Mimir takes the bowl and tosses the burning herbs outside. She comes back to the table and, lucky me, begins mixing a whole new brew that this time is going to reveal that not only am I a big fat liar, but so is Traven. I wonder if I should tell the Magistrate who I am. But that would make us liars. We’re fucked either way. Better keep quiet and play this out.
When she gets her hoodoo herbs piled up nice and high, Mimir sets them on fire. A dull yellow smoke drifts from the bowl, filling the camper with a smell like boiling cabbage in scorched motor oil. I start to say something when the contents of the bowl flare up, sucking the smoke back inside. An orange flame rises from the bowl, kicking up sparks. When it’s about a foot high, the flame begins to turn until it’s a miniature tornado, twisting and writhing above the upturned skull.
I say, “If you’re trying to make fondue, you’re doing it wrong.”
Mimir waves a hand in my direction. I stare at her.
“What do you want? Applause?”
“She wants you to put your hand in the fire, asshole,” says Daja.
“Yeah. That’s not happening.”
“I am afraid you must,” says the Magistrate.
I look at Traven.
“What do you say, Father?”
“You were brought here for a reason,” he says. “Do as they say.”
I shake my head. “You people have a shitty way of treating guests. I’m never staying at this hotel again.” But I put out my left hand. The heat hits me at the edge of the bowl. I hesitate.
“Daja. If he does not put his hand into the flame, please shoot the father.”
I hear her pull back the hammer on the pistol.
I push my hand forward.
“Mr. Pitts,” says the Magistrate. “I believe that you are right-handed. Please use that hand.”
I look at him.
“Is Magistrate your real name? Why don’t we both put our hands in the fire?”
Daja grabs my shoulder.
I put out my right hand.
“At least I’m not going to die in Fresno.”
And in I shove my mitt into the tornado.
I’ve been burned before. I’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, beaten, chewed on, and called rude names. I want to say that because of my vast experience in getting my ass handed to me that the fire is no big deal. But that would be a lie. This fire is a big deal. A huge deal. A giant, flaming, goddamn, piece-of-shit, agonizing, I-want-to-rip-my-own-head-off deal.
I lower my head. Close my eyes and grit my teeth. I’m sweating like a hog tap-dancing in a sauna. I want to scream the paint off the fucking walls. But I don’t make a sound. If I’m going to end up Captain Hook at the end of this, at least they won’t get that little piece of satisfaction.
I open my eyes. The flames are more intense than before and have changed color from a deep orange to a pale blue.
I lock eyes with Mimir. She nods and waves her hand again. I start to pull my hand back, going slow because I’m not looking forward to the sight of my charred stump. The moment I move, the Magistrate leans across the table, grabs my wrist, and shoves my hand back into the flames.
I’m close enough that I could lunge across the table and shove his smug face into the tornado until his eyes burn out. But Daja has the gun on Traven. I really want to do something, but I don’t know what. The pain is really getting to me and I think about Candy and everything I’ve lost and left behind, and it’s all so goddamn sad it’s like a Roy Orbison song, so I do the only logical thing.
I start singing “In Dreams.”
The Magistrate’s face shifts to somewhere between pissed and puzzled. But I keep singing, staring into the fire. Mimir sees an opening and snatches the bowl off the table. She douses the fire and slams the bowl down hard. The Magistrate lets go of my wrist and sits down, staring at Mimir. Fuck ’em both. I pull back my hand and look it over. Not a scorch mark or even a blister. The Magistrate’s oracle has some good hoodoo.
Mimir slaps the table. “If you wish to keep my services, do not interfere with my work again,” she shouts at the Magistrate.
He holds up his hands.
“My apologies, Mimir. It will not happen again,” he says. “But what did the flame tell you?”
The oracle gets up and dumps everything outside again. When she sits down she looks at me.
“He is who he says he is.”
I feel Daja shift her weight. I don’t have to look to know her pistol is now pointed at me.
“He is Mr. Pitts?”
“Yes.”
That was unexpected. Leave it to lunatics like this guy to hitch himself to a third-rate seer. Still, it’s nice for me. I don’t have to start killing people right away.
“Thank you, Mimir. Again, my sincere apologies.”
I take a big breath and let it out, happy me and Traven are still in one piece.
The oracle gathers her gear, wheezing in the respirator. As she gets up, she gives me a look. I have no goddamn idea what it means or why she lied or why Traven and I are still alive. When she leaves I look from Daja to the Magistrate.
“I think your pet monkey is getting tired. Why don’t you throw it a banana and send it home?”
Daja smacks me on the side of the head with the gun barrel.
“Daja. It is over,” says the Magistrate. “Put your gun down. Mr. Pitts has passed his first test. He will be staying with us for the time being.”
I rub the side of my aching head and raise my eyebrows.
“First test? I am going to crucify you people on Yelp.”
Traven gets up.
“Pitts passed the test. May we go?”
The Magistrate shakes his head.
“No. Mr. Pitts I would like to leave. You I would like to stay,” he says. He looks up at Daja and frowns. “And I would like a word with you as well.”
Traven pulls me to my feet. I’m a little light-headed from the pain and it’s hard to stop rubbing my hand. The father gives me a little shove to the door. I look back at the Magistrate.
“What’s under the tarp, Roy Bean?”
“The future,” he says. “Ours and now possibly yours.”
“I’ve got my own future. I don’t need yours.”
The Magistrate gives me a tiny smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Pitts. We will talk again soon.”
On the way out I bump my shoulder into Daja’s like an annoyed sixth grader. She’s already in trouble with Dad, though, so she doesn’t say a word.
Outside, I have to lean against the side of the motor home for a minute. The fire test took more out of me than I was ever going to let those assholes see.
The camp is weirdly quiet. A handful of Hellions attend to cook fires. A few others move trucks and construction equipment around. But the vast majority of the havoc is gathered by a hill of burning crosses erected on the other side of whatever is under the tarp. Their heads are down as a group of robed creeps perform some kind of ceremony.
So, this really is a crusade after all. And now I’m part of it. Hallelujah.
I listen at the motor-home door, trying to hear if Traven is all