Lights Out

I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head.

Lights Out

We were on the edge of a town called Sandia, under the shade of an evergreen tree with tiny leaflets set in bunches, and its form looked superbly bizarre.

Clint Priest stood leaning against its trunk, hunched over his pocket watch.

“The information in that book. You’re sure it’s accurate?”

I nodded.

He turned his head sideways.

“If it isn’t, we’re dead. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

He seemed satisfied by this, turned forward, and after a moment or two flipped the watch closed.

“Alright then, let’s go,” he said, and we started down the road toward the town.

As we approached, I could see Ivy had been carved along its mighty gates, stretching down as far as the gritty sandstone at their base. Where other desert towns might have creeping vines or bright flowers to flaunt their water-wealth, Sandia was different.

The shadow of the gate loomed a long way over the path, covering our approach in shade, and I fell behind to appreciate the stonework and red-black wood of the gate. It was made of Ironwood, I noted, and it must have been imported from a long ways off.

The clip-clop of passing steeds was muted as we made our way toward the town's square, and none of the riders so much as looked at us. White sand glittered like glass in the purplish-orange dusk, the same color as the squat longhouses standing to either side of the road. Beside each door was a small statue: A griffon roaring or roosting. A few scorch-marks ran across the cobblestone paths, whether new or ancient, none could say.

An overturned wagon, overstuffed with dry hay, lay half-concealed by the multicolored awning of a shady alleyway, and a few threadbare strands of rope, edges scorched, snaked throughout the pile. I stopped again to look at it but was obliged to follow Clint when he never did.

Upon reaching the square, I had expected to see a fountain, but just like with the gates this town was different. Instead, there stood a pavilion wide enough to protect a hundred people from the searing sun. Just beyond it there was a bronze statue of a spindly gentleman: One hand outstretched in welcome, the other planted on his hip. Utterly dismissive of his authority, two plump ravens were perched on him. One lurked on the shoulder, while the other reigned uneasily over his crooked hat. A shiver went down my spine as they rustled and one locked eyes with me. Something glinted then, catching my gaze.

Clint saw it, too, and glanced up: The faint specter of gold, miraculously untouched.

“That buckle means he must have been the sheriff,” Clint explained

He stopped and let a woman in a green dress pass in front of him and she smiled, and he lingered a moment to watch her as she quickened her pace toward a building with a sign that read: Ali's Books. He waited long enough to where I drew even with him and had to stop.

“A bookstore,” he finally said in a level tone. “What kind of frontier town has one of those?”

He may have been trying to throw me off the scent of what he had really been thinking about. Either way, we were moving again. His every step careful and purposeful.

As I kept an eye on our flank, I found myself wishing for lamps – or at least torches. Oil, metal, even wood was rare and precious on the edge of the Magonda Desert, and so there appeared no sign of effort to illuminate the streets. Only a few strange-looking salt-lamps dangled on ropes strung across the widest boulevards, glowing faintly from within and giving off a pale, watery light. The paths burned a faded, ruddy peach or yellowed ivory color where their halos struck, and in that glow, my attention fell on a pair of massive horns.

They were affixed above the door of a low adobe building, and the hazy light funneling down on them made them glint just so. While others would have imagined a great steer, I knew better. Clint would have, too, if he had cared to pay attention. These remains could have only come from a minotaur, yet it was impossible to know from when or where.

My attention fixed on the structure.

I assumed by the faded murals on the walls that it was once a burlesque, yet that would not explain the massive bones – surely those of the same creature – that had been melded into the doorframe in such a way as to support it. I imagined going inside only to find the interior was all bones and teeth that—

A pang of anxiety gripped me when I heard a whistle, a shrill note assigned to snap me back to the present. I flinched and then raced to catch up, relieved my lapse in focus hadn’t caused me to miss anything significant.

The full dark of night was nearly upon us now, yet it seemed no cooler than it was before. Clint looked back to the two men he had been conversing with, smiling at having to get my attention. They were standing in front of a large, well-lit structure that seemed to materialize in front of me in an instant. Nestled off the dusty road, against the backdrop of the Parnassus Mountains, the building stood in sharp contrast to everything I had seen so far. I could have even gone so far as to describe the structure as cozy.

Two quaint lanterns, the kind I had been wishing for earlier, flanked a well-kept cobblestone pathway that stretched to a welcoming entrance. A warm glow emanated through various windows and the open doorway, about which a few armed men were hovering. Their postures were loose and comfortable as they talked casually to Clint.

They patted him down for weapons and he was calm and never hesitated. Then he motioned for me to join them. As I did so, a warm breeze creaked a sign on its rusty hinges overhead; a perfect circle branded in the upper right corner, with wavy letters spelling out: The Blue Sun.

As I followed them inside, one of the men was laughing at something Clint had said, and in their presence the machinery of his being churned with what was once his true self.

But I knew it was just a mirage, and the desert was full of those.

The interior of The Blue Sun was as lively as it had appeared from outside. Waves of chatter filled every corner to the tune of a strumming lute, and a working bar was busy in the corner serving members of our host’s motley crew. The heads of a half dozen animals were mounted over the bartender's shoulder, staring vacantly over the tavern. By the looks of them, it had been years since any had roamed the wild.

Beneath the bright light of a wagon wheel chandelier, this place might have been considered a desirable destination under different circumstances. From where we were standing, I could see the second level of the place at the top of a flight of stairs, and at the top of them stood two guards.

The ruckus around us died out to a sort of low, oscillating hum as a man came into view. For a moment he stood motionless, looking around the scene below him like a king taking in his domain. His name was Emory Toth. I had been studying him for weeks, and now he began his slow descent.

When I turned toward Clint, I found he had already sat himself at a large table in the center of the room, having probably been ushered there by Emory’s men while I wasn’t paying attention. By now, the townspeople had to be wondering who we were, and why we were invited to a table of such prominence with the man they lived in fear of.

Clint looked calm, seemingly unimpressed by the theatrical entrance, and he clicked his tongue as I came up and sat beside him. By the time I got situated, Emory was directly across from us, having descended the stairs and still standing.

His appearance caused me to stand, and judging by his reaction he had been expecting us to. When Clint did not rise with me, something like amusement, maybe approval, twitched our host’s lips. That was when I first noticed he was holding a black box with ornate lacing in his hand.

In the time he spent standing over us, I thought about how the shadow of the gate had felt. Tall, with blond hair that grayed at his temples and wrinkles showing around his eyes, Emory Toth carried himself with a nonchalant, confident grace. He paid no mind to the weight of the heavy sword at his waist as he sat, and his guards retreated back a few paces. He wore a long leather coat open to reveal the medals on his chest and round bronze distinctions that showed along the high collar. A crescent moon hung at his neck, made from ivory and cracked with the whispers of war.

He had yet to acknowledge Clint directly as he sat, keeping his concentration on the black box from which he withdrew a deck of tarot cards, which he then splayed across the table beside a sealed decanter of tea. Spicy steam rushed into my nostrils as he flicked the top open and drank in a single gulp. Then he started shuffling.

“It’s no easy thing to gain an audience with me,” he said without looking up. “Fortunately for you …” His skin was clammy and his work was too fast to follow, nimble hands rearranging the cards, cutting them, shifting them once and again. “… your reputation precedes.”

Clint did not respond and at this Emory did glance up him.

“As does yours,” he said.

Emory smiled as he went back to his work, and as he did so, images began to appear on the table before us. Here, rising shameless from blessed water, was the Lady of the Lake; there, crowned in stars, was Our Divine Savior. In the center of all, seated on an obsidian throne, was the grinning specter of Death, feathery wings raised behind it.

​“It gratifies me to hear that,” Toth said. “Such reputations are an asset in our line of work. Wouldn't you agree?”

​Clint just shrugged, toying with his rings.

Emory motioned around with his head but never looked up from the cards.

“The perks are all around you.” He took a sip of tea. ​“And I promise, in ample supply.” I looked around to find the perks looking at us. Several pretty, nervous barmaids. They were trying not to be obvious, but I had been doing this long enough to know practiced disinterest when I saw it.

While I had glanced around, Clint remained focused, watching the man across the table like a cat.

Toth’s eyelid twitched.

“I’ve had my people look into your history, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Would you care if I did?”

“Not really, no.” He continued arranging cards, a narrative unfolding before him. His attention landed on the Three of Swords, three blades pushed through a red apple cut like a heart. ​“I understand you lost your wife and child not long ago. Is that correct?”

One of Toth's men stepped closer and tried to whisper something. Without looking, one hand whipped the air in agitation and the man stepped back.
​
“Careful,” Clint said with an upward nod, and this drew the attention of the man still in earshot. Based on his reaction, the others took a step forward, each exchanging glances.

But it soon became clear it had not been a threat but recognition of what happened next: Emory's elbow hit the decanter and a dark river of tea spilled across the table.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, abandoning any posturing. He snatched the pitcher up, righted it, then plucked the cards off the sopping table one by one, flicking droplets off their surfaces. Some were ruined, the ink smeared. His face twisted in a grimace of embarrassment.

For the first time, Clint smiled.

“Yes, to answer your question. My wife and daughter were killed.”

“May I inquire as to how?”

“Carriage accident. Two years ago.” The chair creaked as Clint leaned back. He crossed his arms and his legs at the ankles. Emory stopped what he was doing and looked up at this. He waited until they made eye contact, and now Clint was the one to draw out the pause. “But that isn’t what you should be concerned with right now. For the purposes of this meeting, I mean.”

“No?” Emory sat again, shaking his hands before wiping them on his pants. As he sat again, Clint pursed his lips and shook his head. “And how, might I ask, would you know what kind of questions I would—”

“Good point,” Clint said, clearing his throat. “I guess I don’t.” He grunted as he leaned forward and slipped something from his boot. “Guess I'm just saying I wouldn't be concerned with that sort of thing if I was in your position.”

“And what situation would that b—”

Clint laid a small jeweled dagger on the table with such a clang it choked Emory’s words in his throat. The tavern went completely silent.

“Men of cruelty and disinterest annoy me," he began casually, and his tone was in such contradiction to the moment it seemed to mock it. "And I don't why, but it's common that men with limited abilities have unlimited pride. Anyway ... that's the situation. You sitting here with the consequences of that."

“You're a dead man,” Emory said.

“We all are. Just a question of how long the journey takes."

“I ..." he gestured toward the dagger. "I don’t know how you got that in here, but—”

“Maybe your men don’t like you as much as you think,” Clint said. “More likely, though, it’s beginning to dawn on them they didn’t do their research as well as they thought. Probably dawning on you as well.”

“Those men are about to cut you to ribbons,” Emory said, standing.

“Those men,” Clint said and when he snapped, Emory betrayed himself by flinching. “That reminds me.” He looked at me and I took my cue, nodding as I withdrew the small book I had in my pocket. One by one I read the names of Emory's men. The names of their children, their families, and their friends. By the time I finished, this man who had held this town hostage for the better part of a year, tortured its people, and ruled them by fear was guarded by nothing more than wide-eyed statues.

Emory’s face was as clammy as his hands.

Clint nodded across the surface of tea and cards to the chair.

“Sit.”

Slowly, almost as if he himself was not consciously aware of the action, Toth reached for the hilt of the sword on his waist.

“I … I would suggest you—”

“I would advise against that,” Clint said. By that point I had lost track of how many times he had cut the man off. “The figurative and literal cards are on the table, are they not?” He was playing with his rings again. “That sword doesn’t belong to you any more than those medals do, and I’m not even sure what that …” He reached up to his collar and shook it. “Whatever that rank is, but I know it doesn’t apply to you, either. So again. Please.” He nodded to the empty chair. “Oblige me.”

The Blue Sun had become a mixture of confusion, fascination, and fear all around us. They didn't have to know what was being said to read the situation, though the substance remained whispers only ghosts could hear.

As far as Emory Toth, the implications settled over his reality like volcanic ash and his grip relaxed on the hilt.

He sat as slowly as a child obeying their parent.

“If you aren’t looking for a job. And you aren’t an outlaw. Then who are you?”

“Oh, I’m an outlaw,” Clint admitted. “That part your men got right.”

“You’re a killer,” Emory specified as if making a correction. “That much I can see in your eyes. I saw it as soon as we met.”

“I am,” Clint said. “Which I guess is bad for both of us. You in the more immediate, of course, but there'll be a toll I'll have to pay eventually. Anyway ..." He crossed his arms and settled back in his chair again, an action that almost dared Toth to go for the dagger. "In the spirit of first impressions, I made a few of my own."

“Oh yeah?”

Clint nodded.
“That you never fought in The Looking Glass War was just a guess. But not drawing the sword confirmed it ..."

"Are you serious?" I blurted out, turning toward him. "What if you had been wrong?"

Clint raised a hand, an action similar to the one Toth had raised to his man earlier, and I knew to be quiet.

"You'll have to excuse my aide here. He insists on following me around to record everything I say and do, but his constitution isn't always what we'd like." Keeping his arms crossed he leaned forward and whispered: "His style is a bit mechanical for my taste, but we work with what we have, am I right?"

As he fell back to his original position, I felt compelled to mention that my aim is recording events for posterity, not writing fiction. I have no time for the fine art of flowery prose or painting an engaging landscape with colorful characters. I use my words as daggers that go straight to the point, not ... in the moment I said nothing, but now you know what I was thinking.

"Anyway, we were talking about first impressions."

"We were," Emory said. He was trying to keep a brave face, but he swallowed hard after speaking.

"You're the kind of person with a compulsion to control the lives around you. Stems from an inability to control your own."

“Mm. And what kind are you?”

“Me?" He sighed, tilted his chin to his chest and sighed. The beginnings of a smile twitched his lips, and his stare went as vacant as the animals above the bar. "Men like me die alone, sprawled out in their broken dreams." He paused a moment. "As if they were that dusty road out there.”

“Poetic,” Toth said.

Clint gave no indication he heard anything, but clearly he had.

"Poems," he said with some amusement. "The night my girls died I had a dream with one." He looked up into Emory's eyes. Both men were outlaws, but Toth was like a candle flickering before the sun. "I was standing in a field, and from where I was I could see a silhouette of someone standing on the opposite side. They had a green lantern. I felt confused. I distinctly remember that feeling. And then he spoke." Clint seemed to drift again, making me nervous, but his prey seemed oddly invested in his story, giving no thought to the dagger on the table. "I went out to the hazel wood, it said. Because a fire was in my head." Much to my relief, he came back to the present. "I knew it was a poem, but I've never been able to find it anywhere. No matter how far I've traveled. No matter how many libraries I've visited." He sighed again, as if it were an echo of the earlier one. "When I opened my eyes it was like not waking out of a nightmare, as the horrible lag of reality draped me like a shroud." He went back to fiddling with his rings as he continued. "It’s a strange thing, really. How when your world comes to a grinding halt the rest of it continues on as if nothing happened. Trauma like that?" He shook his head and stopped turning his rings. "It doesn’t just break you. It follows you, haunts you. Reshapes your entire life.” There was another pause and I thought he was finished speaking, but then his hard voice broke into my swimming thoughts. “There are two kinds of people who exist in this world," he said. "Those who bring light into it, and those who put it out. They were the first one. I've no illusions I’m the second. Like you.”

“You don't know me at all."

"Maybe not," Clint conceded. Or maybe he was just losing interest. "But I know you pissed me off enough to get my attention. What you've done to this town? My wife wouldn't like it. She'd have liked that book store, though, as out of place as it seems here." Clint snorted. "Anyway, I don’t like tyrants. Even when I could feel things, I didn't. Something about their smug certainty, I suspect. How they act like the world and situations are but a foregone conclusion. How they always think they're in control. Until a stab of humility spikes through them like a bolt of frozen lightning, that is." He took a deep breath and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes on Emory as he rested his forearms on his knees. “You should ask yourself, in these last few minutes you have, what poor choices led you here.”

“Maybe I should ask how any of the information you have is supposed to be of use if I have my men kill you both.”

Clint's laugh echoed in the closeness of the tavern and he nodded at me.

“Good point,” he said. His eyes flashed, and he picked up the dagger in a blur of steel and smoke, thrusting it straight ahead into Emory's throat. The man's eyes widened to the size of the plates his blood now streamed over, mixing with the tea and the cards. Then those eyes rolled back in his head, the tension eased from his body, and Clint slid the blade from his throat.

His body fell with a clang as Clint rose to full height.

“A person’s history has a sort of kaleidoscopic nature about it,” he began, now the absolute center of attention. "People think not feeling pain is a luxury, but I assure you it is not. Pain serves a purpose. It protects us. Guides us away from danger. I feel nothing, and so I advise you keep that in mind as you listen to my words." His gaze hardened slightly, and his voice was completely void of emotion. "There's no redemption. No applause for people like me. And what I do isn't noble." He stabbed the bloody dagger through the hand of Emory's corpse where it stuck in the table. Then he reached into his pocket to withdraw his golden watch. "You may have heard of The Stopwatch Gang, an outfit I have the dishonor of leading. This watch ..." He tossed it on the table. "... is a mark of that station. If by the time it shows noon tomorrow you are still here, I will skin your worlds alive. To answer your late leader's question, you can kill us, but not my people who are in possession of every name in that book." I held it up to illustrate the point, but by the look of Emory's men, they needed no reminder.

Clint and the bartender locked eyes, and while it had been incidental, the bartender nodded. It was an interaction I found as strange as it was unexpected. Until I realized he might have been the only person to understand. The only person who had seen someone so broken before.

Clint's eyes rested back on Emory's men. It must have felt like the weight of the world.

"Your governance of this town has ended. Light out. Or I promise you'll wish you had."

One could have been forgiven for thinking the men were statues without the ravens on the one outside. Until some of them nodded as the bartender had.

Clint reached down to the table, somewhat absently, and picked up one of the faced down cards. It depicted a figure sitting inside a vehicle driven by two black and white sphinxes.

“The Chariot,” he said, tossing it back down on the table. “Damn. I was hoping it would be something significant.” He turned to me. “When you write this up you should make it the Judgment card."

“Maybe I will,” I lied, which he knew. History is too valuable to distort like that. And besides, The Chariot may have been more relevant than he knew. The sphinxes are colored in black and white, a symbol of opposing forces that the charioteer must learn to control. Here they are calm, but they frequently get into scuffles as they seem to want to move in different directions. His task is to guide these sphinxes by—

A pang of anxiety gripped me when I heard a whistle, a shrill note assigned to snap me back to the present. I flinched and then raced to catch up, relieved my lapse in focus hadn’t caused me to miss anything significant.