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.