Market Theocracy

5. The Smoke Man

Mysteries disperse.

She wore the name Hope with more confidence than she’d ever worn Faith. She figured that maybe faith was always a thing to be lightly held and wondered over. That maybe it was the very uncertainty of the thing that gave it a worth.

She grew to love Summertime City in the idyll she spent there, and fell into the towns odd and paradoxical rythyms. What looked slow and sleepy on the surface was a sharp and practical thing beneath; she discovered that she did not need to introduce herself. Her walk through town and meeting with Fowler had been introduction enough, and on some invisible all hearing grapevine her arrival had been heralded. Even on the walk from the General Store to the boarding house she’d received smiles and bows and hat-tips, along with more than a few repetitions of ‘Mornin’ Mizz Hope.’

Carina Castleberry did indeed love cats. What’s more, cats loved her. The reaction of the scarred gray tom to the plump, shining little woman was almost embarrassing. He purred and rolled and lost himself in an orgy of petting and clumsy affection. All the while, the hidden eyes of other cats glinted jealously from one nook or another — none quite bold enough to challenge the newcomer for the attention of their missus.

"My husband, God rest him, always called me Catnip Carrie’, Mizz Castleberry said, by way of explanation, as she retrieved a dish of milk for her trail worn guest, and a cup of sweet coffee for his human friend.

Hope dealt with the pragmatics of her situation after the cat had swaggered off to deal with his. She assumed hers was far less violent and much more amiable, however. She rented a second floor room with meals for 25 coins a week. One week paid in advance with the provision for first choice to renew the deal. Once again, the deal was sealed with a handshake. Mizz Castleberry introduced her own tradition, and broke out a bottle of brandy to toast their transaction with proper good cheer.

Five of those coins had gone to secure one of the few rooms with private plumbing, and that night Hope luxuriated in a hot bath. The simple delight of hot water and brisk lye soap made her grin foolishly for an hour.

The cat lay near the door, cleaning some new wounds. These were the products of his negotiations with the resident felines. There was a certain smugness about his eyes and the indolent way he stretched that informed Hope that said negotiations had ended in his favor.

"I like it here, cat." she told him, for no reason, soaping herself up for the third time, just because.

He purred, slit his eyes, and kneaded the wooden floor in answer.

Dinner was an informal affair, held right in the kitchen at a big table that could seat twenty by the look of it. Only three were in attendance that night. In addition to Hope and the Missus, there was a resident named Albert Combers, a charming elderly man who dressed with style and spoke like a Harvard scholar.

Mizz Castleberry made plates right from the stove, where her concoctions bubbled and simmered in the alchemy known only to good cooks. The menu was salisbury steak, baby peas, early corn buttered and peppered to perfection and thick wedges of cornbread that tasted like heaven dipped in the steak gravy.

Hope ignored all manners and had thirds.

When everyone was done and sighing, Mizz Castleberry produced a bag of tobacco and rolled herself and Albert a trim smoke. Hope demurred.

The conversation became interesting after that. Mizz Castleberry had never even heard of The United States. Albert thought he might have come across it sometime in his study of ancient civilizations.

"Where are we right now?" Hope, asked, expecting laughter or questions.

She got neither. "The Borderlands, dear."

"What do they border?" was the only question she could think of.

"Something and nothing." Albert explained, butting out his smoke.

Hope excused herself then, and went up to bed. The cat was already crashed out, twitching with dreams.

She slept like a rock.

A week later, running an errand for the Missus, Hope met Ugly Jim Harris, the Sheriff of Summertime City.

They met at Fowlers. Fowler himself introduced them.

They called him Ugly Jim because, as a child, he’d been nearly burned to death in a house fire. His face was a mass of scar tissue. He looked like a skull partially covered with wax. But his eyes were blue and honest, and he radiated a sincere kindness.

"I don’t know if I’m cut out for law work." Hope admitted.

"Not asking you to take up a career, ma’am." Ugly Jim reassured her. "But I could use a hand right soon."

"Things seem peaceful enough."

"Riders will be here in a few days. Bad every year. Gonna be a doozy this year though." He looked away. "Something tells me, at least."

They spoke of payment. Beyond coinage, Hope insisted that she needed answers to questions.

Ugly Jim’s eyes narrowed. The misshapen lids gave his look an odd weight.

"You need to see the Smoke Man." he told her.

"Who?"

"He sets up camp outside town this weekend. He runs his business. He answers questions."

The journey to the Smoke Man was short, but Hope found herself with more company than she desired. He seemed a popular destination. She constantly had to turn folks away. They saw the gun and hoped for protection. Even after she turned them down she noticed that they stuck close.

The Smoke Man made camp in a clearing about ten miles north of Summertime City. As Faith approached she heard the boom of his trade. She understood as she drew closer.

The Smoke Man and a supplicant stood in a clearing. The machine behind them sent up disk after disk. They shot in turn. The supplicant didn’t do a bad job, but he couldn’t match the perfect record of the Smoke Man.

By the time Hope arrived she met the losing fellow as he made his way home. Despite that loss he seemed well pleased. Perhaps he was already planning a rematch.

The Smoke Man was reloading his thrower when she walked up. The thrower was a home-made affair, a challenging assortment of cogs and gears, tension and mismatched parts. I took up the entire bed of the Man’s pickup. The truck itself was the dull gray of primer, though there was a diffuse and misty look to it.

Hope studied the shooter before her. He was tall, gaunt, hair cropped short on a perfectly round head. She couldn’t judge his age, though she knew he was older than her. She saw instantly why he was called The Smoke Man. His skin was an even gray pallor, matching the truck. When he finished reloading and looked at her, she saw that his eyes were gray as well. And they held the mark of great age. He smiled at her.

"Care to sport a while?" he asked. "10 coins to enter, and I’ll back a side bet to whatever you care to lose." His grin widened, became mockingly predatory. "You win if you tie me. I’m fair that way."

Hope stood her ground and smiled right back. She wished for a moment that the cat were with her, rather than lording it over the boarding house. She missed the steel his small solid form set in her spine.

"The ammo for this is quite precious." she explained, touching the gun on her hip. "But I’ll go 20 coins if you’ll answer a few questions."

The Smoke Man began turning a stout, ratcheting crank. His thrower was obviously a clockwork device. He never took his eyes off of her, and never lost his smile.

"I got fools a’coming to lose their coin to me. But it may well be high time for a coffee break." he admitted. "20 coins get you five questions. I only answer if I like."

The Smoke Man’s coffee was strong and just shy of bitter. Hope added extra sugar and made the best of it.

"Where am I?" was her first question.

The Smoke Man sipped his brew. "The eternal question." He paused, thinking. "You stand between hell and heaven, in the great gray expanse of unknown. Call it The Undecided. Folks here call it The Borderlands and be done with it."

"How did I get here?"

"That’s one I can’t answer. Only you can answer that. It’ll come to you eventually. It comes to everyone in time."

Hope accepted that. "I have the urge to go West. What lies West of here?"

The Smoke Man chuckled. "Far enough West and you find The Ends. The place where structure dissolves. Nobody knows what lies beyond that, since no one ever comes back to describe it."

"Who are you?" That one just popped in her head.

"I’m touched." he claimed. But the smile drifted away for a moment. "I’m not sure what I am. I travel. I take folks coin. I shoot. I know some things. That’s all I’m sure of."

Hope asked her final question. "Will I ever go back home?"

The Smoke Man stood. "And that’s one I won’t answer. Not my place to go telling you what Home is or means."

Hope looked over her shoulder. By the truck, a small crowd of challengers had gathered.

"Back to work, ma’am." The Smoke Man said. "A pleasure to meet you."

Hope just nodded.

As she made her way past the truck, on her way back to Summertime City — both secure and puzzled by the vague answers she’d received — the thrower thumped and sent two disks into the air. Two guns boomed. The challenger missed. The Smoke Man’s target puffed into a quickly dispersing cloud of dust and fragment.

"You made smoke out of that one." Hope called to him.

The Smoke Man laughed, tossing her that predatory smile again.

"In the end, darlin’," he told her, as she moved away "I make smoke out of ‘em all.