Carver v. Cashier

If the Cartographer's goal was to create a true-to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio, the Carver's goal is to maintain as steady an existence as possible. An existence without undue worry or strife or anxiety.

He's not much of one for duels. Or settling labor disputes.

That's our ring, says Pepple.

The Carver, white chef's coat unbuttoned, looks around anxiously. I'm probably not the best person to talk to about this, he says.

You're the man, says Grubb, we wanna talk to. You're a duelist.

Yeah, but not by choice, says the Carver. I just got a job at the hotel over there and then I got this telegram that - well, here - look.

The Carver takes a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Grubb. Grubb looks at it, confused, abashed, then hands it off to Pepple. Pepple reads it aloud for Grubb:

PRESENCE MANDATORY TOMORROW STOP ADDRESS PROVIDED ON REVERSE STOP HONOR MUST BE SATISFIED END

Pepple hands the telegraph back to the Carver.

Listen here, says Pepple, it explicitly states in that contract that any and all possessions found on the body of the dead are ours to keep. And that ring was on the finger of that guy what got killed. Therefore by deductive logic I just proven that that ring belongs to us.

I don't know. I just don't know, says the Carver, fingering the ring. He'd taken it off right after the duel, per the Cartographer's instructions.

Grubb speaks up. I can get you a nice little plot huh?

Who says I'm going to die?

Pepple and Grubb look at each other. The both laugh.

Jesus, fine--just take the goddamn thing! says the Carver. He slams it down into Grubb's dirty outstretched hand. Pepple and Grubb sneer, and return to their hideous shack.

The Cashier arrives. She chews gum loudly. They greet each other.

You from the hotel up near the mine? she asks. The Carver does.

Yeah, my baby's daddy work in the boiler room. Name's Chester. You heard of him?

The Carver has not heard of a Chester.

They say it closed, but y'all know it ain't. They got high class people what go there.

It's true. I served the Vice President last week, says the Carver. He asked for a slice, extra rare.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Cartographer v. Carver

Pepple wakes to a pistol aimed at his face. The Cartographer sits in the grass near where he and the fat man fell unconscious. Pepple slaps the fat man, and the fat man wakes.

I don’t know who either of you are, says the Cartographer, or what qualifies either of you for this occupation of yours—this exchange of goods for the service of disposing the dead—and I don’t care.

Pepple blinks.

You signed a contract with those that came previously. I’m neither in a position to call for or desirous of the termination of that contract, the cessation of your services. What I am desirous of is first, this ring that was owed to me by the diocese of this dueling ground as established by verbal mandate of a representative of the Holy See—

Still bleary-eyed, they see the Cardinal’s signet ring on the Cartographer’s ring finger, right hand. The hand that holds the pistol.

—and second, distance. Distance between our two parties, the duelists and the caretakers. I don’t want to speak to you, or hear you fighting, or see you nearby unless you’re performing the job my predecessors contracted.

The caretakers say nothing.

What are your names?

Pepple, says Pepple.

And yours?

Grubb, says Grubb.

The Cartographer stands and tells them to stand. They stand.

Now cart off the body on the field and leave, he says.

The Cartographer returns to the oak and the caretakers—Pepple trembling with resentment—clean the body, and return to their hideous shack to the north.

When the Carver arrives, the Cartographer stands studying the map he’s drawn on the table. I run a firm, he says eventually. But my goal is to create a to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio. A thing that's never been done.

The Carver, still wearing the white robe and tall white had he wore hours ago during the early shift at the nearby hotel, nods.

Ever since I've been young I've been thinking of ways to revitalize the profession of cartography, to usher in its second golden era.

Life-sized maps? asks the Carver.

Always been somewhat of a dreamer, admits the Cartographer.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.