The Bone Merchant

“The Bone Merchant” was the first story I ever sold. It was originally published in Stupefying Stories #19 in 2018, but all older issues of Stupefying Stories have fallen prey to rights expiration, so it’s now unavailable for purchase. I’ve republished it here for anyone who wants to read it.

(However, if you prefer your fiction delivered audibly, CreepyPod has a presentation of the story that you can listen along with.)

Deacon set up his wagon near the edge of the town square. He had painted it red and gold to draw the eye, and he’d chosen the spot so that it could be seen from as many angles as possible. Here he was the ring-master, the frontier town his circus crowd.

From behind the blanket covering the back of the wagon he took out several standing poles, topped with skulls and marked with strange symbols that he didn’t understand, though he often claimed otherwise. The best of them was the skull of an eight-year-old child atop a black wooden pole. If folk couldn’t be baited with their own mortality, then that of their children was a potent incentive.

A curious crowd was already gathering and examining the skulls, and as soon as a dozen were close, he took hold of the blanket covering the wagon and threw it back. He heard a gasp from the crowd and suppressed a smile. That reaction almost always meant at least one sale.

The back of the wagon was occupied by a single brass engine, with turning wheels displayed prominently, steam-pipes hissing and crystals turning slowly on brass mounts, but the coup-de-grace rested at the center. A pair of brass balls on black metal rods, three feet apart. For now, they stood silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to one of the true wonders of the modern world!”

Deacon’s voice was rich, resonant and practiced, and carried easily across the square. More people began to gather to see what was on offer.

“What I’ll reveal here today is a great secret, one precious few ever discover. It was taught to me by an eastern Mystic, and to be honest, ladies and gentlemen, when first I heard it I didn’t believe it myself.”

That was partially true, if inaccurate in the details. The eastern Mystic had actually been his cousin Frank, a skinny wretch with a head full of fluff who Deacon had bullied for years. He had lived out East, though.

And, in truth, he still didn’t believe it. But Frank had, and Frank had gone and made this wonderful machine. And while it might not do what he had claimed, it sure could spin money!

“And when I tell you, well, you won’t believe me either. You’ll say, why, that man over there’s crazier than a jackrabbit who sat on a cactus! But I’ve seen the evidence of it with my own eyes, and I promise you, every word I’ll speak today is God’s honest truth.” He placed his right hand over his heart. “And may He strike me down if any word is a lie.”

Not that He would, of course. Deacon had travelled too far and seen too much darkness to believe that God’s hand was truly at work. If God existed at all, which Deacon doubted, then He seemed entirely ambivalent to the fate of the world He had created. But even Deacon had to concede that He was a tremendous salesman.

Deacon reached over to the machine and pulled a lever. There was an ascending whine, and then a bolt of electricity arced from one ball to the other, crackling and fizzling. It wasn’t magic, and it hadn’t been a part of Frank’s original machine. Deacon had bought it from a flashy science show on the coast. But it sure looked good.

“This machine,” he said, patting the side of it, “is the engine of life itself! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that mystic told me that his people had found a way to cheat death. No, ma’am, you heard me quite rightly! No need to clear out your ears!”

Frank had actually called it the Lock of Mortality, but Frank was full of strange ideas. He’d claimed they were sent to him by God, but the townsfolk had come to a darker conclusion, ultimately freeing him from the evil by way of a rope and a tree.

Afterwards, Frank’s mother had been more than happy to give the infernal machine to Deacon, and he had found a way to put the Devil’s mischief to better use. He clapped his hand on the machine twice, striking it with his ring so that the clang of metal rang out.

“This here is a blessing,” he said. “God’s true grace given form through man’s ingenuity! He placed these secrets here on Earth for us to find, and waited for us to advance along the true path He had prepared.”

The crowd was wavering, but while one or two stragglers had already left, there were others joining. At the very back he saw an old face watching, and from within it a pair of bright eyes glared knowingly. For a moment he paused and wondered. Had he visited this town before, maybe? But no, he’d never worked this trail before. This was a new market, now primed for selling.

Many in the crowd wanted to believe. He could feel the bubbling, eager hope that he was selling a true miracle, and knew the moment had arrived to push their last doubts over the edge.

He knelt down beside the wagon and opened a wooden drawer to lift out a small, square glass bottle that was decorated with intricate gold leaf. It looked extremely expensive, but he’d bought them cheaply from a guy in New York. The gold would peel if you scraped it too hard, so you had to be careful.

He rested the bottle gently in a hollow in the front of the machine before fitting a small funnel into the neck. Then he reached to one side and pulled a lever.

This was all Frank’s original work, and it really was amazingly crafted, especially given the fact that Frank was a first-class knucklehead.

Hidden inside the machine were four tanks of liquid and a selection of human bones in a large fluted sieve. The liquids were expensive and hard to find, and the bones were a matter of careful grave-robbing. And while Deacon fancied that he had become a competent grave-robber, he’d had precious little luck finding cheap alternatives to the liquids. He’d experimented with many, but it had taken him until a year ago to find even a single replacement, and with the other three he’d had no success at all.

Still, even with the high cost of the original liquids, his profits were handsome.

Hidden within, the four liquids sprayed out over the bones, the machine’s workings controlling the proportions as the wheels turned. They mingled together on the bone, lightly dissolving the surface, and the resulting mix dripped down through an opening and into the small bottle. As the mixture came together it took on the faint, luminescent quality that Deacon had tried and failed to replicate on the cheap.

When it was complete, the liquid swirled beautifully in its tiny elaborate bottle, the slight glow accented by the liquid’s chatoyant silver-blue sheen. Before his tampering with the recipe the resulting liquid had been golden, but the silver-blue was still impressive enough to sway a gullible crowd.

He released it from the machine, screwed a golden cap on top and lifted it up, watching the awe-struck eyes and listening to the murmur of the gathered crowd. He could almost hear the coins falling into his pocket.

“And here is God’s great gift to those of us fortunate enough to have been born into this age of wonders. Drink it, and you’ll live out your days here on Earth, not aging even a single day until Christ himself returns, ready to gather us up in His arms and carry us through the gates of His Kingdom!”

He lowered the bottle again, holding it in cupped hands.

“And now, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking, for something so amazing, he must charge a fortune! We’re simple working folk, surely there is no way we’ll be able to afford it! But that’s where you’re wrong, ladies and gentlemen! I am on no quest for money, nor is this some cheap travelling market stall like so many others that pass through. This is my service to God, and my duty to the world! All I ask in return is that you pay me enough to keep His machine in good running order and replenish my supplies, so that those in towns ahead might be blessed with the same good fortune. So, come on, don’t be shy! There’s plenty for all gathered!”

✫

By the time he rode out of town, he’d nearly been proven a liar.

The machine had been well-supplied, with the liquids topped up and the bones having endured only a single town prior, but the townsfolk’s enthusiasm had surprised him. If many more had come, the bones would likely have shattered, and then the machine would have started spitting out a foul brown liquid. That had happened to him once before, and it had turned the crowd uglier than the stuff itself. He’d escaped, but not without injury.

But this time they’d endured, and he’d reaped the town’s purses as he handed over the glowing bottles. Now he had money in his pocket, fresh meat from the town’s butcher, and a song in his heart as he rode north, whistling at the thought of San Francisco and the fresh markets that lay beyond.

But the sun was beating down, and his mood began to be sweat into misery. The summer was no time to ride through the desert, and after an hour he pulled out his crumpled map and picked out a short north-south canyon to head into, just a couple of miles north of where he was.

The canyon walls provided some shade from the sun, and the shallow trickle of water seemed to cool the air a little. Several miles into the canyon he saw the sun beginning to set, and he made camp beside his wagon in the shelter of a sloping wall.

He lit a fire and skewered a skinned rabbit to roast over it before going to check the machine. He unlocked the back of it with a small brass key, and from within lifted out the basket of bones. They were yellow, lightly steaming, and pock-marked with brown spots.

He winced at the smell. He’d thrown bones into streams before, but these smelled like they’d kill all the fish for miles. He walked around camp instead, until he found a shallow dry hole that he dumped them into.

There were no more bones in the wagon. He’d barely escaped from the last graveyard he’d ransacked without being discovered, and though he had planned to try his luck at the last town, their graveyard had been in full view, far too open and obvious to try and rob.

But he needed fresh bones before he headed north.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his map again. No towns save San Francisco lay ahead on it, and between there and the Northern trail there was nowhere obvious to resupply. Maybe in the city he could buy some, but he didn’t like the thought. Body snatching wasn’t looked upon kindly, and if the thieves he hired proved incompetent, doubtless they’d sell him out.

He searched the map again, hoping to see some sign of a small village or town that he’d missed, but there was nothing. It would be San Francisco, then, or nowhere.

He spat into the fire, and reached over to turn the roasting rabbit. A bullet whistled by his head, and he ducked to the ground as the retort of a rifle echoed down through the canyon. The rabbit fell into the fire as he ran to the wagon, crouched over.

A second bullet whistled past him as he ran, and a third struck the wagon as he sheltered against it, chipping off a piece of the woodwork. The shots had come quickly, so the shooter was more than likely using a Winchester—and that meant many more bullets to come. He looked up. His own rifle was in a scabbard slung alongside the driver’s seat, far out of reach.

“Hey, whoever you are,” he called. “If you want my wagon or my money, you’re welcome to it! Take whatever you want, alright? It’s yours! Just take it and go!”

Another bullet clattered against the wheel and skimmed one of the spokes, leaving its left edge splintered. So much for conversation!

He rolled under the wagon and crawled backwards towards the horses. Another bullet struck the earth nearby, but he scrambled up and climbed the side of the wagon. He crouched low, using the back of the driver’s seat for cover as he grabbed and drew his rifle from the scabbard.

The feel of it in his hands was reassuring, but the odds were still far from level. The shooter could see him in the firelight, but the shadows and echoes of the canyon concealed the shooter’s position.

Another bullet struck the wagon. Deacon stood, and quickly aimed and fired a single blind shot into the dark before he ducked down again. He looked over at the fire. The rabbit had saved his bacon, but it was burning black now, and the thin haze of drifting smoke only made it harder to see. Without the smoke and blinding glare he might have had a chance of spotting a muzzle flash in the shadows, but there was no way for him to safely put it out. 

A pair of shots rang out in rapid succession. The first struck the rocks behind him, but the second stung his ear as it passed, and he ducked down further as he reached up to check. His fingers came away bloody.

“Lucky shot, you bum,” he called. “I’m surprised you even hit my wagon.”

But it wasn’t, and he knew it. He was too visible, too obvious. He had to run, to get out of the firelight.

He clambered clumsily forwards and dropped down between the two horses, hanging between them for a moment as he waited and caught his breath.

He let go, dropped to the ground, and ran. He tried to visualize the shooter behind him, to guess his position and keep the wagon between the two of them as he ran.

A shot rang out, and he felt a bullet tear through the flesh of his arm as the report echoed. He yelled out in pain, but the shot wasn’t lethal. He turned and ran hard to the side, and at last found shelter in a small alcove in the rocks.

He sat for a moment, and reached to touch the wound. It was bleeding badly, but otherwise felt superficial. It could be bandaged easily enough, given a little time, and he flexed his fingers. It would hurt, but he could shoot with it if he had to.

Still, he would keep that to himself.

“Hah, better that time, better,” he called. “But I reckon your eyes are failing. Think you can catch me before I’m out of range?”

He checked his rifle to make sure it was loaded, wiped his bloodied hand dry on his clothes, and took aim towards the empty firelight.

Would the hunter be goaded out? If he was a patient man, this stand-off could last a while, and Deacon wasn’t in the best shape to endure it. But whoever was hunting him seemed to have a grudge. And hate could spur a man to foolish actions.

Minutes passed in silence, and sweat ran down the back of his neck. The air was cold, but his nerves were getting to him. The blood running down his arm hadn’t slowed, and it felt like a timer ticking down. And the hunter still wasn’t—

Wait!

At the edge of the fire’s light, he saw a shadow. It moved slowly, carefully, trying to stay out of sight—but just like him, they had been betrayed by the firelight. He smiled. At last, the tables were turned.

He aimed, took a deep breath, and fired.

The bullet struck the man high in the chest, and Deacon saw him drop the rifle as he fell back next to the rear wagon-wheel. Hah! The man may have been a decent shot, but he had none of Deacon’s luck.

“You should have just taken the wagon,” he called, as he stepped out and began to walk back. “Now all you’ll get for your efforts is an unmarked grave. And maybe not even that.”

He walked over to the groaning man, and recognized the old fellow he’d seen back in town, glaring at the back of the crowd. He had to be eighty or ninety. The Winchester rifle now lay under the wagon, beyond his reach, and blood was pooling quickly beneath him, but as his bright eyes met Deacon’s they turned black with hate.

“Warlock–murderer,” he hissed. His voice was weak and cracking. “You killed my wife, and our son. And me, now! How much did the Devil pay you?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never met you before, you witless old goat.”

The old man laughed and spat up blood.

“Never, you say! Hah, the man who presumes to hold God’s secrets now plays ignorant? Then let me remind you.” He pulled a silver locket from his neck, and threw it at Deacon. The throw was weak, and Deacon had to stretch to catch it. “Open it.”

Deacon paused for a moment before he clicked it open. A pair of photographed faces stared back, of a man and a woman. The woman was beautiful, the kind he’d have remembered if he’d seen her. She was his type.

But the man…now that he thought on it, he did remember him. A young fellow, from a Colorado plains-town he’d passed through. He’d bought several of the bottles, and—

He looked at the locket photo again, then back at the face of the dying old man, and bent down to hold the picture next to him. His eyes darted back and forth, and found a scar under the eye. Small, but it was there on both men.

Far older, definitely–but the same man.

“Yes, now you remember,” said the old man. He smiled for a moment, but then the anger returned. “Look at me now—see what your witchcraft has wrought!” He coughed up blood, and wiped his hand across his mouth. He glanced at the blood, and then glared at Deacon, his eyes alive with vibrant hate. “I may die here, but I won’t be the last to guess your works. Others will divine your true nature. They will come, as I have. And one of them will end your evil.”

The old man laughed again, and spluttered on his own blood. There was a choking noise, but his eyes stayed locked on Deacon’s as the anger within them faded to nothing.

Deacon stared at the old man’s body, and then over at the wagon.

How much did the Devil pay you?

The purse on his hip felt suddenly heavy.

✫

For a full day Deacon remained camped in the same spot. After he bandaged his arm he dragged the old man’s body away from the fire, but the vultures found it at daybreak. They picked it over eagerly, and soon all that remained was bones and shredded clothes.

Bones. A few days ago, he’d have been glad of them.

He’d not looked inside the wagon, as if somehow the sight of the machine would make things worse. Death was an old friend on the frontier, and it could often be cruel…but this death had rattled him. It felt unclean. A big part of him wanted to pull the machine apart, destroy what he could and scatter the remnants throughout the canyon.

But another part whispered that the idea was foolish, perhaps even madness. After all, who knew if it was truly the machine’s doing? Oh, the old man might have thought so, but what if he’d simply fallen foul of some frontier disease? There were plenty to pick from.

And if it was the machine, well…that still wasn’t his doing, was it? It was his cousin’s contraption, after all, not his own. And he swore he’d built it by following the voice of God. So perhaps it was all God’s will, in the end.

Or the Devil. Perhaps the townsfolk has guessed right about who Frank had been listening to.

He shook his head and laughed. God, and the Devil! He had faith in neither, save as tools to sway a crowd. And no matter the life you led, there would be no afterlife, and no judgement beyond the gastronomical considerations of the worms. Any Gods and Devils that existed seemed to take precious little interest in the machinations of their creations.

No, the machine had not been built to either holy or infernal design, but to the crazed musings of a madman.

And perhaps it killed people. But he couldn’t be sure, could he? And there would be time enough to figure that out. Perhaps, if another man showed up, then he would think again and destroy his machine…or perhaps not. Twice, after all, could still be coincidence. Maybe two more old men hunting him, or three…maybe that would be enough to accept the tale, to truly damn the machine as a wicked contraption.

But until then, he would give it the benefit of the doubt. And in the meantime, there would be money to be made. Not of the Devil, certainly, but money…and, unlike death, money was hard to come by.

He took his purse in his hand and weighed it again. It didn’t feel so heavy after all. And over near the bushes, fresh bones were waiting.