by David Orange
Sylvester Heath adjusted his duster as he prepared to step out into the cool night air of Deadwood, South Dakota. Before doing so, however, he turned and looked back at the two Entrepreneurs poring over the blueprint he had left with them. The gas lamp light flickered and reflected off of the goggles perched on Seamus O’Toole’s frazzled mop of hair. Arthur Dingler twirled his handlebar moustache as he scrutinized over the plans, his dark hat merging with the darkness at the back of the room. Heath thought about wishing them both good luck, but thought better of it as he made his way through the now empty Gem Theater and stepped onto the awning-covered boardwalk outside. “The initial push will have to suffice,” he thought to himself. “Their scientific acumen, curiosity, and drive to manifest the device’s operability will have to suffice to bring the plan to fruition.”
A brisk walk soon found Heath at the entrance of his eponymous Curiosity Shoppe. He stepped inside, hung his coat on the elk rack mounted inside the doorway. Dispensing with lighting the shop’s lamp, Heath instead settled into the welcoming comfort of the wooden chair, its slatted seat back polished smooth by years of familiar use. He poured a whiskey into the bull’s horn mug stationed at the side of the lacquered walnut desk. Heath eyed the filled horn, but did not yet slug it back. He took in the solitude of his darkened office. Even in the gloom, he mentally took inventory of the bric-a-brac and oddities that made up the bulk of his wares. As much as Heath’s gaze tried to avoid the back center wall directly behind his desk, he felt the pull of an unseen force overcoming his resistance. Once more, Heath gasped in horror as again he locked eyes with the stuffed raven perched on an ornately carved wooden case. While not alive, the raven with its unblinking glass eyes nevertheless had a presence that continued to demand Heath’s full attention. Once again, the raven’s gurgling croak resonated within Heath’s skull like drum beats. Like drum beats, like…
* * *
Sylvester Heath tied his pack mule to a scrubby, but sturdy, bur oak tree overlooking Polo Creek. He paused for a moment to survey the creek bed below before starting a cautious descent down the rock-strewn sloped canyon. The starlight cut through the crisp night air, giving Heath just enough illumination to avoid both stone and branch that could trip him up. Not to mention highlighting any protrusions that would indicate ceremonial objects left behind when the Lakota had abandoned the site for more secure locations in the Black Hills. Even mundane items such as pottery had value once he could craft a suitable tale to embellish its provenance. Lost in thoughts about potential finds and lucrative sales, Heath failed to notice the half dozen figures on the canyon top paralleling his movements along the creek bed.
An arrow whooshed by, inches from his face before embedding itself in the canyon wall with an emphatic ‘thwock.’ Only then did Heath look up to see what could only be a Lakota war party descending towards him from the other side of the canyon. Soon enough they halted, and Heath found himself surrounded. Not entirely, he thought to himself. He noticed an opening along the path and without thinking about the folly of escaping from six spear-carrying warriors, lunged towards freedom. The blunt end of a spear caught him broadsides of his chest, thwarting his escape and knocking him back down into the mud and sand of the beach shelf. As he staggered up, he saw yet another opening in the opposite direction. Once more, Heath half-staggered and half-leaped towards his salvation. Yet again, another spear knocked him back into the muck.
“They’re toying with me,” Heath thought. But for what purpose, he could not discern. If they wanted to count coup or outright kill him, they would have done so. Lying on his back, he looked up and saw the constellations in all their eternal glory. Heath regretted not having the brass telescope that rested on a shelf in his shop. He had obtained it from a Russian brigand who had given up plundering the seas for the harder, but safer, life of extracting precious metals from the earth. Still, in his mind’s eye he could look at Saturn and see the surrounding rings and from observation, knew that Alcor and Mizar in Ursa Major’s tail were astronomical twins; Mizar itself further split into companion stars.
A spear poked through Heath’s cotton shirt, its knapped obsidian point expertly nicking flesh between ribs. Interrupted from his celestial reverie, Heath turned to see a masked warrior looming above him. Even in the dark, Heath saw the silhouettes of black feathers framing an elongated and stylized beak. The protrusion covered the upper part of the warrior’s face, as well as shadowing the lower portion. Heath then noticed that similar dark feathers demarcated the wooden shafts of each lance from their blades.
The warrior then flicked the spear along the outside of each of Heath’s thighs before holding the spear at rest pointing straight up to the sky. “Rise, and beg for why we should spare your trespass upon our Holy Ground,” said the warrior.
Heath realized that his salvation lay in the truth of actions, while obscuring his actual intent. “I am simply on my evening constitutional, clearing my mind from the hubbub of Deadwood.”
“We allow you Deadwood,” said the warrior. He then gestured to the dark hills that rose up around them. “Paha Sapa is ours, and shall remain so.
Three of the other men lowered their lances, ready to thrust forward and skewer their quarry. Heath heard more than saw a pair of arrows nocked and brought to full draw, without a doubt trained at him. One of the warriors began a chant. “Zuyayapi, zuyayapi.” The others joined in. “Zuyayapi, zuyayapi, zuyayapi.” The leader raised his lance and held it aloft before he spoke again. “We can end your life now, or you can choose to follow the Raven on the path to War.”
Heath had studied the tomes now collecting dust in his shop. Many of them contained philosophical treatises on various cultures and their postulated hereafters, from Heaven, to the Veil, to Metaphysical awakenings and more. Heath decided then and there that he did not want to gamble on which, if any, existences might lie beyond this mortal plane. Drawing himself to full attention and voicing a confidence he most definitely did not feel, he looked his captors square on. “I will serve the Raven.”
“Very well,” replied the leader. “Go now and return to your town. Atonmet will reveal itself to you.” As silently as they had arrived, the war band melted back into the night, leaving Heath in the care of the unblinking stars.
Heath retraced his steps with a slow climb back up the canyon. As he reached his waiting pack mule, he looked to the southeast, where a faint pallid glow marked the fetid hubris of Deadwood. But for now, Sylvester Heath found himself alone with his jumbled and bewildered thoughts.
* * *
Eventually Heath returned to his darkened shop. He took the mule back around to the makeshift covered stall he had erected behind the shop. After filling the trough with a pitch-forkful of hay, Heath took the saddlebags and let himself into the office that also served as living quarters. He put away the excavating tools and implements and then felt, rather than saw something else remaining in the bottom of one of the saddlebags. He grabbed ahold of the object and brought it forth, before setting it on his desk. Heath found a match and lit his hurricane lamp. The flickering light revealed a stuffed Raven perched on a branch that itself rested on a small, but sturdy wooden base.
Heath had seen, bought, and sold enough preserved and mounted specimens to recognize the handiwork of an expert taxidermist. As he eyeballed the bird, Heath had the uncomfortable sensation that raven in turn gazed back at him. No matter, Heath thought to himself, cleanup and display for sale could wait until the morning. With that, he took off his soiled clothes, changed into undergarments and a red union suit and fell exhausted on the rickety wooden framed bed and mattress without bothering to pull up the covers.
…and he took flight as Deadwood receded below and behind him. The wind rustled the feathers on his wings as they flapped a rhythm that propelled him towards Polo Creek from whence he had just recently passed through. He noticed purple trails winding thread-like through the tall prairie grasses where mice and voles had trod. “I am seeing through a bird’s eyes,” thought Heath. But again, he felt more than saw the black feathers that formed a raven’s wings. His wings, the realization startling him to the point that the raven, no himself, fell into a tumbling dive before recovering and resuming its flight. Bird/Heath dipped and wheeled with singular purpose, changing course to the northeast. A large mountain rose up to silhouette itself above the plains. “Mato paha,” Heath as a raven understood the Lakota words for “Mountain of the Bear.” Scattered campfires coalesced into one central bonfire. Drums underlying the rhythmic cadence of chants rose upwards in counterpoint to the sparks shooting off the dancing flames. He descended, flitting between the embers and stood tall as he landed at the edge of a clearing. Heath looked down and saw that he stood not with the angled posture of a bird, but upright as a man.
A chieftain turned to face the erect bird/man, the white eagle feathers of a war bonnet contrasting with the surrounding darkness. “Atonmet, look upon us with favor.”
The drums increased their tempo with surrounding warriors chanting cadence. “Oh kee chee zay, OH KEE CHEE ZAY.”
The leader continued his intoned beseechment of the raven-man standing before him. “Give us wisdom for council.”
“Oh kee chee zay, Zue yah yah pee, ZUE YA YAH PEE,” chanted the warriors.
All of a sudden, Health felt himself springing aloft and taking flight once more into the welcoming darkness. He once again understood the chants as calling for War and thus inciting the band to go on the warpath. He flew onwards, towards…
* * *
…Sylvester Heath awoke in his own bed in Deadwood, drenched in sweat, heart racing. The flight across Paha Sapa, the Black Hills… Wait, he didn’t even understand Lakota, but yet he did. And why were his arms tired? Was it an active dream, or did he really become an avian entity? Avian? The Raven? Heath looked over towards the desk where the stuffed bird still perched. It displayed no sign of animation or sentience. Yet, those glass eyes pierced his soul and Heath knew, just knew, that the stuffed bird was Atonmet who not only had an awareness of Heath’s consciousness, but also had the power to guide and mold those very thoughts.
“Oh kee chee zay, Zue yah yah pee, Zue yah yah pee.” Even in Deadwood, far from the encampment, the drums and chants fomenting following the path to War still pounded and echoed throughout his skull. “That does it,” thought Heath. “Somehow, some way, the next customer to my shop buys this stupid bird.”
That morning, Heath doubled his resolve to sell off the stuffed raven. He placed the bird on a shelf visible from the doorway to better attract the attention of some unsuspecting buyer. “Lucky people make their own luck,” he thought. With that, Heath stepped out onto the boardwalk outside beneath the sign advertising curiosities and more. Heath’s breath steamed in the crisp morning air, as the sun had yet to peek over the tall spruce trees lining the steep hills surrounding Deadwood.
Soon enough, however, he eyed his quarry staggering down the street. “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Rob Wilby in the flesh.” Wilby’s haggard features, rumpled clothes, and the perpetual reek of cheap booze all pointed to yet another long and unsuccessful night at the Nuttal & Mann’s faro tables. As a gambler, it was clear that Rob Wilby was a mighty fine drinker.
Heath squared up in front of the drunkard. Deep in his cups, Wilby nearly bumped into the shopkeeper. Startled, Wilby coughed before straightening himself up and giving Heath a bleary look. Once Wilby recognized the merchant, he made a clumsy attempt to doff his wide-brimmed black hat. “Top morn’ to youse,” he said.
“Why Mr. Wilby, do I guess that you’ve had a rare spell of misfortune at the tables?” asked Heath.
“It’s more than rare, Mr. Heath, it seems that Lady Luck has abandoned me for other masters.”
Heath repeated his mantra aloud for Wilby’s benefit. “Lucky people make their own luck, Mr. Wilby,” he said. He motioned Wilby to enter the Curiosity Shoppe. “What you need, good sir, is a good luck talisman. A totem, sure to make Fortune smile warmly upon you.”
Wilby braced himself against a wooden shelf as he looked around at the shoppe’s various knick-knacks and doodads. “And if I had the money to buy a lucky charm, then I wouldn’t need such a thing.” The drunkard gave a rueful chuckle at his witty insight.
Undeterred, Heath pressed on. After all, he didn’t need the money, he just needed that accursed raven removed from his shoppe and placed in someone else’s possession. “Why Mr. Wilby, surely a change in fortune is worth a few dollars or chunks of ghost rock?” Heath thought fast, he needed to make up some sort of plausible background for the raven that would convince Wilby to purchase the bird. He led Wilby over to the shelf where he had put the bird earlier. “Mr. Wilby, this fine example of a raven comes to Deadwood by way of a Norse laborer. Did you know that in Norway, ravens are considered symbols of Loki, their ancient god of luck and good fortune?”
Fortunately for Heath, Wilby’s drunken stupor clouded his faculties enough that he didn’t question why someone would rid themselves of a good luck charm. Instead, he inspected the stuffed bird. “Do you really think this bird can improve my fortunes? he asked.
“Think? Why, I know that this magnificent avian specimen is just the thing to get you on the path to well earned riches,” said Heath. To himself, he muttered, “just buy the darn thing already.” He looked Wilby square in the eye. “Sometimes a fella just needs a hand. I’ve sold other specimens for ten dollars, but for you I have a special deal. Tell you what, three bucks and it’s yours.”
Wilby gulped, but recalled that as he left the saloon, one of the ladies had taken pity on him and tossed him a few silver coins with an admonishment to clean up. Well, clean up could wait, not when there was fortune to be had. Why after a good night of cards, he could well afford a night at the Green Front with all the extras. With a shaky hand, he proffered the coins. He grabbed the raven and with a whoop and a holler exited the shoppe.
“Could it really be that easy,” Heath thought? In any event, the rest of the day passed without incident. And somewhat to Heath’s surprise, so too did the night. No raven, no drums, no warriors, no visions. Just a good night’s sleep.
The following morning likewise passed without incident. Shortly after lunch, however, a dapper gentleman entered the shop. Heath recognized Felix Cutler, a well known gambler and ladies man around town. “Ah, Mr. Cutler, always a pleasure to have you grace my humble premises.” Heath noticed that Cutler carried a moderate sized burlap sack with him.
“Always, indeed,” replied the gambler. “I could use some nice cuff links to accent this new shirt.”
Heath thought for a minute, riffling through his mental catalog. “I have just the pair for you, my good man,” he said. Heath went to a wooden cabinet that displayed chinaware and silver place settings. He stooped to retrieve one of the drawers below the cabinet and then walked over and set the drawer on the desk. Cutler leisurely examined the various cuffs neatly arrayed beside rings, bracelets, necklaces and other fine jewelry. At last, he held up a silver pair engraved with ornate scrollwork and inset with turquoise. “These will suit me well,” he said.
“That will be fifteen dollars,” said Heath as he placed the links in a small leather drawstring bag.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Cutler. He set the sack on the desk, opened the top and brought forth a dark object into the dim light of the shop.
Anticipation became shock then horror as Heath recognized the raven. Yes, indeed the very same Atonmet bestowed upon him by those natives that night at Polo Creek.
“This is an exceptionally well preserved specimen. I’m sure you could sell it for a good price, but I must admit, I thought of you and your diverse collection of fauna. Allow me to gift this to you as a token of our friendship.”
Heath suppressed a sigh. There went his hope of trying to drive too hard a bargain that would find Cutler keeping the accursed corvid. He next spoke through pursed lips that hid clenched teeth. “And where did you obtain this um, specimen?”
“Oh last night, gambling. Ol’ Rob Wilby had this with him. Said something about it being a good luck talisman from the North country.” Cutler gave a hearty chuckle. “It may be lucky for someone, but not for him. I cleaned him out even before midnight. You can only play the hands you’re dealt. But I must say, some play those hands better than others.” With another full laugh, Felix Cutler bid farewell to Heath. Once again, Sylvester Heath was alone with the raven. Besides the incessant drumming, Heath swore that the raven mocked him with its gargled caw.
As Heath settled for bed, he reassured himself that he had simply dreamed the previous night’s flight to the warrior encampment. With that, he nevertheless fell into a restless sleep. He awoke with a start, looked left and then right. To his shocked horror, Heath once again saw his wings flapping their inexorable rhythm to the incessant drumming that had never vacated his skull. This time, the raven flew over the creeks heading south from the town and over the surrounding high plains. Air flowed around the wings, paralleling the oxygen streaming into its lungs, powering steady wing beats. Pronouns such as I and They merged into something different than, more than, We as Heath became more attenuated to the raven’s consciousness. He seemed to recall that the previous flight took about an hour or so. But this time after an hour had passed, Heath realized that the raven showed no sign of stopping or descending. Yet another hour elapsed, and still the inexorable flapping continued.
A little more than halfway through the third hour, Heath saw hilly silhouettes rising from the plains. He felt, rather than heard, deep moaning emanating from several openings in the hillsides. Again, the raven supplied the thoughts that Heath needed to know. Maka Oniye or Where the Earth Breathes housed an entrance to the spirit world. As they drew closer to one of the entrances, Heath noticed a shimmering haze similar to that formed during heatwaves. Except he still felt the cool nighttime air around him. As he flew through the entrance, he felt resistance to his flight, and the air had a crisp, pungent smell like after a lightning strike. The entrance receded, then vanished behind them. Instead of darkness, however, the light settled into the perpetual gloomy dusk of late twilight. As they flew onwards, rocks and box-like crystals vanished and a vast prairie interspersed with small stands of trees opened up before them. Instead of familiar greens and browns, the landscape was a stark black and white, almost like an albumen print negative. Indeed, the raven was now a ghostly white with dark legs and feet.
As they flew onward, space and time lost their traditional meaning. Interspersed patches of clovers and other flowers glowed purple that contrasted with the otherwise whitened grasslands. Far ahead, Heath noticed an enormous herd of pale bison pursued by a band of equally pale hunters with lances or bows and arrows on horseback. Once again, they descended to campfires and once again, pale chieftains in dark bonnets with light tips beseeched the raven for sage council.
At last, they wheeled and headed, if not back, at least in the opposite direction of their current flight. Eventually a brighter circle of light loomed ahead. Once more, the filmy haze shimmered and bent as the raven flew through it and back out into the normal world. And once again, Sylvester Heath awoke drenched in sweat and with fatigued arms.
That morning, Heath paced the small office, and with each lap back and forth gave the accursed raven a baleful glare. “Sorry ol’ bird, but you have got to go.” But after the definitely unlucky Rob Wilby, Heath had no clear idea of who might end up buying such an oddity. Perhaps, serendipity in the form of a random passerby or shoppe visitor might manifest an answer or provide a solution to this vexing situation.
Soon enough a pale skinned platinum blonde woman entered the shop without taking the usual time to blink and adjust to the gloomy interior. “Yoo hoo, Mr. Heath. Aah you back there?”
Heath responded to the queried summons by emerging from his office to size up his potential victim. Er, customer, he reminded himself. Besides her pallid complexion, Heath noticed that the woman wore a bright red, low cut dress over a black velvet underdress. Long black gloves likewise complemented the crimson dress. A filigreed gold necklace encircled her neck, while an amethyst pin centered her décolletage.
Heath now recognized the woman as the madame of a group of recently arrived, ahem, working ladies. “Ah, Madame Carmilla, always a pleasure to have your beauty grace my little shop,” he said. “What pray tell, do you desire today?”
Carmilla opened a white bordered purple fan, closed it again and pointed to the wooden cabinet in the corner. “Ovah theyah,” the woman said in a pronounced British accent.
“Perhaps a brooch from my collection of the finest quality of jewelry and accessories to be found anywhere in the Dakota Territory?” Heath once again moved over to the cabinet and retrieved the draw above the one he had had pulled for Felix Cutler. After placing the draw on his desk, he lit the lamp so that Madame Carmilla could better examine the various bejeweled pieces.
Carmilla extracted a Cat’s Eye brooch surrounded by mother-of-pearl and examined it in the flickering lantern light. “I do rawthuh fancy this one,” she said.
“Why Madame, a most excellent choice. For you, I have a special price. A mere ten dollars,” said Heath.
“Oh, Mr. Heath, you know I’m always partial to a bargain,” said Carmilla. Again, she drew out the vowels and dropped her ‘r’.
Now or never, thought Heath. “I do believe, Madame, that, um, endeavors could use a talisman of good fortune.” He pointed to the raven. “This fine specimen of a bird will watch over you and your ladies, bringing protection and nothing but good fortune.”
At this, Carmilla’s expression became harsh and her eyes flashed anger. “Why, of all the nerve! Trying to foist that ghastly and macabre bird upon me.” She flounced out of the shop, leaving the cat’s eye brooch behind.
Heath felt less concern over the lost sale than the inability to be rid of the raven once and for all. “Well, the day is still young, there will be other customers.”
On cue, a stocky gentleman with a buckskin shirt and leggings entered the shoppe. “Shelby Hunt, as I live and breathe,” said Heath. “Welcome back to Deadwood.” He took a deep breath and proceeded to extol the virtues of the stuffed raven.
The renowned huntsman took a step backwards. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. Heath? What would I, the best hunter in all of the territories want with a tiny little bird? And I bag my own specimens, thankyouverymuch. Let me know if you have any leads of where I can find, say, devil bats. Or better yet, an actual wendigo.” Indignant, Hunt stormed out of the shop.
Heath slumped down in his chair, his dejected head cradled in his palms. In his eagerness to get rid of the raven, he had put his own needs ahead of satisfying the whims of his customers. Still, how to get rid of the bird? He then had an epiphany. He’d been so concerned with the almighty dollar and selling the bird for financial gain, that he’d forgotten the primary goal – simply getting rid of the cursed corvid once and for all. Heath decided he could just leave it outside on the street next to the shop’s boardwalk for any passerby to claim. Easy peasy, indeed, thought Heath as he set the raven outside per his plan.
The remainder of the day passed without further incident. He once more enjoyed a good night’s slumber. And thus sans raven, Heath’s apprehensiveness segued into a tranquil enjoyment of his usual routines. Madame Carmilla even returned to the shoppe to finalize the sale of the cat’s eye brooch. Neither one of them mentioned the raven, and that suited Heath just fine. Out of sight and out of mind and all that.
On the fourth day after getting rid of the stuffed bird, a well dressed man in a green vest and starched white shirt and pressed trousers entered Heath’s shoppe. “Good day to you, Mr. Nuttal,” said Heath. “If I may be so curious, what brings you to my Curiosity Shoppe today?” Heath chuckled at his hoary pun.
Tom Nuttal plopped a large leather-covered suitcase on the desk. “Well you see, Joe Musgrove and Peter Bartlett were playing poker, and it came to blows and then the guns came out.” The saloon keeper gave a world weary shrug. “Just another slow night in Deadwood, you know.”
“And what’s with the suitcase?” asked Heath.
“Possession is ninety percent of the law and all that,” replied Nuttal. “Neither of ‘em had any kin, next or otherwise, to speak of. Didn’t leave any wills, either. But both ran up some hefty bar tabs. So hopefully their collected effects can at least posthumously settle their scores.”
As Heath unfastened the hasps, Nuttal’s eyes pleaded with Heath for a generous accounting and settlement of the motley assortment of items strewn haphazardly throughout the suitcase. Heath tossed aside the various clothes, especially the bloodstained vests and shirts that provided mute testimony to the brief but fatal gunfight that sent both men to their untimely demises. He nodded approval at a silver pocket watch and fob, setting it aside. Likewise, he took a modest, but attractive ring. Both men’s hats, a fedora and a derby, were in suitable condition that Heath knew he could resell them without issue. Heath assumed that Nuttal had already emptied the pockets of whatever coinage the men had on them. Overall, not a bad lot at all. “Twenty five dollars for the lot, including the suitcase.”
Nuttal looked bemused. “Fair enough, but you haven’t examined everything,” he said. “Go on, keep looking.”
With a nonchalant shrug, the shopkeeper resumed his examination of what remained of the suitcase’s contents. Several more items of clothing got tossed aside, but nothing worth keeping. And then he felt a familiar texture of smooth dryness, with various rounded edges that could only indicate – feathers. FEATHERS! Black feathers nestled against the black lining of the suitcase meant that the accursed raven had once again returned to him.
Aghast, he gave Nuttal a shocked look as he held the stuffed bird aloft. “How. Did. You. Get. This?”
“Joe Musgrove had it with him at the gaming tables,” said the saloonkeeper. “Claimed it was some sort of good luck charm. Anyways, Bartlett didn’t cotton to that at all, and asked Musgrove to remove it. Musgrove wasn’t having any of it, and then went on a winning streak. So Bartlett decided then and there, if Musgrove wouldn’t remove the bird, then he Bartlett would have it for his very own.” Nuttal paused in his narration to set up the denouement of his story. “Well, as I told you originally, it started with fisticuffs and ended in a shootin’ match. So guess that ‘lucky charm’ wasn’t so lucky for Joe Musgrove.”
With a glum expression, Heath paid up for the items and bid Nuttal farewell.
* * *
Slumped back in his chair, Sylvester Heath stared at the whiskey filled bull’s horn sitting alongside the raven for a long moment. “Here’s to you and me, us together, old friend.” He then slugged back the shot.