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unofferable-fic · 5 years

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The Flower & The Serpent (Arthur Morgan x OFC)

Chapter 4 - Conversing, For Beginners

Summary: In the early 1890s, the Van der Linde Gang were truly at their finest. Experts at stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, they’ve made a name for themselves across the West. Two of their newest recruits, a pair of rebellious Irish siblings with an unknown past, slowly find their footing and settle into their new lives as outlaws. And yet, as they grow older, threats from all sides begin to appear. A strained relationship with Colm O'Driscoll spells disaster for the gang, and no matter how far they roam across America, the world continues to change around them. If they want to survive, difficult choices must be made. No one is as they seem and the impending arrival of law and order threatens to tear the siblings, and everything they hold dear, apart. Is it too late for anyone to find a happy ending?

Originally found here

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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC

Warnings: Language, some fluff.

Word Count: 4,065

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Playlist: Further Away” — Ben Howard, “Morning” — Gustavo Santaolalla, “The Fine Art of Conversation” — Woody Jackson

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A/N: Also available on AO3. Chapter four comin’ at y’all.

Arthur had thought the bank robbery would go smoothly, so the drastic turn of events that occurred was an unwelcome one. They adapted — as they always did — but two close calls with Dutch and Maebh were not something he would ever feel ready to comprehend if the worst comes to worst. The former had merely been lucky in his escape with the arrival of a random passerby and he dreaded to think what might have taken place had the Reverend not been present. And Maebh, well… The second she fell behind and her horse lost its life, William had turned his own mount right around. It was only by the young man’s insistence that Arthur and Dutch didn’t try to assist. Instead, they waited until the siblings reappeared over the hill from a short distance away — only then did they lose the lawmen and make the journey back to camp.

Maebh looked shaken up, and Arthur couldn’t blame her. By the looks of the blood covering her fancy clothes, it had been an eventful rescue. Upon returning to camp, William was quick to help her off the horse she’d escaped on. Dutch had already called for Mrs Matthews and Miss Grimshaw to come and see that the girl was alright, but her brother looked like he would just about murder anyone who put a hand on her. It was only when he and Arthur had carried her to their tent that the latter felt the need to step in.

“You need to take a minute,” Arthur instructed him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. He eased the younger man back a bit, closer to Hosea and John who looked on from a polite distance. “Grab a beer or somethin’.”

William stared at her while she sat on her bedroll with some effort and the two ladies began to look her over for any injuries. “How the hell can I have a beer when there might be somethin’ wrong with her?”

“What happened back there?” Hosea asked in concern. Even John looked a bit worried.

“The law nearly caught her but I shot the fucker before he could take her in. Shot her damn horse though, so she went flyin’.”

Hosea nodded, some of the worry in his expression fading away. “I know it might sound insensitive, but that’s good in the grand scheme of things. Better to fall off a horse than be shot.”

“You saved her, kid,” Arthur added. “Give yourself a bit of credit.”

“And a break.” Hosea turned and took a seat at one of the camp tables. “John, would’ja fetch us some beers? I think the kid needs it. If she needs you, William, she’ll call.”

John went to fetch some drinks, albeit it with a slightly disgruntled expression, and Arthur and William took a seat around the table. Arthur watched curiously as the kid practically refused to take his eyes off his sister in the caring hands of the camp’s two finest matriarchs. He only looked away when Bessie fetched a hot bucket of water and closed the tent off to the outside world. Soon after, John returned and handed each man their own bottle. Arthur cracked his open immediately, enjoying the taste as the cool liquid slid down his throat. After reassuring William that his sister would be alright, they descended into casual conversation, Hosea smartly steering it so that William had to speak and take his mind off things. They discussed the successful aspects of the bank robbery, including the size of the take and what they planned to do with their individual shares. Not only that, but they pondered what would be done with regards funds and the locals who might need it.

In the midst of all this, Dutch came over and briefly joined in the chatter, his jaw now swollen on one side and throbbing red. “A job well done, gentlemen. A damn fine job. It was a tough one, but we adapted just fine as always. Seems like we’re just too slippery for the lawmen in this state.”

“We certainly did alright given the circumstances,” Hosea agreed, and offered Dutch a match as he whipped out a fat cigar. “How’s that bump?”

“Could’a done without it but I’ll live.” He took a drag before turning his attention to young William. “More importantly, how’s your sister doin’, son?”

William shrugged and scratched at the short hair on the back of his neck. “She wasn’t shot at least. Mrs Matthews and Miss Grimshaw are with her now.”

“Well then she’s in the best hands we got. I’ll go pay her a visit and have any formal celebrations rescheduled to suit with whatever recovery time she needs. In the meantime, I’m proud of how strong you’ve been, William — she’s lucky to have a strong lad like you for a brother. God knows where she’s be now if you it wasn’t for your protection.”

William gave the man a nod in thanks as he left them to it, approaching the tent not far across camp. Hosea and John also headed off a little while after that, joining the others around the campfire. Arthur remained, noting how William made no move to go elsewhere.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, glancing at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “She already survived gettin’ thrown off a horse once.”

William shook his head bitterly. “I know. I know it could’ve been a lot worse like Hosea was sayin’, but it…” He hesitated before meeting the older man’s gaze. “It was a close one. It wasn’t the horse that had me worried.”

Arthur nodded in reply. “I understand. Well, I ain’t got a brother or sister myself, but I guess that that bond is pretty strong. Heck, the Callander boys are lunatics but even they got each other’s backs through the thick of it.”

“She’s all I got…” He paused, finally letting his eyes rest on his companion with a sense of finality. “I know this gang has been good to us, and we do see you lot as family to a degree, but she’s…”

When the two siblings first joined that gang, William was definitely the more standoffish and reserved of the two. It took a long time before he opened up to any degree — he was always distant, always stiff in his stance with his arms folded across his broad chest. Arthur always thought that his eyes focused not only on you, but through you, picking away at every little detail and ill thought you held in your heart. He was like a wild dog, always ready to savagely sink his teeth into your hand if you got too close. His trust had to be earned, and it had taken Mr Morgan a long time to get what little he had. But, once you had it, it was a valued asset; something to be cherished like a priceless gem. His loyalty seemed unbreakable, and just looking at the way he and Maebh were together was evidence enough of that.

“She’s important to you,” Arthur finished, then took a swig of his drink. “I get it, kid. Y’know, I’ve been in this gang for most of my life. It’s the only family I got and I’ve always seen little Johnny Marston as my brother. We might not be blood, but it still counts for somethin’.”

William nodded in agreement. “You can see that this gang is a family for those who’ve been in it for a while.”

“You’ll get there too someday; just takes time. But she’s your sister. That kinda bond is special, so you hold on to it.”

“I’m tryin’ my best to do just that.”

Arthur huffed out a snort at that. “You guard that girl with an intensity I rarely see. I fear for the man she marries.”

“Jaysus,” William sighed with an amused expression. “As long as she doesn’t marry one like Marston I won’t have’ta kill him.”

He chuckled at the notion. “Naw, Maebh ain’t dumb enough to end up with someone like him.”

As the pair shared a laugh at John’s expense, Uncle came trotting over, a beer firmly held in his grasp. “Are you two anti-socialites gonna join us ’round the fire, or what? We’re tryin’ to learn more ’bout this reverend feller.”

Arthur played dumb. “What for, old man?”

“I am tryin’ to be kind here, Arthur,” Uncle scolded him in offence. “And acknowledge a job well done on the bank! No need for your usual sour sarcasm.”

Arthur looked to William before replying, but decided to oblige after seeing no negativity in his demeanour. Though the young lad did throw a glance at his tent before following them and joining the others for a somewhat civilised drink. It was awhile later when Miss Grimshaw and Mrs Matthews reappeared with Maebh in tow. Though she was walking with a visible limp, the ladies had helped her wash all the blood and dirt off her face and got her into a fresh set of clothes. Upon seeing his sister gingerly making an entrance, William sprang up despite having consumed a few bottles in the time he’d spent with the others.

“An bhfuil tú ceart go leor?” he immediately asked in their native language — of which Arthur had yet to understand a damn word. But, judging by the kid’s gentle placement of his hands on her shoulders and the look of concern in his eyes, he could gather what he was asking.

Maebh hushed him, insistence evident in her tone, though she was smiling up at him regardless. “Tá, fan bog!”

“You nearly gave the boy a heart attack,” Hosea jested from his seat. “Perhaps you ladies should check him over now, just to be safe.”

Dutch raised his drink to her. “We’re glad you made it outta there with barely a scratch, Miss Hennigan! A true testament to your abilities.”

“Or my luck,” she replied with a shrug. “I don’t think I can take all the credit for this one.”

“Beat me to the punch,” John muttered before handing her a bottle of whiskey. “You gotta play catch up now.”

“It would be wise to take your time,” Miss Grimshaw cut in, giving Marston a look that could kill. “Don’t drink at the pace those morons already set.”

“I won’t, Miss Grimshaw. I’m still a bit sore though, so drinkin’ at a reasonable pace is the plan.”

The group cheered to that one, raising their bottles to a job well done and safe return home.

* * *

26th August, 1893, outside Winterset, Iowa

Despite the fact we had two close calls at the bank, our luck held out and everyone made it out alive. While Dutch ended up with a swollen jaw, Maebh was the one who was ordered to have some bed rest. Thankfully she seems well enough now. She was nearly captured during the escape, but William insisted on going back to save her. The passion with which he protects his sister will always astound me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t really grow up with a sibling, but I’m a little jealous of their strong bond… Regardless, I can look at my own relationships within the gang to try and understand, especially my one with John. He was always like a little brother to me, even if he can grate me sometimes… Alright, maybe more than ‘sometimes’.

The pair of Irish orphans are something else though. I can only assume that they’ve been through quite a lot together. I’m only now suddenly realising that I don’t know much of their time before the gang. Maybe I’m overthinking things — maybe it is just because all they’ve had for so long was each other. I have to wonder whether I’ll ever know—

“Whatcha writin’ there?”

Arthur looked up from his journal to see Maebh standing at the threshold of his tent, two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. He shut the book before placing it down on his cot. “Nothin’ interestin’, I can promise you that.”

At the foot of his Arthur’s cot, Copper raised his head at the newcomer. His tail began to wag as Maebh offered the dog his own greeting.

“Whatever you say,” she replied and offered him one of the cups. As he thanked her, she took a seat on the ground. As soon as she was sat down comfortably, Copper was on his feet and plodding over to join her. She cooed at his dog and happily scratched behind his ears before once more meeting Arthur’s gaze. “All these years, Mr Morgan, and I still have no idea what in the hell you write in that little book of yours.”

He smirked at her comment. “Tell you what; maybe you finally tell me somethin’ ’bout yourself, and I can write it down in this little book of mine.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“What you mean ‘what I mean’?”

“Are you, the mysterious Arthur Morgan, insinuatin’ that I’m the mysterious one?”

He shook his head and aimlessly scratched the stubble on his chin. “All I know is I know very little ’bout ya. I think I’ve gotten a bit more outta your brother than you actually.”

“Well,” she sighed, gently cupping her coffee in her hands while Copper laid down on the grass beside her, his furry back resting against her leg. “I don’t exactly know loads ’bout you either. So to me, it sounds like we’re mysterious peas in an incomprehensible pod.”

Arthur assessed her from his spot. She was still decorated in a few bruises and cuts from her second fall off a horse, but seemed far less stiff and sore than she had previously been. Perhaps that was something to open with, and hopefully lead into other conversation. “How’re you feelin’ after Winterset?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, grand. Could’a been a lot worse, and while I hate being segregated to takin’ it easy, I know it had to be done.”

“I don’t like havin’ to rest much either,” he agreed sympathetically. “But it’ll help you in the long run, which is important.”

“I don’t even mind havin’ to loiter ’round camp if I’m doin’ jobs and the like, but sittin’ and doin’ nothin’ drives me up the wall.”

“You seem to spendin’ most of it lookin’ after that new horse o’yours.” He nodded towards where said horse was grazing on the other side of camp. After riding it out of Winterset during the robbery, Arthur had noticed how Maebh had tentatively approached the animal the next day, probably half expecting to receive a hefty kick or bite. But the tall horse seemed surprisingly docile, instead happily accepting the attention with curious ears titled towards the new stranger. She returned again later with pats and a peach, which seemed to go down well, so Arthur saw an opportunity to quickly sketch the pair in his journal, something he never intended on letting her see.

Maebh threw a curious glance over her shoulder at the relaxed animal. “She’s a nice horse. Seems to like me a lot more than Banquo ever did. William did advise me on how to approach her though, just to make sure I couldn’t add ‘kicked in the head by a horse’ to my long list of embarrassin’ injuries…”

“She’s a beautiful animal. You gonna keep her?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, clearly thinking it over. “I think it’s ’bout time I got a new mount. I suppose I wouldn’t be much of an outlaw without one. Maybe me and my horse can be as compatible as you and Boadicea someday.”

“If you look after her just right then it can happen. As I always say, if you look after a horse, it’ll look after you just as good.” He took a sip of his coffee before noticing that her eyes were subtly fixed on his journal, and found himself smirking at her inquisitiveness. “Still curious then?”

“Always,” she admitted and leaned forwards slightly. “I always see you scribblin’ away in that thing. I’m startin’ to think you’re writin’ the world’s longest novel.”

“I sure as hell ain’t no novel writer,” he replied, embarrassed by the insinuation. “That’s for sure.”

Her brow piqued slightly. “So if you’re not a novelist, you a playwright?”

“Naw.”

“A poet?”

That one made him laugh aloud. “Say that louder so Dutch and Hosea can get a kick out of it too.”

She held a hand up in mock defence. “I’m just tryin’ to cover all the options here!”

“Well there ain’t no stories, plays, or poems to be readin’ in here,” he said before gesturing to the apparently mysterious book. “Just… my thoughts really.”

The young woman let out a prolonged ‘ah’ and met his gaze. “So it’s like a journal?”

“I guess so.” He lowered his head at the admission, his rough fingers tapping on the edge on the warm cup. He cleared his throat and tried to appear casual about it all. “It ain’t nothin’ really. Just helps me keep track o’things.”

“You don’t need’ta explain yourself to me,” was her response, her tone having shifted from mild jesting to a gentle understanding. “Journals are personal things — maybe even more so than writin’ stories. So don’t worry; I’m not goin’ t’ask you to let me read it.”

The fact she didn’t tease him for keeping a journal was a small relief for Arthur. He’d previously been consumed with the worry about her thinking it was pointless or excessive, but now he merely wondered from where this empathetic awareness came. “You speakin’ from experience?”

She paused and suddenly she was the one finding the grass beneath her quite interesting. “Kinda. I used to write stories as a kid.”

Well, there was something he didn’t know about her.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that,” he mused. “You fancied yourself a writer?”

The subject was a curious one. Her entire demeanour shifted with the mention of her old hobby. He noticed her hands relentlessly tapping on the cup, causing it to ring out in a repeated rhythmic beat. “Maybe when I was younger, not so much now.”

Over the years, they had talked of the past surprisingly little in the time they’d known each other. They knew the basics sure, but personal details in the realm of secret pastimes were few and far between. He was quite intrigued with the new information, so curiosity got the better of him. “What made you wanna be a writer?”

“I like stories,” she replied with a small smirk. “Thought you could’ve guessed that from all the readin’ I do.”

“Suppose I should’a guessed that much.”

“I’ve just... always been into readin’ stories and tryin’ to create my own when I was younger. I had an active imagination.”

Arthur thought of the times he rarely saw a book out of her hand if she wasn’t otherwise occupied with chores or drinking. “You must’ve been read to a lot as a kid then.”

The ghost of a smile passed over her lips. The movement was one he rarely saw — it was genuine, entirely so, not the same type of smile she plastered on in most group situations. Her eyes appeared glazed, as though she was somewhere far away at that very moment. “My ma and da were big into storytellin’ — my ma in particular. She used to insist that it was important we were familiar with stories of where we came from, both real and fictional. So it was normal for us to be told a story before bed each night. Somewhere along the line, I think I began tellin’ my own ones. Or trying to at least. Sometimes I just repeated her ones over and over again.”

Arthur rarely heard Maebh talk about her parents. He still didn’t know much about what happened to them or who they were. Their existence remained a mystery to him, much like their children still did to a degree. Of what little he knew, her memories of them seemed mostly fond at least. She was lucky to have folks like that, lest he thought of his own bastard of a daddy.

He sipped at his coffee, trying to waste the bitter taste off his tongue. “They sound like educated people. Your folks, I mean.”

“Not so much actually. They were just brought up in the same way and I think they wanted us to be aware of what was goin’ on ’round us.”

“Were they from Dublin too?”

As she spoke, a tentative hand ran over the back of her neck, skimming the chain of her necklace back and forth. “My ma yeah, but my da was from Connemara which is in the west of Ireland.”

He sensed that he was veering into uncertain and unstable territory. Though he was curious about her upbringing, he got the feeling that she would close off if he pushed the talk of her parents, so with a casual nod, he railed her back in. “So, you got parents who love to read and tell stories, and then you start writin’ your own... Why’d you stop?”

Her answer was dismissive, and her fidgeting hands didn’t relent with his new question. “I don’t really have time for all that anymore. Kinda busy doin’... outlaw stuff.”

He thought about her reply for a moment, then let out a sigh and tapped the leather cover of his journal. “I’ve had this here journal for just over a year now. And I had one before that, and one before that. I’ve been writin’ in ‘em since Hosea got me my very first one a couple years after I joined this gang. You just gotta make time if it makes you happy. Dutch keeps up with his readin’, John whittles in his free time, Susan always tries to have a game of poker when things get stressful, Hosea and Bessie go out on huntin’ trips to get away sometimes. Hell, I’ve seen you and William goin’ on fishin’ trips sometimes. If you like it, you gotta make time.”

She seemed to ponder his words, the tapping of her fingers slowing until they stopped. When he met her gaze, he found her watching him intently with curiously glint in her eye. She nodded slowly and then said. “I suppose you’re right. I might look into it at some point if I have the time.”

“Good. And then maybe sometime you’ll let me read the stories you write.”

She actually grinned at the suggestion and let out a laugh. “The day that happens is the day you let me look in that lil journal.” She got to her feet, coffee in hand. “I’ll leave you to your writin’, Arthur. I don’t want’a take up much more of your time.”

“Alright, well, thanks for your company, Maebh.”

“The pleasure was mine.” She reached down to pet Copper’s head. “See you in a bit, boy.”

Arthur gave her a small wave as she wandered off to the other side of camp. He watched as she was set upon by Karen and the two got into a casual conversation. Copper eyed her too, before letting his head rest one of his paws again and catching up on some shut eye.

Without much thought, Arthur grabbed his journal again and opened it on the page he had been writing before her arrival. With a slightly dull pencil, he picked up where he left off:

So, seems that Maebh used to be a storyteller. Why does that come as no surprise to me? Hosea and Dutch always encouraged that I kept up with reading and writing, though I suspect she will not need to be encouraged to stick with reading. Regardless, maybe I can help ease her back into writing if that’s what she’s passionate about. I tried to explain how important it is to have hobbies outside of the gang, but I’m not sure if my words failed me or not. I’m not the best at passionate speeches — that’s more Dutch’s job than mine. Hopefully I didn’t discourage her, at least.

Still, it was nice to discuss trivial things for once. It seems that I’ve gotten my share of personal conversations with the Hennigan siblings in the last few days. Hopefully we do it more in the future and I can learn more about these two orphans and where they came from.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x oc #john marston #red dead redemption fandom #rdr #rdr2 #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #the flower and the serpent #dutch van der linde #hosea mathews #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x ofc

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thevikingsheaux · 5 years

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A Viking Samhain

A/N: Happy Samhain!!! I know I am a little late but I’ve been busy. This will probably be a 2-3 part series. There isn’t much dialogue in this chapter but there will be more in the next. I hope it isn’t awful though I feel like it probably is.

Pairing: Hvitserk x reader

Warning: none really

Masterlist

Setting: So this is kind of a mashup of Vikings and Celts in Ireland. From my understanding, the Celtic tradition of Samhain started several hundred years before the “Viking age” and a lot of Ireland had transitioned from paganism to Christianity by the time any Vikings arrived in Ireland. However for the purposes of this story, I wanted the Celts and Vikings to coexist before Christianity, so this is by no means historically accurate!

The brutish strangers who had arrived on ships two moons ago were still camped nearby. They had planned to move on a couple weeks ago but for some reason, your father, the chief of the town and its surrounding farms, invited them to stay and travel to Tlachtga with everyone from the town for Samhain. Tlachtga was a sacred site, usually open only to the Druids, but open for everyone on Samhain.

It was a bit odd that your father invited strangers who had different gods to such a sacred festival. He said that he did it to be generous to his guests, but you knew better. Your father was curious about them and their way of living. He wanted them to stay a while longer so he could learn more about them.

Your father had always been an inquisitive spirit and loved to learn about the world and its many cultures. He adored foreign visitors and always picked their brains about other peoples and places.

Many years ago, when you were much younger, four men who spoke the same tongue as the ones who were camped near your town now landed on the nearby shores. Your father invited the men to stay for almost a year, which allowed him to learn some of their language and vice versa. You picked up on much more of their language than your father had since you were so young and your mind still pliable.

So, now you translated a lot of what the newcomers said for your father. The three who seemed to be in charge of the rest knew a small amount of your native language and claimed that their father had taught them.

Their names were Ubbe, Ivar, and Hvitserk and they commanded a sizeable number of warriors. Even though Ivar was a cripple, he seemed to be the most respected and even feared of the trio. There were both male and female warriors in the Viking force which delighted you. You liked to watch the females sparring on the outskirts of their encampment and wished you could join them.

When these new strangers who spoke the same tongue as the four men from years ago arrived, you remembered some of what the four men had taught you. Not only did they teach you their language, but they told you about their gods and their people and culture. They worshipped several gods, similar to you and your family’s tradition, however, their gods were different than yours.

One of the brothers had caught your eye and he seemed like he was fascinated with you as well. Any time your father invited them to sup with the family, which was quite often, his eyes never left you. He usually looked like he wanted to devour you and was so obvious about it that even your father noticed.

One night when the Viking visitors were not around, he brought it up. Your mother and three of your brothers were all sitting around the table and grew quiet when your father spoke.

“One of those men has his eye on you, Y/N. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Hvitserk I think his name is,” your father observed. His face was unreadable. “As you know, you are my only daughter and a more than beautiful woman,” he continued. “I don’t expect you to remain chaste forever, but I ask that you wait for a husband.”

Your mother exclaimed, “Cian!” and hit him on the shoulder. Your brothers snickered but tried to contain themselves.

Your cheeks grew warm and you looked down into your plate. You poked at your food and wished you could turn invisible. “Father, can we not talk about this?”

“Well, I’m just saying! I don’t want to become a grandfather while you don’t even have a husband!” he said defensively. “When will you choose a husband anyway? I’ve hosted many eligible suitors over the years and yet you refuse them all. Soon enough I will have to just choose one for you or else you will no longer be able to bear children!”

You scowled at him and snapped, “You know, a woman’s only purpose in life isn’t just to have children.”

“I know, I know, but I need grandchildren!” he said with an eye roll. “And I won’t be around forever!”

Now you thought back on that conversation often. Your father was right. You wanted children and you were still young but you worried that if you didn’t have them soon you would no longer be able to conceive.

You also thought about your father’s warning to wait to have sex until you were married every time you caught Hvitserk staring at you. He was a very attractive man and you couldn’t deny that you wanted him too. You had only spoken to him a handful of times excluding the conversations you translated, but you were infatuated.

He was one of five sons of a man named Ragnar Lothbrok and was from a place called Kattegat. He flirted with you relentlessly and even brought you a small bouquet of wildflowers one day. Winter was approaching quickly so there weren’t many flowers to find. He must have worked hard to gather enough for a bouquet. You thought they were beautiful even though they were nearly dying because of the weather.

Hvitserk also told you about his mother, who was a Völva. At first, you were very confused and had no idea what a Völva was. When he explained, you were intrigued. You told your father about it and he immediately wanted to speak to Hvitserk and the two brothers he had with him, Ivar and Ubbe, to get more information. He had once met a female druid with similar powers and he wanted to discuss it in detail.

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Samhain was now only a week or so away and you were excited because it was one of your favorite celebrations. The veil between the otherworld and your own was said to be the thinnest during Samhain, making it easy for spirits to come and go. Everyone dressed up to blend in with the spirits that roamed the earth during this time. This year you planned to paint your face elaborately, wear a cloak you made, and don a crown of flowers and leaves you had been nurturing, keeping them alive just for your costume.

There was to be a bonfire built by the Druids, sacrifices, feasts, and more at Tlachtga which was a few days walk from your coastal town in the northern part of the realm. The local Druid that advised your father made sure that everything was arranged to make the trek there and that you would all have a place to stay during the celebration. The Viking strangers had also been preparing for the journey and had most of their things packed and ready to be loaded onto the mules your father was lending them.

Everyone was set to head out in the morning and you couldn’t sleep. You were excited to make the journey and participate in the festival. Also, your father had announced that your oldest brother, who had been off studying to be a Druid since you were just a small girl, would be attending the festival and intended to reunite with the family. You had not seen him in many years and looked forward to the reunion.

You were very curious about how the Vikings would react to the traditions of Samhain. What would Hvitserk think of you and your people? you wondered. Eventually, you drifted off to sleep, but dreams filled your head, making you restless.

A few hours later you woke to the sounds of the town bustling around your home, preparing for the journey to Tlachtga. You got out from under your blankets and furs and dressed.

When you emerged from the warmth of your home a cool breeze tugged at your clothes. You spotted the party of Vikings, ready and waiting on the outskirts of town. Hvitserk was perched atop a horse along the edge of the Viking horde closest to the town, eyes scanning the crowd. When his eyes found you they stopped and he smiled mischievously.

To be continued

A note about the father, Cian: First of all, you pronounce it like “key-inn.” I got the idea for the father’s name from a list of old Celtic names on this website. I chose this one because this was the description underneath it: “The name means ‘long-lived’ or ‘ancient one’.” I want the character to have an air of imperishability/immortality/great wisdom, so I found this a fitting name. Also, I imagine him with an Arthur Weasley type curiosity about the world.

About the cover art: That green circular thing in the top right corner is at Tlachtga in Ireland. It’s real and super cool! Here’s a link to more info about it.

Finally, a note about Druids: They were not only priests but legal authorities, adjudicators, lorekeepers, medical professionals, and political advisors. They are incredibly interesting to me and I can link some websites so you can read more about them if you want.

Tags: @laketaj24 @tephi101 @grungyblonde @captstefanbrandt @missrobyn81 @moondustmemories @supernaturalvikingwhore @hallowed-heathen @ariellostatci @vikingalexthedane @anarchy-is-coming @alicedopey @lisinfleur @voodoodollgirl @backstagepaige @oddsnendsfanfics @whenimaunicorn @lol-haha-joke @heathen-whore @credulouskhaleesi

If you want to be added to or removed from the tags on this short series please let me know.

#samhain #vikings #hvitserk x reader #hvitserk #hvitserk ragnarsson

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olga-eulalia · 6 years

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You know what? I can post terrible self-indulgent fic if I want to, so here’s a Sleeping Beauty AU, featuring Silver and Flint. ~3500 words. R just to be on the safe side. Some non-con. Unbeta’d. Non-native speaker writing here.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, when it was late winter and John Silver had been travelling across the land for many months, he came into a forest that was dark and strangely quiet, and he thought he’d lost the path when suddenly, just before nightfall, a hollow-way appeared in the gloom that brought him safely to the entrance of an inn.

The room was dimly lit, the ceiling low, and smoke came curling out when he entered. For a moment, all faces were turned towards him, squinting. But since Silver was not altogether unpleasant to look at and had the gift of a charming smile he found himself accepted rather warmly for a mere stranger passing through.

Over the years he had learned a couple of valuable things: That news, embellished, were quick to draw a crowd. That people in general enjoyed the company of a man who held their opinions in high esteem. That a ripping yarn was as good as any currency in that even the most standoffish were afflicted with an unusual bout of generosity once the teller’s tongue started to feel a bit parched. And all these, and more, came in very handy that night.

Now it was true even then that every place, no matter how remote, had its own stories, some of which people liked to talk about gleefully and often. While others, they only mentioned under their breath or kept secret altogether for fear of catching their oddness. And as knowing which was which was nigh impossible in advance, one had to excuse Silver. It was nothing but his natural curiosity that made him ask about the manor in the distance, whose it was, and he couldn’t have known that it would bring conversation throughout the room to a halt.

"The Devil's," a woodcutter muttered into his jug of ale.

The blacksmith, no less brawny in stature, set down his mug and corrected him.

Then, bit by bit, more people felt confident enough to chime in. Indeed, a rather fierce competition arose as to whose sources were the most reliable, whose account the most accurate. The innkeeper's face was impartiality itself as she pulled another frothy pint.

From what Silver was able to gather the building had been abandoned for more than two generations and folk in these parts believed that it was frequented by a most godless crowd: Ogres, ghosts, witches and suchlike. It was somewhat difficult to pin down the particulars of the tale since it morphed as it went from teller to teller, but in one aspect they all agreed: Don’t go near. The message was so uniform that one could almost believe everyone either in on a joke or cleverly hiding something from an outsider.

Silver, intrigued, had just made the decision to discover for himself whether the place held anything of value that could make his detour yet worthwhile when a shadow by the fire spoke up.

Hogwash! A tall, old man shifted his lined face into the light. In his days, everyone knew that the manor had been bewitched and that the only way to release its residents from the spell was to bestow one kiss on the beautiful princess trapped inside.

The old man frowned at the amusement rippling through his audience. He continued: Some of his friends had tried it in their youthful folly. Thought they could best the brambles that encased the stone walls as securely as an iron casket, but none of them were ever seen to make it through. Or return.

"Witchcraft." The woodcutter nodded.

The talk then shifted to discuss other possible doings of the Devil and whether the local magistrate was in cahoots with him, and Silver, feigning bodily discomfort, moved across the room to occupy a cosy seat by the fire as well.

"I'd very much like to see this manor house for myself," he said. Perhaps the tale and her teller's name would find their way into the book he was writing, he offered as incentive, hoping that, at the end of the day, an interested listener would make up for an empty promise. "You wouldn't happen to remember the shortest way?"

The old man studied the frayed edges of Silver's second-hand coat and his peg leg with great care, but Silver’s face yet more carefully still. From the corner of his mouth, where a missing tooth allowed him to comfortably fit the amber stem of his pipe, he admitted, “I do.”

Chapter 2

A glittering layer of ice outlined branch and fallen leaf. Overnight, the ground had frozen over and Silver’s breath fogged the air as he walked the perimeter. His snares were empty, winter mushrooms sparse. With the supplies in his bag dwindling, a longer stay would be ill-advised, and it pained him to think that he'd have to seek his good fortune elsewhere while the turreted manor sat like a most precious egg pristine in its spiky nest. His gaze roamed all that unspoiled glass and iron he'd be able to sell if only he could find a way to get his hands on it.

At one point, the house must have lorded over a large swath of land. The tree-lined road, whose faint remnants had guided him on his way, stretched for about two miles up north and the overgrown front gate was wide enough to fit six horses side by side. In an abandoned farmstead close by, under a roof that sat worryingly askew, Silver had made camp. And though he had a good view of the premises, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report on. Except for one very obvious thing:

The unusually large thornhedge that wrapped the manor in a tight embrace, covering it all the way round and almost all the way up the highest tower. Even the forest kept its distance from such an unruly, greedy growth that had swallowed up ladder, plank and axe in its past and more recently Silver’s handsaw.

He spotted the tool and began to tug at it with all his strength, hoping to pry it from the clutches of the hedge this time. The sun's rays were slanting in just so that he could make out something stuck further inside the thicket. A piece of clothing perhaps. Or perhaps it was...

"Good morning!" An old woman, snugly wrapped up in shawls, had come out of the woods and startled him.

"Good morning," he scrambled up his last ounce of cheer. Seeing that she was dragging a bundle of brushwood along on a makeshift sledge, he then offered his help, though, truth be told, he deemed his own work far more important and had no real intention of abandoning it.

She mustered him with a critical eye and declined. “You seem very busy.”

As it turned out, she was much more interested in what he was doing anyway, lingering by his side and quizzing him about his intentions.

Those were nothing but chivalrous, he assured her. Curse-breaking was his business. Drawn by the warm sparkle in her eyes, he leaned in and said, "I heard," and then recounted the old man's tale.

"Oh, nonsense!" She poked the hard ground with her walking stick. "When I was young, everyone knew that it was no princess trapped inside this bloody hedge, but a handsome prince." The edges of her smile gleamed with gold. "You let me know if you need any help in waking him from his slumber."

Despite the chill, Silver flushed terribly, seeing himself bent over a downy pillow, lips skimming across a prickly cheek, and gave a chuckle that only drew more attention to his self-conscious state.

Perceptive and kind, the old woman changed the subject, entertaining him with anecdotes of bygone days for a while, bringing to life the bustle of the estate with such clarity in his mind’s eye that he was almost tricked into mourning its loss.

“Snow's coming. Can always trust my bones to be right about that,” she eventually said and then pulled a wrinkled apple and a handful of raisins from her coat pockets -- a sweet haul which she handed to Silver in its entirety, patting his cheek. “Good luck, dear.”

Long after she had disappeared back into the forest, Silver was still sitting on an empty plinth with a raisin tucked between his back teeth. When was the last time someone had shown him such kindness? Gifted him food without expecting anything in return? Called him dear without disdain? He should've been more honest about wanting to help her. He should've been more honest in wanting to immortalize the old man's name in a book, too. But instead, he had chosen this. This unrewarding task. This confounded thing.

His next attempt at freeing the saw was rather ungentle. And the more he chided it for its stubbornness, the more the hedge creaked and fought against his efforts. With thorns like talons, it rewarded his impatience by goring him to the bone.

Chapter 3

In the wan morning light, slowly among the branches, snowflakes descended. The forest lay quiet and still as if it had taken a deep breath and slipped under a white cover where it now waited for the sun's return.

While Silver’s sore hands were preparing his belongings for the journey ahead, carefully cording up his burlap bag, his thoughts were far away already, imagining a warm spot, a mouth-watering meal in the next town. He was about to turn his back on the manor, erase this disappointment from memory to the best of his ability when it pierced him: Red.

Red, almost purple, amidst the fresh snow and ashen wood, a delicate bud poked its head out from an array of tender green where yesterday none had been visible, so vibrant and soaked with colour that paint might drip from it at any moment. Behind it, within reach, another blossom coiled. And then another. Dazzled, Silver quite forgot all caution and stepped closer to touch them with his fingertips. They were real, all of them. And a little further on, closer by the wall, where warmth huddled by the stones, one had unfurled its petals like a joyful welcome.

There he saw that he had come a long way already and that the forest was barely visible from this far inside the hedge. Slender rods arched above him like a protective bower, criss-crossing densely. If the old tale had been true and those been possessed of malicious intent, escape would have been quite impossible at this point.

So when the man-high wooden door at the end of the path yielded and allowed him in, Silver grinned: People like him never got stuck in fairytales.

Chapter 4

It was as quiet as the whispering snowfall outside. But a peal of laughter might ring out any moment. A door fall into its lock. A serving-maid pass by, carrying a stack of freshly folded linen. Sumptuous carpets muffled Silver’s steps as he walked the long, branching hallways of the manor, a flickering five-armed candelabra in hand that illuminated a wealth of riches difficult to wrap one’s mind around. Marble, golden ornaments, exquisite furnishings -- only the finest, most expensive materials had been good enough for the owner, whom Silver had started to think of very dearly.

Coming into the great hall by way of the kitchen, he had tried his way through the pickled goods in the pantry till his stomach was stuffed full so that his gait was unhurried now and slow while the bag in his tow grew heavier fast.

Wherever he went, whether rounding a corner or climbing a stairway, eyes followed him, recognizing him as someone who did not belong and looking on his presence with according disdain. At times bewigged and befrilled, at times presented on black silk and ermine, a hundred unhappy faces judged his actions as he explored room after room. It filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction to see that a couple of these portraits had been knocked down and vandalised, their faces ripped out.

Following those, he discovered that someone had beat him to the library. Books had been pulled out, drawers upturned, the floor strewn with loose papers. Ransacked it appeared in stark contrast to the rest of the house which remained undisturbed in its stately splendour.

Like a box full of choice jewels, the lady's bedroom opened up to him, the surfaces sheened with mother-of-pearl gloss in the pale light. A satin evening gown had been laid out. Matching jewellery. Items that Silver thought to leave untouched, stepping past them into the adjoining chamber where he found half the curtains drawn.

In the dusk, which made it difficult to tell shadow from shape, Silver at first believed that an armful of clothes had been carelessly flung across the bed, but the glow of his candelabra soon transformed it into two knee-high boots, a dark coat and even in the dimness the red shock of hair then became unmistakable.

Silver backed away, withdrawing his light as fast as possible. A doorframe bumped his elbow and startled him into speaking. "I'm awfully sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to disturb...,” he said.

But the figure continued to sprawl facedown as if felled by a mortal blow.

Silver hesitated. He thought of the bag bulging with jewellery and artworks that was waiting for him outside in the hallway and he thought of what happened to thieves who were caught stealing from rich people's homes. And then, unbidden, the memory of the two old people and his own wheedling talk entered his mind and prompted him to drag his courage by the scruff.

It took both hands and a lot of strength to roll the body onto its back. Thick strands of hair fell aside, revealing a face both virile and elegant, its features so handsomely drawn and complexion so delicate that Silver was quite startled by its beauty. He had spent enough time in the study, rummaging through the documents there and looking at the portraits to know that this man was not the master of the house, and since there was no plunder on him except for a scrap of paper clutched in his hand, which made thievery an unlikely motive for his being here, his presence remained a mystery.

A quick examination revealed no visible wound. And another couple of minutes gave certainty that the man’s life was not altogether gone. Both his heartbeat and his breath merely came very slowly and could not be quickened by any means at hand. Whatever it was -- surely a quick peck would not be able to cure as strange a condition as this.

To distract himself from that particular thought, Silver grabbed the crumpled paper and smoothed it out. The lines there were even, the letters themselves full of verve as their author vowed to do the utmost to mitigate the damage of the curse and apologised more than once for reneging on the promise of forever, but that these drastic measures were necessary, alas, to avert a much more dreadful fate.

“So I take it you’re James?” Silver, stirred by the intimate, imploring tone of the letter, pondered the sleeper’s face.

By the minute now, the old tale gained in plausibility until it had lodged itself in Silver’s mind like a bulky obstacle that he couldn’t think past, and he caught his gaze returning to those tender lips again and again. Considering it as a real possibility was simply absurd. And it definitely wasn’t good sense that made him lean over and study the man from up close. His thick eyelashes. His freckles. The faint lines bracketing his trim, red beard. Was his expression dreamy? Thoughtful? Mournful? Silver, watching the candlelight shift emotions around like ill-fitting puzzle pieces, couldn’t say.

Nerves aflutter, he gnawed on his lip and considered what if. He lowered his face further. "You’ll forgive me if I," he said, voice thinning to a whisper, “try,” and then hardly dared breathe while he let his mouth sink down into the midst of that soft beard and onto silken lips.

Satisfied, at last, that it would be considered a kiss and not only an attempt at one, Silver drew back and watched for a response. But none came.

Of course, none came. He shook his head. Truly, it was high time to put silly notions of fantastic deeds aside once and for all.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in no time. I’ll just... need to take some things to incentivise the good doctor to make the trip out here. I’m sure you’d understand.”

Concentration proved a slippery thing when he tried to picture his loot and which item he could part with painlessly and, idly searching for a clue perhaps, he glanced at the man’s face again, expecting tacit permission there, but finding green eyes instead whose focus jumped, caught and pinned with terrible accuracy. Silver’s gaze was dragged into them like light into an endless well.

The man pushed himself upright. With an unexpectedly gentle caress, a touch so light that it was barely there, he slipped Silver’s bandaged hand into his palm.

Silver, suspended in a state of anticipation, let it happen. He was glad to be greeted with no anger and no confusion, only a persistent kind of curiosity.

They held each other's gaze for a long moment and then plaintively, evoking an overwhelming need to comfort and reassure, the man asked him, “You’ll forgive me?”

“I,” Silver said and at that instant found himself grabbed by the nape, a thumb splayed across his pulse. “Wait! No, I didn’t mean to– I thought-”

As the man pushed him back onto the bed and shifted his muscular body on top of him, it dawned on Silver too late that he had read the signs wrong, that what he had interpreted as curiosity was voracious appetite instead. And as a gust of hot breath moved over his neck and a set of sharp teeth grazed the all too tender skin there, he remembered that some people knew how to craft a spell with skill and purpose and that not all of their handiwork was meant to be broken.

Pain pierced his skin and sank deeper, sounding out the depths of him.

It seemed impossible that someone might desire such a thing as this and therefore Silver had no words at the ready that would stop the act from happening, and his tongue, which had talked him out of many a precarious situation, floundered.

Compared to the immovable grip on him, his own struggle seemed laughably weak, as if his hands were only curled into loose fists, as if his limbs were good for not much more than a twitch, as if he weren’t struggling to free himself with all his strength, now hanging from a mouth like prey.

The man’s lips were fastened tight to his neck, drinking deeply from his heart’s stream. Warmth radiated from the wound, crawling up Silver’s cheek, down over his chest. Slim-fingered, it reached into his veins and sprouted blossoms, letting them grow as tall as trees so that they tinted everything in the luminous red of their immense petals. To Silver they seemed a marvellous thing and he thought he might rest a while in their light and laze in contentment where pleasure was so abundant and he wanted for nothing. Drowsy, he was rocked. Sated, he was fed more. Aroused, he was excited further until ecstasy prickled all over his skin and every individual heartbeat was delight, so that he was a reedy whine, a writhe in the sheets, and nothing more.

His body didn’t seem to know what to do with all that bliss, and he cusped and came inside his drawers -- a feeble lift of his hips. And then he was spat out.

Waiting for just that moment, cold, slavering, laid hands on him and made him shiver. With a head full of noise and his vision flickering out, he rolled over and dragged himself across the bed, miles and miles of bright cloth stretching out ahead of him. Reason, perhaps, whispered that he was not going to make it, not in such a weakened state, and he could not counter it, not understanding why he was trying to leave in the first place when there was so much comfort and joy waiting for him just an arm’s length away, only knowing that he absolutely must.

And so he grabbed another delirious inch of his freedom and then another, and slowly, ever so slowly managed to pull himself to the edge of a cliff. He clutched at it, belatedly trying to mitigate his fall, already plummeting.

A pair of strong arms gathered him into their cradle, clasped him tight and lifted him up. “Are you trying to lose another limb?” He was deposited somewhere flat and impossibly soft and then covered in warmth. Silver let the world happen around him for a while. “When you’re awake your hand will need cleaning.” The hair was brushed from his face. “And I’m sure you’ll be hungry too.”

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boreothegoldfinch · 3 years

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chapter 5 paragraph xi

The school bus didn't actually go all the way out to the edge of Canyon Shadows, where Boris lived. It was a twenty minute walk to his house from the last stop, in blazing heat, through streets awash with sand. Though there were plenty of Foreclosure and “For Sale” signs on my street (at night, the sound of a car radio travelled for miles)—still, I was not aware quite how eerie Canyon Shadows got at its farthest reaches: a toy town, dwindling out at desert’s edge, under menacing skies. Most of the houses looked as if they had never been lived in. Others—unfinished—had raw-edged windows without glass in them; they were covered with scaffolding and grayed with blown sand, with piles of concrete and yellowing construction material out front. The boarded-up windows gave them a blind, battered, uneven look, as of faces beaten and bandaged. As we walked, the air of abandonment grew more and more disturbing, as if we were roaming some planet depopulated by radiation or disease. “They built this shit way too far out,” said Boris. “Now the desert is taking it back. And the banks.” He laughed. “Fuck Thoreau, eh?” “This whole town is like a big Fuck You to Thoreau.” “I’ll tell you who’s fucked. People who own these houses. Can’t even get water out to a lot of them. They all get taken back because people can’t pay— that’s why my dad rents our place so bloody cheap.” “Huh,” I said, after a slight, startled pause. It had not occurred to me to wonder how my father had been able to afford quite such a big house as ours. “My dad digs mines,” said Boris unexpectedly. “Sorry?” He raked the sweaty dark hair out of his face. “People hate us, everywhere we go. Because they promise the mine won’t harm the environment, and then the mine harms the environment. But here—” he shrugged in a fatalistic, Russianate way—“my God, this fucking sand pit, who cares?” “Huh,” I said, struck by the way our voices carried down the deserted street, “it’s really empty down here, isn’t it?” “Yes. A graveyard. Only one other family living here—those people, down there. Big truck out front, see? Illegal immigrants, I think.” “You and your dad are legal, right?” It was a problem at school: some of the kids weren’t; there were posters about it in the hallways. He made a pfft, ridiculous sound. “Of course. The mine takes care of it. Or somebody. But those people down there? Maybe twenty, thirty of them, all men, all living in one house. Drug dealers maybe.” “You think?” “Something very funny going on,” said Boris darkly. “That’s all I know.” Boris’s house—flanked by two vacant lots overflowing with garbage— was much like Dad and Xandra’s: wall-to-wall carpet, spanking-new appliances, same floor plan, not much furniture. But indoors, it was much too warm for comfort; the pool was dry, with a few inches of sand at the bottom, and there was no pretense of a yard, not even cactuses. All the surfaces—the appliances, the counters, the kitchen floor—were lightly filmed with grit. “Something to drink?” said Boris, opening the refrigerator to a gleaming rank of German beer bottles. “Oh, wow, thanks.”

“In New Guinea,” said Boris, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “when I lived there, yah? We had a bad flood. Snakes… very dangerous and scary… unexploded mine shells from Second World War floating up in the yard… many geese died. Anyway—” he said, cracking open a beer—“all our water went bad. Typhus. All we had was beer—Pepsi was all gone, Lucozade was all gone, iodine tablets gone, three whole weeks, my dad and me, even the Muslims, nothing to drink but beer! Lunch, breakfast, everything.” “That doesn’t sound so bad.” He made a face. “Had a headache the whole time. Local beer, in New Guinea—very bad tasting. This is the good stuff! There’s vodka in the freezer too.” I started to say yes, to impress him, but then I thought of the heat and the walk home and said, “No, thanks.” He clinked his bottle against mine. “I agree. Much too hot to drink it in the day. My dad drinks it so much the nerves are gone dead in his feet.” “Seriously?” “It’s called—” he screwed up his face, in an effort to get the words out —“peripheral neuropathy” (pronounced, by him, as “peripheral neuropathy”). “In Canada, in hospital, they had to teach him to walk again. He stood up—he fell on the floor—his nose is bleeding—hilarious.” “Sounds entertaining,” I said, thinking of the time I’d seen my own dad crawling on his hands and knees to get ice from the fridge. “Very. What does yours drink? Your dad?” “Scotch. When he drinks. Supposedly he’s quit now.” “Hah,” said Boris, as if he’d heard this one before. “My dad should switch —good Scotch is very cheap here. Say, want to see my room?” I was expecting something on the order of my own room, and I was surprised when he opened the door into a sort of ragtag tented space, reeking of stale Marlboros, books piled everywhere, old beer bottles and ashtrays and heaps of old towels and unwashed clothes spilling over on the carpet. The walls billowed with printed fabric—yellow, green, indigo, purple—and a red hammer-and-sickle flag hung over the batik-draped mattress. It was as if a Russian cosmonaut had crashed in the jungle and fashioned himself a shelter of his nation’s flag and whatever native sarongs and textiles he could find. “You did this?” I said. “I fold it up and put it in a suitcase,” said Boris, throwing himself down on the wildly-colored mattress. “Takes only ten minutes to put it up again. Do you want to watch S.O.S. Iceberg?” “Sure.” “Awesome movie. I’ve seen it six times. Like when she gets in her plane to rescue them on the ice?” But somehow we never got around to watching S.O.S. Iceberg that afternoon, maybe because we couldn’t stop talking long enough to go downstairs and turn on the television. Boris had had a more interesting life than any person of my own age I had ever met. It seemed that he had only infrequently attended school, and those of the very poorest sort; out in the desolate places where his dad worked, often there were no schools for him to go to. “There are tapes?” he said, swigging his beer with one eye on me. “And tests to take. Except you have to be in a place with Internet and sometimes like far up in Canada or Ukraine we don’t have that.” “So what do you do?” He shrugged. “Read a lot, I guess.” A teacher in Texas, he said, had pulled a syllabus off the Internet for him.

“They must have had a school in Alice Springs.” Boris laughed. “Sure they did,” he said, blowing a sweaty strand of hair out of his face. “But after my mum died, we lived in Northern Territory for a while—Arnhem Land—town called Karmeywallag? Town, so called. Miles in the middle of nowhere—trailers for the miners to live in and a petrol station with a bar in back, beer and whiskey and sandwiches. Anyway, wife of Mick that ran the bar, Judy her name was? All I did—” he took a messy slug of his beer—“all I did, every day, was watch soaps with Judy and stay behind the bar with her at night while my dad and his crew from the mine got thrashed. Couldn’t even get television during monsoon. Judy kept her tapes in the fridge so they wouldn’t get ruined.” “Ruined how?” “Mold growing in the wet. Mold on your shoes, on your books.” He shrugged. “Back then I didn’t talk so much as I do now, because I didn’t speak English so well. Very shy, sat alone, stayed always to myself. But Judy? She talked to me anyway, and was kind, even though I didn’t understand a lick of what she said. Every morning I would go to her, she would cook me my same nice fry. Rain rain rain. Sweeping, washing dishes, helping to clean the bar. Everywhere I followed like a baby goose. This is cup, this is broom, this is bar stool, this pencil. That was my school. Television—Duran Duran tapes and Boy George—everything in English. McLeod’s Daughters was her favorite programme. Always we watched together, and when I didn’t know something? She explained to me. And we talked about the sisters, and we cried when Claire died in the car wreck, and she said if she had a place like Drover’s? she would take me to live there and be happy together and we would have all women to work for us like the McLeods. She was very young and pretty. Curly blonde hair and blue stuff on her eyes. Her husband called her slut and horse’s arse but I thought she looked like Jodi on the show. All day long she talked to me and sang—taught me the words of all the jukebox songs. ‘Dark in the city, the night is alive…’ Soon I had developed quite proficiency. Speak English, Boris! I had a little English from school in Poland, hello excuse me thank you very much, but two months with her I was chatter chatter chatter! Never stopped talking since! She was very nice and kind to me always. Even though she went in the kitchen and cried every day because she hated Karmeywallag so much.” It was getting late, but still hot and bright out. “Say, I’m starving,” said Boris, standing up and stretching so that a band of stomach showed between his fatigues and ragged shirt: concave, dead white, like a starved saint’s. “What’s to eat?” “Bread and sugar.” “You’re kidding.” Boris yawned, wiped red eyes. “You never ate bread with sugar poured on it?” “Nothing else?” He gave a weary-looking shrug. “I have a coupon for pizza. Fat lot of good. They don’t deliver this far out.” “I thought you had a cook where you used to live.” “Yah, we did. In Indonesia. Saudi Arabia too.” He was smoking a cigarette —I’d refused the one he offered me; he seemed a little trashed, drifting and bopping around the room like there was music on, although there wasn’t. “Very cool guy named Abdul Fataah. That means ‘Servant of the Opener of the Gates of Sustenance.’ ” “Well, look. Let’s go to my house, then.” He flung himself down on the bed with his hands between his knees. “Don’t tell me the slag cooks.” “No, but she works in a bar with a buffet. Sometimes she brings home food and stuff.” “Brilliant,” said Boris, reeling slightly as he stood. He’d had three beers and was working on a fourth. At the door, he took an umbrella and handed me one. “Um, what’s this for?” He opened it and stepped outside. “Cooler to walk under,” he said, his face blue in the shade. “And no sunburn.”

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raufnirsramblings · 7 years

Text

Black Citadel Update - A New Name!

For anyone who was interested in the story excerpt I posted a while back, given the working title of Black Citadel, it now has an official name! (this will most likely change anyway, but I needed one... so, I present:

Weaver of Threads

I will also be using it for NaNoWriMo, so hopefully, by the end of November, there will be 50,000 words of it! Because I’m using it for NaNo, it also means I won’t be posting the whole thing on here. I will keep posting little snippets though, to whet your appetite.

I have worked up a synopsis for you if you want to know where it’s headed though, and what you can expect (without giving too much away...). Watch this space for more exciting updates and excerpts from it if you’re interested, by following the new tag, Weaver of Threads (I’ll probably still tag Black Citadel for a while in case this gets missed...)

Weaver of Threads: A Synopsis:

Kae – a silver-eyed, black haired, journeyman mage at the Black Citadel – spends all his spare time researching the ancient and seemingly lost art of ‘weaving’. Campfire tales told by the wise women of his tribe drove him to study rune magic in his native Myrrath, before making the long journey across the mountains, across the Ahiri desert, to Varden, and the heart of the capital, where the imposing Black Citadel stands, seemingly wrought out of a single block of polished black stone.

The Black Citadel is known for two things: the black-cloaked brothers and sisters who leave its hallowed walls with the knowledge of thousands of years of runic magic, and the Greycloaks, men and women unmatched in their skill with blade and bow. Frequently, a soul-bound contract is formed between a Greycloak and a Mage, binding the two together, increasing each other’s strength through their connection. Contracted Greycloaks and Mages are employed by kings and emperors the world over as advisors and bodyguards, their bond unshakable, their strength matched only by others of their kind.

Kae’s best friend is almost his exact opposite, but she makes him smile, and he keeps her grounded. Short, fiery, quick to laugh and quick to cry, Fyna works with her hands as a student in the Mechanica, putting the practical skills she learned as a child to build her first wheelchair to good use as a rune mage, constructing clocks, cranes, and safes. If only she could persuade Kae to let the lens-grinder make him some glasses so he didn’t have to strain his sight quite so badly?

Tomas came to the Citadel after turning his back on his oppressive father and on his responsibilities in the neighbouring kingdom of Galēa. He and his childhood friend, Atla, joined the Greycloaks and quickly worked their way to the top of the ranks of squires, she known for her prowess with a spear, Tomas as a swordsman. But Tomas has more cerebral aspirations than simple swordplay. He needs to get inside the Citadel’s hallowed library and archives to answer his own questions about the tombs of his ancestors and the hidden knowledge and artefacts they conceal. The ancient kings of Galēa once held political alliances with every nation on the planet, and when they died, they held their funerals and were entombed in foreign lands as a sign of respect and friendship with those nations. Political borders shifted like sand under the tide of time, and the tombs have been largely lost to memory, along with the nature of their contents.

After a chance encounter with Kae one afternoon, Tomas begins his search for answers, and a friendship begins between the two boys which develops over time into something deeper.

Their journey together will take them across the continent, north to Kae’s homeland where horse lords roam high plateaus, and east to Tomas’ own country of courtly nobles and political scheming; to glimmering palaces and filthy alleyways, ancient tombs and unusual classrooms, to seek the answers to their questions.

Tomas searches for the true meaning of his heritage, and Kae searches for what it means to be a weaver of threads…

Stay tuned to @raufnirsramblings for more updates about Weaver of Threads.

#weaver of threads #raufnir's ramblings #raufnir's writing #original writing #original fantasy #fantasy writing #fantasy novel #fantasy story #fantasy #magic #runes #runecraft #black citadel

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omuii · 7 years

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The Northeastern United States and Its Cryptids - Part 1

I don’t know about you guys, but I love cryptozoology. Bigfoot, Loch Ness, Mothman - you name it, I love it.

Whether you share that same love or not, cryptozoology and urban legends play a big cultural part in places all over the country, and the northeast is no exception.

If you guys like this kind of thing, I’ll gladly do more in the future.

Let’s get started 😎

New Jersey - The Jersey Devil

Starting off with my home state, I of course have to bring up the classic Jersey Devil.

In New Jersey, there’s a large area of land known as the Pine Barrens, which is a massive forest stretching through several counties in the state. It’s a beautiful natural landmark with a very unique ecosystem and a lot of history. More importantly, the Pine Barrens are the host of many local legends and folktales.

The story of the Jersey Devil goes back to the 1700s and starts with a family known as the Leeds Family. A large family consisting of a couple and their 12 children, the Leeds Family was pretty run-down from being so large, and meeting the demands of such a big family was a strenuous task. So when Mother Leeds found out she was pregnant with a 13th child, you can imagine she was very upset.

In her anger, she cursed the child, hoping for the devil to take it so she wouldn’t have another mouth to feed. Nine months later, the 13th baby was born. At first, it was a normal baby, but minutes after being delivered it began to transform and take on a horrifying shape. The baby grew a goat head and horns, hooves and a forked tail, and a set of bat-like wings.

The devilish creature that had transformed before their eyes killed everyone in the house: Mother Leeds, her husband, her previous children, even the midwife who was present for the birth. With the blood of all those on his hands, he climbed through the chimney and flew off into the Pine Barrens.

That was the night the Jersey Devil was born. Originally, he was dubbed the Leeds Devil, but when a sudden outcrop of sightings all across the state began in the late 1800s and early 1900s, he soon became known as the Jersey Devil instead.

To this day, it is said the Devil roams the Pine Barrens, preying on animals and leaving bloodbaths in his wake. He jumps from rooftop to rooftop in neighborhoods all over the state, and it’s said that if you go into the Pine Barrens at night, you might here the blood-curdling scream of the Jersey Devil himself.

You’re safe if you stay out of the Pine Barrens. People from all over the country who know of the legend will tell you that he is only in the Pine Barrens, but when you’re actually in Jersey, there are some who claim that the Pine Barrens is the only place the Devil can’t go...

Pennsylvania - The Green Man

Urban legends about cryptids are usually based on real life people or events, if only loosely. In the case of Pennsylvania’s Green Man, this ‘cryptid’ really wasn’t a cryptid at all.

In a rural area in Western Pennsylvania, an urban legend tells the tale of an ominous, inhuman being that would wander the woods at night, omitting a strange green glow. Called The Green Man as a result of his skin, people would actively seek out this cryptid at night, and many actually saw him.

However, The Green Man wasn’t a cryptid at all.

In fact, he was actually a man named Raymond Robinson, a gentleman who lived alone in the woods. As a child, Robinson climbed a telephone pole and got severely electrocuted, ultimately losing his nose and eyes and becoming permanently disfigured. Some inconsiderate people called him a monster because of his appearance, and in time, the legend of The Green Man came to be. The glowing green light he allegedly omitted was an addition made based on the fact that he was electrocuted.

Robinson only left the house at night due to his appearance. He didn’t want people to see him and be afraid, so he’d only go out at night when nobody was around. Many people taunted him and treated him awful, but there were many others who treated him like any normal person should be treated. He had friends and loved ones, and some claim that every once in a while he’d pose for a picture in exchange for beer or cigarettes.

Though it was revealed long ago that the so-called “Green Man” was simply a tale made up based on Robinson, the story spread so far and wide and was passed down through so many generations that to this day, despite Robinson having passed decades ago, there are still people who claim to see The Green Man in the woods.

New York - Champ

In upstate New York in the grogeous Adirondack mountains is Lake Champlain, the biggest lake in that region. Renowned for its fishing, boating, and beautiful scenery, Lake Champlain is a wonderful spot to visit, as well as the home of a creature named Champ.

The legend of Champ goes back centuries, starting as a legend for both the Iroquois and Abenaki natives in that region. They told stories of a large creature that inhabited the lake, called Tatoskok by the Abenaki tribe. Over time, Tatoskok came to be known as Champ, a nickname derived from the lake’s name: Champlain. Originally it wasn’t called Lake Champlain, a guy from France “””discovered””” it and it got named after him, but I digress.

The first specific sighting of Champ came in the 1800s when a captain was on Bulwagga Bay. He reported a massive black serpent in the water almost 200 feet in length that rose high out of the water. The captain reported “a black monster, about 187 feet long and with a head resembling a sea horse, that reared more than 15 feet out of the water. He claimed the monster he saw had three teeth, eyes the color of a ‘a pealed [sic] onion,’ a white star on its forehead and ‘a belt of red around the neck.’“

Over the next 100 years, a number of sightings were reported, and even to this day there are still reports of people spotting Champ swimming around in Lake Champlain. And then, as the world entered the 21st century, even more sightings surfaced, drawing attention from places as far away as Japan. To this day, many say that Champ still swims in the lake. Essentially, Champ is America’s Lock Ness!

Connecticut - The Melon Heads

The legend of the melon heads comes from Michigan, Ohio, and the Connecticut. Generally, they are described as small beings with unnaturally large heads, similar to some depictions of aliens. The legend itself varies in each of these states, but since we’re talking about the northeast, I’ll just talk about Connecticut’s version of the melon heads.

One of Connecticut’s stories behind the melon heads is that in the 1960s, an asylum for the criminally insane burned to the ground, everyone perishing in the fire save for a dozen or so unaccounted for inmates. It is said that those inmates survived and ran off into the woods, keeping themselves alive by cannibalizing each other and eventually inbreeding, resulting in hydrocephalus, a condition in which fluid fills part of the brain.

The second version of the history of Connecticut’s melon heads is that, back in the colonial days, a family was banished into the woods because they were allegedly performing witchcraft. Like the previous story, hydrocephalus as a result of inbreeding is claimed to be the reason behind their appearance, as it is said that the banished family began breeding among themselves to survive.

In Connecticut, the melon heads live in wooded areas at the end of dirt roads, and in certain towns, the said dirt road is called Dracula Drive. If you enter their territory in the woods, they will immediately attack, biting and even eating their victims.

Massachusetts - The Dover Demon

The Dover Demon is a strange creature that’s only been see twice, both times in the same night.

A little past 10pm on a spring day in the 1970s, three teenage boys were in a car heading down the road. The driver, Bill Bartlett, was driving his two friends home when he spotted something strange out of the corner of his eye. Along a stone wall on the side of the road, a small creature was slowly crawling by. For a split second in the headlights of his passing car, Bartlett described seeing a creature with an unusually large head and a disturbingly lanky, thin body. It’s skin was peach-colored and appeared to have a rough texture, its hands seemed to curl perfectly around the rocks beneath it, and it’s eyes were two glowing orange orbs.

Before Bartlett could say anything they had already driven past and the creature was gone. His friends hadn’t seen it. He dropped them both off at their homes and then returned to his own home, visibly shaken as he described the sighting to his father and drew a sketch of it.

In his sketch, he describes the creature, then he also writes, “I, Bill Bartlett, swear on a stack of bibles that I saw this creature,” followed by his signature.

That same night only a couple hours later, another teenage boy in the area by the name of John Baxter left his girlfriend’s house to walk home alone. After walking about a mile, he sees a small figure approaching him on the road. Based on its height, he assumes it’s a younger kid he knows who lives on the street and calls out. There was no response, and both parties continued towards each other when suddenly the shorter being stopped, causing Baxter to stop as well.

He called out again, and this time the being made a run for it. It runs off into the woods and down a slope, and Baxter follows right behind it. When he gets to the bottom of the slope, he manages to get a good look at the being. It’s small and lanky, with extremely thin, “monkey-like” limbs, a head shaped like a figure eight, and feet that curled perfectly around the rocks it stands on.

Baxter immediately backed up the slope, knowing that he had spotted something that wasn’t human. Afraid of what it might do, he made his way back to the road, hurrying down the street towards home until a couple driving by picked him up.

Popular cryptozoologist Loren Coleman later investigated the incident, and deemed the creature, dubbed the Dover Demon, to be an “unknown phenomenon.” It has not been seen since.

images: x, x, x, x, x, x, x

#hetaliafandomhub #aph ambassador #aph america #cryptids #cryptozoology #horror #body horror #originally posting this as an aph ambassador post but obviously anyone can reblog it #this is just a general post #feel free to add on or correct me on anything

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ataleoftwosuites-blog · 7 years

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Travel Weekend: Anne and Rachel

Day 1:Pompeii /Pre Day 1 Travel

We took a train late in the night to Naples. We got in sometime around 11PM. Checked in to our AirBnB and promptly crashed. Next morning took a train to Pompeii and spent the day there. First saw a very pretty church in modern Pompeii before heading to the ruins.

Highlights:

ridiculously cool ruins. Its incredible to think people lived and walked the streets we were roaming.

Discovering that humanity has always written salacious graffiti. A very naughty Pompeii resident wrote a note in greek that has been preserved.

Walking through the halls of a secret society for Dionysus and pleasure rituals.

Walking the oldest amphitheater of the Roman world and picturing the brawl that forced it to close for 10 years

Drinkable water fountains throughout the city. A lovely surprise on a hot hot day.

Eating delicious pizza rolls for 1 euro that we had grabbed at a bakery outside the ruins.

Lowlights

hot. So so so hot. Thought we would melt.

By the end, rather exhausted. An exhaustion that sank into our bones and lasted the whole weekend.

Ambivalent

had an extra three hours to visit a museum we were too tired to go to. On plus side, sat by a fountain in modern Pompeii and planned wild adventures for next year.

After returning to Naples, we showered (so so wonderful to shower) and then skyped you, lovely Andie! Anne misses you and Rachel was so happy to hear your voice again. Then slept like the dead.

Day 2: Naples

Campagnia (the region of Naples and Amalfi Coast) is Rachel's people. We went to Christmas Street where they make nativity scenes all year round. Wandered the street looking st all the shops and saw strange red curly peppers everywhere. And I mean everywhere. So while Anne had her first Italian cappuccino, we googled what these strange things were. They are called coronetti (spelling?) and they are a good luck talisman. Anne had the brilliant idea to search for xmas earrings for Rachel and so Rachel ended up buying two coronetti to make into earrings. All in all, it was lovely to experience xmas in July.

Wandered around and ended up ducking in a store, just to look. Came out with three lovely dresses between us. All 90% off, because it was a super outlet. We were very pleased. Then we hopped on a bus to Atrani.

Arrived in Atrani and checked into our AirBnB. The guy running it is studying tourism and recommended some places for us to go. So at 5:00PM we set out for a hike, and entirely reasonable decision. Took a path up and saw lots of abandoned paper factory buildings and look lots and lots of photos. It was rather eerie. Then we couldnt find where the trail continued. We were sure it had to. So we found a nice sheer cliff face and decided this must be the trail. It was not the trail. After climbing up and up and up and still finding no trail, we made the mature decision to turn around. At which point we realized we had basically just crawled up a cliff. Should have realized it earlier when we needed both our hands and feet to climb, so we had to carry our water bottles in our mouths. We preceded to slide down the cliff back to where the trail actually was, very elegantly of course. Don't let the head to toe layer of dirt fool you, it was a smoothly executed decent. Wandered around a bit more trying to find a trail, and then decided to just head back.

On our way back we found a very aesthetic wall and decided to take ridiculous photos. Something about the contrast of the dirty, sweaty girls and the lovely vine covered wall was amusing. Took fake modeling photos and then continued down. Stopped just in time, because not thirty seconds later a young man turned the corner and asked if this was the way to the hike. We were already embarrassed because it is a very easy hike, and we are covered in dirt. But imagine if he had come as we were taking photos. Quite embarrassing.

Went back to the AirBnB to shower and then put our new pretty dresses and headed to dinner. Ate at this cute local family owned restaurant. The owner was super kind and showed us how to eat the shrimp in our pasta. It is not our fault we have never seen shrimp that large. Also at the end of our meal she came over with a plate of five tiny cookies and told us they were on the house! It was all very cute and welcoming and kind. While were eating we had been hearing live music from outside, so we went to investigate. We found people, mostly children, dancing in the little piazza to the live music. We joined of course, and it was most fun. Then we grabbed gelato and ate it out by the water. We ended up wading in the ocean and Anne attempted to skip rocks. Unfortunately they were all rather too round and rather to large, especially the random pieces of giant tiles she would launch at the ocean. Then we laid on beach chairs til midnight, although it felt much later, and then went back to go to bed.

Day 3: Atrani or Close Encounters of the Animal Kind

Got up early to early to walk the Path of the Gods. Took a bus to Bomerano where we ate breakfast before setting out. Understood very quickly why it was called the Path of the Gods. We were at or above cloud height for most of the hike. Stunning panoramic views the entire way. It was breathtaking. Literally. The height of the sheer cliff dropoff was enough to take your break away. On said trail we encountered all the animals. We saw goats at the beginning. Then we ran into a loose horse who was wandering and munching. He let us pet him a little which was nice of him. Then we came across a small dog just out and about by himself. Finally we saw not one, not two, but seven cats. It was a bit like being in a menagerie.

Finished the hike, and made some poor choices. Namely choosing to walk down 1,200 stairs to town rather than taking the bus. By the midway point our calves were burning and knees hurt. By the end we could feel nothing in our legs but shooting pain. Then we had to walk to the ferry. Thank god for the chocolate cookies we had the foresight to buy that morning. Without them, we would still be on those stairs. Once on the ferry, we both kept falling asleep. We were, how do you say, dead girls walking. Got back to the AirBnB, showered, ate, and napped for two hours. Both of us completely out. We had intended to go to a lagoon to swim, but that was not possible. We could barely walk. Between Pompeii and those stairs, our bodies had reached their limit. Hung out at the AirBnB until dinner. Fixed up both of our class schedules and figured out trains and busses to get back to Naples for Sunday.

Dinner was at a lovely restaurant right off the beach. They were also very kind. Brought us free limoncello drinks at the beginning with the bread. It seems to be something the restaurant just does. The drinks were very good. And very orange, curiously enough. Not really sure what was in them. Anne nearly dies of happiness with her seafood pasta, and Rachel decided to get the lemon pasta to go with her lemon colored dress. It really is wonderful being in an area known for their lemons.

After dinner, we stood along the pier and basked in the glow of the full moon, before searching out gelato. Ate the gelato up on the hill with a wonderful view of the ocean.

Then bed, because we were still very very tired.

#Anne and Rachel take Italy

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tlatollotl · 7 years

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In the early twentieth century, the members of the Osage Nation became the richest people per capita in the world, after oil was discovered under their reservation, in Oklahoma. Then they began to be mysteriously murdered off. In 1923, after the death toll reached more than two dozen, the case was taken up by the Bureau of Investigation, then an obscure branch of the Justice Department, which was later renamed the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The case was among the F.B.I.’s first major homicide investigations. After J. Edgar Hoover was appointed the bureau’s director, in 1924, he sent a team of undercover operatives, including a Native American agent, to the Osage reservation.

David Grann, a staff writer at the magazine, has spent nearly half a decade researching this submerged and sinister history. In his new book, “Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the F.B.I.,” which is being published by Doubleday, in April, he shows that the breadth of the killings was far greater than the Bureau ever exposed. This exclusive excerpt, the book’s first chapter, introduces the Osage woman and her family who became prime targets of the conspiracy.

In April, millions of tiny flowers spread over the blackjack hills and vast prairies in the Osage territory of Oklahoma. There are Johnny-jump-ups and spring beauties and little bluets. The Osage writer John Joseph Mathews observed that the galaxy of petals makes it look as if the “gods had left confetti.” In May, when coyotes howl beneath an unnervingly large moon, taller plants, such as spiderworts and black-eyed Susans, begin to creep over the tinier blooms, stealing their light and water. The necks of the smaller flowers break and their petals flutter away, and before long they are buried underground. This is why the Osage Indians refer to May as the time of the flower-killing moon.

On May 24, 1921, Mollie Burkhart, a resident of the Osage settlement town of Gray Horse, Oklahoma, began to fear that something had happened to one of her three sisters, Anna Brown. Thirty-four, and less than a year older than Mollie, Anna had disappeared three days earlier. She had often gone on “sprees,” as her family disparagingly called them: dancing and drinking with friends until dawn. But this time one night had passed, and then another, and Anna had not shown up on Mollie’s front stoop as she usually did, with her long black hair slightly frayed and her dark eyes shining like glass. When Anna came inside, she liked to slip off her shoes, and Mollie missed the comforting sound of her moving, unhurried, through the house. Instead, there was a silence as still as the plains.

Mollie had already lost her sister Minnie nearly three years earlier. Her death had come with shocking speed, and though doctors had attributed it to a “peculiar wasting illness,” Mollie harbored doubts: Minnie had been only twenty-seven and had always been in perfect health.

Like their parents, Mollie and her sisters had their names inscribed on the Osage Roll, which meant that they were among the registered members of the tribe. It also meant that they possessed a fortune. In the early eighteen-seventies, the Osage had been driven from their lands in Kansas onto a rocky, presumably worthless reservation in northeastern Oklahoma, only to discover, decades later, that this land was sitting above some of the largest oil deposits in the United States. To obtain that oil, prospectors had to pay the Osage in the form of leases and royalties. In the early twentieth century, each person on the tribal roll began receiving a quarterly check. The amount was initially for only a few dollars, but over time, as more oil was tapped, the dividends grew into the hundreds, then the thousands of dollars. And virtually every year the payments increased, like the prairie creeks that joined to form the wide, muddy Cimarron, until the tribe members had collectively accumulated millions and millions of dollars. (In 1923 alone, the tribe took in more than thirty million dollars, the equivalent today of more than four hundred million dollars.) The Osage were considered the wealthiest people per capita in the world. “Lo and behold!” the New York weekly Outlook exclaimed. “The Indian, instead of starving to death . . . enjoys a steady income that turns bankers green with envy.”

The public had become transfixed by the tribe’s prosperity, which belied the images of American Indians that could be traced back to the brutal first contact with whites—the original sin from which the country was born. Reporters tantalized their readers with stories about the “plutocratic Osage” and the “red millionaires,” with their brick-and-terra-cotta mansions and chandeliers, and with their diamond rings, fur coats, and chauffeured cars. One writer marvelled at Osage girls who attended the best boarding schools and wore sumptuous French clothing, as if “une très jolie demoiselle of the Paris boulevards had inadvertently strayed into this little reservation town.”

At the same time, reporters seized upon any signs of the traditional Osage way of life, which seemed to stir in the public’s mind visions of “wild” Indians. One article noted a “circle of expensive automobiles surrounding an open campfire, where the bronzed and brightly blanketed owners are cooking meat in the primitive style.” Another documented a party of Osage arriving at a ceremony for their dances in a private airplane—a scene that “outrivals the ability of the fictionist to portray.” Summing up the public’s attitude toward the Osage, the Washington Star said, “That lament, ‘Lo the poor Indian,’ might appropriately be revised to, ‘Ho, the rich red-skin.’ ”

Gray Horse was one of the reservation’s older settlements. These outposts—including Fairfax, a larger, neighboring town of nearly fifteen hundred people, and Pawhuska, the Osage capital, with a population of more than six thousand—seemed like fevered visions. The streets clamored with cowboys, fortune seekers, bootleggers, soothsayers, medicine men, outlaws, U.S. marshals, New York financiers, and oil magnates. Automobiles sped along paved horse trails, the smell of fuel overwhelming the scent of the prairies. Juries of crows peered down from telephone wires. There were restaurants, advertised as cafés, as well as opera houses and polo grounds.

Although Mollie didn’t spend as lavishly as some of her neighbors did, she had built a beautiful, rambling wooden house in Gray Horse near her family’s old lodge of lashed poles, woven mats, and bark. She owned several cars and had a staff of servants—the Indians’ pot-lickers, as many settlers derided these migrant workers. The servants were often black or Mexican, and in the early nineteen-twenties a visitor to the reservation expressed contempt at the sight of “even whites” performing “all the menial tasks about the house to which no Osage will stoop.”

Mollie was one of the last people to see Anna before she vanished. That day, May 21st, Mollie had risen close to dawn, a habit ingrained from when her father used to pray every morning to the sun. She was accustomed to the chorus of meadowlarks and sandpipers and prairie chickens, now overlaid with the pock-pocking of drills pounding the earth. Unlike many of her friends, who shunned Osage clothing, Mollie wrapped an Indian blanket around her shoulders. She also didn’t style her hair in a flapper bob but, instead, let her long, black hair flow over her back, revealing her striking face, with its high cheekbones and big brown eyes.

Mollie Burkhart.

Her husband, Ernest Burkhart, rose with her. A twenty-eight-year-old white man, he had the stock handsomeness of an extra in a Western picture show: short brown hair, slate-blue eyes, square chin. Only his nose disturbed the portrait; it looked as if it had taken a barroom punch or two. Growing up in Texas, the son of a poor cotton farmer, he’d been enchanted by tales of the Osage Hills—that vestige of the American frontier where cowboys and Indians were said to still roam. In 1912, at the age of nineteen, he’d packed a bag, like Huck Finn lighting out for the Territory, and went to live with his uncle, a domineering cattleman named William K. Hale, in Fairfax. “He was not the kind of a man to ask you to do something—he told you,” Ernest once said of Hale, who became his surrogate father. Though Ernest mostly ran errands for Hale, he sometimes worked as a livery driver, which is how he met Mollie, chauffeuring her around town.

Ernest had a tendency to drink moonshine and play Indian stud poker with men of ill repute, but beneath his roughness there seemed to be tenderness and a trace of insecurity, and Mollie fell in love with him. Born a speaker of Osage, Mollie had learned some English in school; nevertheless, Ernest studied her native language until he could talk with her in it. She suffered from diabetes, and he cared for her when her joints ached and her stomach burned with hunger. After he heard that another man had affections for her, he muttered that he couldn’t live without her.

Ernest Burkhart.

It wasn’t easy for them to marry. Ernest’s roughneck friends ridiculed him for being a “squaw man.” And though Mollie’s three sisters had wed white men, she felt a responsibility to have an arranged Osage marriage, the way her parents had. Still, Mollie, whose family practiced a mixture of Osage and Catholic beliefs, couldn’t understand why God would let her find love, only to then take it away from her. So, in 1917, she and Ernest exchanged rings, vowing to love each other till eternity.

By 1921, they had a daughter, Elizabeth, who was two years old, and a son, James, who was eight months old and nicknamed Cowboy. Mollie also tended to her aging mother, Lizzie, who had moved in to the house after Mollie’s father passed away. Because of Mollie’s diabetes, Lizzie once feared that she would die young, and beseeched her other children to take care of her. In truth, Mollie was the one who looked after all of them.

May 21st was supposed to be a delightful day for Mollie. She liked to entertain guests and was hosting a small luncheon. After getting dressed, she fed the children. Cowboy often had terrible earaches, and she’d blow in his ears until he stopped crying. Mollie kept her home in meticulous order, and she issued instructions to her servants as the house stirred, everyone bustling about—except Lizzie, who’d fallen ill and stayed in bed. Mollie asked Ernest to ring Anna and see if she’d come over to help tend to Lizzie for a change. Anna, as the oldest child in the family, held a special status in their mother’s eyes, and even though Mollie took care of Lizzie, Anna, in spite of her tempestuousness, was the one her mother spoiled.

When Ernest told Anna that her mama needed her, she promised to take a taxi straight there, and she arrived shortly afterward, dressed in bright red shoes, a skirt, and a matching Indian blanket; in her hand was an alligator purse. Before entering, she’d hastily combed her windblown hair and powdered her face. Mollie noticed, however, that her gait was unsteady, her words slurred. Anna was drunk.

Mollie (right) with her sisters Anna (center) and Minnie.

Mollie couldn’t hide her displeasure. Some of the guests had already arrived. Among them were two of Ernest’s brothers, Bryan and Horace Burkhart, who, lured by black gold, had moved to Osage County, often assisting Hale on his ranch. One of Ernest’s aunts, who spewed racist notions about Indians, was also visiting, and the last thing Mollie needed was for Anna to stir up the old goat.

Anna slipped off her shoes and began to make a scene. She took a flask from her bag and opened it, releasing the pungent smell of bootleg whiskey. Insisting that she needed to drain the flask before the authorities caught her—it was a year into nationwide Prohibition—she offered the guests a swig of what she called the best white mule.

Mollie knew that Anna had been very troubled of late. She’d recently divorced her husband, a settler named Oda Brown, who owned a livery business. Since then, she’d spent more and more time in the reservation’s tumultuous boomtowns, which had sprung up to house and entertain oil workers—towns like Whizbang, where, it was said, people whizzed all day and banged all night. “All the forces of dissipation and evil are here found,” a U.S. government official reported. “Gambling, drinking, adultery, lying, thieving, murdering.” Anna had become entranced by the places at the dark ends of the streets: the establishments that seemed proper on the exterior but contained hidden rooms filled with glittering bottles of moonshine. One of Anna’s servants later told the authorities that Anna was someone who drank a lot of whiskey and had “very loose morals with white men.”

At Mollie’s house, Anna began to flirt with Ernest’s younger brother, Bryan, whom she’d sometimes dated. He was more brooding than Ernest and had inscrutable yellow-flecked eyes and thinning hair that he wore slicked back. A lawman who knew him described him as a little roustabout. When Bryan asked one of the servants at the luncheon if she’d go to a dance with him that night, Anna said that if he fooled around with another woman, she’d kill him.

Meanwhile, Ernest’s aunt was muttering, loud enough for all to hear, about how mortified she was that her nephew had married a redskin. It was easy for Mollie to subtly strike back because one of the servants attending to the aunt was white—a blunt reminder of the town’s social order.

Anna continued raising Cain. She fought with the guests, fought with her mother, fought with Mollie. “She was drinking and quarrelling,” a servant later told authorities. “I couldn’t understand her language, but they were quarrelling.” The servant added, “They had an awful time with Anna, and I was afraid.”

That evening, Mollie planned to look after her mother, while Ernest took the guests into Fairfax, five miles to the northwest, to meet Hale and see “Bringing Up Father,” a touring musical about a poor Irish immigrant who wins a million-dollar sweepstakes and struggles to assimilate into high society. Bryan, who’d put on a cowboy hat, his catlike eyes peering out from under the brim, offered to drop Anna off at her house.

Before they left, Mollie washed Anna’s clothes, gave her some food to eat, and made sure that she’d sobered up enough that Mollie could glimpse her sister as her usual self, bright and charming. They lingered together, sharing a moment of calm and reconciliation. Then Anna said goodbye, a gold filling flashing through her smile.

With each passing night, Mollie grew more anxious. Bryan insisted that he’d taken Anna straight home and dropped her off before heading to the show. After the third night, Mollie, in her quiet but forceful way, pressed everyone into action. She dispatched Ernest to check on Anna’s house. Ernest jiggled the knob to her front door—it was locked. From the window, the rooms inside appeared dark and deserted.

Ernest stood there alone in the heat. A few days earlier, a cool rain shower had dusted the earth, but afterward the sun’s rays beat down mercilessly through the blackjack trees. This time of year, heat blurred the prairies and made the tall grass creak underfoot. In the distance, through the shimmering light, one could see the skeletal frames of derricks.

Anna’s head servant, who lived next door, came out, and Ernest asked her, “Do you know where Anna is?”

Before the shower, the servant said, she’d stopped by Anna’s house to close any open windows. “I thought the rain would blow in,” she explained. But the door was locked, and there was no sign of Anna. She was gone.

News of her absence coursed through the boomtowns, travelling from porch to porch, from store to store. Fuelling the unease were reports that another Osage, Charles Whitehorn, had vanished a week before Anna had. Genial and witty, the thirty-year-old Whitehorn was married to a woman who was part white, part Cheyenne. A local newspaper noted that he was “popular among both the whites and the members of his own tribe.” On May 14th, he’d left his home, in the southwestern part of the reservation, for Pawhuska. He never returned.

Still, there was reason for Mollie not to panic. It was conceivable that Anna had slipped out after Bryan had dropped her off and headed to Oklahoma City or across the border to incandescent Kansas City. Perhaps she was dancing in one of those jazz clubs she liked to visit, oblivious of the chaos she’d left trailing in her wake. And even if Anna had run into trouble, she knew how to protect herself: she often carried a small pistol in her alligator purse. She’ll be back home soon, Ernest reassured Mollie.

A week after Anna disappeared, an oil worker was on a hill a mile north of downtown Pawhuska when he noticed something poking out of the brush near the base of a derrick. The worker came closer. It was a rotting corpse; between the eyes were two bullet holes. The victim had been shot, execution-style.

It was hot and wet and loud on the hillside. Drills shook the earth as they bore through the limestone sediment; derricks swung their large clawing arms back and forth. Other people gathered around the body, which was so badly decomposed that it was impossible to identify. One of the pockets held a letter. Someone pulled it out, straightening the paper, and read it. The letter was addressed to Whitehorn, and that’s how they first knew it was him.

Around the same time, a man was squirrel hunting by Three Mile Creek, near Fairfax, with his teen-age son and a friend. While the two men were getting a drink of water from a creek, the boy spotted a squirrel and pulled the trigger. There was a burst of heat and light, and the boy watched as the squirrel was hit and began to tumble lifelessly over the edge of a ravine. He chased after it, making his way down a steep wooded slope and into a gulch where the air was thicker and where he could hear the murmuring of the creek. He found the squirrel and picked it up. Then he screamed, “Oh, Papa!” By the time his father reached him, the boy had crawled onto a rock. He gestured toward the mossy edge of the creek and said, “A dead person.”

There was the bloated and decomposing body of what appeared to be an American Indian woman: she was on her back, with her hair twisted in the mud and her vacant eyes facing the sky. Worms were eating at the corpse.

The men and the boy hurried out of the ravine and raced on their horse-drawn wagon through the prairie, dust swirling around them. When they reached Fairfax’s main street, they couldn’t find any lawmen, so they stopped at the Big Hill Trading Company, a large general store that had an undertaking business as well. They told the proprietor, Scott Mathis, what had happened, and he alerted his undertaker, who went with several men to the creek. There they rolled the body onto a wagon seat and, with a rope, dragged it to the top of the ravine, then laid it inside a wooden box, in the shade of a blackjack tree. When the undertaker covered the bloated corpse with salt and ice, it began to shrink as if the last bit of life were leaking out. The undertaker tried to determine if the woman was Anna Brown, whom he’d known. “The body was decomposed and swollen almost to the point of bursting and very malodorous,” he later recalled, adding, “It was as black as a nigger.” He and the other men couldn’t make an identification. But Mathis, who managed Anna’s financial affairs, contacted Mollie, and she led a grim procession toward the creek that included Ernest, Bryan, Mollie’s sister Rita, and Rita’s husband, Bill Smith. Many who knew Anna followed them, along with the morbidly curious. Kelsie Morrison, one of the county’s most notorious bootleggers and dope peddlers, came with his Osage wife.

Mollie and Rita arrived and stepped close to the body. The stench was overwhelming. Vultures circled obscenely in the sky. It was hard for Mollie and Rita to discern if the face was Anna’s—there was virtually nothing left of it—but they recognized her Indian blanket and the clothes that Mollie had washed for her. Then Rita’s husband, Bill, took a stick and pried open her mouth, and they could see Anna’s gold fillings. “That is sure enough Anna,” Bill said.

Rita began to weep, and her husband led her away. Eventually, Mollie mouthed the word “yes”—it was Anna. Mollie was the one in the family who always maintained her composure, and she now retreated from the creek with Ernest, leaving behind the first hint of the darkness that threatened to destroy not only her family but her tribe.

#oklahoma #native american #osage #gray horse #history

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unofferable-fic · 5 years

Text

The Flower & The Serpent (Arthur Morgan x OFC)

Chapter 2 - Enter, Pursued By Pháistí

Originally found here

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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC

Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 6,370

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Playlist: “Wisconsin” — Bon Iver, “Wandering” — Gustavo Santaolalla, “It Will Come Back” — Hozier

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A/N: Also available on AO3. Chapter two comin’ at y’all.

This was not the expected outcome that Maebh had prepared herself for when planning the robbery. To her, there were only two outcomes really — get away with the money or die trying. The secret third option to join a stranger’s gang was a surprise, but perhaps a welcome one. How she found herself and her brother standing in a field with four other outlaws was beyond her…

“You want two kids to join your gang?” she asked Dutch van der Linde with her brow raised.

The well-dressed man let out a chuckle. “Why, Arthur here joined when he was a teenager, and John joined when he was only twelve years old. Regardless of your age, you both know how to handle yourselves, and you can only learn and improve as you get older. These boys are a testament to that fact.”

Maebh gave said men a once over. Arthur, clearly the older of the pair, definitely gave the impression of a brooding tough guy. He didn’t seem like someone with whom you’d want to get into a bar fight. His large hands presumably packed a punch, and judging by the scars on his chin and nose and the glint in his eye, he had no problem putting himself in the thick of it if needs be. That being said, she couldn’t get a really good look at him with that hat on his head. And yet, there was something oddly tranquil and thoughtful about him, much like the calm before a storm.

John, by his appearance, general mannerisms, and inability to enter a stressful situation without shouting or cursing, was clearly younger. She pegged that he was closer in age to her and William than Arthur, but he was no less moody. Their original interaction was enough to know that he was a hotheaded youngster with something to prove to his gang members. When it came to his physical appearance, his youthful face was somewhat hidden behind greasy black locks of hair but he seemed to wear none of the battle wounds that Arthur did with his years of experience.

“My dear,” Dutch continued on. “This offer is not only beneficial for us, but by the sounds of things, you and your brother don’t have many places to go or many options to choose from. Now, what we are offerin’ is not only a home and a team to look out for you, but a chance to live free from the influence of civilisation. An opportunity to improve your body and mind, and help those less fortunate while you’re at it. All you gotta do is earn your keep — do chores, help out at camp, and partake in the odd robbery or con.”

There was a brief silence that hung on the air, each cowboy awaiting some sort of response. She could feel William’s eyes on her, and she wanted a chance to hear what he thought before making any promises.

“If it’s alright with you,” she began, looking at the leader. “I think we want to chat about it first before makin’ any decisions.”

He nodded, though not unkindly. He slowly dismounted from his horse and signalled for his gang members to follow suit. “O’course! Take a moment if you need it, and I’ll chat with my friends while you do.”

She thanked him before turning to her brother, who gave her a nod off to the side and muttered. “Tar anseo.”

She followed him happily, sticking close as he strode away from the gang, leaving the two groups a respectful distance apart. Thinking it would be wise to do so, the pair of them spoke in their native tongue while standing closely together.

“Cad a cheapann tú foai seo?” she asked without hesitation. What’re you thinkin’?

He shrugged, responding in Irish. “I think we’re in a similar situation to the stagecoach from earlier. Either we go it alone at a big disadvantage or we try to team up with them lot, I guess.”

“They are offerin’ hot food and beds,” she added. “And I’d kill for somethin’ like that.”

“Not to mention safety.” He paused uncertainly and threw the men a glance. “After what we did, this might be a good idea. We’re still wanted ’round here so I’m thinkin’ safety in numbers might be our best bet.”

“You’re right about that anyway. But what about them; how do you feel ’bout them?”

“I think they’re grand for the most part. The young fella seems a bit thick but he could be worse. Your man Dutch seems like the good sort — he had an opportunity to rob us and didn’t. He could’ve left us on the roadside but he didn’t. He’s got some… interestin’ ideologies, but I can’t say I don’t agree with them. The government’s done us no favours.” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer, his eyes looking a little worrisome in the dimming light. “They’re gonna catch us eventually if it’s just me and you, Maebh. This might be our chance to get away from it all.”

“I think you’re right,” she agreed. “I suppose as Dutch said, it’s better if outlaws stick together. Plus, if we aren’t feelin’ them, we can always leave.”

“Good point.” William let out a sigh, clapped his hands together, and returned to speaking in English. “Right, sure fuck it. We’d like to take you up on that offer, Mr Van der Linde.”

Dutch let out a laugh and gave Hosea a look. “Now what I tell ya? These are some smart kids we have found, gentlemen. They will make fine additions! It is good to have you onboard.”

“Thanks for havin’ us, Mister,” Maebh replied gratefully. “Now, where to exactly?”

“Back to your new camp, o’course. John, Arthur, would you be so kind as to offer these two a spot on your horses.” As John let out a grumble, Dutch gave him a look. “Hey now, son, make friends. They’re certainly closer in age to you than we are.”

“How old are you two, actually?” Arthur asked as he once more offered Maebh a hand on to the back of his horse.

“I’m sixteen,” she replied, sat herself behind him, and hung on to his broad shoulders. She threw a nod in her brother’s direction as John hoisted him up. “And he’s fifteen.”

“You really do pick ’em up young, Dutch,” Hosea chuckled as the four of them set off in a canter. “But you’re right — they can certainly handle themselves.”

“That they can, and I’m sure they too wish to live free in this here fine land, away from all that civilisation. Young or old, their ideals are in the right place.”

“How old were you when you joined?” Maebh asked Arthur as the others settled into some conversation about where the camp was located.

He hesitated, probably realising she was addressing him, and cleared his throat. “Fifteen or fourteen, there abouts anyways…”

“So basically our age, then.”

“I guess so.”

The group descended into casual conversation as they rode to the Van der Linde gang campsite. Along the journey, the sun had set on the horizon and plunged the land into darkness save for the light of the full moon. Maebh watched intently as the horses were steered on to a small dirt path and through a group of dense trees. As they breached the other side, she first set eyes on the camp. Their new home.

It looked quite small, but she didn’t mind that. If anything, she preferred it to something larger or overcrowded. The camp was illuminated in the darkness by some lamps and a campfire where a few people sat with drinks in their hands. A number of tents stood grouped together, some larger and more ostentatious that others, in the centre of which stood a larger wagon that contained a number of provisions and food. Under one of its canopies she spotted a large man chopping away at cuts of meat. A few other wagons were set up not far away — one joined to a bed and canopy seemed to contain ammunition, while another standing on its own housed a few medical supplies. Off to the side in a patch of grass, horses stood grazing in the warm night air. At the sight of the group’s return, the gang members stood up from the fire and came to greet them. Maebh spotted two women and another older man, excluding the one who remained by the food wagon.

“Hey! Welcome back, fellers!” the older man announced, waving a bottle of beer in his hand as he jaunted over to them. “Did you get the money?”

“More importantly,” one of the women began, throwing the man a frown. “Is everyone alright?”

“To answer your question, my dear, Bessie,” Hosea began as he dismounted his horse. “Everyone is fine. And to answer your question, Uncle, no we did not.”

The trio looked stumped. “You didn’t?”

“No.” Hosea pointed to William and Maebh. “They did.”

For the first time that night, the other members of the Van der Linde gang laid eyes on the siblings, having not even noticed their presence. Maebh chose to give them a simple nod without speaking a word. She got off the horse as Arthur did and stood by her younger brother’s side. Arthur and John lead the four horses to the rest of their animals before rejoining the group.

Trying to show William some reassurance, she gently bumped her shoulder against his as Dutch made the grand introduction. “My friends, I’m pleased to introduce you to the newest and currently the youngest members of the Van der Linde gang. Meet Maebh and William Hennigan, Ireland’s finest thieves.”

“You two robbed the stagecoach?” the other unnamed woman asked, her lips parted with curiosity.

“You four were beaten to the take by two kids?” the older man — Uncle — asked before bursting out into a fit of semi-drunken laughter. “You gotta be kiddin’ me! Fearsome outlaws from the West, beaten to the gold by kids from the East!”

“Yes, Uncle,” Dutch agreed. “We were beaten to it by some ‘kids’, but these kids managed to rob a guarded stagecoach without any assistance, so I wouldn’t go makin’ assumptions about their abilities.”

“Oh, trust me, I ain’t. I just get a good ol’ chuckle knowin’ what you stumbled across when you expected a box of money. I wish I could see the look on your faces.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. Now, kids, introductions for you two. These two fine ladies are Susan Grimshaw and Bessie Matthews, and as you heard this… gentleman is Uncle.”

“Is he your uncle?” William asked, eying these new people up and down.

“Ah, no. He ain’t no one’s uncle here, but we call him that regardless.”

“How many feral children do you plan on bringin’ home, Mr Van der Linde?” the woman Dutch introduced as Susan Grimshaw asked, her hands propped on her hips. While the others seems amused with their arrival, she appeared more skeptical, much like Maebh and William were themselves.

“Only the ones that can handle themselves,” Dutch replied deviously before leaning down and kissing her cheek. “And I promise you, these two can.”

“But can they cook? Clean? Help run things ’round here? They look like can barely keep themselves clean.”

“They’ve been livin’ rough lately, as far as I know.”

“We’ve no problem with chores, miss,” Maebh replied surely. “Cookin’ and cleanin’ aren’t a problem.”

“Good. Well the first thing you can do is clean yourselves up. I’ll fetch you some soap and clean towels, and then you can head on down stream a bit.”

As Miss Grimshaw left to get supplies, Dutch placed a hand on both of their shoulders. “While you two wash up, I’ll have a tent and fresh bedding set up for you. Mr Pearson should have some leftovers from dinner as well.”

Maebh and her brother expressed genuine thanks to the lot of them as Miss Grimshaw returned with their bathing supplies. She asked as to whether they had any clean clothes, but Maebh assured her that they had some spare ones in their bags. The gang left them to it, so the pair walked down the river until they were mostly out of sight. They took turns washing the grime and sweat of the day off their bodies, one in the river while the other stood on the bank and kept watch. After all, they still didn’t entirely trust these new people they just met today.

“What d’you think we’ll have to do ’bout the money?” William asked from his spot on the bank, his back to her while he fiddled with his hunting knife.

Maebh threw a glance at him as she scrubbed her hair. “From the stage?”

“Yeah. D’ya think we should give them some of it? We’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for them lads.”

“I mean you’re not wrong. We should probably give them some of it. Half, maybe? And then you and me split the other half?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he agreed. “Are you done yet? I’m starvin’ after all that carry on.”

“Yeah, just gis a sec.”

Once she finished up, William threw her a towel and waited for her to dry herself and get changed into fresh clothes. They washed the dirty ones on the river’s edge together before returning to camp feeling a bit better after the messy day they’d had. They could feel some eyes on them as they returned, Maebh linking her arm into the crook of his while he carried their belongings. Upon seeing them approach, Miss Grimshaw called them over. She brought them to a decent tent set up not too far from what she assumed was Dutch’s. Inside, two bedrolls lay on the ground, with an oil lamp plopped nearby to give them some light. She was also surprised to see they had been gifted a little wooden chest to share.

“We set you two up here beside Mr Morgan and Mr Marston,” Miss Grimshaw explained. “I figured you might prefer to bunk together for the moment. You also have a chest for any belongin’s you might need to store.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Maebh said with a polite smile. “We appreciate this, honestly.”

“Well you can repay us by earnin’ your keep. Be up at dawn to help with the chores — there’s washin’ to be done, and Mr Pearson could do with some fresh meats brought to his wagon — if either of you are good with horses, they could do with some groomin’ and feedin’.”

William nodded, noting her very serious tone. Her eyes, decorated with dark makeup, were full of fury hidden underneath an authoritative demeanour. Her messy bun only added to her confident appearance as the apparent arbiter. He got the feeling that she kept this place alive and she knew she did. She definitely wasn’t one for messing around, clearly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Any questions, just shout.” Without saying much else, Miss Grimshaw left them to their new lodgings.

“Well,” William began, giving his sister’s arm a squeeze. “Which side do you want, right or left?”

“Oh shut it,” Maebh laughed and gave him a soft shove. “It’s all the same to me.”

“Just makin’ sure,” he said with a grin and stowed their belongings in the chest as she hung their washed clothes above the tent to dry out. William took a seat on one of the bedrolls and gently ran his hand over the material. “I have’ta say, these feel much comfier than our ones.”

“At least that’s one plus to this new arrangement.” She took a seat next to him and sat akimbo. She let her gaze wander over the camp, feeling surprisingly comfortable in this new environment.

“What’re you thinkin’?” William asked, eying her curiously. “I can tell your mind is goin’ a mile a minute.”

“Just thinkin’ that I’m actually alright with all this,” she answered honestly. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m still wary of these people ’cause we don’t know ’em, but they don’t give me any bad vibes. They seem grand.”

“I understand, but always be on your toes, yeah?”

With a nod she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Of course. We’re in this together as always.”

While sitting in their new living space, Maebh glanced over to see a figure approaching them. She recognised it to be Mr Morgan, who carefully carried three bowls of food in his arms. He greeted them with a nod. “Thought you two could do with some food. It ain’t much — Pearson really don’t got the hang of usin’ seasonin’, but it’s better than nothin’.”

“Thanks, Mr Morgan,” she replied and took one of the bowls and spoons he offered. Inside was steaming hot beef stew. “That’s kind of you.”

“Call me Arthur,” he replied. “Ain’t no need for formalities with me. Mind if I join you?”

They signalled for him to take a seat on the ground, which he happily accepted. Considering he had appeared so gruff before, Maebh was somewhat surprised to see him making an effort to give them some company. Perhaps he knew the feeling from his own experiences as a kid and wished to ease their transition a little. Though she knew little of him, he seemed like a useful man to have on your side.

“You likin’ the new set up?” he asked, as he swallowed some stew.

“It’s grand yeah,” she replied as she too munched away. “And we appreciate the new belongin’s and all that.”

“We look out for each other in this gang,” he explained. “So don’t mention it. A word of advice though — do whatever Miss Grimshaw asks of you. You don’t wanna see her mean side.”

“We got that impression,” William added, enjoying his hot meal. “And I don’t fancy her givin’ me a smack. She looks like she packs a punch.”

“Oh, she definitely does, take my word for it.”

Seeing this as a chance to get some more information about their new gang mates, Maebh chose to see what Arthur could offer. “Is she Dutch’s wife?”

He shook his head. “Naw, but they’ve been together a while. He’s in charge of things for sure, but she likes to help organise and keep everyone in check.”

She glanced at the campfire where she spotted Hosea and Bessie sitting with John and Uncle. Only now had she gotten a chance to really study her. She could tell that they were together, just by their mannerisms alone, and had been so for a long time. Her shoulder-length hair was beginning to grey, and her face held the telltale signs of age with slight crinkles in the corners of her eyes. She had to admit, they made a good looking couple. “What about Bessie?”

“She’s Hosea’s wife,” Arthur explained. “They’ve been together a while and she’s a good woman. She wasn’t raised an outlaw like most of us, but she goes where Hosea goes. She helps out ’round camp too, mostly with the cleanin’ and breakin’ up fights. She’s clever, with an equally intelligent husband. Hosea is Dutch’s righthand man. Been runnin’ with him since the mid 70s. That man can talk his way into, or out of, just about anythin’. They’re quite a pair.” Arthur eat another spoonful of somewhat bland stew before continuing on his explanation of the group. “And John is still a kid. He’s only seventeen, but he thinks he knows everythin’. He’s an orphan too, but he’s been runnin’ with us for five years and he’s already the golden boy. Dutch taught him a lot of what he knows, so I guess he’s like a father to him. He’s a good kid though and some shot with a pistol.

“Pearson, the guy over by the food wagon, he’s the camp cook. Used to be a sailor so get ready to hear all about his adventures at sea… Shame they couldn’t teach him about herbs while on deck. And Uncle, well… Uncle is Uncle.”

Maebh blinked at him. “He’s what now?”

“Honestly?” Arthur asked, briefly meeting her eyes. “He barely does shit ’round here bar drinkin’ and laughin’. He’s good for findin’ leads sometimes, I guess. Only reason Dutch ain’t kicked him out yet is ’cause he finds him so entertainin’.”

“What a colourful bunch,” William added as he quickly finished his meal.

“You two’ll fit right in,” Arthur offered. “Trust in Dutch and do what he wants. His word is usually the best one to go by.”

Mr Morgan remained with them for a little while longer before they decided to turn in for the night. He bid them a goodnight and headed back to his own tent. Maebh watched him sit on his bed and write into some sort of book for the rest of the evening before she felt exhaustion overcome her and the need for sleep was too much. She and William fell asleep to the crackling of a fire and the hushed laughter of their new apparent family.

* * *

9th June, 1890, outside Waukesha, Wisconsin

We picked up some new members after the stagecoach robbery. Two kids beat us to the take, and Dutch saw fit to bring them into the fold. Can’t say that I blame him for it, as they certainly seem like they can hold themselves no problem. A brother and sister, two apparent orphans from Ireland… Attached at the hip by the looks of things. Maebh is the eldest and William the youngest, though they seem fairly confident despite their youth. I’m sure John is just glad he’s no longer the youngest around.

It is a little unusual to have new recruits, but I trust Dutch with his decision to take them in. They could certainly be valuable to us all, and I can’t argue with that. Regardless, he hopes that the take will be split in half. One half goes to the gang, while the other goes to the kids to do with what they will. Dutch plans on showing them exactly what we do with a take this big and has asked me to join him for the long ride. Hopefully I can get a better idea of these two along the way, and hopefully it’ll settle whatever uncertainties they surely have about us.

* * *

The following morning, Maebh awoke at dawn. A gentle shake on the shoulder pulled her from sleep, and she opened her eyes to find William sitting up next to her.

“It’s dawn,” he explained with a yawn. “We should get up and movin’ before that Grimshaw woman skins us both.”

“Right,” she grumbled. “Okay, I’m up.”

It took her a couple of minutes to get moving and comfortable in her new surroundings. Once they were dressed, they looked around camp to see a that Miss Grimshaw was also getting up, as well as Hosea and Bessie.

“What jobs were there again?” she asked her brother. “Cleanin’? Feedin’ the horses?”

“And getting fresh food for Pearson too,” William added. “I can tend to the horses and get them fed and watered.”

She nodded and ran her eyes over the nearby Fox River. “Probably a good idea considerin’ how much you like horses. I’ll go with the fishin’ then. Pretty sure I can get some smallmouth or walleye outta there.”

“After that we should have a word with Dutch ’bout the money too.”

“Grand, yeah. I’ll see you in a bit. Shout if you need me.”

While William went off to attend to the gang’s horses, Maebh grabbed her fishing rod and some bait out of the chest and went a short distance downstream. Finding a quiet spot overlooking the river that was still within the camp’s line of vision, she cast her rod into the water and waited. There was a light rain coming down that morning, which thankfully helped with her chances of catching some fish. As time slowly passed, she managed to catch a number of smallmouth bass to give to the camp cook. They put up a fight as always but she had years of experience to help with reeling them in. Once she managed to pull six decently sized bass from the water, she packed up and returned to camp. On her way, she passed by Susan Grimshaw as she grabbed some morning coffee, the older woman eying her curiously — she couldn’t tell whether it was with approval or uncertainty. Pressing onwards, Maebh carried her fresh catches over to Pearson’s wagon.

“Heard you needed some fresh food,” she announced as she reached him.

The man was hunched over a large pot with a thoughtful look on his chubby face. He looked confused for a moment before noticing the fish she was carrying, upon which, a grin formed beneath his thick moustache. “Ah, you must be the other new recruit I haven’t met! I already met your brother over there.” He offered her his hand. “Simon Pearson, camp cook.”

She accepted and shook it vigorously. “Maebh Hennigan, supplier of fish.”

“I can see that! Bring ’em here.”

She set them down on his table as he began to check them over. “Hopefully this is enough.”

“It’s more than enough. These are some decent smallmouth. You must be a fan of fishin’ by the looks of things.”

“It was one of my hobbies growin’ up. Need help skinnin’ and guttin’ ’em?”

He shrugged. “Sure, kid. Why not? Two pair o’hands is better than one.”

As Maebh attended to helping Pearson with prepping the fish, the rest of the gang continued about its business around her. Mr Morgan walked by her and gave her a tip of his hat in greeting. She sent him a wave and watched as he began cutting some firewood. She noticed Uncle dozing in the sun while Miss Grimshaw cleaned some of the camp’s bedclothes. Bessie and Hosea were repairing the side of one of the wagons, hammering wooden planks into position with each others help. William seemed to be in his element with the horses, grooming the mane of Arthur’s mount, Boadicea. She also spotted a dog roaming about the camp, staying close to Pearson’s wagon as they prepared the food. As she gutted her third fish and cooed at the dog, she noticed John and Dutch talking quietly nearby. Though focusing on her work, she carefully watched them every now and then. Dutch handed the younger man a cup of coffee before pushing him in her direction.

“Uh, hey,” Marston announced himself awkwardly as he reached her.

“Mornin’,” she replied and cut off the tail of the bass with a whack. “Marston, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, John actually. You, uh, want some coffee?”

She eyed the steaming cup he offered her. Choosing to humour him, she quickly finished with the fish and washed her hands in a nearby bucket. “Sure, I’ll take that off you. Thanks.”

He handed her the cup and then took a step back. “No problem.” He paused and threw a glance at Dutch who stood nearby smoking a thick cigar. “Sorry if I seemed kinda… rude yesterday. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, just watchin’ my back.”

“It’s no bother,” she assured him and took a sip of her drink. Without missing a beat, she shrugged. “Sorry for callin’ you fuck-ugly.”

He scoffed at her reply, but couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his lips. “Not gonna apologise for threatenin’ to shoot me in my fuck-ugly face?”

“I’m not sure. You were bein’ kinda rude, Mr Marston.”

John shook his head, but seemed to take her teasing lightly. As he began to walk away, he added. “Dutch wants you and William at his tent when you get your chores done. Enjoy the coffee, Miss Hennigan.”

Left to it, Maebh continued on with her work until Pearson said she could finish up. By that point, William had finished up with the horses and had carried sacks of flour to the wagon and refilled its a pails of water. Together, they took a short lunch break and then proceeded towards Dutch’s tent together. He was inside with Susan, reading a novel while she worked on some stitching.

“Mr Van der Linde,” Maebh greeted him. “Miss Grimshaw.”

“Ah,” Dutch cheered, looking up from his book. “Well if it isn’t the new recruits. Good work this mornin’, kids. Looks like you two did some decent work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you don’t me bein’ so nosey, but what did your parents do?”

“They were farmers, so we’re used to gettin’ up at the crack of dawn.”

“I thought it might’a been somethin’ like that. They taught you most everythin’ you know?”

“Pretty much all of it, yeah.”

“Then I would say they did a fine job lookin’ at you two. Now, I wanted to speak to you about that the money from the stagecoach, if you wouldn’t mind. What exactly are your plans with it?”

Maebh looked to her brother who tilted his head and answered. “Actually, we wanted t’have a chat with you before we didn’t anythin’ with it. Considerin’ we probably wouldn’t’ve made it outta there alive without you’s, we wanted to offer you half the take.”

A smile slowly stretched across Dutch’s lips. “My, my. That is a generous offer from you two; one that I was hopin’ you would make.”

William narrowed his eyes. “You were?”

“Why yes, son. Ya see, the gang uses a similar method with our on robberies — one half goes directly into the gang fund, while the other is split between those who did the job. But we don’t just hoard all of the gang funds to ourselves, and I want to show you what we’ll do with half the stagecoach money. Would you both accompany myself and Mr Morgan on a ride?”

“Where to exactly?”

The older man got to his feet and stepped out from his tent. “To a town north-west of here called Black River Falls; well known for its mining and lumber industries. It’ll take the day to get there, so its best we head out before noon. Arthur!” Maebh looked over to the nearby tent where Arthur resided, scribbling in that book again.

Once he heard his name being called, he came to meet them. “We headin’ out?”

“That we are, do me a favour and fetch the kids two of the spare horses.”

“Sure.” Without argument, Arthur did as his boss asked.

“Well,” Dutch placed his hands on his hips and grinned at the two orphans. “I’m assumin’ you two know how to ride?”

* * *

Though she’d had been living in Wisconsin for years, Maebh had never been to Black River Falls. It was some distance from camp, so they packed an overnight bag at Dutch’s suggestion. They rode out and took breaks for food and sleep that night, considering they and the horses needed a good rest. Their time around the campfire was usually spent with Dutch retelling old stories about his gang. Taking Arthur’s presence into account, he told Maebh and William about how he stumbled across the former as an unruly teenager and quickly recruited him. She was relieved that neither of them pressed her about where she came from. It was easier to not have to reject their curiosity. Whenever she and William decided to divulge about their past would only happen when they felt comfortable and ready to trust these strangers from the West. The one thing Dutch didn’t talk about was the reason why they were heading to this small Midwestern town. Apparently, all would be explained once they got there. Arthur was no more helpful than his mentor.

When they awoke the next morning, they continued on their journey and arrived at Black River Falls in the middle of the afternoon. From what she had heard of the town, it had been a thriving and homely settlement, but there was something strangely eery about the place now that she was there. As they trotted through its muddy streets, she noticed that the residents seemed somewhat dreary and bleak rather than appearing like a flourishing community. They safely hitched their horses outside a saloon and slowly headed indoors.

“Are you seein’ this?” William asked her in a hushed tone, slyly nodding to the people she had been intrigued by outside.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Doesn’t seem like a flourishin’ town to me.”

Before they could exchange any further words, Dutch told them to get a table off to the corner of the room. As the older cowboys went to the bar and made orders for the group, Maebh and William sat down and got a good look at the patrons in the saloon. It was surprising to see quite a fair amount of people in a saloon at this time of day.

“Right,” William sighed. “This is a bit weird now.”

“Agreed. Shouldn’t all these people be at work, or somethin’? They can’t all be outlaws or just passin’ through.”

Under the dim lighting of the saloon, Williams features were sharper than usual. “Why would Dutch ask us to come here of all places? It’s bloody depressin’.”

Dutch and Arthur soon returned with food and drinks in hand. Not exactly expecting much, Maebh wasn’t surprised to see a bowl of oatmeal was the only thing on the menu at the moment. She was somewhat amazed that they were allowed on the premises given their age, but the patrons seemed to care very little. She supposed at least they weren’t drinking any beer, so nothing overtly illegal was going down.

“So,” Maebh began slowly, having eaten half of her meal. “What exactly is the deal with this place? It’s kinda…”

“Miserable?” William finished for her, uncaring of how blunt he sounded.

Arthur snorted at that. “Well, you ain’t wrong, kid.”

Dutch set down his whiskey and answered calmly. “I wanted you two to see this place with your own eyes before I told you what we were doin' here. This town was a thrivin’ place not that long ago, but since then the lumber industries and the mines have shut down and shipped out. For most of the people livin’ here, that was their only source of employment. So now, they ain’t got no jobs and, with no one earnin’ any money, the banks are beginnin’ to fail too, and it won’t be long before they do. The people are positively petrified of the impendin’ winter later this year and there’s talks of starvation if they can’t afford food. They’re stuck out here with no help from any government or Pinkertons — they don’t give a shit about these poor unfortunates, but we do.” He proceeded to sneakily point at the saloon’s patrons. “This is where most of the gang’s half of the stagecoach money will go. These people are in for it for years to come, and we ain’t gonna sit back and watch as the government don’t do nothin’ for ’em. If we did nothin’, then we might as well bury ’em ourselves. Now that you’re in the gang, this is the kinda good you can help bring to the people who need it.”

Without another word, Dutch got to his feet with a bag over his shoulder, inside which was most of the gang’s share of the robbery. He quickly passed off half to Arthur and the pair of them went around the room, handing wads of cash to the stupefied customers. Maebh looked on in hidden admiration as Dutch conversed with the townsfolk, seemingly enjoying their thanks and words of delight. Arthur, though more reserved and polite, waved off their gratitude with a simple nod and urged them to spend the funds on food for their families. Maebh looked to her brother, who usually showed little emotion on his face for others to see, but even he was taken aback by this move.

As Dutch and Arthur moved outside to meet more of the locals, the siblings followed, eager to see the reactions that were sure to come. She observed carefully as Dutch began to address the small crowd that had gathered with words of a lawless America and ‘the ill that civilisation has brought unto the hard-working people that keeps this nation alive’. It was a sight to see, and although he clearly relished the attention, his actions were good and selfless. It was a large sum of money, one that the gang could have used to its advantage, but they would rather give it to those who lost their jobs and feared for their survival.

“The only way we can live in these United States, my friends,” Dutch continued, passing money into the sooty hands of Black River Falls grateful locals. “Is by supportin’ each other. Civilisation would rather have us as dogs lickin’ are their shitty boots. Ain’t no man I’m gonna worship, save for God.”

“Did you think this was goin’ to happen?” she asked her brother from their spot outside the crowd.

“No,” he admitted. “But I have to admit, it’s a noble move.”

“And I think it gives us a better idea of who the Van der Linde Boys are.”

“It surely does.” William smirked before turning his attention from Dutch to her. “I think we might’ve made a good decision for once, Maebh.”

Giving him a curious look, she eyed their new leader who had the crowd in the palm of his hand while Arthur continued to hand out money.

The grand speech continued, spoken now with even more vigour. “So we are returnin’ this money to the pockets of those who need it. Consider it a generous donation from the government of this land, taken without their permission by outlaws who have already experienced hardships at their hands.” At that, Dutch met her gaze and gave her a nod. “This is how you live in America. We are livin’ and we are survivin’, because it’s the only thing we can do while they threaten our very existence. This is how we will live, or we are gonna die tryin’.”

“Yeah,” Maebh said, agreeing with William’s point. “I think we’ll be alright with these lads.”

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