The Name in the Margin

By noon, the settlement had chosen its witnesses. They came to the gate with work still on their hands: a woman carrying a hammer, a boy with flour on his sleeve, the old man who mended harnesses. Mateo asked each one if they stood freely. Each said yes. I watched the line fill and wondered how many would still stand there if the Pale Rider’s words turned against them.

Vincent sat with me at the storehouse table while I read the two papers from the day before. The edges had curled against my stays. He had copied the answer in a clean hand, leaving room beneath it for anything I might need to add. My injured palm lay open on the table, bandaged and stiff.

“What do you want to ask first?” he said.

“Who made the bargain. What it says I owe. How he decided I am the one who owes it.” I pressed the paper flat with my uninjured hand. “I expect he’ll tell me none of that is a question he has to answer.”

“Then listen for what he is required to state.”

Mateo set a cup of coffee beside me. “And keep a copy of what he brings.”

“I can read for myself.”

“I know.” His voice was easy, but he kept his hands away from my papers. “I meant that the original might be useful.”

I took a sip. The coffee was bitter and had gone lukewarm. Vincent had offered to walk out with me, and Mateo had offered the same. I asked them both to come. I would not let either man speak for me, but I did not care to face the Pale Rider without them.

At the gate, the witnesses had left a wide space around the inside post where I had pinned my demand. The Pale Rider waited on the road. His white clothes were clean, and his horse’s reins hung loose in his gloved hand. Sunlight showed every painted bone on his face.

Mateo stood on my left. Vincent stood on my right, his hat shading his face. Neither offered a hand. I was glad of that. The last thing I wanted was to look as though I needed holding up.

The Pale Rider took a long, narrow packet from inside his poncho. It was bound with dark thread. He unwrapped it and held up a sheet, old and yellowed, with writing on both sides.

“I present the instrument governing the claim,” he said. His voice reached the gathered people without effort. “I will state its terms in full to the person named.”

He read the first lines aloud. In the year 1830, an ancestor of mine had bargained for the gift of witchcraft. In return, the covenant line was to yield one living soul from each generation. The soul was due when the last known issue of that generation reached the age of twenty-one. The debt belonged to the named line, and no outsider could be substituted. The soul’s consent was not required. The collector could not take it while witnesses freely offered sanctuary.