Assessor v. Astrologer

The Assessor walks the borders of the field, passing the Archer's stone cairn, the pile of junk heaped by the Anestheologist, the crows amid the growing line of dead, and, finally, the Artist's exquisite corpse.

Dada daya da dm um damyata, she sings, walking briskly, looking about. She stops.

I wonder how much value this crick adds, she says.

Just then she sees a swarthy figure mucking through the bog to the south, beyond the creek. The figure makes its way from one dead pine to the next. An uneasy procession between splintered white shards, each jutting from the grassy slop. The figure nearly falls. Then falls. Then stops. Then continues. Then falls again. Then continues.

The Assessor walks over to the edge of the creek.

I got lost on my way in from the city, the figure says. He's muddled, muddy.

Finally the he makes it from out the mire to the bank of the creek. The Assessor tells him he looks like hell. (Honest assessment.) He's caked in ice cold, foul-smelling muck. Bits of grass shoot from his hair, black and matted.

And this was all in today's reading, he says. How could I suppose "wrong path, soft underfoot" was to be taken literally? I would have worn boots.

With the Assessor's help, the Astrologer - a corpulent man - waddles down the creek's shallow trough, toes the head of a partially submerged stone and hurdles himself across. They make their way to the oak.

It's then, at the oak, that the Assessor catches the unmistakable whiff of bourbon. The Astronomer's face, heavily painted and mud-streaked, contorts into a wince. He belches quietly, relaxing. Pardon, he says. The Assessor rolls her eyes.

The Astronomer wears a short-cropped beard. His face is dark. Between his eyes, slightly above the brow, he wears a scarlet dot. Around his neck a long string of orange coral beads.

I have divined the most auspicious time to duel, he says, for both of us. Seven thirty-three we shall both pull our triggers.

The Assessor shows him her watch. It's half past nine.

The Astronomer is spinning, looking all around. What a marvelous place this is, he says excitedly. He takes a flask from under his coat and drinks deeply. Done, he offers it to the Assessor.

She shoves a pistol at him. He takes it, pockets his flask, and follows her - pistol in hand - to the field.

They raise their guns. The Astronomer falls over.

The Assessor rolls her eyes. The Astronomer gets up. Seven thirty-three, he cries, arm raised in premature victory.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.