Ah, the West Canadian frontier... It's the 19th century. Out here, westward expansion is just as much a big deal as it is south of the border...as is the fur trade.
In Britain, the slave trade is dead...and has been since last century. Hell, Napoleon was still fighting his many wars, when Britain gave up slavery. Alas, you can't expect Britain's colonies and ex-colonies to adapt, just because. In many ways, Britain was a great colonizer. But you know, you can't expect the Union Jack to be everywhere at once. And you can't expect William Wilberforce to outlive everyone.
In the Western Provinces, the slave trade is, in fact, dead...or at least, is so de jure. But while changing the law is easy, expecing the black and white halves of society to adapt to one another is going to take a LOT longer; generations so, in fact. In the Western Provinces, though, there aren't very many blackfolks to speak of. And very few of them come from where you'd think.
Nearby, there's a mine. Here, local emigrants work. They rappel/climb/cart their way down into the tunnels. They never come up with much...or at least, not apparently so. One day, though, this mine will make a man rich. It just...won't be any of them. And yet, they've clearly been promised SOME sort of compensation. Otherwise, most of these jackasses would rather commit suicide than do someone else's will...if it wasn't their children's.
As the day passes, the light is soon lost, one photon at a time. Soon, it'll be too dark to work. The foremen would rather not think so... Then again, there are a lot of wives in the local town who'd LOVE to sue the company, if something bad happened to their husbands because they were forced to work at night.
Whether by foot or aback a mule/hinny, the miners soon return to their homesteads. They've reaped what they can from the earth today. Tomorrow, the job will resume once more, bright and early. If only a rooster could survive out here without getting eaten by a marten or a mink... But then, a lot of miners are also thankful, at the same time, that no rooster ever does crow out here.
One of the miners stays close to the crowd, as he makes his way back to the shanties and shotgun houses. In his youth, he was rather racist. Today, he's only half-so. And he's married to a black girl...who, as his memory says it, would've been his slave mere years ago. A lot of his coworkers tease him for having done this. Alas, he can only take so much of it. And his coworkers will NEVER know when to stop.
His wife isn't just any black girl, though. In a few moments, in fact, we'll find out just how so.
Ah, the homestead... It's not much to look at... But then, what would one expect? This is the 19th century, after all. The first Industrial Revolution ended a few decades ago. Soon, another will rise. And yet, would it be enough to turn this run-down shotgun house into a dream-worthy palace? I'd rather doubt it. In my experience, though, the Canadians are a bit harder to predict than most nations. Frankly, I didn't know they ran a TV show monopoly, of sorts, until a few years ago.
Murray, the miner, has found his way home. Now, he lies on the couch. Here, he rests. The mine can be a real bitch, some days. Actually, it's a bitch EVERY day. She's as big as Fenrir, from Norse myth. And she's just the bitchy devil that Fenrir looks like in the movies; not that I've seen very many starring her. (The Fenris twins in the Gifted wouldn't count...as much as they probably should.)
Like a panther in the night, Murray's wife approaches. She stops in a doorway. (Rude, I know; but then, how do you think voodoo got such a bad reputation?) Again, she's black. She's not very old. Also again, she was once a slave. She wasn't one for very long, but you know how the youth perceives time. If they're miserable enough, and they often are, three days, to a sole youth, can feel more like three centuries. (Their words; not necessarily mine.)
This is Tabs. If you think she doesn't look the same, you're right. Truth be told, though, she is the same. She's just...been transformed, for the sake of this Ramadan cruise...as has her mother, her surrogate sister, and...the woman who might as well be her surrogate mother, considering how she fits into all of this.
All day, as her husband works in the mine, she awaits him here. On most days, the brothels creep here and there, attempting to procure her. They don't always ask nicely. In fact, they seldom do. Hence, Tabs's desire for Murray is hot. Lucky for her, she doesn't need magic to figure out how to deal with him.
She lures him off the couch. She barely has to drag him. She barely has to ask. As she leads him down the hall, she starts peeling off his clothes, one article at a time. They make a path to the bed chambers, as this happens...
Soon, they bathe together. She takes her time. If he's asleep, she can't tell. Nothing he does is deliberate. Or rather, it doesn't look so. Men, after all, aren't known for cultivating self-control as if it was kudzu in a vacant lot. White ones are especially not this way. Black men, too, get crap for getting too aggressive. But then, that might be a reason why the greater world thought it'd be a good idea to enslave them to begin with. Even so, that still doesn't explain how the hell the crocodile is just as aggressive, and yet, impossible to domesticate...
Miner's scars cover Murray's back...and much else of his body. Some of them never heal. Thankfully, though, most of the latter are more right-brained in nature (i.e. they're either emotional, or psychological, or both). On him, they look very manly. If they didn't creep Tabs out so much, she'd love Murray even more just for having them.
Alas, as an ex-witch, Tabs understands how easy it can be for dark spririts to enter no-maj bodies via miner's scars. A lot of such spirits, after all, dwell within mines. Many are from the Day Dimension and have been exiled by their day-loving races to a place of darkness...and not to mention aquifers. They never flee very deep into the soil, once having been exiled... But then, miners could dig deeper into hills for riches.
If Tabs still had her powers, she could do a few spells, and find out if these demons are actually inside his body. Alas, Selma was very clear about the rules of this "game." A Ramadan cruise is special, after all, because you rely on someone else to help you move forward, rather than having to call all of the big shots yourself.
Tabs still isn't sure what the fuck the Emkic family sees in Islam that's so much better than anything in New England. Even so, Tabs isn't here to judge. She wants to...but as any bimbo can see, it wouldn't do a speck of good.
For now, though, Tabs just wants to lose herself, in just how manly this great miner looks, when he's down. She imagines how sun-like and majestic he must look at the mine, the very few times he gets to stand on the highest cliff... But of course, if they were all men, they would've seen his majesty a billion times in other men. There's an old saying: only men know how good women are, and only women know how good men are.
Onward into the ever-chilling night, the bath scrubs. It'd better not last too much longer, though. In the morning, Murray's got to rise and go to work all over again. Sunday's still a long way away. But then, in this world, it isn't so much Sundays that one should anticipate as it is Fridays. (Don't get too excited, though; Fridays in Islam don't mean what you'd expect.)
It's just as well that Murray and Tabs don't go to church, though...or even mosque. Murray's a miner; he'd surely rather spend a Sunday in bed than surrounded by people who don't know thing number one about how awful mining is. Tennessee Ernie Ford, after all, won't be born for five more decades.
As she bathes her husband, Tabs starts singing under her breath. She repeatedly sings the chorus for TLC's "Scrubs." She isn't trying to; Tabs's inner black chick...specifically her Atlanta backstreets-native one...is actually taking a precarious hold. She sways a little, while half-rapping the hip hop song's chorus.
It's bound to happen...and it does. Murry wakes. He turns his head, slightly, while observing his wife in a future-native trance.
"Voods," he asks. "Are you okay?"
Tabs blinks, nods, and gets back to scrubbing him. "Sorry," she says. "For a moment there, I was...somewhen else."
He nods. "I suppose I know the feeling. After four hours in the mine, a very long holiday in the Caribbean starts to sound alarmingly..." He turns around again. "Did you just say you were somewhen else?"
An awkward moment follows. Tabs doesn't take long, though, to improvise an explanation.
"My ancestors were from the Caribbean. We often sang songs to get through the day. This might sound strange to you, but... I sometimes like to imagine what their lives were like through their own POVs. I am their descendant, after all. In a perfect world, that'd be more practical."
Murray turns back around and nods. "Now that you mention it," he mutters, "singing DOES help the workday pass..." He looks up and thinks. "Maybe I should try something like that at the mine tomorrow..." He raises his finger. "Or better yet..." He pauses and shakes his head. "Nah, nah. That's stupid."
For the time being, Tabs dismisses the mysterious second part of her husband's rant. She probably shouldn't, though. It turns out there's a devil in that bottle. And hence, it likely wants to see someone dead...if not Murray himself. T.G. Shepherd couldn't have said it better...if he ever will.
Outside, the sun sets. Shadows creep over the wild that surrounds.
Out from holes in the hills, pikas emerge. They're joined, in various quantities, by marmots, kangaroo rats, lemmings, porcupines, kit foxes, sable martens, skunks, and cacomistles. In small vales, nightjars nestle. Near springs, toads creep. Salamanders crawl from the spring waters. Some fish rise towards the surface, now that the ospreys and sea eagles have gone to roost. Up trunks, stick insects creep. Within bunches of grass, crickets chirp. Out from caves and hollow logs, moths flutter...
Matters around the shotgun house have become rather inactive. That way, they must stay for six hours, or so.
From the porch canopy, wind chimes hang. They sing a little song, each time the wind blows.
Inside, husband and wife have gone to roost themselves. Peacefully, they lie near one another. She's on her side, towards his back. He's on his side, too, facing away from her.
Murray opens his eyes. Hence, he's only feigning sleep. Or rather, he was. Things are about to get steamy. And I don't mean sexual. At times, though, I might... But then, Murray will just have to hope that Tabs doesn't learn the true nature of what follows...
Gently, he pries her hands (and ebony arms) away from himself. This is a lot harder than it looks. She's one of the most sexual black women he's ever met. But then, he wouldn't have such a woman any other way. Alas, all that'll have to wait. The promise of power and profit waits for him downhill...so to speak.
In another room, he dresses. In moments like these, he's thankful not to share a house with a pet; especially not a noisy one. But then, if he was truly a crook who's always in a hurry, he'd never heed such details. Hence, he'd never give thanks for them. But then, what does one think a crook is made of?
In her bed chambers, Ms. Murry still sleeps. She couldn't be more oblivious to her runaway husband's activities.
In another room, Murray moves a rug. He lifts a trap door out from its setting. Into it, he descends. Behind him, he re-closes his way out.
He surfaces just outside the house. It wasn't very far to walk. But then, does anyone really expect it to be? Murray's received certain visitors through this door before. His wife still doesn't know they were ever here...or that they're the real reason a gaslight lamp once got smashed.
Once surfaced, he bypasses the lot's perimeter. Once past it, he whistles for his mount. He does so while imitating a bird call. If his wife's awake, she'll mistake him for a real bird.
His mount emerges. He's a very large goat. Conveniently enough, he still tacked. Murray and his boys, as you might expect, are VERY bad at remembering to un-tack their mounts after a job.
From atop a cliff, Murray repels onto his mount. (He'd rather not tell you, of course, of all those times he's tried to do this, only for his mount to move over at exactly the wrong time...) In ways, Murray's butt is still sore from those moments. The soreness is almost enough to make all of those Day Dimensional demons in his miner's scars look like jokes.
He's mounted. Now, he kicks his mount. Onward, down and up alpine trails, he rides. Soon, he'll be united with his brotherhood. Soon, they'll be doing with masks what they can't do with miner's passes...for whatever that's worth.
This is an alpine spring. Into it, water flows from holes in the alpine rock. For many a local, it's a lifeline. The beavers haven't found it yet. But then, to date, it has had no need for beavers.
Here, Murray stops. He doesn't bother to dismount. But then, he seldom bothers to un-tack his mount, either. Hence, it's expected. By his oncoming company, he won't be judged. They've got the same blood on their hands...or rather, they will one day, if something worse ever happens that's out of their control because their mounts were tacked in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He makes another bird call, signaling his arrival. By now, he's too far away from his shotgun house to be overheard by his wife. And he knows it.
One by one, five other men ride forth. Their mounts look similar...and yet, not too much so. Some of them wear masks. One wears a blindfold...however that works.
They're joined by six peccaries. Each one is missing an appendage. Each appendage has been replaced with a certain prosthetic. Most of these prosthetics are factory-made, iron-forged, and/or equipped with some sort of mechanized textile feature. Some of them are powered via miniaturized steam engines. Some of them can be improvised into some sort of canal-making tool.
The team's assembled. Now, it's time to go to work. Someone's certain to get hurt. But as you might expect, that's a risk all six of these rogues-by-night are willing to take.
Also, those demons from the Day Dimension I talked about before? Some of them live inside these here peccaries. In some cases, they're the reason why their peccary hosts are so sapient, and capable of understanding what's expected of them. These no-majs had better tread forth with a light foot, though; anything that comes from evil, after all, never stays useful for long.