Archbishop v. Archer

A powerful yelp echos from the forest to the east. The Archbishop turns his head slowly, raising his brow.

Suddenly a wave of partridge, grouse, fox, stag, squirrel, bear, boar, field mice, quail, skunk, raccoon, beaver, weasel, rabbit, duck - and one very dislocated-looking marmot - bursts from the glade. A roar of activity. They fly, scurry, dart west across the field. The Archbishop stands unmoved as this fantastic melange rushes up, circling past - carving a gracious three foot perimeter around his stooped figure - and darts away. Gone as quickly as they came. The Archbishop slowly turns to face the direction of their charge, then turns back to the wood.

A proud, red-faced young girl steps from the forest. She carries a fine compound bow, a quiver of arrows against her thigh. A healthy gray hound emerges soon after, stepping from the undergrowth. She vaults the timber fence, claps her right hand against her trousered thigh, and walks up to the Archbishop. The hound squeezes under the fence close behind.

Hallo old man, she says, smiling brightly. Her hound jogs past, sniffing the scalps beside the oak.

She looks him over. He looks her over. He mutters something.

Speak up please, she says. Nothing worse than a grown man muttering.

The Archbishop crooks his brow. He huffs.

I'd pursue the quarry but I'm here for an appointment, the Archer says. I'm here to send a man to his death.

There's no guarantee, the Archbishop says.

Agreed, she says, hands on her ample hips, but chances favor me.

I am the opponent, he says. We stand opposite.

Well! - all the better, she cries. She looks around her. What a filthy place this is, she says, wrinkling her nose, laughing. She throws back her head. To the field! she says, dropping her bow.

They choose their pistols and take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

The Archer's hound lopes past them, head high, tail dancing, gently gripping Arborist's soiled scalp.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Anthropologist v. Archbishop

The Anthropologist places the Analyst's scalp atop the Arborist's in a very well-crafted basket. He places the basket on the rosewood table next to the pistols. He cleans the blade of the Ambassador's silver pen knife and closes it carefully.

The Archbishop shuffles from the road. He's an ancient man, his face dominated by ponderous mouse-white eyebrows - brows that seem to meet and even extend, branching and wild, well past his large predatory nose. His mitre white and purple; his cossack white and purple hanging tent-like over his thin shoulders, a long gold-embroidered cross down the center. He places weight on his crosier as he walks. His thick gold crucifix swings gently, to time. (A metronomic gate.)

Hello! What's the problem here? says the Anthropologist.

The Archbishop halts. He raises his head. His brow bobs slightly. With the spin of his crosier he taps the well-crafted basket sitting on the rosewood table.

What's in there? asks the Archbishop.

Scalps, totems, says the Anthropologist casually. Nothing scandalous.

The Archbishop mutters something under his breath.

Excuse me? asks the Anthropologist, leaning in.

Fetch some water, the Archbishop says.

The Anthropologist stands back. He takes up the shallow dish. The Archbishop hits the dish out of his hands with his crosier. It falls and breaks.

The Archbishop mutters something. The Anthropologist leans in.

Use the bottle, says the Archbishop.

The Anthropologist stoops over, picks up the bottle, and walks briskly down by the creek. He empties the bottle of stale beer and fills it with water. He returns to the oak. He hands the bottle to the Archbishop. The Archbishop takes it, knocks the basket to the ground with his crozier, and places the bottle in its place. The basket's top flies off, letting fall Analyst's scalp and the Aborist's scalp from the basket to the dirt. The Archbishop regards the two scalps without concern.

The Archbishop makes the sign of the cross over the bottle, intoning.

I find interesting, says the Anthropologist, the sublimation of primordial impulses, how these impulses have been subsumed and delicately transfigured countless times over, rarified, ritualized by cultures of greater and greater complexity.

The Archbishop bows deeply over the bottle, crossing himself once, twice, three times: head, heart, lips.

Cannibalism for example, he says.

The Archbishop grabs the bottle and shuffles toward the field, blood red and stinking. The Anthropologist follows a short distance behind, hands clasped before him, head bowed reverently.

How could we deny the true provenance of the Eucharist? he says. The sanctified consumption of human flesh? Don't you find it strange that - above the nebulous 'spirit' that's claimed lacking, or even opposition to the mutilation of genitalia - the chief ritual that sets the traditions apart is consumption?

The Archbishop stops in the center of the field. He whispers a prayer, then shakes water from the bottle to the ground. He moves on toward the northern fence.

That one should forbid, continues the Anthropologist, the eating of any beast without cloven hoof - it's been said, parenthetically, that in terms of texture and taste, man is closest to the pig - and the other should set it as the holiest rite?

The crows scatter as the Archbishop approaches. Again he stops and shakes water on the bodies of the dead. He shakes water on the Accountant, on the Acrobat, on the Actor, on the Actuary, on the Administrator, on the Advocate, on the Aerospace Engineer, on the Agent, on the Agronomist, on the Air Traffic Controller, on the Airman, on the Alchemist, on the Ambassador, on the Anesthesiologist, on the Analyst, on the Animal Trainer, and on the Animator.

By some miracle there's water left in the bottle. The Archbishop turns to the Anthropologist.

I'd like to hear your opinion on this, says the Anthropologist, as a man whose life has obviously been consumed by the doctrine.

The Archbishop mutters something. The Anthropologist leans in. The Archbishop empties the bottle over the Anthropologist's head. The Anthropologist pulls back, sputtering slightly. He wipes his face.

Fetch the pistols, he says. And be quick about it.

The Anthropologist walks briskly to the rosewood table, collects the pistols and meets the Archbishop on the field. They select their weapons. They take their places, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.