Bassoonist v. Beekeeper

The wind picks up. It whips from the southwest.

His coat blown by the wind, the Bassoonist crouches by the body of the Beautician.

The Bassoonist is a man defined by exceptional abilities. He - unlike most other bassoonist - has the ability to play several of Bach's Goldberg Variations on the bassoon. He also - unlike most other sensible people - has the ability to find pronounced romance in situations that lack all romance, as, for example, the brief non-romantic relationship between he and the Beautician.

He strokes her cheek.

He drags her past the bodies still on the field - the Beadle, the Beader, the Bank Teller, the Bassist, the Basketmaker, the Bartender, the Barber, and the Banker - to the cold pyre. The crows scatter. The rats scurry. He drags her through the ash and bones to lay beside his broken bassoon. The symbolism in this is almost too much for the Bassoonist to bare.

Returning to the oak, he searches the area for the matches. Unable to find them, he begins searching the pockets of the dead. Finally, checking the Banker's shirt pocket, he pulls the box.

He returns to the pyre, collects fallen branches that fell on the field before the fence and timber from the fence. He returns the pyre and using the Beautician's jacket, starts the fire. It burns, and cooks her, but not nearly enough to turn her to ash. More a broiling. He gets more timber and piles it atop. The fire roars now. She cooks, emanating foul odor.

As the Bassoonist stokes the fire, he hears a muffled beeping. It continues, incessantly, for over five minutes.

Finally, taken from his romantic revelry, more annoyed than curious, the Bassoonist searches among the corpses for the beeping. He stands over the bloated corpse of the Astronaut, raises the Astronaut's arm, and unbuckles the beeper on his belt. He looks at the message - CALL HQ ASAP, then (without much pause) presses the off button. The beeping stops. He drops the beeper and, after stopping to meditate at the site of the pyre again, returns to the oak.

The Beekeeper, a patrician woman of middle age and shortish hair and a gold broach in the shape of a bee pinned to the lapel of her blouse, walks across the field from the road. They greet each other.

Given the demur, taciturn nature of the Beekeeper and the awkward, preoccupied state of the Bassoonist, no conversation is made. They simply choose their guns (politely) - the Bassoonist takes the nicked gun - and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beautician

The Bassoonist, broken bassoon in tow, wanders to the cremains by the northern fence. He sees the ash, the skulls, the bones. Nearby he sees the remaining bodies, the crows - and, from beneath body of the Bailiff - a family of rats. He throws his bassoon on the ash heap. It clatters against the black bones, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He turns and walks back to the oak.

The Beautician arrives shortly after. She's a pretty, well-shaped woman. Slight pug nose. Dyed blond hair. Eyebrows plucked, then reapplied. In dark skin-tight jeans, a pink jacket, a sweater.

The Beautician explains how difficult it was to take time off from work. The explanation involves mention of a considerable number of other women, all referred to by their first name, all of whom - except for one - were unable to cover the Beautician's shift. All - except for that one - cite spurious reasons as to why they can't help cover. She says all this as if speaking to an old acquaintance, finally turning her back to the Bassoonist, bending slightly to rummage through her purse, which she's set on the table.

The Bassoonist, feeling naked without his bassoon, and presently confronted by the recreational end of moderately attractive woman, brushes down his hair, adjusts his tortoise frame glasses and attempts his hand at polite conversation.

Nice pants, he says.

The woman rights herself, turns and frowns. She watches him sternly as she applies lipstick. Then, closing the lipstick and tossing it back into her purse, she smiles sarcastically and asks if he's always been as charming with the ladies. The Bassoonist coughs. Thinking quickly, he asks what job it was from which she sought relief. (He words it exactly like that, unfortunately.)

I signed up at the CC for cosmology but because of a stupid bureaucratic error I got put in cosmetology instead. And I was really good at it, because I always gave my sister and my dog makeovers, and so I did really well. And the guy I was dating at the time was all, you should get a job at the mall. And so I did. And that's what put me through college.

What was your major?

I told you. Cosmology.

The Bassoonist nods.

Anyway, then I thought, well - why not just keep doing what got you through college? I would have to get like at least ten more years of school to be a cosmologist, anyway, and can you imagine the student loans? So for the past two years I've been working as chief personal aesthetician, which is like a supervisor.

She looks away. The Bassoonist, looking to push ahead the conversation, struggles for words.

Were - were you interested in anything, with regard to cosmology?

What? She looks back. Oh, she says, I don't know. Quintessence, I guess. Mostly quintessence.

The Bassoonist fidgets.

She choses the gun without the kitsune nicks. Without objection, he takes the other. They the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beadle

The Bassoonist takes the kitsune statuette from the pocket of the dead Beader. He holds it up to the light, considers it, then returns to the oak.

At first he places the statuette between two large roots at the base of the oak. Then he places it on the table next to the pistols and the Archivist's crumpled List of the Dead. Then, still unsatisfied, he looks around - stopping when he spots the hole in the side of the oak. Moving the table beside the oak, he stands and looks inside the hole. Inside he finds the well-crafted basket hidden by the Assessor. He removes it. In its place - at the lip of the hole - he sets the statuette, so that it's visible from below. He gets down.

Inside the basket he finds the Astrologer's coral beads, Artist's silver cufflinks, the Art Therapist's turquoise necklace, and the Assassin's gold tie clip.

He looks up at the kitsune statuette. Then down. For a long while he considers what to do with his treasure.

Finally he empties the contents of the basket into his jacket pocket, places the basket on the table, takes up his bassoon and heads toward the creek. His nose wrinkles as he nears and passes the corpse of the Artist. He stops in time to see a wood rat peek its head from a hole in the Artist's pearl-white, feculent neck, look around, then duck back inside.

The Bassoonist hurries to the creek. He comes to a section of the creek where a small tributary - the flow of run-off from the marsh - converges. Here the Bassoonist hefts up a large stone (to centipedes and beetles), and deposits his treasure, then lays the stone back in place. He stands, wipes off his hands.

The bassoon still under his arm, caught by a desire to trek the other side of the creek, he makes to jump to the center of the fork. Instead, catching his foot under a twisted root, he splays his arms, sending the bassoon out - hitting a rock. There's a sharp crack. The Bassoonist cries. He picks up the bassoon. The reed is missing, the bocal bent, and the maple long joint split, a yaw down center.

Hours later, the Beadle arrives. As he walks, he hears the sound of a cat in heat from behind the oak.

The Bassoonist, having replaced the reed and bent back the bow, flows furiously, hands covering the crack.

The Beadle, a soft-faced man in a cheap suit, peeks from around the oak. He greets the Bassoonist. They speak.

It doesn't sound too bad to me, says the Beadle eventually.

Don't patronize me, please, says the Bassoonist. I'm in a bad enough mood as it is.

Honestly, says the Beadle. I've never understood the vain preoccupation of some who think that all instruments should be kept in tune. Why, the pipe organ at our workhouse hasn't been touched in thirty years and it plays just beautifully. What's more, we don't have the need to hire any extravagant tuners. The acolytes only flush the pipes of swallows and bats every three years. And that's just one of their duties, voluntary work, you understand.

The Bassoonist choses the pistol without knocks and hits from the kitsune statuette. The Beadle takes the other. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beader

The Bassoonist picks up his bassoon, wipes it clean with the hem of his jacket, replaces the reed (dirty), and plays Vivaldi to pass the time.

The Beader arrives. He's a blond, neolithic-looking man in blue overalls, a leather bomber jacket. Whatcha playing? he asks.

Vivaldi.

Looks like a bazooka.

It's a --

The Beader stops him. He holds out his arm, hand out. Then crouches slightly. Ho, he says. He asks the Bassoonist if he felt it.

What?

That tremor, says the Beader. I can feel tremors easy.

The Beader explains. When on leave one night while stationed in Japan, he was hit over the head and robbed of his wallet. He woke. His scalp was bleeding. On the ground beside him he saw the kitsune statuette, red with blood. Ever since then he's had a heightened sensitivity to seismic phenomenon.

Like dogs, he explains. And Polynesians.

The Bassoonist, seeing that his playing time is over, gruffly puts aside his bassoon, next to the upright bass.

There it is again, says the Beader. And again.

In the distance the makeshift shack stands by the overgrown well, the motor quiet, the wind-swept field deserted.

The Bassoonist stands, skeptically. He feels nothing. He says so.

There it is, again, says the Beader. The darndest - and there again! Like a low rumble. And now - gone.

They both wait for a long while. The phenomenon is over. The Beader scratches under his left arm, shaking his head. Peh, he says. Feh.

What happened to the kitsune statuette? asks the Bassoonist.

The Beader takes the statuette - a solid marble idol of a nine-tailed fox sitting on a rectangular pedestal - from his left pocket. He carries it, he says, wherever he goes.

Brings you luck? the Bassoonist asks.

The Beader's already busy rubbing down the pistol he's chosen with the statuette. He rubs the pistol up and down, then starts tapping it roughly. The barrel pings and clangs. Yeah, he says over the racket, I hit it on pretty much everything for luck. My tools, my car, my appliances. And so far? - the Beader turns to face the Bassoonist, flashing a wide chip-toothed grin - I've lived a blessed existence.

They take their guns to the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Bassoonist

The Bank Teller watches the field-dwellers from afar, deep into night, as they light a bonfire, their silhouettes blinking in the distance. By midnight the motor stops.

Later, the Bassoonist - a tall, extra large-framed man in drab colors and a drab coat and tortoise frame glasses - walks to the oak. He carries a bassoon under his arm.

Oh now this is a laugh, says the Bank Teller.

She asks if he, like the Bassist, never leaves his apartment without his instrument. He answers that he rarely leaves his apartment, though when he does its to drive to the symphony hall.

So, technically speaking, no, he says. Or not no but rarely.

Now it's a reflex? she asks.

No, he says. I brought it because I'd like to be buried with it.

That? It looks like a vacuum nozzle.

It's a bassoon.

Well, you might as well play something.

He asks if she has any requests. She asks for something jazzy. His eyes droop. Or impressive, she says. He coughs, then rights his instrument.

Goldberg Variations, variations 26 to 30, he says. On bassoon.

He plays.

Somewhere during variation 28, the Bank Teller yawns. The Bassoonist chucks his bassoon to the ground.

God dammit! he says. Do you know how hard that is to play? And what the hell is that throbbing?

They look over to the commotion in the field. The diesel motor's started again. She explains.

This is why I stay in my apartment, he says.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.