Honor
I
“He’s waking up, me hearties! He’s waking up!” He heard the clamor of voices beat into his head, and squinting through eyelids that were woven shut in exertion and defeat, he made out a blur of figures hovering over him.
“Ahoy, laddie! Ye’re alright there? Drink some water! Here! Slow!”
A metal canister bared to his disoriented gaze, and it neared his mouth in a stretch of time he could hardly comprehend. Something prodded his lips, a moisture, dew of water, and upon a primitive instinct, he probed it back with his tongue. Droplets beaded across his chin and throat, tickling him a sense of life he hadn’t deemed possible, and he lay there, upon what felt like a hard plank of wood, but the room was turning, swaying from one side to the other.
“Ye’re lost, mate?” Another voice came from his side, and he turned his head towards it, but failed to perceive the owner of it. There was a clamor of pattering rain against it, a distinct downpour cuffing upon a roof; yet not quite. His ears flexed, in the manner they were taught to perceive the slightest noise of dust motes shifting in the air of the cellar, and he discerned the creaking of something colossal.
“Must be an orphan. Boy’s thinner than a fish bone!” Another countered, words that meant nothing to him. “He surely won’t even survive. I say we toss him in the waters, and be done with it.”
“No, we won’t!” The sailor before him objected with fervent detestation. “The ornery cur’ll make us a good cabin lad! He’s got strong hands fer his condition. With a little bit o’ meat on his bones, he’s gonna learn t’ work them knots better than ye, Brendan!” he jested, and the sailor pouted, and crossed his arms before his chest.
“Just another mouth to feed, Robin?! Until he’ll ever be able to climb the rigging, we’ll be all dead, or hanged at the very least!”
“Well, we do have him now, me lads. And no-one’s gonna find him here on that ship. Not anytime soon,” Robin, the sailor, murmured pensively, and skimmed over him, limply still laying, in a fever that singed the wet cloth they had plopped over his forehead. “Besides, young Johnny needs a mate ’round here!”
“I knew those clouds looked suspicious!” Brendan nagged, and the covey of sailors turned to face him with concern.
“Aye, they did. But the waves did not roar, only softly wept, and they brought t’ us riches beyond measure, this lad here,” Robin persisted fervently, convinced at that, and Brendan rolled his eyes.
“No waves brought us this mite! Ye found him on land!”
“Aye, and he’s mine t’ keep now,” he grunted out, until a tide slammed into the hull, and shifted the entire vessel, and the oil lamp that hung above the boy, and Brendan set his gaze upon him, where light shone across his shirtfront, unveiling a map of scars.
“Shiver me timbers!” He gasped, and every sailor surrounded the boy, and the desk he was laid upon, shadowing all light. “That lad’s got scars from a cutlass! Step back and see!”
“Scars from a cutlass?” the sailors echoed with horror on their tongue, and he heard them clearer, and felt them cram into him, invade what little air flowed within his lungs, but couldn’t move, something pinned him onto the wood; a depletion of life.
“Hey sonny! Ya hear us?”
He felt a hand palm his shoulder, a brief shake, but his head dropped to the other side of him, and eyes gazed dully to the void.
With a curious hand, Robin reached for his shirtfront that hung crookedly below his collarbone, and gingerly lowered it to chart the lines of the very map, flaring every single sailor’s eyes as they contracted. “That lad was lain and strapped over a barrel fer a hard floggin’ and paddlin’,” he whispered, aghast, and winced at the ghastly sight he somehow couldn’t look away from.
“He is bad luck, Robin!” Brendan warned shakily, and the rest of sailors bobbed their heads in compliance. “He’s back luck, I tell ye! Hear outside! The Lord sent us great storm, and it is this lad’s doin’! Toss him out like rotten cargo, lads!” he ordered.
Robin smacked a fist against the desk, and looked to him sternly. “Avast, now! No-one tosses this lad out!” he shouted, and the boy’s eyes flinched. “The storm tests a sailor’s mettle, and it rewards the bold and swallows the weak! Are ye weak, mate?!” He held his gaze tensely, and Brendan clenched his teeth, cast his eyes back upon the boy, and sulked. “Aye, ye’re not, and in this brotherhood of outcasts, this lad will be no different.”
II
“My soul…does not extend to it the way that it should. It splits like a man’s identity within a deranged mind, and chooses the nerves it belongs to. And this…is but a piece of flesh that dangles about when I speak, when I eat, and drink. When I walk, when I even rest, it is all there, and yet…it is not mine. But it has a soul of its own, that dissolves into a foam of hatred. Mine.” He snarled his teeth, and with dull, bugged out eyes, he groped at the finger that twitched nervously upon the armrest.
And he studied him in turn. A form of a man materialized out of shadows that too shrunk in his presence; a man of a fissured skin and round bald-pated skull that framed a gaunt face in a deathly pallid contour, almost jaundiced, and yet stark gray. His eyes were a beehive of thoughts that had died and corroded within ghastly browns, and all tears had been trapped within tumid dark eyelids, never shed out, until the pain would collide with exultation.
And his smile, it had withered within lips that had sucked back into his flesh, revealing but a hollowed line of imperturbable emotion. And his body, a carcass of self-loathe that could never find satisfaction the more he punished it. But the unfeigned den of horror had been forged within his mind, and soon, he proposed it would fester his own with sinister knowledge.
“What do you wish to do with this…” he asked him, eyeing the cigar cutter right next to him that he had laid out, upon a velvet scarlet cloth.
“I have been a coward for many decades. Inflicting all sorts of pain, just to feel alive…aroused, but less than whole. But I realize, these attempts and pain would never convey the same emotion, as something would if I would rid these parts of myself. Howbeit, there’s the fear, James Miller. There’s the fear, or the sense, convincing you otherwise. But I’m an old man, now. And I have found consolation in matters that do not make sense, but they are there. Amongst us. And you, if you follow my orders and cordial suggestions, you will find it too…with her. All, that you ever longed for, it will be there. In flesh and blood,” he said and regarded him upon an earnest sidelong glance, and a shudder of ecstasy swathed James whole, and he permitted himself to delve into a hope and possibility, beyond the mortal plane. He nodded to himself, then reached for the cigar cutter. He placed it before him and quickly shoved his finger through the beveled hole, and then he lingered, as James’s chest rose and fell in anticipation. Blood clotted in his veins, and his eyes darkened and narrowed upon him.
“I have…waited for this…for so…so long, James,” he cried, and folded his hand over the cutter, a bronze bear with its mouth pried wide open, now sealing around his finger. “And I can hardly wait…to feel the absence of it.”
The bear’s jaws slammed shut. A sharp cracking sound of cartilage and bone chaffed against the blades, reverberating to him. A loud scream, and a laughter of profound pleasure and relief seeped out of the spurting blood, and he stared, obtund and bemused, yet exhilarated for reasons still unknown. But the finger was still there, and it flinched in nerves and tendons that refused to be excised.
So he grabbed the cigar cutter, and began to tilt it around, opening it up and snapping it shut back upon his finger. Further cracks and splits into the flesh and bone, yet the tendons held strong in stubbornness; and through the harrowing pain that numbed him, he tilted the cutters again and slammed them shut anew. All color drained from his face, and a cascade of blazing sweat scorched him entirely, and he was barely able to breathe from the ecstasy, ogling the finger that now still hung, loosely attached to the tendons and cartilage.
“Will you…do me…the honors…” he forced out, letting out a laugh streaked with fright, as he quivered in faintness, drifting in and out of consciousness. The room turned blurry, and dark, and sullied.
James swallowed. He stood up from his seat and began to walk towards him, drawing to a stand at the table, at the finger paling in a state of wretchedness. He reached for the cigar cutter, and with a trembling motion, he spun it around to the remaining side that was still connected. Their eyes locked briefly, and for a moment, he couldn’t decide whose were more corroded in madness, but in that very moment, he was able to acknowledge it, until he snapped his finger off his hand and watched it roll towards him.
III
In the gloom of a night, in the heavy snowfall that kissed the secluded offshore, he lit up a lantern in the sailor’s nook and picked up a pen; holding it with a hope that its nib would assist him more than his thoughts were capable of doing so. The paper, a tint of yellow, laid idly before him, staring at him as he stared at it back.
Charlotte,
I’ve reached Mayhaw, at last. Journey was decent.
Nothing too worrisome. Roads are still snowed in.
He paused in a sigh, ink dripping upon the words as he realized the letter sounded awfully dry, as though it were directed to a fellow sheriff, or worse, conducting a court order to a fugitive. “Goddammit,” he grumbled in irritation, scrunching up the paper and tossing it aside. “Come on, ol’ man. You can do better than that.”
My dear Charlotte,
I’ve reached Mayhaw, at last. Journey was quite lonely without you…
He huffed, realizing he sounded awfully soft now. Another ball of crinkled paper flew across the room.
Dear Charlotte,
I’ve reached Mayhaw, at last. I’m staying at a little rental. Not too bad. I think you would have approved of it. Not that you’re all that particular, which, I am not either. Anyhow!
I’ve settled in here, in the company of a glass of whiskey as I write you, in case you’re still plagued with worries of random pantaloons.
I can assure you, the only cloth that’s scattered around is my
“Patrick, ya fool!” He slammed his hand against his head and gnawed on his lip. “Goddamn, it’s been a while…” He soused the last sentence with the nib’s ink, crossing it out instead of starting all over again.
I will go by the cabin tomorrow morning, and see what I can find out. I hope you’re still staying at the saloon, and keeping safe like we talked about. Marshal’s orders, in case you need a reminder. Which if you do need one, I sure
wouldn’t mind bending you over
I suppose, I’ll be investigating the town and talking to some folk around here the upcoming days. After that, I will head back to Caledonia.
Hope you’re well, Charlotte.
Best, Patrick
He cocked his head, skimming through it all, and smirked. “That should do it.” He twitched his mustache, deciding he couldn’t have written it any better.
IV
They took the trails TOWARDS Caledonia upon a lope, rummaging for any of Mac’s traces in the depths of Kitunaha, yet that was a challenge that seemed to be impossible. With their eyes skimming woods and moss in the impenetrable wall of darkness as it forged around them, they felt the air suddenly hold still. Their breaths, barely able to scratch at the shadows with their steam’s haze. Something, they felt, began to creep towards them, and then it suddenly stalled. “I don’t like this…” Viggo noted, darting a glance at Sven who squinted through the gloom. Blond braided strands wafted around his face as he turned to look over the belt of conifers that surrounded them. “Sven…are we being followed?”
Sven was quiet.
“Ikke vær teit…” he fussed, striking Viggo numb. “We are protected…from whoever it may be.”
“It doesn’t feel right, Sven. I think we should go,” Viggo pressured, keeping a tight grip around his axe, almost able to sense danger lurking in the nooks of bark and leaves.
“Be quiet, Viggo,” Sven growled, slowly trudging towards a bundle of trees in sly marching steps, drawing Viggo’s gaze back to him. “I smell…something.”
“What?” Viggo asked, but Sven didn’t retort. He kept walking, with his piercing glare nailing one particular tree, and stopping by it, he pulled out his axe from around his back and lifted it over his shoulder.
“Ikke vær en feiging…” Sven jeered in a warning, then struck the bevel into the bark, flaying it open. A gush of scarlet liquid squirted out of it, and Viggo’s breath cut in his lungs, not comprehending.
“What is this?” Viggo urged, drawing out his axe in turn and tracing circles around himself, swinging it before him, through the mist and shadows.
Sven’s eyes narrowed upon the split he carved into the bark, then reached for it with a forefinger. He pressed it within, and crimson liquid stained it in an instant. He felt of it with a thumb brushing against it, then took a curious whiff of it, inhaling metallic iron. Blood.
“Sven? What’s going on?” Viggo pressured, for suddenly the fog had enwreathed them, separating them in a maze of cloud.
Sven didn’t retort. He observed the moist texture upon the pad of his finger, and darted a glance back at the split. There was a raven feather stuck within it that left him cold in his tracks.
“Sven?! Can you hear me, brother?!” Viggo yelled loudly, but his voice muffled in the fog. “Sven?! Dritt!”
He swallowed, remaining still for a few minutes, uncertain, but he felt they were, so he withdrew his axe and smeared the blood against his coat, nodding in gratitude.
“Finally! What happened?!” Viggo emerged, panting heavily and accumulating beads of sweat across his forehead, then he stood beside him as Sven turned to face him.
“Nothing happened. We should be going.”
They took the hills of Caledonia, hunting for a vestige of billowing smoke in the horizon, a faint tent in a distance, a blurry figure of a horse. Yet there was still deadness. They skidded their horses to a halt, and faced each other.
“What do we do, brother…” Viggo asked, exhausted, and felt a dread wash over him.
Sven sat deep in the saddle, his fingers still obsessively feeling of the blood, and lifted his gaze up to the sky with a revived hope. “Time to ask them.”
Then a whistle in a melodic rhythm colored the arid air, and swiftly after, they took out their horns and blew right through them. It echoed across the redwood forest. It howled into the fissures of Kitunaha. It sang across the rolling hills of Caledonia. And a subtle cawing responded back.
Suddenly a tiny army of black feathered entities emerged through the silhouetted conifers—flying towards them. Onyx wings slashed the night in terse violence, and stormed through the skies, roaring across it.
They descended closely over their heads, and one settled atop Sven’s shoulder; claws gently hooking on the bear pelt coat. Sven leaned into the bird with a cold breath that blinded it, as Viggo bowed his head not to interfere with his vulnerable presence. “Be…my eyes,” he whispered to it, then lifted his arm. Its wings spread, but they didn’t flutter just yet. “Lead the way for me…lead it to James Miller,” he ordered, and the bird screeched loudly—ascending back to the gloomy sky and the cloud.
And as it abandoned itself to the wounded air and the bruised wind, it began to descend the closer west it reached. Its wings weakened, now swaying unbalanced, unsettled, and crooked. It descended further more, its beak grasping desperately for air, and shrieked in the throes of agony. Its frail body seized and convulsed, moments before it crash-landed upon the ground.
A harsh impact, almost rattling the earth beneath it. Sven felt a pang in his chest, but he masked it over with cruel numbness. They picked up a lope towards the bird, and dismounted their steeds to inspect. Kneeling down, they fixated their gaze upon it.
The bird stared back with eyes of utter horror. Beady black eyes of defeat and a torturous death that flooded them. It was lifeless, and black puss of blood seeped out of its chest upon the last convulsions. Viggo swallowed, then looked over at Sven whose face had contorted in terror, but he didn’t say a word.
Sudden clops of wings emanated from the hollows of their senses, this time scouring the blankness that engulfed them. A large, impressive raven flew to them, knifing through their breath. It descended before them, softly and charily, atop the crow. Its wings pried, spreading open, and they coiled around the crow’s puny body to shield, then, it wept. Tears that evaporated into mist, hitting its feathers.
Its head lifted, and it turned, and it looked back at the men; eyes of green moss. But somehow, it froze at Sven, and the fingers that he kept rubbing together within a fist, and upon a high-pitched caw, the bird ascended, and beckoned for them to follow.
V
She grappled a broken antler, and a jet-black flint. It felt sharp against the pads of her fingers as she brushed them across the ivory bone, drawing blood at the tip of it. A scarlet trail trickled downwards a forefinger, and the weary lines of hardship within the bend imbibed it. There was a smile that creased her lips, then, it was gone. Bracing her hand upon her leg, she supported the stone and whacked the antler against it, incessantly. She collected the chips. A handful. She then laid a deer leather hide over her leg and pressed the chip down. She picked up the pointy end of the broken antler, and began breaking small flakes off the chip with it. For an hour, or two. Brown eyes darted a furtive look at the paper, collecting dust and humidity and regret in that crooked drawer for some months now, building up a cobweb of rage within her core as time drifted.
“Mommy?” He hesitated. A pair of blue eyes peeking through the crack of the door as it gave way to her in a tender snarl. A shadow manifesting in the candlelight. It was small and uncertain.
“Yes,” she said flatly, gaze still stolidly pinned at the drawer.
“I brought you your tea, mommy.” His voice still pure and youthful, yet a worry scraped his throat.
“Did you put my special remedy in it, honey?” she asked, slowly averting her gaze back on the bone and the chips.
“Mhm.” He nodded, fingers unfurling from around the knob within a clammy grip, little feet shuffling through the room. He placed the cup of tea upon a nightstand, yet she barely regarded it.
“That’s my son.” She smiled, but her mouth had wrinkled vaguely.
“What is this, mommy?” he then asked, glancing at her tools.
“What is what, honey?”
“All that…the stones.” He pointed with a forefinger.
“Oh, that!” She snorted absently. “This is how you make arrowheads, sweetie,” she said, taking a big gulp of the tea at last. It stung beneath the chamomile, and it scorched an instant relief throughout her nerves.
“Arrowheads…for what?” He frowned, cocking his head to the side and gazing at the collection with a curious look.
“For hunting, sweetie,” she stated, an eerie simper bruising her lips. She took another dram of the tea, letting it burn words and thoughts, as he scratched his head in bewilderment.
“But…didn’t you hunt recently mommy?”
“I sure did, didn’t I, Jonny?” She turned to the side to consider his presence at last, then hurled a wounded look at him. “Yet this will be a different hunt. One of honor.”
