The Weird Wild West

I looked down at the old tin cup in my hand. It was awkward. Something that was the 'next best thing to coffee' was in it. It was pretty disgusting.

We had gotten past the initial standoff, shotgun 'Git Off Mah Land' traditions and all. I played stupid, which wasn't much of a stretch and eventually he decided I was less trouble to deal with than to shoot.

I kinda think maybe he didn't have much in the way of bullets, but I wasn't one to really call that bluff.

His name was Wyatt Carsten, and the man must've walked off the set of Tombstone, give or take the bare feet, or patched up clothes.

I shook my head, a bit of a wry look on my face, "I'm not immortal. That's just silly."

He gave me one of those bushy eyebrow raises, then said in a perfectly reasonable tone, "You'd know, wouldn't you?"

I tried not to roll my eyes, "I'm not saying there aren't immortals, pretty sure I've encountered one or two of them before. But those were creatures, things from here it seemed. Immortal people? Well sure, I can even buy that. I'll even bet that you are one yourself, or the next best thing to it, but me? No, I'm certainly not. I've got proof."

Wyatt drew out a knife of an odd yellowish color and began to work a piece of wood in his hands. That was a guy thing, if you don't understand. Most men don't communicate eye to eye. Eye contact still has this real primal 'challenge or be challenged' aspect to it, when its with a stranger. Looking away after someone makes eye contact is still this really tiny sense of loss or cowing. Working on something, like polishing a gun, or whittling, they give you a menial task to focus your eyes on so you can look away, have a perfectly reasonable conversation, and not just be two shmucks staring at the ground feeling awkward in an attempt to not feel awkward.

After six thick slices of the wood were cut free, he said, "An now you think I'm immortal."

I shrugged, "Nothing more than a guess. You said you recognized something about me. You made the claim first. You're also dressed for a period of time that I'm only familiar with from film. The actual Old West was...I want to say about a hundred years ago, more or less. Anyway, I figured like knows like."

He humphs softly, and more wood chips hit the floor, "A hunnert years."

I acknowledged, "Give or take, yeah. World's a lot different now. Even more now than when I last remembered it." I threw in that hint of my life to Wyatt, because it was something I wanted him to consider, maybe he'd even ask about it. He controlled the conversation. Hell, He didn't even let Chonk inside the house.  The faeline seemed alright with that, having quickly hidden beneath the porch.

He eventually asked, processing everything in a slow, methodical way. I told him.

I told him about the Wretched Man who I first wrote blogs about, the tall corpse-like figure with its skin stretched far too tight over its skeletal frame.

I told him about the writings, and the people I saw disappear, I ruefully talked about the propensity for nicknames and titles. He smirked a little at that part.

And then it went on to the Winter Solstice, the night that changed my life, and the stupid hubris that was my quest for glory, that left a young woman slain by my hand.

And then there was the Bleeding Tree. Mine Nemesis. That which claimed me as its own, and the bloodshed that followed.

With most stories, it would end with my death, bleeding out, huddled up against the tree, rapidly trying to one handed type that I did it, that I was finally a winner.

Except my story didn't end there.

It was the afterwards that he showed some interest. The Punishment as it were. The years and years of walking, the life of just fruitless searching for something I could never find. Feeding the Tree, or whatever it wanted from me. And then there was Jack.

I didn't name her, and I left her vague intentionally. No sense in sharing everything.

"A hunnert thousand years." Wyatt comments.

I shrugged, "I have no idea, but I was walking for what felt like an eternity."

"And you come to me, why?"

I mull it over. I wish at this point I had a whittlin stick of my own. First off, it just felt wholesome. It also gave me something to fidget with so I felt less awkward.  Of course, it'd be impossible to do one handed, so I guess it didn't matter.

I guess I need a hobby.

"I uh...want to get home." I said simply, "There's a way to get from here to there, even just between two places on Earth. We've got a name for it, I bet you know it by a different name. The Path of Black Leaves."  I speak of it with capitalized letters, to signify its importance.

He stops his knife stroke, regarded me and then looked back to his wood, and made a soft whistle. "Noctis Eater"

I look to him and away and back, and decided to agree, "Yeah that...sounds about right."  I continue, "I could come here, but not go back."

He leans back in his seat, and plants his knife on the table. "That...is because you're not a wizard or magician or whatever they call it now. You've got no 'words' on you."

The emphasis of Words was interesting.

I nodded, "Yeah, I fell into about everything that's happened with no training or knowledge."

He puts his feet up on the bench before him, and stretches out. "You can do that stuff on Earth because that's you, that's your home. But you're not home now." He pauses and pushes up his hat, and squints, "Wonderland?"

I correct gently, "Underland is the term I know." I make a motion with my hand to signify underneath, "Like its underneath Earth. The dimension next door as it were."

"Underland." He says again, then settles back down again, "Your Underland here doesn't respond to you, because it doesn't hear you. You've got no words to back it up."

Please oh please, teach me magic.

I swear he heard me, or the way I tensed was enough for him to read me. "I don't have time to teach you frickin words."

I consider arguing because if he's immortal, then he had nothing but time, but I felt there was a pitch coming.

"But, there's cheaper ways to do things...iffin you've lived long enough, and don't mind dying."

I was all ears.