The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  C A I N T E E CH

  'Can Teach'? 'Cain's reach'? Fitting. A last message from one I'd taught to read; and I couldn't read it. I lifted Elspeth, placed her on the couch, drew the coverlet over her. I did not weep.

  I returned to the main hall. Reinforcements of the guard shouted and stamped. The looters fled fast as they had charged. Good for them, I admire a competent retreat. Watchmen growled and shoved, grabbing the obvious prizes. I watched a guard remove a bag of silverware from the dress-top of a tavern whore, place it within the protection of his less-appealing bosom. Farewell, my monographed spoons.

  The front looked too well guarded. I slipped through the dining room, wincing at the glittery bones of my fine china. Hand-painted in Germany.

  I held the advantage of the field. I knew each hiding place in my hall, every opportune corner through my kitchen. An assassin will consider these things as he fetches a glass of milk at three in the morning. Hmm, if I held still in the shadows by that coatrack I would not be visible to one coming past…

  Really it was unfair. I caught the arm and broke it with no credit to instinct or training. Moral: a late-night glass of milk is excellent for one's health. I considered the person moaning on my floor. No one I knew. The reward drew outsiders and amateurs, flies to fresh blood. Time to flee. I kicked him quiet. Then I recalled Elspeth's face and kicked him into hell.

  She wouldn't approve. Elspeth is, was, religious. No. Spiritual, not religious. One can distinguish. She didn't know the Nicene Creed from "Prayer for Ships in Storm"; but she urged the local butcher to seek God’s love for all creation, and stop beating the poor dog lurking by the stall. The man did cease, too. Next market-day there the creature sat, tail-wagging. She wept with joy to see it, gave the butcher a chaste embrace as brother in Christ. He smiled uncomfortable; the dog just grinned.

  And yes, I had taken the man aside to share my interpretation of the Book of Revelation, wherein is prophesized that a Seraph would feed a butcher’s testicles to the next dog Elspeth saw him kick. I also am spiritual. In my way.

  I taught Elspeth to read. She was desperate to stare at printed letters and hear God speak from out the pages. Well, who isn't? I shifted her from complex psalms, incomprehensible Deuteronomy into Pilgrim's Progress. We made jokes about the house, calling the stairs The Hill of Difficulty. The scullery became Doubting Castle. The market became Vanity Fair. Stephano became Mr. Talkative. He has a flourishing ebullience, a face inspiring silence.

  I continued through Doubting Castle, not stopping for warm milk. What food and drink not looted, lay spilled and trampled. The wolf of hunger howled in the empty valley of my belly. My brain ignored the plaint.

  That hunters and guards would keep an eye to my house was a given. But troops on the roofs, assassins in the halls were over-much. C’est trope. I had been expected this very night. How? I had not even decided to return till visiting Dealer. My path had been round-about.

  I brooded through a servant's door to my study, to sigh at shambles of broken chairs, ripped paintings, shattered porcelain. Then stopped, staring in shock. The fireplace roared with my collection of first editions. In the hot yellow flame danced Gulliver, Yahoos and Lilliputia. That trail of gray smoke was Rabelais; the wisp of white a sardonic Au Revoir from Voltaire.

  I considered the sight. Here was malice, not looting. Thought had gone into this gesture of hate. Yes, definitely I was expected tonight.

  The French doors to my garden stood thrown open. Night wind blew, lonely and ominous. I stepped to the door and halted, astonished again. The hairs on the back of my neck were rising. Those on my arms as well. They have never done this before. Not once, in all my life of war and night-strife.

  Now they did. Hackles standing as an audience set to cheer a performance. I stared into the dark of my own quiet garden and shivered, as though it led to some night-shore of Pluto’s underworld. I considered what act presaged itself. Something bloody for sure.

  Chapter 8

  The Last King of the Oak

  Mutiny. My right foot declined to enter the night. I puzzled at this rebellion. Seriously, oh foot? Here was our garden. No doubt some fool hid within clutching a dagger. What of that? Any garden could boast as much. There might be owls or wasps. A cat, even. I do not fear cats, exactly. No, I admire their genius for tripping one at the exact wrong moment.

  “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,” whispered William Black from my pocket. “In the forest of the night.”

  I stared into the night-forest, reconstructing it as my dull garden, not the haunt of ghosts and tigers. An enclosed courtyard, more than real garden. Neighboring houses presenting unclimbable wall upon three sides. No exit unless one knew of the ivy trellises rising up from the roses, leading to the roof and away.

  A single tree centered the square. A tall thick-trunked oak, wide as a cottage, its circles measuring all the years between today and Caesar's invasion. The branches whispered words from the wind. My foot distrusted the whispers. Hear that, it asked? Milksop foot, I replied. But my heart understood right well. Something waited beyond the doorway.

  But the hall behind now echoed with running feet. Shouts. They'd found the downed assassins. Which told them I hid within the riot of this house. Enough nonsense. I drew sword, overruled instincts and rushed into night. My garden, the advantage mine. I ran to the ivy, stopped. Two hunters had been in wait within. The roof would have its lurkers as well. I could not fight while clambering up a wall.

  I backed to the left, putting me next the fountain. A stone lion, jaws wide to bite at water that never flowed. Poor thirsty creature, the pipes clog fast as I have them fixed. The tree whispered again, though no wind blew. I hunched, insisting I feared a crossbow bolt. In truth, I was not sure what I feared.

  At the door appeared several figures. There they halted. Wisely, if you chase the Seraph into the night. Too dark for proper fighting but I wouldn't fight proper. They would stumble, unsure who in the mirk was friend. I knew my garden and had no friend within it. As well, my night vision is excellent. If they entered this mirk, I'd laugh louder than their death-rattles.

  But "Fetch lights," ordered one. "He has no exit but to climb the ivy trellis to the roof. If he'd gone that way, we'd hear him dying."

  Damnation. Alderman Black's voice. A thinker. And informed. He'd sat in this very garden. Sipped my wine, argued Blake's verse. And all the while he spied the escapes? He must have plotted my murder long before yester-night’s fiasco. I considered our ten-year association. The truth dawned. The man hated me. Probably always had.

  It may seem strange, considering my life of violence, but I have seldom felt hated. Fear and admiration are my proper due. Respect by peers. And love, by some few. Not many. Who the blast is ever loved by more than a few? And lucky to have that.

  Well, Black hated me. It explained who burned my first editions. The man held a grudge for his warehouse, my superior knowledge of Blake. I wondered how many waited on the roof. Perhaps that was bluff to keep me close. I hesitated between running for the ivy and fighting my way back through the house. I settled for waiting, watching.

  Lights were fetched. Two candelabrum, one torch, two lanterns. My candelabrum. Silver, from Italy. My lanterns from the kitchen. Don't know where they found the torch. Cobbled from my smashed furniture, doubtless. Teak and rosewood, it would burn with a smell of Indian forests, jeweled boxes.

  Five lights, six men. Three were soldiers by their stances. Two were market-place duelists by their slouches. The last stood next to Black, watching silent, guarding the door to the house. I felt uncertain of him. No, certain. Dangerous. He held crossbow in one hand, rapier in the other.

  Four spread out through the garden. The fifth posted himself by the ivy trellis. I circled behind the tree trunk, thicker than any church pillar. High above the branches whispered with night-breeze, light and silvery as faery laughter. Again that shiver of raised hackles.

  The year previous I toured Italy, visited the usual ruins. The guid
e showed us a circle of stone, where once stood a sacred oak. He explained a king once slept beneath the tree, sword drawn. Every so often a challenger marched up to kill him. The victor became the new oak-king, circling the tree, sword for a scepter, awaiting the next challenger. The guide promised if we stayed the night we'd see the ghost of the oak-king, orbiting the phantom trunk, bronze blade dragging. We declined. We were in search of warm arms and wine, not cold shivers in ruins. Later I half-wished we had.

  The two with the candelabras edged clockwise around the trunk. The two with lanterns moved around the other side. I waited till I was within the candelabra flicker, thrust through the throat. No temptation for milksopery. This was my garden. He dropped the candelabra. My candelabra.

  “Tiger, Tiger!” I shouted. Why not.

  His fellow backed away at the death-gasp or Blake’s verse. For either cause, he had the sense to abandon his candlestick. My candlestick. It only hindered his eyes, offset his balance. The bravo with the torch ran forwards with a shout, but I was already circling behind the trunk again, surprised those with lanterns had not come behind and finished me. One lantern lay on the ground, abandoned. I kicked it toward the fountain, where it clanked on stone.

  By the door, Alderman Black shouted for news. He knew we fought, but could not tell who was up, who was down, who stood as King of the Oak. Where was the fellow with the torch?

  I put my back to the tree, waiting enemies to circle from both sides. The garden shimmered with glows that gave neither figure nor form to sight; mere shadows of light. My heart hammered, lungs labored. I considered, and removed my boots.

  Such trivial things decide whether we die today, or just later. A patch of ice on the bridge. The line of sun in battle. The democratic winds that elect an arrow's path. Destiny is the sum of idiot trivialities. How can we think our lives rise to greater importance than a thousand coin tosses?

  I presently live for the accident that my garden is too shadowed for grass. Ergo, my gardener placed pebbles over the dirt. So this night I put back to trunk, and dared close eyes, ignoring the distracting shadow-play. I listened for the crunch of boot-steps. Then turned and lunged at the man coming upon my left. He parried poorly, I cork-screwed, ran him though the gut. I regretted the target, the gut's a painful end. He'd left his lantern on the ground. My lantern. It flickered in requiem to his fading moans.

  “In the forest of the night,” I cried out. From the door came curses. From the tree branches above, whispers of laughter.

  Two down, four left plus Black. But the two had been pawn sacrifices. They knew where I was now. They need merely maneuver with caution and light round both sides of the tree, two to a side, cornering me. Or three come around one side, chasing me into view of the sixth fellow’s cross-bow.

  Gravel crunching on my right. I crept the opposite direction, expecting to meet who lurked this side of the trunk. No one. I continued circling till I came in sight of the door to the house. It stood closed. Through the glass I spotted Black, peering out. No sign of the ominous Sixth Man, armed with crossbow. Sounds of gravel crunches beyond the curve of the trunk. A muffled exclamation. A whisper of laughter from the branches above. I edged quickly forwards, preferring to come upon enemies than have them come upon me.

  A smell of teak forests burning… there lay the smoldering torch. No sign of its bearer. Puzzling. I caught the crunch of gravel behind, the slow steps of caution. I continued around the tree, meeting no one. Another candelabrum lay snuffed on the ground, wicks still glowing red. Puzzling twice. I put back to trunk and listened. Someone stepped cautiously on the far side of the tree. Something laughed in the tree branches. Black pounded now on the glass doors, shouting something not heard.

  I began circling the trunk again. I heard only one set of feet now. Ergo: three must have stopped. Unless they tiptoed barefoot? I listened, heard my laboring heart. Shouts from inside the house, the distant crash of glass. A soft splash of something wet beside me. I held out a hand, catching a second splash. A familiar smell. Blood. I looked up.

  Twenty feet high against the night sky, a body hung upside down from a branch, arms waving gently, in dance to what dismal tune the wind piped in such place. Too far and dark to see a face. Glad of that.

  I considered running for the ivy. Climbing and away. But I would be cut down before reaching the top. Steps behind me. I should continue circling. But I wanted company, even just some kill-for-coin footpad. I stood my ground, waiting. Around the tree came someone holding no light. Crossbow and rapier. The Sinister sixth guard.

  He waved the crossbow, mere distraction. I circled backwards around the trunk, denying him a clear shot. He tried a lunge. Not distraction, he meant to kill. The new Oak King? I doubted it. Not as fast as last night's anonymous sword-master. Still, respectable.

  We parried, testing reach and speed. I fight with either hand; my advantage circling the tree. His advantages: the crossbow and time. He need merely distract till Black fetched more help, more light. I wondered about the missing guards. Past time they came up behind me. I could think of but one place for them to loiter. Strange fruit, hanging from my tree.

  I circling backwards. Light bloomed from out my house windows, brightening the night. Black stood behind the glass doors, holding one of my books. He ripped pages, dropped them deliberately into a growing fire about the curtains.

  Perhaps it was a clever move to distract me. I think it mere malice. He wanted to burn my house as I did his warehouse. Unfair. He had a dozen warehouses, I but one house. I considered how deep his hatred reached. When Green, Dealer, Black and I had sat at table arguing politics, art and science, had Black sipped, contemplating my death?

  Unless it was business decision. I, Green and the more sane Magisterium members opposed his cabal of industrial pirates. I preferred his hate be about the poet William Blake. More personal. How soulless, to be murdered as a business decision. I watched Black rip my books, set my house afire, and in weary rage I turned from the Sinister Sixth Guard. He should have run me through. Long live the new Oak King.

  Instead he held hand out, staring at what glittered wet in the growing light from the house. Then he turned upwards. I should have run him through, but of course I also looked up, guessing the source of strange rain.

  Two, no, three more bodies dangled from the branches above, hawks nailed by the gamekeeper, crickets spiked by a butcher-bird. Hands and hair waving like sea-fronds, in deep water no swimmer should dare. We looked away at the same time, recalled to earth and our present task.

  "Treaty and truce," I said. "Let us continue our homicide somewhere sane."

  He looked to the house, where the door burned a cheery bright yellow.

  "The ivy, then." he declared. Sensible fellow. We ran from the whispering tree to the wall of ivy. I eyed him, he me. When he sheathed sword I did the same. We began to climb. I trembled exhausted, my thoughts blurred. What just happened to four men in my garden? Why did I climb the wall of my own house? I should enter the front door. Stephano would draw the bath, bring brandy and fresh clothes. I would lay myself down in my soft warm bed, and Elspeth would knock, bringing a dinner tray. Lay herself down with me, soft and warm herself.

  But the house fast caught fire. Elspeth lay on the library couch, within a pyre of the books she'd hoped to hear speak. They were to tell of magic islands and angelic visions, lovelorn princess and wise fools. Most of all, the meaning of Heaven itself, that forever-hinted secret which Heaven always denies ear and eye. Words and flesh, their combined flame would rise to the sky, jump to the tree. House, Elspeth, books and tree would be smoke and ash tomorrow. I would be last king of the Oak. I felt an absurd comfort in that.

  Chapter 9

  The One True Currency

  I climbed in weary pain. Not my fellow. He clambered up ivy, scrambled over the eves and out of sight. I considered his haste, and whether our pax held upon the roof. ‘Course not. He waited above now, sword at point. Probably shoulder to shoulder with another half-dozen
of Black's brigands.

  I rested, holding fast to the ivy. Climbing higher meant death. But the fire below presented no better chance. To remain in the courtyard meant to be roasted. As well, something bloody whispered in my garden, hanging men. No point in going on, no point in going back. Naturally the vines holding me trembled, began to give.

  Then a voice spoke above in stern reproof.

  "Sir, this seating is reserved for private company." A lord or butler chiding impolite entry. At once I felt embarrassed to be climbing a wall in bare feet. Though it was my wall. The voice continued. I realized in relief, it did not address me.

  "I must ask you to leave. Forthwith."

  "No." Thus spoke the Sinister Sixth Man who fled with me.

  "Hmm. Honestly answered. Can you pay admission?"

  There came a laugh. "Certainly. Here's my ticket-price. Keep the change, lordship." There came the snick, snack of a crossbow. The thump of a strike. One groan, one tumble of a body.

  The lordly voice again. "Quite rude how they interrupt. An insult to the performers."

  I waited to hear who would answer. Someone did; not the Sinister Sixth.

  "He was a performer, uncle." A woman's voice. "We were just watching him run circles about the tree, chasing the player shouting of tigers."

  "Oh dear. Then I interrupted him? Tsk." An awkward silence. Then, "My apologies, sir."

  The Sinister Sixth accepted the answer in silence. At least, he made no answer. I doubted he would.

  "In any case he tendered false coin," brooded the man. "Death is not currency. It is produce."

  "Hmm," said the woman's voice, disinterested. Then, to be polite she inquired, "How should he have paid?"

  "In moonlight," answered the lordly voice. "You are young, over-used to modern barter in cold gold, red blood and black ink, the laugh of babies, diamond shine and dusty green bottles of fine wine. Ah, but in my day we kept a strict and absolute currency."