A short story from the Rifters universe…
The Oregon high desert was desolate and cold. Charley breathed on his cupped hands to warm up his fingers. The sun was as brilliant as on a summer day, but the warmth barely kissed the air on this frigid June morning. Oregon hadn’t gotten the message summer would start in a matter of hours.
Charley wished he had more clothes to wear and stared at the hill walling off a greener world inside. He pulled the hand-drawn map out of his pocket. The map rested inside a handwritten journal with drawing and a poem.
As near as he could figure, he was in the right place. The landscape fit the map and the poem, which had led him here. However, he didn’t see a town. A single wisp of smoke snaked from the shores of one of the two lakes, but one fire didn’t signify a town.
Charley read the poem again.
Within the caldera’s jagged ring,
Two mirrored lakes like secrets sing.
Between them rises a silent cone,
Black glass flows guard the hidden stone.
Beyond the barren, brush-strewn land,
A town awaits your seeking hand.
Where life renews and shadows fade,
The world reborn in a blue sun’s shade
A mysterious ‘NT had sent the journal’ in New York. How this NT had known where to find Charley puzzled him and this odd little book was sent. A twig snapped behind him, and he whirled.
Beside a tree as thick as a town stood a man, who was obviously native. Perhaps NT had sent Charley to a tribal village to be slaughtered, to exact revenge for his crimes. He’d done his time in San Quentin and had only been released a few months ago. He hadn’t yet adjusted to the fact his debt to society had already been paid.
“Hello,” the man greeted Charley. “I’m Chuck.”
“Chuck?”
“Chuck the Indian. That’s what Patrick calls me.”
“Who’s Patrick?”
“The founder of this town.”
“I don’t see a town.” Charley wiped his dust-laden hand as best he could on his travel-logged clothes and held it out, introducing himself.
“We have the same name,” Chuck laughed.
“I suppose we do. Where is this town of Patrick’s?”
“Mostly in his head,” Chuck replied. “He’s not around today, anyway. Won’t be back for a week or so. Went for supplies.”
“Okay. So, there’s not a hotel or anything?”
Chuck laughed some more.
Charley took that to mean no.
“Let me show you the town,” Chuck offered. “You should see it, then we can share some lunch.”
“I have got no food.”
“Don’t worry, Charley. I’m going to take care of you.”
Trusting people didn’t come naturally to Charley. Not after the war, not after the loss of so many brothers, not after the double-crossing by a certain ruthless company, not after the life he had built himself based on lies. He wanted better, wanted a fresh start, wanted what the poem promised; a renewal and rebirth.
Chuck guided Charley through the trees to the lake where a couple of tents were set up and where the fire burned. Charley helped prepare a rabbit and some wild vegetables. Chuck talked a lot and was companionable.
While they feasted, Charley answered Chuck’s questions about why he had come to Settler. “I won’t lie to you, Chuck,” he said, licking rabbit juice from his fingers. “I came in hopes of starting over, of reinventing myself.”
“What are you running away from?” Chuck scooped up grilled wild onions and carrots, placing them on top of a chunk of rabbit before devouring the morsels. “To become something else means you’re leaving something behind.”
“A notorious past,” Charley confessed, unsure why he spoke so much truth to this stranger. “If my past actions keep haunting me, I can never become the man I want to be. And may I say, you speak remarkably good English.”
“Traders have been around these parts since my ancestors’ time,” Chuck replied, “and I hang out with Patrick too much. Your people are awful, but I see we need to learn to live together.”
“My people are terrible,” Charley agreed. He noted the start of a house not so far off. “Patrick’s house?”
Chuck glanced over his shoulder. “I won’t help him build it. His wickiup for his bride has to be made by his hands. If he fails, they won’t come. Which I’m okay with.”
“I understand. Do you want me to leave too?”
“You were led here, and I’m curious why. Stay a bit. Get some rest.” Chuck nodded at one of the tents. “Use Patrick’s tent.”
“It’s barely noon,” Charley said, glancing up at the sky.
“What does time matter out here.”
“Very well.” Charley ducked into the tent and sank onto the cot. He’d been sleeping on the ground for weeks, and his old bones sighed into the soft comfort. His freedom was everything, though, and he’d deal with achy bones the rest of his days if it meant he’d never be behind bars again.
When his eyes next opened, dark had descended, and it was colder. Shivering, Charley left the tent for the fire. The fire was down to embers, and he could hear Chuck snoring in the other tent. With a stick, he stirred the embers and added fresh kindling. When flames shot up, he added a log and patiently waited for the log to catch before adding another.
He wondered at the time, pulling his coat tightly around him and inching closer to the fire. Peering in the pot, his stomach rumbled, but the rabbit and vegetables were gone. Disappointed, Charley sat back on his heels and took out the little journal, reading over the poem again.
Not so far off, a brilliant burst of blue exploded in the forest. The light kept burning with the oddest flames Charley had ever seen. He stuck a nearby branch into the campfire and lit a torch before making his way through the trees toward the blue light. Using skills he had learned as a scout during the war, he snuck through the forest without a sound, making his way to the blue light.
In a clearing, a circle of blue light danced in the center of it. Charley gaped. “What in all the West…” He circled the clearing, eyeing the blue light.
Chuck appeared beside him. “I’ve seen things walk through that thing.” He didn’t whisper.
“Shh,” Charley said.
“If anything intended to come through, it would be here by now.”
“What kind of anything?”
Chuck shrugged. “Gods, monsters. I’m not sure. But the blue circle opens sometimes in the summer. My ancestors tell stories about it.”
“Opens?”
“If gods and monsters come through, they come from somewhere, Charley.”
Charley put out his torch and placed one foot in the clearing. He remained unharmed, but a strange feeling emanated from his chest. The feeling vibrated and clutched onto him. Without thinking, he found himself in front of the blue circle, reaching out a hand.
He felt a shove against his back and stumbled into the light. The Oregon high desert disappeared, and he swirled in a dark fog sometimes erupting with blue lightning. A blue man floated beside him.
“You’re special,” the strange blue man with long silver hair said. “You’re destined for great things. Your wish for a new start has been granted.”
The fog pulled and pushed at Charley and suddenly dissipated. He found himself back in a forest in the dead of night. They pointed lights at him that didn’t emanate from fire. He shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to get a better look at them.
“He doesn’t look much like a monster,” one said.
The other approached, a clean-cut sort of man barely past his teens. His hair was cut in a style Charley had never seen, and his clothes were odd too. His boot poked at Charley. “This is as close to human as I’ve ever seen.”
“I am human,” Charley said. “Where am I? Is this still Settler?”
“Still Settler,” the first one mocked. He had much darker hair and a thin mustache. “As opposed to what?”
“As opposed to somewhere else. Look, one moment I was at my campfire, sharing a meal with Chuck when this blue light burst in the forest. The light’s gone now and I’m in a forest again, but I’m not sure it’s the same one.”
“You talk a lot,” the mustached one said
“Educated English too,” the clean-cut one said. “Culver, check out his clothes. Those are positively vintage. Beyond vintage.” The strange handheld light roamed over Charley. “Maybe he is human.”
“Don’t be supposing anything, Wald. Human or not, he’s a thing from the rift.”
“I’m aware, and I won’t forget.” Wald’s boot nudged Charley again. “You got a name?”
Charley thoughts swirled, and he swallowed the rising panic. Here was his chance to start over, to be someone else. His brain drew from his birth name and from his notorious name. Tipping his hat, he smiled. “The name is Earl Blacke.”
