Storm Child: Hobohemia, #2

By K. M. Tolan

Becoming a steam child was supposed to be fun.

 

Red was meant to live a carefree life among the great steam locomotives as one of Hobohemia's mischievous steam children.

 

She leaves her human body behind, but not her childhood demons. A gypsy blessing becomes an unintended curse, releasing an unbridled power inside her making Red an unwilling weapon in the hands of others eager to wield her anger.

 

Before she can stop them, she must first defeat herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Feb 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947128316

Book preview

Champagne Book Group Presents

Storm Child

Hobohemia, Book 2

By

K. M. Tolan

OREGON CITY, OREGON

U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Book Group

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2018 by K.M. Tolan

ISBN 978-1-947128-31-6

February 2018

Cover Art by Trisha Fitzgerald

Produced in the United States of America

Champagne Book Group P.O. Box 467 Oregon City OR 97045 USA

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, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not buy it, or it was not bought for your use, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books by K.M. Tolan

Dancer Series

Battle Dancer, Book 4

Defiant Dancer, Book 3

Rogue Dancer, Book 2

Blade Dancer, Book 1

Hobohemia Series

Storm Child, Book 2

Tracks, Book 1

Stand-Alone

Siren’s Song

Waiting Weapon

Prologue

The ghost wouldn’t leave her alone. Violet scrunched up in the swaying train car’s bench seat, tucking her red leggings up under a yellow dress wrinkled by time and travel.

Another tap on the window. Oh, would you stop pouting, the wispy voice said. Come out and play.

Nobody else could see the feather-headed girl swirling in the locomotive’s passing steam. Violet wished she couldn’t, either. The apparition’s eyes were as wide as a child’s on Christmas morning, brimming with an eagerness to challenge the bleakness eating through Violet’s heart.

Violet clapped her hands over brunette tangles. Go away.

The ghost had been haunting her ever since the train pulled out of Omaha. At first Violet thought herself dreaming when the clouds billowing from the engine up front began making shapes. Until the ghost appeared, swimming among the vapors like a minnow. A little girl about her age, wearing a smock and shorts with long boots cast in the same gray mists as her trouble-making face. And peacock feathers for hair.

The window cleared again. Violet stared out across featureless plains where endless rows of corn waved their yellow tassels at a Nebraska sun. Somewhere ahead would be another city. More squinting farmer’s wives inspecting her mouth as if she were some pig heading to market. She’d given the last one a good bite. She didn’t want another mother.

Violet’s chestnut eyes squeezed shut. What had she done that was so bad? I have to let you go because I love you. How could Mother say that, and then let those two men drag her from the sickroom where they’d put her?

I’m glad you died, she snarled. Violet cringed away from her lie, trying to make a hole inside herself to crawl into. She tried humming like Mother always did. I see the moon, the moon sees me... Except Mother wouldn’t see her again. Wouldn’t sing this to her. Wouldn’t anything.

The glass beside her vibrated with another insistent rap. Listen to the music, silly. Can’t you hear your name?

Whirling around, Violet banged at the window, her exasperated scream causing the two drab girls in the adjacent seat to cringe. Of course she could hear her name, along with music calling to her between each click and clack of the tracks. She didn’t want to sing. She wanted to die.

The ghost merely laughed, then stuck her tongue out. "I’m not going away, but you are. Midtown’s coming to get you." The grinning face vanished again.

That’s enough from you, young lady.

This voice was real, brittle, and uncompromising. So, too, the stinging cuff to the back of her head.

Violet spun around and kicked at the rail-thin woman who looked like a starchy black pencil with a face to match. Go away!

Her keeper grabbed Violet’s shoulder. Back to the room for you, Miss Winsmith.

She wouldn’t spend another day in that smelly old bathroom. Violet scratched at the wrist seizing her and ducked under grasping arms. Or tried to. Mrs. Fitzgibbons proved quicker, and banged her against the seat’s hard wooden back. The remaining orphans in the car shouted their delight at this break in the monotony.

One of the two girls across from her shrieked and pointed toward the window. Look! There really is a girl in the window…with feathers!

Even Violet gave a start at the fierce glare and curled back lips revealed in the swirling steam. Ghost hands gripped the sides of the window and shook. The entire car lurched. Yelping, she barely avoided Mrs. Fitzgibbons’ sharp elbow as the woman tumbled into the seat. Brakes screeched and children cried out.

Violet saw her chance. She jumped over her minder and into the aisle while the coach rocked with deceleration. The passenger car’s door flung wide of its own accord as if daring her to leap out.

She tumbled down a mild slope of warm earth. The sharp edges of gray ballast stones among the grass made her cry out. Sucking in a determined breath, she found her feet and looked back to see those two girls in their plain brown dresses staring at her from the door as the train shuddered to a squealing stop. She started to yell to them to join her when someone jerked the pair back inside.

She didn’t wait to see who did it. She’d met the man with the broad strap once already when she’d bit that woman back in Omaha. He hurt far worse than these stones did. Crying out, Violet ran as fast as her red leggings allowed, but not toward the cornfield with its inviting green smells. Something inside her chose to scramble along the tracks toward the big black engine.

The children threw open windows along the olive green coach and jeered at her stupidity. Maybe the ghost was right. Maybe she would die here and join the feather-headed girl. Such a fate certainly seemed to be the case judging by the heavy footfalls closing in behind her.

Past the black riveted steel oil tender. Past the locomotive cab above her. Violet fled in a growing panic, hearing her unseen pursuer gaining ground. She plunged through a whoosh of steam from the engine’s piston, the hot moist bath of white clouds enveloping her. She broke out the other side unable to go on. Panting, she pressed against driver wheels taller than her. A shadow appeared through the mist with balled fists and a brandished belt. The strap man paused, his broad chest heaving beneath the white shirt and open black vest. He stared right at her, but didn’t step forward. The hand with the strap lowered. He slowly backed away through the puffing steam, his eyes still fixed on her.

He knows better than to bother a steam child. A new voice chuckled with the lightness of a morning breeze. The amused comment came from the front of the locomotive.

Swallowing, she turned, expecting the ghost. The apparition seemed ghostly, but not really spooky. This one’s appearance was definitely different, the face a little less mischievous as if undecided between child and grownup. The way this new ghost stood before the engine with her hands clasped in front of her reminded Violet of an English teacher back in New York. Of course, teachers didn’t have an impossibly long ponytail made up of blonde and brunette bands. Nor would they consider wearing a bright green bandana to tie off the extension.

The girl wasn’t all gray steam like the other. Her purple top and lacy white vest appeared no less substantial than the blue train engineer’s dungarees stuffed into calf-high leather boots with bright brass buttons. Only when Violet looked really close did she see the wispy outlines telling her this wasn’t a regular person. That, and the fact she could see through her.

Well, come on and say hi. The ghost beckoned. Violet, right?

Yes, she stammered, stepping forward until she stood even with the locomotive’s front grill. You with the other ghost?

The newcomer clapped her hands. Oh, am I a ghost, now? She executed a curtsy, spreading an imaginary dress with her fingers as she dipped. My name is Midtown, and I am not a ghost, thank you very much. She folded her arms and squinted. Hmm, didn’t your daddy tell you anything?

Never met my daddy, Violet admitted with a lowered voice. Mother always talked as if she loved Father, even if she never expected him to stay. A contradiction she never understood. Until now. Father left like her Mother had, just a lot sooner.

Mommy tell you about steam children?

She stuck her lip out. She’s dead.

Well, we’re not, Midtown countered with a roll of her eyes, blunting Violet’s dramatic barb. Her accent wasn’t much different than that of the farmer woman at the last stop, except younger sounding. Don’t you know anything about Hobohemia, dear?

Hobo…what?

Midtown groaned and threw up her hands. Quickly. Go tell the engineer everything’s fine, but this’ll take just a bit longer.

Yes, Mom!

Violet looked up to find the more familiar ghost perched atop the dome behind the locomotive’s chimney. Except this time she displayed herself in color too, right down to the gaudy peacock feathers in her hair. The girl waved at her. Took you long enough!

She didn’t hear Midtown come up next to her, and yelped at the warm touch of the other’s fingers against her cheek.

Midtown crouched. How old are you?

Eleven, Violet answered, bridling at pity in the other’s tone. Those nurses back at the hospital sounded like they cared too, but they didn’t stop those men either.

Eleven. Midtown sighed. And quite the angry little thing. Such sour notes running down my tracks. Well, now that you’ve been reborn, you’ll need a name that’s more fun. Nice leggings by the way. You should keep them.

Violet regarded her legs and gave a shriek. She was see-through too. I’m dead?

Midtown snorted. Enough with the dead nonsense. You’re a steam child just like me.

A…what?

Steam child, silly. She pointed to the tracks. We keep the living rails alive. Go ahead. Listen to them.

Puzzled, Violet did as she was told and bent over. There, the song she heard earlier, and much more. An orchestra of sounds, with each string tied to something separate and meaningful as if the musician existed there along with the music.

Midtown gestured toward the huffing machine behind them. Everything starts with the union workers who make steam engines. They use more passion and imagination making one of these things than a single locomotive can hope to hold. So along comes a special man who can focus all of that wonderful spirit into tracks the engine can run on. He’s called a gandy dancer. He can make the living rails, but can’t keep them alive. That’s where his daughters come in. She spread her arms. That’s you and me.

My father was one of them…a gandy dancer? Violet stared at her steamy arm.

Obviously, dear. And don’t worry about how you look. One can’t gather the spirit of Hobohemia like we do unless we’re spirits ourselves.

Hobohemia?

"As I said, the steam engines can’t keep all the creativity to themselves. Not even the tracks can. So the spirit coming from the union shops just keeps spreading out along the rails, attracting all kinds of like-minded folks. Did you know that hobo actually means someone who’s homeward bound? They come here because they belong here. Just like we do."

Violet glanced back at the train. Several perplexed heads peeked out of the windows. Was her body lying there? She didn’t see anything. So…I’m not a ghost?

No, silly, you’re just a younger me who’s about to have herself more fun than she ever imagined. Midtown encircled her with an arm feeling real enough. Much younger, she threw in with a smirk. Sooo, about that name. Are those moose embroidered into those leggings of yours? How about we call you Moosey? Or Red?

Red, Violet blurted, wanting to shed all the pain draping her former name. She felt red. Her father was the one who supposedly liked moose.

Red suits you, Midtown confirmed with a nod. Now, about that fun. Do you like going really fast?

Red gulped. You mean fly?

That too, but for now let’s just use the tracks. Her voice raised. Hey up there, Quickly. Quit playing around in that locomotive and say happy birthday to Red.

A sharp toot of the engine’s steam whistle preceded a puffy white geyser shooting from the boiler’s top. Red, Red, Red, the other steam child sing-songed, diving to grab Red in a whirling embrace. Happy birthday! Oh, wait until Glory meets you.

Glory’s new, too, Midtown said. Quickly here is about to have her own adventures with the Baltimore and Ohio barony, so she’ll be leaving us soon.

The feathery girl paused in her hug to flip upside down in a gravity-defying maneuver ending with a quick topsy-turvy kiss on Midtown’s forehead. "Such a wonderful mom. She’s actually a steam mother. Not many of us are old enough to be called that. Quickly hovered in the air, becoming half of herself from the waist up while the rest looked more like some genie cloud. She laughed. See? You can look anyway you like."

Hearing the sarcasm in Quickly’s comment, no doubt aimed at her rumpled clothes, Red imagined her dress a defiant pink. Suddenly, the cloth became just as she envisioned. The feat earned a clap of delight from both spirits.

Quickly giggled. Learns fast. So Mom, we can skate home, now?

Midtown took Red’s hand with a grin. "Hold on. You’re going to love this!"

One

Wake up, sleepy head, Midtown said, stirring the hot vapors serving as Red’s cozy blanket. It’s your birthday. Time for your present.

Present? Stifling a yawn, Red rolled out of bed, though she didn’t really roll and there wasn’t any bed, either. Her resting place lay inside a locomotive’s steam dome behind the smoke stack. Not the best place for a little girl unless she wanted to get herself boiled. Red stretched with a smug grin. She hadn’t been a little girl for three years. At least not a human one.

What present? she asked with growing excitement, following her steam mother up the main pipe powering the engine’s pistons.

You’ll find out shortly.

Her host, a Mikado type locomotive named Herkimer, hissed them out of its relief valve into the predawn coolness of a Nebraska morning.

Red regarded the floodlights casting the vast Bailey Yard in pools of yellow radiance. A bit early. She waited as the last spatters of condensation dripped off her steamy outline onto the engine’s boiler below. Raining on people was rude. Unless, of course, she did so for fun. Glory coming?

Midtown led Red over the expanse of rails and freight cars making up the Union Pacific barony’s largest marshaling yard. "No, she’s not. This is your present."

Red clapped her hands. I like presents.

She followed her steam mother toward the row of red brick shops edging the southern side of the yard. Her home these last years brimmed with things to do. She could play on hills where freight cars coasted down to join their trains, or visit magical places where old boxcars and engines became new again. Maybe explore the tall golden tower stuck in the middle of everything. She loved to perch atop the roof and see the tracks spread out like spaghetti. All waiting for her to slurp up as much fun as she could find.

Of course there were the hobos. From the look of it, Midtown was taking her to the jungle along the South Platte River.

We going to see Flapjack? Red asked once they passed the refurbishment facilities.

Time to unwrap a little of your true nature, the steam mother tossed over her shoulder. There’s more to you than pushing around cars or teasing yard bulls.

Red darted down the sloping path leading toward the camp. What’s wrong with teasing yard bulls? The railroad police were too gruff for their own good, and she never liked them chasing hobos off the freights.

Ignoring the bait, Midtown paused above a rusty barrel’s meager fire to greet the two hobos warming themselves outside the camp. The men appeared to be shabby vagrants carrying crudely hewn tree limbs as poles. Until one really looked. Then came the glint of chain mail, and a hint at what those poles really were. These, of course, were knights from the Order of the Open Road. Most folks needed to have Union cards in order to see the obvious. Hobos belonged to the International Workers of the World. Everyone in the yard belonged to a union of some sort. The ties binding Hobohemia’s rails together, as Midtown liked to say.

Y’ur Ladyships, one of the knights welcomed with a tip of his bowler hat. Out to see His Honor this fine morning?

She is, Midtown replied, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Red frowned. You’re not coming, Mom?

Midtown shook her long ponytail. This is your present, remember? Just for you, my sweet. This morning you’re going to imbue the flour grinder Local Eighteen rebuilt for Flapjack. Just like I told you our sisters do at the Locomotive Works in Ohio.

But it’s just a stupid grinder, Red protested with a frown, not sure she liked how this present unwrapped itself.

It’s still a steam engine, her mentor replied, tweaking Red’s nose. Just a bit smaller. Now go on and make me proud.

Red folded her arms. I’d have more fun if Glory were here.

Midtown stuck out her tongue and whisked off on the next breeze, streaking like an errant wisp of steam across the lines of rolling stock.

I would! Red yelled after her. She stuffed her irritation inside, noticing how the knights stared up at her. Fine, so she blew over a tent last month. Hobos could be rude and crude, but so could she. She afforded the two men a quick smile, waved, and sped on her way into the camp.

Red continued toward the collection of corrugated steel sheets making up King Flapjack’s palace, also the home of the best pancakes this side of anywhere.

Hobohemia is what happens, not where, she muttered, using Midtown’s favorite saying to bolster her confidence. Like Quickly leaving without a word, came the sore rejoinder to stab at her resolve.

Didn’t want to upset you, Midtown had explained last year when Quickly simply disappeared on her eastward trek to a new railroad barony.

Pausing above the tents and shacks, Red looked back at the Bailey Yard lights, her breath quickening. Midtown wouldn’t do that again with Glory, would she? Was all of this a distraction while her best friend snuck out?

Red put a hand to her vaporous chest, quelling the ridiculous thought. Nobody’s leaving me, she said, angry at herself for even getting started down such a bitter road. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she grumbled while whisking toward Flapjack’s palace. She was bringing something to life. Best to think about her next few minutes for a change.

Red paused above the palace’s chimney pipe. A cultured Creole voice sang among the rattle of pans. Flapjack loved to sing. Especially when he cooked. She sniffed the fragrance of burning mesquite rising along with the muffled sounds. Time to make herself presentable for her royal audience.

Caught between preteen and eternity, she’d gone to great lengths to be adorable. This morning would be no exception. A lace collar borrowed from Midtown’s indecisive elegance and her striped blouse inspired by an engineer’s overalls. Crimson leggings took up where the tease of a short pink skirt left off. With the embroidered shapes of moose all over them, naturally. Her brunette hair was done up short and straight with exaggerated bangs. Glory’s idea.

Satisfied with herself, Red took a steadying breath for the task ahead. The palace below shared a few common traits with her, courtesy of being in Hobohemia. Sure, to the unaided eye the building looked a ramshackle mess, but she saw its true nature as she did the knights. Not a bunch of clapped together metal sheets, but a quaint inn complete with thatched roof and mortared white walls supported by thick wooden beams.

To the uninitiated, she wasn’t much more than an errant puff of steam herself. Red smiled. Those who plied the living rails, however, got to see the cutest girl in the world. All it took was a little boiling water.

Grinning with renewed enthusiasm, she dove into the chimney, catching the added smells of fresh wheat and spices. Smoke didn’t bother her any more than steam did. She emerged above a small fire pit, weaved around the various hanging utensils, and hovered above a rotund black man girded in a stained white apron. Flapjack looked anything but kingly with his frizzled gray head and generous jowls, but everybody paid him homage if not for his wisdom, then for his cooking. Even the yard bulls set aside their truncheons and ill manners for a heaping stack of pancakes slathered in butter and honey.

Flapjack’s broad brow furrowed. He set a dishrag aside and poured water into a black pot beside a spotless white sink along the back wall. I believe my honored guest has arrived.

Red’s eyes widened. Hey, you’re not supposed to be able to see me.

No, but I can feel you, honey. Guessing you’re Red, come to help with the grinder. Nodding, he smiled as if not requiring her answer. Have a nice welcome up for you in a moment.

Which meant she’d best be about her business. She concentrated on Midtown’s teachings. True, she could feel the hobo king in turn. His vast amount of experiences and emotion permeated the inn like a thick fog. The air she swam through lay heavy with the echoes of both his soul and those of the patrons he served. Breathe it all in. She closed her eyes and followed Midtown’s instruction, her chest softly rising and falling. Red spread her arms like when she really wanted to merge with Herkimer and feel the tide of memories flowing from his caboose.

The room misted with tendrils flowing into her from both the empty seats and Flapjack himself. She became more substantial by the moment without even trying. Normally, she needed a scrap of steam, mist, or even smoke to reveal herself. Not now. The railroad lamps around her swayed as if in acknowledgement to the culinary passion bringing color to her features as substantial as when she first met Midtown.

She floated to the floor with a meek, Hi.

Well ain’t we pretty, Flapjack said, setting the pot beside the fire. Not sure I’ll need to boil up a fresh pot after all. Best I bring that grinder out quick-like. Nice of your momma to send you.

She likes you, Red returned.

The hobo king hefted the brass grinder onto a cutting block next to the sink. The mechanism reminded her of a locomotive engine. Well, sort of. A hopper instead of a smokestack. A chute for the flour where the grill ought to be. Only a single driver wheel, but everything else looked in place right down to a shiny copper relief valve above the small piston.

Flapjack carefully poured the pan water into a small spout where the engine’s cab ought to have been. How about you, Red? You still like me?

Red stared at the floor for a moment, shifting her feet around. Well, you did yell at me about that tent.

He grinned. You nearly blew those boys back to Chi-Town for their lip. Too much temper, honey, and you’ll blow yourself away. Hate to see you heading up to that big old Rock Candy Mountain.

You don’t call me names, she said. She couldn’t stay mad at him, especially when so much of his pride and compassion swelled inside her. He was the first to address her as Lady Red.

No, honey, I don’t. He bent his head. I treat every rider as if they were my own girls. Now the Lady Midtown says when you’re through, we’ll be making flour as light as an angel’s wings. You ready?

Red nodded. Rider. He’d been the first to use the hobo slang for a steam child on her too. Red eyed the relief valve with misgivings. Midtown’s lesson was confusing enough without having been delivered in a fit of giggles. Strip naked. What a thing to say to her. Still, laden with all the wonderful memories and feelings she’d gathered, Red began to understand. So much creativity needed an outlet.

The fun about becoming a steam child was being able to go anywhere, including stuffing one’s self inside a space no larger than a coffee can. The sensation felt like putting on the engine rather than jumping inside it. Off went her clothes, or more to the point, everything she held within herself. The misty recollections she’d gathered flew from her with such exuberance as to set the tiny boiler frothing even without flame. The grinder’s little piston clattered, nearly rattling the whole apparatus off the wooden block. Fearing she’d burst the tiny pipes, Red hastily vented herself through the grinder’s valve, sounding like a teapot gone berserk.

Well, you did something, Flapjack exclaimed, carefully applying resistance to the spinning wheel with a towel until the device settled into a rhythmic chugging.

Red drew in Flapjack’s down-home familiarity exuding from the grinder. It’s all you. She squealed with delight, losing most of her form in the dancing swirls of steam rising into the rafters. Now here was something to boast to Glory about.

Trying to remain polite, Red recast her girlish self in the ample vapors puffing from the grinder and watched Flapjack set to work pouring in various grains. Indeed, the flour fluffing out of the grinder’s front held an almost snow-like consistency. She could even smell the rich nutty flavors. Within the hour, he produced a dough soft