Chapter Eight:

Daughters

There was nothing that could not be fixed by a good glass of cognac.

This much Ezra Standish was willing to concede as he sat comfortably in one of the leather wing chairs at the home of Orin Travis, at the same time his comrades were rescuing William Styles's daughter. Convinced the Professor and his daughter were in danger, a sentiment Ezra readily shared, Chris Larabee had ordered the rest of the seven to remain at Orin's side for the rest of the evening. Despite the Errans' failure tonight at the museum, he did not underestimate the veracity of the cultists to retrieve the missing pieces needed to acquire the Tablet of Destiny.

Fanatics were relentless and the Seven who had spent the last four years crisscrossing the globe, often encountering races and groups willing to die to possess an artefact, could personally attest to this fact.

While Josiah, JD and Nathan were ensuring the modestly sized property was secured, Ezra was presently in the study with Orin and his daughter, Mary. Having served with the Professor when Orin Travis was the commander of their regiment during the war, Ezra had always admired the man who as a soldier, never allowed his men to ride into battle without him. As a commander, he had been fair and decisive, treating every one of them with almost paternal affection and while his manner was scholarly, he was wise with more than just academic knowledge.

When Chris Larabee had been at his lowest, it was Orin who came to his rescue, giving Chris a purpose to which the former army captain was undoubtedly suited. Thanks to Orin, Chris had sought them all out and saved them from the drudgery their life had become since the end of the war. In setting them on a new path, he improved all their fortunes and there was not one member of the seven who would not gratefully lay down his life for Orin Travis for that blessing.

"Is Mr Larabee always so paranoid?" Mary Travis asked as she lay stretched across the leather sofa, while her father sat across Ezra in his favourite of the two wing chairs in front of the lit fireplace. While it was not terribly cold, the single log on the fire had warmed the room enough to make it comfortable for the rest of the evening.

"Unfortunately, yes," Ezra had to admit. Even though his arm was in a sling fashioned by Nathan, Ezra's Remington model 51 pistol was within reach should danger come calling. "However, in these matters, his instincts for danger are quite sharp and if he believes the Erran might make a further attempt to retrieve the Heart, it is not a claim I would take lightly."

"He's right Mary," Orin said to her gently, aware that it rankled at her fiercely independent nature to be told what to do. "Chris is seldom wrong about these things and judging by what took place tonight, it's clear the Erran are escalating their attempts to retrieve the Heart."

Mary frowned, thinking about the man with his icy coloured eyes and his unbelievably chauvinistic manner and wondered how on Earth, he'd managed to stay married without his wife doing him serious harm. "I suppose, it was always going to get this way the instant the Heart was uncovered."

"Will was right about that," Orin said with a sigh, taking a sip from his own glass of cognac, before staring into the amber contents, his expression softening with sadness. "He always understood it better than the rest of us."

"I'm so sorry dad," Mary offered softly, aware her father's heart was still raw from the loss of his oldest friend.

"They killed him," Orin stared at Ezra. "Will always expected they would, because he knew what it was, he understood the curse around it better than the rest of us."

"The curse?" Ezra sat up and paid attention. "I was unaware of a curse surrounding the Tablet of Destiny."

"It isn't a curse as such," Orin quickly clarified. "It's more of the mythology surrounding the tablet. Although the way Will spoke of it, he actually believed it supernatural elements and unfortunately, some events did play out rather coincidentally to fit his paranoia."

"Oh?" The gambler remarked with interest.

"Well for instance, none of us have sons. According to the mythology, whoever possesses the Tablet of Destiny would sire an incarnation of Tiamat, the Mesopotamian goddess who first created the Tablet as a gift to her son. Part of the ritual to give the Tablet its power of uncreation is to provide a vessel in which Tiamat could inhabit when she returned to the mortal plane. Only Tiamat can unlock its power. And since Tiamat is female..."

"The sacrificial lamb in this case would be the same." Ezra concluded.

"Well that's just lovely," Mary snorted. "If we're not used as chattel, we're used as sacrifices."

"It's just a story," Orin smiled and then faced Ezra. "However, Will believed because we each had a Pillar, we were cursed to have only daughters who would act as the receptacle for Tiamat's spirit, since we each had the potential to unlock the power of the Tablet. So, when not one of us produced a son, Will started to buy in to the story. Not that I'm complaining of course," he said giving Mary an affectionate smile which she returned. "But the fact is, Hank had Sarah, Donnie had Julia and Will and I had, Alex and Mary."

"I can see why he might be concerned," Ezra remarked, seeing the greater danger he wondered if Orin was aware of. "Orin, it may not simply be the pieces they're acquiring. Eventually, they may come to realise," he paused and looked at Mary. "They may need your daughters."

Orin's expression darkened revealing to Ezra he was unsurprised by this possibility. He cast a glance of worry at Mary and with that one gesture, revealed to Ezra how much it preyed on his mind.

"I know.," he admitted. "Will suspected it might be the case. When the Heart was finally found, he was almost panicked. He was terrified they wouldn't just come for the Pillars, but they would try to take the girls. Maybe one or all of them. He wasn't sure. It's why he went out of his way to make sure his Pillar was well hidden. If the Erran can't find the Tablet, then there would be no reason for them to need the girls."

"Dad," Mary sat up. "Do you think that's why they took Alex?"

"I'm not sure," Orin confessed. "I think it's possible. The Erran didn't make a move towards you at the museum."

"That simply might have been because of a lack of opportunity. If I am not mistaken, you acquitted yourself quite well when you did encounter these fanatics."

Mary shrugged. She'd learned how to fight when she had first become a journalist, having realised she needed to defend herself in the instance the pursuit of a story landed her in trouble. Spending time with Crystal Bennett, one half of the famous Bennett Sisters who in their day displayed their skills in boxing, wrestling and fencing on Vaudeville, Mary learned how to defend herself under the lady's tutelage.

"And Alex was alone out there," Orin pointed out, somewhat proud of his daughter at cultivating that particular ability.

Ezra nodded in agreement at Orin's assertion. "The unfortunate passing of Sarah Larabee places her out of their reach but, what of the last member of your set?"

"Donnie's daughter Julia?" Orin remarked. "I'm not sure where she is. After Donnie passed, Eleanor took Julia home to England. We lost touch after she married again. "

"It might be prudent to try and find the young lady," Ezra remarked. "She could be in danger."

"I can use my resources at the paper to track her down," Mary suggested. "I've got a few contacts in London who might be able to track Julia down."

"She might be going under her step father's name," Orin suggested. "I believe it's Pemberton."


Josiah Sanchez scanned the street beyond the manicured lawn of Orin Travis's Huning Castle home and saw no one on the street, yet he felt uneasy. The area was largely undeveloped, and the professor's home was separated by his neighbour by a row of spruce pines that cast long shadows on the single lane road running past the place. Although he saw no movement amongst the trees, the signs of life were plenty. Horned owls and insect chirping sang their nocturnal songs to the full moon beaming down at them.

While Chris Larabee's paranoia was justified after the incident at the museum, Josiah wondered if he was right on this occasion about the Erran resurfacing so soon after their aborted effort to reacquire the Heart. Clutching the Barretta in his hand, Josiah scanned the area once more and started to withdraw into the house, when a sharp pain stabbed at his neck, like a horsefly had decided to take a good bite out of him.

"Damn," he cursed, reaching for the back of his neck where the pain was concentrated. When his fingers grasped the small, sharp object, he knew immediately what it was. Long and thin, Josiah stared at it in his palm, noticing the small spot of blood at the pointed tip where it penetrated his skin. It was a blow dart. They'd spent enough time in the jungles of South America for him to recognise immediately what it was.

"Nathan...!" He tried to shout, knowing what was coming next but the concoction introduced into his body, worked fast and the words escaped his lips in little more than a whisper. When he slid to his knees, Josiah didn't even notice. The floor beneath him seemed to disappear and suddenly, the tumble he took seemed very long and he was plunging through the darkness, like he'd stepped into an abyss.

Except it was an abyss he knew all too well.

When he raised his head, he knew immediately he was at the creek. Their creek, his mind thought subconsciously. He could smell the light pungent odour of algae clinging to a cluster of rocks at the edge of the water. As his stomach clenched, he saw himself surrounded by green grass and wild irises, remembering with sadness that it was her favourite. The creek looked like any other in the wilds of Colorado where he grew up, framed with cattails and coloured by smartweed, their pinkish flowers protruding through the water, managing to penetrate the discards of bur-reed floating across the surface.

Josiah always marvelled at how beautiful it was and often thought it was here, he felt closest to God, as if this place was the crucible of all his good works. When he sat here on the grass, Josiah thought this was how Adam must have felt during his first night on Earth, marvelling at the beauty of God's imagination. Gazing at the stars above, he took in the world knowing the almighty was continuing his artistry on the canvas of the still forming universe.

And yet it was here, he broke with God forever.

His God was nowhere that capricious. No, the break was entirely of his doing. As he remained on his hands and knees, staring at the creek, Josiah wished he could be anywhere but here. Above him, the moon looked on with cold indifference, perfectly aware of his crime and offering him no sympathy. In the waking world, far removed from this day dream or nightmare he found himself trapped, Josiah had never gone back to the creek after this night.

This place was the source of his eternal penance, where he failed his God by forgetting the Almighty hadn't just created man, but also woman. That giving one's heart to a woman was also part of his plan and there was no sin in it. All his life, Josiah knew what he wanted to be, a man of God. He had felt it from the moment he heard the Lord's prayer as a child and knew nothing but the wish to stand in God's house and serve him. Josiah had wanted it so much. His father, also a preacher, never seemed to have the light Josiah felt, and it was this that caused the rift between them.

When Josiah went to seminary school to begin his journey to the priesthood, it had been the happiest day of his life. Until he met Emma.

Against all good sense, he had fallen for her hard and in secret, they conducted their love affair. She was the daughter of the local baker, with sun streaked hair of dark gold and blue eyes that danced with gold dust. He was smitten for the first time and it was the lack of experience that kept Josiah from keeping it from going as far as it had. By the time he realised the danger, it was too late, and he was forced with a choice.

To serve God or to be with his darling Emma.

On the banks of this very creek, he'd told her he was not willing to give up God for her even though they were not far away from the spot where they'd surrendered their virginity to each other. She had wept but made no demands of him, uttered no words of anger or bitterness at having come second to God. She was raised by good Christian folk and understood his fealty to the Almighty. Josiah had kissed her on the cheek and told her he'd carry her in his heart forever, but this had to end. She agreed.

Getting to his feet, Josiah felt himself drawn to the edge of the creek, even though he had no wish to go. He stared up at the stars and saw the moon had turned its back on him, it's now crescent shape squinting in distaste. The clouds flew across the sky, like they too, couldn't wait to get away from him.

Josiah stopped at the embankment and knew what he would find. He knew it and yet he couldn't turn away. This scene was burned into his memory after twenty-six years of nightmares that could only be quelled by liquor. It was why he so readily took care of Hannah, not only because she was his sister, but because he would not fail another woman again.

She lay on the water, face down, her gold hair spread around her in swirls, her white night dressed billowing about her. Like he had so many times before in his nightmares, he rushed into the water, not caring that it was too late. In his dreams, he lived with the hope perhaps once he might reach her in time. Even as the cold water swirled around his ankles, sending chills through his body as he waded quickly towards the figure in white, Josiah was sobbing in despair.

He was still weeping when he reached her, cursing himself for not realising when he made his speech to her that God would always come first, she was facing ruin because of their baby. She had kept silent, refusing to compound her sin by trapping him in marriage and bearing his resentment for taking him away from his calling. He had gone to the creek that night to say goodbye, unaware she had already done it.

Holding her dead body in his arms Josiah wept in anguish, feeling the cold flesh and knowing then and there, he would never be able to go to his God...


After the pain had dwindled, Nathan stumbled forward trying to remember where he was. The last time the healer looked, he was standing in a rather stately home in the middle of nowhere outside of Albuquerque. He was walking along the porch, making sure the area was clear of any trespassers, not that anyone could really sneak up on the place, except from the side Josiah was patrolling, with its small forest of spruce pines. The terrain he was studying was covered in knee high grass and punctuated by trees, a good distance from each other and the grounds of the place.

Nathan was confident, they'd spot anyone before they got too close. He should have known he was tempting fate.

He knew what was happening the instant the fog descended on him. He'd been dosed with something and it was strong. He could feel the warmth of its poison filling his veins, infecting his body and his mind with each beat of his heart. He did a little better than Josiah, who was presently lying on the grass on the other side of the house, weeping openly about someone called Emma, only he could see.

"JD!" Nathan called out before the fog surrounded him completely.

Panicked, he flailed his hands desperately, trying to dispel it even though somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was an illusion. A sudden explosion of artillery fire blew the fog away like the Lord had let out his breath in a sudden exhale. When it cleared, he was standing in the middle of a battlefield. He knew which one immediately.

He was standing there, surrounded by mud and death, hearing artillery fire exploding in his ears as the smell hit him. Not just of blood or the scent of burnt gunpowder, but the more insidious smells, the piss and shit expelled when a body stopped working. There was a lot of that on this day. He stood there with his medical kit, confronted by so many dead, he didn't know what to do. They lay on the plain with their horses, with bodies broken and bleeding, like an uncovered graveyard.


"Come with me mister!" The boy grabbed his hand. Nathan stared in shock at this child wearing the uniform of a cavalry soldier. He was so scrawny, with dark hair and staring at Nathan, pleading in his cobalt coloured eyes.

"Where are we going?" Nathan had asked, because there was just so many injured, he had to get to work, had to save them all. The boy didn't answer, choosing instead to guide him by the hand and drag him across the muddy field. Nathan followed, his boots squelching in mud and blood as he followed the kid, ignoring the sounds of weeping and screaming. There were so many, so many he had to help and yet he was following the boy.

"Ezra!" The boy skidded to his knees, next to a soldier about his age, a blond man with sea green eyes, wearing a chest wound oozing so much blood, it was turning the mud into a red paste.

"Calm yourself Master Tanner," the man who was clutching a deck of cards like some men held a rosary, was staring into the sky. "I am still here."

"I brought a medic!" The boy said turning to Nathan, "he's gonna help you."

Nathan was not about to make any promises. He couldn't. Not with that gaping hole in the man's chest. This was no place for battlefield surgery even if he knew how to fix a wound like that, which he did not.

The man blinked and looked at him. Nathan knew what was running through his mind. He'd heard the man's accent and knew the wounded soldier was from the south. Nathan expected him to refuse the help because while the kid saw a medic, this man probably saw a nigger, and nothing more. Nathan braced himself for the insult and prepared to ignore it no matter how offensive the son of a bitch was going to be. Words, Nathan could tolerate, but not his guilt if he allowed someone to die because of it.

"I seriously doubt you will be able to do much for me, but I appreciate the attempt nonetheless," his would be patient said instead.

Nathan stared at him in surprise, not expecting that answer. "Well now you've hurt my feelings. At least let me try before you go thinking I'm going to let you die."

"Be my guest," the southerner said weakly. "Although we could make it more interesting if we could put some money on it."

Nathan remembered giving the man a look, wondering what kind of lunatic tried to gamble while he was bleeding out on the battlefield.

In the end, it didn't matter because he had saved Ezra Standish that day, with young Vin Tanner watching closely. What he didn't realise until much later, this southerner with a penchant for scams and talking like he'd swallowed a dictionary, would become his best friend.

But this was not the scene that confronted Nathan as he stood on the battlefield now. There was no sign of any scrawny child covered in blood, wearing a uniform too big for him. All there was, were broken wounded bodies calling for him, begging him for help. They surrounded him, their desperate eyes pleading for help but there was just too many. He saw their sunken eyes as they dragged themselves across the ground, past the dead bodies of fallen comrades and limbs blown apart by mortar fire. He heard their horses braying pitifully, haunting the air because he could do nothing for them.

He felt them clawing at his ankles, their fingers digging into his skin and their desperate eyes trapping him with guilt and futility.

"Please Mister!"

Nathan turned to the familiar voice and then nearly screamed because he could only stare at Vin Tanner, looking at him with half a face. It looked like someone had shot Vin in the head and blown apart half his skull. He looked at Nathan with his skull cracked and exposed. Vin reached for Nathan with his small hand, missing fingers, while bloated flies buzzed around the open sore of his head.

"You gotta help my friend."

And as Nathan looked over his shoulder, he saw the rest of the seven were there too, looking like rotting corpses on the battlefield, smiling at him.