Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (14 page)

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Joseph said, knowing the opposite was about to be true for himself.

Kate said nothing.

The marshal, sensing his place in the family business was secure, picked up the deputy’s knife.

“Must have been quite a conversation,” he said.

*   *   *

An hour later, Bart Hildebrandt left the bookstore still woozy, but on his feet. His hands were locked in large black shackles, a request of the mayor so as to make it obvious to the crowd gathered outside exactly who the villain was in this situation.

Joseph thought the police escorting the soon-to-be former deputy was enough, but he chose not to say anything. He was keeping his mouth shut for the time being.

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Mayor,” Kate said. “Sometimes private investigations have a way of becoming public.”

“True, but I believe I can spin an assassination attempt. All good politicians have at least one on their résumé. The trick is to make sure it’s not the
last
thing.”

Kate smiled. “I understand.”

“And don’t be too hard on your man, here,” the mayor said, laying a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “His command of the situation was top notch. Fearless. I don’t think any one of us was in mortal danger for more than ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

Kate’s smile faltered. “Mortal danger?”

The mayor held up the book that would be featured in numerous newspapers nationwide over the coming weeks.

“My new
holey
Bible,” he said, poking a finger through the cover.

Kate eyed the book and then her husband. Joseph pretended not to notice.

“Now, I’m afraid it’s going to be a busy day for me, so we’ll leave the, um, settlement of our business arrangement on the table for the moment, if that’s all right.”

“At your convenience, Mr. Mayor.”

“Wonderful! Make it Saturday afternoon. I’m having a garden party for some of the early-arriving festival guests. The whole family is welcome, of course. And I might even have another job for you.”

Kate raised an eyebrow.

“Something much less dangerous, I assure you.”

Joseph nodded. “We’ll be happy to discuss it Saturday.”

“Excellent. Two sharp. Garden attire, if you please.”

The mayor left the store to the cheers of several dozen well-wishers. It was the kindest reception he’d received since taking office.

Kate watched the politician disappear into the crowd. A single tear slipped down her cheek as Joseph put an arm around her.

“It’s all right.”

“No, I’m going to kill you,” she said.

“I know,” Joseph said, pulling his wife into both arms. “But it’s all right.”

9

Henry bit through the nail of his left thumb, spit it to the ground, and read the same mixed-up sentence for the third time.

Into the black, dense and back, a capite

ad calcem, ab aeterno, and nothing less,

huis-clos of six pieds de profond, a

muana tucka of twelve, no more, truky,

tamby, maso.

“They’re directions,” he whispered aloud to no one. Directions for what, he wasn’t sure. Henry thought it might refer to a familiar space six feet underground, but what went in the space?

“A muana tucka of twelve, no more.”

The deeper he read—nearly forty pages so far—the denser the language became, more complicated and confusing. Henry could read the English well enough, and some of the French, but the words he took to be Spanish (which were actually Latin) were a struggle, and the gibberish—in fact, phonetically spelled African words of more than a dozen tribes—was impenetrable.

Except when it wasn’t.

“Muana tucka
means ‘young boy,’” Henry said, knowing it was true, but not how he knew it. This had happened more than once.

Henry scanned the campsite. Mason, Hugh, and Charlie were asleep in their bedrolls, having drifted off hours ago. The Hanged Man’s canvas-wrapped body was propped up against a tree stump to Henry’s right. Charlie thought it a fine joke that Henry should once again sleep next to his friend. They had, after all, both spent time in the same underground accommodations, even if Henry’s stay had been much shorter.

Henry didn’t care where the dead man lay. He was too engrossed in his reading to mind the stink of death. He’d waited until all three men were past waking before cracking open the notebook. The light from the fire had faded, but the soft glow of the remaining embers coupled with the moonlight was enough for Henry to read by. On subsequent late-night readings, Henry would find the words always became clearer as the light waned.

Despite his spotty progress, Henry had never felt more satisfied. The more he read, the more the words took hold in his mind, even if he didn’t grasp all of their meanings. And that’s not to say he didn’t understand much of it. This was a collection of spells, pure and simple. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the order, although the complexity of the procedures seemed to increase with each turn of the page. Earlier entries had rarely been more than half a page in length and some were only a sentence or two. The phrase that currently bounced around in Henry’s head was part of a three-page entry, the overall intent of which Henry had yet to grasp.

There were also spells that featured notes written in a hand different from that of the original author, offering translations and in some cases alterations to the main text. The annotations were, thankfully, written in English, which helped Henry unlock the meaning of a few words repeated in other spells.

One such spell described how to control the actions of a silent man, a simpleton according to the notes, by speaking a series of phrases into the ear. Listening to his new partners’ breath in the night air, Henry wondered if “silent” meant “sleeping.” He flipped back a dozen pages to the text that suddenly seemed very clear twenty minutes after he’d read it. He scanned the words again. There were three lines, a succession of calls to the mind of a
“silent man lacking intellect and purpose,”
according to the note scribbled underneath.

Henry found he was looking at Charlie, repeating the words in his head to see how they felt. They felt good.

Henry slipped from beneath his blanket and strode quietly around the outside of the circle to where Charlie lay on his side, his hat crushed beneath his shoulder. Charlie’s hand was at his face, his thumb having yet to find its way home. Henry leaned close to the man and whispered in his ear.

“Hear me le silence et observez mes mots bien, ut ego iacio upon thee, is meus unus verus meledictio. Mes mots sont words, mes souhaits your own, my command vestri votum, mes per factum vestri own.”

A breath caught in Charlie’s throat and then slowly escaped through his nose. When he was breathing normally again, Henry continued.

“Rise at my voix et la suivent bien, hear this meus unus verus meledictio.”

Charlie’s breathing paused again, but this time his eyes popped wide open as well.

Henry stumbled backward but managed to right himself before hitting the ground. He dropped the book in the process and was searching for it when he realized Charlie had stood and was now watching him intently.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, loud enough to be heard by all. Thankfully, neither of the sleeping men stirred.

Charlie said nothing.

Henry found the book and pulled it to his breast. Charlie continued to hover over him, staring, even as Henry got his feet. Charlie’s gaze followed his progress, never breaking away or blinking.

“Charlie?” Henry said, a little softer.

Charlie said nothing.

Henry checked the other men. Hugh’s snoring seemed louder but otherwise there was no change.

Henry looked directly at Charlie. The man’s eyes were locked on Henry’s, but on closer inspection they appeared not to see him, not in a way that a conscious man would. Henry waved his hand before Charlie’s face.

Nothing.

Before he could think better of it, Henry poked the man in the forehead with a finger.

Nothing.

Henry stole a glance at the book in his hand, licked his lips, and then spoke the first words that popped into his head.

“Walk into the woods.”

Without hesitation, Charlie stepped forward and would have walked through Henry had he not jumped out of the way. Twenty feet from the campsite, Charlie came to a tree that he carefully circled before returning to his original course. He stumbled a few strides later but did not fall. It barely slowed him down.

Henry stared for a moment longer, before giving chase.

“Stop,” Henry said as he caught up to Charlie.

Charlie stopped.

Henry stepped in front of the man. Charlie stared straight ahead, but as Henry moved into his line of vision, his eyes seemed to find Henry’s and lock on. Henry swayed from side to side. Charlie’s glare followed the movements precisely.

“Weird,” Henry said.

Charlie blinked once.

“Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Charlie nodded.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes,” Charlie said without any emotion.

Henry smiled. The momentary fear he’d felt was gone, replaced by an exhilaration he’d never known. The spell worked. He had control of Charlie.
How much?

“Slap yourself in the face.”

Charlie slapped his face hard enough to make Henry flinch. Charlie blinked several times and for a moment his eyes lost their focus. Henry snapped his fingers before the man’s face.

“Right here, friend.”

Charlie’s gaze returned front and center.

“That’s better. We’re not done experimenting yet.”

Henry looked Charlie up and down. A moment of calm passed over him. It would be the last he would feel for a very long time.

“Drop your trousers,” he said, letting his amusement take charge.

Charlie undid his belt buckle and wiggled his hips until his pants fell around his boots, exposing a dingy pair of long underwear spotted with holes. Henry grinned at what he had wrought and found he wanted more of the same.

“Walk.”

Charlie tried to stride forward but quickly became entangled in his pants and fell face-first into a large fern.

Henry laughed loudly, unable to repress his delight.

On the ground, Charlie fought with the fern, appearing to be trying both to stand and to walk at the same time. This made Henry laugh harder.

“Get up, fool!”

Charlie ceased kicking the ground and started to get to his knees. In doing so, he put a hand directly into the base of a thistle bush.

“Ow!”

Charlie blinked and this time he recognized the scene before his eyes. He was on the ground, pants were around his ankles, and Henry was there, laughing at him.

“Son of a whore!”

Charlie leaped to his feet before Henry could react and hit him with a wild roundhouse right, driving him to the ground. Henry never let go of the book.

“To hell with you!” Charlie barked, as he pulled up his trousers. “Next time I catch you sneakin’ a peek, I’ll cut your throat. Go on and laugh, see if I don’t!”

Charlie strode off, leaving Henry to reflect on his success. He rolled his jaw, shocked by how much it hurt. His father had hit him, of course, but never like that and never in the face. It was a disturbing feeling, but it didn’t erase what he’d done: he’d taken control of the man with just a few words, some of which he didn’t even fully understand.

And this was one of the simpler spells in the book—imagine what he could do once he’d read them all!

A sharp pain cut through Henry’s skull from his forehead to the base of his spine. It was followed by a wave of nausea, which passed only after he vomited most of the beans he’d consumed earlier in the evening onto the forest floor. Henry waited, but a second wave never came. Instead, a headache quickly took hold that would last the rest of the night. Worse still was the pain in Henry’s already swelling jaw. He wouldn’t be whispering again for some time, but Henry didn’t care.

There was so much to read.

10

Andre Labeau is seven years old when he learns the brightest light often casts the darkest shadow.

He’s a smart boy, and smart boys often do dumb things, which is how Andre ends up with chicken scratches across his chest and up and down both arms. The cuts aren’t deep and on a boy Andre’s size they hardly seem cause for alarm, but that doesn’t stop him from shedding a tear as his mama sets him right.

“Whatchoo thinkin goin in there? Chicken coop ain’t no place fo a boy afta dark.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Course you is,” Andre’s mama says. “Stealin eggs is fo foxes and fools, neither of which is you.”

“I wasn’t stealin no eggs.”

“Oh? You afta a chicken?”

“No, Mama. I’m a kill it.”

Andre’s mama slaps her son without hesitation. The sting is more painful than any of the cuts on his arm, but the surprise holds back any further tears.

“You do and don’t see if you get worse from Mistah Bouvant.”

“But I goin set us free!”

Andre’s mama raises her hand again but delivers no blow. Andre never flinches.

“How you goin do that?”

The smile that forms on Andre’s face is as big as his secret.

“Magic!”

Andre’s mama smiles, too, and then laughs, full and hearty. She wraps her arms around him—as far as they’ll go—and holds him tightly.

“Boy, you is beautiful. Big and beautiful.”

“It was Miss Haddie told me what to do.”

Andre’s mama loosens her embrace.

“Haddie? Whatchoo talkin to her fo? That woman bring us mo trouble.”

“But she show me how to cast a charm and told me about the hoodoo—”

“Hoodoo? Voodoo more like. She got a dark shadow hangin o’er her shoulders, Andre. Best stay away from her.”