davywavy | The Long Death of Carey Carew.

It started with the fairs and circuses, which is why they were called the Carny Fliers. In the days before the West was crisscrossed by the railroad and the towns and cities of the plains were only connected by muddy, rutted tracks and the stage which rode them, long processions of waggons holding jugglers and animals from Africa and freakshows and fortune tellers and other like distractions would wend their way from place to place to separate the locals from their dollars in return for a few hours of distraction. And above them as they went, tethered to one carriage or other, some of these fairs would have a balloon or a small airship of their own to offer rides and views to anyone brave enough to go aloft.

It didn’t take much for some bright spark to realise that adding an engine to one of those flying boats, and a couple of small sails to steer it by, meant some extra bucks the rest of the time too. Delivering mail, or medicine, or other small but valuable things to farmsteads and out of the way places. And from there the Carny Fliers grew, until in but a few short years these small craft had taken on a life of their own and a new breed had come to fly them. Acting as a lifeline they killed the Pony Express at birth, because who needed to ride some poor horse ragged when a man in an airship would take your mail to Denver, and while he was about it a few cases of brandy, some glassware from France and a consignment of clocks from New York too? And all in a tenth of the time for half of the cost.

They were a bold breed, the Fliers. They had to be. Mostly a boat wouldn’t take a crew of more than one, so they had to be pilot, mechanic, explorer, navigator, salesman and businessman all in one. And they made sure folk knew it, too. They’d hold galas and races at County Fairs to show off their skills and hustle for business, and they decorated their boats to attract attention. They dressed to attract attention too. The menfolk wore the best suits they could afford, and a lady airship flier would make herself up and dress so as she would be as much as a draw as her ship in small towns where a glamorous woman was a rare beast.
They didn’t have much by way of organisation and their business was every man or woman for themselves, teaming up one day and cutting each other’s throats – figuratively speaking, you understand – for a contract the next, but if you were to ask, the one they all looked up to was a man by the name of Carey Carew.

In a trade where you had to be a bit special to make your way, Carey Carew stood out. Folks said he hailed from Utah, or maybe the Dakotas but he never much said, preferring to keep an air of mystery about him. Tall and rangy, with solid, lean muscles gained from working his boat in the worst of weathers, Carey Carew had a reputation of taking the toughest jobs and seeing them through, which meant that the best-paying jobs went to him too as people who wanted to be sure wanted the best.

He had a fine suit of clothes made for him special and shipped from Boston, Massachusetts and he’d wear it to the Carny gatherings along with a watch with a fine gold chain, and with his muscles and jaw like a hero from a Greek tale and fine head of gold hair he’d turn heads.
He called his boat the Bowstar, and she was painted up in greens and golds, European style, with an old flag from the Texarkana Rangers flying aft. Carey liked people to think he’d served with them, but never came out and said as much in case someone who had ridden with that famous body of men were to hear.

So that was the way of him. Carey Carew wasn’t just noticed, he was admired. Admired for his skill, admired for his success, and admired for how he was. And what he liked most of all was when womenfolk admired him, and how they fluttered when he was about with his strong hands and neat hair and fine jacket, and the swagger to his walk and a swing to his shoulders that drew the eye. And he liked to make the most of them admiring him, if you catch my drift.

It was late in the summer of ’77 or maybe ’78. That time of year when a golden light and a stillness lies across the plains, and the sky stretches blue from horizon to horizon without a cloud, but there is something of a warning in the air of what is to come. A heaviness in late afternoon which carries the threat of the storms that will blow down come winter. But for the moment all was well, and Carey Carew had been following a long, curving course up through Nebraska and Colorado and into Wyoming. His ship would make a steady twelve miles per hour – fifteen with a following breeze – and it was a good time to be alive. His summer had been a profitable one, carrying cargoes and running races, and although it would soon be time to batten down for the winter he had a few jobs left on his list which would take him up into Powder River country to the lonely farmsteads up that way. After he was done in those parts he figured he’d turn east to Kansas City and winter there, as it was close enough to civilisation to have the comforts he liked but close enough to the plains so as people would know his name.

Now, one farmer in the Powder River was a big Dutchman called Joseffsen, and for a wife he had taken a local woman from one of the Indian tribes thereabouts. Joseffsen had come with his father from Holland as a boy and his mouth, accustomed to Dutch words, had difficulty with her name so he called her Effie. And she in her turn called him Joe. She did not object to his difficulty with her name, as she knew he was a good man and he treated her with a kindness and consideration which would have been the envy of any woman in the state. He was gentle to her in word and deed, and he had built her a lodge in the manner of her people away from their house, so that those times she tired of his company – which was rare, but every man and woman has those times – she could retire to it and keep her own company for an hour or a day as it pleased her. And she loved him in her turn.

Effie and Joe had inherited their farm from Joe’s father when he passed and they had worked long hours to make it prosper, and prospering it was. Amongst the cargo Carey Carew carried were machined parts to make a wind-pump, which would draw water up from where it was hid in the ground and serve both crops and livestock through the summer. With that Joe hoped to expand into untamed ground thereabouts and maybe take on a couple more hands for the next season, and start laying down some profit after years of long hard work.

And so it was on one of those fine, hot, still, late summer days that the Bowstar came sailing lazily around Pine Mountain and settled in the paddock behind Effie and Joe’s place so skilfully it didn’t even surprise the colt which grazed there. Carey Carew hastened to anchor his boat to the ground and made her cargo fast and as he worked he looked the place over with an appraising eye before taking a moment to detach a feed tube on his engine. Nodding to himself, he reckoned to find and fix that problem would take a couple of days, meaning he was going to be stuck here. That done, he vaulted athletically from his boat and walked with his confident, rolling swagger to greet Effie and Joe – and their daughter, Aveline.

Yes, Aveline. I’d not mentioned her, but as Carey Carew had been making fast his appraising look had taken her in along with the rest of the property and, without appearing to see, he’d taken in how she looked at his finely-liveried air-boat and his finely-formed shoulders and he knew that an extra day or two in the vicinity might well be worth his while. Aveline was pretty as only a daughter of two worlds might be, with the clear Dutch complexion of her father, and her mother’s dark hair and fine features. She’d catch the eye of any man, not that she had much experience of such creatures, which was as Carey Carew hoped. A technical problem with his boat – such a shame, but he’d work his keep for a day or two until it was mended, no problem, sir – was just what was called for.

And so he greeted Joe with good humor and such an interest in his spread that Joe was immediately won over, and he greeted Effie with such charm and solicitousness that she immediately didn’t trust him above half. And he paid no heed to Aveline, like she was just a child and not worth his notice, just giving her a quick nod when introduced. But he made sure that she saw him take a second look and when he did so he saw her color and look away at her feet, and he knew his instincts were right.

Well, all went as you might expect that afternoon. The parts of the pump were unloaded and Joe paid the balance on his account for the work, and then Joe shushed any objections Effie might have had and offered Carey Carew dinner and Carey Carew regretfully declined and said the open sky couldn’t wait and then…
…and then he boarded his boat as if to take his leave but his engine would not turn and he cursed the blamed thing and kicked it, and then looked it over and said he knew what the problem might be but it would take a day, maybe two, to put things right.
Joe could not have been happier to have another man about the place to speak to about the world and have a smoke and a drink with for a day, maybe two. And Effie kept her counsel, and looked on with a quiet suspicion at how convenient it was.

Over dinner that night Carey Carew was the best company he ever was. He told Joe stories of the world from Texas to Oregon and back again. Of the Emperor of California and the steam-trolley cars of Boston and New York. Of Kentucky Walters of the Texarkana Rangers, and the adventures he’d had amongst the Choctaw people. Of the state and county fairs and the sights and shows that travelled from all over the world to be seen by the people of the plains, like a mechanical, musical tiger from India and of fierce warriors from Brazil with their tall, feathered hats and the deadly, poisoned needles they shot from their air-guns. They talked long into the night, those two, sitting out on the porch under the warm summer stars with some long, thin cigars that Carey Carew produced and a bottle of genuine European brandy which Joe had been saving for special. And in her room, Aveline sat in the dark with the window open a crack and listened to those stories too and her heart knew a longing she had not previously known it had.

Now Joe might have been taken with Carey’s ways, but Effie was not. As I’ve said, she didn’t trust him much, and the next day she made sure to keep Aveline busy with chores and away from that brightly-painted air-boat and its brightly-talking owner. There was washing to do at the creek, and a large brass kettle which had never been quite right to be polished, and when that was done the barn needed a fork and rake taking to it to clean out before winter stabling. All in all, Aveline had a busy day and she didn’t even rightly comprehend why.

Of course, Joe noticed none of this. Carey Carew had helped him put together the pump in the morning, and then the two men spent the afternoon looking at that engine in the Bowstar. Joe knew nothing of engines but did not wish to appear stupid, which allowed Carey Carew to run rings round him and laugh at Joe from behind his hand as he made up one problem after another and listened to the countryman make helpful suggestions which sadly all proved to be wrong. At the end of the day, Carey Carew drew the back of his hand across his brow and cursed at the bad luck which meant he’d have to stay another day, and Joe said he was welcome and one more was no trouble at all, and he thought there might be a little of that brandy left if there happened to be any more of those cigars, and so the next day dawned with Carey Carew still on the premises and waiting for his moment.

Effie had thought that out of sight would mean out of mind, and so that morning she found a whole bundle of washing which would take Aveline safely to the creek for a goodly amount of time. Carey Carew looked busy with his boat and so Joe, who knew he wasn’t that much use to him and regretted spending a whole afternoon on that engine when there was better work to be done, fun thought it was, went to repair some fencing. Perhaps an hour after everyone had gone their ways, Carey Carew straightened up and wiped his hands on a cloth, looked about him as casually as he may, and then with a nonchalance to his walk headed in the direction Aveline had taken earlier that morning.

Aveline was surprised but not displeased when the handsome stranger appeared over the crest of the bank. He had the sun behind him so she caught him in silhouette and she put her hand to her eyes to shade the view as he called a soft hallo and headed down the path. He sat himself on a rock and gestured that she shouldn’t stop working on his sake, but instead he talked as she slapped the wet clothing about to loosen the dirt. Knowing of her interest in such things, he talked places he’d been and things he’d saw, whether he’d been there and seen them or not. He talked of the great locomotive and train that served as the palace of the Tsar of the Russias, endlessly rolling over the plains of his vast domain. He spoke of strange lost cities in the deserts of Australia built by hands other than human and of men who fashioned themselves wings and flew in the winds above the deserts of Africa. Of warrior women with bronze spears in the forests of Benin and of the King of Belgium, with his harness that made him as strong as ten men. And as he spoke Aveline’s eyes glistened with far away places and adventure, and Carey Carew moved slowly closer to her until his hand brushed her thigh and rose to stroke her cheek and neck. At that touch, the spell was broken. Aveline caught her breath and pulled away, suddenly afeared of what she was about and unsure of what it might mean and what might occur.

Carey Carew spoke such comforting words as he knew. Reassuring words as might pass between a man and a woman, but a color rose in Avelines’ face and she made to turn away. Quick to fear the situation might go against him and concerned for Effie and Joe’s reaction should Aveline speak with them before he could depart, Carey Carew reached out and took her by the shoulder and pulled her around and to him, and in her turn Aveline raised her hand to slap or push him away. With a quickness born from piloting in the worst of weather, Carey Carew caught her hand as it flew, and so instead Aveline made to cry out.

******

A while later - too long for a short while but not enough for a long while - if Effie or Joe had been watching they would have seen Carey Carew walking back from the creek. He didn’t walk with his usual easy, confident stride, but quicker than normal and like a man who had something on his mind. Once or twice he’d make to look back behind him and then catch himself like he shouldn’t, and straighten up and walk casual-like instead for a time before whatever was on his mind came back and he lapsed back to how he was before. If anyone had been watching they might have noticed that his shoes and trousers hems had mud on them and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up and wet, like he had been standing in the creek and holding something in the water. But there was nobody watching, and whatever it was he might have been doing to put him out of sorts so went unremarked.
Effie and Joe didn’t see him leave. Not before he was back to his boat and gone. He’d swung himself aboard and reattached the pipe in the engine, and then he’d cast off the hawser and allowed his little ship to drift into the sky a little before firing her up and setting out in a South-south westerly direction as if he were headed for the land of the Crow tribe or further afield to the Yellowstone.

Joe was first to realise something was amiss, or rather he was first to see the gap in his paddock where the boat had been. He walked out of the barn and looked about in surprise for a moment or two before casting his eyes skyward at the small shape rapidly receding which had been his guest and couldn’t make head nor tail of it so he called out to Effie. Effie, being an intelligent woman, was quicker to catch the idea. She came out onto the porch where her gaze followed Joe’s pointing, surprised finger and she put two and two together. First thing she did was go and make sure Aveline’s few possessions were still in her cot and, having reassured herself that her daughter had not run away with the fine stranger with his tales of the big city and the wide world, she set to calling to her instead.

Of course, Aveline did not answer. Long before the Bowstar had lifted into the sky she was beyond answering ever again.

***

When the two of them – Effie and Joe - had completed their search and got back to their home from the creek, Joe went inside and shut the door behind him. What he did there this narrative does not tell, but he did not come out again for some long time and I cannot say if he was alive when he did. Effie, as I have said before, was more practical in such matters than Joe. Rather than following her husband into their home, she took herself into the lodge which Joe had built her in the manner of her people and there, with the aid of such herbs as made a smoke that was odd-smelling and made you see things, she made promises that were not to her advantage. But she was a woman who was in that moment beyond caring, and in those promises she repeated over and again a name with a hopeless anger and hatred in her heart. Carey Carew. Carey Carew. Carey Carew.

And whatever it is that listens to promises which are made in anger and hate; promises of blood and revenge, and which goes by many names in many places, heard Effies words and it liked what it heard. And overhead, the sky began to grow dark with heavy clouds bearing the promise of early winter.

It took Carey Carew some time to notice the change in the weather. Once his boat was soaring skyward and making distance he began to calm his heart and still his thoughts and to think that he was leaving what he’d done far enough behind to give him time to vanish into the cities of the coast and never be found long before the name of Carey Carew was known to the police in those parts. He’d got enough gold and silver in coinage, and his boat was worth quite a bit more, to buy him a new name and a new life in California or over the border in the Mexican Empire. He would shed the name of Carey Carew like he’d shed the attentions of many a woman before now and become Mike Jarvis, the son of a forty-niner made good, or Matthew Brookes, the scion of a successful East Coast family. He liked the sound of Matthew Brookes, and he’d lit up one of his small, thin cigars and begun to compose a history for the man he would be before he chanced to look aft at the sky.

At first it looked like a distant thunderhead, dark and threatening but far away so what misery it held would be just that additional piece of bad news for Effie and Joe on he what was sure to already be a pretty poor day for them. It wasn’t until thirty minutes or so later he looked again and saw just how much bigger the cloud had become. A huge pillar of ugly darkness it was, lit from behind by the rich crimson of a late summer sunset. Except that East was to his rear and so the sunset could not be behind the cloud. Unsettled, but still not frightened, he coaxed a few more miles an hour out of the engine of his boat and began to scan the ground ahead for a place he might set down and batten down his boat to ride out what might be a storm. At least, he reasoned, with weather like that in the offing to slow them up Effie and Joe would be hindered by it too – a storm would keep them from saddling up that colt in their paddock and making good time to the telegraph station at Fort Keogh. Still, he cursed himself for not laming that colt before taking off.

Now he began to glance backwards with increasing regularity. Backwards at the clouds and then downwards at the ground for an easy landing, but it soon became clear that the storm to his rear was moving quickly enough that if he slowed to make landfall he would be overwhelmed long before he could descend and make fast and take shelter. Instead, he knew, his best hope was to run before the wind and cloud and…and it was then the clouds opened. Not with rain, but literally split open from side to side. A great gash miles wide, cutting clean across the greys and black of the thunderhead. A crack of deepest red light which suggested nothing more than a mouth, and within that crack rags of cloud which, if you looked at them right, might seem as teeth.

The wind which was at Carey Carews back had been cool and wet as is normal before a storm, but along with that cool wetness it now carried a foul scent, like carrion too long in the sun, or like the breath of a man who’d eaten meat the day before yesterday and not picked the fragments out from along his gums.
There was a catch in Carey Carew’s chest. A sense of horrible presentiment. Not just that this wasn’t no normal storm, but that it was his storm. A storm with eyes, and a maw filled with hunger and an awareness of the winds and rain that would carry it to him. And when it did…

Carey Carew found that he was sitting clean on his backside on the deck of his boat. He didn’t remember sitting or falling, but the shock of what he suddenly knew must come had taken the strength from his legs without his realising it. He scrambled to his feet again as best he could, but with none of his customary swagger. Instead, his hands shook with an unaccustomed clumsiness, and he lurched across the deck to the wheel and took charge. He could outrun any storm, he told himself.

With a fueled boat, a good pilot could ride the winds and stay aloft for days. A great pilot could hold a course a half mile or a mile up for a week. But Carey Carew wasn’t a good pilot, nor was he a great one. He was the best and he knew it as well as anyone. He ran out the outrigger sails and tightened the fuel nozzle to give the hottest burn for the smallest consumption and set a course to the distant mountains. He could fly her between the peaks and through passes that would block any bank of clouds. The storm would beat itself into impotence against the Rockies, and all the while it was doing so he’d be flying leisurely-like down over the bright blue Pacific to California or points South. He’d heard there were opportunities in Bolivia for a shrewd man. Yeah, Bolivia. Why not? That sounded like a place as good as any, surely? Any no tall Dutchmen or suspicious Indian mothers and no stupid daughters who made to cry out rather than doing what any normal, sensible girl would do and plenty had done before. Bolivia. Sure. Why not? And behind him, a distant growl of thunder brought him back to his senses and he bent to his task anew.

They say that the Crow people looked up from their reservation lands and saw a tiny speck that might have been the Bowstar running before a great cloud bank that had all kinds of shades of colour to it which were just wrong, as if the sunset were in the East rather than the West. And they say that was the last time anyone saw for sure Carey Carew.

They say that in Billings, Montana, in the late summer of that year a howl was heard from the sky which wasn’t like no wind anyone had ever known before, and although every grandmother with arthritis in her knees and knuckles swore there was a storm a-coming, none ever came – just a great mass of cloud which passed overheard and which the children said they saw faces in and then woke up crying from their sleep for a week or more thereafter.

They say that year the rangers and prospectors and mountain men in the Rockies were to awake one morning and find great stands of trees knocked clean down as if by a mighty wind, and yet not a one of them had heard so much of a breeze in the night.

They say the Captain of a ship, sailing down the coast past Eureka and the Redwood park in the North of California, used to tell a tale of a great storm bank which passed down the coast one night in the brightness of the moon, and although it was night a great hole was in that cloud from which shone a light like the darkest sunset you ever saw. And that Captain did not go care to go back to sea again after he’d docked in Sacramento, but instead moved to the mountains of Kentucky and married an Irish widow and hid in a root cellar whenever the weather turned bad.

But of Carey Carew, they do not say much more. A good pilot might have stayed aloft ahead of what pursued him a few days or a week. A great pilot, maybe longer. But Carey Carew was the best pilot the plains had ever seen, so who knows how long he ran? Maybe his food and water ran out first, or maybe his fuel, or maybe he couldn’t keep his speed high enough to keep ahead of the winds. Or maybe he’s up there still, running from his death. Running from what the mother of a pretty girl called Aveline had called up with her anger and her hate and given to it his name as prey.

But for sure, Carey Carew never came to California, or the Empire of Mexico, or Bolivia, or anyplace else - and nor was he seen again in any of the towns of the plains.