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deemoyza(Originally posted on October 8, 2018)
The Stranger | 1,416 words| Fantasy/Weird West
Mrs. Baker did not appreciate the knowledge that a stranger was buried on her property. Don and Cuddy had come across the body that afternoon while they were repairing the fence. The stranger, they say, seems to have wandered off the road to the mine and died beneath an old mesquite. They rode into town to fetch the sheriff and the three of them agreed the body was too far gone to move, so they dug a hole and buried him on the spot.
“Far as we could tell, his name was Robert Talbott,” the sheriff told Mrs. Baker. “He had an envelope in his pocket – no letter, just the envelope – addressed to this name, postmark Indianapolis.”
Don and Cuddy insisted there was more, but Mrs. Baker feigned delicacy and begged them to stop. Don had already grown too excited. A sturdy boy of seventeen, Don was a diligent worker, but he was also, as the late Mr. Baker had put it, “none too swift,” apt to follow the slightest distraction into wild flights of fancy. Right now he was waving his arms in demonstrative gestures and speaking quickly, unintelligibly, spittle flying from his lips.
As she watched Cuddy calm her son, Mrs. Baker looked in the direction where they’d found the corpse and frowned. She wished they hadn’t buried the body so soon, before telling her; Cuddy knew better than that. She could already feel faint tremors beneath her feet, but there was nothing she could do until she was free of both Don and the sheriff. She made a vague remark about supper, and taking Don by the arm, bid farewell to the sheriff and headed home.
After supper, when Don had gone to bed, Mrs. Baker poured cups of coffee for herself and Cuddy and sat down, facing him. “Why did you bury him here?” she asked.
“We had no choice, Rosanna. His body was already pretty badly decayed, he’d fall apart if you tried to move him.”
“Why didn’t you come fetch me?”
Cuddy shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. “Several reasons. First off, like I said, the body was in very bad shape. Second, I had Don with me. Didn’t think you’d want him around. How was I going to send him home and bring his mother out? He’d suspect something.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. Baker sighed, watching the flame dance in the lamp on the table. The earth trembled again, and this time, she could feel the tremor rise through the table. Cuddy didn’t seem to notice.
“The land is rejecting him already,” she said, her eyes still on the lamp. “If I don’t do something, the tremors will become stronger.” She rose and walked toward her bedroom. “I’ll gather the materials, you prepare the horses. I have to take care of this tonight.”
The horses moved carefully in the dim light cast by Cuddy’s lamp, the sound of their hooves muffled in the sand. Mrs. Baker rode alongside Cuddy, a satchel full of stones and dried herbs slung across her chest.
“What was so remarkable about the body?” she asked. “Don seemed eager to tell me.”
“Well, it was strange. It looked like Talbott had tried to bury himself. He had a coat, which was hung on a branch, and he was lying propped up against the mesquite, in a long hole about a foot or two deep.”
“Perhaps he was murdered?” Mrs. Baker had heard stories of conflicts turned deadly, hardly a surprise considering some of the miners were luckier than others.
“Couldn’t say for sure. But why wouldn’t the murderer finish the job?”
“And why here, of all places?” They reached the fresh grave and dismounted. By lamplight, Mrs. Baker dug through her satchel and produced several dark, shiny stones. She placed one on all sides of the grave, and one in the center.
“It’s much easier to do the mediation when I can address the corpse directly,” she complained, “but this will have to do.” She pulled a handful of dried herbs from her bag and sprinkled them on the overturned earth. The ground trembled around them, the fresh dirt of the grave roiled, and a body – or the approximation of one, its flesh and bones replaced by weak light – rose up and faced Mrs. Baker.
“Are you Robert Talbott?” Mrs. Baker asked calmly, placing the remaining herbs back in her satchel.
“I am,” the figure replied in a voice muffled by sand.
“Why did you come here?”
“For the same reason as countless men before me. For the silver in the mountains, the gold in the river.”
“What happened to you?”
“I recall very little. I was walking, I was thirsty, it was only a few more miles to camp. But my body wouldn’t make it. I tried to cool down. Took off my coat, dug a little space to lie down in, figured the ground might be cooler there, maybe I’d even find water. I don’t remember much else from there.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Mrs. Baker said, pulling a small knife from her satchel and testing its blade against her thumb. “The desert claims more lives than men claim riches. Was it greed, or necessity?”
“A little of both.” The sand cleared from the specter’s mouth, and the voice that followed sounded very young. “I chased the riches, to be sure, but once I grew tired, I had no way to go home. I needed some money, and I thought to try my luck one last time.”
“Luck is fickle. And this land will not accept you. An ancient spell runs through the earth in this area, a ward against those who would try to take the land from my ancestors. A body not of this land will be rejected, its spirit forced to roam in torment for eternity.”
“No, please, I don’t want that. I never meant any harm, I –”
“Hush. I do not enjoy the thought of wandering spirits outside my window, either. I can help you.” Mrs. Baker brought the knife down quickly across her palm. As the blood bloomed dark across her leathery skin, she reached toward Talbott’s ghost. “Come with me. I shall keep you safe.”
The spirit hesitated.
“I will take your spirit into myself, and when I die, the earth shall accept me. And it will free all of the spirits within this tired old body.” She smiled. “Yours is not the first, nor will it be the last. Come now.”
Talbott’s spirit took Mrs. Baker’s hand, seeping quickly into the blood as dry sand soaks up the rain. Mrs. Baker arched, let out a scream, and slumped back to the ground. Cuddy ran to her and quickly bandaged her hand, then helped her mount her horse. They reached the house just before daybreak, the earth still and quiet beneath them.
***
Mrs. Baker had asked to be buried beneath the ironwood tree at the edge of her property, and Cuddy honored that wish. He took Don in as his own, raised him to be strong and self-sufficient, even if he could not tame the boy’s wild imagination and demonstrative nature. And the seasons passed as Mrs. Baker had said they would, peaceful and productive.
On the third full moon of the third year since her death, Cuddy visited the grave, leading a second horse, as she had instructed him to do. Though she’d told him what he would find there, he could not contain his surprise. At the sound of his arrival, a young girl stepped out from behind the tree, barefoot. In the light of his lamp, Cuddy could see that she was deeply tanned, her skin already leathery, as if she’d toiled in the sun for more years than she seemed to have been alive.
“Rosanna?” he asked, his voice betraying the mixture of fear and awe that swirled within him.
The girl gave a single curt nod, then mounted the other horse as easily as if she’d ridden her whole life. The horse turned to look at her, recognized something in those placid dark eyes, and faced forward again. The girl took off ahead of Cuddy, galloping through the darkness, her eyes the horse’s eyes now, seeing everything in her path. She rode, reveling in the moonlight, the night air, free from the weight of others’ spirits, at least for the time being, ready to begin her work anew.
Mrs. Baker did not appreciate the knowledge that a stranger was buried on her property. Don and Cuddy had come across the body that afternoon while they were repairing the fence. The stranger, they say, seems to have wandered off the road to the mine and died beneath an old mesquite. They rode into town to fetch the sheriff and the three of them agreed the body was too far gone to move, so they dug a hole and buried him on the spot.
“Far as we could tell, his name was Robert Talbott,” the sheriff told Mrs. Baker. “He had an envelope in his pocket – no letter, just the envelope – addressed to this name, postmark Indianapolis.”
Don and Cuddy insisted there was more, but Mrs. Baker feigned delicacy and begged them to stop. Don had already grown too excited. A sturdy boy of seventeen, Don was a diligent worker, but he was also, as the late Mr. Baker had put it, “none too swift,” apt to follow the slightest distraction into wild flights of fancy. Right now he was waving his arms in demonstrative gestures and speaking quickly, unintelligibly, spittle flying from his lips.
As she watched Cuddy calm her son, Mrs. Baker looked in the direction where they’d found the corpse and frowned. She wished they hadn’t buried the body so soon, before telling her; Cuddy knew better than that. She could already feel faint tremors beneath her feet, but there was nothing she could do until she was free of both Don and the sheriff. She made a vague remark about supper, and taking Don by the arm, bid farewell to the sheriff and headed home.
After supper, when Don had gone to bed, Mrs. Baker poured cups of coffee for herself and Cuddy and sat down, facing him. “Why did you bury him here?” she asked.
“We had no choice, Rosanna. His body was already pretty badly decayed, he’d fall apart if you tried to move him.”
“Why didn’t you come fetch me?”
Cuddy shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. “Several reasons. First off, like I said, the body was in very bad shape. Second, I had Don with me. Didn’t think you’d want him around. How was I going to send him home and bring his mother out? He’d suspect something.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. Baker sighed, watching the flame dance in the lamp on the table. The earth trembled again, and this time, she could feel the tremor rise through the table. Cuddy didn’t seem to notice.
“The land is rejecting him already,” she said, her eyes still on the lamp. “If I don’t do something, the tremors will become stronger.” She rose and walked toward her bedroom. “I’ll gather the materials, you prepare the horses. I have to take care of this tonight.”
The horses moved carefully in the dim light cast by Cuddy’s lamp, the sound of their hooves muffled in the sand. Mrs. Baker rode alongside Cuddy, a satchel full of stones and dried herbs slung across her chest.
“What was so remarkable about the body?” she asked. “Don seemed eager to tell me.”
“Well, it was strange. It looked like Talbott had tried to bury himself. He had a coat, which was hung on a branch, and he was lying propped up against the mesquite, in a long hole about a foot or two deep.”
“Perhaps he was murdered?” Mrs. Baker had heard stories of conflicts turned deadly, hardly a surprise considering some of the miners were luckier than others.
“Couldn’t say for sure. But why wouldn’t the murderer finish the job?”
“And why here, of all places?” They reached the fresh grave and dismounted. By lamplight, Mrs. Baker dug through her satchel and produced several dark, shiny stones. She placed one on all sides of the grave, and one in the center.
“It’s much easier to do the mediation when I can address the corpse directly,” she complained, “but this will have to do.” She pulled a handful of dried herbs from her bag and sprinkled them on the overturned earth. The ground trembled around them, the fresh dirt of the grave roiled, and a body – or the approximation of one, its flesh and bones replaced by weak light – rose up and faced Mrs. Baker.
“Are you Robert Talbott?” Mrs. Baker asked calmly, placing the remaining herbs back in her satchel.
“I am,” the figure replied in a voice muffled by sand.
“Why did you come here?”
“For the same reason as countless men before me. For the silver in the mountains, the gold in the river.”
“What happened to you?”
“I recall very little. I was walking, I was thirsty, it was only a few more miles to camp. But my body wouldn’t make it. I tried to cool down. Took off my coat, dug a little space to lie down in, figured the ground might be cooler there, maybe I’d even find water. I don’t remember much else from there.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Mrs. Baker said, pulling a small knife from her satchel and testing its blade against her thumb. “The desert claims more lives than men claim riches. Was it greed, or necessity?”
“A little of both.” The sand cleared from the specter’s mouth, and the voice that followed sounded very young. “I chased the riches, to be sure, but once I grew tired, I had no way to go home. I needed some money, and I thought to try my luck one last time.”
“Luck is fickle. And this land will not accept you. An ancient spell runs through the earth in this area, a ward against those who would try to take the land from my ancestors. A body not of this land will be rejected, its spirit forced to roam in torment for eternity.”
“No, please, I don’t want that. I never meant any harm, I –”
“Hush. I do not enjoy the thought of wandering spirits outside my window, either. I can help you.” Mrs. Baker brought the knife down quickly across her palm. As the blood bloomed dark across her leathery skin, she reached toward Talbott’s ghost. “Come with me. I shall keep you safe.”
The spirit hesitated.
“I will take your spirit into myself, and when I die, the earth shall accept me. And it will free all of the spirits within this tired old body.” She smiled. “Yours is not the first, nor will it be the last. Come now.”
Talbott’s spirit took Mrs. Baker’s hand, seeping quickly into the blood as dry sand soaks up the rain. Mrs. Baker arched, let out a scream, and slumped back to the ground. Cuddy ran to her and quickly bandaged her hand, then helped her mount her horse. They reached the house just before daybreak, the earth still and quiet beneath them.
Mrs. Baker had asked to be buried beneath the ironwood tree at the edge of her property, and Cuddy honored that wish. He took Don in as his own, raised him to be strong and self-sufficient, even if he could not tame the boy’s wild imagination and demonstrative nature. And the seasons passed as Mrs. Baker had said they would, peaceful and productive.
On the third full moon of the third year since her death, Cuddy visited the grave, leading a second horse, as she had instructed him to do. Though she’d told him what he would find there, he could not contain his surprise. At the sound of his arrival, a young girl stepped out from behind the tree, barefoot. In the light of his lamp, Cuddy could see that she was deeply tanned, her skin already leathery, as if she’d toiled in the sun for more years than she seemed to have been alive.
“Rosanna?” he asked, his voice betraying the mixture of fear and awe that swirled within him.
The girl gave a single curt nod, then mounted the other horse as easily as if she’d ridden her whole life. The horse turned to look at her, recognized something in those placid dark eyes, and faced forward again. The girl took off ahead of Cuddy, galloping through the darkness, her eyes the horse’s eyes now, seeing everything in her path. She rode, reveling in the moonlight, the night air, free from the weight of others’ spirits, at least for the time being, ready to begin her work anew.
