Distiller v. Diver

Again, after the duel, the Distiller hobbles back to the oak, hunkers down, and waits.

He watches as Pepple called Stetson hoes the last weeds in the plot between his house and the grounds, and begins planting.

Several hours of dull pastoral living pass by - made more insufferable given the stillness and humidity and mosquitos. Suddenly a low whistle's heard. Similar to the plaintive call of the loon. The Distiller shakes out of whatever thought possessed him at that moment and perks his ears. The whistle sounds again.

With great effort he stands and follows the sound east, to the edge of the forest. There, from the dark of the forest a figure crouches in the half-shadows of a low elm. He's tattooed, tattoos mixed with filth and streaks of caked dirt, above white skin. He wears a tattered, sorry loincloth with no shirt, frame thin and scarred. As light filters through the slowly waving branch that covers his head, inexpensive shell jewelry (necklace, earrings, beads) can be seen, adorning a gaunt, pock-marked face, gnarled beard and graying hair, matted but closely trimmed, with a knotted forelock running from the top of his scalp. In his left hand he carries war club. Across his chest loops the band of a dusty buckskin satchel.

The two men greet each other as old comrades. They talk in a strange dialect that suggests a form of demotic French, Industrial-era shop talk, and the echos of an ancient, forgotten branch of Iroquois. The Distiller's offered water and dried meat, both of which he cordially accepts.

Stetson leans on his hoe, watching the scene with great curiosity.

After more discussion - during which the forest dweller always acts in a respectful, deferential manner - the two men part, and the Distiller returns to the oak.

Stetson, his interest piqued, walks to the Distiller and asks him what he spoke to the man about.

He was an old trading rep with another tribe. He recognized me from early in my career. Congratulated me on the honor of being involved in the duel. Dubious honor in my opinion, but he didn't think so. I didn't know their territory stretches this far west. I invited him to sit with me under oak. Never say a man refuse quicker.

The Diver arrives the following morning.

Distiller v. Ditch Digger

After dispatching the Dispatcher, the Distiller hobbles over to the base of the oak. He sits. He doesn't move, but massages his calves for several hours, then reflects, then falls to sleep. Night falls. The Ditch Digger arrives early the next morning.

I spent my life in abeyance to the laws of supply and demand, he tells the Ditch Digger, a short, hale man with gray whisps of hair around his temples. Not, he adds whimsically, to those of the courts. And for that? A large house, a healthy business, a family - and crippling gout.

The Ditch Digger knows the man not by sight, but by way of the Distiller's name: its also the brand name of a widely sold, largely unlicensed gin.

The Ditch Digger, himself a man of uncertain moral standing, asks how the Distiller got started.

Small, that's how, he answers. Selling to the people around this area, the tribes in the forests. In exchange they gave me beautiful hand-woven baskets, some of them - one tribe in particular - while others supplied me with hand-thrown pottery, corn husk door mats, silk thread, leather key chains, steel squirrel traps, petty electronics, Tupperware, knives, fine silverware.

Of course, nods the Ditch Digger.

In turn I sold those to the wholesalers, used that money to buy more grain, and continued the cycle for years.

The Ditch Digger shoes away a fly.

The biggest mistake for newcommers is this: don't interfere with the tribes; for God's sake, don't take sides. It's a never ending fight with them. Just supply the gin and step clear.

The two men sit quietly and regard Stetson called Pepple, who hoes with steady hand under the hot summer sun.

Dispatcher v. Distiller

It threatens to rain before it rains. When it rains, it rains hard.

Beneath the tree, huddled under the black umbrella left beneath the Shaker table, the Dispatcher stares at the aerial attached to the cabin to the north. She wonders, having left without a named replacement, who's taken her position at the station.

The next morning, waking before dawn, stiff-necked from sleeping in an unnatural upright position, though mostly dry, she sees Stetson called Pepple talking with a man in overalls and a long-billed cap, holding a weathered hoe. Not the Grave Digger, but another - the Farmer - who stands beside a half-full burlap sack. Stetson hands the Farmer cash and takes the sack, and the hoe.

The Farmer leaves through the field. Stetson, in a stained white shirt tucked into dark slacks, uses the hoe to pull up the light green, rust-flecked, waist-high corn in a square patch to the south of the cabin, bordering between the cabin and grounds.

The Dispatcher walks north. She approaches Stetson. Through the course of time she channels the conversation - up until then concerning only his labor, the cleaning of corn for a patch of beans (Beans so late!) - to the aerial. She learns that he does indeed have a radio. What's more, he knows of her station.

I listen to it, he admits, without understanding half of what's being said.

She explains that a good portion of each blotter clip is in code - shorthand, she says - that's used to speed the transfer of vital information to those citizens and semi-official officials (Deputies, etc.) who subscribe to the National Rioting Forum (a semi-official publication) in hope of acting quickly to join local militias organized to quell spontaneous or semi-spontaneous public uprisings.

They get rewarded for their involvement, she says. Some travel all around the country.

They talk further. The Dispatcher's real desire is aired: a quick check to see who (if anyone) is reading the blotter in her place. Stetson consider the request. He lowers the hoe and takes the Dispatcher to his cabin.

Inside, to the side of a long broad-cut wood table acting as a desk, sits a radio of antique and makeshift build. Stetson sits, puts on headphones, flicks a switch, and begins turning dials before him. It only takes a few seconds to get the signal. Once caught, he unplugs the headphones and plugs in the flowering amplifier.

Transcription of signal heard:

... substantially over. We see no reason, however, to alter the message expressed in our last bulletin. The outbreak was the natural consequence of pernicious teachings widely scattered among the ignorant and excitable populace; and the only possible mode of dealing with it was stern and bloody repression. EOD Statistics: RKIA number 14; RIIA number 291; Fires confined to slumslands, minor encroachment Wards 4, 6, 14, 98; Looting moderate, low-end: petty electronics, bicycle shops, saloons, speakeasies; Bounties by witness 12 / 3 / 1 / confiscations; Notables, official: Militia Leader No. 11231A13; Notables, semi-official: Beverly Fontaine, Steamfitter; R.E. Ogts, Riverman; Casualties, official: none; Casualties, semi-official: nil KIA, minor abrasions; Forecasts: Recurrence 24h: AP 19%, NYRB 12%, FBHD 7%; Recurrence 1w: AP 4%, NYRB 1%, FBHD .05%; Recurrence 1m: all nil; EEAI Estimates: Bracket 13: 5.66; Bracket 11a: 3.11; Bracket 23c: 9.12; REE Benchmarks: 102-012 / 109-41 / 119-125. The weather is hot today for sections across --

The Dispatcher nods, and Stetson flips off the power. He can tell she's confused. Even through the poor reception, it's clear that the voice dispatching the blotter matches hers exactly: in tone, accent, style of diction, pace of diction. I'd swear that was a recording, she says softly, if I didn't report the same riot yesterday, when the brackets were lower and the benchmarks higher.

She thanks him, leaves the cabin, and returns to the oak. He returns to his plot, again taking up the hoe.

The Distiller's meets the Dispatcher at the oak. He's a round man with deep lines under his eyes, creases down the sides of his mouth. Gout-ridden, or recovering from gout, he walks with help from a cane, wincing with each step.