Josiah Dennis steps out of the shade and into the desert sun. A hatchet, still streaked with days-old blood, hangs listlessly by his side; his only defense against inhospitable conditions and phantom beasts. At least one sunset has passed since he last tasted water, but the dizziness and occasional blackouts make it hard to be sure of the true number. One of these times he may collapse in the brightness of the day and that will be the end.
It’s been even longer since he’s had food. There’s not much out here to strike down with the hatchet, and even the small, skinny creatures run fast.
The crunching sand underfoot is a maddening metronome that begins to slow with the passing time and the heat of the day, as if transitioning to a new movement of a song.
“Come on and sit a spell.”
Deep and steady, the voice comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. One last crunch as Josiah skids to a stop in the middle of the fucking desert. A hundred or so paces behind him, a small sprout of trees sway in a nonexistent wind. They are barely large enough to hide a jackrabbit. Sand as flat as a blacksmith’s bench stretches in every other direction. Bright blue sky hangs overhead with a white-hot sun looking over his shoulder.
“Nothing.” The word scrapes up Josiah’s throat, scratching over his bone-dry tongue, nearly getting caught on the way. It’s so raw he only thinks the next part.
There’s nothing out here except death.
The hatchet tugs at his hand and, for the first time, he considers dropping it. Leaving it behind. It even starts to slip through his fingers, rasping against his dry snake-like skin until he catches it and holds it tight.
My only protection, my burden.
Something glints in the distance and, at first, Josiah suspects he’s imagined it. Easier to believe that nothing helpful could exist in this hellscape.
Then it happens again, no more than a hint of hope. Still, it’s more than he’s seen in days, so he sets out in that direction.
A shadow, sharp as a dagger, slices by his feet. He need not look up to confirm his fears. A vulture. Not many out here in this arid and unforgiving land. The bird’s shadow drifts in a lazy circle, waiting for him to drop dead so it can swoop down and feast unbothered.
Josiah squeezes the handle of the hatchet, feels dried flakes of blood crumble against his fingers.
The shine in the distance catches his attention once more, as if afraid he may have forgotten. Closer now, the way it shimmers reminds him of water. Would that he could be so lucky.
The open desert stretches on in a manner most unlike the land to the east. Back home, rocks and trees give way to mountains and hills; a landscape seemingly designed to entertain as well as enrich. In the desert, everything is monotony and doom. No matter how quickly you move, the land stills around you. As if alive, biding its time. The glimmer remains an impossible dream.
The vulture passes overhead once more.
Josiah listens for the return of the voice, but it is notably absent. Perhaps its owner is
watching this half-dead husk of a man amble across scorched sand in hopes that the horizon holds salvation. Perhaps this makes the owner laugh.
The voice of God?
He shakes his head.
No, he thinks. Just heat, dehydration, and the weight of the world. That, and a touch of imagination.
The beacon shines at regular intervals and, off in the distance, something else appears. Only a small lump at first, then it grows to the size of a stone, a shrub, a man as he nears. Its features come into sharp relief. Two pointed ears atop a furry body sitting at attention.
Josiah’s heart skips a beat.
A coyote.
Contrary thoughts battle in the back of his mind. The possibility of food combats the idea of danger. Fight or flight.
“Onward, Josiah.”
The same voice as before, with not a soul to be found. A mangy buzzard overhead and a coyote before him that may be as hungry as he. And yet the voice soothes. There is no cunning to be found in the words, rather they slide over him like a balm, encouraging his forward progress.
At the edge of the horizon, the coyote waits. The enticing shimmer flickers off its gray fur and leads Josiah’s gaze toward the pool at its side.
Only water can make the light dance like that.
Josiah licks his cracked lips. He wants to run, but his legs won’t obey. Perhaps exhaustion, perhaps caution. The coyote watches him approach.
The land moves, shrinks, carrying Josiah closer to salvation and bringing the pool into focus. Crystal clear elixir of life, tempting him forward. Surely, the coyote guarding its edge will not mind sharing.
With the watering hole a stone’s throw away, Josiah’s legs collapse. He crawls through the sand. The coyote watches with curiosity glowing in its
eyes.
Let it, Josiah thinks. If I turn and run now, I’m as good as dead, anyway.
Josiah drags his body through the sand, inches at a time. When he reaches the water’s edge, he plunges his hands in, expecting a trick. Instead, his fingers find icy cold nectar that defies the heat of the day. He slurps the water from his shaking hands. Tears form as the drink cools his throat.
“There. That must hit the spot.” A different voice this time, higher and with something like a twang. Each syllable sounds like a plucked fiddle string.
Josiah lifts his head and finds the coyote still resting on its haunches, staring at him.
“Did ... did you say something?”
The coyote tilts its head and opens its mouth. “The water,” it says. “Gotta be refreshing after your journey.”
The world spins and Josiah’s mind races. I’ve died, he thinks. I’ve died and this is my eternal reward. Or torture.
A soft clump shakes the ground as the vulture he’s seen circling overhead plops onto the sand a few feet away. It stretches its wings, then tucks them close. “You don’t look so good, friend.” That deep voice, with just the hint of a tremble.
Josiah swears he can see concern in its strange eyes. One midnight black, the other a milky haze.
“You can’t talk.” He stammers the words as he watches the coyote and the vulture trade a knowing look. “You can’t talk,” he repeats. “What the hell kind of place is this?”
The coyote speaks first. “Buzzard’s Edge. Though you should know, the name wasn’t exactly unanimous.”
The vulture lets out a caw that could almost pass for laughter.
Looking around, Josiah sees nothing. Just open land, beaten by the unforgiving sun of the western territories.
“There’s nothing here,” he whispers.
“I don’t know ’bout that,” says the coyote. “If you let yourself stare off into the
distance, eventually it’ll form. Not unlike the watering hole, I reckon.”
Josiah squints, willing something to form on the horizon. Nothing does. Only swells of sand, reaching for eternity.
“I don’t—”
Waves of haze shimmer off the sand, damming Josiah’s words. They dance across open air until a shape appears. Gradually, as if Josiah has crawled closer to it. A grin spreads across his face. More shapes emerge behind the first. Dark and clean-cut. Lines too straight to belong to natural fixtures. Buildings. A town.
“There it is,” says the coyote, with a mix of awe and humor. “And guess who was here to watch when it first sprung from the ground?”
“Not to mention who’ll be here when it crumbles to dust, lost to time,” adds the vulture.
The animals smile, as much as animals can smile.
“How could you know that? What is to come?” Deep in the recesses of his mind, Josiah feels absurd, conversing with bird and beast, yet the clarity of the moment stifles his embarrassment.
Let them explain themselves, he thinks.
Silence lingers for a moment and, at first, Josiah thinks they will not answer. Perhaps they were never able to answer.
Then the vulture speaks.
“This is an unusual land,” it says. “Demanding. And there are good sides and bad sides to that. It spills its secrets to those who pay attention to past, present, and what is to come.”
“Past, present, and what is to come,” echoes Coyote.
“Time is stacked up and in line most often,” continues Vulture, “but sometimes it overlaps. It falls to Coyote and myself to keep the stories.”
Something about the authority in the vulture’s voice frightens Josiah. His pulse races and his stomach aches. For the first time since the coyote spoke, he remembers the hatchet at his side.
“Are the stories
meant for you alone?”
Once again, the animals passed an unreadable look.
“What good is a story that cannot be shared?” The vulture stares at Josiah, its cloudy eye swirling like mist. “What is your name?”
Josiah tells them.
“Come on and sit a spell, Josiah,” says Vulture.
“Be happy to share one,” says Coyote.
Josiah helps himself to some more water, then nestles between the two animals. He lays the hatchet down, within reach, but out of his hands. Suddenly, everything feels lighter. Josiah Dennis stares across the bleached sand, watching the town grow, as Coyote begins to speak.
They Only Come Out at Night
“Howdy ... s-strangers,” called Ned Callaghan, shaking the second word loose as he descended the rough-hewn schoolhouse steps. He squinted against the dusk as it teased three wraith-like silhouettes, wrapped in long coats. Moon-white faces peered from beneath wide-brimmed hats. They stood, as if waiting, at the Buzzard’s Edge line. The words fluttered through the air, drifting past the shadowy forms, before the desert swallowed them.
Ned let his hammer hang by his side as his gaze wandered away from the strangers, crawling over the surrounding buildings before returning to the schoolhouse, the fruit of his labor. Only a few days from finished by his estimate. If the burgeoning civilization of Buzzard’s Edge were a baby, it wouldn’t be old enough to give up the tit. Wanderers from the hills frequently stumbled into town, had since the first hint of construction, for the promise that someday, an oasis might grow out of the wooden skeletons and sand, to give a group of refugees and undesirables a place to call home.
Something seemed off about these visitors, however. Maybe the silence with which they conducted themselves, or the way they stood so still, in defiance of the evening wind. It made Ned nervous, but then, that wasn’t nothing new. Half the reason he’d set out west in the first place.
The stranger in the center stepped forward, glanced toward its feet, and seemed to decide that was far enough.
“Rest,” it said, or so Ned thought. The voice hissed, more reptile than man. Like a snake choking out a cat. A shiver danced across his shoulders.
“R-rest,” repeated Ned, trying out the word. “Well, now, if you f-fellas need to get off your f-feet for the night, M-Maude’s m-might be your best bet.” He wiped a line of sweat from his brow.
The three stared, tilting their heads in unison in a way that made Ned’s blood run cold.
Too perfect. Unnatural.
Silence lingered in the air as the sun ducked behind the horizon. The three figures made no move either in advance or retreat.
“Or ... or just s-stay out there and ... and f-freeze,” mumbled Ned. He lowered his voice in order to keep his snark to himself but couldn’t help worrying the trio might’ve caught his words. He almost laughed until it struck him how empty the streets were. The faint hint of a good time drifted over from Maude’s, everyone else in Buzzard’s Edge having packed in their work for the day. Nearly dropping his hammer trying to get it through his belt loop, Ned decided to call it quits as well.
“Good ... good luck, gentlemen. W-wish you the b-best of luck.” He even tipped his hat as he backed toward the heart of town, afraid to take his eyes off the outsiders.
Another hiss came, but if it was supposed to represent a word, Ned couldn’t guess what that word might be. Their forms blended into the gloom beneath the cold moonlight. The farther he got, the less sure he became of being watched.
Only he was sure. Their gaze landed on his back the same way you felt it when someone
had a gun trained on you.
“N-nothin’ ... nothin’ f-for it,” he whispered to himself. Half tempted as he was to warm his blood with a pint from Maude’s, the idea of walking through those batwing doors and catching a room full of stares steered him in the direction of home.
Relief set in at the sight of his modest abode, nestled snug in the middle of town just up the hill from the outskirts and far from the prying eyes of the ghost-like drifters. Ned wrapped himself in an extra layer of blankets.
Buzzard’s Edge chilled a little harder than usual that night.
***
Come.
The word echoed through Violet Conway’s mind unbidden. So faint she didn’t even put her book down. A simple shake of her head, then she tapped the page to find her place and kept going.
Dying firelight flickered across the pages, matched by the final traces of the setting sun. Just enough leftover light to draw a dim outline of the buildings.
So much progress in a relatively short period of time.
With a sigh, she closed her book, imagining the desolate, uninhabited patch of land that had sprawled in the shadow of the mountains only a few short years earlier. She squinted to make out the various buildings in the retreating glow, finally settling on the schoolhouse. It was slightly taller than the surrounding structures, with a bell tower resting on top.
For months, Ned Callaghan had toiled away to give the children of Buzzard’s Edge a place to learn. To give Miss Conway a place to teach them. She’d passed by on occasion, flashed him a smile, and received one in return. The work appeared to be going well, nearing completion any day now.
Maybe she would stop by to see him the next day.
Come.
Violet frowned. That word again. Still soft, almost drowned out by her father snoring in the other room, but with a sense of intrusion. Like her mind hadn’t been responsible for conjuring the idea.
A chill raced up her arms, leaving hairs standing in its wake. An overwhelming urge to cover the windows grew in her. To keep something from getting in. No, that wasn’t right.
To keep it from seeing in.
Heart racing, Violet laid her book on her night table, taking care not to let it make a sound, then padded across the room, barefoot and on the tips of her toes. As she covered the gaping windows with canvas tarp, a warmth unrelated to the hearth fire seeped back into her bones. Still striving for silence, she slipped back into the chair.
Come.
The voice tickled at the back of her mind once more, barely more than a whisper this time.
***
Bright and early, Ned set back to work, building a railing along the stairs that led to the new schoolhouse. Before he drove the first nail in, he scanned the horizon.
Not a soul in sight.
All too quickly, the day passed. As dusk loomed closer, Ned kept half his attention on the town line.
“Sun’s gone down, Mr. Callaghan, and look at you, still sweatin’ up a storm.”
Fixed as he was on the approaching darkness, Ned’s heart missed a beat, then pounded double hard to make up for it. His mind often moved faster than his mouth, and it only took a moment to realize that the voice—light and lilting—did not resemble a hiss.
“S-sakes alive, Miss Violet. You just about got my heart s-stuck in my throat.”
Violet knit her brows in concern. It only made her look prettier, and Ned had a hell of a time keeping a goofy grin off his face.
“I ... I just mean you s-scared me is all.”
Violet’s face softened, her brow relaxing like hair let down after a long day of being tied up. She opened her mouth to reply, but a harsher voice cut her off.
“Ey, Callaghan, try not to let any of that stammer seep into the woodwork.”
Jim Taggert approached from behind Violet, circled around her and leaned against the railing, driving his shoulder into it as if to test the durability. Contrary to the shy smile that had graced Ned’s lips before falling flat, Taggert’s smug grin beamed bright enough to make a person forget the night was on its way. “New frontier and all, last thing we need’s a group of idiotic kiddies what can’t speak the right way.”
Ned flapped his lips. Only the words didn’t come. Maybe for the best. He had no idea what they would have been. He went a hot shade of red, knowing he looked like a salmon caught on a riverbank. His cheeks darkened to crimson when Taggert shook with laughter, belting it out
so hard he had to lean over and brace his hands on his knees.
“Jim Taggert,” said Violet, with a fire in her voice the same quality as that in Ned’s cheeks. “You’re one to talk about folks receiving a proper education, you halfwit. Now fuck off on home. Leave those be that put in a hard day’s work, rather than tippin’ back moonshine and grousing for a soiled dove to go searching through your britches for a hint of a prick.”
Ned expected Taggert to get angry, maybe show some shame, but he blanched the same pale white as the strangers on the outskirts, and his mouth went deadly straight.
“You talk to the kiddies that way, Violet? ...
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