Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater

by Brent Michael Kelley

  Chuggie gave her a chuckle of his own and plopped the hot stones in her bath.

  "That ought to be as hot as you need it."

  "How do you know how hot I need it?" Shola said as she bit her lip and looked up at him through her lashes.

  Chuggie busied himself by picking up the rabbit and heading back over to the fire. He got to work and skinned the rabbit. He stuck a stick through it and lay it over the fire. As he tended the rabbit, Shola sang his name like a song and splashed water in his direction. He paid her as little attention as he could, but her singing and splashing drew his attention like a lighthouse with a foghorn draws a lost ship. He turned the rabbit slowly over the flame but kept one eye on the witch.

  "Chuggie!" Shola shouted.

  He groaned as he turned. The thought occurred to him that if he really wanted some peace, he ought to get her good and liquored up. A hangover could be a blessing, depending on who it belonged to. Then again, her attention took some bite out of the Autumnok chill.

  "Whatchoo want, naked girl?" he answered.

  "My water's getting cold, and the air is even colder. I haven't any robes. Bring me my cloak from the house?" Shola cocked her head from side to side. Even at this distance, he could tell she was giving him the big eyes.

  He looked at Shola, then the house, then the rabbit. Then the house, then Shola, then the rabbit again.

  "Nah, I think I'd rather watch you walk to the house and…" Those words weren't supposed to be spoken out loud.

  "What's that you're saying?" she asked.

  "I said I'll go get it for you," he called back.

  Chuggie loped over to the doorway of the house, steadied himself there, and looked through the door. In the day's last light, he got a better look at Shola's rat nest of a home. Seemed like she made nearly everything out of woven wicker. Tiny reed sculptures hung from handmade string. Feathers big and small poked out of each sculpture. Bird claws, small animal skulls, and furs dangled from the ceiling. He could barely make out some kind of web up there, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

  Across the room, a lump of cloth that could only be Shola's cloak, hung from a rack of antlers. Chuggie lurched forward to retrieve it. His horns bumped into suspended things, so he ducked down low. They tangled the hanging strings, pulling them down, too. He grabbed the cloak. In his drunken clumsiness and hurry to get out, he toppled a few precariously stacked piles of what-have-you. The noise he made was only surpassed by the mess he'd created. He slammed the door shut behind him as if he'd just battled a hellbeast inside.

  He made no mention of his troubles when he delivered the cloak to Shola. She stood, turned her back to him, and extended her arms. He wished to drink in the sight of her awhile, but she shivered in the cool air. After an involuntary look up and down her backside, he wrapped her up.

  She stepped from the water and hustled toward the fire. Chuggie followed her and took his seat, giving the rabbit a quarter turn.

  Only her face, hands, and feet were free of the cloak, and he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. He looked at her feet instead, with bits of grass stuck to them from her walk across the yard. She flexed her toes slowly, and he was certain she knew where his eyes were.

  After warming herself a bit, Shola rose and went inside to dress. Chuggie wondered what she would think when she saw the condition of her home. Apologies sprung up in his mind like weeds, but none that were any good. Chuggie hoped the topic simply wouldn't come up.

  When she returned, she made no mention of the carnage he'd left inside. Shola wore a buckskin dress, wide at the bottom and tight at the top. Each step she took in the dress seemed like a seductive dance. He pretended to rub his forehead, shielding his eyes from hers, and allowing himself a moment's study of her cleavage.

  She carried a tray and a tall gourd. If Chuggie's hunch was correct, the gourd held some sort of liquor. He liked to think he could sense alcohol nearby, but he never told anyone about this.

  Shola hummed as she sat on the ground next to the fire. He didn't know the song, but when she got to the chorus, her humming sounded a lot like sex noises.

  The rabbit was done cooking, and Chuggie put it on the tray between them.

  Pouring him a glass from the gourd, Shola said, "This wine I made years ago from berries and flower petals. It's a bit strong for me, but you may like it."

  "I'll only have some if you do. Otherwise I have to suspect poison," he said, with a wink.

  Above them, lavender clouds danced in the deep purple sky. In the west, golden clouds curled about the setting sun. For miles around, autumn's red and gold-leafed trees sat in quiet approval.

  They ate together in relative silence. Chuggie did his best not to be grotesque, but the rabbit was so damn good he couldn't help but devour it. A cool breeze swam through, causing the fire to pop and smoke to blow in Chuggie's face. He closed his eyes and smiled as it washed over him.

  "I need to know a thing or two," Chuggie said at last.

  "And what, pray tell, would that be?" Shola took a tiny sip from her cup.

  "How'd you get to be a prisoner here?" He puffed at a cigarette, waiting for her to speak again.

  She spoke in a low tone, gazing at the flames. "If you must know, you must know. I don't imagine telling you would hurt much." The bubbly girlishness had vanished from her voice, like there was no good left in the world.

  "I was an orphan living in the streets of some city I can't even remember." Shola took a drink of her wine and grimaced. "Sometimes people tried to help me by taking me in, but I always ran away."

  Chuggie could certainly appreciate that. Occasionally, running off was exactly what the situation called for.

  "I was drawn to conjury of every sort, and I learned what I could where I could. I had to do things I regretted for people I wished I never knew. I got by like this for a long time. But eventually, bad luck caught up to me when I got to Stagwater."

  She drained her cup, refilled it, and passed the gourd to Chuggie.

  "And that bad luck's name was Arden Voss. Do you know that name?"

  Chuggie shook his head.

  "He was Chief Magistrate, and he put me on his seer council." Shola looked off into the distance. "Go on, say it."

  "I got meat stuck to my face?" Chuggie asked. "Feels like there some meat… sorry, go on."

  She smiled a little. "Everybody said I was a fraud, because you know, because of my relationship with Arden Voss. But I wasn't a fraud. I wasn't. Okay, maybe in the past I'd cheated a few people, but that didn't mean I couldn't see. Because I could. It was just… my predictions took a long time to come true… a really long time."

  Chuggie tried to imagine the plight of the orphaned street urchin swept into the lifestyle of a professional seer in a remote city of the cold north. He just couldn't imagine Shola anywhere but here on this hilltop.

  "Anyway, people started talking. The seer council said I served no purpose, and I had to go. If I didn't give them something of significance, I was to be outcast as a fraud. Voss took their side, as well."

  Her sad, angry beauty aroused him, but also made him leery. Would she break into laughter or sobs? A tired sigh or blind rage?

  Shola's voice rose, "I had to show them the most significant prediction I could muster. I fasted for five days and nights. I studied the moons, the stars, even the weather, dating back three full years. I made the appropriate sacrifices, and contacted the appropriate spirits." The sorrow in her voice mixed equally with anger.

  "I was more certain of that prediction than anything ever. They could have asked, 'Shola, what's more real, your body or your prophecy?' I would have said, 'My prophecy.' Everyone waited but none of the signs came to pass. The people of Stagwater want everything fast, but that's not how things work. Someday they'll suffer for their shortsightedness." She shot him a feral grin, like she was getting ready to eat him.

  Shola spat into the fire and took a drink. This time she didn't grimace.

  "Voss confined me t
o this spot, made it my prison. Here I've been, and here I'll be."

  Shola got quiet, staring thoughtfully at Chuggie's horns. He stoked the fire and resisted the urge to mention just how scenic he found her prison.

  "So I get the part how you were exiled, but that part about the prison…" He looked all around, trying to glimpse the unseen barrier. "How's that work?"

  "They've used their foul torturgy, derived from innocent suffering. There's a hex over me."

  "Could be it's dried up by now. Conjury can expire for all kinds of reasons. Creatures that grant those kinds of things, they're fickle. I knew a fella once, had a spell going to keep the bears away from his livestock. He burnt a little sage every night, to keep the spirits happy. His roof starts leaking one day, and all his matches get wet. He can't burn his sage, and that night he loses three cows, five goats, and a shoe." Chuggie gulped at his wine and helped himself to more.

  "I've often tested how far I can go, but it's always the same. People with hateful hearts made my prison with great care."

  "Let's walk." Chuggie stood and held out a hand to Shola. "Show me your borders."

  She took his hand and led him south along the cliff for a hundred paces or so. "That stone marks the line," she pointed. "I can't go beyond."

  Chuggie ambled toward the marker. His arms were out, hands feeling for some invisible blockade. He detected none. "When's the last time you tried?"

  "Years ago, I suppose."

  He went back to her and took her hand again. "Got me a feelin' there's no barrier here. Whaddya say? You ready to leave?"

  She allowed him to lead her up to the stone. "You'll have to carry me." Her legs shook visibly beneath the buckskin dress. She bit her bottom lip and gave him the big eyes.

  Chuggie picked her up and stepped toward the marker. She smelled like wine and campfire and cinnamon. Her arms around his neck were warm, sending little jolts into him wherever their skin touched. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder, and she gave a little squeak.

  He got to the marker, then a step beyond, then another. Her nails dug harder, but a choking sound replaced the squeak. As if an unseen rope held her, he could pull her no further. Her face had turned purple in the day's fading light. With one hand, she clawed at her neck. The other pounded his shoulder.

  An invisible rope throttled her neck. The more he pulled, the deeper it dug. As soon as he realized he rushed her back on her side of the stone. She slid from his arms to the ground, gasping and weeping in the grass.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he said, kneeling next to her. He brushed her hair back and put his hand on her forehead. When her sobbing died down, he lifted her again and carried her back to the fire.

  "Please, don't hate me," he said. "I'm drunk an' clumsy an' I'm not always as clever as I think I am. I didn't mean to hurt you back there. I'm very sorry."

  Wiping away the last of her tears, Shola said, "I'm not upset with you. For a moment, I believed I could be free. I could taste it. I can't remember the last time I was so hopeful."

  And there it was. He'd given her a boatload of hope, then he all but crushed her beneath it. Maybe it didn't mean he was a monster, but it damn sure felt that way. He couldn't bear her sadness any longer. But to abandon her now would be a crime against both of them.

  He looked her squarely in the eye. "What can we do?"

  Shola squinted her left eye shut and looked back with her electric-blue right eye. "With the right tool, I think I could break the hex myself."

  "What tool?" Chuggie hoped she meant something of his.

  "A purse," Shola said, "fashioned from the face of a goat."

  Shola gave Chuggie the big eyes. Firelight danced on her face as she bit her bottom lip. The burning wood popped, and smoke danced lazily toward the heavens. She leaned toward him.

  In that moment, Chuggie would have kicked a puppy for a goat-face purse.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Fey Voletta gathered up the bottom of her pristine, silky frock. She hated the thought of her snow-white garment, trimmed with crimson, dragging on the greasy metal floor of the Steel Jacks' inner sanctum. Sometimes she swore they kept things greasy and grimy just to make her squirm.

  Her skin, barely touched by the sun, was nearly as white as the robe. She wore only a light dusting of powder to keep her skin pristinely white. Her lips and fingernails matched the robe's crimson piping. For that matter, so did her hair, but she preferred to keep it hidden beneath her hood. Dressing up helped keep Fey Voletta sane this far from civilization. She took the task very seriously.

  Even though she was tall by most standards, the Steel Jacks towering ten feet above her always made her feel short. Essentially walking armor, the Steel Jacks were really creatures of energy. The metal suits they inhabited only served give them substance, to make them tangible. Two triangular openings in their headpiece formed eyes that glowed with blue light. A vibrating metallic instrument in the armor's neck area allowed them to speak. Slots in the speaking instrument allowed more blue light to escape. While they had no body parts to indicate gender, Fey Voletta always thought of them as male. Everyone did.

  "I don't belong here," she said as she tiptoed into the metal-walled office.

  "In Stagwater, or in this room, kitten?" buzzed Non, leader of the Steel Jacks. He sat at a huge metal desk examining sheets of lead with alien symbols etched upon them.

  "Both," she replied. "This room is so filthy, I feel like I need a bath whenever I think about coming in here."

  "I see," said Non.

  Fey Voletta closed the door behind her. While it weighed over a ton, Steel Jack design allowed her to close it with one pinky. Overhead, blue light flickered as the door latched. The light existed for her benefit only, since Steel Jacks didn't need light to see, and she was the only human allowed in this room.

  Being alone in any room with a Steel Jack gave her a bit of a thrill. Essentially a giant, metal killing machine, she had no protection from the alien creature if he decided to attack. But Non would never attack Fey Voletta.

  "And this town is a complete backwater." She pulled a pretend rope around her neck and pretend-hung herself. "If you were on your way to nowhere and you got lost, this is where you'd end up. I'm too young to waste away here. And out on the street, the people are vermin. They're literally vermin. You know it, and so do I!" As she pointed an accusative finger at Non, she lost her grip on the robe. She was too late to save the bottom edge from brushing against the dirty floor. "Whore-sucking bastard!"

  "Why such disdain for your own kind?" asked the Steel Jack.

  "No, those aren't my kind, Non. I create myself every day. I hone my mind and body to razor sharpness. The people in Stagwater do two things well: eat and die. We're barely the same species! My kind." She held up the dirty hem of her robe, careful not to rub the stain into the material.

  "You do not have to wear such elegant clothing to meet with us."

  "You're hilarious." She lifted the hem even higher to see the stain in better light. She had no qualms about showing too much skin to a Steel Jack. It wasn't as if they'd get aroused. Doing so revealed dozens of knives strapped to her body in garters and belts. As a blade cultist, she'd never be seen wearing anything else. Her robe's form and function were the essence of Fey Voletta. "You know all about my robes, Non. Don't play dumb."

  "You may be right," said Non with a little buzzing chuckle.

  "What do you need me to do today? Stalk house to house, to see how many of these swine I can bleed out by morning?" She pretended to stab a group of people surrounding her.

  "I am afraid not," said the Steel Jack. "Events are accelerating. Have you noticed this?"

  "Are you kidding?" Fey Voletta shook her head. "Time has all but stopped for me. This city is like quicksand."

  "Significant things often occur in insignificant places."

  "I guess I'm just not as in tune as you are." She hated leaving her apartment because Stagwater and its disgusting people waited outside. Non's riddles coul
d go to hell right along with the people of Stagwater.

  "When you are older, you will have a keener eye," Non said, setting the lead sheets on the desk.

  "Twenty-five isn't that young."

  "You are new to adulthood — still trying to reconcile adult knowledge with childhood conditioning. The human mind is as easy to comprehend as the human body."

  "That's really interesting," she said, examining her fingernails. "If you need me for something, please don't hesitate to meet me somewhere clean. Now, may I be excused?"

  "In a moment," Non buzzed. "As our liaison with the humans of Stagwater, are you aware of special projects at the moment? Concerns? Goals? Plans?" He folded his two primary arms across his chest. His secondary arms, smaller and growing from what would have been his neck, held a lead sheet over his head. He lowered it, read something, and raised it again.

  Fey Voletta shuddered. "You know I hate it when you use your little arms. That's why you do it, I bet." She put her hands over her head and wiggled them in mockery of Non. "But no, I don't know anything that Haste and his creeps have been doing. Why?"

  "Haste is up to something, and somehow he has concealed it from us." Non's little hands crumpled the lead sheet slowly over his head. "A stranger came to Stagwater recently. Haste sent guardsmen to turn him away. This person is of great interest. He will be returning."

  "I work for you, Non. If you want me to do something, spit it out."

  "You work with us," Non corrected.

  "Of course." She gave a little bow.

  "For now we want you to be alert and to keep your ears open. As our liaison, you have access to Haste and the guardsmen. Gather what information you can about this stranger."

  "Ugh, Haste?" she said, "He's the creepiest rat of them all. I think you made me liaison because you knew he'd find me sexually appealing."

  "That is one of many reasons," replied Non.

  "Well at least you're honest. What about this stranger? What's so special about him?

  "Norchug Mot Losiat." Non spoke slowly, his way of adding emphasis: "He carries vast power."