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Song of Oestend

by Marie Sexton

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Aren had heard of the wraiths, of course.
Everyone had.

The thing was, nobody believed the stories
were real. Not where he came from, anyway.

But on his first night in the town of Milton,
as the wind howled outside and beat against the shuttered windows
of his room, Aren Montrell lay awake and trembling in his bed. He
began to remember every story he’d ever heard about the
wraiths.

Every nanny—and probably every parent, too,
although Aren wouldn’t know about that—told stories of children
found cold and lifeless in the morning because some spiteful adult
had left the window open after tucking the kids into bed. It was
said that wraiths came on the darkest of nights, stealing the
breath from any person fool enough not to be inside, behind closed
doors. Even back home, across the sea, in the bustling cities of
Lanstead, many houses had signs of protection over their front
doors. Still, Aren had never had reason to believe the stories were
true. He’d always believed the signs were more decorative than
anything. But he’d quickly discovered upon his arrival in Oestend
that every building had the signs, not just over the front door,
but over every door, and the windows as well. Even the barn where
weary travellers boarded their horses had been warded against the
wraiths.

He’d seen the way the hostel-keeper and his
wife had systematically checked each and every window in each and
every room. He’d made note of the double bars on both the front and
back doors. Then, as he was finishing his dinner, the wife had
stopped next to him. Her hand on his shoulder was rough and
callused and her face was grim. “Don’t open your window once the
generator goes on,” she’d said. “I don’t care how hot you
get.”

Aren wasn’t even sure what she meant by the
word ‘generator’, but she’d moved on then, before Aren could ask
questions. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when the generator
had kicked on a few minutes later—not that he would have known that
was what it was if the woman hadn’t warned him. It made a nagging,
low-pitched drone that Aren didn’t so much hear as feel, low in the
base of his skull. He found it nerve-racking, but it was obvious
the locals were used to it. He’d gone to his room feeling less than
confident.

Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe he
shouldn’t have come here, to the pitiful, dusty edge of the world.
But after the incident at the university, running to Oestend had
seemed so logical. So obvious. A suddenly sympathetic Professor
Sheldon had helped Aren secure a job at one of the large ranches on
the Oestend prairie. At the time, Aren had thought Sheldon had done
it out of pity. Now, as he faced the realisation that this was a
life he did not know how to live, Aren began to also realise he’d
been duped. No doubt Sheldon and Professor Dean Birmingham, the man
Aren had thought of as his lover for the past four years, were
laughing together over their brandy, pleased they’d manage to rid
themselves of him.

“Fuck you,” Aren said. His voice was loud in
the small room. He sounded strong, and it gave him courage. “Fuck
you!” he said again, louder this time, feeling more sure of
himself. “I’m not scared.”

He jumped as somebody pounded on the wall of
his room. Not one of the wraiths that may or may not have been
outside in the wind. It came from the room next to Aren’s. “People
trying to sleep in here!” the man on the other side of the wall
yelled.

Aren couldn’t believe anybody could sleep
through the buzz of the generator and the racket of the wind and
yet be kept awake by somebody talking, but he didn’t want to cause
trouble, so he resolved to stop cussing at people who were halfway
across the world. Still, his outburst had given him the strength he
needed to examine his situation rationally.

There was no point in being scared. If there
really were wraiths in Oestend, it was obvious the locals knew how
to handle them. The man who’d hired him had directed him to this
particular hostel for the night. Presumably he wouldn’t have sent
Aren to a place that was known for allowing its tenants to be
killed in their sleep. Although the shutters on windows rattled,
they seemed solid enough, and Aren would have bet his last coin
there was a warding sign over the window as well. He had to trust
those things would be enough to keep him safe.

He pulled the blanket over his head and
snuggled down under the covers. At least the bed was soft and the
sheets were clean. Tomorrow, a man from the ranch would arrive to
take him to his new home. Whatever this backwater land wanted to
throw at him, Aren was sure he was ready.

***

He was right on most counts. He was ready for
the dust. He was ready for the wind. He was ready for the two-day
trip to the ranch.

What he wasn’t ready for was
Deacon.

Deacon was the man who arrived to take Aren to
the BarChi Ranch. Deacon had come into town the night before, but
had apparently elected to spend the night elsewhere—in the stables
or at the whorehouse or at another inn, Aren didn’t know, and
didn’t care. Deacon arrived at the hostel the next morning driving
a wooden wagon drawn by a pair of sturdy draught horses.

The first thing Aren noticed about him was the
deep colour of his skin. Back on the continent, skin-tones ran from
white to pink to golden, but one rarely saw anybody darker than the
sun could make them. Deacon, on the other hand, had skin that was a
rich, dark reddish-brown. He wore a straw cowboy hat, and his
pitch-black hair hung in a queue down his back. Aren supposed him
to be around thirty years old. He was tall and broad and muscular
and rough and everything Aren might have expected from a man who’d
spent his entire life doing hard labour on a remote Oestend ranch.
He was exactly the kind of man who usually managed to make Aren
feel small and insignificant simply by being there. He looked at
Aren’s pile of luggage with barely disguised amusement.

“You got an awful lot of stuff,” he said,
turning his mocking gaze onto Aren. “What’s in all
those?”

Deacon’s scrutiny made him uncomfortable. Aren
tried to smooth his light brown hair down—it had grown out longer
than he’d ever had it, which was still short by Oestend standards.
It was too short to pull into a queue like Deacon’s, and though
Aren tried to keep it straight, it seemed determined to form soft
curls around his ears. He had a hard enough time getting men to
take him seriously because of his small stature. Having hair that
curled like a girl’s wasn’t going to help.

“Well?” Deacon asked, still waiting for an
answer. “What’s in the bags?”

Aren forced himself to stop fidgeting,
although he couldn’t quite meet Deacon’s eyes. “My clothes. Books.
Art supplies.”

“Art supplies?” Deacon asked, as if the words
held no meaning for him.

“Yes,” Aren said, and for some reason,
Deacon’s absurd question gave him the strength he needed to stand
up straight and face the rough cowboy in front of him. “Canvas and
paint.”

Deacon’s eyebrows went up, and although he
didn’t laugh, it was clear he wanted to. “Good thing. Barn’s needed
a new coat of paint for a while now.”

Aren felt his cheeks turning red, and he hid
it by turning to pick up the nearest suitcase. It had seemed
perfectly reasonable to bring his art supplies with him, especially
since he feared both paint and canvas might be hard to come by on
the ranch. It bothered him that Deacon had managed to make him feel
foolish for it. The fact that he’d done it within moments of
meeting him only made it sting more.

One by one, he loaded his many suitcases into
the wagon. He could feel Deacon’s gaze upon him the entire time. He
moved quickly because he knew they had other things to do in town
before they left. When his last bag was in the wagon, he turned to
face Deacon again, ready for the mockery he’d seen in Deacon’s eyes
before. He was surprised to see Deacon was no longer laughing at
him. He was watching him appraisingly, and Aren thought he even saw
a hint of approval in his dark eyes.

“Would have done that for you, you know,” he
said.

Then why didn’t you?
Of course, if he’d
wanted help, he could have asked, but this was obviously a world
where physical strength earned more respect than education or
refinement. Aren hated to give other men a reason to think he was
weak. Just because he wasn’t made of muscle like Deacon didn’t mean
he couldn’t handle his own luggage. A familiar feeling of angry
rebellion bloomed in Aren’s chest. “I’m not helpless,” he
snapped.

Deacon’s look of puzzled amusement returned.
He shook his head. “Why’re you mad?” he asked.

It was a good question. Why
was
he mad?
Because Deacon was laughing at him? Because he hadn’t helped with
the bags? Or because he seemed surprised that Aren hadn’t asked for
help with them? Or was it only because here, just as at the
university, he was bound to be seen as less than a man by all the
other men around him?

“I’m just tired,” Aren said, which wasn’t
exactly a lie. He’d been travelling for more than a month to reach
this point—four weeks on the small, stinky ship from Lanstead to
Francshire, Oestend’s eastern port, being seasick most of the way,
followed by two nights straight on the noisy, rickety train from
Francshire to Milton, the western-most point of what could loosely
be termed ‘civilisation’ in Oestend. Although he’d managed to get a
few hours of sleep at the hostel the night before, he still felt
terribly out of sorts. “I feel I’ve barely slept in
ages.”

The smile that spread across Deacon’s face
this time wasn’t mocking. It was friendly, and a little bit
mischievous. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure you’ll sleep good
tonight.”

“Why is that?” Aren asked.

“Staying at the McAllen farm,” Deacon said.
“Lots of maids and daughters there.” He winked at Aren. “One of
them’s bound to tuck you in.”

Aren hoped the sinking feeling those words
caused wasn’t apparent on his face. He fought to keep his voice
steady. “I see.”

“We best get moving if we want to get there
before the wraiths get us.”

“Of course,” Aren said, although at that
moment, he would have preferred to take his chances with the
wraiths.

They made a few quick stops for supplies
before heading out into the prairie. Aren hadn’t seen much of
Milton when he’d arrived. The hostel he’d stayed at was near the
outskirts of the east side. They had to drive west all the way
through town before leaving.

Although the cities back in Lanstead had their
slums too, the parts Aren had been familiar with were filled with
upscale shops and brightly-painted town homes. Stained glass
windows had recently become a fad, and nearly every home sported at
least one, usually as prominent and garish as it could be. Glancing
around the dusty town of Milton, Aren saw nothing of the sort. The
walkways fronting the businesses were bare wooden planks. The
buildings he saw looked as if they’d never seen a single coat of
paint. The few painted signs he saw were faded to the point of
being practically useless.

“Some of these buildings don’t even have
windows,” Aren said.

Deacon shrugged. “Glass is expensive. Plus,
it’s damn hard to patch the hole in the wall if it
breaks.”

Everywhere he looked, it seemed Aren saw no
colour at all—only varying shades of brown and grey. He found it a
bit depressing.

In the town’s centre lay a large wooden
platform. It almost looked like a stage. Aren might have thought it
was for executions, except there was no sign of a
gallows.

“What’s that for?” he asked Deacon.

Deacon’s jaw clenched, as if the question
angered him. He didn’t look at Aren. “That’s where they used to
sell the slaves.”

“Slaves?” Aren asked, alarmed. “They still
have slavery here?”



“Not anymore,” Deacon said, “but it lasted
longer than you’d probably think.”



Once they’d passed the last building, Deacon
drove onto a rutted trail that led into the long, golden-green
grass of the Oestend prairie. They were headed due west, presumably
towards the BarChi Ranch, where Aren had managed to secure a job as
a bookkeeper. As the bustle of the town fell behind them, Aren
found himself feeling simultaneously liberated and scared to death.
In leaving Milton, he was abandoning all vestiges of the civilised
society he’d grown up in. Ahead of him, Oestend held only ranches,
mines, buffalo, and mile after mile of prairie. He was leaving
behind the trappings of luxury. Back home in Lanstead, most homes
had running water. A few even had electricity. He would find none
of that here in Oestend.

Lanstead had first colonised Oestend a hundred
and fifty years earlier, but shipping goods back and forth had
proved to be more trouble and more expense than it was worth. Since
that time, the empire had long since lost interest in the remote
land, and the colonies had become more or less independent. The
eastern seaboard was where the majority of the population resided,
living off what the sea provided. Further inland, most of Oestend’s
limited prosperity came from the many mines to the south and fur
and fishing in the north. Of course, everybody in Oestend, from
miners and trappers to the inn-keepers and blacksmiths, had to eat,
and that was where the ranches came in. By accepting a position at
one of them, Aren had committed himself to a life that was
considered downright primitive by most of his
colleagues.