But as he climbed toward the spine of a small hill on the summit of which Midian stood, a second and plainer explanation occurred. There was nobody in Midian. The thought stopped him in his tracks. He stared across at the houses, searching for some evidence of decay, but he could see none. The roofs were intact, as far as he could make out, there were no buildings that appeared on the verge of collapse. Yet, with the night so quiet he could hear the whoosh of falling stars overhead, he could hear nothing from the town. If somebody in Midian had moaned in their sleep the night would have brought the sound his way, but there was only silence.
Midian was a ghost town.
Never in his life had he felt such desolation, stood like a dog returned home to find its master gone, not knowing what his life now meant or would ever mean again.
It took him several minutes to uproot himself continue his circuit of the town. Twenty yards on from where he’d stood, however, the height of the hill gave him sight of a scene more mysterious even than vacant Midian.
On the far side of the town lay a cemetery, vantage point gave him an uninterrupted view despite the high walls that bounded the place. Presumably it had been built to serve the entire region, for was massively larger than a town Midian’s size could ever have required. Many of the mausoleums were impressive in scale, that much was clear even at a distance, the layout of avenues, trees and tombs lent the cemetery the appearance of a small city.
Boone began down the slope of the hill towards his route still taking him well clear of the town itself. After the adrenalin rush of finding and approaching Midian he felt his reserves of strength failing fast; pain and exhaustion that expectation had numbed now returned with a vengeance. It could not be long, he knew, before his muscles gave out completely and collapsed. Perhaps behind the cemetery’s walls he’d be able to find a niche to conceal himself from his pursuers and rest his bones.
There were two means of access. A small gate in the side wall, and large double gates that faced towards the town. He chose the former. It was latched but not locked. He gently pushed it open, and stepped inside. The impression he’d had from the hill, of the cemetery as city, was here confirmed, the mausoleums rising house-high around him. Their scale, and, now that he could study them close up, their elaboration, puzzled him. What great families had occupied the town or it surrounds, moneyed enough to bury their dead in such splendour? The small communities of the prairie clung to the land as their sustenance, but it seldom made them rich; and on the few occasions when it did, with oil or gold, never in such numbers. Yet here were magnificent tombs, avenue upon avenue of them, built in all manner of styles from the classical to the baroque, and marked though he was not certain his fatigued senses were telling him the truth with motifs from warring theologies.
It was beyond him. He needed sleep. The tombs had been standing a century or more; the puzzle would still be there at dawn.
He found himself a bed out of sight between two graves and laid his head down. The spring growth of grass smelt sweet. He’d slept on far worse pillows, and would again.
A DIFFERENT APE
The sound of an animal woke him, its growls finding their way into floating dreams and calling him down to earth. He opened his eyes, and sat up. He couldn’t see the dog, but he heard it still. Was it behind him? The proximity of the tombs threw echoes back and forth. Very slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder. The darkness was deep, but did not quite conceal a large beast, its species impossible to read. There was no misinterpreting the threat from its throat however. It didn’t like his scrutiny, to judge by the tenor of its growls.
“Hey, boy…” he said softly, “it’s OK.”
Ligaments creaking, he started to stand up, knowing that if he stayed on the ground the animal had easy access to his throat. His limbs had stiffened lying on the cold ground; he moved like a geriatric. Perhaps it was this that kept the animal from attacking, for it simply watched him, the crescents of the whites of its eyes the only detail he could make out widening as its gaze followed him into a standing position. Once on his feet he turned to face the creature, which began to move towards him. There was something in its advance that made him think it was wounded. He could hear it dragging one of its limbs behind it; its head low, its stride ragged.
He had words of comfort on his lips when an arm hooked about his neck, taking breath and words away.
“Move and I gut you.”
With the threat a second arm slid around his body, the fingers digging into his belly with such force had no doubt the man would make the threat good with his bare hand.
Boone took a shallow breath. Even that minute motion brought a tightening of the death grip at knee and abdomen. He felt blood run down his belly into his jeans.
“Who the fuck are you?” the voice demanded.
He was a bad liar, the truth was safer.
“My name’s Boone. I came here… I came to find Midian.”
Did the hold on his belly relax a little when he named his purpose?
“Why?” a second voice now demanded. It took Boone no more than a heart beat to realize that the voice ha come from the shadows ahead of him, where the wounded beast stood. Indeed from the beast.
“My friend asked you a question,” said the voice at his ear. “Answer him.”
Boone, disoriented by the attack, fixed his gaze again on whatever occupied the shadows and found himself doubting his eyes. The head of his questioner was not solid; it seemed almost to be inhaling its redundant features, their substance darkening and flowing through socket and nostrils and mouth back into itself.
All thought of his jeopardy disappeared, what seize him now was elation. Narcisse had not lied. Here was the transforming truth of that.
“I came to be amongst you,” he said, answering the miracle’s question. “I came because I belong here.”
A question emerged from the soft laughter behind him.
“What does he look like, Peloquin?”
The thing had drunk its beast-face down. There were human features beneath, set on a body more reptile! than mammal. That limb he dragged behind him was a tail; his wounded lope the gait of a low-slung lizard.
That too was under review, as the tremor of change moved down its jutting spine.
“He looks like a Natural,” Peloquin replied. “Not that that means much.”
Why could his attacker not see for himself, Boone wondered.
He glanced down at the hand on his belly. It had six fingers, tipped not with nails but with claws, now buried half an inch in his muscle.
“Don’t kill me,” he said. “I’ve come a long way to be here.”
“Hear that, Jackie?” said Peloquin, thrusting from the ground with its four legs to stand upright in front of Boone. His eyes, now level with Boone’s, were bright blue. His breath was as hot as the blast from an open furnace.
“What kind of beast are you, then?” he wanted to know. The transformation was all but finished. The man beneath the monster was nothing remarkable. Forty, lean and sallow skinned.
“We should take him below,” said Jackie. “Lylesburg will want to see him.”
“Probably,” said Peloquin. “But I think we’d be wasting his time. This is a Natural, Jackie. I can smell ‘em.”
“I’ve spilled blood…” Boone murmured. “Killed eleven people.”
The blue eyes perused him. There was humour in them.