On the Nature of the Gods

By Louis Shalako

If there’s one thing the evil Dr. Emile Schmitt-Rottluff can’t get enough of, it’s samples of your precious bodily fluids. He’s the gaslight era's virtuoso of illicit cloning and mind-bending manipulation of the human genome. He’s got his eye on Jeb Snead, one of the toughest men who ever lived, undefeated in over a hundred bare-knuckle bouts. He's also got the hots for Jeb's girlfriend, Miss Kitty. Hope Ng, her nefarious rescuer Rufe, and the sexy mutant Miss Kitty, are all under his watchful, evil eye. Luckily for them, the ghost of Tecumseh takes an indulgent interest. Rife with the bizarre juxtaposition of psycho-sexual elements, On the Nature of the Gods is simply unforgettable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Shalako
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987972309

Louis Shalako

Louis Shalako is the founder of Long Cool One Books and the author of twenty-two novels, numerous novellas and other short stories. Louis studied Radio, Television and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology, later going on to study fine art. He began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines over thirty years ago. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time. Louis enjoys cycling, swimming and good books.

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On the Nature of the Gods

Louis Shalako

ISBN 978-0-9879723-0-9

This Smashwords edition copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased or to any places or events is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.

The author owes a debt of gratitude to Marcus Tullius Cicero, quoted in the text.

On the Nature of the Gods

Louis Shalako

Chapter One

The Resting Place

Squirrel slipped through the ancient forest as silent as a wraith. The bundle was clutched close to her chest. Venerable oaks, massive in girth, nodded at her passage, branches heavy with glossy new foliage. The air was soft and warm, with a hint of moisture in the distant blue haze.

Jays and crows dueled for the crown of obnoxiousness, as she sought the place. Sunlight dappled the grass in golden spring light. The shadows slanted across the glade, green and verdant, and bursting forth with wildflowers.

With a catch in her heart, she was upon it, and she fell to her knees.

Opening the bundle, she laid tobacco and a pipe upon the grass, and bowing her head, she began to pray. The grave was unmarked, a secret held in trust to but a few for almost two centuries.

The tears welling from deep within her tortured soul fell to the ground unheeded.

***

Why do you come here? asked a voice.

Squirrel leapt to her feet, and stared at the stranger. He was a tall, lithe, athletic figure of a man, a veritable specimen of a man. He was a tawny golden panther of a man, standing tall, relaxed and confident, and poised to leap all at one and the same time. Dressed head to toe in fringed buckskin, beaded with the ancient symbols, he was a picture of what once might have been.

Her heart fluttered in her chest. Licking her lips, she stared in wonder.

He stood in an opening on the far side of the clearing. He stepped forth from the place among the trees where darkness reigned, the only life glimmering hordes of gnats and their kin. Dancing in the brazen shafts of sunlight, they swirled from his coming but were oblivious to it.

His eyes were calm and warm, and she swallowed her momentary fear.

I come to remember, she said.

The man came closer, and his eyes sought out the offering on the ground. Looking up, he raised an eyebrow.

May I? he asked, politely meeting her own eyes with a sardonic twinkle.

Resisting the urge to tremble, she nodded.

Of course, she agreed. It is of no good to anyone, really.

I thank you, he said.

He sank down into a cross-legged position as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She thoughtfully got on her knees again. Before he could reach for them, she had the pipe.

Squirrel began filling it with fine chunks torn from the plug, soft and moist from the molasses in it.

Thank you, he murmured, but she kept her eyes on the bundle, so humble in its simplicity and longing for understanding.

It’s all right, he said with a touch of humour. I have my own matches.

Of course! Matches. She felt so innocent in the habits of men.

Then came the snap of a long wooden kitchen match and he sucked the smoke into his lungs.

Squirrel looked up shyly to meet his engaging grin. He blew out smoke and gazed into her somehow, as off in the distance a grouse beat on a hollow log. She trembled at what might happen. She hadn’t felt like a virgin in some years.

This must all seem rather silly to you, she offered with a rueful smile.

Not at all, Squirrel, not at all, said Tecumseh, the ‘Leaping Panther’ who fell at the Battle of Moraviantown, and who would never be forgotten for his great but forlorn dream of uniting all the nations. It is all anyone can really ask, in the end. To be remembered. And, perhaps, to be loved.

She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Sit closer, my little one, he said. I have something to show you.

She wriggled in towards him.

More, he said, beckoning with his free hand.

Aware of the hot blood rushing to her cheeks, she edged in closer.

Finally she was close enough to feel the heat of him through her knee-caps, and under her knees where they bent and almost touched his thighs.

I can’t get much closer, she marveled, flushing like a maiden.

Was this some sort of a test?

Leaping Panther put the pipe up to his mouth again, after exhaling deeply, once over her left shoulder and then over her right. Rings of smoke twisted and spun according to their own logic as they widened and drifted past her ears.

He dragged the vapour deep inside, his chest expanding to an impressive degree, and she speculated freely as to the depth and breadth of the pectorals.

His right hand came up now and cupped the back of her head.

This is a cleansing magic, he said. You must fight hard to rid yourself of the noxious fumes of indifference and apathy.

What do you want me to do? she asked.

Her shining eyes glimmered with unspoken trust—and trepidation.

Take a deep breath and blow it all out, said Leaping Panther, as his own smoke curled up and out of his lips, enveloping all of his head and hair, with two thick tendrils suddenly sucked back up into the nostrils.

She did as she was asked.

Again, he said.

Once more she took a deep, long breath, held it a bit and then blew it all out, pushing hard until her diaphragm hit rock bottom.

He took in a big drag from the pipe and pulled her in close.

Good, he said.

Lips parted in suspense, eyes locked on his in anticipation and awareness, she suddenly realized the significance of his hand on the back of her head, but it was already too late to back down.

He pulled her in tight, locking his mouth on hers, and she felt the roughness of his upper lip.

Leaping Panther, gently at first, but gaining in strength, began pushing the smoke out of his lungs and into hers, and her soft bosom expanded as his contracted.

With her eyes bulging slightly, an unmistakable betrayal of her innermost fears, but otherwise passive and relaxed, Squirrel felt the warm smoke enter her body in the firm but gentle intimacy of his embrace. The hot, moist smoke filled her up inside and her pulse began to climb. With the shock of adrenalin in her guts, she realized that this was danger, and that she shouldn’t be doing this. What would her friends think?

Just when her head, spinning dizzily and out of control, seemed to be on the point of exploding, while stars, and comets, and meteors, and coloured lights like the Aurora spun and whirled in her head, he freed her from his control.

I want to tell you a story, he said. Please watch and listen closely.

As oxygen seeped back into her tissues, and her mind re-focused to a level where she could once again comprehend the symbols represented by his words and gestures, he began to talk and project things for her eyes to see, her ears to hear, and the grey matter inside her head to consider at its own level and speed.

Chapter Two

The Four Horsemen

I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I’m getting kind of old for this, said Jeb Snead, circling warily to the left with his dukes raised.

It never hurt to try, but, apparently, this wasn’t a talking matter.

Neither one said anything. They spread out and then came at him. Two other weather-beaten and dust-covered gentlemen sat astride their horses, not reaching for their guns just yet.

The one on the right jabbed, and Jeb snagged him a nice fast one right on the kisser.

He stood there flatfooted, staring at the sight of fresh blood on his black deer-hide gloves in disbelief. Jeb socked him again and he went straight down and laid flat on his back.

We’re looking for someone, mister, said the tall, bearded man still confronting him.

Telegraphing every move, the bruiser, all of two hundred eighty pounds, came in dead straight and Jeb laid him out flat on his back with one punch to the solar plexus, a foot-plant behind the ankles, and a quick push on the shoulders.

Keep looking, advised Jeb.

The men on horses reached for their guns, but Jeb held up a hand.

No need for that, he assured them. You gentlemen probably just want to borrow a rope, or something.

The two looked at each other for a moment. Jeb focused on the eyes of the older one, sitting with an air of quiet authority upon a fine bay gelding. The man regarded him soberly.

No, sir, said the young one, avoiding his eyes. No. We don’t want to borrow no rope.

Do you mind if we help our friends back onto their horses, sir? the older one inquired.

Not at all, said Jeb, standing clear.

His own gun-belt hung on Rooster’s pommel, as he was just shaving and washing up.

Was there something I could help you gentlemen with? he asked as they dismounted, noting an air of something akin to gratitude upon the older one’s face.

We’re looking for a special sort of a man, sir, said the younger.

He was about twenty-five years old and had some resemblance in the set of the shoulders and neck to his father.

It took a moment or two, but the other members of the little posse were soon remounted. They were dazed, and hurting, and sullen to some degree, but clearly under the older man’s authority.

They kept their mouths shut, but their eyes spoke volumes.

You’re Jeb, said the man. Jeb Snead!

Yeah! he agreed.

Our apologies, we should have known right off, said the gentleman. Sheriff Ackroyd over in La Pierre has been getting a little too big for his britches these days.

We’re the RB ranch, he added after a quick spit to the side.

No fighting for money prizes within the town limits, without a written permit, said Jeb. He waited until I could actually pay the fine…or buy a permit, then arrested me and seized all the winnings!

The other three sat up a little straighter upon hearing it.

He earned his money, admitted Snead.

Sooner or later, he will pull that stunt on the wrong fellow, said the mounted stranger with a strange, small grin. They say you smashed a hole in the wall and just walked out…heh!

Poor old Ackroyd just a’ sittin’ in the saloon bragging, added the son.

The younger went silent upon a slight move of his father’s shoulders.

The gentleman thought for a moment.

The county line is about four miles due west of here, he said, as a visible shock went over the faces of his crew. The sheriff of Mule Creek, which would be south by south-west about two miles, is probably sitting in his office in town right about now. It is dinnertime, after all. If you run across any mysterious strangers, travelling alone, maybe with some kind of a strange story to tell…I would imagine it’s a different story every time…well, you watch yourself, Mister Snead. Listen, very, very carefully to what he…or she, or it, has to say, Mister Snead.

Hmn! said Snead. Has he got a name? What exactly does this hombre look like? What does he, ah, do, exactly?

That, is a very good question, Mister Snead, said the owner or head honcho of the RB ranch and he spit again.

He tipped his hat and then they all spurred up, and continued on up the hill. No one looked back. The sounds of their hooves quickly faded from his ken. Jeb listened well for a few minutes, still shaking his head. He planned on a few hours of hard travel. Jeb tucked in his shirt and put away the shaving tackle.

Their business was none of his business, and he was glad enough for it.

Come on, Rooster, he said.

The horse tipped him a wink.

Mounting up, he carefully walked the big black Antarean barb into the water and down the river for about a mile and a half, then turned up the right bank and picked his way across a stony plain.

It was a good idea to make some ground before nightfall. His own belly rumbled, but the horse had plenty of grass and the water was good. Jeb pulled the brim of his hat down low and rode into the sunset. While the broken hills, winding watercourses and scattered brush gave good cover, he knew enough to listen as well. He made a conscious point of stopping, and waiting, to check the back trail after crossing any big open spaces. He was smart enough not to ride directly over the top of any big hills.

A couple of hours later, Jeb relaxed, riding a little easier in the saddle. He was poor but free, and for the time being, that would have to do.

The gentle tug of Rooster’s heartstrings indicated to the intuitive Jeb that the barb was in perfect agreement with these sentiments.

Ever since bringing the wet, suckling colt into the world in an impromptu Caesarian, with a Bowie knife and his own hands, Rooster’s dam mortally wounded by a neo-Blackfoot arrow, there had been this special bond. It was an indescribable bond to the normally taciturn Jeb. Gifted with his fists and in the use of his iron-hard noggin, although not the most erudite of men, Jeb Snead knew he was lucky to have Rooster. It couldn’t really be described as friendship. It was more of a relationship, in every sense of the word. Intellectually, Rooster had always kept his own counsel, and Jeb respected him for it…

In this life, if you made one good friend and died with your boots on and no big debts, you were doing all right.

In this weird, half-lit and artificial world, a completely plastic planet, illuminated only by the sick and perverted science of the evil Doctor Schmitt-Rottluff, he would need all the help he could get to save the buxom but leggy Miss Kitty from the clutches of pure and unadulterated greed. Jeb had this terrible feeling that she was in trouble, which was another indescribable feeling. There might be some element of lust involved as well, he reckoned, and not just on the part of Doctor S, as he and Rooster had taken to calling him in their unique, telempathic lingua equus. Nothing happens for no reason, in his humble opinion, and he was prepared to go with his gut.

Rooster sighed, blowing big shots of air out through his lips in a language known ever since the Dawn of Time to horses across this fair Galaxy.

The mournful sentiments coming from the horse confirmed that the barb really liked Miss Kitty, however futile that must ultimately be.

Chapter Three

The Lady and the Bandit

Hope Ng baked in the hot sun, rising ever higher in the desert sky. Tied with rawhide thongs at ankles and wrists, scratched, bruised and with her clothes half torn off, the raven-haired Hope prayed for a miracle.

Deep in her heart lurked despair, for persistent struggles in the chill dawn hours had convinced her escape was impossible. Nearby, the thin tendril of smoke and rank smell of the fire was the only trace left behind by the war party.

As the shadows shortened, the first pangs of real thirst came, and she knew dread. She was going to die out here, never mind the carnage that had once been a peaceful train of settlers heading to a better life. It was all gone now, with clumps of bodies, families and individuals still recognizable in the stiffened attitudes of death. Most of the long line of wagons still smoldered.

Overhead, ominous black shapes circled, the long tip feathers trembling, always seeking an easy way. Their bony nostrils would be flaring in excitement, heads craning to take in the scene and the forms below.

It wouldn’t be long now, and they would come down. They would land within fifty yards, maybe closer. Then the awkward, half-hopping, half-sideways shuffle would begin. They would screw up their courage. They would look her over carefully. Their desperation for a meal and simple competition against their peers would embolden them. They might start on the dead first, but sooner or later she would be food for the vultures.

It would be better if she died of thirst or starvation first.

Somewhere nearby a hoof clinked against stone, a tiny, insignificant sound, but one out of place in a country still quiet after a windless dawn.

Hope’s heart thudded at the thought of them coming back to take care of some unfinished business.

Again it came, the strike of bone on rock, as two small birds in a scraggly bush in her peripheral vision dropped out of the thin foliage and fluttered away, towards the sun and into deeper shadows.

Who’s there? she called in an agony of suspense.

She prayed they would just kill her quickly and have done with it…

There was a faint but guttural grunt and several thuds came through the sand under her back, but she could hear little over the soughing of a rising breeze. Hot, sharp grains of sand stung her cheek, wet with fresh tears.

A hoarse breath, sounding wet and thick, came from right behind her head where she couldn’t see it, no matter how she twisted her neck and shoulders.

Oh, my God, she said.

Was she to be eaten by a Grizzly or a big cat? Her mind worked frantically to analyze the sounds. She sobbed in fear and frustration, yanking to and fro in fury, in one last forlorn attempt to break free. A horse blew, and a long dark shadow fell over her face, revealing in black silhouette the head and forequarters of the animal, one with a halter and a patch of white on the forehead.

Ah! she breathed.

She fell back on the sand exhausted again.

Howdy, ma’am, said a deep male voice, cultured and somehow unsullied by the twang and drawl of the typical Southern male. It was an honest voice, a good voice.

Leather creaked and another shadow fell across her as she looked up at her saviour in relief and a special kind of pleading humility.

They give you a rough time, ma’am? he asked, and she finally got a glimpse of his face.

She gazed breathlessly into kindly blue-black eyes, unusually large and expressive, tall and broad-shouldered as he was. The big fellow took off his hat, revealing a widow’s peak, and long dark hair sweeping out like the waves from the front of a windjammer. He mopped his brow with a blue and white paisley bandanna, carefully replacing his headgear.

It—it was horrid, she said. Oh, thank God you’re here!

Indians are smelly, beastly creatures, he advised, kneeling close and raising a canteen to her lips,