Chapter 9
Penelope Chalmers stood at the centre of her prison and roared “Let me out! Please! Let me out!”
No-one answered. Either they weren’t there or they silently enjoying her desperation.
She sighed. She was being held somewhere damp and vile, somewhere the sun had never seen. The darkness surrounding her was like honey, thick enough to mask her hand when it was an inch from her face. And the walls were always moist to the touch, probably due to the strange, foul-smelling liquid trickling down the corners of the room.
Most of the time, it was like she was in an abyss; there was no sight, no sound. She’d even become accustomed to the smell after… well, some amount of time, so even that no longer distracted her from the void.
With the pervading darkness, Penelope had no way of measuring the time. At least a day must have passed. She didn’t want to entertain the thought it had been any shorter…
The worst of her captivity, though, was the cold; the deep chill of a hate-withered heart. Penelope had been told that Hell was a warm place; somewhere filled with fire and light; an unending assault on the senses and the soul. Pastors and tutors had been very clear on this, warning her of an eternity in the inferno, and her chaplain’s paintings, glass windows and Bible all endorsed this view. Even uneducated folk would say a Texan summer was hotter than Hell, so she wasn’t alone in her belief. But a day in the ice-chill captivity of the man in the dark mask had changed her mind.
The cold assailed her again, brought about shivers she couldn’t stop. Truly, she was in the icy clutches of Hell.
She began to pace to ward it off. But this bleak frigidity tormented her constantly. It seeped into her bones, twisted her muscles and dried out her eyes and tongue. The walls and smooth seemed to be its source as they absorbed all heat; touching them made her body numb as it was eked of its heat by the Stygian stone. She stood as much as possible to avoid touching them but that drained her too, left her to endure that vampiric embrace when she was at her weakest and the freeze could worm into her all the better.
Penelope liked to think herself resolute, someone with the breeding and sophistication to enjoy the fine things in life but who wasn’t above discomfort when the occasion called for it but that had been when riding without a cushion or sharing a hotel room had been her only discomfort. The cold, the smell, the dark and the damp had cut right through her opinion of herself and left her small, frightened and cowardly.
Twice, cold food had been slid into the room. Both times, she’d been terrified, fearing that something awful had been sent to warp her. It had taken minutes to work up enough courage to see what had been delivered. But both times, only meat and bread had been delivered. Penelope considered having some as fuel to stop her shivers but it would rest like an ice block in her stomach so she decided against it for now.
The food proved that her captors weren’t willing to let the cold sap her slowly. So did the trials they sent her; three times demons had whispered to her, taunted her with her hidden fears when she was at a low ebb. And then, maybe three hours ago, there had been these… other noises. Horrible and vile and terrifyingly enticing noises, the sounds of a queer revelry that she found herself longing to join.
She feared her resolve would not last long against those temptations.
Penelope shook her head as she paced around her prison, in a rough circle. From the smooth, cave-like walls and the revelry above her, she assumed she was underground. The cavity wasn’t man-made; she’d explored the room fully and it had no supports, no straight surfaces save the fourth wall which led out into the corridor. A door was set into that wall, metallic, tightly-barred and locked in three places. She was likely in an abandoned mine or some Indian caves, somewhere people would never think to look.
Not until it was too late…
She’d had her eyes closed for hours to ward off the cold so unseen tears formed against her lids, residue of an emotion she hadn’t summoned. Fearing they might freeze on her cheek, she wiped them on the sleeve of her dress.
Despair had not been too far away recently. Not after what had happened…
As a lady was wont to do, Penelope flipped from despair to anger. Anger at Senator Martins; after all, this was his damn fault! Senator Martins never threw parties. He was not a socialite, not someone on the map. But out of the blue he’d thrown one two nights ago and that was when everything went wrong.
Senator Martins spared no expenses with his gathering, bringing in crates of fine wine from France and whiskeys from across the land. Indeed, he was so lavish that it became a Party requirement to attend; it would be rude to turn down such expensive generosity. That meant Papa was expected to go even before being invited. And with Missouri only a few days away on the Katy, he could not excuse himself.
Then the invites had come through. Against expectations, Mama had been invited too, even though Mama had some awful problems with the demon drink… And because Papa had to go, so did Mama. Mama had promised to stay sober for Papa’s sake and he’d believed her. As a man should believe his wife.
At the time, Penelope had been grateful she was at the Chalmers’ ranch with the Badlands between her and a trip north. Now, oh now…
Not that she could have made much difference. Penelope imagined that Papa had given the help specific instructions not to serve Mama but, well, you can’t trust blacks and Indians with instructions. Penelope being there would not have changed things if Mama had been weak, had determined that she would drink.
And so it came to be. The next day Penelope had received a telegram; Mama had gotten drunk and fallen down Senator Martin’s pompous staircase. It warned that she might not survive more than a few days, that she had… had snapped her neck during the fall and was fading…
With her eyes closed, Penelope couldn’t help but imagine Mama falling down carpeted stairs, bouncing like a rubber ball. With no sound, no light, she could almost see it. The imagined snap when she landed echoed around her prison.
All because Martins wanted to get ahead in the world.
Penelope pictured him, a weasel, a little man with too much ambition. Her bile rose. Why invite Mama when everyone knew she had problems with drink? It was an unwritten rule that Party members didn’t invite Mama Chalmers to evening occasions… and that oaf had broken it. And therefore he’d broken Mama.
“Damn Martins,” she whispered. “Damn him, damn him.”
Penelope wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ignored social protocol. Maybe he’d even arranged for Mama to get some drink. Papa’s regard in the party made him a target and Martins was the kind to go for people; she’d once sat next to him at one of those awful Republican conferences and he’d made it very clear in inappropriate dinner conversation that he viewed Dead Men’s Boots as a good thing. Social Darwinism, he’d called it. God’s will.
Penelope named it what it was; greed.
There was only one thing Papa could’ve done to get his family together one last time; pay soldiers around the old Fort Mason to pick up Penelope from their ranch and march her across the Badlands to ride the Katy to Missouri.
Even with what had happened, Penelope would jump at the chance again. It was worth the risk to see her Mama one last time.
She hadn’t been aware how much of a risk the order was though, mainly because the Badlands had always seemed like a myth. It was all heroes and villains, monsters and shamen. The Dixie Problem and the Solution… they just couldn’t be real. Not to someone like Penelope. How could she take it seriously when the likes of the Wanted Man abounded? It was like fearing the Count of Monte Cristo! Yes, Eleanor Naismith had taken a shine to the grandeur of it all but that made it seem even more like a wild fancy, like some silly worry that gave men an excuse to look and feel important.
That notion had quickly been dispelled. Within ten minutes of entering the Badlands, they’d been attacked by… well, as a swarm of small demons; horned and clawed, scaled and red, they were less than two inches high but full of horrible malevolence. They darted around on all fours like mice and viciously bit chunks out of every man they neared. The soldiers had seen them off with their rifles and those queer bottles filled with fire but sitting in her caravan with her hands over her ears, hearing the demons mewl and roar, had put Penelope in her place.
Then, hours later, they’d met him; the man in the dark mask. If the vile little things had been demons then he was the Morning Star himself, Lucifer in dark leather.
Penelope stopped. She rubbed her chilled eyes to stop her thinking about what had happened. Not again. It would only upset her further, perhaps more so than imagining her Mama dying. All that mattered was that he’d killed every solider, each horse, and taken her hostage.
But, with no distractions and no stimulus, the memory kept trying to resurface. Eventually she was forced to relive it. Penelope had been peeking from the caravan when the old Lieutenant, a decent walrus of a man with the most finely-tended moustache she’d ever seen, had picked him out on the horizon. Immediately, he’d ordered a full barrage.
“Better to be sorry than dead,” he’d joked.
Bullets exploded around her as Penelope had hunkered down in the caravan again like a cowardly stowaway. Sergeants had yelled at their men until they were hoarse, chastising them for missing their target. That was, until it dawned on them that their soldiers had been hitting him but he was shrugging them off like mosquito bites.
For his part, the man in the dark mask had simply walked toward them, slow and insistent and terrible as cancer. Even the fire bottles hefted high into the air wrapped around him like blankets and did nothing more.
Having listening to it all unfurl, Penelope felt that was when most of the soldiers’ courage had broken; Men had cursed or screamed before abandoning their posts to save themselves. The lieutenant started shooting deserters but there were too many to make a difference. Besides, he had other priorities.
Because then, when her escorts’ spirit had broken, the man in the dark mask had finally broken into a sprint…
No. She didn’t want to think about this any more. Getting to her knees, ignoring the instant jolt that came with the ice-cold stone caressing her through her dress, she put her hands together in prayer.
“Dear Lord,” she said, her voice echoing in the void, “thank you for sparing me. I know you have chosen to test me, that you want me to hold to my faith in you, and I promise I will not fail. Through you, I will find the strength to endure and ignore my fears and the courage to continue until I’m rescued. You are eternal and divine. Amen.”
In response, the demons returned. Their voices were throaty and deep, cruel and teasing and inhuman, as they whispered:
“You won’t be rescued”
“Nobody’s coming for you.”
“They think you’re dead.”
She screwed her eyes even tighter. “Lord, I ask you for the strength to resist these vessels of darkness.”
“Maybe you’re already dead,” the demons said.
“Maybe the man in the mask killed you.”
Her voice grew louder. “Help me to overcome the trials in my way.”
“The dead’s prayers are not answered.”
“The dead just rot.”
“You will just rot.”
“Shut up!” she shouted, clapping her hands together.
Her voice echoed around her and out into the corridor. Then there was silence. Penelope waited but the demons did not return. If they behaved consistently, they wouldn’t worry her again until she tried to sleep or fell victim to another surge of emotion.
“Amen,” she said, her voice full of gratitude.
There was still some food left from her earlier meal so she decided to tolerate the cold weight in her stomach; she needed some sensation, a distraction. Walking over to the plate she’d left in the north-east, she ate.
The cold meat felt and tasted like pork. The bread was still fresh too.
It occurred to her that she didn’t know what she was eating. It could be horse, or other, more horrid meats… It could even be poison. But surely her captors wouldn’t poison her if they were trying to ransom her…
If she was being ransomed; really, what use would such as the man in the black mask have for money? The abominably tempting revelry showed he was not working alone – plus whoever fed her had heavier steps than he, and breathing troubles to boot – but he hadn’t seemed like something that’d go to such trouble to pay a crew. There was perhaps something deeper happening but whatever it was must have required her to be alive. So she trusted the food.
She left a couple of bites on the plate and went to the south-west corner of her prison to do her private business. It wasn’t the first time and a stench was forming there but she had no choice; repeated pleas for a bucket from whoever fed her had fallen on stone silence. The shameful corner would have to do.
When she saw done, Penelope paced around the room again. Her drained, cold legs ached and twitched as her blood tried to warm them. She didn’t know how much longer she could cope with all of this. She told herself that Papa must have sent someone after her, another host of soldiers or some mercenaries. Maybe someone from the Solution even. He did have solid connections with Penelope’s father, who had funded his election campaign. Or maybe Eleanor Naismith would campaign to save her. She told herself this over and over until the thought became rote.
As she walked in absolute darkness, the shivers returned. Penelope trudged on, clinging to her hope like a limpet to a boat.