The Virgin of Orenville

by jfclover

“But you have to take me, Joe.  I’d look silly going by myself.”

“It’s a ghost town, Alva.  No one lives in Orenville anymore.”

“Then explain this invitation.”  She snatched the linen paper from her beaded purse and plowed it into my hand. 

“It looks legitimate, but no one in their right mind would go to that godforsaken place on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“You’re such a big baby.  It’s a game, Joe.  Nothing bad will happen.   It’ll be fun.”

“I still think it’s a dumb idea.”

That’s when she made her move and ran her hands up the front of my shirt, where they found a home at the nape of my neck.  We’d only just met, but Alva wound her fingers through the length of my hair.  She knew that toying with a man often granted results, but I stuck to my guns.

“No, Alva.  It’s a foolish notion, and I won’t take you out there.  We’ll do something else.  How about a nice dinner instead?”

“Fine.  But I’m not at all happy.”

“You’ll feel different when you put on a pretty dress and let me escort you to Henri’s for supper.”

*****

Though I didn’t dress to the nines, I was clean and polished and ran the brush through my hair one last time.  I was ready to pick up Alva and show her a lovely evening in Virginia City.  Since Henri’s was only a couple of blocks from her house, I rode Cooch rather than taking the carriage.  We could walk that far, and if she got cold, it was a good reason for her to lean into me to get warm.  I liked the thought of that.

After tying my horse to the hitchrail, I stepped up on the porch and knocked on the Hendersons’ front door.  I heard footsteps, and then the door opened, but it wasn’t Alva.  It was her father.

“Hi, Mr. Henderson.  Is Alva ready to go?”

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, Sir.  To Henri’s for supper.”

“Come in, Joe.”

I couldn’t figure out why Alva hadn’t told her father I was coming to pick her up.  Since it was All Hallows’ Eve, I wondered if she was playing a trick on both of us.  Was she the type to pull some silly stunt that left her father and me in the dark?

“She left nearly half an hour ago, Joe.  Took the buggy and said she was meeting you at a party.  I didn’t like the idea, but she convinced me she’d be fine. That’s how she is.

“I admit I don’t know her that well, but I know exactly where she’s gone.”

“The party, right?”

“Yeah.  A party in Orenville.  I thought I talked her out of it, but I guess she had plans to go with or without me.”

“She’s got the team and the buggy.  I’ll saddle my horse and—”

“No need, Mr. Henderson.  I’ll go out there and bring her home.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“Sure.”

It wasn’t a long ride, twenty or thirty minutes in daylight, but it would take a while longer since the sun had dipped behind the clouds.  When I came to the edge of town, I scanned the hitch posts but saw no sign of Alva’s buggy.

There had to be a smart way to find that stupid party, but the town was as quiet as death, and shivers ran up my spine.  Something told me I needed to beware, to take precautions, but I didn’t know why.  A silly premonition, I guess.

I thought there’d be fiddlers or some kind of music for dancing, but not a sound came from any of the clapboard buildings.  It was odd when I looked up and saw a sign that said International Hotel.  Were they trying to copy Virginia City somehow?  Was the stupid town trying to confuse travelers from the far reaches of the country?

Since the silver strike of ’59, towns had sprung up all along the eastern slope of the Sierras.  Orenville was one of them, although within five years of over-priced hotels and saloons and everything a man needed to live like a king, the town transformed from a booming municipality into a ghost town, but no one knew the reason why.  So why had Alva decided this would be a fun place to spend time?  The whole town gave me the willies, but I assured her father I’d bring her home. 

As I moved forward, it began to rain.  I also began hearing voices, not the cheerfulness of partygoers, but more like a men’s chorus.  It wasn’t a tune I’d ever heard in church, but maybe the men I heard were of a different faith than the Cartwrights. 

The farther I rode down Main Street, the louder the eerie chanting became.  I remember reading that chanting soothed the soul, but that only happened in foreign countries, not something that men practiced in the Nevada Territory.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Since I hadn’t seen Alva’s buggy, was she here, or was she playing a trick?  I wondered if I’d been duped into believing she’d driven all the way down to Orenville, and I was sent on a wild goose chase.

The sounds were curious and haunting, and the rain became an irritation I could’ve lived without.  I needed to see what kind of men thought chanting was a vocal exercise that only people from Orenville prided themselves in on All Hallows Eve. 

I tied Cooch to the hitch rail and started down the boardwalk until I saw batwings rocking back and forth.  I hadn’t seen anyone go inside, and I blamed the subtle movement on the breeze that caused the slatted doors to swing, but that’s when the chanting became louder and more distinct.

I stepped inside the saloon.

Candles burned in a unique pattern around the far ends of the bar, and the stench of something rotting permeated the air.  A reddish haze drifted over the rough stone floor and ventured into thin rivulets up the four rock walls.  None of the haze leaked through the space above or below the batwings, but it hovered over the boots of the men who chanted.

All heads turned their eyes on me, and I felt a bit foolish busting in on their chanting.  Although their eyes showed through slotted holes, red, satin robes draped over their heads and shoulders, and flowed in various lengths behind them. Hands with long, thin fingers showed at the end of each sleeve. I’d never seen such a sight, and as I turned to leave, a voice called out from across the room.

“Joe?  Is that you, Joe?”

My God.  It was Alva.  “Wh … where are you?” 

“Help me, Joe.  I’m over here.”

I moved through the odd red haze, through the crowd of men who circled the bar and softened their chanting enough that I could speak to Alva and find out what was going on.

“Alva?”

“Joe?”

Laid out on top of the bar in a white, satin gown that clearly was Alva.  With puffy white sleeves and a bow at her waist, she looked younger than her twenty-something years.  Her wrists were tied, and a length of red satin had been pulled above her head and driven into the bar’s surface with a metal spike.  Her black leather boots had been removed, and her ankles were tied together with a separate length of red satin.

“What’s this all about?  Why is she tied?”

“Step back!  Step away from the virgin.”

I’d never known such craziness before, and I didn’t know what to make of the behavior I was seeing, but I couldn’t let them use Alva for some sick game.

“She will meet her maker on the south side as travelers enter town.”

“What?  Are you crazy?”

“Having a virgin buried alive will please the gods and bring Orenville back to life.  Hotel rooms will fill to capacity.  The local mercantile and haberdashery will load every wooden shelf with fresh supplies, and the saloons will be bustling with music and women and enough whiskey to provide every man with a night he’ll want to forget.  Men and women of proper standing in the community will return in droves.  They’ll reopen the mines and build their mansions.  Unity will be restored and the glory days of Orenville will prevail once again.”

“You can’t bury Miss Alva.”

“Take the boy away.  His disruption is unwarranted.”

“Didn’t you hear me?  You can’t bury that girl!”

Alva and I had only been seeing each other for a week, and I couldn’t say we were a couple.  We hardly knew each other.  Her family was new to Storey County, and they’d rented a house in town.  I only asked the young lady out to be neighborly.

Had one of the men caught sight of the new girl in town and decided she must be a virgin?  She was young and beautiful and lived with her father, but that wasn’t proof of virginity.  I promised to bring her home.  God knows I couldn’t let these idiots bury her alive.

Two red-robed men grabbed my arms and hauled me to the back of the saloon, and when I looked at their claw-like hands, I began to worry.  How had this come to pass?  Did these men evolve from some kind of ancient bird?  An eagle or a hawk?  Though I tried to make sense of the situation, the weird hand business was beyond my comprehension.

The head man, the spokesman of the group, climbed up on a chair.  He carried a sword, and when he raised it to the ceiling, he lifted his other arm like a picture I’d seen of Moses parting the sea.  With his robed attire, he was a good likeness to the prophet I learned about in a normal church setting, but nothing about this operation was churchlike.  It was ghoulish and sick.

“A bloodless death will inspire our long-lost citizens to restore a lost routine to our special little town.” 

His voice was strong and commanding, and when a crash of thunder coincided with his speech, I felt a little sick.  Was this whole ritual business for real, or was I trapped in some kind of demented dream? I didn’t know why he was waving a sword if he didn’t plan to use it on Alva.  He’d said buried alive, so there was no reason to slice her up into pieces.

My clothes were nearly dry, but the pungent smell of wet corduroy combined with the musty saloon air was nauseating.  The saloon had a hot, dry warmth that should’ve passed with the heat of the day but lingered long into the evening.

The spokesman had a group of henchmen who did his bidding, and he called upon two of them to step forward.  “Jacob and Spiro come forth.”  The robed men did as they were told.  “Prepare the virgin.”

“No!  Leave the girl alone!”

I tried to jerk my arms away from the two men holding me, but I failed to escape their grasp. The spokesman glared across the room and lowered himself from the chair.   With the sword outstretched, he slipped through the mirage-like haze until the tip of the blade touched my right shoulder.

“You mock me.  You disrupt a sacred ceremony with your incessant babbling.  I won’t have you fielding any more complaints.  The virgin will be sacrificed before midnight.”

“Why this girl?”

“Enough!  Take him outside and secure him.”

The two men attached to my arms hauled me through the batwings and into the pouring rain.  A length of red satin secured my ankles to the hitchrail.  The tie ran up my legs to my wrists, and then up my back and around my neck.  A gag was shoved in my mouth and tied off with another strip of the shiny material.

It was difficult to breathe, and I couldn’t conceive how the two of us would get out of this mess, but when Alva screamed and the chanting began again, I vowed to think of something.

I couldn’t see inside the saloon, but I didn’t think they’d hurt her.  These men wanted a virgin, and I believed that no one would take advantage.  They’d never spoil her and ruin their hideous ceremony.

Two henchmen parted the batwings, and this time, the red haze poured onto the boardwalk.  It followed them out.  If they’d come to free me, I’d be forever grateful.  I was soaked to the skin and beginning to shiver.  I needed the warmth of the saloon.  But that wasn’t the plan.

Two red-robed men escorted Alva out into the night and stood her in front of me.  Her satin gown shed water for a brief time, and then it didn’t.  She was growing weary of the ordeal, and the men had to hold her up or she would’ve fallen to the ground and into the same puddle of mud that surrounded me.

“Get him up.”  Men loosened the ties and pulled me to my feet.  “Release the gag and all of the bindings.  You have work to do, Boy.”

The street was void of wagons or horses, or residents milling about.  The only people in the entire town were a bunch of red-robed crazies who wanted to bury Alva alive for some kind of sick ritual I didn’t understand.

But what were their plans for me?  Would I be buried alongside her, or maybe they planned to use the sword on me.  Behead me or cut off my limbs.  Who knew what the crazy spokesman planned.

When we reached the end of the street—the entrance to town—he handed me a shovel.  “Start digging.”

“Are you serious?  You expect me to dig the girl’s grave?”

“Right where you’re standing, Boy.”  With his Moses stance perfected, he proclaimed in a sturdy voice, “Burying a virgin will open the town for former residents and newcomers alike.”

Although I didn’t have much time to think, an idea came to me, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw it out there and see if the idiots would change their minds.

“You’ve made a mistake.”

“Dig!”

“The girl’s not a virgin!”

Mr. Spokesman turned and glared at me as though I’d shot him with my pistol, and I was the last person he would see before crumpling to the ground.

“What do you mean, not a virgin?”

“What do you think I mean?”

The hooded man stepped forward.  “Can you prove what you say?”

“How am I supposed to do that?  You think she’s a virgin, and she’s not.  I know she’s not, but I can’t prove it.  I believe that’s called a stalemate, and the girl and I are leaving.”

Mr. Spokesman clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing back and forth.  At least he was considering the alternative.  “I have a solution.”

“Good.  Let the girl go.”

“No.  Don’t jump ahead, Smart Boy.  If you want to save the girl, there’s only one way this can be accomplished.  You will have to bed the virgin in front of the assembly.”

“Bed her?  In front of what?”

“The assembly, you fool.  The citizens of Orenville.”

It never occurred to me that the idiot would come up with a plan like that.  I couldn’t sleep with Alva.  She was a sweet little thing who had just lost her mother and had come west with her Pa to start a new life.  I’d never violate a girl like that.

The spokesman pulled two of his henchmen aside and whispered something I couldn’t make out.  The two men nodded, grabbed two others, and the four of them took off down the boardwalk and entered the hotel.  I was hauled back inside the saloon and left to stand next to Alva. 

“Are they going to kill me, Joe?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Tell her.”

I dipped my head and turned away from Alva.  “I can’t.”

“It’s your choice, Lover Boy, and you know what those choices are.  Which do you choose?”

There was something about the way he said “Lover Boy” that sent a second chill up my spine.  It felt like a voice I’d heard before, but where would that have been?  I’d never been around goons like this before.

“Alva?”  Her trusting stare caused me to swallow hard.  “I have two choices.  I can dig a hole to bury you alive, or I can prove to these men—this assembly—that you’re not a virgin.  The only way I can do that is to …”

The batwings swung open, and the four men carried in a dingy featherbed from the hotel.  They dropped it on the floor in the middle of the saloon, and though it was ragged and filthy and was probably full of rat droppings, I would have to carry Alva to the mattress, and … I didn’t think I could do that.  Making love to a pretty woman was every man’s dream, but not under these conditions and not with an audience.  I felt sick at the prospect of having to perform.

“We’re waiting, Boy.”

The spokesman was trying my patience.  A man didn’t just climb on top of a girl and go at it.  A little finesse was required to get both parties in the mood.  I stared down at Alva.  She‘d hardly spoken or given me a sign that this was what she wanted too, although I imagined that taking me inside her was preferable to being buried alive.

The young lady’s watery eyes gave away her true feelings.  There had to be a better way of saving her from either a gruesome death or a humiliating evening.

The assembly of men had gathered behind me, expecting a show.  They were eager for me to pick Alva up, lay her on the bed, and remove her white, satin dress.  I didn’t want to see the lust on their faces, the anticipation of watching her struggle and fight for her right to remain pure.  I couldn’t treat the young lady like a common whore, and I whirled around without her in my arms. 

“Surprise, Little Joe!” 

Whoops and hollers and cheers and whistles signaled that the night had taken a turn. “Happy Birthday, Little Joe!”

“What the hell?”

“This ain’t hell, Little Brother.”

“Hoss?”

“He’s right, Joe.  Happy Birthday.”

“Adam?  You planned all this?”

“No.  That was your buddy, Seth.”

“I thought that voice sounded … who else?”

“Mitch was in charge of finding the right woman, and Miss Alva, Bruno’s newest barmaid, agreed to play along.”

I turned to face the woman sitting on the bar.  Unlike the demure, sweet little thing she professed to be only moments ago, she’d crossed her right leg over her left and flattened her palms firmly against the wooden slats.  As she swung her leg back and forth, Alva grinned like the devil, a liar from the start, and a rock-hard indication she would’ve carried out whatever was required,

“You mean you’re not .…”

“Not even close, Cowboy.”

The red satin hoods had been removed and thrown onto the mattress.  Everyone l called a friend—Seth, Mitch, Frank, and Johnny.  Danny, Dave, Billy Horn, and too many others to name stood laughing and enjoying the prank they pulled.  The entire night came off without a hitch, and I quickly forgave everyone in the room.

The featherbed was shoved out into the darkness of night, and my friends busied themselves, turning the makeshift bedroom back into a proper saloon.  Lamps were lit, and tables were positioned accordingly.

“Let’s get this shindig rolling!”  Hoss hollered.

I turned back to Alva.  She wasn’t there, but when the door to the back room opened, Seth and Mitch each carried a case of whiskey to the bar.  Danny and Dave carried in boiled eggs and peanuts and slices of beef, and Billy carried an iced cake with candles. 

My friends had gone all out, but I had to smile when Alva came waltzing into the room.  She’d changed into a green satin dress that hovered above her knees.  With black lace tracking along her large, white breasts, and black netted stockings accentuating the length of her legs, she waltzed into the room and brushed her hip against mine.

“I’m yours for the night, Cowboy.”  Cheers and whistles roared through the saloon, but I felt embarrassed.  The thought of bedding the woman … there was no way that would happen, especially not here and now.

“That’s enough, Fellas.  Let’s not forget that Miss Alva’s a lady.”

She tucked her hand through my arm and showed me to a table in the center of the saloon.  Seth played bartender and brought us a bottle and two glasses.

“No hard feelings?”

“None at all, Buddy.”

Seth smiled and returned to the bar, where he poured drinks for everyone, including my brothers.  I appreciated that my father had sat this one out.  Having Pa witness the shenanigans my friends thought were funny would’ve been planted in his memory forever, and I didn’t like the thought of that.   Seeing my brothers amused at my situation was bad enough.

As Alva toyed with the length of my hair, I reminded myself that the prank was all in good fun, but I wondered who had come up with such a wild scheme.  Satanic rituals and hooded men seemed a bit farfetched now, but it all felt real just minutes ago.

I looked at Alva.  “Who’s the fella that played your father?  I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

“My father?  I don’t know what you mean, Joe.”

“Come on, Alva.  The joke’s over.”

“I’m sorry, Joe, but my papa died when I was ten years old.”

“But …”

I talked to the man who claimed to be her father but was just another actor in the scheme to lure me to Orenville.  After downing the first shot of whiskey, I poured another and gulped it like water.  I rubbed both of my eyes, and when I looked up, no one had sat down at the tables.  No one moved.  Every man in the saloon looked like he’d frozen in a trance-like state.  I was surrounded by a room full of mannequins. 

“Hoss?  “Adam?”

No one answered.  No one moved a muscle or raised their glass in a toast to the birthday boy.  And when I glanced back at Alva, I wanted to run like hell, but was afraid to move.  Her beautiful face had aged fifty years, and the soft, white hand that rested on my leg was work-worn and crippled from years of suffering with rheumatism.

The next time I surveyed the room, the mannequins who’d planned the perfect event for All Hallows Eve had reverted back to the devilish characters they were before the big reveal.  Celebratory drinks had been replaced with the red hooded robes that covered everything but their glaring eyes.

The room mutated back to the saloon it had been when I’d first arrived—grimy, musty, and filled with a red haze.  Bruno’s whore would have to be replaced.  Alva would become homeless and destitute … my God!  What the heck was I doing in such a godforsaken town with a seventy-year-old whore by my side?

I threw her hand off my leg and grabbed my hat off the bar.  The sooner I was shed of Orenville, the better.  When I mounted Cochise, I left my brothers and everyone else behind, but I heard the roar of laughter, and the batwings rusty hinges squealed with a pitch that rang in my ears half the way home. 

I rode through the night like a banshee.  I’d left Orenville and Alva behind.  My brothers and the red-robed ghouls could party without me.  I had no intention of stopping until I rode into our barn and stabled my horse.

I felt relief when the lights showed inside the house and my boot heels sounded on the front porch.  I ran through my head what I’d tell my father, but whatever I had decided, it wasn’t going to be the truth.  He’d think I lost my mind altogether.  Instead, I burst through the front door with a lilt in my step and a smile on my face.

Pa looked up from his newspaper, and Adam looked up from his book.  Hoss turned and smiled.  “Hey, Joe.  You’re home just in time for a game of checkers.”

The End

2023