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Halloween is two days away, and today is Part 7 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 7 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  A grim calm settled over the dark man as he straightened and turned toward the entrance. He had his answer, but the answer didn’t make sense. The sun peeked under the top lip of the cave. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his coat. Before he stepped over the woodpile, something made him look back. He didn’t know why, because he didn’t want to. During the war the same inner voice made him duck right before a bullet whizzed by, or compelled him to advise General Palmer contrary to sound intelligence reports, thereby saving the division. Sunset now bathed the back of the cave in crimson light, highlighting every fly with crystal clarity. A ray of orange sunlight settled onto the gap in the pile where he removed Wellsby’s body. Something twinkled like starlight amongst ghoulish arms, legs and bones. Leave, his heart told him. Go see, something else whispered. The stink of rot and sour mash whisky enveloped him as he returned to the pile once more, careful not to block the sunlight from the sparkling place. Tangled black hair spilled over the body’s face, and Knight hoped he’d uncovered a freshly slain indian at the bottom of the pile. But the shade of black wasn’t quite right, and a few strands of gray stood out in the ruddy light. He kicked away another body to reveal white cotton and blue velvet. A silver chain wrapped around a delicate hand, which grasped a turquoise crucifix. As if watching someone else, he removed one glove and gently brushed away the black hair, uncovering pale, olive skin. Knight reeled backwards and fled the cave. Cleansing sunlight warmed his shoulders as he fell to his knees beside the stream. Knight stripped off his coat and splashed water over his face and arms. He kept scouring his forearms with water and sand until they bled, sucking in breath after breath, trying to purge death from his lungs. Townsend meekly approached. “Mr. Knight, are you okay?” Knight rinsed the bandana and folded it neatly in his pocket. He donned his coat, adjusted his hat and collected himself. “It’s just like Amado and I told you, isn’t it? Like something from hell,” Townsend said. Knight snapped his Colt up into Townsend’s forehead and shoved him against the ravine wall. “Where is Josefita Lucero?” He screamed into Townsend’s face. “You crazy som’bitch! Put that damn thing away!” Knight grabbed Townsend’s face and raised him off the ground with one arm. He shoved the black Colt up against the sheriff’s temple. “Tell me where Josefita Lucero is or I’ll shoot you dead now!” “Amado sent her to Santa Fe three days before you showed up! She went on the weekly coach. When we came back from the cave he said he was scared and didn’t want her ‘round. Yesterday he got word the carriage never made it. Amado was organizing a search party this morning.” Knight dropped Townsend into a dusty heap, turned and walked to his horse. “Señorita Lucero is in the cave, dead by two days near as I figure. Wellsby is in there, too. He’s been dead longer.” Townsend sat in the sand, face in his hands. Knight mounted up. He wasn’t going to tell Townsend, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Spanish Lady last night. “You still think I had something to do with this, don’t you?” Knight reached into this saddlebag and pulled out the unopened bottle of sour mash whisky. He cracked the seal, pulled the cork and took a whiff. Knight grimaced before his face solidified into a mask of determination. “There’s not a man alive with enough evil in his soul to do this. If there was, you ain’t him. The poor souls had their blood drained. They were feasted upon.” Townsend shuddered. “Probably some damned redskin.” Knight remembered General Palmer’s words: I fear, Silas, the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. “Get on your horse and ride hard back the way we came. Get back before sundown. I’m circling north via the rail line.” “Hell, I’d have to kill my horse to get back that fast!” “Then kill it. What did this knows we’re out here. If he catches you before you get to Espanola, you’ll end up stuffed under that pile with Wellsby and Amado’s wife.” “Well, tell me who done it. I’m the sheriff, and I’ll take care of ‘em!” “I suspect Wellsby left here with a good idea, too. I think he kept his suspicions to himself until he could confirm them. He underestimated this enemy and paid for it. I suspect the Lady Lucero knew who did this, though I don’t know how.” Knight reeled his horse around. “A good deal of what’s transpired here remains a mystery, but my gut tells me Father Garza may be dead, too. The faster you get back, the better the chances are you’ll find Amado still alive. “Now this is important, so listen carefully. When you get back, organize a party of about five men to come back at first light. Drag all that timber into the cave, soak it with kerosene and burn it to ashes. Then dynamite the cave and collapse the bank. As for tonight, stay at the tavern. “Don’t be alone, not even for a minute. If Amado hasn’t gone off looking for his wife yet, then.... well, tell him what I saw in there. I, for one, think he already suspects as much. Watch over each other, or you may not live to see the dawn.” Townsend swallowed hard. “I’ll bring the padre to bless the grave.” “If it makes you feel better, but this ground is cursed...deeply and forever.” “Are you going after who did this?” Knight jiggled the bottle. “I’m going to drink this, all of it till I can’t feel or smell anything else. I’ll see you back at the tavern. Tell everyone I plan on being mean and drunk, so stay the hell out of my way. In the morning, I’ll ride for the monster who did this.” “Who’s gunna watch your back?” Knight patted his Colt and rode off to the north without another word. He followed the cart tracks he scouted when they arrived at the river. He didn’t tell Townsend about the tracks, the less he knew the better. THE CAVE, Part 8 As darkness crept across the high desert, the wind howled up the Chama Valley. By the time Knight darkened the tavern door, the wind switched from the north, carrying flurries foretelling the season’s first storm. He swayed as the wind blew out the oil lamps. His glazed eyes swept the room until they fell upon Townsend. The lawman and the aborted search party sat quietly in the tavern, somberly nursing beer and whisky. Stumbling in, he slammed the empty whisky bottle on a table. The railroad agent raised his head and squinted at the wailing drifting from the upper rooms. “I take it Amado and his daughter know,” Knight slurred. Townsend nodded. “I caught ‘em just before he set out for Santa Fe with the search party.” “You did everything I asked?” Townsend nodded again. “I’m going to bed. There’s killing needs doing come dawn. Wake me before first light.” With that, Knight stumbled to his room and slammed the door shut. A barmaid closed the tavern door, but not before another slipped in unnoticed from the windswept darkness. Knight lay fully clothed, boots on, on top of the sagging mattress. Motionless and eyes closed, he breathed deep and ragged like a passed-out drunk. Townsend and his men’s muffled voices floated down the hallway and mixed with the branches rattling the window. Something slinked across the floor in the pitch-black room. Alert and cold sober; Knight’s senses were fully engaged. Eyes closed, breathing unchanged, he knew hell shuffled only a few feet from the end of his bed. He smelled the cave in the cramped space between the bed and the washstand. It’s deciding whether or not I’m really asleep. Like a spider, the enemy needed to ensure the venom was fully engaged before it wrapped the fly. Suddenly, the dark presence seemed to expand. The Colt blasted from under Knight’s right leg. In the muzzle flash, Knight saw a man slam against the opposite wall. Knight sprang up and discharged another cartridge where he calculated the body fell. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a groan. Townsend and his men exploded into the room brandishing guns and lanterns. Through oily gun smoke and dingy light Knight saw the motionless form of Nesbitt Carl against the shattered washstand. ("The Cave" concludes tomorrow.)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places."
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Halloween is quickly approaching, and today is Part 3 & 4 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 3 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden  The serving wench hadn’t brought his whisky. He turned to go back inside when the sound of drunken singing, clear and hollow, echoed out of the night. Without thinking, Knight placed his right hand on the butt of his revolver and slowly turned. The singing drew closer. When logs about the house are stack’d, And next year’s hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack’d, And faggots blaze and spit; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak: But he puts his arm round the maid that’s warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. Death is master of lord and clown, CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN! The refrain repeated as the smell of rye, stale and rotten, floated from the darkness. The form materialized, leading a donkey and cart. As the shadow drew closer, light streaming from the windows illuminated a fat, bloated face covered with stubble. “Good evening to you, kind sir!” The portly man bellowed with a slight Irish brogue. He removed his top hat and bowed deeply, revealing a few thin strands of hair over a bald pate. “Mr. Nesbitt Carl at your service.” Knight nodded but kept a hand close to his revolver. “If I may be so bold, you must be the railroad agent Amado spoke of, sent here by the General himself to put this fair village back in order. Mr. Knight, I presume?” He thrust forward a meaty hand. “The same.” Knight nodded, but didn’t accept Nesbitt’s hand. Nesbitt withdrew his hand and smiled. “I see, a man of few words; a man of action and justice.” He lifted his finger and waved it vigorously. “I salute you, Mr. Knight. The General is most serious and must be determined in his resolutions to send a man such as yourself. I, too, am a man of action and recognize a kindred spirit. Men like us are driving the American Empire to the Pacific and taming the red savage. I, for my part, soothe and give comfort to tired working men with my assortment of tonics and spirits.” He motioned to the cart pulled by a dead-eyed donkey. Knight first took the crates for coffins, but a second look revealed whisky crates. The man he took for an undertaker was nothing more than a carpetbagger, probably driven west when the spoils of war dried up. He sensed something very wrong in this village, something beyond the influence a common rapscallion like Nesbitt Carl could bring. Knight held scavengers like Nesbitt Carl in disdain, but such cowardly creatures had their uses. He would deal with Nesbitt later, but for now he would keep an eye on him. “I take it, Mr. Carl, you have business here with Señor Lucero?” “I come this way every few months. He has a good eye for fine liquor and his patrons expect only the best. I must ensure my customers have enough inventory to last them through the brutal territorial winter. In fact...!” Nesbitt’s eyes grew wide as a smile sprung to his face. He bounced to the back of the cart to retrieve a fresh bottle of whisky. “As a distinguished representative of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, please accept this complimentary bottle of my finest wares. It’s Kentucky sour mash, only the highest quality. I reserve this for my white customers, being too strong for the weak constitutions of the red race. Only a few drinks and they become delirious.” Nesbitt leaned in and tapped his head. “Tenderizes the savage brain, you know. Amado tells me it’s fit for the tables of the Spanish court. Please take it with my best regards, Mr. Knight.” “Much obliged,” he said and took the bottle of amber fluid. “You said you come this way every few months. What other towns do you frequent throughout the territory?” Nesbitt’s eyes darted left and right. “Well, as a businessman I must keep a wide variety of customers stocked. If I tarry too long my competitors, numerous and not known as scrupulous men, will swoop in and prey upon my clientele. This is why I am a man who moves...” The front door opened, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Isobella emerged holding a shot glass and a half-full bottle and placed them on the rail next to Knight. “I am sorry, but we are running low...Señor Carl! The cellar is almost empty; take your wares around to the kitchen. Miguel will see to your cart and donkey.” “Sweet Isobella, I have a better idea. YOU take my cart and ass to the back. This is Amado’s entire order. I will join the patrons in the saloon presently. Mr. Knight, I must see to my customers. Perhaps you will join me in the inn for a drink and a conversation?” “It would be a pleasure.” He began to roll another cigarette. “I’m going to take in the night air for a spell longer, then I will be in directly.” “As you wish,” Nesbitt handed the reins to a reluctant Isobella, lifted a few bottles of whisky from one of his cases, and entered the inn. Muttering curses under her breath, the girl led the donkey and cart around the corner. Knight heard a few men cheer as the vendor entered the room. Laughter penetrated the walls and carried across into the night. Knight found himself alone again on the porch, pondering the events of the evening. THE CAVE, Part 4 He placed the fresh bottle on the rail and filled the shot glass from the bottle of rye Isobella brought. A mystery formed in his mind, fed by the look of desolation in Amado’s eyes and the fear festering inside the inn. He wanted to talk further with Josefita, somehow sensing she held the key to this mystery. First, he would hear what Amado had to say, and then seek out Wellsby. Something in Espanola spelled trouble for General Palmer’s ambitions. He nursed the whisky and waited for the inn to empty. As midnight approached, he heard Nesbitt laughing and lifting the spirits of the gloomy crowd with raunchy jokes and bawdy songs. Eventually, men drifted away, but never alone. Once they stumbled into the darkness, silence and sobriety fell upon them. They scurried away like children racing to the outhouse at midnight, their need barely outweighing their fear of what lurked in the shadows. Knight slipped back inside carrying both bottles of whisky. Only a few men remained at the long tables. He found a dark corner and sat with his boots up on the table. A few women cleaned up, but Josefita had yet to reemerge from the kitchen. He poured another shot from the near empty bottle of rye and continued to nurse it. Nesbitt laughed loudly with two Mexicans almost too drunk stand. Knight watched him closely. Nesbitt caught his gaze and smiled back with large yellow teeth that reminded Knight of a coyote. Amado emerged from the kitchen, sweaty and obviously exhausted. He wiped his hands on his apron and approached a group of men drinking near the fireplace. Amado nodded and motioned over to Knight. A stocky, Dutch-looking cowboy with a red beard, scowled over his shoulder at Knight. Perhaps this fellow is Wellsby. He looked younger than expected, perhaps only in his early 20’s. Amado and the bearded man approached. The cowboy glanced side to side, not meeting Knight’s steady gaze. A Colt hung awkwardly by the man’s side. “Señor Knight, thank you for waiting so long. The matters at hand will not wait for morning. Let me introduce Sheriff Townsend.” Knight put his boots down and leaned forward. “I was expecting to meet the acquaintance of a Mr. Wellsby.” “Let us sit and talk. Much has transpired since the General dispatched you.” Amado called for more whiskey. Townsend immediately poured a shot of whiskey and downed it, then poured another. What Knight first took for cockiness, he now recognized as fear. Whatever is going on here, Townsend wears the badge reluctantly. “A few weeks after snows cleared from the lower passes to Santa Fe, the crews resumed work on the rail line. It was shortly thereafter when people started vanishing,” Amado began. “Indians, mostly.” Townsend spoke up, “Strong backs are hard to come by ‘round here. Injuns are poor workers...if and when they show up. They come ‘round when they’re hungry or want liquor and vanish as fast as they’re paid. Some foremen won’t use ‘em, claim they steal more than their worth.” Amado looked irritated at Townsend’s interruption, but continued, “I am on good terms with the chiefs from the various pueblos. They came to me first. They did not trust Wellsby, perhaps for good measure. At first...” his voice broke and he looked away. “At first I thought it was simply a matter of intoxicated indians wandering away. Sometimes they mix strong drink with peyote in their kivas and are overtaken by madness; but after a few weeks there were too many men missing for this to be the only explanation. I knew some of them, young Zuni and Navajo men. Good men, fathers and sons. Some were my friends. Yes, maybe they drank too much, but that is the curse the white man brought upon them.” “How many indians are we talking about here?” Knight asked. Amado paused and took a drink, his hands shaking. Townsend stared at his glass and remained silent. “By the time the monsoons came, I counted two dozen indian men vanished. Maybe more, it’s difficult because the indians soon ceased leaving the pueblos.” “When Wellsby found out, he told me it was indian business as long as it didn’t interfere with the railroad. It became railroad business when the chiefs forbade their men to work on the railroad. Wellsby rode out to the pueblos to strong arm the chiefs to release their men back to the lines. I believe he knew you were coming and he didn’t want the problem to get back to General Palmer before he could resolve it.” “He asked me to ride out with him that day, along with Richard here.” He nodded at Townsend. “We also took Father Garza from San Marcos and rode twenty miles northwest, along the Chama, to the Zuni settlement on the river. They were the first to refuse workers.” “Father Garza came, I think, not to convince the chiefs, but to protect them from Wellsby. They are a proud but peaceful people. Not like the southern Apache or bloodthirsty Comanche. They protect themselves with desolation, high on the mesas or deep in the malpais, the badlands. They thrive where others only find death. Death is their friend because he takes care of their enemies before their enemies can find them.” Amado paused and rubbed his eyes. “Wellsby...Wellsby,” he smiled and wagged his finger. “The indians did not trust him. Wellsby threatened the tribes. Father Garza always tried to mediate, but Wellsby only made the indians more stubborn.” He shrugged. “I could not blame them, Wellsby was a hard man.” Townsend nodded. Was? Knight continued to listen, poker face firmly set, unsure where this tale would end. He wanted to like Amado, obviously a shepherd of a man and the center of this community. This inn reflected his spirit, a light on the edge of a dark frontier. He also saw turmoil swimming in innkeeper’s haggard gaze. Townsend took false solace in the iron strapped to his side, not from any inherent mettle in his spirit. Knight knew Townsend’s gun would more likely get him killed than save his life. “So we rode out that morning, before the sun,” Amado continued. “We wanted to get as far as possible before the late season monsoons rose above the mesas. I sent young Miguel ahead to inform chief Lai-lun-kia of our arrival. The chief is wise and patient, but I feared Wellsby’s arrogance would test him. I wanted him prepared for our arrival. Garza is especially trusted in that pueblo.” Amado took a long drink of whiskey and wiped his mouth. “We rode up the Chama till mid-morning. It was hot, very hot. Not a breath of air stirred. We started up into the high country when we saw him.” He paused and shivered. Something is terribly wrong here. “Gentlemen!” Nesbitt boomed from behind. He slapped Amado and Townsend on the back. Knight didn’t notice his approach from the other side of the room, and that fact chafed his mind like a sandbur in his boot. Knight looked about and realized, save Isobella, the patrons and barmaids were gone. She sat quietly in a rocking chair beside the fire. All the lamps were extinguished, leaving only the fireplace to cast long shadows across the room. Amado rose and shook Nesbitt’s hand. “My friend, did Isobella see to your payment?” Nesbitt smiled widely and grasped Amado’s shoulder. “Of course, all our accounts are settled. As usual, your hospitality and generosity are without equal.” Amado stood with rigid formality, an honorable old world man. Nesbitt, however, gushed over Amado the way sycophants do. Nesbitt removed his hat and bowed low. “Gentlemen, the night is no longer young and neither am I. There is much business to attend to on the ‘morrow. I bid you goodnight!” As he turned to go, Knight saw something in the liquor monger’s eye, something sharp like an unexpected shard of glass. Nesbitt’s eye lingered too long on Knight, sizing him up. “Amado, how long has Mr. Carl been in your acquaintance?” “He came with the melting snows. His prices are fair and the customers like him, especially in these dark days. He is quick with a joke and is very generous with the samples.” “I see,” Knight replied. “Continue your account. Who did you see?” Amado took another drink and continued, “We saw a frightened young boy from the pueblo, running north up the riverbank as if being chased by the devil himself.” Stone faced, Knight listened to Amado’s tale into the early morning. When he finished, only the lamp at their table lit grim faces. Isobella had long ago retired to bed. Orange embers popped and floated out of the dying fireplace. Knight remained silent for what seemed an eternity. “Townsend, I want you to accompany me to this place first thing tomorrow. We leave with the sun.” Ashen, Townsend stood. “Then I best be getting along. I’ll meet you here at sun-up.” Knight stood as Amado grasped his hand. “Thank you. I hope you understand why I cannot accompany you, I must tend to the inn.” Knight almost opened his mouth to inquire if Josefita could keep an eye on things while Amado accompanied them. She struck him as an intelligent and competent woman, but instinct held his tongue. Experience taught Knight when in doubt, remain silent lest you unintentionally reveal a weakness to an unknown enemy. “Amado, I must clarify one more detail regarding your account. You said Wellsby returned with you to Espanola, then vanished the day after your return. How many days now has he been missing, and have you or Mr. Townsend told anyone this account except for me?” “It will be two weeks tomorrow since he vanished. Townsend and I made a pact to tell no one until your arrival. Trust is a hard commodity these days.” In that moment, Knight sensed Amado wanted to tell him something else. Instead, the innkeeper blew out the lamp, slumped into a chair next to the dying fire, and bowed his head. “Goodnight, Señor Knight.” Silas Knight lay in bed, boots on and Colt by his side. His thoughts lingered on the beautiful Spanish Lady before he fell into a soldier’s sleep. Branches scraped a dry rattle against the window as muted sobs floated down the hall from the tavern chamber. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories.
#shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." Halloween is one week away. I'd like to start a tradition on the Illusion Exotic, by featuring a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. I hope you enjoy it.  THE CAVE A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden The man in black leaned against the porch railing, patiently contemplating the purpose of his summons. Twirling his handlebar mustache, he admired the late spring maelstrom raging high above on Pikes Peak. Snow erupted off the upwind slope in sun-gilded plumes, blending into rolling clouds above the summit. The turmoil above contrasted to the calm where he stood a mile below. He understood the illusion of tranquility, of how quickly death could descend and deliver an unexpected blow. Squinting against the morning sun, deep creases etched his weathered face with shadows as dark as his drover coat and broad hat. The man in black seemed to soak the light from the morning air, testifying to the civilized world here stood a man of consequence, a man of purpose. He merely thought of himself as a man of duty. Duty drew him to the eastern Rockies, the slopes just coming back to life after a bitter winter. Most of the snow across the plains had already melted, transforming the streets of Colorado Springs into mud, confounding wagons and soiling the finest petticoats. He noticed quite a few petticoats and top hats, strangely out of place in a new frontier town. English tourists and English money saturated the city, driving prices as high as Pikes Peak. As the fresh scars of the Civil War began to heal, gentlemen and ladies from the finest eastern families and European nobility came west, deposited in Denver by the Kansas-Pacific Railroad. They journeyed the rest of the way courtesy of General Palmer’s Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Some came to see the vanishing frontier and gaze upon the majestic Rockies. Others came to hunt the plentiful trophy game in the high country. The one thing not plentiful here was liquor. General Palmer didn’t tolerate alcohol in his new town. He harbored deep respect for his former commander, but still brought enough good rye to keep him warm during his stay. He had some fine tobacco in his hotel, too. As bad as he wanted for a cigarette, he supposed this would be a bad place to roll one. The covered porch wrapped around a spacious whitewashed building, which could have been mistaken for a fine resort hotel. Perched between worlds, the majestic mountains formed the hospital’s backdrop and the plains fell before it like an endless gown. Frail, wispy figures clad in white robes surrounded the man in black like morning fog encircles a granite peak. They, too, existed between worlds; living ghosts slumped in wheelchairs across the porch. Nurses drifted among the pale figures carrying blankets and hot tea. Occasional coughing spasms racked the silence. The patients deflected their gazes away from him. Perhaps he’d dealt death for so long, he’d come to resemble it. During the war, General Palmer once confided why he always kept him by his side. Palmer believed the man in black could sense when death lingered nearby, attributing this gift for keeping the General’s feet firmly planted in this world. He told the General it wasn’t a gift. When you got the smell of death deep in your lungs day in and day out, it eventually stuck there like molasses on the inside of a barrel. After a while, you could smell it coming. Just when a man thought he’d exorcised death from his mind for good he’d get a whiff of it again, strong and fresh. Most men who fought the war, like the General, spent the rest of their lives trying to avoid death. Thinking it a fool’s errand, the man in black quit trying long ago. In fact, he’d gotten so damn good at smelling death coming he made it his profession. Death permeated the clean, crisp mountain air. It wasn’t the hot, violent smell of the battlefield or a gunfight, but the cool, sterile odor of antiseptic decay. While expensive and beautiful, this place wasn’t a fine resort hotel and these weren’t English tourists. The patients came for a second chance at life and hoped to find it here at Craigmor Sanitarium. Neither stricken with consumption, or visiting a patient, he had an appointment with his former commander General William Jackson Palmer. Palmer’s personal secretary, a small man with a penchant for small details, emerged onto the porch and whispered to the man in black, “Mr. Knight, the General will be out shortly.” Silas H. Knight nodded and resumed chewing on a toothpick as the little man scurried off. A few moments later, a group of well-dressed men emerged onto the porch, Palmer at their center. “Gentlemen,” the General addressed them. “I feel certain I’ve laid to rest any doubts this grand institution, nestled here amidst our Lord’s natural beauty, is at the forefront of modern medicine. I am confident this glorious place of healing can only prosper and thrive under the stewardship of such a distinguished board of trustees. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must attend to other matters. I leave you in the hands of Doctor Edwin Solly, with whom you are already acquainted, to field any further questions.” He shook hands with each and bid them thanks and farewell. His smile cooled as he turned and made his way across the porch to Knight. “Sergeant, it does please me to see you again.” “General.” Knight touched the brim of his hat in a ghost of a salute. “How was your journey? Are you hungry? The kitchen staff here is excellent.” “No thank you, sir. The hotel has a fine breakfast, even if it is a bit rich for an old soldier.” “Ah, yes,” Palmer agreed. “The Antlers is the finest hotel west of St. Louis. I hope you find it agreeable.” “Most certainly.” Palmer motioned off the porch. “Well then, Sergeant, will you do me the honor of accompanying me in a stroll across the grounds while we discuss why I asked you here?” The two men made no small talk as they strolled in silence down the hill, past the garden toward the open prairie. Palmer stopped and surveyed the wide-open rolling grasslands stretching east, interrupted only by the distant town nestled among the foothills. A gust of wind stirred the late morning calm as the mountain storm behind them began to draw energy from the warming grasslands. Knight watched his former commander out of the corner of his eye. The steely look on Palmer’s face transported him back to battlefields long ago, and a thousand miles away. He knew deep inside that Palmer still fought the war. The general would fight for the rest of his life to purge the smell of death from his nostrils. “Silas, I trust you are in good health and your constitution is as firm as ever.” Palmer looked him up and down and nodded. “Yes sir, still fit enough.” “If my telegram was sufficient to lure you here then I can rest assured Kansas City holds no special bond for you?” Knight nodded. He had no bonds, other than to some inner code of honor he shared with a few men. Palmer was and would forever be his commander, loyalty bought and paid for with blood. Palmer nodded quickly and grinned. “Excellent." Palmer stretched his arm across the open grasslands, the way he did when he surveyed battlefields. Knight followed him, because unlike most Union generals, Palmer was a man of thought and action. A spy, the commander of the 15th Calvary Regiment, a former prisoner of war, and nemesis of General Lee, he was the most daring man Knight had ever encountered. “Colorado Springs is going to be the next St. Louis. I’m building railroads, but not out west, Silas. No, that is already happening.” He turned and motioned toward the giant peaks. “Instead, I’m building narrow gauge lines throughout the Rockies from Mexico to Canada. Not around them, mind you, but through them! In Washington, they see these great mountains as obstacles to uniting the continent. I see them as a source of wealth, the very backbone of the continent.” Knight listened as Palmer went on, detailing his plans for the Denver and Rio Grand Railway. To his former commander, it was simply a matter of breathing life into events already played out in his mind a thousand times. An engineer, the General visualized the end-state, and then applied scientific principles to make his vision reality. Now Palmer visualized pushing the American Empire across a virgin continent. “Science now allows us to engineer railways in places the ancients couldn’t have scraped a goat path. I have work camps scattered up and down the Rockies. These are lawless places, beyond territorial justice. If I can’t keep order, I can’t build the railroad.” Knight now understood why he’d been summoned. Palmer continued, “The camps are filled primarily with Mexicans, but there are some white men, mostly foremen and engineers mind you, at each location. There is liquor and whoring, I can’t prevent that. However, I can’t have these vices inducing strife with the local indians. The tribes, especially in New Mexico territory, are very different than those across the plains. They’re generally passive unless stirred to trouble. That, my old friend, is why I requested your services. Are you equal to the task?” “I understand, sir.” Sergeant Silas H. Knight, former scout of the 15th Pennsylvania Calvary Regiment would ride forth once again at the bidding of his general. “Very good. I knew I could count on you. I’ll pay well above what you earned in Kansas City. My personal secretary will handle the details.” “Yes, sir.” Ordinarily a hard man when it came to contract negotiations, Knight simply accepted his former commander’s word. “I hope your instincts are as sharp as ever, for I must request that you depart immediately. I received word this morning of trouble near the railhead in Espanola, in northern New Mexico. There is a territorial marshal there, a certain Thomas Wellsby, but he is a drunkard and a liar. I’m making you a deputized agent of the railroad. Under territorial law you’ll have jurisdiction in all matters regarding the Denver and Rio Grande Railway.” Palmer leaned toward Knight in confidence. “Espanola is the lynchpin for the Chili Line, the railroad stretching from Raton across northern New Mexico. Therefore, all matters in Espanola are in some regard the jurisdiction of this railroad.” “Will Wellsby be a problem?” Knight inquired. “He’ll see your mettle and likely stay out of your way. However, he is not above backstabbing, so tread carefully. Ascertain the situation in Espanola and, if he is involved, deal with him as necessary. And I suspect he is involved. “I want law and order established there, one way or another. When you are through in Espanola, move north or south along the rail line from Santa Fe as you deem fit. Let your reputation move ahead of you, if you take my meaning.” Palmer gestured to the well-worn grips of Knight’s .44 caliber Colt pistols. A cold gust of wind suddenly blew from the west, rocking Palmer slightly. Knight’s heavy black oilskin drover barely ruffled. The general turned and looked back at the sanitarium and the gray mountains beyond. The storm slowly descended onto the plains, darkening the blue morning sky and casting a shadow over Palmer’s face. “I have enemies. Not just the railroad barons in Denver, but in Washington. They want to see my narrow gauge railway fail. Lackeys in Congress try to block me and I suspect the work camps are filled with saboteurs. I believe Wellsby is one of them. “I fear the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. The war showed us that, Sergeant. We must shine the light of freedom and faith into the all the dark corners. We must not let those demons gain a foothold in this clean, bountiful land.” Knight did what he always did when his general waxed philosophically: nodded and kept quiet. He’d never been to the Old World, but he knew people were the same, whether white, negro, indian, or Mexican. Most were bad, few were good. And some were damned. (to be continued tomorrow)  I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." In 2011 I sat in a Manhattan publisher’s office pitching my novel to several editors who were supposedly big deals in the publishing business. Everyone at the conference was trying to tie their novels into Game of Thrones, Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, or Ready Player One. My novel? Not so much. "Where does your manuscript fit on the book shelves?" they asked. "Not next to Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, Walking Dead or Ready Player One," I said. "Its more like Ten Commandments meets The Odyssey." Needless to say, I didn't land a fat publishing contract that week. I can’t remember her name, but one publisher from that conference stands out in my memory. All the female authors who were pitching their novel to her were warned not to show too much cleavage in her presence. I had no cleavage, so I felt confident going in (though I can’t make that claim today). She listened to my pitch with a dour expression, like she had to pass a kidney stone, and then asked me if my novel (Black Sea Gods) was going to be a series. “Three or four novels,” I replied. “The first novel is complete, the second well underway.” “Too ambitious for a new author,” she scoffed, and summarily dismissed me. And thus ended my attempt to get The Chronicles of Fu Xi traditionally published. Every new word added to the Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV’s manuscript is a blow against Anti-Cleavage Lady. Take that, mammary hater! Sometimes that moment in New York drives me onward, just to prove her wrong. Actually, she was probably right. I should have started my writing career on something a little less ambitious, and a lot more commercially viable. If I wanted a traditional publishing contract, a historical fantasy, set in central Asia, and bordering on literary fiction probably wasn’t the place to start. Not that any of that matters now, I’m committed. The Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV is well underway. This story must be told. I completed 2000 words this weekend and two more chapters in the can. That brings the word count to 22,000. The writing is coming easier now, and it isn’t. When I write, I have Books I-III open on my desktop, plus The Golden Princess, trying to avoid plot holes. It’s a Herculean effort to keep characters straight, events lined up, and everything in sync. I think it’s working. I’m back in the groove. Regardless, it's ambitious, to say the least. Anti-Cleavage Lady's warning echoes in my mind. One major change came out of this weekend’s efforts…I’ve changed the last novel’s title. It was going to be “The Children of Fu Xi”, but I’ve ditched that. That title was suggested many years ago by an editor, and I kept it in my back pocket. I’m not going to divulge the new title until the publication date approaches. However, it ties the final novel back to the first novel and sounds great. That’s all I have for today. I’ve got to keep my energy focused on the writing. However, if you haven’t picked up the series, you really should. There are three ways to start: First, you can get copy of Black Sea Gods, the first installment in the series, Second, you can buy a copy of the prequel, The Golden Princess. If you really want a treat, get the Audible copy of The Golden Princess, narrated by the BBC’s Philip Battley. You will not regret it, he sounds great. I’ll see you later this week for another installment of Photography Phriday. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." #books #blackseagods #writing #philipbattley #audiobooks #epic #fantasy #epicfantasy  Get the entire series!  Listen to the audiobook sample!  It's 4:39 a.m. on book release day for "The Bastard Gods." I made a cup of coffee, turned on Spotify with Sammy Hagar's "Eagles Fly" blasting in my head phones and sat down to kick off the next chapter in a personal journey that started a decade ago. It's a great morning. Almost seven years in the making, "The Bastard Gods" is finally on sale! I dedicated this one to the readers who stuck with me. I hope this latest chapter in The Chronicles of Fu Xi meets your expectations. I'd also like to thank my editor, Keri Karandrakis, as well as Michael G. Manning for recommending her to me. Why did it take so long? This was the most difficult book I've ever written, and the easiest. Getting the massive plot turned in the direction I wanted was difficult. The characters, however, helped whenever they could by writing themselves. It's a long book, and a complicated plot, but that's not the only reason this took almost seven years. Writing two other books in the meantime, and producing an audiobook, didn't help. Along the way, I also got bit by the photography bug (Big Time). Photography distractions probably added about two years to the endeavor. Mostly, though, I got discouraged. (also Big Time.) Getting discouraged is as common for indie writers, or maybe even all writers. There were a few times I almost quit and decided not to finish the series. It just wasn't one thing that dragged me back to finishing it, but several: First, I wanted to be a positive example for my kids. I taught them to start what you finish, and do the best job you can. My oldest is entering a career in the creative arts, and I'm sure he is going to get discouraged from time to time, too. Ryan, I won't quit, so you don't either! Next, sheer stubbornness. I pitched the series to a big-time editor in 2011. She shook her head and said, "Too ambitious for a new writer. You probably won't finish." Three down, one to go, lady. You were wrong. Also, there is a wonderful reader who kept sending me really cool t-shirts. I didn't want to let her down, either. Thank you, Helen.I still have them all. Finally, who am I kidding? I'm not a quitter. I was going to finish this book no matter what, just like I'm going to finish the next one. What can I tell you about this novel? It's bigger and grander than the first two in the series. "The Bastard Gods" has more action than the previous books. It honors the world's great legends and myths, with just enough actual history thrown in to make it unique. And it is unique. You will find nothing like it on the book shelves. It is my sincerest hope you give it a try. If you haven't experienced my epic fantasy series, The Chronicles of Fu Xi, it's a great time to pick it up. This week I'm running a promotion where the first two novels are free on eBook. Just click on the hyperlinks and download them to your device. Once again, thanks to all the readers who stuck it out during the long drought. This one is for you.  SEMIFINALIST, 2013 KINDLE BOOK REVIEWS SCI-FI/FANTASY BOOK OF THE YEAR! The fish have disappeared from the sea. The animals have vanished from the land. All humanity, and even the gods, tremble under the specter of a pending cataclysm. The demigod, Fu Xi, races home from the edge of the world bringing news of a looming god war, but finds his land under attack by monsters he once called his children. He discovers a terrible curse has been cast, one intended to destroy the gods and all life. To his shock, Fu Xi learns that mankind's last hope rests solely on him, a simple fisherman, and a banished slave girl.Beset on all sides by ancient foes, both immortal and mundane, Fu Xi knows he must act quickly and races west to rescue the saviors. Unaware of the real doom that awaits, Aizarg the fisherman and his party begin a perilous journey across a dangerous steppe. They seek the last of the Narim, the legendary Black Sea Gods, who hold the key to their salvation. Leading them is the rescued slave girl Sarah, the only one among them who knows the path to the land of the god-men.Over seven days, the defining struggle of gods and humans begins under the onslaught of a powerful force whose true objective and origin remain a mystery. Fu Xi knows the secret to victory resides in the fisherman and the slave girl, whose lives he must protect, even if it means the rest of the world must perish!  THE LONG AWAITED SEQUEL TO BLACK SEA GODS! The Curse of the Nameless God ravages the world, laying waste to man and beast. Desperate to flee the worsening cataclysm, Aizarg and his people escape to sea aboard a flotilla of rafts and fishing boats. Short on supplies and facing starvation, the Lo must not only survive epic storms and tsunamis, but ravenous demons lurking in the deep. Aizarg’s wife, Atamoda, knows that more than wind, waves and demons seek her people’s demise. A cancer festers aboard the flotilla, one Aizarg does not see. Under the cloak of darkness, whispers and conspiracies spread from raft to raft as hunger burns in their bellies. A treacherous plot poisons the hearts and minds of the gentle Lo. Atamoda and Aizarg struggle to keep their people together, even as an unseen enemy seeks to divide the Lo, and drive a wedge between Atamoda and her husband.Far to the east, the demigod Fu Xi races to reach the Roof of the World before the cataclysm claims him and his beloved horse, Heise. Along the way he discovers that a terrible power relentlessly stalks him - the dreaded god war has begun. Fu Xi’s immortality will be severely tested as he fights to not only to survive, but to fulfill his quest to find the mysterious white haired man and save his people. At the end of the world, demigod and mortal fight for survival, pawns to higher powers battling for world domination. In order to save all they love, they must find one another before it’s too late.  THE END OF THE WORLD IS OVER. THE BATTLE FOR A NEW AGE HAS BEGUN.
Two demigods roam a shattered world, one driven by conquest, the other on a mission of salvation. Caught in between are humanity’s last survivors. From the south marches Leviathan and his army of cannibal warriors. After surviving the Cataclysm and a voyage across the world, the son of Poseidon is bent on establishing a new “Empire of the Gods.” The slave Amiran is locked in a desperate battle of wits to stop Leviathan. He struggles not only to mask his conspiracies from the demigod, but to hide his feelings for the mysterious, and beautiful woman who recently washed ashore. From the east rides Fu Xi, son of the Goddess Nuwa. He must find the Man with White Hair before Leviathan does. He also searches for the half-brother he has never known. Along the way Fu Xi unexpectedly finds a survivor, a beautiful woman that could lead him to everything he seeks…if he can keep her alive. To the west Aizarg’s bedraggled people make landfall, but at a terrible cost. Now the Lo must make their way through perilous mountains, desperately trying to find a promised land. Aizarg must keep his people alive and united, as forces without and within seek their demise. Demigods and mortals are on a collision course, but both are unaware of an ancient and dangerous force in their path, one that could change the fortunes of both men and gods. All titles by Brian L. Braden are either on sale or free in e-book from now until 15 July.  the illusion exotic in e-book is FREE through 11 July! This diverse short story collection is a great introduction to the style and prose of Brian L. Braden. Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in "Spaceship Name", hope does not come without a price. In "Green", a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and "The Boy in the Hole." On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the "Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen." "Carson’s Love" takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down.  THE GOLDEN PRINCESS is free on e-book through 11 July! Enter the world of THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI with this stand-alone prequel to this ground-breaking epic fantasy series. "Escape the City of Gold, or live forever in chains." Raised in splendid isolation. Betrothed to a man she despises. Destined to rule over the greatest city on earth. She is the Golden Princess. Sarah dreams of love and adventure beyond her gilded prison, but tonight her dreams come true in the most terrifying way imaginable. A bloody power struggle erupts for the throne, and dawn finds the princess on the run with a bounty on her head. Alone and hunted by guards, criminals and a ruthless slaver who will stop at nothing to burn his brand into her flesh, Sarah must summon courage she never knew she possessed. Hope, however, comes in the form of two lowly thieves. Driven by a secret, they race through Hur-ar’s underworld to find Sarah before her enemies do. Before the next sunset, Sarah’s fate, and that of empires, will be decided with gold, steel and blood.  THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI, Volume 1 and 2 e-books are discounted 9-15 July!
Semifinalist, 2013 Kindle Book Reviews Sci-Fi/Fantasy Book of the Year! The fish have disappeared from the sea. The animals have vanished from the land. All humanity, and even the gods, tremble under the specter of a pending cataclysm. The demigod, Fu Xi, races home from the edge of the world bringing news of a looming god war, but finds his land under attack by monsters he once called his children. He discovers a terrible curse has been cast, one intended to destroy the gods and all life. To his shock, Fu Xi learns that mankind's last hope rests solely on him, a simple fisherman, and a banished slave girl. Beset on all sides by ancient foes, both immortal and mundane, Fu Xi knows he must act quickly and races west to rescue the saviors. Unaware of the real doom that awaits, Aizarg the fisherman and his party begin a perilous journey across a dangerous steppe. They seek the last of the Narim, the legendary Black Sea Gods, who hold the key to their salvation. Leading them is the rescued slave girl Sarah, the only one among them who knows the path to the land of the god-men. Over seven days, the defining struggle of gods and humans begins under the onslaught of a powerful force whose true objective and origin remain a mystery. Fu Xi knows the secret to victory resides in the fisherman and the slave girl, whose lives he must protect, even if it means the rest of the world must perish! *** If you enjoyed any Graham Hancock's books, you will love BLACK SEA GODS. BLACK SEA GODS transforms recently re-discovered Black Sea legends, possibly the root of all Eurasian mythology, with ancient Chinese mythology to create an unprecedented epic fantasy series. Find out more about this series at blackseagods.com |
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