Darkness, yes, a cynic at times,
often do I tell grim tales,
of world gone wrong for mayhem's cause,
and people that wrong world ails
yet hope remains my central focus,
the shadows accent our globe,
taking turns with holy light,
like changing of silken robes
a bitter flavor blended strong
gives power to a drink -
like sugar, too much bitterness
can make your beverage stink
Unpleasant doth become the one
who makes the cynic home
and welcomes into their abode
the gloominess and loam
their vision darkens gradually,
their hope burns to the wick,
they start to care less for their people,
and cure becomes new sick
for hopes not reached must burn down too
ashes back to soil
so hope can be reborn anew
and earned with hopeful toil
Lazy cheats and platitudes
help none to make this faster
symbols used egregiously
steal-borrowed from their masters
does whipping tigers make them kittens?
nor beating children starved?
nor holding captive maidens smitten?
nor reprimands fresh carved?
should monsters known be punished so
for being such a beast?
is better one who knows not fear
for carnage that he eats?
* * *
I used a rubber band to tie my long hair back into a ponytail, and turned my head to the side. In the bathroom mirror, I saw the little thing, curled into itself. I'd spent all yesterday using browned sugar and paper to wax off my beard, and iron tweezers to pluck whatever stubble remained. It was a trick my mother had taught me, something the Egyptians used to do. My face finally clean, I felt relief, and smiled to see my new visage. I looked a bit like I did younger, but with benefits of maturity: strength and wisdom. I played with the hair on my head, mussing my bangs in different ways, combing them back and forth with my fingers. My hair was soft and straight-like, but also wavy and wiry, halfway like the Irish I grew up with and halfway like the moors I'd just come back from. It wouldn't sit at all like I wanted it to, and I learned that to confront it was to make it worse – I relented to its natural wilderness. I decided to comb it back on the sides, leaving some to dangle in chaotic spirals next to my ears. On top, I combed it back, and on one side I combed my front bangs up and to the right. I thought it looked both grown-up, and cute. My face was becoming, dare I say, prettier; my lashes and eyebrows were softer, and my lips were thicker. I was starting to remind myself of my mother, and of The Pirate... I mean, The Lover. But, to my dismay, my bones mismatched my intent, making my face look large and gaunt. I wasn't manly, but mannish, and frustrated by that. Pressing on my jaw and cheekbones didn't seem to make them any smaller. The only woman I could be mistaken for was an incredibly strong one, which suited my confidence but not my feelings. I didn't resent manhood, but I was tired of its imposition on me, and wanted some room to breathe. Still, its grip had my neck by the apple.
I stepped outside, into cool Portuguese air. The wooden
inn was just a small cabin on a hill, overlooking the rest of a town
built into the side of a mountain. O Rosto was the name of this place, a
stone-walled fortress of wide but short towers bricked in grey. Even in
winter, with snow at the peak of the mountain and frost on the ground,
the grass was yet green, and all home's corners were dotted by red,
violet, and yellow flowers. When the sun rose, so did the heat once
more, flora and fauna unthreatened by the cold of night gone. I watched a
trio of goats ascend what seemed like a sheer wall, their shaggy white
fur dancing in wind. At the top, they leapt for higher grass and bounded
further up the mountain. The sun peaked, and as usual, it made no
apologies in extra warmth for taking longer to reach us. For that, I was back in full garb, now with fur boots and an extra sweater over my shirt, cloak layered over it all as always.
In town, I
was buying supplies when a commotion occurred. Holding a bundle of large
red berries in a basket, I jumped and dropped them when the town shook
from a BANG! Sheepish, I paid the vendor for wasted food. I looked
around for the sound's origin, and came upon a fight in the center of
town – a large man, scarred like a sailor, was yelping for mercy, as
another man in shining armor drove a lance into his back, point emerging
from the other side. He pulled it out, and blood spilled from the
wound. Looking closer, the man in armor had emblazoned on his chest a
Templar's cross in red, but his tall, cylindrical flagged helmet was
painted black, with a white skull of teeth as long as fangs. The
eye-hole cutouts were angular, instead of rectangular, to give the
impression of a menacing glare, and intimidation it surely achieved. I
flipped up my skull mask, to get a better look, and he took off his
can-like helmet to reveal a familiar face.
"I should have guessed," I jeered, "by your weapon of choice."
The Lancer looked shocked, then happy and in awe all at once. He ran
straight over, and put my head under his arm, and gave my forehead a
stern knuckle-rubbing.
"This is called a 'noogie', one of the guys in my unit invented it last year," he said.
I stuck out my tongue. "Everyone knows what a noogie is, dumbass."
He knocked on my head for the remark. "Oh, is that pulling your chain too hard?"
That abuse of disbelief was exactly how I felt seeing The Lancer here,
of all places, in a faraway land from where I'd seen 'im last.
"How the hell did you get here?" he gaped.
I shrugged. "Just came back from moorish land," I replied.
He snarked, "Your neighbors told you to go home, did they? Why'd you come back?"
He let me go, and I stumbled back upright. He put back on his helmet,
and the town's guards approached from all sides – there must have been
fifteen men at least, though some may have been incredibly
strong-looking women. Short-staffed, perhaps?
The Lancer announced
himself. "I am The Killer, and I've come to collect my bounty for this
man you see here, lying dead." The Lan- uh, The Killer held up a bounty
warrant from his pocket, and handed it to a captain, who leaned over to
glance at the wanted corpse.
The captain, afraid to be in the presence of such a slayer, stammered, "He, ahm... that is..."
The Killer put a gauntlet-covered hand on his shoulder. "I know, your king wanted him alive. But read out his crimes."
The captain began, "Larceny, vandalism, dissent, murder, rape, kidnapping of children, and, umm... oh, my God."
The Killer nodded, tilting his long helmet up and down. "Yeah. The
world wanted him dead, and as a bastion of Death, I heeded the world's
call. I trust I can still collect payment?"
The captain rolled up
the warrant for his pocket, puckered his lower lip, and went to examine
the body, slapping the bald cadaver's paling face and the stitches that
crawled around it. "Yes, ahm... half payment."
The Killer countered, "Two thirds."
"Tch." He shook his head. "Okay, two thirds." Then he looked at me. "Did you help?"
I shook my head. "I'm just a witness."
The Killer took off his helmet, and rushed over to me. "Nah, nah, don't
be so modest! This is my tracker, the one who helped me find this man.
I'll be splitting the bounty."
The captain squinted at me. "A woman?"
I blushed, but it was covered as The Killer flipped down my mask, to show my father's skull. "Hey!"
The Killer put his helmet against my temple, I'm guessing to show the resemblance.
The captain nodded, "Ahh, I see. One third for both of you, then. Follow me."
The Killer and I sat at a table in the pub, pouches of silver in our
pockets and drink in our mugs. No steins, I noticed, and thought they
must not have seen much plague. My mug was berry tea, his was berry
mead. Slurping at boiled sour sweetness, I watched The Killer gulp his
foaming fizz like it was evening on a holiday. I was worried for that
reason: it was still morning.
"So, after the duke twins finally told
their mom to get rid of us, we finally got our pay," he continued. He'd
been telling me in pieces how he got here for the last hour, only to
get distracted by a girl or a shiny gadget in the market. Here, his
focus was contained. "I couldn't believe it, I'd already written my
lines for the week."
"Your lines?" I smirked.
He grinned. "You'd
better believe it. Now I get to use them on bad guys, though. Should've
heard me before you got there today – I said, 'Let me get straight to
the point!' Hahaha!" He slammed his hand on the table in laughter,
drawing a couple glances. "Oh, man, the look on his face." He wiped a
tear from his eye. "When I stabbed him, I mean."
Eyes lidded, I asked, "Didn't you... stab him from the back?"
"Yeah, yeah," he waved, "the second time. That was when he started running away! HAHAHA! Ohhh, what a chickenshit," he wheezed.
Nobody else was laughing, but he didn't notice. I felt bad for him, but I guessed he didn't care.
"So," he went on, "it turns out they'll just let ANYONE in Aragon be a
Templar! Can you believe that? Even a shifty moor! No offense."
I said nothing. His story was all out of order. If it was a string, it'd be a ball of yarn.
"As long as you're all for the Reconquista, that's all they care about.
I didn't know it was even, still, y'know... going!" He drank again. "I
was thinking, about you - you're beautiful, by the way. Do you want to
sleep with me?" he smiled.
I was grimacing. "Not the type to take an older gent, pardon my blunting."
He shook his head. "No problem, I'll find a girl. I found a bread-bitch
in Morocco, not sure where I left her. Made the BEST TOAST! God, I miss
her. But another one, I'll get another one." He stayed quiet for just a
brief moment, then shouted, "HEY BARKEEP!! ANOTHER DRINK FOR THE
KILLERRRRRRRR!! AHAHAHAHAAAA...!"
The barkeep told him to shut it,
and brought him another mug, taking his last one so he didn't smash it.
"Let it put your ass good night," he grumbled.
I frowned, sipping my
tea. In the mountains, it cooled much faster than the coffee I was used
to in the desert marsh, though I remembered too suddenly that it was
still slower to cool than home, back in Ireland.
He spoke up again, "Actually, I've been hanging out with The Doctor. You know him, he was the book-worm from the blue hold."
"The Scholar?" I raised a brow.
Then The Killer stood up, patting me on the back. "I gotta piss.
Actually, I'm gonna thank you first." He put his arms around me in
sloppy affection, and I cursed him in silence, bein' that I
was embarrassed with a drunk so early. He kept on, "Your dad's head,
uh... I mean, skull. I was sooo inspired by that, I mean it. Death, and
like, being scary and stuff... doing the right thing by killing the
right people... we heard! We all heard." He pulled down my hood to kiss
the mask on top of my head, revealing my ponytail to the pub.
My face turned red, and I broke out in a cold sweat. "You heard what?"
"Fuckin' legend, man," he laughed, and let go. "MYTHICAL." Finally, he left.
My mind started racing. He heard what?
I sipped my tea, uneven in my take, stomach filling too fast. Before I
could think some more, a man, scarred like the corpse this morn, burst
in through the pub's swingin' door, and let it slam shut. He was big,
mean, tough, and angry as all hell broken loose from its stable. His
nostrils flared, and as the chill gust from outdoors hit the room, I
could see faint clouds coming from them.
"Which one of you is The Killer?" he asked.
Nobody said a word. He looked at me, saw the skull on top of my head,
and made an assumption that led him stomping in my direction. The
barkeep's fearing eyes told me: 'run'.
I leapt to my feet and turned
heel, but the man grabbed my head in one hand, and my neck in the
other, each one as thick as a rock – and as big, too. I couldn't see, my
eyes rolled into my head, air withering from my lungs. I lost sound,
sight, and feeling to smell and taste my own blood rushing through my
head and into my mouth. Just before my neck could snap, I felt a dull
but piercing pain in my shoulder. All I heard as I fell to the floor,
vision black, was a raucous "GOT 'IM!" followed by a maniacal, drunken
laugh. "AHAHAHAHAAA!!"
I woke up with puffy eyes and my head on a
pillow, neck in a brace of cloth and plaster. I couldn't move, and it
wasn't because my limbs were tied down with buckle and leather. I
couldn't feel my body. Then, as I looked at the stone ceiling, a single
torch hanging on a nearby wall, I felt tingling in my toes and fingers,
and feeling returned. Just as fast, pain shocked my every fiber. I
groaned and cried out, struggling against my constraints. Then a hot,
damp rag met my forehead, and I was made to bite down on a soft, shaved
piece of wood. The pain gradually ebbed into a low hum, and I took in
heavy breath to let out. Lookin' down at me was a mask of embedded
glasses and a long, protruding beak, on a head that wore a wide-brimmed
hat over a long, leather jacket. Then the mask was removed, and my
father looked down at me, with cold but curious eyes.
"You're awake," he said.
"Dad?" I rasped.
"No, I'm afraid not," he replied. "You should remember me, though I'm
now called the Plague Doctor. But please, call me Doc for short."
I struggled to get free. "Why am I-"
"Bound? For your own safety, of course. Don't worry, I'll oversee your
recovery – you're lucky you didn't die, what you've been through. Both
the big guy, and my partner." Then, curiously, The Doc picked up my
father's skull from an end table, and held it up to his own face. "I
heard I'm supposed to look like this man. Interestingly, I don't see the
resemblance." He tilted his head, and set it back down. Then he
chuckled, "Perhaps it's because I'm still alive?"
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