One by one the monsters trample.  Through woods and dirt they feed.

What kind of world and plight for our children must we leave? – Lonely Forest

Chapter 38

As they trudged down the dimly lit hotel corridor, William cursed himself for his choice of lodging.  The faded orange wallpaper seemed weary, barely able to cling to the walls.  William carried his own trunk, while the elderly porter struggled along behind with Buffy’s.  When they reached room fifty-four, the older man dropped his burden with a dusty thud; he unceremoniously tossed the key to William before turning around and wheezing back toward the lobby.

After fumbling the key into the lock, William twisted the handle, allowing them entrance.  It was as cramped and sparsely furnished as he feared.  A layer of gloom coated everything in the room, like fine dust in a mausoleum.

“I’m sorry, Buffy.  I’m afraid I don’t have Oscar’s talent for choosing hotels.”

“Oh, this’ll be fine, William.”  She stepped out to the hall and dragged her trunk over the threshold before he could attempt to retrieve it for her.  “This place is kinda shabby, but it seems clean enough.  Besides, I’m tired enough to sleep standing up.”

Buffy sat down on the bed, and it groaned in protest.  He struck a match and lit both lamps, which pushed back the shadows and brought much needed warmth to the dismal room.

“And now we’re here at last,” she said.  “Are you glad we waited to see Oscar off?”

“I am,” he said, settling next to her on the bed.  “And five days of staying in one location was wonderful, I must confess.”

“After this final Hellmouth road trip, we can put our traveling days behind us for good.  We’ll have a whole lot of staying put once we get to Napa.”

“That sounds perfect, love.”

She sighed, and a familiar worried crease appeared between her eyebrows.  “It’s pretty obvious that whatever ‘white demon’ trouble that’s set to hit the Hellmouth hasn’t happened yet. Something’s building, though.  Did you notice the creepy vibe once we got into town?”

He coughed and considered her meaning for a moment before nodding.  “I did at that.”

“And did you see how packed the train station was?  Everyone jonesing to leave town?” 

Buffy shuddered.  “Reminded me of how everyone was making a major exodus out of Sunnydale just before the town imploded.”

Whenever she spoke of the Hellmouth, she tended to grow sad and silent.  He could understand how the topic affected her mood, certainly.  But he had to do what he could to keep her spirits bright.  He grasped her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. After a few moments, she looked at him.

“Are you still sure you want to go there?” he asked.  “To the Hellmouth.  There’s nothing saying you can’t change your mind, my love.”

She nodded.  “My mind’s not changed.  Is … is yours?”

“I’m as certain as ever that this is the right path for us.”

“Okay, then,” was all she said, and she chewed on her bottom lip.

They both carried the weight of what they faced tomorrow at the Hellmouth, combined with the end of a very long journey, which had stretched across an ocean and a continent.  What he most wanted in the world was simply to hold her in his arms, stroke her hair, and give them a moment to anchor themselves in one another.

“It’s been an exhausting day, Buffy.  Would you like to get ready for bed?”

She gave a nod and plodded over to her trunk. While she changed into her nightgown, he stripped down to his drawers and lay face-down on the bed, prepared for their nightly ritual.

He felt the mattress dip slightly when she sat on it, then the sound of the cap being unscrewed.    She poured a pool of the medicinal oil in the small of his back, and dipped her fingertips into the pond she’d made.

First she touched her palms to his shoulders, light touches which ghosted across his skin and made him shiver.  Then she pressed her palms into his flesh, working the oil into his skin with tight circular motions.  As her small hands kneaded his flesh, the oil’s scent reached him.   Its subtle fragrance filled his head with cloves and arousal. 

“The marks are fading,” she murmured.  “They might not even scar.”

He nodded.  Her fingertips slid down his sides, and he held back a shudder, amazed that her slightest touch could still reduce him to a trembling jelly.    As her hands massaged the healing oil into the marks, he considered, once again, his miracle of a wife.  How the touch of her small hand held the power to heal his wounds.  The medicinal properties in the oil couldn’t hold a candle to his Buffy.  That she could bring him such contentment in the center of the storm never ceased to amaze him, and he smiled into his pillow.

“Mmm,” she breathed into his ear.  Her hair tickled the back of his neck, and he released an involuntary sigh.  She must have taken it down at some point.  He bit his bottom lip.  She had to know how much her hair unbound affected him.

When he didn’t respond, she stilled her hands on his back.  After a moment her fingers began to drum a gentle pattern on his spine.

“You know, William, I’ve been thinking.”

“What a coincidence.  Because I’ve been thinking, too.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking that I’m not really very tired after all.”  Her fingers ceased their drumming, waiting for his response.  When he gave none, she continued.  “So, what have you been thinking about?”

He turned over to see her grinning coyly at him.  Her hair was mussed, and her face was slightly flushed.  When her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, taunting him, he gave her his best serious expression. 

“I’ve been worried about your breasts.”

“My … breasts?  Why?  Is something wrong with them?”

He nodded solemnly.

She narrowed her eyes and pulled away, leaning back on the bed.

“I fear that they might have marks on them.  Invisible to the human eye, actually. But, just to be safe, I believe I should apply some of the medicinal oil to them.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Yes.  For your own health, you see.”  He grinned, unashamed.

“When I met you, you were a gentleman who would have never dared to talk about breasts.  And you wouldn’t have dreamed of telling your wife a lie in order to get your hands on them.”

“When you met me, I was so terrified of sex that the only thing I managed to do with my ‘gentleman’s parts’ was to lock them in a cage.”

She laughed, and her pretty green eyes shone brightly in the lamplight. 

“You only managed to corrupt Oscar’s language, but me?  You’ve transformed me most completely.”

She flashed a worried look at look at him.  Though she had to know he was teasing, he couldn’t resist letting her know, just one more time, what it all really meant to him. He reached over and took her hand and lifted it to his lips.  Very tenderly, he kissed her fingertips, one by one, before placing a tender kiss in the palm of her hand.

“And I ask for your forgiveness for my overly sentimental nature but I must say it, Buffy.  I feel grateful for you every single day.  You saved me from my life, from myself.  I love you, even more now than when I first uttered the words – though I’d have thought that impossible.”

She blinked at him, her expression indecipherable.    

There.  Now he’d done it.  He’d utterly killed the mood with his maudlin declaration.  Damn him for being a babbling fool.  By the heat in his cheeks, he knew he was blushing again.  He looked at the floor for a moment, trying to compose himself, when he felt her small but insistent hand on his jaw, pulling his gaze to her.

Before she could speak, he jumped in.  “I know I sound a fool, but, sometimes it overwhelms me, love.  It’s just that … it’s important you know now, after all we’ve been through and knowing what we face, what you are to me.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek tenderly.  “I know your ways by now, William.  And you should know that … well, it goes both ways.”

“Hmm?  I don’t know what you mean.”  She was always so hesitant in these matters.  Surely he couldn’t be blamed for trying to coax the words from her.  She graced him with an understanding grin.

“You’ve changed everything about me, as well.  And I love you too, you goof.”

“A profound improvement over ‘I love you, you ass clown,’ I suppose.”

Buffy lay back on the mattress and gave an exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms above her head.  The cloth of her nightgown pulled taut against the curve of her breasts in a most appealing manner.  Her hair spread out behind her in a halo, calling to his fingers.  The slightest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. 

He could only stare, admiring the view, as one would a grand master’s painting in a gallery. 

After watching him a moment through half-lidded eyes, she sighed.   “Well, fine.  I suppose if I have to unbutton this nightgown all by myself …”

When she brought her hands up to her neckline, he’d already gotten there and pushed her hands away.  Bowing his head, he tucked under her chin and delivered a line of kisses to her neck.  She let out a soft “mmm,” and he could feel her throat vibrate beneath his lips deliciously. 

“Wouldn’t dream of you straining yourself, love,” he breathed into her ear.  His fingers unfastened the top button on her gown, and he quickly kissed the bit of skin he’d exposed.  Then he undid another and another after that, kissing a trail between her breasts.

Once all the buttons were free, he leaned back and found the little brown bottle, nearly forgotten amidst the rumpled covers.  He unscrewed the cap and poured a small amount in his palm before rubbing his hands together to warm the oil.

“Now, to see to your breasts,” he said.  “I’m afraid this may require an extended treatment.”

She closed her eyes and wriggled happily as he began his careful evaluation.

~*~

Meanwhile, a few miles away, on a small farm on the outskirts of Sunnydale

Dru sat on the floor of the farm house kitchen.  She held the young girl tenderly in her arms, the picture of a mother and child.  The thrumming of the young one’s pulse grew thready, the beats coming fainter and further apart until her weary heart stopped all together.  The girl’s world ended, not with a thud, but with a whimper.

(When this one wakes from her dirt nap, that’ll make twenty.  Hell of an army you’ve built in no time a’tall.)

“Yes, my Dark Prince,” Dru said.  She looked past the bodies of the girls parents, lying under the kitchen table, and smiled toward the direction of the cowboy’s voice.

(Dru, you’re about to have company.  The first of three guests.)

“Oooh, it’s not the three spirits that Charles Dickens wrote about, is it?  Can’t be.  It’s not Christmastime.”

(Less pleasant than the spooks, I suspect.  Keep a sharp eye.)

Her William always took such good care of her.  And he knew absolutely everything.

After a moment, a beam of light brightened a patch of night near the back door.  Dust motes illuminated as though from within, and the Shining Man flickered into existence.  She and her William were no longer alone.

“How are things coming along, Dru?”

“Fine, Warren.”

“I told you, I don’t like it when you call me that.”

(Her dark prince whispered in her ear.)

“Yes, robot-boy,” she giggled.  “As you wish.”

The Shining Man blanched, his image going from opaque to translucent, before he snapped back into frame.

“You’ll be ready for tomorrow night?”  Warren asked.

“I’ll be ready.  Just be certain your demons are prepared for the party.”

“Are you … telling me what to do?”  Beneath Warren’s calm tone lay a carefully controlled rage, the sheen of oil on the surface of a dark pond.

(Too goddamned right you’re on the shoot, querida.  Remember what I told you about how he treats his partners.)

Dru stood up, and the young girl’s corpse rolled off her lap and thudded against the stove.  After shaking out her skirts, Dru walked over to where the Shining Man glittered near the doorway.

“I’m not weaker than you, Warren.  I’m not Katrina, and I’m not Jonathan.  I’m Drusilla, Commander of a newly born Vampire Army, and I am not to be trifled with.”

(That’s my gal!)

Warren said nothing, but he didn’t look away from her.

“I don’t want this to be another Rock Springs.  Your white demons didn’t do so well there.”

“Rock Springs was a warm up, and I had no time to prepare.  My team is more than ready.  When we add you and your army to the mix, the slayer and her boy won’t stand a chance.”

(He’s right there, Dru.  The slayer and the wrong William have done gone up the flume before they started.)

“And who is your team, Warren?”  She had to ask, because, well, now that she had him beneath her boot heel, it was just too hard to resist.  Being a woman in control was really quite exhilarating.

“It’s why I came to see you tonight, Dru.  My two most loyal lieutenants are on their way to meet you.  Should be here any minute.   Together, they have the government and religion locked up in town and can marshal the good citizens of Sunny-D.   I didn’t want you turning them into vampires.  They’ll be more valuable to us in their current role.”

(Both of them rattlesnakes, just like Warren.  Don’t worry, darlin’.   I’m coverin’ your backside.)

Dru moved toward the kitchen’s back door.  She nearly stepped through the ray of light that made up the Shining Man on her way, but the moment her foot touched him she felt a wave of revulsion, so she walked around him instead.  She didn’t need to shift to vampire face to see the two figures who approached the farmhouse.  They’d already stepped past the shadows at the front gate and were only a few yards from the back door.  Dru watched their approach expectantly.

When the men reached the doorway, Dru looked them over carefully.  Both were dressed quite formally, one in business attire and the other in clergy garb. 

The businessman removed his hat and bowed deeply.  “You must be Drusilla.  I believe we have a mutual acquaintance?”  He looked past Dru’s shoulder to where the Shining Man gave off a faint glow.

Dru nodded.  The man had a nervous energy which set her teeth on edge.  It buzzed and twitched all over his skin, like insects burrowing out a log.

“Pleased to meet you.  Delighted, actually.”  He laughed, a nervous titter.

“And you are?”  Dru asked.

“Oh dear, where are my manners?  ‘Even the poorest man can afford manners,’ you know.  I’m the mayor of this little burgh.  Richard Wilkins, at your service.  And this is my compatriot, the reverend Fred Phelps.”

The thin man with the pastor’s collar cracked a smile.  It held all the charm of a cadaver’s grin.  He nodded his head toward Dru. 

“We were told you could help us with the vermin problem near the mine.”  The reverend’s voice was thin and reedy and when he spoke his nostrils flared as though he’d just gotten a whiff of something foul.

(For now, I reckon you got to partner up with ‘em, Dru.  But after the big show is over, there’s nothin’ that says you got to stick with ‘em, or let ‘em live, for that matter.  Dunno that the God-botherer would be very good eatin’, though.  He looks sour enough to scare a buzzard off a gut wagon.)

Dru giggled at her dark prince.  When she noticed the curious glances being given to her by the two men, she dropped a curtsy and smiled.

“Yes, I can help.  With the vermin and their protectors.  Can help open the doorway, too.  Shall we make party plans, gentlemen?”  Dru pointed a grin in their direction.

Both men nodded eagerly and followed her back into the farmhouse kitchen.

*~*

Buffy stuffed a final few items into her leather satchel, then looked around the room one last time.  William’s trunk was sealed and stowed at the foot of their bed.  Buffy had just one final item to add to hers before locking it up.  Their wedding photo. It was a little worse for wear from the journey and the corners were bent, but she’d carefully wrapped it with a few sheets of neatly folded stationery all the same.

William coughed and shuffled his feet, waiting in the hallway.

She placed the photo on the top of her clothes, then pulled the lid shut and locked it, leaving the key on top.  Next to the key she placed a small piece of paper, upon which was neatly written: “Please forward to: Mary Dunn, Dunn’s Emporium, Bay Street, San Francisco, California.”

She swallowed, and stepped backward, toward the door.

Leaving forwarding instructions was an unnecessary gesture.  She knew it.  Nothing would go wrong, and they’d be returning to their room later tonight.  Leaving Mary’s address was really just a kind of insurance.  Whenever you took the time for that kind of precaution, it turned out to be unnecessary.  It was like wearing your car seatbelt for a three block trip to the ice cream place. 

“Darling?”  William called from the hall.  “Should we leave now?”

“Sure thing,” she said.  She fastened the latch on her satchel and put on the brightest smile she could muster before joining William in the hall.  “We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

“Quite.”

It was still early morning when they made their way onto Alvarado Street.  William had inquired about transportation to Sunnydale at the front desk when they’d checked in.  Unfortunately, the small town had no rail lines yet, so they needed to hire a carriage from a rental shop.  Since there was only one rental agency in the neighborhood and it was only a few short blocks away, they knew precisely where to go.

“Scott’s Carriages and Livery” wasn’t terribly large, but it seemed to have a wide variety.  They entered the shop to find a disinterested man behind the counter.  He was absorbed in the task of picking at his fingernails with a dirty knife and didn’t bother to look up.

William approached the counter, and when the man still didn’t acknowledge them, William coughed.

“Excuse me.  We’d like to hire a carriage for the day.”

“Yeah.  What type of rig you want?”  The counterman seemed irked at the interruption.

“Just something for the two of us.” 

“A phaeton might work, if you’re not goin’ far.  Where you headed?”

“Just going north of Los Angeles for an afternoon in the country.  A phaeton will be fine.”

When the filthy man heard their direction, his interest in the transaction was at last piqued.  He leaned across the counter and squinted at William.  “You sure you wanna head north?  Didn’t you hear?  There’s trouble up that way.”

“What kind of trouble?”  William asked.

“Folks been goin’ missin’.  Nearly two dozen just in the last week.”

“Any idea what’s causing it?” Buffy asked. 

The rental man ignored her and addressed William instead.  “Dunno what’s causin’ it, but it’s more’n likely the damned chinamen.  Most of the disappearances are happenin’ up where they’re gathered, around the played out silver mine east of town.”

William didn’t respond, but it didn’t deter the foul little man.  “We burned ‘em out of Los Angeles nine years ago.  Took about five hundred of us, but we swept Chinatown up good.  They’re like cockroaches, though.  They come back.  Just like the swarm of ‘em up at Sunnydale.” 

An oily smile slid across the man’s face.  “I hear tell some good citizens aim to take care of the bugs, maybe even as soon as tonight.  If you’re headin’ that way to join the clean up party, I can let you have a rig for half price.”

William opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.  After a few beats of standing there with his jaw agape, he found his voice again. “We’ll … pay the full price, thank you.”

“Humph,” the foul man uttered.  Suddenly disinterested in William, he returned to his questionable hygiene regimen, while he muttered off his standard litany.  “The phaeton is five dollars for the day, but have it back by six o’clock.  If you don’t, you’ll pay your own stable fees for the night and owe me another five tomorrow morning.  I’ll need a fifty dollar deposit as well.”

“Fifty dollars?” Buffy blurted.  “That’s outrageous.”

“It’s the price.” The rental man shrugged.

“Fine,” Buffy grumbled.

“If you’d like to wait outside, I can handle the details, darling,” William said.

Buffy nodded and flashed him a grateful smile.  Slipping out of the shop, she stepped over to the stable and watched the horses who seemed as disinterested in her presence as the foul little man had been.

Her wait was brief.  After a few moments, William pulled up in a vehicle that could only be described as ‘racy,’ even if it was pulled by a horse.  It was all black and had four oversized wheels.  The upholstered leather seat was just wide enough for the two of them and a fringed canopy decorated the top.  A single black horse pulled the rig.  If the nineteenth century had the equivalent of a convertible sports car, this would be it.

“It’s nice,” she said.

“It is rather more … daring than I would have expected, but it should suit our purposes well enough.  May I take your bag?” William asked.

Buffy handed her weapons satchel to him, and William leaned down to stuff it in the small compartment under the seat.  Before he could begin his instinctive help-the-lady-into-the-carriage routine, Buffy had already hopped up into the box.

“You know the way?” she asked.

He nodded.  “It’s a simple matter of following the primary road north.  We should be there in about two hours.  Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He tssked the horse out into the road and they began their journey north.

~*~

The roads grew increasingly deserted the further north they traveled.  It wasn’t that there were few travelers on the road – there were none at all.  Any time she thought she saw a couple of figures walking along the road in the distance, they vanished by the time the carriage would have reached them.  Either they scuttled off to hide in the brush, or they’d never really been there to begin with.  Both options were equally eerie.

As they neared Sunnydale her old slayer sense began to kick in, crawling along her spine, reminding her that danger was near.  The atmosphere seemed to be taking a toll on William as well.  His expression was serious and the line of his mouth firm, as he focused on guiding the horse down the well-worn road.  Neither of them spoke.  Instead, they stayed tethered to one another with touch.  Every fifteen minutes or so, she would brush against his arm or he would reach out to squeeze her hand.

I’m here.  We’re in this together.

It was nearly noon when they reached the city limits.  Just as they were approaching a neatly lettered sign proclaiming “Welcome to Sunny Dale,” a large merchant wagon careened around the corner, forcing William off the road.  The phaeton’s large front wheel smacked into the sign, knocking it over and splitting it down the middle.

“Whoa!”  William pulled hard on the reins and the rig shuddered to a halt, one wheel resting on the shattered sign.  He shot Buffy an embarrassed look and tugged on his hair nervously.

“It’s no big, William.  They’d misspelled ‘Sunnydale’ anyway.”

“Do you know where we are, love?  Which direction should I take?”

She squinted at the scene before them.  “Not really.  I mean, I know it’s Sunny-D, but it’s really hard to recognize.  The town I knew was laid out on a flat grid.  With these little hills and valleys I can’t get a sense of things.   The buildings are completely different too.  Could we just head into town and see what I remember?”

“Certainly.”

William nudged the horse off the broken halves of the sign and back to the center of the road, cautiously nosing the carriage into town.

Of all the western towns she’d seen, Sunnydale reminded her the most of Rock Springs.  It had the same kind of unpleasant energy.  Unlike the dusty road to town, people were out and about on the streets, but moving furtively, eying them suspiciously.  She scooted a little closer to William.

Even in the heart of town, the businesses were oddly empty.  There were dozens of horses and buggies tied up at city hall, however, and an even larger gathering at the community church. 

William looked at her questioningly.

“Let’s keep going,” she said.  “I’d rather just get to the Hellmouth.  Get this over with.”

“So, keep going straight?” he asked.

“I think so.”

They plodded on for a few more blocks.  When she saw the abandoned Catholic mission at a distance, she felt a surge of recognition.  She grabbed his knee and he pulled the carriage to a halt.

“I know exactly where the mission is.  It’s part of the college campus.  Well, it will be, in the future.”

If the college was ahead of her, and town center was behind her, her old high school, and the Hellmouth beneath it had to be east of them.

“Yeah, I can get us there.  Hang a right as soon as you come to an intersection.”

William took the first available cross street, and they continued along the road as the houses gave way to scattered farm houses.  Even though the land seemed prime for planting, no crops grew in the fields.  The fenceposts lining the road were dotted with crows, who announced the carriage’s passing with scattered caws.

As the carriage jostled along eastward, the strange buzzing she felt as she approached  Sunnydale picked up, like a burst of static on a Geiger counter.  The earlier sensation of prickles along her back grew more pronounced, as if a metal spider were patrolling along her spine. 

Just ahead of them, the road forked.  The right fork led down a slope to a cluster of farms.  The left went toward a hill and was marked with a sign:  Sunnydale Silver Mine.   

This was the place, she knew.  Somehow, she even knew the precise location of the Hellmouth – well, where the Hellmouth might be, one day.  Not down in the mine, as one might expect, but on top of the small hill.  They must have bulldozed it when the high school came along. 

The hill was covered in scrub pine and as they grew closer she could make out several clusters of shacks ringing its base. Before they reached the first cluster of shacks, she reached over and squeezed William’s hand.  He pulled up the phaeton to a halt.

“This is it, darling?” he asked.

She nodded and climbed down from the carriage.  William tied the horse to a fencepost while Buffy, almost as an afterthought, reached under the seat and retrieved her satchel of weapons.  She slipped her hand in his, and together they walked up to the first group of shanties.

As they neared the base, she was surprised by the quantity of shacks. From the road, the scrub pine had concealed their numbers.  Now that they were closer, she could see that the hill was quite thick with them.  It reminded her of a hobo town from her own era.  They weren’t homes, but shelters in the most primitive sense.  Bits of wood and old metal hobbled together with rope and mud and rusted nails – unfit for human habitation.

And the dwellings were as silent as the grave. 

Buffy stopped in front of the first hovel they came to and looked at William.  “I guess we might as well introduce ourselves.”

Balling her hand into a fist, she knocked on the sheet of rusty metal that made up the shack’s roof.  She was careful not to strike the metal very hard; it looked like a strong wind might take the thing down. 

“Hello?” she called.  “Anybody home?"

There was rustling from within and whispering.  After a moment one of the walls opened a crack and several Chinese men crept out.  They were dressed in loose muslin pants and simple shirts, and wore the traditional single braid.  Looking at William and Buffy with undisguised terror, they bowed deeply, then trained their eyes on the ground.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” William soothed, but they didn’t look up and their expressions didn’t change.

“English?” Buffy asked.  “Does anyone here speak English?”

The men spoke among themselves in whispers.  Buffy heard them say “englee” and was shocked to hear the word “bakguai,” several times.  The tallest one peeked at Buffy quickly, before quickly training his gaze back on the ground.  He held up an index finger. 

“Englee.  Moment,” he said.  He scuttled off down the path that wove through the shacks.  While the remaining men continued to talk among themselves, they watched William and Buffy fearfully.

William leaned over.  “Did you hear, darling?  They keep saying that word – bakguai.  Do you suppose it’s possible that they’ve heard of you?”

She shook her head.  “It seems kind of far-fetched.  It was Oscar’s nickname for me because the Chinese in Rock Springs called me ‘good bakguai.’  But that’s like a thousand miles from here.”

They heard a rustling and turned to see the tall man returning with a teen boy in tow.  The boy was rail thin and his shirt hung on him like ship’s sail.  He glanced up, quickly apprising the pair of them.  His eyes held a keen intelligence, and though he didn’t regard them with the same abject terror as his countrymen, he was clearly cautious.

Buffy greeted him with her friendliest smile, but the boy maintained a stoic expression.  He immediately dropped his gaze and bowed.

“Do you speak English?” Buffy asked.

The boy nodded.

“I’m Buffy and this is my husband, William.  Who are you?”

“Tom,” the boy replied softly.

“What’s your real name?  Your Chinese name?”

He lifted his chin to look at her, startled.  “Tang Ao.”

Buffy held out her hand and the boy tilted his head at her, his cautious expression melting a little.  He seemed unsure about shaking her hand, however, so Buffy dropped it to her side.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Tang.  We’re actually here to help.  Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“We harm no one.  Want peace only.  The whites want us gone from the town, from the mine.”

“And where do they want you to go?”

Tang looked at her, and held his hands out, palms upward.

“Is there some place that would let you … just live?”

The boy shook his head.  “Same story each place we go.  Here we must stay.  Here we have shelter.  Here we have gardens and homes.  In this place we find Heaven’s Door.”

“How many of you are there?”

The boy replied reluctantly, as though he was giving away a military secret.  To his mind, he might have been.  “One hundred and fifty.”

“You seem afraid, Tang.  Are you expecting trouble?”

He nodded, allowing his guard to slip a little further.

“When?”

“Tonight.  The bakguai plan to attack tonight.”

“Wait … the bakguai?  I thought I was the bakguai.”

She looked over to William, who seemed equally puzzled.

“What does bakguai mean?” William asked.

The boy looked back at the ground.  When he spoke it was with great hesitation. “It is our word for ‘white people’.”

“But what does it mean, literally translated?”

The boy gave William a puzzled look.

William kept his voice low and soothing.  “Tang, what does the word ‘bakguai’ really mean?”

“It means ‘white demon.’”

Buffy felt the air whoosh out her chest and her heart caught in her throat, comprehending the implication in an instant.  “The ‘white demons’ are ordinary, white-bread Americans?  We are so screwed.”

 ----

End Notes Because Some of You Like Them:

At the risk of TMI … some of you may remember that I was in a hurry to finish up “Yours, William” because I had a (much dreaded) 2,000 mile move from my home in Washington state to Missouri.  Well, now I am rushing to finish this story because there’s a very good chance that I’ll be moving back to Washington by the end of August!  This makes me happy!  And exhausted!  And I will try very hard to get that last chapter to you before Operation Moving Shitshow begins.

So, what up with that?  Every time I finish a story, I have to make a 2,000 mile move?  Pretty messed up, if you ask me.

Actual History? All riots mentioned (L.A. and Rock Springs) were real events.  There were other organized riots as well.  It's hard to overstate what the Chinese faced.  According to John Higham in 'Strangers in the Land,' "The 'ethnic cleansing of the Chinese from the American West was one of the darkest chapter's in our nation's history.  Between 1970 and 1880 there were an estimated 200 Chinese lynchings in the region."