Lead destiny, p.1
Lead Destiny, page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: A Stirring of Lights and Sounds
Chapter 2: A Storm Upon the Horizon
Chapter 3: The Frying Pan
Chapter 4: The Fire
Chapter 5: Still Waters and Deep Currents
Chapter 6: Cabin Fever
Chapter 7: An End to a Beginning
Chapter 8: A Drink Precedes a Story
Chapter 9: A City of Heathens
Chapter 10: Battle Cries and Deaf Ears
Chapter 11: A Mutual, Tentative Respect
Chapter 12: Tranquil Waters
Postscript
Chapter 1: A Stirring of Lights and Sounds
Destiny is nothing but smoke and mirrors. Parlor tricks meant to deceive the foolish and desperate. I knew this, and I tried my damnedest to avoid it at all costs, yet still I found myself in a den of illusions and lies.
The old hag lived at the top of the hill, in a house that could have been considered run-down before anybody had even heard of Abe Lincoln. The fact that there was nobody to mend it, and that the lady of the house was the type that seemed to have been old since birth, probably lent itself to the legend surrounding it.
Down below was the village, your classic western town through and through. The type of place they write about in storybooks back East. With just one glance you could tell right where the noble sheriff would gun down the villainous outlaw, and right at high noon to boot. From up on this hill, you could see the general store where the local boy tries to win over the prettiest girl in town. Glaringly present was the huge steeple, towering above the other buildings. Within, scenes of great celebrations of the one true God, of epic retellings of those ancient texts, were probably playing out, though I had no idea what day of the week it might be. The whole place seemed to shift depending on the type of literature, or scripture, you preferred. It was a town so familiar it did not really seem to have a name, at least, not one I bothered to remember.
The witch’s hut was a different story altogether. I cannot seem to shake this from my memory no matter how hard I try. It had all the dressings you would expect, the bird bone dreamcatcher, holes in the roof’s shingles, and not a living thing in sight. I would not have been the least bit surprised if a tumbleweed blew through just as I reached the front step.
Yet, for all the clichés, something about this house seemed strange. It had a power around it, for lack of a better word. I am not one to buy into legends and sorcery, but there was an undeniable presence about the place. Light seemed to shimmer around it, sort of like a mirage on a hot day. Except it was not like any mirage I had seen, not unless mirages happen in fifty-degree weather. Aside from the visual oddities, there were things that were not outright strange about this shack, the types of details you would miss unless you were thinking about it hard enough. It was a windy day when I made the trek up there, yet it stopped just as I reached the spot where the hill levelled out. It was as if mother nature herself was avoiding those grounds.
That uneasy presence kept with me as I pushed open a door so thin and full of holes that it could not have kept out a breeze, let alone Colorado wind. Of course, there was no lock on the door, and it flew open with predictable ease. As sunlight flooded the front room, a pair of rats came scurrying across the dirt floor and through my legs as though they had been waiting for a chance to escape.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting to be greeted by the woman who lived there. I half expected her to know I was coming, despite my rational nature. After a minute of posing in my most heroic stance, I closed the door behind me and moved further into the trickster’s lair.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I began my investigation with my nose. Never had I entered a place as drafty as this that managed to be damp and dank at the same time. The smell of wood rot was almost overwhelming, but I also picked out the distinct scent of incense burned long ago.
Finally, the shadows around me took form, and I saw yet more of what I expected to. Candles that were left to burn until the wax crawled down the counter and pooled on the floor. Pots and pans that were last washed during Sherman’s march. Droppings from God only knows what kind of animals, along with some of those animals’ bones piled in the corners.
Eventually I turned toward the only other door, a light birch wood that was the only thing in this place that was not on its last leg. In fact, this door seemed as though time had not touched it at all. That door was so strangely out of place that it made me question not only its role, but all the other tropes within. A handful of these anticipated decorations would have been normal, but so many all at once put the hairs on the back of my neck on edge, standing in formation, ready for a battle-march. This house seemed to fulfill and subvert expectations all at once.
As the bedroom door swung open, there was no pentagram drawn on the ground in blood, no candles flickering menacingly, and no crystal balls projecting radiant light across the walls. All that stood in this dingy room was a dilapidated bed and the old maid that slept upon it.
I cleared my throat but received no reply from the unconscious witch. As I moved to wake her more violently, the permeating scent of mold was finally replaced by an inhuman stench. I was forced to reel backwards with tears welling in my eyes from just a moment of it. The hag, for no woman could smell this foul, had obviously not bathed since the last renovation was made to the house around her.
After composing myself and bracing for more of the same terrible odor, I managed to shake her awake. She shot upright with surprising speed and let out a yelp of shock. Apparently, she did not get many visitors. The reason why became more and more evident with every moment I spent in her lair.
The fabled crone sat a while, licking her lips and clearing her throat. She seemed in no particular hurry to question the man who had let himself into her bed chamber. Once her lips were acceptably wettened, she turned and rose from the bed, yet managed to only stand a few inches taller than she had sat. I was presented with an ancient, stocky little woman with unkempt hair and even less tended to hygiene. Now that she faced me, I could see the huge amounts of wrinkles that folded across her gnarled nose. Despite all the ugliness about her, though, I could almost see the woman that once was. Nothing explained her past beauty more clearly than her eyes, a shade of emerald I would have thought impossible anywhere other than a painting.
With just one look at me she said, “Ah, so that’s why you’re here. Another comes to hear about the hell of their own making.” She then pushed herself past me, not bothering to glance at the startled expression I had not managed to contain.
I followed her back into the main room, where she was rooting around through some of her old cupboards. She found what she was looking for: a handful of animal bones, and a few round, needleless cacti.
“Make yourself useful, you big lumbering dolt. Go out back and build a fire. Or do they not teach you how to do that in Virginia?” she barked over her shoulder.
Again, she did not turn to see my look of astonishment, one I could not have hidden if I tried. If she were not some kind of psychic, she was much better at reading people than anyone I had ever met. The heavy drawl I paraded around on my voice like a prized possession revealed my origins to any who heard it, but I had said nothing since arriving.
Once I wiped away my disbelief, I turned toward the door to obey her command. As I pushed the door open, I caught a glimpse of her doing something to the cactus, only I could not tell what. My imagination began its feverish and proactive work, conjuring up images of ancient pagan rituals and other arcane, malevolent, and occult dealings she might be tending to.
Out back, there were the remains of many fires burned long ago. Unsurprisingly, the back was just as lifeless and eerie as the front. Even the firewood seemed especially dry and dead, as if the trees they once were had the water sucked right out of them. Luckily, that dryness helped start a fire within minutes.
As I sat and waited for the hag to come to me, I took closer note of my surroundings. Though I had started up the hill around two in the afternoon, the sun was already setting behind me. My better judgment then ran out, and the thought that there was perhaps more to this woman than just legend squirmed its way into my mind. My reason and imagination were ever at odds, and it seemed as though the latter would win the day.
Finally, the sorceress emerged from around the house, but now a teapot had replaced her odd cactus. I stood as she approached the fire, and she threw the bones of varying sizes at my feet, the way one might throw down a moldy piece of bread, or something with an unnerving texture to it. “Pick one, and pick well,” she cooed as she placed the kettle onto the fire.
I sat back down and took a medium-sized bone, one that was white with age and bent into a shape resembling an S. The squat little enchantress lowered herself with a great deal of discomfort and looked at my choice. “The fox’s arm. One I haven’t had much practice in reading, sadly,” she said as she made herself comfortable. “Perhaps you’ve already got the fox’s jaw? Say, what’s your name stranger?”
“My name? I’ve got many. Which one are you interested in?” I responded. I could not get a read on her, could not figure out how to tailor my words to her particular figure, so I spent them frugally.
The old bat cackled and flashed me a toothless grin. “Aye, you do have the fox’s jaw, just as I suspected. It lights a fire under an old soul, to talk to one as sharp as you after all these years. Lord knows that town down the hill doesn’t produce them reliably.” She gestured in the general direction of that residency de void of character in a way that made me think she had already forgotten it before she finished her sentence.
“Well thank you for the kind words, but I have some questions for you.” Curiosity, a third contender for my mind’s attention, had joined the fray and was making quite the argument for its case.
“Aye, ask away. We’ve time yet before the tea’s ready and our little séance can begin.” Even as she said this directly to me, her attention was fixated on the fire. She began prodding at it obsessively, like a boy who had found an interestingly shaped stick might.
Ignoring the questions her statement raised, I asked, “How did you know I’m from Virginia?”
She smiled another gummy smirk at me, tearing her gaze from the flames for a moment. “Would you believe it’s magic? No, I don’t suppose you would. Can’t trick a trickster. That tobacco you carry, it’s as strong a Virginia scent as ever I smelled. The stuff we get out here either isn’t from way out East, or it doesn’t smell as strong.”
“So, you’re no witch? You’re a hack?” I did not realize just how coarse my turn of phrase was, focusing only on shining a light on what I was sure was her ruse.
“You watch your tongue boy. I never claimed to be no witch, but I do know something about the worlds apart from this one. What we’re about to do is no hack, and you’d be smart not to treat it as such.” Just then, the kettle began to boil. She pulled it off the fire and produced two cups from deep within her cloak. “You’ve heard of peyote? The natives around these parts use it in ceremonies, just as we intend to.”
“I’ve heard of it, yes. I’ve also heard it turns strong men into fools faster than any whiskey you could imagine.” The tales and legends, most if not all false, had seeped into the minds and mouths of drunks across the great plains, simple folk afraid of what they do not know. At that time, I should have counted myself among them. With only word of mouth, five degrees removed from its source, I was apprehensive towards the drug.
“Only fools use the cactus to act like fools. With my help you’ll use it to see yourself as you really are, and to gain a glimpse into your destiny.” Her eyes had turned back to her kettle, but the angle they sat at in her head caught a glimmer from the blaze and set themselves alight.
But there it was: my destiny. A made-up idea for those discontent with their lives who lack the will to do anything about it. “Fine. Show me the way, Spirit Guide.”
She handed me the cup silently and watched me drink it down. Once I was finished, she said to me, “It’ll take a while yet, but I imagine you’ve noticed time works differently up on the hill. When you’ve the need, there’s bushes to your right. For now, though, ask your questions of me, for once the ceremony starts, I’ll be asking the questions.”
“Okay, what will I need the bushes for?”
At this she genuinely laughed, and the ghost of that beautiful woman she once was reappeared faintly through the ghastly visage she wore. It occurred to me then that all of this, her wrinkles, her hut, her odd way of presenting herself to the world might be more of a mask than a reality. “You’ll see soon enough. You should spend your time asking more pressing questions, though.”
“What is the bone for?”
“The bone will be cast into the fire until it splinters. Then, I will read the cracks and give you the information you’ll need on your journey.”
“Journey? Are you talking about the mescaline?”
“Yes and no. I can tell already there are more journeys in your future, but this journey will be done by your mind and soul. Your feet may wander with no aim for the duration.”
“So, this journey is meant to show me my destiny?”
“Yes, and no. Your destiny will be revealed to you, but it is not the point of the celebration. The desert flower will take you to places you’ve never dreamed of, to worlds invisible to the naked eye. You will move through these worlds, as well as through yourself. Deeper understanding is the goal, and only through understanding will the path ahead be revealed.” I was sure of it then: that there was so much more hiding beneath the surface of this woman than she would let on. Not the least of which being her razor-sharp wits. Anyone who met her with ill intents would find themselves sorely surprised. My guesswork began again, and I thought I might be sitting above some poor fool’s final resting place.
“Why are you guiding me on this journey? You’ve asked for no repayment, neither gold nor paper.” I tried to wrangle my emotions, and I believe I succeeded. Had I failed, she would have sensed the growing concern behind my words, at the realization that I had fully surrendered to being drugged by a stranger.
“What I want, what I need, I cannot ask for. I show those who would have me the way to understanding in the hopes that they might understand me.” With this statement, a somber tone fell over her face. She looked even older now than she already was. Her wrinkles seemed to sink into her face as though they were being weighed down by a lifetime spent in close company with tragedy.
“Come on. You can’t ask, or you won’t? This doesn’t strike me as a cheap procedure, and I want to know what price I’m expected to pay before I get the bill.”
“Do not press me on this. Know that it is a terrible deed, one I would sooner die than voice. Know also that you will not discover it. No one has.” Melancholy seemed to fit her like it was her default state. She was good at it, she had a lot of practice.
“Alright, so you’re a helpful woman with arcane knowledge, looking for a thorough scumbag to do your dirty deeds. I think I can buy that,” I said, keenly aware of how close to the edge my words were getting on an acutely raw topic. “Why do you have this title of village witch? Why was I instructed to see you when I rode into town? You’re clearly no witch.”
Her words shifted back to her original tone, as if telling me about her plight had been little more than a far-fetched dream from the start. “I can tell a skeptic when I see one, Man of Many Names.” I had never heard such a name before, but I liked the ring of it. In a brief moment of triumph, reason won in my head and relegated such a feeling to that of receiving a complimentary nickname. “I see the reservations you hold in your heart. You’ve let your head rule your body for too long, always trying to explain. Some things are beyond explanation. This world is open to interpretation.”
“That’s not true, at least not fully. I’m aware that ours isn’t the only world out there. I believe that if there is such a thing as a spirit world, you will show it to me, and for that I am prepared. What I don’t believe, is that those worlds or spirits dictate how my life will play out.” I had tried, albeit not very hard, to stay my tongue on the topic of destiny, but I had failed.
“Ah, the same song the young and arrogant have been singing for eons. I suppose you have a leg up on the rest of them, though. At least you can admit you don’t know some things. However, you’ve yet to realize just how little you know at all.” She was clearly amused by me, by knowing that she held some form of knowledge I was still searching for.
After a moment to ponder and deny her words internally, I responded, “You still haven’t answered my original question.” Though I found the topic a point of contention, I held onto my hard-won wisdom in the field of conversation. Sometimes, the only thing to do is let it lie. Certain topics are a can of worms, itching to sling some mud.
“Well, just as I can spot a skeptic, I can also spot a believer,” she said, turning her brilliant green eyes toward the sky. In a moment of strange anticipation, I thought it might rain, if only to seal the scene as some dramatic rendition. “That town down there may be short of wits, but they’ve no end to fanatics. In fact, they believe so fervently that they’ve passed down their judgment on me as one of Satan’s minions. Their mind’s eyes are too blind to see my true purpose.”
“Why would they send me to you if they think you evil?” I asked, concerned.
“To test you. They believe whoever returns has been spared by God, and those that don’t have been recruited by the devil. Everyone returns, of course, but they see no problem with their system.” Something peppered into her words led me to believe her and served to assuage some of the reservations about my current situation.
I nodded at this answer, working it over in my mind. An uneasy feeling started to rise in my stomach as I asked this next, “If you’ve been exiled to this hill, how do you know so much about that town down there?”
