The Editor shouts and curses. After working ten hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year without break for the past fifteen years, being disconnected from his magazine is brutally painful.
Why the hell don't you get reception? he shouts at his cell phone.
He chucks it against the tree. He pouts for a second. Then rushes up to the trunk to recover the mess of wiring and plastic. He frantically tries mashing everything back together. Finally, saddened, he drops the heap on the table.
Bah!
He scratches his forehead. Looks around.
Not a bad place to retire, he says finally, crossing his arms. A man could spend a lot of quiet time shooting crows up here.
The Grave Digger walks to the grounds bury the body of the Economist. The schnauzer walks beside him.
What's with the no headstones? You people don't identify bodies?
The Grave Digger looks puzzled.
It's not a complaint, but it is.
He wipes his nose, then reaches up to an undefined spot 100 feet in the air.
I want a monument -- in the old tradition. I'm talking about an obelisk. Black! And I want you to help me make that happen, old timer. You and me.
I'm 37.
We're best friends now. Like Romulus and Rhemus. Brothers? Yeah, brothers. Twins!
The Grave Digger grunts.
Thaddaboy, spoken like a man. Joking about the obelisk, but tell me: what's the gravy on his stake? Don't hold back, I want it all. In twenty words or less.
The Grave Digger fills him in.
Huh, says the Editor. Now I know why she was so eager for me to send a crew here. I would have, too, if not for cut backs. And lack of an address. You know where they found her signal? Bounced off the ionosphere! Couldn't trace it, thought it was a telecommunications relay off Tongo Tongo.
The Grave Digger starts digging.
So you going to give him a headstone? I'll find him a headstone.
He does: he fetches a rock from the cairn by the creek.
The two men work for a long while together. The Grave Digger relents to a headstone for the Economist. Without a name - What did he say his name was? Ed? Burl? the Editor asks himself, brow in a knot. - they can only offer a simple cross.
The next day, when the Electrical Engineer arrives, the Editor's picked out the biggest rock from the creek. He's in the process of rolling it to the burial ground.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Economist v. Editor
After winning the duel, the Economist quietly stands over the burial of the Ecologist, then retires to the base of the oak.
It's there that he sees the dusty leather pouch of the forest dweller, and carefully inspects the inside of the bag. Each of the items he lays out on the table. Of special fascination is the marble bust of the plain-looking woman, dressed in homespun 19th-century garb, and the bullet cartridges.
Removing two of the primed cartridges, he reloads both pistols. He examines the hot, used shells just discarded and sees that they - like the other empty shells in the primitive's satchel - are decorated with light, ornately patterned etching. Similar, he notes, to the patterns of a certain indigenous baskets.
Curious, he finds and opens the small drawer under the circular tabletop. Four cartridges roll clumsily into view. He examines all four. Each show similar markings to the cartridges and empty shells from the satchel.
He calls out to the Grave Digger.
Where was this satchel found?
The Grave Digger thrusts his shovel into the loose earth and walks to the oak. He nods at items on the table.
Found alls that on the body of a nativist. Another one shot him a few days ago. He was threatening, spying.
Even so, voices the Economist softly, I think the death may have lead us to a scarcity.
He look down, watching the cartridges roll in his fleshy palm.
How many have come before me? How many duels have you seen?
The Grave Digger swallows. He looks off. He can't remember the number off hand, he can't remember their faces. It's been a month now, maybe more.
Tens, dozens, hundreds?
Dozens, dozens on dozens.
And where have the bullets come from for each duel? I didn't bring bullets. The caretaker?
No. Never him. Never me either. We never brought none.
Someone did. I have a feeling it was the primitives to the east. They've maintained a pre-industrial cottage industry, a cycle of manufacture. Last night I heard the dog barking into the forest. Why they insist on secrecy, on replenishing the ammunition by night, is a mystery. But it explains why the man who was killed was lurking by the border, and why he had these in his pouch.
I was there, says the Grave Digger fearfully, pinching each word. He points. Up in the woods.
So have I, says the Economist sympathetically.
The Grave Digger walks off.
That night, again, the dog barks at the border of the forest.
The Editor's a thin, severe man with a keen eye and a quick tongue. He wears a sweat-stained blue Oxford tucked into a pair of khaki slacks.
Where is she? he spits. Where's my Correspondent?
The Economist tells him he has no clue to whom the Editor refers.
Called from here, I'm sure of it. Just like she described.
The Editor takes a look around again, then squares up.
Just like she said: right from the movie. Right from Swingo!. Tree, creek, cabin, woods, hill. Right from Swingo!.
It's there that he sees the dusty leather pouch of the forest dweller, and carefully inspects the inside of the bag. Each of the items he lays out on the table. Of special fascination is the marble bust of the plain-looking woman, dressed in homespun 19th-century garb, and the bullet cartridges.
Removing two of the primed cartridges, he reloads both pistols. He examines the hot, used shells just discarded and sees that they - like the other empty shells in the primitive's satchel - are decorated with light, ornately patterned etching. Similar, he notes, to the patterns of a certain indigenous baskets.
Curious, he finds and opens the small drawer under the circular tabletop. Four cartridges roll clumsily into view. He examines all four. Each show similar markings to the cartridges and empty shells from the satchel.
He calls out to the Grave Digger.
Where was this satchel found?
The Grave Digger thrusts his shovel into the loose earth and walks to the oak. He nods at items on the table.
Found alls that on the body of a nativist. Another one shot him a few days ago. He was threatening, spying.
Even so, voices the Economist softly, I think the death may have lead us to a scarcity.
He look down, watching the cartridges roll in his fleshy palm.
How many have come before me? How many duels have you seen?
The Grave Digger swallows. He looks off. He can't remember the number off hand, he can't remember their faces. It's been a month now, maybe more.
Tens, dozens, hundreds?
Dozens, dozens on dozens.
And where have the bullets come from for each duel? I didn't bring bullets. The caretaker?
No. Never him. Never me either. We never brought none.
Someone did. I have a feeling it was the primitives to the east. They've maintained a pre-industrial cottage industry, a cycle of manufacture. Last night I heard the dog barking into the forest. Why they insist on secrecy, on replenishing the ammunition by night, is a mystery. But it explains why the man who was killed was lurking by the border, and why he had these in his pouch.
I was there, says the Grave Digger fearfully, pinching each word. He points. Up in the woods.
So have I, says the Economist sympathetically.
The Grave Digger walks off.
That night, again, the dog barks at the border of the forest.
The Editor's a thin, severe man with a keen eye and a quick tongue. He wears a sweat-stained blue Oxford tucked into a pair of khaki slacks.
Where is she? he spits. Where's my Correspondent?
The Economist tells him he has no clue to whom the Editor refers.
Called from here, I'm sure of it. Just like she described.
The Editor takes a look around again, then squares up.
Just like she said: right from the movie. Right from Swingo!. Tree, creek, cabin, woods, hill. Right from Swingo!.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Ecologist v. Economist
It wasn't the rationalization given by the Drill Instructor that brightened the Ecologist's mood, but the fact that the Drill Sergeant sought to rationalize - regardless of his oversimplified and (to the mind of the Ecologist) laughable reasoning. It brightened his mood because it seemed to prove a long-held belief proposed by his academic colleague, the Philosopher (Continental): namely, that all actions (including his) are necessarily unconscious biological reactions to stimuli, and not open to choice, regardless of the feeling that we are subject to chose, itself an illusion.
Thus, at the time, the Ecologist felt more detached from matters of good and evil.
Except now, post-duel, he doesn't; he feels tremendous guilt and grief on looking at the splayed body of the Drill Sergeant beneath him, and the schnauzer nuzzling the Drill Sergeant's hand, as if to coax a pat.
This is rotten, he says.
The Grave Digger buries the body and begins straightening the tumult he caused to Stetson's cabin. The schnauzer, after the burial, sits on the Drill Sergeant's grave. Then, later, joins the Grave Digger. After cleaning the cabin and righting the furniture, the Grave Digger takes residence.
The next day when the Ecologist and Economist meet they, knowing each other in passing from their time at the university, discuss the one thing that happily separates them from unfortunate aspects of reality: their fields of study.
I wrote a paper, says the Ecologist, on the natural reforestation of abandoned farmland and its effect on large mammal populations. It took place in this region. With almost unrestricted private funding we hired a team of townies to act as porters. They carried the observational equipment, the kits used to build electronic monitoring stations throughout the woodlands. We came under attack twice, each time losing a few dozen porters - but more tragically, the wife of my good friend, the group's Ethnologist. But the data we collected - before the stations were found and taken down - showed what I'd expected: an exponential increase in the population. Deer, fox, wolves, bears - in profusion.
As luck would have it, the Economist also did research in the area as a student:
It was just a simple market study, but it played on some historic curiosities: the origin of current day intra-tribal trading amongst anarcho-primitive forest communalists. All communities are intrinsically - often religiously - shy to trade with other communities, especially of different socialist ideological bents (Noyesians, for example, would rather die than exchange with New Harmonists), and of course the ritual patterns of warfare and revenge killings, but they will under certain material conditions. Usually if both parties' receive a mutual, favorably interpreted omen, and if the necessities of each are high enough, and if armed raiding is strategically inadvisable. Some tribes are different than others, of course: some never trade; some have, over years, ritualized the event, leading to regular market gatherings reminiscent of the standard extra-tribal rendezvous, held in different mountain glades each summer season. But these are usually among the more southern tribes, near the coal mining regions. We documented three communities over two years, all in the hills and forests to the east. Facinating people, in a way, however morally reprehensible.
The Ecologist agrees.
Imagine living without order, part of a pack. Regardless of whether I agree with them or not, it's not difficult to see why colleagues started the petition to reclassify the communalists as a particular sub-human species. They way they act, they might as well be studied as animals.
My last lecture, in fact, touched on that topic exacly: I used them as an example of a culture without a stable division of labor.
The Ecologist is about to extol the freedom he and the Economist have to chose their own paths - when he suddenly remembers the Drill Sergeant's act of rationalization. He's thrown into an unexpected spat of doubt.
Thus, at the time, the Ecologist felt more detached from matters of good and evil.
Except now, post-duel, he doesn't; he feels tremendous guilt and grief on looking at the splayed body of the Drill Sergeant beneath him, and the schnauzer nuzzling the Drill Sergeant's hand, as if to coax a pat.
This is rotten, he says.
The Grave Digger buries the body and begins straightening the tumult he caused to Stetson's cabin. The schnauzer, after the burial, sits on the Drill Sergeant's grave. Then, later, joins the Grave Digger. After cleaning the cabin and righting the furniture, the Grave Digger takes residence.
The next day when the Ecologist and Economist meet they, knowing each other in passing from their time at the university, discuss the one thing that happily separates them from unfortunate aspects of reality: their fields of study.
I wrote a paper, says the Ecologist, on the natural reforestation of abandoned farmland and its effect on large mammal populations. It took place in this region. With almost unrestricted private funding we hired a team of townies to act as porters. They carried the observational equipment, the kits used to build electronic monitoring stations throughout the woodlands. We came under attack twice, each time losing a few dozen porters - but more tragically, the wife of my good friend, the group's Ethnologist. But the data we collected - before the stations were found and taken down - showed what I'd expected: an exponential increase in the population. Deer, fox, wolves, bears - in profusion.
As luck would have it, the Economist also did research in the area as a student:
It was just a simple market study, but it played on some historic curiosities: the origin of current day intra-tribal trading amongst anarcho-primitive forest communalists. All communities are intrinsically - often religiously - shy to trade with other communities, especially of different socialist ideological bents (Noyesians, for example, would rather die than exchange with New Harmonists), and of course the ritual patterns of warfare and revenge killings, but they will under certain material conditions. Usually if both parties' receive a mutual, favorably interpreted omen, and if the necessities of each are high enough, and if armed raiding is strategically inadvisable. Some tribes are different than others, of course: some never trade; some have, over years, ritualized the event, leading to regular market gatherings reminiscent of the standard extra-tribal rendezvous, held in different mountain glades each summer season. But these are usually among the more southern tribes, near the coal mining regions. We documented three communities over two years, all in the hills and forests to the east. Facinating people, in a way, however morally reprehensible.
The Ecologist agrees.
Imagine living without order, part of a pack. Regardless of whether I agree with them or not, it's not difficult to see why colleagues started the petition to reclassify the communalists as a particular sub-human species. They way they act, they might as well be studied as animals.
My last lecture, in fact, touched on that topic exacly: I used them as an example of a culture without a stable division of labor.
The Ecologist is about to extol the freedom he and the Economist have to chose their own paths - when he suddenly remembers the Drill Sergeant's act of rationalization. He's thrown into an unexpected spat of doubt.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Drill Sergeant v. Ecologist
The Drill Sergeant doesn't bury the body of the forest dweller, but lays him beside the Dyer. As he walks to the cabin in search of a shovel he sees a haggard figure in the far distance, walking through the corn field east from the road. Only his head's exposed. His face barely peeks from beneath a frayed straw hat.
Still wary from the previous encounter, he pulls a pistol from under his belt. The schnauzer starts barking. Yet the man walks on, pushing through the rows of burnt, water-starved, neck-high corn. The Drill Sergeant steps behind the south wall of the cabin, partly hiding from sight.
Finally the man steps from the corn. The Drill Sergeant turns the corner, pistol aimed at the man's chest. The dog stops barking.
I'm no enemy, says the man. He slowly reaches up and takes off his hat. It's the Grave Digger. A bandage runs over his left eye. He looks at the Drill Sergeant, then the dog.
After explaining who his is and his function - and proving it by naming the location of the shovel, left laying behind tall weeds against the east wall of the cabin - the Drill Sergeant lowers his gun. The dog lays in the shade of the cabin, panting from the oppressive, windless heat.
How many duels you won?
The Drill Sergeant answers. Two. The Grave Digger nods. He looks down at the dog with dispassionate eyes. He looks over at the cabin, torn asunder, looted. It's then that the Drill Sergeant smells the atmosphere of stale liquor and cheap cigar around the man. He stiffens.
Where were you the last two days? he asks curtly. It's summer. Bodies rot as fast as they drop.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. The Drill Sergeant narrows his eyes, licks his parched lips.
I shot a forest dweller -- a nativist lurking at the perimeter.
This is the first news that perks the Grave Digger's interest, that snaps him from his torpor. He asks to be taken to see the body. He almost forgets to take the shovel.
When they reach the body the Grave Digger lowers himself slowly, with cautious movement from the still-painful wounds and bruises, onto one knee, scattering a swarm of flies. He looks at the face. He looks at the tattoos on the cheekbones, the crude ouroboros on the man's arm.
They were all masked when they took us, animal masks. They took us to the village, with a dog. I don't remember. We were knocked out. Not longhouses but timber with gabled roofs. Children playing. Women. They took him away. Separated us. Then they washed me head to foot. I was terrified. I struggled. You've heard the stories, you understand.
The Grave Digger stops. He pauses, then stands.
I don't recognize him, he says. I saw too many, or not enough.
We need to call a Forest Ranger, says the Drill Sergeant. We'll go together.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. They're a joke. And what's more, no one knows the patterns of jurisdiction up here. A professional Assessor couldn't draw lines between the stakes. Less than any other part of the wilderness.
We'll go anyway.
The Grave Digger looks the Drill Sergeant in the eye. You're not leaving the grounds, he says. You duel.
The Drill Sergeant thinks better of objecting. He walks back to the oak. The Grave Digger takes to burying the dead. Notably, he drags the forest dweller north to the red rock, where the earlier sacrificial boy was buried.
The day turns to night, and night to morning.
The Ecologist, a young, awkward man in khakis and a gold shirt, arrives alert yet quietly distressed, like a patient calling on a dentist for a tooth that can't be short of needing pulled.
You don't look proud to be here, son, the Drill Sergeant barks.
The Ecologist explains the loss of others at the university. And his studies. Then, as if only then waking to the Drill Sergeant's statement, asks what he should feel proud of.
This is an institution, states the Drill Instructor. The validity of it is obvious. It doesn't matter if you or I have ever heard of it. The importance of some things are so great as to never be known. Yet that doesn't dissuade good men from doing their duty. From duty comes a sense of pride. Good men are proud of the duty they do to strengthen the whole.
This speech causes the Ecologist's mood to brighten significantly. He accepts the duel with enthusiasm.
Still wary from the previous encounter, he pulls a pistol from under his belt. The schnauzer starts barking. Yet the man walks on, pushing through the rows of burnt, water-starved, neck-high corn. The Drill Sergeant steps behind the south wall of the cabin, partly hiding from sight.
Finally the man steps from the corn. The Drill Sergeant turns the corner, pistol aimed at the man's chest. The dog stops barking.
I'm no enemy, says the man. He slowly reaches up and takes off his hat. It's the Grave Digger. A bandage runs over his left eye. He looks at the Drill Sergeant, then the dog.
After explaining who his is and his function - and proving it by naming the location of the shovel, left laying behind tall weeds against the east wall of the cabin - the Drill Sergeant lowers his gun. The dog lays in the shade of the cabin, panting from the oppressive, windless heat.
How many duels you won?
The Drill Sergeant answers. Two. The Grave Digger nods. He looks down at the dog with dispassionate eyes. He looks over at the cabin, torn asunder, looted. It's then that the Drill Sergeant smells the atmosphere of stale liquor and cheap cigar around the man. He stiffens.
Where were you the last two days? he asks curtly. It's summer. Bodies rot as fast as they drop.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. The Drill Sergeant narrows his eyes, licks his parched lips.
I shot a forest dweller -- a nativist lurking at the perimeter.
This is the first news that perks the Grave Digger's interest, that snaps him from his torpor. He asks to be taken to see the body. He almost forgets to take the shovel.
When they reach the body the Grave Digger lowers himself slowly, with cautious movement from the still-painful wounds and bruises, onto one knee, scattering a swarm of flies. He looks at the face. He looks at the tattoos on the cheekbones, the crude ouroboros on the man's arm.
They were all masked when they took us, animal masks. They took us to the village, with a dog. I don't remember. We were knocked out. Not longhouses but timber with gabled roofs. Children playing. Women. They took him away. Separated us. Then they washed me head to foot. I was terrified. I struggled. You've heard the stories, you understand.
The Grave Digger stops. He pauses, then stands.
I don't recognize him, he says. I saw too many, or not enough.
We need to call a Forest Ranger, says the Drill Sergeant. We'll go together.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. They're a joke. And what's more, no one knows the patterns of jurisdiction up here. A professional Assessor couldn't draw lines between the stakes. Less than any other part of the wilderness.
We'll go anyway.
The Grave Digger looks the Drill Sergeant in the eye. You're not leaving the grounds, he says. You duel.
The Drill Sergeant thinks better of objecting. He walks back to the oak. The Grave Digger takes to burying the dead. Notably, he drags the forest dweller north to the red rock, where the earlier sacrificial boy was buried.
The day turns to night, and night to morning.
The Ecologist, a young, awkward man in khakis and a gold shirt, arrives alert yet quietly distressed, like a patient calling on a dentist for a tooth that can't be short of needing pulled.
You don't look proud to be here, son, the Drill Sergeant barks.
The Ecologist explains the loss of others at the university. And his studies. Then, as if only then waking to the Drill Sergeant's statement, asks what he should feel proud of.
This is an institution, states the Drill Instructor. The validity of it is obvious. It doesn't matter if you or I have ever heard of it. The importance of some things are so great as to never be known. Yet that doesn't dissuade good men from doing their duty. From duty comes a sense of pride. Good men are proud of the duty they do to strengthen the whole.
This speech causes the Ecologist's mood to brighten significantly. He accepts the duel with enthusiasm.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Drill Sergeant v. Dyer
The Drill Sergeant pushes his way past the chaos of books, clothes, radio equipment, paper, and overturned furniture, and into Stetson's cabin. After an hour of straightening and searching, he finds a thin parcel containing carefully layered strips of pemmican. He steps from the cabin.
Two strips are thrown on the ground in front of the schnauzer, who gobbles them up. The Drill Sergeant takes a strip for himself. He re-wraps the parcel, tosses it back into the cabin, and, using the strip he saved, spends the rest of the afternoon teaching the schnauzer to salute.
The dog's a fast learner.
Later that night, as the Drill Sergeant bunks down beside the oak, and the dog close beside him, the schnauzer stands, ears perked high, looking in the direction of forest.
Enemy, boy?
The dog salutes.
Good damn, the Drill Sergeant whispers. He stands, holstering one pistol in his trouser, holding the other. He walks slowly in the direction of the forest. The schnauzer, alert and on point, walks a few paces ahead.
As they near close to the edge of the forest, the hair on the back of the schnauzer stands on end. It lowers his stance, growling deeply. Without warning the Drill Sergeant fires ahead, in the direction the dog faces. There's an anguished cry from behind the bush.
The dog lunges, fangs barred, into the woods. There's a great struggle, snapping of branches, barking - and wailing from an unseen man. The Drill Sergeant, unsure of the dog, unable to push into the pitch black envelope of branches and leaves, calls out for the animal. The struggle ends. The man stumbles off. The dog runs back to the Drill Sergeant.
From the dog's mouth the Drill Sergeant takes a torn, dusty leather satchel. Beads and simple decoration adorn the front, the band.
The Drill Sergeant opens the prize. In the light of the full moon he looks inside: a small light blue glass bottle, half full of bathtub gin; a handful of highly decorated, engraved .455 Webley brass shells; a pouch full twenty or thirty live .455 bullets, undecorated; a small marble bust of a nameless woman of plain appearance; an elk mask; and a crude, hand-printed pamphlet, in a language the Drill Sergeant doesn't recognize.
We'll find him tomorrow, he tells the dog.
The next morning, after eating the last of the pemmican, they walk into the forest, at the spot of confrontation the night before. Splotches of dry blood flower the ground. The schnauzer, excited by the memory, runs frantically around the spot, whining, pushing his way deeper into the forest, looking back at the Drill Sergeant as if pleading to be followed.
The Drill Sergeant, after a careful scan of the area for more objects, follows the dog. Not forty yards away, slumped over beneath the trunk of a great ash, sits an obscured figure of a man.
The Drill Sergeant and dog stand silently for a few seconds before advancing quickly, pistol out, pressed against the man's head.
The man's dead.
He's the same native that greeted the Distiller, but with two holes in his torso - one in his chest, one in his gut - and deep bite marks on his arms and legs. The only distinguishing mark, apart from the wounds, are the pattern and nature of the tribal tattoos that mark the the man's body: inked notches on his cheeks, a self-consuming snake on the upper right bicep, an obscure double-zodiac running vertically between his shoulder blades.
The Drill Sergeant drags the body from the forest to the grounds in time to meet the Dyer, a hearty young woman with a worried expression.
Two strips are thrown on the ground in front of the schnauzer, who gobbles them up. The Drill Sergeant takes a strip for himself. He re-wraps the parcel, tosses it back into the cabin, and, using the strip he saved, spends the rest of the afternoon teaching the schnauzer to salute.
The dog's a fast learner.
Later that night, as the Drill Sergeant bunks down beside the oak, and the dog close beside him, the schnauzer stands, ears perked high, looking in the direction of forest.
Enemy, boy?
The dog salutes.
Good damn, the Drill Sergeant whispers. He stands, holstering one pistol in his trouser, holding the other. He walks slowly in the direction of the forest. The schnauzer, alert and on point, walks a few paces ahead.
As they near close to the edge of the forest, the hair on the back of the schnauzer stands on end. It lowers his stance, growling deeply. Without warning the Drill Sergeant fires ahead, in the direction the dog faces. There's an anguished cry from behind the bush.
The dog lunges, fangs barred, into the woods. There's a great struggle, snapping of branches, barking - and wailing from an unseen man. The Drill Sergeant, unsure of the dog, unable to push into the pitch black envelope of branches and leaves, calls out for the animal. The struggle ends. The man stumbles off. The dog runs back to the Drill Sergeant.
From the dog's mouth the Drill Sergeant takes a torn, dusty leather satchel. Beads and simple decoration adorn the front, the band.
The Drill Sergeant opens the prize. In the light of the full moon he looks inside: a small light blue glass bottle, half full of bathtub gin; a handful of highly decorated, engraved .455 Webley brass shells; a pouch full twenty or thirty live .455 bullets, undecorated; a small marble bust of a nameless woman of plain appearance; an elk mask; and a crude, hand-printed pamphlet, in a language the Drill Sergeant doesn't recognize.
We'll find him tomorrow, he tells the dog.
The next morning, after eating the last of the pemmican, they walk into the forest, at the spot of confrontation the night before. Splotches of dry blood flower the ground. The schnauzer, excited by the memory, runs frantically around the spot, whining, pushing his way deeper into the forest, looking back at the Drill Sergeant as if pleading to be followed.
The Drill Sergeant, after a careful scan of the area for more objects, follows the dog. Not forty yards away, slumped over beneath the trunk of a great ash, sits an obscured figure of a man.
The Drill Sergeant and dog stand silently for a few seconds before advancing quickly, pistol out, pressed against the man's head.
The man's dead.
He's the same native that greeted the Distiller, but with two holes in his torso - one in his chest, one in his gut - and deep bite marks on his arms and legs. The only distinguishing mark, apart from the wounds, are the pattern and nature of the tribal tattoos that mark the the man's body: inked notches on his cheeks, a self-consuming snake on the upper right bicep, an obscure double-zodiac running vertically between his shoulder blades.
The Drill Sergeant drags the body from the forest to the grounds in time to meet the Dyer, a hearty young woman with a worried expression.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Drayman v. Drill Sargeant
Wake up you sniveling nancy!
The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.
You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!
The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.
You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!
The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.
The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.
I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!
I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.
The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!
The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.
Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?
Usually hung over.
Shut up!
The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.
Tell me who's in charge around here!
The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.
Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.
I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.
The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.
Oof!
Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!
The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.
The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.
You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!
The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.
You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!
The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.
The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.
I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!
I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.
The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!
The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.
Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?
Usually hung over.
Shut up!
The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.
Tell me who's in charge around here!
The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.
Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.
I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.
The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.
Oof!
Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!
The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Drayman v. Dressmaker
With the Grave Digger convalescing in Stetson's cabin, the Drayman drinks: he pours himself a liberal glass of gin and cold creek water, sits in the chair outisde Stetson's cabin, and falls asleep to the sound of bats whirling unseen above his head. The schnauzer falls asleep beside him.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
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