Chaos and the Owl

Cedric Carson arrived at the abandoned inn an hour before sundown. He tied his horse to a hitching post at the back—no reason anyone should see his horse from the road—and creaked open the disintegrating door. He was almost exactly halfway between Keif, where he lived, and Ondrun. Ondrun was less than two miles from the border with Morgrava; the tension between Sahmach and Morgrava had been building. There'd been violence—mostly bombed buildings, but some casualties—on both sides of the border. He looked back at the low gathering clouds and hoped the rain would hold off. He wasn't optimistic.

The inn had been given over to decay long ago, when the rail line juked east to pass through Cluan. The man who built it died broke, and furiously angry at the agent who'd sold him the land; the agent had assured him the rail line would need a depot not a hundred yards from the piece of land the inn was built on. The inn, which included a tavern that also functioned as what could be loosely called a restaurant, scraped by for two years, but once the final rail route was announced the owner fled, skipping out on county taxes and debts to food and liquor vendors alike.

Carson had been here before and knew the general layout. He'd entered through a back door leading into what had been a storeroom or pantry, long since emptied of anything edible or even useful. Even the mice had mostly left. He walked through the kitchen into the main public room. The bar was on his left; two tables remained, both with broken legs. 

Sunlight of the golden hour glowed in the window openings, long bereft of glass. The ceiling overhead—which was also the floor of the rooms above—was mostly intact. The stairs leading up looked untrustworthy, many with missing or caved-in treads; in any case, there was no reason for him to ascend. He wasn't here for a room, or even temporary shelter.

He startled at a noise above him. An owl, herself probably startled, flew from the second-floor balcony out through a window.

He remembered that in some cultures the owl was considered an evil omen, while in others it was considered a figure of wisdom and steadfastness. Carson was not a superstitious man; it was an owl, and it was about its own owlish business, pursuing, he thought, its owlish living. 

And what is my business, my living? he thought. He was once so sure, but now wondered if what he was doing was in any way connected to the greater good. He'd long told himself it was, but he'd been having doubts. He'd seen a bit of war: the chaos, the destruction, the lives ended or ruined. Some of what he did steered, in some small way, the place and manner of that chaos. He knew this, had known it, but of late it bothered him, a nagging sense he could never quite name. It was like trying to remember something he'd forgotten: it was always just out of reach.

He understood now that the inn was also a testament to chaos and destruction, though of a different magnitude and origin. There was no certainty, no sure way to avoid chaos; some paths were more likely to lead to good outcomes, but more likely didn't mean assured. The inn came to its state of decay through a very particular chain of events. Would the chaos he'd steered in his small way have been any different if he hadn't taken a hand? There was no way to know, and not knowing was a kind of chaos itself. The first far-off peels of thunder rolled through the place. 

It had been some time since he'd been there, so he explored a bit. His back, which had been complaining if he spent more than a few minutes in the saddle, was glad he was standing. He stretched his arms over his head and arched his back, giving a quiet groan.

The place seemed little changed, from what he could remember; another board missing from one wall, perhaps a few more stair treads caved in. It's slow, he thought, this process of decay. Slow and inevitable. 

He picked a spot where he could watch the most likely ways into the structure, propped himself against a wall, and waited. 

The sun was setting when he heard soft hoofbeats on the road outside. He heard the horse turn off the road next to the inn and walk slowly to the back, where he had tethered his horse. Whoever it was, he thought, they know someone's here. He eased his sidearm from its holster and rested it on his lap; he was tensed and vigilant, but calm. A stranger wouldn't be surprised by a drawn weapon here in the middle of more-or-less nowhere, and being ready for a potential foe was as much a habit to him as breathing.

The new arrival moved stealthily; he wasn't sure they had even entered until he heard the creak of a floorboard only a few feet from where he sat. A flash of lightning threw a shadow of a figure on a wall for an instant. When they appeared through the door at the back of the room, he tensed further, but kept still.

Her pistol was drawn also, held in both hands, pointed forward but down. She turned toward him briskly, but showed no surprise. She studied him for no more than a second or two. "I think I missed the road to Carverton," she said.

He relaxed. "That you have. You were likely wanting to stay the night at the Whitetail Inn."

“They do serve a tasty stew," she said, lowering her weapon.

The sign and counter-sign complete, he stood. "Martin Blake," he said.

"Evelyn Coughlin." She holstered her pistol, he holstered his, they shook hands. "I haven't been here before," she said, looking around. A patter of rain began on the roof.

He thought she was a good ten years younger than him; she was tall, and appeared solid. "Do you know the history? Guy bought it to make a fortune from a rail stop next door, then the rails turned sideways on him?"

"Lots of ways for things to fall apart," she said, mirroring some of his earlier thoughts. "Or at least two ways, I guess: slowly, like this place, or all at once, like the telegraph office in Ondrun."

"I hadn't heard that," he said.

"Yesterday. Boom." She mimed an explosion with her fingertips. 

The rain sounded more insistent. There was a loud thunderclap. The owl returned carrying a small rabbit and landed on the balcony. It studied the two intruders briefly before beginning its meal. 

"Morgrava? I mean, their people?" he asked.

"Think so. They've been more active the last few weeks. A couple sharp-eyed kids saw some men muckin' around by the train tracks just outside of town, reported it. Sheriff's men got 'em before they could blow anything up. Our people have 'em now. We'll see what they know."

"Yeah." Carson had never been caught, never been questioned. He'd heard of the techniques the Morgravans used; he hoped his side--"our people", as Coughlin had called them--wouldn't be quite so brutal. It's easy to tear down a human body, he knew, as easy as it is to flatten a building.

"You'll want this," she said, and handed him a small brass tube. "My boss says they'll be all bothered about it at the Station." She meant the small field office in Keif. 

"Thanks," he said. The rain had grown louder, pounding on the decaying roof. Small rivulets were already trickling down one or two walls.

"Lousy luck, the weather," she said. "I'll be gettin' back then."

"You can wait here," he said. "I know a couple areas that will stay dry. The storeroom where you came in will keep your horse out of it."

He thought she smiled, or was it a smirk? "Grand accommodations, sure," she said, "but I've got an appointment at sunrise." It would be one of her contacts, he knew, and possibly very important. "Good luck, Blake." She shook his hand again.

"Good luck, Coughlin."

He walked to the back with her, through the decay and chaos. As she pulled an overcoat from a saddlebag, he led his horse into the storeroom. The floor showed the dried and crumbling evidence that he wasn't the first to bring his mount in.

He wondered if he was getting too old for the work. He still felt strong, mostly, but he knew his step was slower; his eyesight, especially up close, wasn't what it was. Wasn't what it should be, he thought. He worried a little slip, a small mistake at the wrong time, might make the difference, might be the margin between staying free or being taken. He wondered how long he could hold out if he were taken. Probably about as long as that telegraph office, he thought.

The owl was perched on the railing of the balcony, above the common room. It watched him, he thought; from the owl's perspective, it watched a being of no consequence in a place of no importance doing something that likely wouldn't matter. Tomorrow it would carry on with its own owlish business, go about its owlish life.

And he--Carson--he would, what? Take the tube and its message to his masters, wait for instructions on which bit of chaos to set in motion next? He supposed that was the size of it.

He looked again at the owl as he tried to find a flat, dry spot to lie, somewhere that wouldn't make his back worse. "Lucky bird," he muttered under his breath.