringing death upon himself.

  “I am ready,” Daniel said.

  “Good. Very good. Come.”

  Outside another man had been waiting whom Daniel had never seen before. He was of short stature but strong, with prominent, aggressive facial features and a mustache thick as a buffalo’s tail.

  “Daniel, this is Adler. I want you to go with him, and do whatever he tells you to do.”

  Having said that, the Good Man took his leave without exchanging pleasantries of any kind as if something was making him deeply uncomfortable and he could not wait to leave. Daniel and Adler shook hands.

  “You need to grab anything? We got a long way ahead of us.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Mount Shasta, or at least close to it.”

  “A long way indeed. I’ll get my pack.”

  Inside, Daniel opened the cupboard Molly had been hiding in and let her out. Then he took up his pack and filled it with all the things necessary to survive on your own in the wild. Canteens filled with water, a kettle, a pot, a knife, a tin cup and a pair of plates. To the pack he added canned beans and dried meats and a couple slices of bread. And he gave the pack to Molly.

  “Some men have come to lead me away from here,” Daniel said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. I can’t help you much anymore. Take this. Wait for the dark and then leave. This too.”

  He handed Molly a couple of coins.

  “Find a safe place. Believe you can make it and you will.”

  Molly began to speak but Daniel left before she could finish a sentence. He wished to make a clean break. Thankfully, she did not call out to him or otherwise try to hold him there. Before long he found himself on the ferry to Oakland with Adler, a cold breeze stinging his eyes. From Oakland, they took the train north.

  Their seats faced each other and for over one hour, while the train was loaded, they sat without speaking, one avoiding the eyes of the other. Once their journey began, their attention often turned to the window, where they watched an endless parade of oak and pine trees until, coming up out of Oakland, they passed a hamlet called Suisun and the flora was replaced by upright men and women, flashing before their eyes one after the other. Each one a little universe of wants and needs, of mind and spirit. The train’s speed picked up after Suisun and then slowed as it approached Sacramento. It stopped within view of the state capitol building.

  “There sits the most esteemed governor of California,” Adler said.

  “You know him?” Daniel asked.

  “I know enough. If his rule had been established in a more civilized time, long ago, he would be dragged out of that house and stoned to death for incompetence. And the man that killed him would be made king. Do you believe that?”

  “I can. Man is a barbaric thing.”

  “The common man may be barbaric. All the more important it is for men of intellect and power to guide those men as a shepherd leads his flock. Do we fault the sheep if one of them goes astray? No, the fault is with the shepherd. The sheep cannot help being sheep.”

  Having said that, Adler frowned and went silent. The train finished loading new passengers and began to move again. Servers brought them plates of steak and steamed potatoes and water and whiskey. Adler ate very little but drank quite a lot, asking that his whiskey glass be refilled more than once. And by the time they had finished eating, the train’s speed had increased considerably and the vista, previously filled with interesting creations, became barren and deserted as the train crossed into a valley of dirt and gravel. Spurred by this lack of visual stimulation, Adler spoke to Daniel of their destination. Of Mount Shasta.

  “Have you been to it before?” Adler asked.

  “I have not. I saw it once from afar a long time ago as a boy traveling with my father.”

  “It is a sight, isn’t it? It rises alone, and though it may not be the highest peak it possesses qualities unique to it in all the world.”

  “What sort of qualities?”

  Daniel was genuinely curious at that point, but Adler changed the subject.

  “Are you a joyful man, Daniel?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “That is a good answer. Joy is a vague word. It means one thousand things to one thousand different people.”

  “When I think of joy, I think of children. I think only children know joy truly, and at some point that knowledge is lost as all of us must grow.”

  “I’ll agree with you there, to a point. A German philosopher called Schopenhauer once posited that a living being’s intellect is proportional to their capacity to suffer. It follows that as our awareness grows, so does our experience of pain and sorrow and, by extension, our joy decreases. Of course, that statement alone says little. The precise mechanism by which knowledge begets suffering, and this is a mighty secret, is imitation.”

  “Imitation? How so?”

  “Oh. I have spoken too much. The whiskey damages my judgment. I do wish I could divulge all of these things but they are not for the uninitiated. And do you know why you’re here with me on a train to Mount Shasta?”

  “To be initiated?”

  “To be judged worthy of initiation. Now, as I am tired, I will try to get some sleep and so should you.”

  It took ten hours for the train to travel the full distance between Sacramento and Berryvale, the nearest town to Mount Shasta. Adler slept for about one hour of that time and spent the rest of it reading and writing into a little parchment he had on him. Daniel did not sleep at all and he had brought with him no diversion, nor did he desire one. His mind, saddled as it was by worries, could not concentrate on much of anything for the full length of their journey. He was not yet sure what this trip meant. Not yet sure anything Adler said could be believed. The one thing that gave him some relief was that Adler, as far as Daniel could tell, was not armed.

  When they came out of the train, it was night and Daniel discovered Berryvale was not much of a town at all. There was a post office and a sheriff and two or three buildings more and nothing else.
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br />   “Come,” Adler said. “There are no inns in Berryvale but I am known to the sheriff and he will let us sleep in his office. Not like they use it for anything.”

  And the sheriff did greet Adler warmly just outside his office, as old friends, and led them to the back of the building, where a well had been dug up, and they filled their skins and drank to contentment.

  “Nothing like a well to lay stake to a savage land, right?” Adler said. Then he added: “Could you spare us some room to sleep, my good sheriff? It is dark out and we’ve nowhere to go.”

  “Mr. Adler, you know well I want nothing but to accommodate you. In fact, it is my sworn duty as a keeper of the peace to accommodate fine folk such as yourself. But I can’t invite you into my home, because, frankly, we ain’t got the room for you and my wife would likely leave me if I did bring anyone in.”

  “I don’t expect to sleep in your house, Sheriff. Right here would be fine, same as before.”

  “That’s the thing. I got a man in the cell.”

  “I see. Well, that’s no problem at all. We’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

  “I won’t deny you if you really wish to stay here, but I must warn you. This man I detained is dangerous. Now, I can keep his hands shackled and he’ll be in the jail cell, but after I jailed him he shit all over the cell. I can barely sit at my desk for more than twenty minutes because of the smell. And he’s been known to attack other men with his head and to bite and spit. The madman’s like a rabid beast.”

  “What charges are levied against him?”

  “Rape and murder.”

  “I think we’ll be fine, Sheriff.”

  “Alright, suit yourself. Come on, now. Just stand back. Let me shackle him up.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes, go on home to your wife. And kids? You have kids, right? Two boys?”

  “Yes sir. Jeremiah and Luther.”

  “Go on to them, now.”

  Coming into the office, the first thing that struck Daniel was the smell. It smelled of shit and piss and blood mixed together and fermented under the noon sun. And the vortex from which these smells issued was a man sitting on one of the bunks, his head tilted downward, his gaze fixed on the floor. As soon as the sheriff left, the prisoner, as if awakened, got up and stalked around in his cell like a lion, his eyes full of hate and his hands contorted in strange ways. Adler ignored the prisoner at first, finding in a drawer a pair of thick blankets and pillows. One pair he gave to Daniel and the other he spread on the floor for himself. Both of them lay there trying to sleep when the prisoner began to howl and scream and curse. Daniel looked to Adler for an answer but the man still lay there with his eyes closed. Then, finally, Adler got up and stood in front of the cell. The prisoner ceased his ruckus and lunged towards Adler, sticking his arms through the bars in a violent fashion. Adler remained calm throughout, shushing the prisoner by pressing one of his fingers against his lips. To Daniel’s surprise, this seemed to subdue the crazed man and when Adler gestured for the man to come closer, he did, pressing one side of his head against the bars as if waiting to hear some grave secret. And Adler whispered something to the prisoner and the prisoner’s eyes opened wide at hearing whatever words had been uttered. On his way back to his bed, Adler blew out the lone candle that had been burning on the sheriff’s desk and Daniel was left with only the horrible sound of the prisoner turning and running his own head into the wall with every ounce of strength available to him. It took several attempts but eventually the prisoner succeeded in killing himself, the last thump like the bursting of a watermelon.