This is a long chapter. It will probably have to be divided in future drafts.
This chapter brings Marlow (the protagonist in this storyline) to his turning point by using his past to bring him face-to-face with his future. He emerges from this chapter permanently changed — which is necessary for the overall ending toward which this storyline makes a significant contribution.
Since this is first draft, I am still playing around with some things. You will notice, for example, the social critique of social media in the gladiator circus. You will also notice the continuing references to Apocalypse Now. Either or both of these may be removed in future drafts.
You will also notice Kurt’s accent change in this chapter. Part of that is due to experimentation. Part of that is the acknowledgement that he will act differently in his milieu than he will on the road with his troops.
People will complain, of course, that Marlow reacts very differently to Butter’s treatment (in this chapter) than he did to the treatment of either the stains or the smudges in previous chapters. That’s fair. It’s also the point. That’s who he is. That’s why change is both necessary and difficult.
Finally, people continue to ask me why I am not describing what the characters look like. There are a several reasons, which I have explained previously. But here are the two most relevant to this chapter.
First, I don’t want to make decisions about appearances until I see each character’s full arc. Their appearance may change. Their gender may change. Their accents may change. All of that will be done once the script is written and I come back to cast the actors in their roles.
Second — and this is critical to understanding authorial intent — I do not want anybody to think about this story in contemporary racial terms. This story is about class; it is not about race. So I don’t want ideas about race distracting my readers from the core message.
Marlow is a corrupt cop working for a corrupt police force. He needs to realize this before he can change. Therefore… Does it really matter what color he is? Or what his cultural background is? The only thing that matters to me, is his redemption.
For the moment, his working form is Raylan Givens from Justified. But his final form will be determined by whatever makes this storyline most effective.
104 – NUMBERS
Commander Kilgore’s plan to take the stain, Angela, to Eastbranch to face charges had gone up in smoke, as had his pretext to be there for Incorporation Day. So with no legitimate reason for him to leave his post in Copper Creek, he offloaded the task of transporting the remaining prisoners to Captain Kurt, who was eager to curry favor.
Early the following morning, five rangers from Les Chateaux waited on their horses just outside the walls of Copper Creek. Two wagons loaded with welchers arrived a short while later. Marlow requested first rotation at rearguard and the captain allowed it.
Avoiding eye contact as he passed to the rear, Marlow quickly calculated seven bodies in the first wagon and eight in the last. Considering the additional weight of chains, the terrain ahead, and the state of the horses pulling the wagons — this could not be a fast trip.
Good. He was in no mood for conversation. Rearguard would be quiet. A slow trip would give him time to figure some shit out.
Darrell. The axe in his chest. The fresh blood streaming from his nose. Its path along his upper lip running down to the crease of his ear. The image of the young deputy lying on the ground with the dirt stained dark around his uniformed body was burned into Marlow’s consciousness.
Of course he died the way he did. Darrell was destined for an unlucky death. What bothered Marlow about it was the timing. It didn’t have to happen yesterday. Nobody needed to die yesterday. The fact that so many did… that was on Kilgore.
Darrell. Angela. The protestors. The women. The children who burned with them. None of it was necessary.
“I may have fucked my life up worse than a termite in a hen house,” Marlow heard somebody say, “but I never expected the man walking me to the gates of hell would be Marchback Marlow.”
Marlow had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t given the prisoners more than a passing glance. Now that one of them was addressing him, he looked up and tracked down the speaker. It was prisoner number fifteen. The last prisoner in the rear wagon.
“Seargeant Butterworth.” Marlow’s head jerked back.
“Ain’t a sergeant no more… obviously,” the prisoner replied, lifting an arm to display his chain, “… but I am what’s left of what you remember.”
“I’ll be damned,” Marlow clucked his horse forward to catch up to the back of the wagon. “I was actually thinking about calling on you when we were in Copper Creek, but… we uh… we got kind of busy.”
“Yep. Saw you from my cell when you came in yesterday. Seemed like you were in the middle of things. And you had that kid Kurtz with you, so I didn’t wanna stick my nose in.”
Harlow nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “It was… a crazy day.”
“Heard you lost one.”
“We did,” Harlow nodded once. “Young guy… named Darell.”
“I hope it was an honourable death.”
Marlow grimmaced. “Fell on his axe.”
“Unlucky cocksucker. I hope, for his sake at least, the cause was honourable.”
Marlow grimmaced again.
“You’re kidding,” Butterworth shook his head. “What was the fight about?”
“Ointment,” Marlow confessed, “for lady parts.”
The prisoner’s forehead dropped, shaking side to side. “Poor bastard.”
Elmer Butterworth was Marlow’s master sergeant at Eastbranch. All incoming recruits trained with him back in the day. He taught them everything from swords to tracking in their first two years. Uncle Butter, they called him behind his back. Master sergeants had reputations for being violent pricks, but Uncle Butter was the kind of officer young deputies would take a blade for.
“So… this is a pickle,” said Marlow.
“It’s a pickle of my own goddamn making. And I ain’t ashamed to say so.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
I’ll kindly ask you to end my fucking life.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m dead either way,” Butter said sincerely. “I’d rather my throat cut at your hand than a miserable goddamn death on the wheel.”
“Oh. Come on, Elmer. They don’t put nobody to the wheel anymore. That’s old school.”
Elmer laughed. “This guy,” he said to the prisoner across from him, jamming a thumb at Marlow. “LG brought it back last year… brought it back special for cocksuckers who can’t pay their debts.”
“You’re kidding.” Marlow bit the side of his lower lip again.
“I know that brat won’t let you do it,” Butterworth said looking ahead at Kurt. “But I sure wish you could. I ain’t looking forward to a buzzard digging my eyeballs out of their sockets.”
“How much you on the hook for?” Marlow offered. “Maybe I can loan you some.”
“With interest?” Butterworth chuckled. “More than you’ll make in the next three years.”
Marlow grimmaced.
“How’d you get in that deep?”
“After Emma died, I… wasn’t doing so well. Between the liquor, the stains, and the faro tables, I got in so far over my head I couldn’t just work my way out.”
Marlow squeezed his reins. He shifted in his saddle.
“Couldn’t afford to pay the healers no more. So I got sicker and sicker… ‘til I couldn’t work.”
Marlow stroked both sides of his chin down past his Adam’s apple, feeling the bristles of his road beard scratch against his fingertips.
“I borrowed ‘til I couldn’t borrow no more. Then when I couldn’t make the payments, Kilgore had the boys bring me in.”
Marlow sucked his lips into his mouth and compressed them with his teeth.
“Like I said. A big fat, crunchy pickle of my own goddamn making.”
Marlow raised his eyebrows and nodded. “It’s a barrel a brine aright.”
They rode along in silence for a while. Marlow’s mind ran through a list of possible solutions but nothing jumped out at him. He could ask for mercy. But he knew Butterworth wouldn’t like that.
“You ever regret giving up your badge, Elmer?”
The sergeant considered the question for a while before responding.
“The mine was hard work. Harder work than being a deputy… or a sergeant. No doubt about that,” he admitted. “Life behind the badge was easier. I missed that. But life in Copper Creek was better than life at Eastbranch… at least… until the Company took over.”
Marlow remained silent.
“Knowing I wasn’t gonna have to kill nobody made getting out of bed a whole lot easier. And knowing Emma May was going to be there at night made going back a whole lot easier, too.”
Marlow adjusted his hat and fixed his gaze on the wagon’s tail gate.
“The wheel ain’t the most dignified way to go. It sure as hell won’t be the most comfortable way to go. But if I’d kept the badge, I’d have been put down a long time ago… and who’s to say if it might not have been a damn site worse.”
“I could ask for mercy,” Marlow offered, “on account of your service.”
“Don’t you goddamn dare,” Butterworth warned him. “The only mercy I want is the mercy of a quick death.”
Marlow knew the tone. This wasn’t Uncle Butter. This was Master Sergeant Butterworth.
“I gotta question for you, Master Sergeant.” Marlow lowered his voice. “Been on my mind for a few days now,” he said, leaning in and glancing at the wagoneer’s back. Then he paused, wondering if he should say this out loud. “Do you still think we’re the good guys?”
Butterworth leaned back and looked up into the trees. “When I was on your side of the badge,” he said, “I was pretty sure the answer was yes. But now… can’t say for sure.”
*****
Eastbranch Fortress was the oldest of the Company headquarters. Its thick stone walls sat atop a spur that came off of a larger peak well below its treeline. The slope to reach it was sheer enough to make attacking the fort nearly impossible. It sat far enough above the valley floor that even siege weapons could not reach it. The road leading into its central bailey featured four gates, each more difficult to penetrate than the one before it.
The Town of Eastbranch sat immediately below the terraced lower slope which hosted the fortress’ vineyard. On this day the town was decorated throughout with bright red ribbons that matched the company flags dancing in the breeze over the walls on the spur above.
Cleetus, Harland, and Eli were visiting Eastbranch for the first time. Kurt was eagerly filling them in on the details. Marlow remained at rearguard, where he had been since leaving Copper Creek. Although he could not hear all of the words being said, he understood their topic of conversation.
The main import was that tonight… they would get drunk. Incorporation Day was the biggest celebration on the Company’s annual calendar. Siouk and every town in the three districts organized civic events while elaborate private affairs were held at Eastbranch, Snowfall, and Les Chateaux.
The town’s cobblestoned main street led them past a line of boardwalks dotted with citizens going about their daily business. The site of wagons bearing prisoners must be common here, Marlow thought. Nobody seemed curious. Nobody cared enough to give them a second look.
At its end, the main street turned a sharp corner around an elaborate granite church. Here began the final stretch leading from the outskirts, through the terraced vineyards, and up the slope to Eastbranch.
A line of towering everwoods stood on either side of the road. Their interlocking branches had been stripped off of the trunks from ground level up to about three times the height of a man. Immediately below the lowest branches on every tree, a wagon wheel had been affixed to the trunk. The magnificence of the ancient trees obscured the sky, but the raspy hiss of vultures warned Marlow of what lay ahead.
“Eyes down,” he quietly commanded Butterworth and the prisoners in the rear wagon before kicking his horse forward to come alongside the lead wagon. “Look at your feet,” he ordered the prisoners. “Do not look up.”
The first wheels they passed were empty. Bits of rope and old stains showed they were recently used and currently waiting for their next occupants. Some wheels ahead were clearly occupied.
Cool weather kept the flies away and suppressed the smell of rot, but death hung ripely in the low canopy and throngs had come to harvest it. Aggressive buzzards tore chunks from fresh corpses while crows, ravens, and agitated magpies scooped up the bloody scraps as they dripped and plopped onto the ground below.
Tree after tree after tree after tree. Dried and withered human remains, picked clean, were threaded through the wheel spokes. Separated joints and broken broken bones testified to the agony of their final hours.
The intense density of carrion birds here pressed down on the wagons and their occupants. The deputies on horseback stooped and held their hats with one hand. In the first wagon, a young welcher sobbed. Another prayed aloud, begging for deliverance, pleading for protection.
As the paces wore on and the pressure persisted, the prisoners weakened and some looked up. The young sobber in the lead wagon was first to break. The sight of a dried corpse panicked him. He stood and tried to bolt, but his chains held fast causing him to plunge over the sideboard and split his forehead on the wheel hub. Dangling, leaking blood from the gash, his unconscious body was hauled back into the box by his fellow welchers.
Marlow stayed at Butterworth’s side through all of it. He wanted to gallop the horses and fly past this hellscape, but the grade was too steep and the road was too narrow. The load was too heavy for the old horses pulling it to move quickly.
Ahead on the side of the road, a crew of deputies winched a loaded wheel aloft. Two men stationed atop ladders, reached down to guide the leading edge as it rose toward them. When it arrived, the wagon wheel was set onto hooks and tied into place. The old man tangled in its spokes moaned pitifully with every bump and jostle.
A few dozen paces further up the road, they passed the weeping family of a man going in the opposite direction. It appeared he would live — blind in one eye and likely lame. But his debt was paid and he was being set free.
At the first gate, they were questioned. Prisoners with the prospect of payment were removed from the wagons to be placed on the wheels. Butterworth and the others continued on.
Inside the fourth gate, the small chest bound for Eastbranch was unloaded. Marlow asked Kurt for permission to escort Butterworth to his final destination, promising to be quick. Kurt was annoyed, but allowed it.
“Any words for your kin?” Marlow asked Butterworth as he walked the final steps toward the entrance alongside the coffle
“Emma was the last of my kin,” the old veteran responded. “We started too late to have kids of our own.”
Marlow calculated the odds of taking out the guards and manufacturing an escape. He also considered drawing his sword and plunging it through Butter’s heart.
“You know I’d do it if I could,” Marlow apologized as the guards stopped the prisoners outside the lockup.
The defiance vanished from Uncle Butter’s face. For the first time in his life, Marlow saw his idol as human. Grizzled. Battered. Defeated. Imprisoned.
“Good to see you, son,” said Butter. “Take care.”
Marlow stood staring at the lockup door long after it closed. He was running through a list in his mind. Who did he know? What could he do? Then he remembered the chest and abruptly left to find it.
Returning to where he left it, the chest was no longer there. Moments later, he spotted Eli and Cleetus carrying it through a set of double doors at the top of some stairs a fair distance away. By the time Marlow got there, the doors were closed and the guards refused to allow him through.
*****
After dealing with the horses and stowing their gear, the Chateau’s rangers washed up, changed into cleaner clothes, and headed for the mess where food and beer would flow freely until late into the night. While their captain was working things out with his cousins inside, the boys would spend their last moments before sunset catching up to Eastbranch deputies who had been celebrating Incorporation Day since right after breakfast.
The drinking started immediately. Their cups were emptied twice before their plates were filled the first time. Entertainment of some kind would begin shortly after sundown. They intended to be in the proper mood when it started.
“What do you think these are for?” Harlan asked about the red cavalry scarves every deputy had been handed to wear when entering the mess hall.
“Probably for waving,” Marlow said, tying his around his neck.
“Like the flags,” Eli agreed.
“To Darrell,” Cleetus raised his cup, trying to raise the spirits of his sullen sergeant.
Marlow understood the objective. This was Cleetus’ way of killing two birds with one stone. Darrell’s death didn’t bother Cleetus because he considered it an accident. Darrell’s death was Darrell’s fault.
“To Darrell,” the men replied, raising their cups before drinking.
“What’s your first name, Sergeant Marlow?” asked Eli.
Marlow smiled. It’s funny how this question comes up when someone dies, he thought.
“Willard,” he replied. “I generally go by Will but… you can call me… Sergeant Marlow.”
The sergeant’s smile preceding the statement was inferred as a joke. So everyone laughed, which helped to lighten the mood.
“Why ain’t you a captain, Sergeant Marlow?” Harlan wondered aloud on behalf of the troop.
Marlow was surprised. This question was usually a few drinks further down this road.
“Captains give orders,” he replied. “Sergeants carry them out.”
“So?” The men looked at each other.
“I guess they think they might not like the orders I’d give.”
“You order us around all the time,” Cleetus objected, drawing nods.
“Mostly I’m just repeating the captain’s orders. Or just reminding you what you’re s’posed to be doing. A sergeant’s orders is mostly housekeeping. Captain makes the decisions.”
Cleetus nodded thoughtfully, making it apparent to Marlow that this information was new to him.
“I’d follow you,” Harlan offered, looking Marlow in the eyes.
“Eli raised his cup in agreement.”
“I know Bo sure liked you, Sergeant,” Cleetus volunteered, glancing over his left shoulder. “He didn’t much —“
“Here he is,” Marlow interrupted, seeing Captain Kurt approaching the table. “How many are they giving us?” he asked, as Kurt arrived.
Kurt had a grave look on his face. He didn’t appear to be bringing good news.
“They’re worried about the elves,” he relayed to his sergeant, not concerned about what the others might think.
“What about the elves?”
“Nothing specific. Just worried about what they might be up to,” Kurt looked exasperated, which didn’t surprise Marlow. He knew that Kurt was powerless to change anything at Eastbranch. “There’s lots of activity at the border right now. So they want to be ready.”
Marlow thought of the letter they had read aloud in The Wood. The elves knew that Les Chateaux was requesting troops to flank Old Mill. This could be their way of preventing that.
“We’re welcome to recruit volunteers in the East while we’re here,” Kurt added. “Plus, the guy at Two Bears has his own militia. They gave us a few hundred for him. If it’s more than that, we gotta pay the difference.”
“Can we do that?” Marlow asked.
“Depends how much.” Kurt shrugged.
“What I don’t understand,” Eli jumped in with a trace of slur in his words, “is why we are even here.”
Everyone in the group looked blankly at him in response.
“I mean… How big is Old Mill?”
“It ain’t about how big they are,” Marlow explained. “It’s about how many choose their side.”
“That a problem?” Cleetus asked.
“Rebellions can spread. No one knows what’s gonna happen between now and spring.”
“You really think it’ll spread?” Harlan leaned in with a trace of concern.
“Naw.” Kurt dismissed the suggestion. “People know which side their bread is buttered on.”
The guys looked to Marlow, who added nothing.
“Listen.” Kurt changed subjects. “The entertainment is about to start.” Cleetus, Harlan, and Eli all smiled with anticipation. “You guys can watch from up top,“ Kurt said, referring to the battlements. “I’ll be on the dais with my family. I’ll catch you in the morning. We’ll head out early, so don’t get too drunk.”
“Then don’t volunteer us for nothin –”
Cleetus nearly spit his food back into his plate.
“I’ll deal with it, Captain,” Marlow interrupted, as a deathly glare formed in Kurt’s eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Eli.” Marlow stood and turned toward the deputy to emphasize his point. Eli, surprised, gingerly slumped back in his chair.
Kurt shot eye daggers at him for several heartbeats while the men held their breath.
‘I’ll walk you out,” Marlow offered.
“I’m good,” Kurt replied, turning to leave. “See you in the morning.”
As their commanding officer went to join his kin, Marlow glowered a shrinking Eli into submission. “You’re saddling his horse in the morning for that one.”
“I know,” Eli said. “I got it comin. Tongue’s gettin a little loose is all.”
Word spread through the hall that things were happening outside in the bailey. So chairs scraped and men rushed the bar for refills.
“We better get going,” Marlow suggested. “Or we’ll be too far away to see anything.”
Their table being near the door, they didn’t have far to go. But as the hall emptied and men rushed for the best spots on the battlements, the bottleneck on the staircase became a crush.
“I don’t understand why you’re all down about Darrell,” Eli blurted out as they slowly climbed the steps. Marlow wanted to turn, but it was too crowded and Eli was pressing against his back. The sour smell of his beer breath assaulted his nose. “People gotta folla the law,” Eli lectured. “We gotta enforce it. Sometimes guys get hurt.”
“People don’t mind following rules,” Marlow countered over his shoulder, “long as they see them as helpful. It’s when they ask us to stick our necks out to enforce bad rules that I start to mind.”
“You could quit,” Eli suggested.
“You see what life is like on the other side of the badge. You think I wanna live like that?”
“Maybe not,” Eli granted. “But you don’t seem happy about living life on our side no more neither.”
*****
Marlow had been on this wall for spectacles before. Most recently, it was the swearing-in ceremony of the lieutenant governor and the festivities that followed it.
Buford Kurtz was not the best candidate for the position when it last opened, but he was the most popular. Of the three cousins vying for the job, he was the youngest and least qualified. However, he was also the only one of the three to have worn a uniform at Eastbranch, having risen to the rank of colonel. This made him popular with the men and, ultimately, was the deciding factor in the eyes of Governor Duvall.
Kurtz’ swearing-in ceremony felt more like a coronation than it should have, Marlow thought at the time. But the men enjoyed the pomp and cherished the new uniforms that came with his appointment. They also loved the program that followed the ceremony, which included the closest thing to a gladiator match that the Haff-land had ever seen.
Prisoners, slated for execution, were given an opportunity to extend their lives a while longer by volunteering to fight in the training pit. Those who did, received extra food rations and better treatment during the period leading up the event. And the man who won the tournament earned a small purse to leave to his sons. He also put the hangman off for one additional year.
As he leaned forward on his forearms atop the low wall separating the rampart from the bailey, Marlow noticed the lamps that had been placed around the pit. Their black hooks and chains barely visible in the dark, the glowing orange lamps hovered over the heads of the deputies like magical floating orbs.
The deputies surrounding the pit were in their reds – dress uniforms supplied exclusively to the LG’s personal guard. A tall man with a pencil thin moustache stood in the center of the training pit, the black of his tuxedo standing in contrast to the light orange-grey tiles lining the floor and walls.
As the Master of Ceremonies, it was his job to explain the rules of tonight’s event to the audience as the welchers were marched out and led into the pit behind him. Marlow spotted Butterworth amongst their number and was immediately on alert.
“In honor of Incorporation Day, His Honorable Lieutenant Governor Buford T. Kurtz… in all of his mercy and wisdom… will be pardoning one of these unfortunates on your behalf.”
The gathered deputies, who had the uncomfortable duty of enforcing rules on welchers, supported this novel idea and applauded their approval.
“But… which of the welchers chosen to receive this blessing… will be up… to you… our trusted enforcers… of law… and order.”
This pronouncement was accepted with even more favourability than the previous one.
Several items stashed against the back wall of the pit were rolled out in the open area and the sheets draped over them were removed. One of the items was a wheel, identical to the instruments of torture hanging along the road outside. The remaining items were a set of boxes, outfitted with curtained window frames on one side.
“Our players,” the emcee announced with a sweeping gesture to Butter and the other prisoners, “will choose between the wheel… and the window.”
From the crowd’s reaction, Marlow could tell that the men of Eastbranch understood the game and appreciated the difference.
“Those who choose the wheel,” the emcee continued, “will get the wheel.”
The deputies booed playfully.
“If they choose a window” – he paused, waiting for the boos to abate – “they must reach through one of the curtains in these boxes and retrieve the items within.”
This boos gave way to cheers. The emcee again waited before holding his hands up to silence them.
“Whatever they pull from the window… they must use it… to entertain you.”
As the explanation continued, the players were outfitted with numbered bibs. Butter received the first bib, emblazoned with a large number one. The rest were numbered two through five.
In turn each contestant was given an opportunity to choose. They could take the wheel and certain death or a window and potential pardon. From where Marlow stood, it didn’t seem likely that anybody would choose the wheel.
Butter went first. After some frightful moments of consideration, he chose a window and then reached in through the curtain. He withdrew what appeared to be a bundle of some kind. What it was was not clear until the emcee coaxed him to unfold it and hold it up to the uproarious laughter of the deputies. Master Sergeant Butterworth had drawn… a ladies stage dress… and a wig.
Number two, a stooped old-timer barely able to walk, drew a hobby horse and a comically oversized deputy’s derby.
Number three – a hulking man who Marlow pegged as a woodchopper – drew a mandolin. That he was unhappy with this result was immediately clear as three guards had to intervene and move him away from the window boxes back to his position in line.
Number four drew three juggling pins and a colorful cockscomb while five drew hoops and a hat of the kind worn by acrobats.
Atop the wall, the betting began in earnest as soon as the last items were drawn.
“Drink, Sarge?” Eli asked, elbowing Marlow and offering him a bottle.
Marlow was preoccupied by the scene in the pit. The emcee had gathered the prisoners in a circle and appeared to be explaining the rules to them. The big man was visibly upset and Butter appeared to be sizing him up. Marlow had a sinking feeling that things were not going to turn out quite as the crowd expected.
The five players were spread out along the pit’s longest diagonal. Each was given their space. The emcee extended a hand and a guard pulled him up out of the pit. The first of ten tolls sounded from the bell tower. The performance would begin when the last toll sounded.
Marlow’s mouth went dry. His old friend, Butter, was not behaving like the other contestants. The stage dress he had drawn hung limply in one hand. The wig dangled in the other as he gazed down the line of contestants to his left.
Beside him, the old-timer struggled with his oversized hat, needing to dedicate one of his two hands to its management. In the middle of the line, the large man with the small instrument was becoming more agitated by the moment. From the way he held it, it seemed he had no idea how to use it.
Number four, the player to his left, did not appear to be any more comfortable with his juggling pins than the big man was with his mandolin. However, both he and the acrobat at the end of the line were at least trying to work something out. In fact, the acrobat looked like he might be the only player in the game with a clue about how to entertain an audience with his items.
“Sarge,” Eli elbowed him again, this time harder.
Marlow accepted the bottle and took a long drink and then passed it on to Cleetus.
“Who’re you bettin on, Sarge?” Cleetus asked before taking a drink.
Marlow wasn’t betting. He was watching Butter and trying to interpret the scene playing out in the pit. For the longest time, nothing. The bell continued its slow steady rhythm as it crawled from one to ten. Then Marlow dropped the wig and brought both hands together before separating them and tugging the two ends of the dress, holding it like a rope, testing its strength.
He’s using it as a weapon, Marlow decided. But why? He can’t escape. And trying won’t win him any friends in an audience full of lawmen.
The bell struck ten and the crowd roared as deputies shouted encouragement and instructions to their favourites. The old-timer next to Butter hobbled around holding his hobby horse between his thighs with one hand and his silly hat with the other. The acrobat at the far end executed a successful toss and catch and was rewarded with a few weak cheers.
In the centre of the ring, the mandolin player strummed his tiny instrument awkwardly and mouthed lyrics lost in the tumult of the crowd. To his left, the juggler tossed pins unevenly into the air, struggling to catch them, desperately seeking a groove. Each time he seemed to be getting the hang of it, he would speed up, lose control, and his pins would fall to the ground.
Butter made no effort to entertain anyone. His hands dangled loosely in front of his body, the fabric bowing slackly between them. Men who had placed wagers on the dress bearer began to boo. The acrobat, the only one of the five with a trace of applicable talent, was slowly separating himself from the pack.
Then the juggler lost control of two pins. One sailed toward the acrobat, the other toward the musician. The man with the hoop caught sight of the pin headed in his direction and artfully dodged it. The mandolin player, however, was blindsided and took his pin high just above his ear. The crowd, being rather starved for entertainment, was jubilant.
The giant playing the mandolin was not. As the juggler signaled apologies and bent down to retrieve his pin, the ear-clutching musician raised his instrument in his free hand and brought it down forcefully on his skull. The juggler collapsed to his hands and knees at the big man’s feet.
Now… the crowd was entertained! Arms raised, they jumped for joy, delighted by the violence, thirsty for more. Now… Butter moved. This, realized Marlow, is what he had been waiting for. The sergeant’s feet shifted beneath him; Marlow read the position and understood. Butter was preparing for battle.
The wood chopper, lost in a tunnel of rage, was startled by the crowd’s response. It yanked him from his rage tunnel and placed him back in the pit. He was initially confused, but it took him less than two heartbeats to grasp what was happening. Looking around, the deputies supervising the pit were not moving to stop him. Violence, he realized, was not only permitted, it was what the mob wanted.
So he raised his mandolin and bashed the juggler again. This time the instrument broke in half and the juggler collapsed face down in the dirt before him. Again, the crowd roared its approval. Tossing the broken instrument away, the big man reached down to pick up the juggler’s pin and turned to the old-timer on his right.
A single blow sent the frail man’s derby flying across the ring and his body crashing face first to the ground. The pin, hollowed for juggling, not solid like a weapon, shattered easily in his hand. Once again the crowd rewarded him with hearts.
Looking past the discarded old man, he glared at his next victim. Butter, ready for battle, glared back. The big man took note of the fabric in his opponent’s hand and looked around for a weapon. His eyes settled on the hobby horse pinned beneath his most recent victim. Dragging the unconscious man’s limp body off of it, he picked the toy, snapped its wooden shaft over his knee, and tossed the head aside – leaving a jagged point at the end of his thin spear.
Marlow wanted to act. He wanted to intervene, to defend his friend, to level the playing field. But he was too far away and there were too many obstacles in his way.
Improvised spear in hand, the big man turned. If Butter was afraid, Marlow saw no sign of it. His stance was ready. His frame was relaxed. The big man stepped forward into a semi-crouch and Butter allowed the dress to fall open like a cape.
The big man’s stick was thin. It was the stem of a toy. Its efficacy as a club was therefore dubious. However, it might be effective as a crude spear. So Marlow knew that his friend would have to beware.
Butter moved like a trained fight, keeping his balance, making sure he didn’t center his body behind the cape. The big man moved like a woodcutter. He moved like a man unacquainted with finesse, like a man used to bowling people over in bar fights.
He tested Butter with a few preliminary jabs. The veteran countered by blocking his vision without panicking or over-committing. The test appeared to convince the woodcutter to go a different route. He reversed his stance by putting his left foot forward. His new objective seemed to be to grab the dress with his left hand and drag Butter forward into his spear-weilding right.
With the point of the weapon now further away from his body, Butter adapted his stance, as well. Rather than holding the garment up, he dropped it, allowing it to drag on the ground in front of him. Marlow nodded. This change required the bigger man to step forward in order to do any damage. Dragging the dress on the ground, therefore, created a tripping threat that could not be ignored.
The crowd was disappointed. They loathed this lull. They wanted action – entertainment. Most wanted the big man to make a move. They wanted more of what he had done to the juggler and the old-timer.
Recognizing the danger that stepping forward engendered, the woodcutter adjusted yet again. His primary objective now switched to grabbing Butter’s garment and tearing it from him. Squatting to lower his center of gravity, he reached for the fabric, swiping for it several times with his left hand without taking his eyes off of his opponent. Each time he tried, Butter yanked it just beyond his reach.
Frustrated, the big man began shouting, goading Butter to fight. Marlow could not hear details over the catcalls of the crowd, but he imagined that the words coward or chicken were involved. He also knew that words would have no impact on the Master Sergeant. It was one of the first things he taught his young recruits; fight to win, not to impress.
When it became clear that he would be unable to entice Butter into engaging, the woodcutter waved him off in disgust and turned his attention to the acrobat. The crowd, equally annoyed with Butter, was pleased with this new direction.
The acrobat, focussed entirely on the stunt he was trying to perform, was oblivious to what was coming. The big man charged at him from behind. The acrobat, absorbed in the act of tossing his ring to great heights before catching it, was looking up.
The crowd roared in anticipation. The impact was ferocious, sending the acrobat face first into the pit’s stone sidewall. Playing to the crowd, the big man flexed and peacocked. Glancing back to make sure that Butter was not taking advantage of the moment, the brute moved in to finish off the acrobat.
Never get in the way of opponents who are killing each other off, Marlow heard Butter’s first year lesson echo from his past. If you’re patient, it’ll happen more often than you’d expect. He’s going to do it, Marlow grinned. He’s going to win this thing.
The brute was entertaining. The audience loved him. As the acrobat staggered back to his feet, the big man stepped in and grabbed him in a headlock. Then he dragged him to the center of the ring, drawing wild cheers from the throng of deputies lining the battlements above. Holding his broken stake skyward, he roared psychotically before plunging it into the belly of the acrobat. Once. Twice –
Butter made his move as the giant roared up at the deputies on the wall. Dropping the dress, he dashed in an arc toward the giant’s back, scooping the mandolin up on the way. Leaping, he wrapped his legs around the giant’s waist and looped the mandolin strings over his head, yanking back on the two broken pieces that remained attached.
The weight of Butter’s body, combined with his forward momentum, caused the big man to fall forward. Thrusting his weapon hand forward to break his fall, the stake was crushed under his body weight pressing it into the ground, trapping both it and his hand beneath, while the body of the dying acrobat landed beside him.
Marlow balled his fists and gritted his teeth trying to share some of his strength with his master sergeant as Butter heaved back with all of his might on the improvised garrote. The big man rolled over, clutching at his throat, attempting to dislodge his attacker, but by then the sawing strings had nicked his jugular and blood was spraying down his chest.
The sudden reversal of fortunes sparked an instantaneous change. Enthusiasm for Butter spread like a virus through the mob. A single act of violence transformed him from villain to hero. Butter was winning hearts. This… was entertainment!
Every Kurtz on the dais jumped to their feet. Buford himself was applauding and slapping people on the back. On the wall, Cleetus, Eli, and Harlan high-fived each other, their sergeant, and strangers on either side.
The last twitch of the woodcutter’s leg signalled his expiration and Butter slid out from under him. The line of guards surrounding the pit parted and the emcee hopped down to make his way back to center stage. Then shock rippled through the crowd as the old-timer man sat up and rubbed the back of his head.
Butter went toward him and dropped to a knee, putting a hand on the small man’s shoulder. Words were exchanged and a hush fell over the crowd. On the dais, smiles were erased by confusion. The emcee reached the two remaining contestants and an animated conference began.
“Hollee shit,” Cleetus exclaimed, shaking his head. “I thought that sum bitch was dead.
“I guess that big old hat saved his ass.” Harlan’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Yeehaw,” said Eli, taking a long drink and nearly falling over backwards.
As the electricity of Butter’s victory dissipated, Marlow confronted reality. Three contestants were eliminated, but the game was not complete. What would happen next – what had to happen – raised new concerns.
The emcee left the ring to consult with people on the dais. Butter helped the old man to his feet and led him to the side wall where he attempted to lift him up to the ledge. The guards wouldn’t allow it so he sat on the ground with his back against the wall.
The crowd, impatient, asserted their will. End him. The chant began. End him. End him. End him.
The emcee approached Butter and the two exchanged words. Butter shook his head. The old man shook his head as well.
End him. End him. End him.
The emcee spent several moments arguing before surrendering and calling over the guards to take control of the prisoners. Moving with them to the center of the pit, he held up his hands calling for calm.
“Good men of Eastbranch,” he spoke ceremonially. “Guardians of law and order. Champions of the Company and all that it provides.” Here he paused for dramatic effect. “Are… you… entertained?”
The response made it clear that they were.
“Before this event began… I made a promise to you,” he continued. “The time has come to fulfill that promise.” He turned toward the dais. “His Honor, the Lieutenant Governor of Eastbranch, Lord Protector of the Eastern District, as is our tradition on this great day of celebration, will now pardon one of these contestants in your honor.”
Everyone cheered, including Marlow, Cleetus, Harlan, and Eli.
“The decision, my brothers, is in your hands. Which of these unworthy welchers will receive your mercy today? Will it be… contestant number one?” Here he paused to measure their response. “Or contestant number two?”
The emcee made a show of listening to both responses, but Marlow was unable to distinguish any difference.
“That,” the emcee pronounced, “sounded like a tie. We cannot have a tie. There can be only one winner. So let’s try again. And this time, only cheer for the person you want to pardon.”
Marlow and the guys all looked at each other.
“Would you pardon contestant number one?”
Marlow cheered for Butter and Eli drunkenly joined him. This round of cheers, he thought, was significantly louder than the previous.
“Or contestant number two?”
Cleetus stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled with excessive force. Harlan cheered, too, while thrusting his right fist in the air and waving his red flag madly. Eli, carried away with the enthusiasm of the moment, voted a second time, unleashing a long and hearty “yeeeehaaaaw” up toward the heavens. His ebullient celebration was joined by a deafening majority of lawmen on the walls.
The smile drained from Marlow’s face as the red flags signalled the old-timer’s overwhelming victory. Pushing off the wall and turning his back on the blowout, he headed for the bar.
*****
The party continued well into the night. With formal festivities over in the bailey, the training pit became an all-night bareknuckle brawl with several men vying for the informal annual championship. Bets were won and lost, several men were badly hurt, one succumbed to his injuries.
Elsewhere in the bailey, men tested their skill at swords, axes, knives, and dice. Bonfires were lit to keep back the chill and the dais became a stage for a bawdy minstrel show. Meanwhile the dignitaries who had departed the dais attended a private reception in the ballroom where they wined and dined politely amongst their own.
Kurt stayed up late visiting with his family and then agreed to accompany his cousin on his final check before the dawn guard took over. He used this opportunity to make one final fruitless plea for support.
“If the rebellion spreads,” his cousin assured him as they strolled back toward the keep, “you’ll be glad we’re here guarding your backs.”
Kurt was disappointed. He knew that the governor could demand support from Eastbrach if he wished, but returning empty handed and forcing him to do that would not help his career.
“Are you sure we can count on your guy at Two Bears?” Kurt asked.
The officer stopped, lowered his voice, and turned toward Kurt. “Sewager’s queer,” he said, leaning in. “but he’s not stupid. He knows better than to let the company down.”
Understanding that to be the final word on the matter, Kurt surrendered and changed the subject.
“And we’re allowed to recruit volunteers?”
“Volunteers, yes,” his cousin agreed. “Conscripts, no. Not here. But once you cross the border, do as you”– a sudden change in his expression indicated that Kurt should turn around – ”please.”
Mortified, Kurt spotted Marlow, leaning, arm out, urinating against a stone wall. Both officers stood silently watching his unsteadily bobbing head as Marlow peered down at the stain on the wall. Sensing an audience, the sergeant looked up and regarded them with bleary eyes.
“Evening,” he mumbled.
“Good evening,” the officer replied, turning inquisitively to Kurt.
“This is my sergeant,” Kurt said to his cousin, hopeful the darkness was masking his humiliation. “You go on ahead. I’m going to make sure he gets to his bunk.”
Marlow was loaded, barely capable of walking. Kurt took his bottle and then guided him through the complex to the bunkhouse.
“Take your boots off,” Kurt said in a low voice as he sat Marlow on the edge of his bunk.
Marlow struggled, nearly toppling onto the floor, then fell back on the mattress with both feet still on the ground. Kurt sighed, lifted his legs and swung them onto the mattress before tucking his boots under the frame.
“See you in the morning,” he said as he turned to leave.
“We’re naw the goo guys,” Marlow slurred.
“We’re not the what?”
“The goo guys,” Marlow repeated. “We’re naw… them.”
“You’re drunk, Marlow.” Kurt headed for the door. “Go to sleep.”
*****
His mouth was dry. His head was pounding. The smell of vomit burned in his nose. Sunlight streaked in through gaps in the planks on the far side of the room. Marlow put his hand to his mouth, feeling for vomit. Finding none, he wiped his cheeks, chin, and throat with his fingertips. All dry as well.
Someone puked, he realized. For that, they would be harassed for several days at least. He was glad it wasn’t him. He was also glad that the room was filled with snoring. It meant it was not yet time to get up. He could sleep a bit longer. So he closed his eyes and drifted off.
The bed frame shook him awake almost as soon as he dozed. He figured it would pass when the person in the bunk above finished rolling over. But it didn’t.
The shaking continued. He ignored it for a while, until it began to annoy him. Is this asshole having a fit? he wondered, getting out of bed to investigate. The smell of vomit rushed in like a wave as he did, making him wonder if the source of the smell would be found in the upper bunk.
From the floor, he could not quite see into the covers above. So he grabbed the bedframe and hoisted himself up to stand on the edge of the lower bunk. Is this guy jerking off? he wondered, when he realized the covers were pulled up over his bunkmate’s face.
“You OK?” Marlow asked, looking down the line of the covered body for clues about the cause of the shaking. “Hey,” he said louder, after receiving no response. “You need help?”
“Shut the fuck up,” a voice demanded from another bunk.
Marlow understood. Everybody in the bunkhouse wanted more sleep. No point in waking them up over this. Reaching up, he pulled back the blanket to expose Darrell’s bloody face and the axe, still protruding from his chest.
Marlow was so startled he jerked backwards, stepped hard onto the floor, and collapsed – seated – onto the edge of the lower bunk behind him. His left hand reached for the mattress and slipped into something wet and chunky. He knew immediately what it was and jumped back to his feet, shaking the goop from his hand.
“Fuck,” he said in a half-whisper, grabbing the edge of the upper bunk to pull himself back up.
Darrell was shivering. His complexion was pale, glistening in the dim light of the bunkhouse. Marlow knew it couldn’t be real, but he also knew that it was. Darrell’s eyes weren’t just open, they were looking right at him.
“Oh! You fucking pig,” the unknown voice gagged. “Who puked?”
Darrell looked at Marlow. His mouth moved, speaking softly. The sergeant leaned in to hear his whispered words.
“Kill them,” said Darrell, looking Marlow in the eyes.
“God damn it,” a second voice joined the first. The sound of feet thumping on the ground told Marlow that somebody was now out of bed.
“Kill them all,” Darrell whispered, his frigid breath on Marlow’s face sent chills down the sergeant’s neck.
“Hey!” Something growled beside him, causing Marlow to turn. A tubby half-grey bear of a man stood before him in his underwear. “That sum bitch the puker?” he asked, looking up toward the top bunk.
“No,” Marlow replied, turning his eyes back to a lower blanket on an empty mattress. “It’s him,” he said, indicating the lower bunk behind him.
Pushing past Marlow, the grey bear shoved the sleeping man’s shoulder to awaken him. “Get those pucky fucking blankets out of here,” he demanded, as other men began to gather around the bunk.
A young man on the far side reached in to touch the backs of his fingers on the sleeping man’s forehead as Marlow stepped down to the ground, becoming uncomfortably conscious of the filth still coating his left hand.
“Cold,” announced the man kneeling at the bedside. “I think he’s dead.”
*****
“This mission is fucking cursed,” Cleetus said, cinching his saddle under his horse. “First Bo falls in the fucking gorge. Then moron falls on his fucking axe. Now Eli pukes hisself to death.”
Whatever he might have been thinking, Harlan wasn’t disagreeing. Neither was Marlow. Nor was Marlow saying anything about Darrell’s ghostly appearance in the bunkhouse. Until he sorted out exactly who Darrell wanted him to kill, he planned to keep his mouth shut.
Kurt arrived looking sullen. Marlow could feel his humiliation as they rode out. He’d left on this mission with a plan. As the governor’s emissary, he would arrange for a flanking force from Eastbranch. He would ride alongside the head of that force and help crush an insurrection. In doing so, he would show Eastbranch it was a mistake to let him go and Les Chateaux that he was an officer of the future. Instead, he was limping out of Eastbranch weaker than he arrived because one of his subordinates, while sleeping drunk in a bed, had drowned in his own vomit.
There was only one way to salvage disaster from this. Between here and the border, Kurt would try to recruit volunteers. Once they crossed into the Western District, these volunteers would be supplemented by conscripts. Then at Two Bears their forces would be combined. Kurt would be after a company, at least a hundred men. Anything less would mark him as a failure.
Marlow’s goals hadn’t changed. His primary objective, still, was to survive this mission. Following orders came second. As a deputy ranger, it was his job to keep humans safe, to protect them from danger. When humans were bringing danger on themselves, rangers educated them. When the danger was coming from the outside, rangers neutralized it – but only if neutralizing it was possible. Otherwise, their job was to stay alive.
Marlow, dreading the next league, kept his head down. Butter would be here, on one of these wheels. Mounted. Suffering. Dying. A warning to the desperate about welching on Company debts. He tried to think of something else. He hoped to pass by without noticing and without being noticed. But that wasn’t to be.
Marlow knew it was Butter even before his eyes told him it was Butter. Having been put up the night before, Butter would not be dead yet. The buzzards would not be feasting yet. And they weren’t. As Marlow expected, they were testing Butter. Picking at him. Waiting for him to quiet down. Waiting for the stillness that signals surrender.
A single buzzard perched in the spokes while others observed from branches nearby. The buzzard in the spokes waited patiently for Butter to drift off, to fade out. Then it targeted his nearest eye. Butter jerked his head, swearing. Startled, the buzzard flapped and then settled. Waiting just out of range of Butter’s lashed hand.
Marlow knew… this would go on for hours. But at some point, Butter would give up. He would stop fighting. For just a moment, he would consider accepting the inevitable, hoping for the release of sleep. Then the buzzard’s bill would puncture his eyeball and pain would reignite his will to live – temporarily. It was a horrible death, not right for a deputy, not right for anyone.
“Marlow.” Kurt was not happy when he saw his sergeant’s mount stop. “Keep moving,” he ordered. But Marlow wasn’t listening. “I am in no mood for your bullshit today, Sergeant Marlow,” the captain warned.
Marlow swung down from his saddle and pulled his bowsack from his saddlebags. “Get back on your horse, sergeant.” Kurt glowered and his neck muscles tightened. “That’s an order.”
Marlow slid his bow from its sack, dropped the sack on the ground, and then began the process of stringing it. “Do not kill that prisoner, sergeant,” Kurt bellowed. Cleetus looked at Harlan with big eyes. Harlan was transfixed by the drama.
As Marlan retrieved an arrow from the quiver hanging next to his saddlebag, Kurt dismounted and drew his sword. “Do… not… kill… that… prisoner,” he shouted, closing to within striking range and raising his blade over his shoulder.
Marlow did not turn to acknowledge his commanding officer. He did nothing to shield himself or protect his bare neck. He nocked an arrow and pulled back on the bowstring, taking careful aim. Cleetus’ eyes grew larger and his mouth fell open as Kurt brought his weapon back, coiling to strike Marlow.
The twang of the bowstring sent a jolt of electricity through their bodies. The arrow struck its target with a dull thud and a puff of feathers, sending dozens of birds exploding into the branches above. Kurt gritted his teeth, grimacing, trying to be decisive. Marlow stood silently, ready to accept the inevitable.