Immigrant Moon - Chapter 1
A shovel slammed Sean’s forehead. He staggered back and collapsed in the dust. “Sean!” The world began to spin. Groaning, Sean closed his eyes against the harsh daylight. The knot on his head pulsed, ached like hell’s fury, made his stomach threaten to empty itself on the sagebrush. He swallowed in order to keep breakfast down and tried not to dwell on the pain. Shouts and footsteps came toward him. Even with eyes closed, he knew that one of the men was Daniel. It was his voice Sean had heard both times: now and just after the Chinaman’s shovel had smacked him. But another call had come before he’d been hit—a call of warning. “Sean, look out!” had shouted a voice small and urgent. It had come from beside his ear. Who could that have been? A thud as Daniel dropped to his side. “Sean”—he violently shook Sean’s shoulders— “wake up!” Pain cutting through his head, Sean hissed. “That hurts!” He opened his eyes as Daniel helped him sit and offered a ladle of brown water. Breath foaming white in morning’s chill, Daniel said, “Drink.” Sean didn’t know how that would help his head, but he drank. The water tasted dry, if that was possible. Everything in the desert was dry. With a sigh, Daniel pushed the ladle at the water boy’s chest and addressed Sean. “What were you after, getting so close to them? Could’ve killed you.” A shadow appeared at Sean’s other side, and before he could turn to see who it was, Daniel’s face darkened as he rose to full height. Sean glanced over. The Chinaman who’d hit him stared down, concern on his face. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Daniel snatched him up by the front of his shirt so his feet dangled over the ground. “What’s the trouble, rice-man?” “A….” “Let go!” Another Chinaman exploded from the CP graders’ midst. His braid swung behind him like a whip; his eyes were as sharp as the crack of one. “You put down, Irishman.” A Union Pacific worker laughed, but Daniel’s gaze was chill. “This man hit my friend. Sure you’re not expecting me to forget. Not after what you Johns did.” The explosion, he meant. Sean wished Daniel hadn’t mentioned it; the Irish had started the feud. The Chinaman looked as if he planned to point this out, but a quiet yet resonating voice cut him off. “Was an accident. I saw it.” An Englishman. “Good Lord knows we’ve had enough of them ourselves.” “Feck off, Mormon,” Daniel growled. Sean cleared his throat. “Nice to see yous are so concerned about me.” The Chinaman with the shrapnel eyes shoved through the crowd to offer a hand. A peek at Daniel showed Sean that the other Johnny’s feet were on the ground again, so he accepted the stranger’s grip. Daniel pushed the Chinaman aside and grabbed Sean’s jaw, inspecting his head. “Devil of a gash. Likely leave a bruise. But I think you’ll be all right.” “You’re hurting my face!” Sean said. As Daniel released him, Sean caught a glimpse of the Chinaman who’d helped him up. There was a strange look in his eyes…. Sean’s skin prickled. Could Daniel be right? Could the Chinese grader have hit him on purpose? Or maybe Sean had misinterpreted the glance. He’d heard that voice of warning before the shovel hit his head; maybe…. But the accent hadn’t been Chinese. It had been Irish, no doubt. Sean reached over his shoulder to tug at his coat’s turned-in collar. Something fluttered fast across his neck. His breath trembled. One of those monster spiders? He’d only seen them at night, but he’d been lying in the dirt a moment ago. Who knew what vile thing was on him? Shuddering, Sean swiped his shoulders and mussed his hair to chase it out. The Mormon Englishman watched, bemused. “What are—” A voice in Sean’s ear drowned out the words. “Easy, sham. I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.” Sean stopped dead in the dust. “Sean?” Daniel took his arm. “You all right? Starting to think you knocked yourself crazy.” I’m starting to think so, too. “Should have that looked at,” Daniel said. He turned to the Johnny. “Chinaman. Aye, you. You’re the only one can speak English, no? Central Pacific got a doctor here?” Another Irishman sneered. “Don’t need help from CP.” “Well, we have no doc of our own,” Daniel said, “and I seen enough head wounds that I amn’t taking chances.” He turned to the Chinaman. “What about it, Johnny? Doctor?” The Chinaman nodded warily, then motioned for Sean to follow him. Sean pushed a trickle of blood off his face as he tailed the man. The water he’d drunk had settled his stomach, but not soothed his aching head. He wondered about the voice. It had sounded real. Besides, at least a hundred Irish were on his grading crew. Any one of them could have spoken. Right? Even if not, he decided, at least the doc was around. If he had suffered an accident later in the day, he’d be out of luck. UP’s doc was at end of track, three days away. Now that Promontory Summit had been chosen as the spot where the two roads would meet, Sean’s crew had no need to grade west of there. They were leaving that morning. Dust twisted through the CP’s camp, brought about by the thump of shovels on the earth, by the tromp of feet winding through the sagebrush and between the canvas tents. The doctor’s covered wagon sat at the camp’s far end. As he followed the Chinaman toward it, Sean stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the few gaping Johnnys who lingered in the camp. On reaching the wagon, the Chinaman adjusted his triangle hat. One of the strings that would have tied the wagon’s backside shut had broken off, and a blanket had been strung up over the entry. The man pushed it aside, letting Sean in first. Seated on a trunk, the doctor lifted his blonde bangs from his eyes. He looked at Sean. “You’re not a Chinaman.” “I’m not.” “You’re injured.” And you’re observant. “Aye.” “Have a seat. What’s your name?” “Sean O’Rahilly.” The doctor nodded. He glanced up as the Chinaman entered. “Wan Ni. Good. Get the birch sap while I wrap his head?” The Chinaman’s hat bobbed askew as he nodded. “Oh, and you left some things last time you helped me here. I wrapped them in a red scarf. See it on that bench?” The doc then turned back to Sean and squinted, examining him. “Not the worst rail crew wound I’ve seen, not by a long shot. Besides the pain, how you feel?” Sean thought about the voice. “I’m fine.” In response, the doctor slapped a gauze pad to the wound, then wrapped more gauze round his head to hold the pad in place. The wagon held an array of foul-looking potions that smelled fouler still, as well as twine, books, and instruments Sean didn’t want to know the uses for. He watched the Chinaman Wan Ni pop a stopper from a bottle and pour its contents into a spoon. “Drink,” Wan Ni said. He shoved the spoon so far down his patient’s throat that Sean gagged. Trying to hide a grin, Wan Ni turned to replace the sap. The doctor, too, turned his back to rummage through a chest, and as he did, Sean again felt a flutter on his neck. He shuddered. Tarantulas…. But then, the tingle stopped. And on Sean’s knee, a wee man in green winked into existence. Sean stifled a gasp. A leprechaun. He shook his head to clear it. Pain ripped through his wound so fast that he almost screamed. He fought to stay conscious. A leprechaun? His hands shook, his stomach roiled, his legs felt weak. A glancing head-blow shouldn’t make him see such things. But maybe…. How long had be been insane? An effect of the war, perhaps? Other War Between the States vets had gone batty after Appomattox; maybe Sean was just running behind in turning crazy. Sean’s gaze stayed on the leprechaun, though he spoke to the doctor. “So… You any whiskey keep about here?” As the doc turned to face Sean, the leprechaun vanished. “Not with the birch sap, you don’t. Can do horrid things to mix the two.” He sighed shakily. “Sure jeez.” A voice came again in Sean’s ear. “And since when does whiskey make hallucinations go away?” The leprechaun laughed, but it made a hollow sound. “Best if you listened to the man. We’re in enough trouble without you being incoherent. Besides, you’ll need more than whiskey to get rid of me. I’m no vision. Get yourself out of here so we can talk, and you’ll see the trouble we’re in.” Right. Right. He wanted to leave, anyway. Sean stood up and announced, “I’m needing to piss.” He scrambled out of the wagon before the doc could stop him and looked for a place where he could talk to himself in peace. “Wait! Irishman!” Wan Ni busted out of the wagon, Utah dust puffing up at his feet as he ran. Several blue-clad Chinamen glanced up at the noise, but Wan Ni’s attention wasn’t on his countrymen. He pulled to a stop in front of Sean. “Where you go?” “I’m after needing to piss, I said—” “Said me lie. You not fool me. I know.” He smiled, dark eyes lighting up mysteriously. “You, Irishman, have magic.”