Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac

corner of the ruined saloon in the
direction of the black man’s voice.
    “But
he left you a message,” Purdee said as they came into view.
    The
Rider closed his eyes and nearly slid down the onager’s flank.
    When
he opened them, what he had seen and prayed briefly was not so was still there.
    The
massive youth was lying like a colossal pieta in the arms of Purdee, who had
wrapped his bandanna around Gershom’s thick neck in a vain attempt to stop the
blood that colored them both scarlet and fed a wide pool in the dirt.
    He
was pale and sunken, his cheek resting like a sleeping boy’s against Purdee’s
breast.
    The
Colonel was standing nearby with his hat off, and Marina and her boy were
weeping, the boy into the belly of his mother, and she into the Colonel’s
shoulder.
    Trib
leaned against the stone wall of the hut, and his tired eyes were red limned.
    The
Rider left the onager’s side and went to them, sinking to his knees.
    As
his shadow fell across the pale body, the boy’s eyes fluttered and he stared
up, half-lidded.
    The
Rider brushed aside Gershom’s long hair and gently moved Purdee’s hand, still
pressing the blood soaked bandanna to his neck.
    When
it came away, blood seeped, but only a little. There was not much left in his
body. The Rider got a glance of the small, ragged bite wound, then replaced
Purdee’s bandanna.
    He
looked into the boy’s fading eyes. He had not had much time to speak with this
boy, but he had been instantly fond of him. When he had seen Gershom weep
openly over the death of Hash, the Rider had bled for him. He knew what it
meant to lose a father. He had thought once more of his desire to leave all
this horror and strife and lead a normal life, perhaps to start a family,
perhaps to be a father himself.
    Yet
in the boy’s willingness to learn about his heritage, the Rider realized he had
seen much more than a surrogate son. He had seen a potential student. Someone
to whom he could pass on the teachings he had for so long thought would end
with him. Perhaps that had been the true desire of his soul. This boy had been
something special after all. A living Nazirite. A champion of the Lord, waiting for a knowing hand to point him in
the direction of the Adversary.
    But
to what had the Rider led him, he could not help but ask himself.
    Gershom’s
lips moved, and the Rider leaned close, realized he was summoning the strength
to speak, and laid his ear against them.
    “I
could have helped you,” he said.
    “You
did,” the Rider told him.
    This
seemed to lighten his sorrowful expression, and he nearly drifted away then,
but his lids snapped open and his tongue darted. He strained to speak again.
    “He
said…he said….tell you…he will find you…another time.”
    The
Rider nodded. He knew that was so. He wanted it to be so.
    “Some-thing
else…,” he stammered. “Said…said...tell you…Nehema…”
    The
Rider tensed. Nehema. What about her? Had Lilith’s
children learned of her betrayal?
    “Ne-hema…”
    The
Rider stared, willing him to live a little longer.
    The
boy rattled then in Purdee’s arms, and he stared at the Rider, as if he wanted
to take his face with him wherever he was bound.
    And
then with a hiss, he went there.
    “What’d
he say? What’s Nehema?” the Colonel pressed.
    The
Rider said nothing, but gently closed Gershom’s eyelids with his fingertips.
    “He
was the bravest, most amazin’ boy I ever seen,” Purdee said.
    No
one could say otherwise.
     
    * * * *
     
    They left together. That is, the Colonel, Purdee, Marina and her son,
and Trib, after they saw the dead buried and prayed over.
    The
Rider said the kaddish over Gershom himself.
    Purdee
and the Colonel fixed Baines’ wagon, and the Rider caught the two black horses
the shedim had rode. They were not entirely natural creatures, having been
willing to bear shedim, but when he fashioned horse brass marked with the 22nd
and 32nd seals and fixed them to their harness collars, they were