Ropes.
Three of them suspended from the awning of a post office.
But these ropes aren’t swaying gently in the breeze like back in the wheat town—these are pulled tight.Stiff.
Because three bodies hang heavy from the knotted loops at the end.
Two men and one woman. Their clothes covered in dust, muted gray, jackets and cotton shirts hanging from limp arms, boots dangling on feet, but heads covered by cloth sacks. Only the woman’s golden hair can be seen draped down her back.
My ears begin to ring as we pass by, but I can’t pull my eyes away.
Three dead people hang in the open, beneath the midday sun, while the living pass by around them, hardly paying them any notice. As if their corpses were as common as a dead bird found beside the road. I try to absorb every detail about who they might have been, but with their faces covered, they seem almost like dolls, stuffed with sheep’s wool. Not real at all.
“Nothing to be done for it,” Pa says under his breath. “Keepyour eyes ahead.”
But I stare at the three bodies, suspended in a neat row, until they slip from view behind the crowd. “What happened to them?” I ask softly, turning my attention to Pa. “Why were they killed?”
Pa grumbles, like he doesn’t like the question. “They’re dead now, no point wondering why.” His eyes flash to those walking closest to us, as if to see if they might be listening, and I’m surprised by the coldness of his words.
There’s something more he isn’t saying. A reason for their deaths that he won’t say aloud. Like he’s afraid to.
And it makes the sharpness at the back of my neck prick even harder. People in the towns are being killed, hung from their necks, and I want to know why. I want to press Pa for answers, but I sense he won’t say anything more, not here among all these people. So I keep quiet, for now.
At a cross street, Pa tugs the mule down a narrower road, where wagons are parked in uniform rows, each selling something different: freshly baked corn muffins, a hair tonic meant to keep your hairslicked out of your eyes, hand-hewn garden tools, leather saddle straps, hand-dipped beeswax candles, and a particularly wide wagon sellinghomemade moonshine from the Laramie River.A river I’ve never heard of.
“Wait here,” Pa says. We’ve stopped in front of a squat little building, and I rest my palm against the mule’s short mane, rubbing along his ears, while Pa climbs the low wooden steps up to the door and slips inside. A small bell chimes when he enters.
I hold out my palm and the mule’s warm breath nuzzles my hand, large teeth nibbling for something to eat. Around me, vendorsand traders and townsfolk move up and down the street, a chorus of voices and horses’ hooves, so much noise that it makes my ears vibrate. But a half moment later, Pa reappears, clomping down the steps.
“Mr. Willard says we can sell tonic in front of his shop.”
My eyes sway up to the building, and the sign posted above the awning:WILLARD’S BARBER & DENTISTRY. “Is he a barber or a dentist?”
“Both.”
The last crate of tonic sits on the wood bench in front of Mr. Willard’s shop. But without a sign, I don’t know how customers will know what we’re selling.
“I’ll go find a stable to keep the mule for the night.” Pa pats a firm hand against the mule’s neck. “If anyone comes asking about tonic, tell them I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. They can either wait or return later.” He looks at me, waiting for a response, some assurance that I understand.
“Okay.”
I stand beside the bench, peering out at the town. With Pa gone, this is my chance—I can go in search of the Architect. But I can’t leave the crate of tonic, can’t risk someone taking it. I won’t be responsible for the loss of Pa’s last remaining crate. So I stay put, fidgety, anxious. Strangers walk past me, moving through the market with desperate, feline looks in their eyes, as if they’re willing to steal or lie to get what they want. Some glance at the crate, at me, then continue on. I could meet their eyes, ask if they know of anArchitect. I could whisper the word quietly, keeping my voice low. But I remember the way the old woman—Imogene—flicked her eyes at me when I said it:Architect.As if the word itself was a curse. A malediction.Don’t go saying that name aloud,she warned. The word was dangerous. Mom said as much over the years, that to go in search of the Architect would put our lives at risk.
But we have no other choice.
If I can’t find the Architect, then nothing matters anyway.
So I scan the hands of those walking past; some wear rings, hand-forged metal of gold and iron and silver. But none contain the constellation Circinus, with its twelve stars running parallel to one another.
Frustrated, I brush my hair across my neck and glance down at my own hands, dirt-packed beneath my short nails. I’m filthy. A layer of dust in my hair, coating both my arms. In the valley, I’d bathe in the river twice a week, even in winter, a bar of castile soap we traded from the Horaces balanced on the rocks. I crave the feeling of clean hair and fingernails, the scent of lavender and mint on my skin. For a moment, I let myself imagine a life lived in a town like this: warm bathwater and store-bought clothes. Strolls down the sidewalk in spring; strangers’ faces from distant towns, each with a story to tell. But I’d also know fear with every pair of eyes that passed over me.
The valley hid us from questioning, curious eyes. Allowed us to live with our hair pinned up, skin exposed, never fearing who might see what we were. But here, in the town, every blinking gaze is dangerous.
Across the street, a woman exits the doorway of a bookmaker’s shop, her hair wild, loose curls falling across her face as she tilts herhead to one side. I watch as her hand searches for the wall of the building, and when her fingertips locate it, she uses the wall to guide her forward, the other hand waving in front of her. She has lost her sight.
Consumption.
I push my hands into my coat pockets, my nerves on edge, and watch a young boy stomping up the street, one hand on his hip, the other holding an assortment of items under his arm. He splashes through a puddle, smiles, then notices me watching him. He changes direction and comes to stand in front of Mr. Willard’s shop, peering up at me.
