The River of Souls (9 page)

As Matthew’s Dolly approached the house, one of the horses in the corral nickered and snorted, and a few seconds after that the front door crashed open with a noise like the coming of Judgment Day and the mountain Muldoon himself appeared, wearing black trousers and a dirty white shirt with the sleeves torn off. His hair was wild, his black beard frenzied, and his iron-gray eyes flashed fire. He lifted the short-barrelled musket he held in his arms, aimed it squarely at Matthew’s head and shouted, “Stop right there, dandy pants! Ain’t you heard that a man with no head don’t need a comb?” 

Matthew reined Dolly in, perhaps a bit too hard, for the horse wanted to rear up and he had to fight her for a few seconds until she settled. 

“Back away!” Muldoon said. “This is
my
land! Get off it!” 

“Calm yourself, sir. I’ve come to—” 

“Don’t care! Not listenin’! You got yourself Pandora Prisskitt and I hope you choke on her! She can comb your damned hair every night, far as I’m concerned! Now get on away!” 

Matthew kept his face expressionless. He said: “Sarah Kincannon.” 

“
What?
” came the half-roar, half-snarl. 

“Sarah Kincannon,” Matthew repeated. “She sends her greetings. And she says you make some very beautiful bottles. She showed me one, just awhile ago.” 

“Are you a fool, or just a plain idiot?” Muldoon demanded, the musket still aimed to part Matthew’s hair and perhaps his brain as well. 

“A little of both,” Matthew answered. “Aren’t you at all curious as to why I’ve ridden all the way here from Charles Town?” 

“I know why. ’Cause you don’t have the sense God gave a bumblebee.” Now, though, he did lower the musket but his frown was as frightening as any weapon. “Corbett, ain’t it? Well, what in the name of seven Hells
are
you doin’ here? We had our duel, you won it fair and square—I reckon—and it’s done. So
what
then?” 

Matthew said, “I don’t like being brought from New York to die for Lady Prisskitt because she wants to attend a fancy ball. You’ve killed three men for her, I understand.” 

“No more! I’m ashamed of that! Seein’ her as she was last night…as she really is…I’m ashamed nearly to death!” 

“I have some suggestions,” said the problem-solver. 

“Huh? What’re you goin’ on about?” 

“Suggestions,” Matthew repeated. “For you. Some ideas. Can I get down, tie my horse up and come talk to you?” 

“You’re talkin’
now
.” 

“Talking without a musket in the area, is what I mean. And, Mr. Muldoon, I think you’ll find my suggestions very interesting.” 

“That so? Why should I?” 

“Because you’ll have a chance to get a little revenge on Pandora Prisskitt,” said Matthew. “And I will too.” 

“How’s
that
?” 

“I think you have potential,” Matthew replied, “to be a gentleman. I can start you out on that path, if you’re willing to listen and learn.” 

Magnus Muldoon snorted so hard Dolly and even the two horses in the corral jumped. “Why the hell do I care to be a
gentleman
?” He spoke the word like describing something foul in a chamberpot. “So I can dance and prance like those fools in town?” 

“No,” said Matthew evenly, “so in time you will have your pick of any lady in Charles Town, you won’t be living out here as a hermit, and…if you’re as good at your craft as the example I’ve seen, you could set yourself up in business and make some real money. Becoming a gentleman doesn’t mean you lose who you are…you just have more confidence in who you are. But first…the rough edges have to be smoothed.” 

“I think you’ve got moon sickness,” was Muldoon’s comment. “I’ll bet you’re one of ’em burns the midnight candle to a smokin’ stub and ain’t done an honest day’s work in his life.” 

“Some might agree,” Matthew said, with a shrug. “But at least hear me out. All right?” 

“And if I say no?” 

“I’ll turn around and ride back to town. But bear in mind, Mr. Muldoon, that sweet honey attracts the female fly much more so than does angry vinegar. Lady Prisskitt has wronged you and myself as well. You know that by now. And I know you’re not at heart a killer. Much of what you said to Lady Prisskitt last night…well, the poetry was right, but the package is wrong. There are many lovely women in Charles Town who would honestly desire to hear such heartfelt sentiments…without the murderous intent and threats of violence, of course…and I can’t leave here, Mr. Muldoon, until I have at least tried to match the package with the poetry. Just so someday in the future Pandora Prisskitt may look into your glassblowing shop on Front Street and wish
she
were the one who had found you…instead of the woman who’s
going
to find you, if you listen to what I have to say and act upon it.” 

Muldoon made another disturbing noise deep in his throat, like a shout that had been swallowed. “If my dear deceased Pap heard any of this,” he managed to say, “he’d be rollin’ in his grave!” 

“If your mother heard it, would be she rolling in hers?” Matthew asked. 

There was a long silence from Magnus, in which Matthew heard only the croaking of frogs in the direction of the river and a single crow cawing forlornly from a treebranch. 

At last, the mountainous shoulders seemed to slump forward. Magnus held the musket down at his side, and he stared at the floorboards of his porch as if trying to read the future there. Then he rumbled, “Come on in. Speak your piece.” He went inside before Matthew could reply or dismount, but he left the door open.

Six

Everything was going smoothly until Magnus pulled the cork from a long-necked bottle that was as red as holy fire and said to Matthew, “This is my own brew a’ likker,” before pouring some into a wooden cup for him. “Have a swig.” 

The little house was well-maintained and orderly, in stark contrast to the man himself. The furniture was simple and sturdy, the walls were pinewood pocked with numerous knotholes and the floor fashioned from broad pine planks. There stood a small hearth made of gray stones. On pinewood shelves were displayed some of the craftsman’s creations, and upon first setting boots in the house Matthew was awestruck by something he never would’ve thought about Magnus Muldoon: the black-bearded mountain was a true artist. 

The bottles were thin and tall, short and squat, rounded and squarish but no two were alike. They were colored dark blue, sea green, amber, bright yellow, purple, pale blue, and deep red. Some were banded with different colors, and some were of two contrasting colors, and some were grooved and fluted and as intricately executed as any chess problem Matthew had ever attempted to solve. A few stood out by being clear and as plain as gray rain, but even so their shapes were—to Matthew’s eye, at least—perfectly formed. 

“Excellent work!” Matthew had said when he’d found his voice. “How did you learn to do this?” 

“My Pap was a glass-blower. He taught me. Then…I reckon…after he passed on, I decided to make some bottles that were in my head, but that hadn’t come out yet. He sold a few to stores in Charles Town. I’ve been sellin’ to the Kincannons. Miss Sarah’s got nine or ten of ’em.” 

“I’ve never seen bottles like these,” Matthew had said. “Not even in New York. You could make a
lot
of money there, I’d think.” 

“Don’t do it for a lot of money,” Magnus had said, as he’d lowered himself into a chair made of stretched cowhide. “Do it ’cause I enjoy it, and when I look at ’em…makes me feel good, like I’ve made somethin’ worth the time and the heat.” He put his dirty boots up onto a square piece of unpolished wood that served as a table. Upon entering the house he had deposited the musket in a rack on the wall, much to Matthew’s relief. “
Now
,” said Magnus, with a harsh note returning to his voice, “what’s all this jollywhomp you’ve come here to tell me?” 

Matthew had already noted the lack of bear-grease in Magnus’ hair. In fact, it was still wild and uncombed but at least looked as if it had been lately washed and de-fleaed. Matthew reasoned Magnus had greased his hair for the occasion of seeing Pandora at the ball, as if that might help the mountainous one’s chances to open a locked and rather cruel heart. 

“Firstly,” said Matthew as he stood at the center of the room, “never attempt to meet, see or speak to the Lady Prisskitt again. I can tell you that she is not worth the effort, and that any man you have killed in regards to her died a saint. Secondly, keep your hair washed. Bear-grease is not a suitable ointment. I can suggest something lighter in nature that you can procure in Charles Town. The idea is to attract, not to repel. Thirdly—and this may be a bit tough for you to take—I am going to also suggest that you shave off your beard.” 

Magnus had been staring at the floor during the beginning of Matthew’s statements, but now the iron-gray eyes came up and stared holes through the problem-solver. “
What?
” 

“Your beard,” Matthew said. “Off with it.” 

“I’ve had a beard ever since I was a baby, seems like!” 

“That may be true,” Matthew admitted. “But now is the time is put it away with the toys and the rattles. How
old
are you, anyway?” 

Magnus spent a moment counting on his dirty fingers. “Twenty-six years.” 

“Only two years older than me? Your beard ages you by many more.” 

“Not cuttin’ the beard,” came the defiant response. “My Pap and Mam thought it made me handsome. Told me so many times.” 

Matthew had the feeling that Pap and Mam had not necessarily wished their overgrown son to venture very far into the world beyond their guiding hands. He had no desire to criticize the dead, and felt that criticism here would result in a bootkick out the front door at the least. “You might then consider a
trimming
,” he offered. 

“The beard is left be, sir. And I’m listenin’ but I ain’t hearin’ nothin’. I figure I’m good enough as I sit. What do I need anythin’ else for?” He shrugged and settled deeper into his cowhide. “Damn me for a fool, chasin’ a woman like that. And me thinkin’ that
she
would make me better than I am. And damn me for pushin’ those men into duels, and puttin’ ’em under easy as eatin’ sugar cake. Well, I
wanted
’em to run! I just wanted ’em to get out of my way, so Pandora would see
me
.” He looked up imploringly at Matthew and asked quietly, “Am I goin’ to Hell?” 

“I don’t think so,” Matthew answered. “I can tell you that many have done worse than you, and for worse reasons. Now: you say you wished the Lady Prisskitt to make you better than you are? Meaning you wish to advance in the world? My suggestions stand. Clean yourself up, cut—or at least
trim
—your beard, get yourself a new suit and take your craftwork to town. I’m sure you’ll find an interested buyer in one of the shops on Front Street, who will likely ask for more. You may also find yourself with a sudden abundance of money, and though you may not create your work for that reason, money does help one advance in the world. Let me ask you this: why did your father and mother settle way out here? Why didn’t they live in town?” 

“My Pap was huntin’ gold,” said Magnus. “Heard before we came across the water that the gold was just layin’ on the ground ready to be found. This place suited him, ’cause he and my Mam never did take to havin’ close neighbors. He dug and dug for that gold, had me diggin’ for it with him, but we never found a speck of it. I still dig for it once in awhile, just to please his memory.” He motioned toward a wooden bucket on the floor in a corner. “Been findin’ some of
that
hereabouts. Save it ’cause it’s pretty. Tryin’ to catch that color green in my bottlework.” 

Matthew walked over to look into the bucket. In it were twenty or so green stones of various sizes, the smallest a mere sliver and the largest maybe the size of Matthew’s thumbnail. 

“Dug those out of a hollow not too far from here. They cleaned up nice and bright,” Magnus said, with a shrug. “No gold up there, though. Poor Pap, diggin’ and diggin’ as he did. And all for nothin’.” 

“May I ask a question?” Matthew bent down to have a closer look at the bucket’s contents. He picked up the largest stone and turned it into the light that streamed through the nearest window. A streak of vivid green lay across the floor. 

“Go on.” 

“Have you ever heard of something called an emerald?” 

“A
what
?” 

“Oh, mercy,” said Matthew, who had to stifle a laugh. He had no idea of the quality of these gemstones, for some had black spots embedded in them and so were less than ideal, but it seemed to him that Magnus Muldoon’s own shop on Front Street might already be paid for. Possibly a nice house in Charles Town lay in this bucket, as well. “These are
valuable
. How much they could be worth, I don’t know…but you need to take these to town and show a jeweller. I think at least two or three of these are high quality stones.” 

“Valuable? Those little green
rocks
?” 

“Raw emeralds,” Matthew corrected. He put the gemstone back among its fellows, and he thought that if Pandora Prisskitt could see what lay inside this bucket she would be insisting she comb Magnus’ hair and brush his beard herself. He stood up. “Yes, valuable. Maybe a hundred pounds’ worth.”