The Weight of the Past

Content warning: includes graphic language, violence, mental duress, and torture

Cedric Carson looked at it as it lay in the thick, tall grass next to a stream; he knew it could bring an end to the life he'd spent a decade building for himself. It was a simple brass tube, capped at both ends; a small thing, not a foot long. As he lifted it, it seemed to pull his hand back toward the ground where it lay. It was weighted with the past, with another life, another version of Carson. He desperately wanted to drop it where he found it, to forget he ever saw it. He cursed under his breath.

He broke down his fishing rod, stowed his gear, and walked back toward town. It had been sunny when he arrived at the stream, but thick, dark clouds now covered the sky. A crow caw-cawed from a tree by the path and was answered by another.

He saw the town differently as he passed through it. He thought of the stories of the people there--the butcher, the tavern owner, the smith, all the others. Stories so different from his own. They had, almost all of them, grown up here, or very nearby. To them the war was remote, a concept not quite real. Lately, it had almost become so to him. Until he found the tube. He held it in the gnarled fingers of his left hand, then tucked it into his coat. The pain, almost forgotten, crept in again. The rain began.

He made for a small house--a shack, really--at the edge of town, separated from any other structures by a hundred yards. He stopped and took a moment to collect himself. He realized his left hand shook slightly. I'm out of practice, he thought. It's just Roland. He needs to know. And I need his help.

He knocked on the door. “Roland? It's Carson." He waited and was about to knock again when the door opened.

David Roland was a man beaten. His clothes bore un-mended holes, the gray whiskers on his face were turning from stubble to unkempt beard, his thinning hair stood from his head at angles. Carson thought he smelled whiskey on his breath. He was slightly stooped, though he straightened a bit when he saw Carson. He said nothing.

"Need to talk to you." Roland remained silent but turned and walked back in, leaving the door open.

The room was small and sparsely furnished; a table, two chairs, a stand with a basin. The small bookcase seemed somehow out of place. Roland sat and motioned Carson to the other chair. Roland's hands, which he placed on his lap, quivered slightly, Carson noticed. The rain drummed lightly on the roof. Carson pulled the brass tube from under his coat and set it gently on the table. "Found this by the stream south of town."

There was absolute stillness for a minute, then two. "Oh dear Lord,“ Roland said at last. He raised his eyes to meet Carson's, peered intently, then glanced at Carson's left hand; his eyes softened slightly, then went hard again.

"I think," Carson said, "I should try to get this wherever it was supposed to go." The rain drummed more insistently. "Any idea where that might be?"

Roland sat perfectly still for a long moment. "That won't end well," he said.

"Likely not. Still, it's one of ours. It'll mean something to somebody."

"Admirable sentiments. Probably even true. But how long have you been inactive? I mean, it wouldn't be an actual mission, but still..." His voice trailed off. "You've paid your dues and then some. Let it go. If it was important, they wouldn't have given it to a clumsy jackass who'd lose it."

The memories were there, at the back of Carson's mind, waiting to flood in and paralyze him. Roland had told him, afterwards, that his inquisitors had him only about 48 hours, but to him, it had stretched for an eternity. He didn't know, still, which were memories and which were the nightmares that began when he mercifully lost consciousness. His left hand bore witness to one bit of reality, the burn scars on his feet and stomach to another bit. That tall fucker burned his initials into me. The thought was unbidden; he pushed it back.

"So, any thought on where this belongs?" Carson asked again. Despite Roland's statement about the "clumsy jackass", the coded message inside the tube would have value; else, it wouldn't have been dispatched.

Roland rubbed his chin. "I've been out of this as long as you have." He paused, seemed to come to a decision. "Remember Bailey? Helped us out in Morgrava? He stopped by here a few months ago. He went inactive last year. He mentioned a storefront setup in McGann, near the border." Near the battle line, he meant.

Carson was uneasy with the name Bailey. Like his former handler, he had had some contact with a few former colleagues; two of them had some dark things to say about Bailey. Nothing they could prove; just whispers from people who knew people. The whispers, though, were disturbing.

Roland was talking again. "You know, I could probably track down Bailey pretty quick. He hasn't been out of the game as long as you. You were top-notch, Carson, none better, but Bailey's..." he paused. "Fresher. Might be more efficient at this point."

There was a silence that went too long. Carson realized he needed to respond, but not soon enough. I really am out of practice. The unease he felt at the mention of Bailey was growing. "This one's on me. I found it, I'll try to put it right."

Roland sat back and spread his hands in surrender. "Your mission, then."

The conversation turned to a back-and-forth about a specific plan. Roland gave Carson the specifics of the "storefront setup"--the location, the work name of the person manning it. By the time they'd formed a plan, the rain had stopped.

Carson walked home, increasingly uneasy. The things he'd heard about Bailey, the dark treachery... Still, Roland couldn't have known. He'd known Roland his entire adult life. Roland recruited him, trained him in the craft. He'd given him his first mission, made him an active. When the black agony of his questioning ended, when the thick doors of the keep were blown inward by carefully placed charges, when his countrymen rushed in with modern rifles that fired as fast as they could pull the trigger, Roland was with them. Hell, he'd led them. He'd cut Carson's bonds, helped him try to stand, shouted for help when Carson's knees buckled.

Roland couldn't think, let alone know, that Bailey had turned. He couldn't. I'm swatting at shadows. Way out of practice. Still… Bailey might be more efficient… worrisome.

He turned from the path home and walked toward the edge of town. He'd have a long walk there and back, but it's what an active would do. It's what Roland would do.

He arrived back home before dawn, bone tired but feeling oddly calm. He realized, for the first time since he'd found the message tube, that he felt in control. The conversations he'd had in the wee hours made him feel he hadn't lost all his skills. He just needed to execute now.

He saddled his horse, put together some provisions, checked and double-checked his pistol and rifle. The sun rose clear, casting a soft light on the town he'd come to love. He very much hoped he'd return within a fortnight. He swatted the sentiment back. Hope is a weakness.

The first day passed; exhausted, he fell asleep early. He started his second day rested. Woods pressed tightly on either side of the road. Occasionally he stopped his horse and listened. Songbirds, a crow or two. If he'd heard hooffalls behind him, they'd stopped as he did. They won't be conspicuous about following. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, shadow then light.

It was almost midday when three men rode out of the woods and onto the road ahead of him. One of them was Roland. Another was Bailey. The third leveled his rifle at Carson.

Carson waited. They'll need time. They'll move slowly and quietly, and they'll be in the woods now. It'll take them a few minutes to get here.

Roland spoke first. "It doesn't need to end here for you, you know. You did your part. More than your part. Leave it on the road, go home, go back to your shop and your town. Nobody'll ever know."

"I'll know." His horse shifted nervously. Carson tried, gently, to back the horse a bit, to widen the distance, to buy time and make the other's shot more difficult. "When did you turn? What did they offer you? It can't be much, you live with nothing."

Roland slumped almost imperceptibly. "Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter when I did what, or why. My fam..." He cut himself off. "Doesn't matter. What matters is what you do in the next 60 seconds."

Carson realized--kicked himself for not realizing earlier--that Roland actually wanted to protect him. Why am I not dead yet? In the rush of realization he also grasped there was no way he'd live to see home if he left the tube. Roland would be dead too. There would be no loose ends. He's got pull. He's got enough juice to get them to play this game. He knows how this ends. What's he doing? Why?

Roland's horse shifted. Good God, he's sliding toward the rifleman.

It was over in the space of a few heartbeats. There was a flash of movement in the woods to one side of the three men, another flash on the opposite side, the loud crack of a fallen branch breaking. Roland slammed his horse into the rifleman's. Bailey reached for his sidearm, Carson for his, horses burst from the woods onto the road.

The shooting began.