Baffled, Chuggie dropped the wood directly onto his feet. "AACH!" He hopped around, hissing and swearing, then took a block of wood in each hand and flung them over the cliff.
"My, my," Shola said. "If you're tired you should rest."
Chuggie limped to his seat at the table. He stared at her, blinking. "Are you getting younger, Shola?"
"Are you taunting me now?" Shola frowned.
"Take a gander in a mirror and see what I mean."
She narrowed her eyes and got slowly to her feet. She hobbled off in the direction of her crooked little house. Her movements were still those of an ancient crone.
A minute later, screams erupted from the house. Objects crashed about inside. Chuggie rushed to the house to make sure she hadn't injured herself. He stuck his head in the door.
Shola poked at her face, pulled at her skin, and turned her hands over and over. "It's… It's you!" she said. She began to weep as she turned and ran to him with arms outstretched. She crashed into him, hugging him. The impact sent them both out of the house. He barely stayed on his feet.
"Chuggie, you're doing this!" She cried tears of joy into his chest.
All Chuggie could think to do was pat her gently on the back. "I don't understand,"
"Neither do I, but somehow you're making me young!"
He looked down into her eyes, one as white as the brightest moon, the other as blue as the sea. She buried her face in his chest again, and he held her there for a good long while.
Eventually, they sat. Her eyes raced about, and she seemed always on the brink of laughing or crying. Chuggie tried to imagine what went through her mind, but couldn't. Hoping to calm her, he told her a story.
"Years ago, I knew a man who could talk to birds," Chuggie said. "He enjoyed it at first, being the sort that likes animals and all. He'd walk through the forest listening to them and talking back. 'How was your day?' 'Fine, I ate some seeds and shat on a statue.' 'Oh, that's lovely.'"
Shola gazed into Chuggie's eyes like his story was the most interesting thing she had ever heard.
"One day the fella found an eagle feather and stuck it into his hat, thinking if he wore it the birds would like him even more. The birds never trusted him after that, though he never understood why. I guess they thought he killed the eagle it belonged to."
Chuggie stroked Shola's head. She was breathing normally again and seemed all calmed down. A story could do that to a person sometimes. "Late one night, as he slept in his bed, a murder of crows crept through his open window. The crows, with their razor sharp claws and beaks, set upon him and severed all his tendons before he could react. Laying there immobile, yet still very much aware and very able to feel, my friend tried to scream. One of the crows pecked out his vocal cords. Others clawed his tongue to useless ribbons."
Shola's hand squeezed his arm.
"After they plucked out his eyes, they built nests in the sockets — his mouth and ears too. They packed orifices and fresh wounds with twigs and dirt until his whole body was stuffed. He went at least three days like that, possibly more, with the crows building nests and shitting inside him. After that, he never spoke to birds again, and neither will I."
Shola smiled a drowsy smile and kissed Chuggie on the cheek.
A single raincloud drifted out of the east. The setting sun painted it pinkish brown. A gentle rain fell, and Chuggie turned his gaze upward. Ten million golden drops of water, illuminated by the setting sun, filled the sky. As they fell in their seemingly endless show, Chuggie felt like he was rushing up at the heavens. The exact opposite of vertigo, the sensation gave him a long, peaceful thrill. To speak during such a moment would have diminished it.
Mere minutes later, the golden points of light lost their luster, and the raincloud moved on. When Chuggie shifted his attention back to Shola, he knew she'd seen it just the way he did. A sad smile touched her lips, and a lone tear sat on her upturned cheek.
Things had turned interesting at the house on the cliff. Chuggie wanted, simultaneously, to stay and to go. With no pressing appointments, he supposed he could spare a day or two. Just to see how things played out.
Rusty autumn leaves swirled on a wind stream, heading for parts unknown.
Chapter 4
Rorid and Priole, with plodding footsteps like men condemned, followed Kale out of the interrogation room of the Magisterial Building. Fitch walked close behind muttering as if he were offering litanies for their souls.
"Pay attention, men," Kale lectured as they walked down the stairs, "The Stagwater Corps of Guardsmen is soft. If we can't rely on you, then you serve no purpose."
Their footsteps echoed down the stairwell as the group descended. Kale led them past sub-basement B-1.
Kale clomped down the stairs at an urgent pace. Rorid wasn't in any rush to get where he suspected they might be going. His legs felt as heavy as lead. He willed Kale to stop at the door to sub-basement B-2, but the magistrate kept going.
"After today, you two will be reliable." Kale rapped twice on the metal railing for punctuation.
Rorid knew good leadership when he saw it, and he saw none in Kale's methods. A real leader didn't punish subordinates for his own shortfall.
The group stopped. Rorid's heart sunk when he saw 'B-3' stenciled on the wall.
Two jailors who looked like they could pull an oxcart with ease stood on either side of the barred metal door that opened into B-3. Rorid and Priole followed into the room. Fitch exchanged words with the jailors, too quiet for Rorid to make out.
The overhead lights snapped on with a crack. Rorid shielded his eyes. The six infamous torturgy tables lay empty before them like unholy altars.
Kale led them to a side gallery and held the door open. Relief swept over Rorid. He'd fully expected them to put him on a table.
"Sit." Kale barked the word.
The only seats in the room faced a broad window that looked out at the tables. Rorid lowered himself into a chair. Without a word, Kale left the room and shut the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
Rorid and Priole exchanged worried glances, but neither spoke. Rorid's stomach turned at the idea of witnessing torturgy, no matter who it was being performed on. He tried to tell himself they only used on deserving criminals, but that didn't help. Some foul energy hung in the air. Priole's pale face said he felt it, too.
Kale addressed them through a speaker box next to the door. "Let me assure you, no one is going to die here today. Remember what you see."
Rorid and Priole watched through the window as, out in the main room, Kale and Fitch pulled white surgical suits over their clothes.
Fitch raised his hand in some sort of signal.
The burly, beast-like jailors escorted two naked and bound victims to adjacent tables. The victims wore black bags over their heads, but Rorid recognized the physique of the first. He was a teenage boy, slim and weak. Rorid knew the row of freckles on the boy's shoulder like he knew the boy's face. His son Drexel.
Priole jumped out of his seat. "Ree!" he wailed and kicked the glass. "Take your fucking hands off her, you bastards!"
Rorid could think of no way to calm Priole. He doubted he could get the young man to look in his direction, let alone follow an order to sit quietly. Priole had married his wife only a few months before, and his entire life revolved around her. Blind rage was a reasonable response under these circumstances.
The speaker box clicked on again. This time Fitch spoke. "Sit! They can't hear you, but if you chip that glass, we'll be in here all day."
"Drexel." Rorid whispered. Time slowed like a spent and wounded wargoat. His stomach churned as he slouched in the chair. He wanted to look away but couldn't allow himself to do it. He wasn't going to let Drexel suffer alone.
Priole's lip quivered as he leaned his forehead against the glass.
Kale, in his pristine white surgical garb, stood over the boy. He took a rough pinch of Drexel's skin and latched a toothy metal clamp onto it. He added another c
lamp then another, forming symmetrical lines down his chest and stomach, converging at his crotch. He then added clamps down the insides of the boy's wide-spread legs. The finishing touch was a line from nipple to armpit, heading down the underside of his arm.
Fitch did the same for Priole's wife Ree. Where Kale was rough, however, Fitch was a gentle as lover. He cast frequent looks to the gallery window. His surgical mask covered his smile, but it was plain to see in his eyes.
They added collector hoses to the clamps, then attached those to the machines. They turned dials, consulted tiny gauges, and pressed buttons. In unison, Kale and Fitch pulled large red levers, and torturgy commenced.
Naked bodies bucked. Black hoods puffed up with the rapid breath of the tortured. Muscles pulled tight involuntarily under skin flushed red.
Long moments passed. Finally, Kale and Fitch deactivated their equipment. They removed the clamps, leaving jagged bruises. The session had been brief and bloodless — five minutes, no more. That five minutes felt like an eternity. Kale and Fitch led their victims to the waiting physician. Drexel and Ree wore only their black hoods.
The doctor began his examination, hiding his face behind a surgical mask like the coward he was. His gloved hands probed and squeezed every inch of Priole's shaking wife. He took a close look at each purple welt running down her body and under her arms. Her shoulders bounced with silent sobs. She tried to cover her breasts, but a stout jailor pulled her arms wide. When the physician finished with her, the jailor pulled her close, embracing her as he shot a cruel smile at the gallery window.
Priole got to his feet and started kicking his chair. It had been bolted to the ground. He couldn't break it free, but he kept trying.
"Going to kick that chair through the glass, eh?" Rorid's voice wavered as he spoke. "Do that and I'll bet she goes back on the table." He held out a hand to calm Priole.
Then it was Drexel's turn. He tried to cover his nudity just as Ree had. The jailor held him roughly from behind and kicked the insides of his ankles. Drexel didn't spread his legs immediately, so the jailor kicked again, harder. The boy nearly fell, but the jailor held him fast. The doctor examined Rorid's son in the same probing fashion. When he finished the examination, he packed up his bag and hustled out of the room, never looking up once.
The damned villain jailor lifted Drexel's arms up over his head and picked him up off the floor. With a cruel smile, he shook the boy back and forth a few times before setting him down.
Rorid stood with his hands on the glass and tears streaming down his face. He turned away from his boy's humiliation and locked eyes with Priole. The younger guardsman had also been crying, but his bloodshot eyes held nothing but rage. Rorid felt his own fury rising. Without breaking eye contact, Priole snapped to a salute. Rorid returned the gesture and looked back to his son.
Drexel's trembling reached a crescendo, and his bladder let go. The jailor slapped him on the side of his bag-covered head, nearly knocking him down. Kale and Fitch took custody of Drexel and Ree, then led them out of the room.
"Sir." Priole's voice was low and angry.
Rorid shook his head. He pointed to his ear and then to the wall. He opened his mouth and closed it tight in an exaggerated gesture.
Priole nodded and clamped his mouth shut. His enraged, red face looked ready to burst.
A key rattled in the door. One of the stinking jail-vultures pushed the door open. Fitch entered wearing the beatific smile of a saint. Oh, how Rorid yearned to send him to meet whatever hogshit god he claimed to worship. Kale followed close behind, and Rorid's hands curled into shaking fists.
Some dark part of his mind hoped Priole would attack Kale. Then Rorid would have no choice but to go after Fitch. That entire struggle would be over in seconds. He pictured the bodies of the magistrates lying bloody and broken on the floor. Fantasy, of course. They'd never get away with such a thing.
"It breaks my heart, that this had to happen today," said Kale, not bothering to feign sincerity.
"Nobody made you do that." Priole growled.
"You made me do that, guardsman!" snapped Kale. "I will not abide failure."
Fitch chimed in, using his most sermon-like inflection. "Sacrifice for the greater good is the heart of Stagwater. Nothing comes easy. We share suffering as we share triumph!"
"We'll remember your words," Rorid said through clenched teeth.
"Yes you will," Kale said. "Dismissed. Say nothing of this."
◊ ◊ ◊
Chuggie wondered if Shola would ever tire. Over the course of the afternoon, her years seemed to melt away until she had the body of a thirty-year-old woman. With the return of her youthful strength and vitality, she could scarcely be convinced to sit still.
Singing and dancing through the yard, she instructed her scarecrows to chase her. She sang as she skipped circles around them. They lumbered through the yard after her with stiff legs and lifeless faces. Hands of wood and straw clutched for her, but she just giggled and danced away from them.
Shola's thick, black hair trailed behind her like a comet's tail as she ran. Her drab, tattered clothes fell open frequently, revealing her petite body a piece at a time. She seemed quite oblivious that so much skin was on display. Her laughter filled the yard.
Chuggie tried not to ogle her, but he didn't try all that hard. While he enjoyed seeing her streak past him from time to time, clothes almost falling off, it caused him a twinge of guilt. She'd clearly forgotten how to act around other people in her long exile, and it was wrong for him to delight in that.
He chose to busy himself by hiking into the woods. Autumn's fallen leaves rustled as he walked through them, covering Shola's commotion more and more the further he went. His mind fizzed and bubbled with conflicting notions. On the one hand, he knew he had to be moving on. Winter crawled closer every day, and he had far to travel before the snow got deep.
On the other hand, Shola fascinated him. He knew he'd miss her company if he left.
What if he spent the winter there with her on the cliff?
It was a bad idea. If things didn't work out, he'd be trudging through hip-deep snow as he resumed his journey. Even worse, if things did work out, they risked discovery by scouts from the city. Either way, he'd have to live with her eerie scarecrows lurking around the corner every time he took a piss.
Another possibility was to turn south and start walking. Right then and there. Unannounced departure was certainly the option he'd chosen most in his life. He turned south, thinking he'd just walk that way a little and see how it felt.
For all he knew, Shola would grow old again if he left her. But how was that his fault? He was a simple observer to that phenomenon. He hadn't asked for any of this. He liked her, but he didn't owe her a thing. If he went south along the river, he'd find a bridge or a crossing eventually. It would mean abandoning his few possessions, but the only thing he really cared about was his anchor. He held her up in front of his face for a loving look. Fortunately, losing her wasn't a concern.
If he left, he'd feel bad about not saying goodbye to Shola. But many were the farewells he'd never said. What was one more?
Chuggie stood right up to the edge of a rocky cliff that looked down on a swampy valley to the south. He shook his head, smiling. "Suppose I could stick around another day or two, just be to help her prepare for winter. You wouldn't mind that would you, anchor? If you're gonna get jealous, I need to know now."
It felt good to be needed, if only a little, and weeks of walking could wait. Besides, she'd become quite beautiful. Turning down the hospitality of a beautiful woman was probably bad luck.
Not far away, a thrashing in the leaves snapped him out of his thoughts. He readied his anchor as he went to investigate. Nearing the site, Chuggie discovered a small silverhawk standing over a dead rabbit nearly twice its size. The hawk screeched at Chuggie and raised its wings to ward him off.
"Well, stab my face with a pitchfork!" Chuggie chuckled. "Lil' partner, I believe you just cau
ght my supper. Many thanks, mister hawkey."
The silverhawk screeched once more, hopped towards Chuggie, then hopped back again. Chuggie tossed his anchor a few feet away from the angry bird, and it flapped its wings in an unhappy reply.
"You know you can't eat all that anyway. Like I said, I appreciate the gift, and… BLAH!" Chuggie shouted, waving his arms wide as he leapt toward the hawk.
It flapped off, screeching its dismay. Chuggie examined the big hare. He found the whole scenario so amusing, he just had to share it with someone. He bet Shola would be interested to hear all about it. He started back.
When he returned to the little clearing on the cliff, he found Shola grinning at him from her washtub. Her sly smirk dared him to look down at the pale-skinned body below the water.
Chuggie hoisted the rabbit in the air. "You ain't gonna believe this. I'm walkin' along…"
"Can you do me a little favor?" Shola lifted her arm, as elegant as a swan, and pointed to the fire. "My water's getting cold." While she spoke, she looked right in Chuggie's eyes just like she knew the power she was wielding. That look she gave, the big eyes, caused him to put the rabbit story on hold as he grabbed the woven mat next to his feet. He took it to the fire, plucked out some hot stones, and dragged them back to her. "You want these rocks in your water?"
"Take out the cold ones." She pulled her legs up to her body and wrapped her arms around them. Chuggie guessed he wouldn't mind those arms wrapped around him. Maybe even the legs too.
He reached his hand into the water and started pulling out stones. With each stone he took from the water, there got to be more room in the tub. Certainly, Chuggie was due for a scrub, but he'd have to wait for an invitation. "I'll tell you about the rabbit later," he said, suddenly unable to recall his story. "Mind you, it's a story of cunning and guts. Man versus beast, deep in the wilderness. I'm sure of that much."
She laughed and splashed water at him.
Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater Page 5