Bellmaker v. Bhikkhuni

The rain continues. The Bellmaker stands beneath the tree, the Bhikkhu's stinking robe over his head.

Then the rain stops.

The Bellmaker drags the body of the Bhikkhu to the pyre. He covers him with the robe. He walks to the creek. Then west, downstream. Every thirty paces or so he crouches and checks the soil at the bank. He pauses just east of the small tributary, spots something and kneels. Reaching out, he presses his thumb into a stripe of blueish clay running along the edge of the gulch. He pinches off a piece the size of an acorn and rolls it between his fingers. He smells it, tastes it, and determines it excellent clay for a mold.

He looks up.

The Bhikkhuni arrives from the road. She, unlike the Bhikkhu, has a robe of single cut. It's red. Her head is shaved. She carries a walking stick and an alms bowl. She affects a stern, purposeful look as she walks toward the Bellmaker.

He tells of her his discovery. She kneels and touches the clay. It's moist and frigid. He explains his intentions.

The two dig with their fingers until their fingers are numb. They collect the clay in the alms bowl. When the alms bowl overflows, the Bellmaker collects the clay in his shirt, lifting it to form a papoose.

They take the clay to the table. There, as the Bhikkhuni examines the guns, the Bellmaker draws a design on the bottom of the List of the Dead. Then, taking the deck of cards from his coat pocket, begins listing instructions. An instruction for each card, starting with clubs, in ascending order, alphabetically, to spades. Finished, he lays the cards on the table. He heaps the clay in the bowl, drapes the bowl with - after running to collect it - a damp rag torn from the Bhikkhu's robe.

While he runs the Bhikkhuni sees the diagram: a small bell, five inches in height.

Why this, she asks as he drapes the damp rag over the clay.

The Bellmaker doesn't know. It seems like the only thing he knew to do, at a time when the need to do something is strong.

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

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bellmaker v. Bhikkhu

The snow turns to a light rain.

After the Bellhop's body is dragged to the the great pile of ash of the pyre the Bellmaker wipes his calloused hands off on the sides of his trousers. The smell doesn't bother him now. He returns to the oak, waits, then turns up his collar and walks to wander along the edge of the creek to the south.

The Bhikkhu - tall, bald, wearing a red robe - walks from the road.

His robe is red but variegated, in patches. As if several smaller robes had been rent, many and uneven, and these pieces spaced at an equal distance from each other, the gaps between those pieces taken with cloth from others in the array of robes, as if layered, in dizzying fashion, to create from several smaller robes of singular cloth one large robe of many cloths, some old, some new, some weathered, and so on, forming a greater whole.

The Bellmaker, sitting atop the Archer's small cairn, hears footsteps behind him and turns. He greets the Bhikkhu with a nod. The Bhikkhu smiles, cheerful. He stands nearby. They discuss the weather and the creek, and death by water.

As they return to the oak for the guns it strikes the Bellmaker (noiselessly) that for a man confronted with a pile of dead, and a pyre of the dead, and the close prospect of death, the Bhikkhu - now blithely humming the tune from the third act of a musical - seems disturbingly undisturbed. This, to the Bellmaker, is disturbing. The thought that the Bellmaker is more disturbed by the undisturbed Bhikkhu than the dead is also, the Bellmaker reflects momentarily, disturbing in its own right. But this doesn't take him from the source of his greatest disturbance.

They select their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart. The Bhikkhu bows.

Did you see the dead by the fence? asks the Bellmaker.

The Bhikkhu says he has.

I don't know if you saw the crows?

The Bhikkhu says he has.

And the pyre? That's where the bodies are burning.

The Bhikkhu's seen this too.

And that doesn't bother you?

The Bhikkhu laughs. Bellmaker, if all is burning, he says, it make sense that the bodies are burning too.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bellhop v. Bellmaker

The Bellhop and the Bellmaker play cards on the table under the oak. The pistols lay on the dirt nearby. A light snow falls.

The Bellmaker explains: It was the moment when he turned to him and said, 'You'll make bells; I'll paint icons.' that I knew. That was it. I was twenty-six.

The Bellhop smiles. He brushes back his hair. Then takes a pensive look at his hand. He thinks to knock, but decided to wait. He discards. The Bellmaker takes his discard into his hand, rearranges his cards, and knocks on two. The Bellmaker wins seven points.

I should have knocked, says the Bellhop.

In the distance the pyre billows flame and smoke. Great smoke and steam from the wood and corpses. White ash dances upward, mingles with the snow, and falls. The wind blows steadily from the west.

The north fence, once lined with old timber, is decimated, nearly gone. Uprooted. Torn up from the earth in places, the driven stakes. The fire rages.

After several more hands the Bellmaker wins the game. Their score is marked at the bottom of the List of the Dead.

They choose their guns - the Bellhop rubbing off the knicks of the kitsune statuette as best he can, so that, by casual glance, they don't show - and take to the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Beekeeper v. Bellhop

The Beekeeper, quick to understand the nature of the pyre and the bodies by the fence, begins to drag all the bodies she can to the area beside pyre. She's a sturdy woman, yet an aged woman, allowing only the relocation of the small-to-medium sized bodies: the Beadle, the Bank Teller, the Bassist, and the Basketmaker. The rest she arranges tidily by the field of batter.

Finding the box of matches in the pocket of the Bassoonist, she places them on the table, atop the List of the Dead.

The Bellhop walks brightly from the road, chipper and pimply. He greets the Beekeeper with a large smile, and asks about the smell. She explains. Understanding, the Bellhop offers his help. Together, they relocate the rest of the bodies by the pyre.

Did you travel far? asks the Beekeeper.

The Bellhop tells her that the hotel overlooks the dueling ground, though the field is obfuscated by the tall poplars by the road.

It's on the mountain, he says, beyond the mill and mine.

She turns to the west, looking up at the mountain past the poplars, beyond the mill and mine, but sees nothing. Nothing hotel-like.

They move the Beeder, the Bartender, the Barber and the Banker. They line them by the pyre. They know they should make a fire - each know this - but given effort to move the bodies and the lack of firewood apart from timber from the fence far off they decide to stop. They stand observing the bodies and the ash and the bones. Then, only exchanging light conversation, they return to the oak.

They select their pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

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.