The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “I’m glad you are up to the challenge of being my friend.”

  “And I appreciate that you recognize what an effort it is.” Matt looked around before leaning closer to the opening. “Is there anything I can do out here to help?”

  “Yes. First, I need you to get me a drink. This place is boring beyond belief.”

  “Garran, I say this as your friend. I think you might have a drinking problem.”

  “Possibly, but I think the matter requires more study to establish a definitive conclusion.”

  “I only understood about one in three of those words, but I’ll interpret it as denial.”

  “Sorry, I forget I’m like one of the five people who can read in this backwoods, armpit of a town. In my room is a letter Claire gave me last week. That alone should prove I’m innocent and that she’s a lying little slut.”

  “Okay,” Matt agreed, “what else?”

  “Let’s just say Claire’s nether region wasn’t an unexplored land. Ask around town and find out who all blazed a trail before me.”

  “Okay, I’ll get right on it. I don’t think they are going to wait very long to bring you before the town assembly.”

  “All the more reason to prioritize. Drink, letter, brush cutters.”

  Matt shook his head. “I really think you have a drinking problem.”

  “Yes, but only as long as you stand around doing nothing. Hop to, man!”

  ***

  Matt walked briskly down the worn dirt paths winding through town. It was early morning, and people were just finishing breakfast and going to work. Garran’s house was one of the larger homes in town; built by his father during a more profitable venture not long before he disappeared.

  Nina answered Matt’s knock with a disapproving scowl. “Oh, it’s you. In case you haven’t heard, Garran’s locked up.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know. That’s why I’m here. Garran needs me get something for him that will prove his innocence.”

  Nina scowled even deeper. “He ain’t innocent of nothing. I told him he was gonna get himself in real trouble if he didn’t change his ways, and now he has. He’s just like his father.”

  “But if I can help prove he didn’t do it…”

  “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It don’t matter either way. He needs something to set him straight, and maybe this is it.”

  “Whatever he has done, being sent to prison as a rapist is not the answer. How can you do that to him? You’re his mother!”

  Dwight appeared in the doorway, looming over Nina’s head, and glared at Matt. “It don’t matter, boy. It’s already done, and there ain’t nothing gonna change what’s going to happen no matter if he’s guilty or innocent. Now get your skinny carcass off my porch and don’t come back here again.”

  Nina backed out of the entryway and slammed the door in his face. Matt walked away and looked around for an answer to his dilemma. He was not the imaginative sort Garran was, which was probably why he rarely found trouble unless he was with him.

  “What would Garran do?” Matt asked himself.

  His eyes darted to the chicken coop behind the house. He glanced around once more before racing behind the small animal pen. Matt captured the morning sunlight with a palm-sized magnifying lens and lit a slow match. He held the smoldering twist over the straw carpeting the coop and wondered if Garran was a good enough friend to become a criminal for in order to help him. He was not certain, but he knew that he was such a friend and dropped the slow match onto the thatch.

  Matt ran from the henhouse while the straw began to burn. He hid behind the woodpile stacked next to a nearby home and waited. Chickens began squawking and ran into the small pen as smoke billowed from the coop. Flames began licking out of the doorway and windows, and Matt wondered if anyone was going to notice before the entire thing burned down.

  Mirabelle, the woman whose home he was hiding behind, raced to Garran’s house and pounded on the door. “Fire, your coop’s on fire!”

  Dwight ripped the door open and looked as if he was going to strike the woman for disturbing his morning nap. His ireful eyes went wide when he spotted the flames.

  “Nina, grab buckets and pots!”

  Garran’s mother ran from the house close behind Dwight gripping two buckets and a stew pot. Dwight took the pot, furiously worked the handle of the nearby pump, and filled it with water. Nina took over the pump while Dwight ran the short distance to the coop and flung the pot of water onto the inferno. Chickens fled through the now open pen and sought safety from the conflagration as fast as their legs and useless wings would carry them.

  Matt sprinted from his hiding place, ducked into Garran’s house, and ran upstairs. Garran’s room was in a slovenly state of disrepair. He tossed discarded articles of clothing toward one corner of the room in search of the letter. More than one rat squeaked its displeasure and scampered from the room as he dug through the mess.

  He looked out of the window, saw there was little of the chicken coop left to fuel the remaining fire, and was about to give up his search when one of Garran’s tobacco twists caught his eye. Matt unrolled the paper wrapped around the dried tobacco, rapture root, and likely one or more other euphoric compounds, and found the remains of the letter written by Claire. The note had lost some content, but there was plenty left to support Garran’s claim.

  Matt ran down the stairs, his feet beating a rapid staccato upon the steps. He was about to make for the door but remembered Garran’s demand for something to drink. Most people would be happy just to have evidence that might keep them out of jail, but Garran was not most people, and Matt did not want to hear his complaints for a partially successful mission.

  He cast his eyes around the room but failed to spot a bottle. Hurrying into the kitchen, Matt searched the cupboards and discovered a small flask hidden behind a sack of flour. Snatching the flask from its hiding place, he opened the door leading outside from the kitchen and peered out. The fire was extinguished, and the henhouse lay in a smoldering ruin. Unlikely to escape that way without being spotted, Matt crossed through the living room and exited the front door.

  “Mathew Bodine, what are you up to?”

  Matt nearly dropped the flask when he shoved it into a pocket. “Miss Mirabelle! Uh, I saw smoke and came to see if something was wrong.”

  “You’re as dim as you are late. If there’s smoke, there’s a fire, and if something’s on fire, there’s something wrong!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The fire already did its damage, so you’re more useless than usual.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

  The old woman squinted at the bulge in his pocket. “What’s in your pocket?”

  “Um, nothing, ma’am.”

  “Don’t give me nothing. I know a flask when I see one. Go on, hand it over.”

  Mirabelle held out a bony, shriveled hand and crooked her fingers commandingly. Matt sighed, fished the flask from his pocket, and handed it over. The old woman cast a glance back toward the smoldering wreckage blocked from view by the house, uncorked the flask, and took a long draw. She gasped, shuddered, and resealed the cork.

  “That’ll get these old bones warmed up and moving on a cold morning. Might be you’re not so useless after all.” She caught Matt smiling at her as she handed back the bottle. “Wipe that grin off your face! At my age and with my arthritis, it’s medicinal. You ought to be ashamed drinking this early in the morning at your age. Go on now, go be ashamed somewhere else.”

  Matt smiled wider and ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Matt ran the length of town, a not-so-strenuous feat when the entire population is less than three hundred people. A man was sitting in a chair placed near the “jail” door. He saw Matt running to the side of the building but did not bother to stop him.

  “Garran,” Matt called through the window slit.

  Garran snorted awake, rolled to his feet, and stuck his face in the opening. “Did you get it?”

>   “Yeah. You didn’t tell me you almost smoked it.”

  “Huh?”

  “The letter that’s supposed to keep you from going to prison or getting your neck stretched out, you idiot.”

  “Oh, that. What about the booze?”

  Matt sighed and his shoulders slumped at his friend’s singular focus. “Yeah, here.”

  Garran snatched the flask from Matt’s hand, pulled out the cork, but hesitated and looked at it with narrowed eyes. “Did you get this from my parents’ room?”

  “No, in the kitchen behind the flour. Why?”

  “It’s probably twenty percent piss is all. Oh well.”

  Matt made a choking sound when Garran put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. “You’re drinking that? You are so disgusting.”

  Garran wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Why? I said it’s only twenty percent. Besides, it’s my piss. I’m just returning it to the cycle.”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Garran, your mom wouldn’t let me in the house even when I told her it could prove you didn’t assault Claire. Then Dwight came and said it wouldn’t matter anyway, that nothing was going to change what was going to happen.”

  “Huh, they said something similarly ominous earlier.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “I don’t know. No sense in dwelling on it. So how’d you get past them?”

  Matt shuffled uncomfortably. “I set your chicken coop on fire.”

  Garran laughed uproariously. “Nicely done! I’m finally rubbing off on you.”

  “That’s not a good thing.”

  “That’s a great thing!”

  “Says the guy locked up for rape.”

  “Fine, there are some holes in my argument, Claire’s being one of them, but still, you need to loosen up. You are way too uptight.”

  “I care what people think about me.”

  “Why? People are all crap—Dwight, Claire, my mother, that trigger-happy Finney, bossy work foremen who don’t appreciate the work we do—all crap.”

  “What about me?”

  “You are the rare, beautiful mushroom that grows from the crap.”

  “Gee, Garran, no one ever called me a mushroom before. I never knew you cared so much. I think I’m going to cry,” Matt said with a mock sob.

  “You wonder why I’m so shitty all the time. I try to say something nice and—”

  “And cock it all up.”

  “I understand. You’re not used to seeing this sensitive side of me, and it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Everything about you makes me uncomfortable.”

  “That is a very hurtful thing to say. You have injured me, sir, and I feel the only way to mitigate the damage is to get drunk and abuse myself, so…”

  “I’ll leave you to your wickedness.”

  “That was not what I was going to say at all, but I understand you have important things to attend to. Go find my character witnesses so I can expose Claire as the whore she is.”

  “I will, but next time could you wait until I look away before you expose yourself?”

  “An erection waits for no man…or woman…or in truly desperate times, overly-trusting and slow-moving farm animals.”

  “You are a deeply disturbed person.”

  “I am a product of my environment and upbringing and take no responsibility for my wicked ways.”

  “Of course not.”

  Matt went in search of the other young men with whom Claire may have had dalliances. Most worked on the logging crews like he and Garran did, but a few, like the butcher’s and blacksmith’s sons, apprenticed with their fathers in town. He would begin his investigations there before expanding outward. He found he rather enjoyed this kind of work and wondered if he might be able to make it a full-time job. Matt knew he did not have the education, intelligence, and connections to become a king’s agent, but perhaps he could become a constable. It would mean moving from Wooder’s Bend, but that just made the prospect more attractive.

  ***

  A sharp kick to his backside rudely startled Garran awake. “Wake up, you little prick.”

  Garran rolled away and lurched to his feet. Luke Vitale, one of the mayor’s toadies, sneered at him. He was one of the men who had hauled Garran in the other night and had taken great pleasure in his drubbing.

  “You got less than an hour before you stand for your crimes.”

  Luke turned without waiting for a response. He grasped the wooden slide lock’s handle and opened the door. Luke sniffed at the sticky substance transferred onto his hand, cast Garran a hateful scowl, and wiped the offending matter on his shirt.

  “Wasn’t me,” Garran said innocently.

  “Sick little bastard!”

  Garran returned his scowl with a satisfied smile, not dropping it until the door closed him in once again. He was surprised they had given him this much time, but they probably wanted to wait for the weekend when the hard-working townsfolk took a day off from their labors and the farce could get a good turnout. Mayor Alessi likely wanted everyone to witness Garran’s humiliation before he demanded his execution or sent him to one of Anatolia’s prisons to live out the rest of his days. It was a scheme Garran intended to make him regret.

  Luke returned with two other men and flung a heavy, leather belt at his feet. “Put that on.”

  Garran wrapped the belt around his waist and buckled it. Luke grabbed the iron ring next to the buckle, twisted the entire thing around to position it at his back, and clipped a chain to a metal loop. He then gave Garran a push toward the door. “Walk.”

  Garran and his retinue walked from the makeshift jail to the town hall. A few people stood watch along the street, casting him dirty looks but thankfully no stones or rotten fruit. That would come after his conviction. Nearly the entire town packed the benches arrayed before the single table behind which sat the three “judges.” Small towns like Wooder’s Bend did have a proper constabulary or court, so the three ranking members of their society usually conducted the trying and sentencing. Pastor Larkin and Bryn Salman occupied their usual seats, but the butcher, Tim Kane, replaced Mayor Alessi’s position since he was a witness and plaintiff.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching you hang, boy,” Mayor Butch Alessi snarled as Luke led Garran to his seat.

  Garran looked past the mayor to Claire sitting on his far side. She cast him a hateful look then refused to meet his eyes any further. Dwight and his mother sat just behind him. Nina also averted her eyes when he sought her out, but Dwight met his gaze and grinned as if he had won first prize in a pie-eating contest. The crowd’s murmuring ceased when Pastor Larkin called the hall to order.

  “This town gathering has been called by Mayor Alessi and his daughter Claire who charge Garran Holt with assault and forcible sexual deviancy. Mr. Holt, do you wish to admit your crime and appeal to this council for mercy?” Pastor Larkin asked.

  “Hell no!” Garran said.

  Pastor Larkin banged his gavel. “Garran Holt, you answer this council respectfully and properly. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Mr. Holt!”

  “Sorry, I meant hell yes, sir.”

  “This is your last warning before the council declares you hostile and convenes for your verdict without testimony. I suggest you think very hard before you answer.”

  Garran countered the hawk-faced pastor’s scowl with a smile. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  Pastor Larkin turned to Mayor Alessi. “Mr. Mayor, do you still wish to levy the aforementioned charges against Mr. Holt?”

  Butch leered at Garran. “Hell yes.”

  “The trial then stands.”

  “Hey!” Garran protested, “Why doesn’t he get yelled at?”

  “Because he’s not a deviant little shit.”

  “I object to this trial on the grounds that the council is not impartial.”

  “Overruled on the grounds that t
he council is impartial and is merely stating the defendant’s character based upon his previous actions.”

  “I still object.”

  “Noted. Miss Alessi, would you please give your account of what happened?”

  Claire stood, smoothed her dress with her hands, and smiled at the pastor. “Of course. It was late, but I found myself unable to sleep, and I was restless. It was a beautiful night, so I decided to go for a walk and look at the stars.”

  “Did you tell your father you were leaving the house?”

  Claire did a magnificent job of looking abashed. “No, I knew he would not approve of me going out that late without an escort, but I trusted in the godliness of our wonderful town. That is why I wanted to look at the stars. I always thought of them as glittering jewels in the sky gifted to us by God as a reward for being such decent and hard-working people.”

  Pastor Larkin smiled. “Indeed they are, child. Go on.”

  “What a load of crap,” Garran muttered but not quietly enough to evade the pastor’s sharp ears.

  “Quiet, you heathen!”

  “Now I’m a heathen and an accused rapist? I would like to enter into evidence a dictionary and request the council look up impartiality.”

  “Perhaps if you had spent more time looking up words instead of dresses you would not be in this situation.”

  Garran crossed his arms and slunk into his chair. “I learned more looking up dresses.”

  Pastor Larkin scowled and stabbed at Garran with his gavel in warning. “Please continue, Miss Alessi.”

  “I was walking along the trail when Garran came out of the trees. He startled me ever so terribly.”

  “Is that when he accosted you?”

  “No, not then. I was just surprised to meet anyone out and about that late at night. He asked me what I was doing out. I told him I wanted to look at the stars. He told me there was a clearing nearby from where I could stargaze without the trees obscuring my view. I know it was foolish, but I followed him.”

  Pastor Larkin gave her a consoling smile. “Try not to fret. The innocent are often naïve and easily tempted by those with a demon in their heart.”

  “Really?” Garran exclaimed, for which he received another warning jab from the pastor’s gavel.