Sarah Zettel: Dust girl

He bowed. “Their Majesties would be most upset if I spilled family blood, even bastard blood. But a tragic accident, precipitated by your unwise passion for this little mortal boy… ah, well. Shoot them,” he said again to Morgan.

“You left Shimmy to die,” I croaked. “You never told her she was helping to get me killed.”

“Poor Shimmy.” He shook his head, but his smile never once wavered. “She was so anxious to curry the favor of the court. As if any half-and-half who wasn’t the prophecy girl could ever find welcome here. Yes, I used her, and she was glad to be used.”

“She never let me down.”

“Never, pathetic creature.”

“She’s behind you!”

He jerked around. I whacked him hard with my frying pan in the small of the back. Jack tackled Bull Morgan, and they rolled over and over on the boardwalk. The ground shook underneath us. The boardwalk was made of wood, and it was still burning. There was a shot. The frying pan in my hands shuddered, and something smacked against my head so hard I staggered. Something went squelch. Now I couldn’t see straight. Salt stung my eyes, and all the strength left my hands, so I had to drop the frying pan.

“Callie!” Jack grabbed my hand and dragged me after him. “You gotta wish us outta here, Callie!”

But I couldn’t see. There was something dark getting into my eyes. My ears rang louder than the fire alarms. My head was burning, and I wondered if I’d caught fire.

“Stop!” bawled Morgan. “Stop in the name of the law!”

“ ‘The Midnight Special,’ Callie!” cried Jack. “Sing it!”

I wanted to get away. I wanted to get Jack away. I felt my name being called, and I had no iron to get in the way of that summons. I opened my mouth, but I could only whisper:

“Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me…”

My head was spinning. I couldn’t hold my thoughts together. All the other train songs rattled around in my frightened skull: “Rock Island Line,” “This Train,” “Little Black Train.” All the words all mixed up in the wishes and commands and fire.

“If you wanna ride it, gotta ride it like you find it… this train she’s bound for glory… don’t carry no gamblers… let the Midnight Special shine a light, shine a light, shine an ever-lovin’ light… this train she’s bound for glory… gotta ride it, gotta ride it like you find it… this train…”

And I didn’t care. I didn’t care which train, which gate or door we could find. I had to get out of there. I had to get Jack out of there. I had to. There was no one else, not with the smoke and the fire and my treacherous family all behind us.

This train, this train, this train…

“I got yer mammy!” said Morgan.

I skidded to a stop and turned my head. Too slow, too late. Morgan didn’t have hold of Shimmy, but my hesitation was just enough, and his big, soft, cold hands clamped around my waist, lifting me high. Jack hollered and swore, and Morgan kicked him aside. He started to squeeze hard, squeeze all the air out of me.

“Die! Die, you stupid pickaninny brat! Gonna kill you dead like you killed me!”

“No!” cried Jack. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t see.

Mama! My heart wailed to the black sky. Help me! Mama!

This train , whispered the wind that blew down from that sky. This train…

A new note cut across the roar of fire and fear. Louder than any alarm bell, longer than any note from any horn. New light fell across us, blinding white and strong enough to cut through any smoke. Morgan hollered, and his killing grip around my middle let loose. I dropped to the boards, and Jack was on his knees next to me, pulling me up and wrapping his arms around me.

A clanging and a chugging filled the world, followed by the squeal of brakes and the hiss of steam. I tried to look up, but the new light was so strong, I could only squint.

There on the edge of the boardwalk stood a railroad engine. It was shining black iron, bigger than anything else in the whole world. Clouds of steam wreathed around it, and the brass ringing of its bell drowned out all the other noises.

I stared. Jack stared. Morgan hollered and fell back. The gun in his hand went off, and the bullet pinged off the side of that big black engine and did no harm whatsoever.

The engine pulled a string of passenger cars, just as black, with the shades pulled down so no light came from the windows. The door on the first car swung open smoothly, and a man in a white porter’s jacket and a shiny billed cap walked down the stairs. He was treetop-tall and had skin as black as the Midnight Throne. He saw me and Jack huddled on the ground gawping up at him, and folded his arms. But it wasn’t us he was frowning at.

“I been waitin’ on you, Samuel Morgan.” His big black hand clamped around Morgan’s shoulder and lifted him up off the ground. “You just about done throwed off my whole schedule.”

Dangling from the porter’s grip, Morgan raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s broad face. The porter just looked disgusted and wrenched the revolver out of the railroad bull’s gray fingers, tossing it away into the steam clouds.

“Last call!” cried a voice from deep inside the train. “All aboard!”

The giant of a porter looked down at me and Jack. “You two coming?”

Weakness washed over me, mixing with the pain in my head and the feel of the flames at my back. But Jack pulled me to my feet and shoved me in front of him up the steps of that black Pullman car, climbing in behind.

You know how people talk about the weight of the world slipping off their shoulders? That was what I felt as soon as I reached the top of those stairs. All at once, I wasn’t tired anymore. I felt fine. Nothing hurt, and I could see perfectly well. I could stand. I could walk. I wasn’t even hungry.

The porter came up the steps behind us, carrying Bull Morgan at arm’s length as easy as he’d carry a rotten apple by its stem.

“Okay, Mr. Jones!” he called toward the engine. “We got ’em.”

There was a narrow pass-through behind me. I could see the sooty confines of the engine, and the engineer in his dusty overalls. The firebox was open, and the burly fireman shoveled in a load of coal from the big pile next to him. The engineer mounted the cab. The whistle sounded, and the train pulled smoothly forward.

“These two are my prisoners!”

Bull Morgan straightened himself up. He wasn’t swollen, damp, and gray anymore. He was the living man as I’d first seen him in Constantinople. As if to prove it, he yanked his club out of its holster and waved it at the porter. “You got no right, you…”

But the porter just clamped two huge fingers around the club and pulled it out of the bull’s hand. He closed his fist around it. There was a loud, short crunch, and sawdust trickled down to the carpet.

“I am the porter in charge of this train, Samuel Morgan. You will sit yourself down and mind your p’s and q’s until you get where you’re going.”

He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder again and pushed him into the nearest seat. He snapped his fingers, and Bull Morgan’s head dropped back. His mouth opened, and for a second I thought he was dead, until I heard the long, rumbling snore.

Apparently satisfied, the porter turned to smile all the long way down to me and Jack, and touched the brim of his hat. “Pleased to have you on board, Jacob, Calliope.”

“We can’t ride this train,” Jack whispered. “We don’t have tickets.”

The porter chuckled. “Oh, everybody on my train’s prepaid, don’t you worry. You just be comfortable. We’ll be at the station shortly.” He pulled a gold turnip watch out of his pocket and checked it. “Yes, indeed. Right on time.” He tucked the watch away and touched the brim of his hat again. “You need anything, you just pull the cord and ask for Daddy Joe, porter in charge. Now, if you and Calliope will excuse me, there’s some folks in the back I’ve got to see to.” He walked briskly down the aisle. The train rattled and bumped over the tracks, but Daddy Joe didn’t so much as sway as he strode toward the rear of the car.