The horseman - part 7

Trying to escape the relentlessly pestering dead, I left the mountains and set off across those wide flat plains, staggering blind-drunk between nameless trading stations. But the ghosts persisted, albeit less often human. Herds of shadowy buffalo drifted in bewilderment through the high cornfields, searching for the rolling prairies they once knew. And obscure native gods – raven- and eagle-headed men – danced around sentinel grain silos, whistling out impotent war cries.

One moonless night, unable to sleep with all that clamouring, I drew my blue-flaming knife, hoping to make a clean end to it. A sheet of deeper darkness streamed out, splitting the air, and all eyes were suddenly turned to me, expectant and pleading. But my courage failed and I sheathed it again, embarrassed and ashamed.

The next day I staggered into a roadside church and knelt before the preacher in desperation. To prove my point, I shot a bullet clear through my head into the opposite wall.

‘Please help me,’ I whispered.

He fled in terror, of course, and I was left alone at the altar. But the morning sun cast down a beam of light through one of the high windows and I managed to sleep a little.