The chronicles of john z.., p.1
The Chronicles of John Zebedee, page 1
The Chronicles of John Zebedee
Elizabeth Schechter
Published by Elizabeth Schechter, 2023.
The Chronicles of John Zebedee
Copyright © 2023 Elizabeth Schechter
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Ravens Wing Books
Previously published on Kindle Vella as:
John Zebedee and the Heir of the Elvenlands (2022)
John Zebedee and the Monstrous Town (2022)
John Zebedee Meets the Witch-Queen of the Elvenlands (2022)
Editor: Michael Schechter
Cover design by GetCovers
Ravens Wing Books
ravens-wing-books.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Note:
John Zebedee and the Heir of the Elvenlands
John Zebedee and the Monstrous Town
John Zebedee Meets the Witch-Queen of the Elvenlands
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About the Author
Author’s Note:
A MULTITUDE OF THANKS to Valerie Willis of 4 Horsemen Press. These stories were originally written for a shared world project that she created, and which included both the setting of Wraithtown and the character of Jacob Wraith. The project had to be cancelled, but my contribution was already complete, and she graciously allowed me to continue to use both the place and the character that she created.
John Zebedee and the Heir of the Elvenlands
CHAPTER ONE
Fireflies
1870 — SKULLYVILLE, ARKANSAS
There was something about the sparkle of sunlight on water. Something nostalgic. Something familiar. Even though these weren’t the waters of his childhood, the sparkles were the same, and they brought with them a sense of peace that John had found hard to come by since he’d last come this way.
He leaned on the rail of the topmost deck of the steamboat, listening to the creak and groan of the great paddle-wheels at the stern, looking out at the bank of the Arkansas River. There were ruins on the bank, ruins that shouldn’t have been there. The last time he’d been here, those ruins had been a decommissioned fort and a thriving town. Fort Coffee had housed a school for Choctaw boys, and there was a sister school, an hour ride further down the river in Choctaw Agency. The people here lived in peace with the Choctaw tribes that made their homes on the far side of the river.
That had been before the war, though. How much else had changed? His destination was some three hours ride south of the fort — would the dugout still be there? He hadn’t considered that it might be gone. He hadn’t realized the fighting had come this far west. What would he do if the place was gone? Where would he go then?
“Now, if you keep staring like that, son, you’re liable to break something.”
The voice was slightly accented, very pleasant, and entirely unexpected; John jumped, reaching for the gun that he wasn’t wearing. It took him a moment to remember that the war was over. That he wasn’t under attack. The old man who had startled him raised his empty hands. “Easy, son. I apologize. I gave you a fright. I should have realized you were a soldier, and I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”
John swallowed, trying to slow his heartbeat. He forced a smile. “Old habits die hard. I’m sorry, sir—”
“No, it was entirely my fault,” the old man protested. “You have nothing to apologize for. Now, you’re over here scowling like you’re mad at the world.” He leaned on the rail next to John. “I’ve been watching you. And thinking that’s a fine-looking young man. A nice young fellow like him certainly should have no reason to be looking so fierce that we should be praying for the fish down there.”
John chuckled. “The fish are perfectly safe from me. Until I get back to my nets. Then they’re in trouble.”
“Oh, you’re a fisherman?”
John nodded. “Once. Maybe I will be so again.”
“Maybe so, maybe so.” The old man spat into the water, then smiled. “Going home, then? Not many other reasons to be coming out here.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” John answered. “My father had a place out here, near Fort Coffee and Choctaw Agency. He left it to me, and I’m hoping it’s still there.”
“Because you have no place else to go?”
“And a long time to get there,” John added. “A very long time.”
The old man nodded. “Those of us who travel the river have seen a lot of that since the fighting ended. Plenty of young men with that same fierce look. They can’t settle, can’t be still. They’ve seen too much. Done too much. Or had too much done to them. They come this way, looking for a place with no memories. Someplace entirely new. And you can’t get more new than Skullyville.”
“Skullyville?”
“What used to be Choctaw Agency,” the man answered. “They changed the name of the town, back in ‘60.”
John nodded. “Did they? Well, then, it is new.” He turned and offered his hand. “John. John Zebedee.”
The old man chuckled and shook John’s hand. “Nice meeting you, Zebedee. I’m Ben Parsons.” He pulled a flask from an inside pocket of his coat and offered it to John. “Now, let me make that fright up to you. Have a nip of something that’s good for what ails you.”
John shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I don’t drink.”
Parson’s brows rose. “And you a soldier?” he asked. “I’m an old man, and I’ve never once met a soldier who didn’t drink.” He pulled the cork out of the flask and took a swallow.
“Now you have,” John said, leaning back on the rail. They’d be arriving in Choctaw Agency... no. Skullyville. They’d be docking soon. Would anyone still be there who would remember him?
He hoped not. That could be awkward. And that was something he should have thought of before he set out. What would happen if someone recognized him?
“Do you smoke?” Parsons asked. “I don’t, usually. But I carry some, for trading.”
“No I don’t.” John smiled. “Or chew.”
Parsons snorted. “You don’t drink or smoke? You must be trying hard to get into Heaven, son. You’ve got no vices!”
The words stabbed John through the heart, feeling like rough iron nails being hammered home. He forced a laugh. “Well, I’m trying hard.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Parsons muttered, taking another pull from his flask. “From what I hear, it’s a boring place. No drink, no chew, no horizontal refreshment—”
John burst out laughing. “What?”
“You know!” Parsons insisted. “As young as you are, and looking like you do? You probably have the public women paying you for the privilege.”
John shook his head. “I prefer to sleep alone. Less disease that way.”
“Definitely heading for Heaven, then,” Parsons declared. “One foot there already.”
John swallowed and watched the docks coming closer. “Eventually, maybe I’ll get the other foot in.”
JOHN EXCUSED HIMSELF to return to his cabin and pack, leaving Parsons to wonder about the rarity of a soldier who neither drank nor whored. In truth, John had packed his few belongings before going on deck, but the lie gave him a completely plausible reason to leave the conversation. He let himself into the cabin, closed the door, then leaned on it and sighed.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered. “Coming back here was a mistake. It hasn’t been long enough. They’ll know me.” He crossed to the plush couch, where his hat, his rucksack and the long case that held his clothes and his rifle were waiting. The price of the steamship cabin had been more than what he’d gotten for selling his horse, but it was only money, and he’d wanted his privacy. He wanted to be sure no one would be able to sneak up on him, and startle him into reacting without thinking, the way that Parsons had at the rail. He didn’t regret the choice, but now he was wondering what it would have been like to make the trip by train. Or to have kept going. “I should have gone to the frontier. No one would know me there. I could have spent years alone...”
His voice trailed off. That was it. That was what had made him decide to come back here. He knew this place. He’d been as close to happy as he ever got here. He’d lived in the little dugout near the floodplains of Deadman’s Slough for years — long enough that the people in Fort Coffee and Choctaw Agency had started looking curiously at him when he came into town for supplies. So in 1845, he’d regretfully made the decision to leave, starting the rumor that he was leaving to go east and marry. He had no intentions of ever returning.
Then the war happened. And Camp Sumter had happened.
Now, he desperately needed the peace he had found at Deadman’s Slough. He needed to escape the horrors he’d seen in the war, and the memories that followed him like locusts. He’d tried to find escape at the bottom of a bottle, and when that failed, he’d tried to find it in a bullet. Only to be reminded yet again of words said in love so long ago, words that cursed him to walk the world. Words that bid him to wait until the first man he had ever loved came back for him.
No matter what Parsons said, there was no Heaven for him. Nor Hell neither.
There was nothing but the waiting.
He sighed, and swung the rucksack onto his back. He picked the case up, put on his hat, and looked around the cabin. There was nothing left here. It was time to move on. Time to go back to Deadman’s Slough and see if he could find something there that he couldn’t find anywhere else.
And besides, he reasoned, twenty-five years was a long enough time that if anyone did find him familiar, he should be able to convince them that they were mistaken. That he wasn’t the man they thought he was — that the John Zebedee who was arriving in Deadman’s Slough was the twenty-year-old son of the John Zebedee who they remembered, and who had left to go east and marry.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
He let himself out of the cabin, and followed the line of other passengers who were disembarking in Skullyville. He made his way down to the lower deck, and watched as the ship drew up to the landing. The town looked as if it had fared only a little better than Fort Coffee — it wasn’t a ruin, but there were few buildings standing that were undamaged. Several looked abandoned, and for a moment, John was tempted to just stay on board. To keep going west.
No. If he was going to head west, he needed more planning. Supplies. He needed things he simply didn’t have, and that he would have no chance to obtain. He’d consider it, if he didn’t find what he was looking for at Deadman’s Slough. He resettled the rucksack on his shoulders, and waited for the planks to be laid so that passengers and cargo could go ashore.
WALKING THROUGH THE streets of Skullyville reminded John painfully of walking through the streets of other towns, following in the wake of troops that had gone through like the plagues of Egypt. Windows were boarded up and broken, and the people peering out from behind them were equally as broken. He could feel eyes on him as he walked down the middle of the street, making a show of looking at the buildings on each side as if he didn’t know exactly where he was going already. He stopped, turned to look around, then started toward the building that had been his destination the entire time — the mercantile.
A bell chimed merrily as he opened the door, and he stepped into the cool shop and let the door close behind him. He heard a familiar muffled voice from somewhere behind a closed door, calling, “Just a moment!”
The inner door opened, and an older man came out of what John knew was a stockroom. He saw John standing there and stared, his face gone stark white.
“Excuse me,” John said, trying to sound hesitant. “I’m looking for Nathaniel Miller. Might you be him?”
“I... I am,” Miller stammered. “And I think I should know you. You’re very familiar.”
“I’m told I look very much like my father,” John said. “It was he who told me that if I came this way, I was to look for you. His name—”
“Zebedee?” Miller interrupted. “John Zebedee?”
“Yes, sir. I’m John Zebedee as well, after my father.”
“And you’re the very image of him,” Miller said. He came around the counter and held his hand out. “Good to meet you, son. What brings you here? Last I heard from your father, he was heading to... Baltimore, was it?”
“New York,” John corrected. “And I came...” he paused, looking around. “Looking for something new. Someplace to settle. He used to tell me about his claim out on Deadman’s Slough. I was hoping it might still be there.”
“I haven’t been out that way in ten years or more,” Miller said slowly. “Not since before those blasted Yanks came through. Might not be anything there but ashes.”
John nodded slowly, trying to hide his disappointment. Damn it. He hadn’t been sure which side of the war Skullyville would have taken, but he’d hoped... now he needed to make sure no one figured out that he’d been a Union soldier, not a Johnny Reb. “I’ll have to see. Which means I might be back in town looking for a place to sleep tomorrow.”
Miller chuckled. “If you end up coming back, you come spend the night with me and Mrs. Miller. We can spare a place for the son of John Zebedee. How is he?”
“Gone to his rest, I’m afraid,” John said. “Before the war started.”
Miller’s face crumpled, and he shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear that. He was a good man,” he said slowly. “Now, you’re just in off the Cavalier?”
“Yes, sir,” John answered. “And I’m in need of some supplies, and a horse. Is there a livery, or someone who has a horse to sell?”
Miller frowned slightly, then nodded. “Maybe. Maybe. Judge Hoskins might have something. You need a rig, too?”
“I hadn’t hoped to be that lucky,” John answered, being completely honest. “I thought I might have to order something from a wainwright.”
“You’d have to send to Fort Gibson for something like that. We haven’t had a wainwright for years now. But the one out in Fort Gibson is a good one, does good work. The Judge, he might be willing to part with his, though. I’ll take you over, introduce you. He came here around the same time your father left. Not sure they ever met, but I’ll vouch for you.”
“I appreciate that,” John said. “Your kindness... I appreciate it more than you can understand.”
Miller looked oddly at John for a moment. Then his brows rose. “You got a haunted look to you, son. You fought in the war?”
John nodded. “I did. That’s why I’m here.” He tapped his temple. “Up here, I’m still fighting. I need to be alone. I need the quiet. I need to stop jumping at shadows.”
Miller nodded slowly. Then he frowned. “What side?”
“Excuse me?”
Miller’s frown deepened. “What side did you fight for?” he asked. “You fight for the South, or did you fight for the Yanks?”
John nodded slowly. “Mister Miller, I can honestly say that I fought on the side of the angels.”
The non-answer seemed to satisfy Miller. He nodded once. “Come on, then. Tuck your case back behind the counter. No one will touch it. I’ll introduce you to the Judge. Then we can come back and see what I have in stock.”
John followed Miller out of the shop and down the street. He was fairly certain he knew who Judge Hoskins was — he remembered a young lawyer by the name of Hoskins who had come to town not long before he left. Surprising that Hoskins stayed on. There had never seemed to be much need for a lawyer in Choctaw Agency — there hadn’t been much here when he’d left. Maybe in Fort Coffee, but not Choctaw Agency. But then again, John had never spent much time in either place. He’d come in to town — first making the longer ride out to Fort Coffee, then coming to Choctaw Agency — once every other month or so to buy supplies and sell dried fish. Occasionally he would make the long drive west to Fort Gibson. Perhaps there had been more legal goings-on than he’d been aware of.
“Good morning, Mister Miller!”
The voice sounded pleasant enough, but something about it still set John’s nerves on edge. He turned, seeing a tall, thin man dressed all in black coming toward them. As he got closer, John saw the clerical collar around the man’s throat.
“Reverend Kerry, good morning!” Miller called back. “Reverend, this is John Zebedee. His father used to live in the area, and young John has just arrived.”
The Reverend stopped and bowed his head. He arched a brow. “Zebedee. An interesting name. Where is your family from?”
John forced a smile. “I’m just in from New York. But I think you mean originally? A place called Kinneret. It’s about a hundred miles north of Jerusalem, on the Sea of Galilee. I don’t expect you to have heard of it. No one ever has. And the name was Zavdi, once. There were too many misspellings and mispronunciations.”
“Well, then,” Reverend Kerry said, apparently satisfied. Which only reaffirmed what side of the War Skullyville had favored. John might have darker skin, but he wasn’t a former slave, nor was he a freed one. Therefore, they would be somewhat polite to him. “Welcome to Skullyville, Mister Zebedee.”
“Thank you,” John answered. He forced himself not to fidget. He’d met many a man of God in his years walking the world. He had never met one before who made him want to run. But this man... there was something about him. John wasn’t sure what, and he didn’t want to know. “My father used to speak fondly of the Reverend here in town. Reverend Black, I think?”
