Of Mud and Bone

By Greg Cmiel

Autumn, 1898.

 

A blizzard batters the town of Hope, and a wizened stranger driving a coal-black caravan appears in the swirl of snowflakes. The sign on the caravan reads The Brothers Zorkin, puppeteers from Archangel, Russia. 

 

Bedlam engulfs the town as the storm intensifies. Promises from the stranger bewitch the townsfolk, offering gifts only a God can bestow. Spellbound, they agree to do his bidding, no matter the heinous nature of his commands.

 

Madness burrows deep into the fabric of Hope, and Birdie Caldwell must rally herself to defeat a dangerous foe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Murmuration Publication
• Release date: Jan 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201253875

Book preview

1

Beneath the Withered Flower Beds

The Black Hills, 1898

Evangeline Birdie Caldwell crouched upon the shore of the snow-blanketed riverbank. It was early October and already the landscape was tufted with white. Birdie shivered as she dipped her hands into the icy water, rinsing the sticky blood from her fingers. The dark current bubbled past in a long winding ribbon that cleaved the floor of the valley and vanished behind a jumble of towering spruce. Her fingers ached from the cold, but she kept them submerged, meticulously cleaning beneath each fingernail. Most of the blood came from the three carcasses lying on the ground beside the river. Some of her own blood was mixed in as well; a careless cut along the edge of her thumb as she made quick work of skinning the rabbits.

Birdie’s mind had been a whirl all day with thoughts of Bo, distracted by the memory of how he’d held the door for her, his rough hand brushing hers. Then, the way he’d caught hold of her as she slipped outside, roping her in with his steely gray eyes, as if he’d never let go. Bo hadn’t ever looked at her that way before.

Birdie cast a gaze over her shoulder at the setting sun, blurred behind a wall of leaden clouds. She huffed out a breath and reached for her pack, grasping at the drawstring that sealed it against the elements. Droplets of icy river water beaded on the oiled canvas. She reached inside and drew out the diary she carried with her everywhere, then dug deeper for her tin of pencils. Birdie wanted to sketch the complex musculature of the carcasses lying next to her, even though the sun had already dipped below the treetops to the west. She had miles to go. An arduous walk up the steep incline back through the forest toward home. Her shoulders dropped, and she sighed. She would sketch another time. Birdie stuffed the diary and the tin back inside her pack and cinched the string tight.

Hiking back in the dark was a dangerous proposition, though Birdie had wandered these foothills since she was a young child. She knew every rocky path, dangerous outcrop, and tumble-down boulder between the riverbank and her home in Hope. Even so, it wasn’t worth the risk. She checked her thumb one last time. The oozing cut was clean and should heal without infection. She wrapped it tightly in a strip of cloth pulled from a pocket, watching as the dark blood seeped around the edges. She drew in a deep breath and blew into her hands to warm them.

Birdie had hiked all day, tramping along the river from Hope to Devils Pit Gorge, a difficult route of nearly ten miles, checking her snares and traps along the way. Three snares had yielded a catch. Three more yielded only bloody, gnawed remains. She was not the only creature that stalked these woods in search of a next meal. Birdie removed the disemboweled carcasses, and tossed them deep into the woods, then made her way back upriver.

She flipped her collar against the wind and adjusted her hat. A raccoon scuttled from the shadow of the trees and careened toward the riverbank. The furtive movements were all wrong. Madness gripped its tiny mind, and drove it forward, canting from side to side. Birdie narrowed her gaze. The normally placid eyes, masked by the familiar dark fur, were clouded and the sight of it gave Birdie a chill. Rabid, perhaps, and prone to attack. She heard her father’s voice whisper in her ear, then lunged and took hold of a stone half buried in snow along the water’s edge. It was jagged and rough, and about half the size of a loaf of Mother’s bread. She raised it as the raccoon drew closer. It suddenly froze in place and cocked its head her way. The raccoon arched its back like some old tomcat, then shook as the eyes refocused. It twisted around and scampered back to the shelter of the woods.

Birdie lowered the stone. There was a splash downriver, and she cocked her head toward the sound. Her gaze scoured south along the smooth river rock covering the narrow shoreline, then swept further out to where the deeper current took hold. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so she relaxed her shoulders and let the stone drop from her hand. She shook the snow from her chilly fingers and eyed the path that led toward home.

Birdie hunkered down and scooped her knife that lay upon the bank. She gripped the bone handle, settling her palm into the grooved indentations made by her father’s hand, and his father’s before that. The blade had passed down to her as there was no willing son to take it. Her young brother Teddy had no use for such things. The razor-sharp knife frightened him—he said so himself, more than once. Birdie doubted he had ever held the short, wicked blade, made for grisly tasks that were beyond him. A gentle soul, Teddy. She lowered the knife into the cold water, then watched as the pink swirls of blood mixed with the inky vastness of the river.

A murder of crows soared above the river and cawed madly as they banked across the ceiling of the sky. Then the murder descended and clustered in a dark smudge at the crown of the tallest spruce in the valley. The moon hung pale and swollen just above the tree line at her left; the sun dipped low on the opposite side of the valley to her right. A blood-red streak tinged the low clouds.

She lifted the blade from the water and glimpsed her blurred reflection in the dark current; long ebony hair tied back, ponytail trailing backward in the breeze. A few flyaway hairs framed her face beneath the wool cap Mother had made for her. She reached up and tucked the dark strands behind her ear. Droplets of pinkish water on her fingers gathered along her jaw, then trickled down her neck. She pictured Teddy with his long pale neck stretched out as he lay upon his small cot. They had pushed the cot up close beside the fire. His eyes would shine in the firelight as he watched the comings and goings of the household. Mother had insisted he not be shut away in the loft where he and Birdie had slept for many years. But that was months ago, when Teddy had seemed stronger and there was some hope he would make a recovery. Birdie knew in her heart there would be no recovery.

Teddy was dying. His skin was the color of rye flour and bones jutted from his rail-thin body. He had been sickly since birth, worsening as of late, as some undiagnosed affliction clawed at his body. Though his illness never dimmed his spirit. He remained a light in the darkness for his big sister. The doctor from Covenant visited now and then, kindly, with gray hair and thick glasses, but he was an old country doctor, and this was beyond him. He had given Birdie an old biology book on one of those visits because he knew she was interested. She’d read every word, cover to cover, more than once. Birdie had taken it upon herself to heal Teddy. So far, her studies had yielded nothing useful, and he continued his decline. Birdie’s secret hope was that Teddy could survive long enough for her to get away from Hope and learn medicine at a proper university. Then, when she was a modern doctor, armed with the latest in science, she could return and save her brother. She swallowed hard, knowing she had little time.

Birdie dreamed of him buried under drifts of snow, asleep forever beneath the withered flower beds of summer. Her eyes glistened as she mopped away the pink droplets with the sleeve of her coat and jammed her hand inside the stiff, rawhide glove. She wiped the four-inch blade on her patched denim trousers until it was dry, then tucked it into the leather sheath on her belt.

The sun sank deeper into the sky patched with wisps of steely blue. Birdie packed the three rabbit carcasses into an oiled canvas rucksack, then stowed them in her pack. She shivered again. From dawn until dusk, the filtered sun had done little to warm her. The last glimmers of its light washed across her face as she slung the pack over her shoulders. Birdie pulled the straps down tight, then wondered if some of mother’s famous rabbit stew would spur Teddy’s appetite. She doubted it. He’d wrinkle his nose and smile ruefully, instead asking Birdie to detail the whole breadth of her day, leaving nothing out. And of course Birdie would. She’d pull up the chair from the kitchen table and sit beside his bed. Teddy’s eyes would widen as she offered the daily retelling of her adventures, elaborating on every detail no matter how trivial. He expected no less. His eyes would flutter, and with a contented sigh, he’d fall into a satisfied slumber. The hooting of a barn owl snapped Birdie from her reverie.

She spun away from the bank and toward home, the start of the long trek up through the foothills. Wet snow sucked at her boots with each step, and a strong wind from the north shushed across the valley. Pine boughs swayed, and limbs creaked under the burden of eight inches of new snow. The amber-tinted snowdrifts rippled outward like waves on the sea, or the tufted meringue on her mother’s freshly-baked lemon pie. Birdie’s empty stomach twisted with hunger, so she banished the thought and increased her pace.

There was a sharp crack from the deeper woods to her left. She halted with her foot raised above the snow, then settled her boot carefully in the drift. Her hand strayed to the blade on her belt as she counted out twenty heartbeats. There was nothing but the whistling wind. Icy fingers found a way inside the collar of her coat. Then she heard it again, but closer this time. A trill raced the length of her spine and bucked her shoulders. A hawk screeched from high up the mountain, and she drew her blade with a leathery hiss.

Birdie calmed her breathing and took a few steps, focused on the sounds of the forest all around. She counted out ten steps, then twenty. She paused, but the crunch of snow continued for one extra heartbeat. Birdie wondered if it could be Bo. Perhaps playing a trick on her? Mother worried too much, and she could have sent him to find her and bring her home. Evangeline Birdie Caldwell, she’d say, then cluck her tongue. A girl out all alone in the woods. You’ll be the death of me yet. Birdie conjured an image of Bo as he flitted from tree to tree. His lanky and lithe form, dressed all in tan and forest green, confident in each well-placed step. Silent as a mountain lion stalking a doe. Bo was the best tracker in town. Not yet a man, but caught somewhere in the middle between adolescence and adulthood. Like Birdie.

A coal-black cloud drifted over the muted remnants of the setting sun. There was another crunch of underbrush, just twenty paces behind Birdie. The wind fell dead upon the mountain, and a lead weight descended from her chest deep into her gut. No, she decided, it was definitely not Bo. He would never make such a commotion. She considered calling out, just to be certain, but nothing good would come from that, so she ground her jaw, and pondered what was tracking her. A wolf, perhaps? Or a brown bear? Certainly not a cougar. Most likely a bear, a clumsy bruin, as Father would say. Wolves and cougars hunted like the feathery fall of twilight upon fresh snow. You won’t hear either coming before it’s too late. A flash of tawny fur, or a gray tuft just before the merciless bite clamps down upon your throat. A warm trickle of blood. Then you die.

She strode on, mindful to remain calm. Show no fear. Prey runs. Her nostrils flared as Birdie gripped the bone handle. She was not prey.

The light faded as she moved away from the banks of the river and plunged deeper into the cottonwoods. Still a long way to go. When she reached the line of hackberry, she’d only be halfway home. Then spruce and juniper as far as the eye can see. Up and up. The rocky footpath buried in snow. A crooked line through the hills and straight skyward toward the ridge. So far, so good. She let out a slow breath. Birdie lost the sound of pursuit to the renewed whisper of wind that dredged across the tree-line, drying the thin sheen of sweat upon her brow. She wondered if the tramping crunch was nothing more than a raccoon or a fox. Cold comfort, for certain. The absence of sound dragged her heart back up into her throat. A big predator could be very near, stalking silently, and ready to pounce.

Birdie adjusted her grip on the knife. The short blade felt undersized and useless. She lamented not taking Father’s musket with her this morning, instead leaving the old Springfield leaning in its usual place beside the door. The musket was the only possession that he’d kept from the war. An image of her father’s bearded face filled her mind. He’d told her almost nothing about that time in his life, when he was a soldier on the side of the blue and just about Birdie’s age. Too young. She imagined the Springfield reminded him of long-lost friends. Boy soldiers, buried deep in the overgrown fields, cultivated into rows of bone-white gravestones, each etched with the names and dates of the fallen.

Birdie kept the Springfield clean and well-oiled. It was a trusty weapon, one she often carried, but this day she had wanted to move as quickly as possible. It was a long hike downriver to the gorge, and she figured the weighty musket would slow her. She made a fist at her poor dawn choice, wishing she could go back and change the decision.

Higher and higher Birdie climbed, her pack cumbersome, and slowing her with each arduous step. Familiar trunks helped guide her home, zigzagging markers like black bones lining the path. She sensed, rather than saw, the vast emptiness of the steep drop-off to her right. Towering canopies of spruce rose from the drop. They grew along the precipice and clung to the rocky wall with a fierce tenacity. She kept her mind focused, as one misstep was all it would take. A tumble down a craggy embankment—a broken arm, or leg and a slow death from exposure. Nobody would know where to find her. Bo would likely be the one to discover her tracks along the path. Her frozen corpse found at dawn. He’d be the one to tell Teddy. Birdie scrunched her brow at that and shook the thought away.

There was a low growl from the shadows at her back, followed by a huffing bark. Bear. She considered dropping her pack. The bear might halt to investigate the bulky bundle, then maybe paw out the rabbits inside and forget about her. Without its weight she could run or perhaps even scramble up a tree, but she didn’t have time for that. The bear huffed again. Much closer. Her legs went wobbly, and she twisted her head around, trying to catch a glimpse, but spied nothing between the blurred silhouettes of the trees. Birdie’s boots punched through the soft mounds and pressed into the deeper underbrush. Twigs bent and snapped beneath her weight. She heard the same muffled snapping at her back, but this time she didn’t dare turn. The bear was nearly upon her.

Birdie wished she could fly. She’d leap up from the ground, her boots brushing the snow, and soar high above the trees. She couldn’t, so she ran. A shroud of darkness pressed down with each stuttering step, and a shadowy clump of boulders appeared. She stumbled on a jutting slab and nearly fell. Birdie caught herself on the stone; her gloved hands jammed into the deep snow. There was more hard rock beneath and she cried out as it twisted her wrist. It wrenched the knife from her grasp. Birdie shrugged the pack off her shoulders, letting it slide to the ground. She imagined claws raking between her shoulder blades as she dug frantically in the snow. There was no time to find the blade. She staggered to her feet and ran.

Lost. The familiar trail was now a panicked tangle of trunks and limbs. She was well off the main trail now and clambered too close to the snow-covered ledge. Her boots sank deeper with each difficult step. Birdie’s foot tangled in a clump of fallen tree limbs buried beneath the snow, forcing her down to one knee. Her hands found nothing but more darkness as she pitched forward.

A weighty paw stomped down hard upon her ribs. It pushed Birdie deeper into the snow; the powder forced into her mouth and nose. She felt fiery breath upon her neck as the snapping jaws closed around her skull.

2

A Promise of Rain

New York City, 1873

A choking cloud of sooty ash drifted across the southern tip of Manhattan as a crowd of gawkers gathered near the water’s edge, chattering and pointing at a bloated body that bobbed in the murky waters of the Hudson. Jakob Zorkin, and his younger brother Benjamin, stood upon the bustling pier beside four large steamer trunks. Both men were tall, and wore heavy coats over dark suits, topped by bowler hats. Their clothing was frayed, shoes scuffed, and their charcoal hair, streaked with silver, was dirty and unkempt.

The Brothers Zorkin, Master Puppeteers, had been painted in garish letters upon the side of each steamer trunk. The fresh paint covered faded lettering, The Family Zorkin, though still legible upon closer examination. Their treasured cargo, child-sized marionettes and various set pieces, had been carefully packed into the trunks, then loaded onto a wagon, and transported from frigid Arkhangelsk (Archangel), a bustling seaport in northern Russia along the Dvina River to Hamburg, Germany, and finally onto the SS Frisia, a steamship bound for America.

Jakob clutched his violin case to his chest. He had deep-set eyes under bushy brows, a flinty gaze that missed nothing and flashed lightning when provoked. That rage came unexpectedly, and more frequently as he had moved through youth and into life as a middle-aged man. He had hoped the opposite would be true. Perhaps it was resentment at the loss of youth, the naïve belief in the eternal flame, that in the end, guttered low and inevitably went out. Jakob hungered for more time, and a way to lengthen the string of life that God measured out for each man. The spooled out time taken, and snipped away by the master’s shears no matter the station of the man, be he king, prince, or pauper.

Jakob cast his eyes toward the clustered onlookers gaping over the edge of the pier. He moved closer to get a better look. The floating corpse was that of a young woman, the fine dress she wore fashionable for a woman of a certain age. But she was filthy and ruined by her time in the cold water. Death fascinated him. How a living body, a person of such lovely vigor, of warm flesh and blood, could be alive one moment, and then, after a blow to the head, a tragic accident, or murder by a knife stuck in the heart, and that spark was snuffed out. Then, nothing remained but inanimate dead tissue, muscle, bone, and copious amounts of blood. He smiled bitterly. The lifeless corpse, and no longer truly human. Where did that spark of life go? Heaven or hell? Or did it linger a while in the body? A dark thought bloomed in Jakob’s mind, a delicate seedling he’d tended for many years, keeping it in darkness lest it overtake him.

It was the Devil’s work, he knew, and not for a man of God such as Jakob Zorkin. And yet...? he mused. A dream had visited Jakob every night since he was thirteen. A vision sent by a restless spirit that lived in the shadowy woods beyond the family home. It was not God, but something else entirely. Something unholy. Jakob had learned to step outside the story and watch himself as he acted within, like a marionette in a play. He still had not puzzled it out. Nearly thirty years on. It had all bubbled into a frothy mix of mysticism, alchemy, and the promise of eternal life. He blew out a breath from between pursed lips and turned away from the swollen corpse in the brackish water.

The sky promised rain, and the brothers would need to hire someone with a wagon to haul the trunks and also find suitable lodging before nightfall. Jakob closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted by the long journey, and imagined his feet rooted to the pier like a larch that bordered the family property back home. He longed to go back and wondered if the trip to America had been a mistake. Benjamin caught his eye and seemed to read his thoughts. He turned away in disgust.

A sneering, grubby little man with a mouthful of wasted teeth scurried through the crowd and cuffed the ear of a boy who walked before him. The boy carried an armload of dirty linens. He yowled in pain and tried to run away. The man snatched him by the arm and dragged him down one of the narrow alleys that led from the waterfront, cursing the boy as they went along. The unwashed crowd milled mindlessly, reminding Jakob of the feral boars back home that rutted among the birch. Their cloven hooves left a myriad of prints in the muddy fields in springtime. The mark of the devil.

Jakob grunted at the sight and glared at his brother. Benjamin looked bored and held a deck of playing cards in his right hand. He cut the cards, then flipped the deck over and around, doing it again. Benjamin fancied himself a card shark, and a ladies’ man. He wasn’t wrong on either count. Jakob admired his ease with women—but he was a scoundrel, too, and a