The Spaniard, Ep. 5
A dark fantasy Western
“The Spaniard” is a serialized novella.
Synopsis:
A lone gaucho traverses a barren landscape in a 1930s era alternate world, chasing a shade that took what he loved most from him. Joining him is the mysterious Gunslinger, a woman he has met only in dreams, and a trickster spirit, who may or may not have an agenda of his own.
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This week’s episode:
The Spaniard and the Gunfighter recoup after battle with the shade. Coyote offers an interesting proposition, but should the Spaniard take it?
With a weak wave of his clawed hand, the air stirred into a small whirlwind a few feet from where they stood, transforming into a blazing fire, roaring with golden warmth. The Spaniard helped Coyote to sit near it; though it was only the dream realm to the humans, it was a very real plane for their companion. He huffed and wheezed, slumping slightly, as he waved his hand again and a large leather-padded bolster appeared behind to prop him up. The Spaniard scoffed a bit; for an ancient spirit, he certainly had fine tastes.
The dream moon continued to shine brightly, casting cool silver light around the land. Below, the Spaniard watched as distant mountains and formations shifted and changed in the dream realm, growing taller, then shrinking again, like images in a time lapse he’d once seen at a state exhibition of modern wonders. The advancements of science back then had seemed like magic to him then; now, they seemed cheap parlor tricks compared to the terrible wonders of the things he faced.
In the watching of the landscape, they waited for Coyote to compose himself. After a time, though in the dreaming, there was no real way to mark the passage of hours, Coyote seemed renewed, and began to speak.
“What you did in the town was very brave.”
“I suppose,” the Spaniard replied. “We could have used your help against that thing in the meat suit.”
The Coyote snuffed. “I had my own battle.”
“We can see that. What were you up to while we were getting tossed around like rag dolls?”
“Didn’t sound like there was much tossing. The vultures thought you had a pretty clear upper hand.” Coyote yawned, leaning forward to shrug off his furs and vest, revealing deep gashes along the lean rib cage. From his side he drew a small leather pouch tied by a thong, and undoing it, pulled what appeared to be a weed from inside. He began to chew it, then spat it out into his palm and gingerly packed it into the long gashes, wrinkling his nose and drawing his mouth into a snarl.
“You didn’t answer his question,” the Gunfighter said, drawing him back to the topic.
“You humans. So damn impatient.” He looked upward in pain, grinding his back molars as he patted more of the chewed weed into the wounds.
“While you were busy dancing with the envoy, Zalmon’s other warriors were in my territory, sniffing about where they didn’t belong, taking what was not theirs to take. I had to dispatch about twenty of them.”
“Seems you got the upper hand on them.”
“Not unscathed, but yes. He’ll think twice about harvesting from my fields again.” Coyote panted now, settling against the bolster, his breathing a little less labored.
The Spaniard wondered, what it was, exactly, that someone like this Zalmon, had to gain from gathering crops from a spirit like Coyote. Then he wondered what kind of crops Coyote harvested, and he found he didn’t really want to know. The whole business was more than he wanted to be a part of. But it could not be denied, not with what the shade had told him.
Eyes closed, Coyote started again. “Then again, the vultures said you put up the kind of fight that only gets talked about in legends about the Sinaqua.”
The Spaniard and the Gunfighter remained silent, unsure of what to say. When they didn’t respond, Coyote continued.
“That gun you have, and that whip too. Those are quite interesting tools for a human to use, especially the way that they work. Where did you say you were from, young one?”
“I didn’t. You mentioned the Sinaqua. What are they to you?” the Gunfighter asked.
“They’re an old legend of the plains, warriors who were gifted with strength, speed, cunning, courage and the like, to protect their tribes from Sher-ze. They’re a myth. They never lived,” answered the Spaniard irritatedly.
“You see me here, and have fought a shadow that would make the blood of mortal men run cold. Can you be so sure they’re a myth?” Coyote asked slyly. His smirk irritated the Spaniard.
“Zalmon and his minions have been causing me trouble for several years now. They were a nuisance at best, to begin with, but have become tiresome, since they found Ana-chek. But you knew that already, little girl. You’ve been tracking him for a while on your own.”
“Don’t mock me. You’d be wise not to invite my whip to kiss your neck.”
It was the Spaniard’s turn to be confused, though he suspected the Gunfighter had more knowledge than he had. “Who is Ana-chek?”
“Not who, but what,” said Coyote. “Would you do the honors, madam?”
The Gunfighter let out a deep sigh. “Ana-chek was the central city of the Magora, who were rumored to be either the descendants of the Sinaqua, or the inheritors of their power. The stories are old and a bit vague. There’s been rumors that someone has taken up residence in the old city, and has woken it up.”
“Hm. You know quite a bit then. More so than most humans would. I have a proposition for you, the both of you.”
“Shoot then,” the Spaniard replied.
Coyote smirked. “Zalmon has been a thorn in my side for a few years, as I’ve said. Help me to help you. I’ll make your travels safe, protected from his army, just chomping to get their teeth in you for taking out two of their most skilled men. You’ll be doing me a favor in taking him out.”
“Protection to take care of your pest?”
“Indeed,” Coyote purred. “Your closer now to him than you were before. He’s got more power shored up, especially since this afternoon’s skirmish. He underestimated you, and he won’t likely do that again.”
For a few moments, the Spaniard pondered. It was a tempting proposition.
“I’ll have to think on it. It is a good offer, and your protection would be very helpful."
Coyote languidly leaned his head against the bolster, smiling that crocodile-wide grin. “You have till sun-down,” and with that, he snapped his fingers.
He awoke with a jump in the bed, rattling the frame. For a moment, he thought he had startled Gabriella, but she too was awake, her expression uncertain as she pushed herself up with a groan, her shoulder cracking loudly as she did.
He cast her a concerned glance.
“We’re getting old. Even my knees creak when I squat,” she said with an explanatory shrug. “Comes with a hard life, I s’pose.”
They swung themselves out of the bed, stretching, and saw that it was an hour of the early morning where the light had just begun to color the sky. The sun had not even risen yet.
“That was an odd dream.”
“Tell me about it.” The Spaniard wiped the sleep from his eyes and turning on the tap in the small, corner porcelain sink, splashed his face. His reflection in the spotted mirror appeared even older than it had a few days ago in the previous hotel.
“D’you want to wait till we hit the road, or d’you want to talk about it now?”
Pausing, he thought for a moment.
“Coyote sent us back sooner than expected. Let’s settle up and get the hell out of here. We’ll head back to my room once you’re paid up here.”
Gathering what little she’d unpacked, they cleared the room and made their way down to the front desk, in a small room off the bar. Settling the hotel tab, they collected the Gunfighter’s horse before heading back across the street. On opening the door to the Spaniard’s room, he found everything in its place, clearing it as quickly as they’d done for the Gunfighter. Within half an hour, Napoleon was saddled, and they stole away through a quiet side street out of town.
When they’d comfortably put a few miles under their feet, and the sun had broken into the 7’o’clock hour, the Gunfighter broke the silence again. The Spaniard had felt the tense anxiety between them, her silence a steady building pressure. He knew she wanted to ask about it, but being in that town made them a target. They were still a target, and if Zalmon was the kind of man he surmised he might be, there would be little resting until either them or him was laying in the dusty earth.
“You want to talk about what Coyote offered.”
“I want to talk about where we’re going.”
“Toradora.”
“Toradora is in the heart of Zalmon’s territory. We need to rest. We need to come up with a plan.”
“I have a plan. I’m going to find Zalmon and find out if he really has my son.”
The Gunfighter urged her horse forward and cut the Spaniard off, causing him to pull hard on the reigns to avoid her. He cursed.
“We’re in this together.”
“We’re strangers. My son isn’t your concern.”
The desert air was still around them, scrubby brush prepared to burn under a climbing torch. Napoleon and her horse snuffed at the ground, nosing for something to munch on.
“You’ve been dreaming about me for months, and I you. You could’ve torn my clothes off and ravished me from the way you were looking at me yesterday. We fought and killed a shade together, and now me and my concern for you mean nothing? After all of that?” Her cold tone pierced him, but he didn’t show it.
His lip stiffened as he breathed in and out quietly for a few moments weighing her words.
“I’m… I’m sorry for … acting rashly. For rushing us out of there, without saying more. You’re right.”
The Gunfighter’s hard, accusatory stare softened.
“Losing a husband, my folks, my sister, those were hard. You lost family, too. You’re right, we are strangers. But we’re entangled in this mess.”
“We are. And while we are strangers, in a sense, we are more than that, now. You’re right on your own count. My son isn’t yours, but if there’s a chance that he is still alive…”
“You have to take it. You have to know. You have to go and rescue him. But we can’t go in unprepared without a plan. Or if you do have a plan … use me. Let me help you. I have just as much of a reason to go after Zalmon as you do.”
He scoffed at himself. “I was chewing through a plan as we rode.”
She flicked the reins and started off at a slow walk. “Then we should discuss what you’re thinking and keep going.”
When they had themselves going at a decent pace to rest the horses, the Gunfighter began again.
“Have you thought through Coyote’s offer?”
He didn’t answer right away, but looked at her, studying her eyes underneath the brim of her hat, trying to answer her.
“It’s worth it to consider it. But I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t trust him either. He’s a spirit, with his own resources, dispatching a human to do his dirty work for him over a turf war.”
Watching the horizon, the Spaniard chewed on her words for a few moments.
“My father was a gaucho further east for one of the large commercial cattle companies. This was his barbicacho and colete,” he said, gesturing to the kerchief and vest he wore. He swallowed in the dry air, gaze becoming distant. “I watched him sweat for years, saving and saving, until he could finally break his contract and bought a small piece of land to work for himself. He told me once, that a man wasn’t himself if someone else owned him.”
“If we do this for Coyote, he will own us.”
“It’s a deal with a different kind of devil. The problem is, we won’t be able to avoid him in the dreaming.”
At this, the Gunfighter chuckled. “He has his ways, and I have mine. I was going to take us there anyway, but there is a place where he won’t be able to touch us, and we can take our time to rest.”
“Where?”
“Pollos Verde. The oasis where lost things are found, dreams are currency, and thieves can be kings.”
As the Gunfighter adjusted the direction of her horse and increased her pace, the Spaniard wondered if she was getting him into paradise or pursuing a different kind of hell.
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Rachael Varca is a writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, short stories, and home of the serialized novel, Heart of Stone. To see which books she’s working on for Commonplace Thoughts, visit her at Bookshop.org.