Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater

by Brent Michael Kelley

  Chuggie had a new tusk gash along his lower back, and his sleeves were on fire again. He smothered the flames and spat blood as he struggled to his feet.

  The boar charged jarring the chain loose from his hand. Chuggie faced the boar on all fours and lowered his horns.

  The boar snorted out an enormous, oily fireball that smelled of burning hair.

  Fire crackled as it chewed up Chuggie's clothes. Engulfed in flames, he held his ground like a snapping turtle. He bucked his neck and stabbed his soot-blackened horns into the boar's chest. He slashed its throat for good measure.

  When the boar snorted its last, the remaining two sows of its harem ran away squealing.

  Chuggie shook his horns and fought to free them from the boar's chest.

  Like a meteor crash, sound and concussion tore through the air. The explosion slammed Chuggie against a tree with the force of a cannon blast. He slid to the ground and lay motionless.

  His horn had pierced the boar's gas-bladder, releasing a sphere of fire. For miles around, birds took panicked flight. Rodents dove into their holes. Deer perked up, then ran away. Frogs stopped croaking.

  The sun crawled across the sky, and night fell as Chuggie lay broken on the ashy ground. Unconsciously he drew the moisture of the surrounding vegetation, the fallen boars, the air, the water table. Water collected around him in a pool before he absorbed it like a burnt, bloody sponge.

  Shola's eyes haunted his dim thoughts. Blue and white, blue and white. In his addled state, he thought maybe he could love those eyes, maybe he already did. She was so vulnerable without him. If he didn't make it back, she'd probably just wither away, cursing his name with her last breath.

  As he lay there in the growing darkness, something tugged Chuggie down into to that dark, wet hell — the lonely realm waiting for him on the other side of death. Down there in the dark, every drop of liquid he'd ever drank swirled around him in a whirlpool of woe, drowning him for centuries, crushing him.

  Hands like pitchforks stabbed and tore at him in the darkness. He tried to push them away, but he had no strength. He caught glimpses of spindly, asymmetrical creatures.

  The darkness pulled at him just as the shadowy figures yanked him through briars and over logs. Sticks and stones pummeled his face. Through the slivers of his eyes, he saw treetops silhouetted against the moonlit clouds. He tried to call out but lacked the voice.

  "Damn it," he managed to mumble. "How come a guy like me can't ever die with a shit's worth of dignity?"

  Chapter 6

  "I'll leave this backwards shit-heap, that's what I'll do," said Priole. "I've had enough of this fucking town and the vultures pulling the strings. When I put on the black and red, I thought I'd be defending the people. This place is sick!"

  "I feel the same way, believe me. I'm sure if I was a young man like you, I'd be gone by morning." Rorid didn't make eye contact with his young comrade. "Whatever either of us decides to do, we have to do it smart."

  "You aren't leaving?" Priole threw up his arms.

  "I don't think I can. Drexel's a good son, but he's no fighter. I couldn't take him into the wilderness. Besides, this time next year I'll be collecting my pension."

  "Your pension's blood money, you coward!" hissed the younger man.

  "Bite your fucking tongue, boy. I'd do anything for my son," said Rorid. "But I'm not going to close my eyes, put my head down, and run blind into the wilds just because I'm pissed off."

  "Then what are you going to do?" Priole asked.

  "All I can do is wait. That's what I'm advising you to do. I know you're mad, and so am I. We goddamn should be. I'm saying, don't make things worse."

  "Coward." Priole puffed out his chest.

  "Say that again, boy, and you'll find out who's a coward. Now I'm going to speak some words. I want you to listen to them and understand their meaning." Rorid squeezed his hands into fists and released them. "If you get caught trying to leave, your young bride will be visiting the torturgist again."

  Priole started to speak, but a gesture from Rorid stopped him.

  "But let's say you got out of the city on foot. How long do you think you'd last without a fully equipped caravan? Or, let's say you swipe a boat. Think you could outrun the Steel Jacks' barge? No. So you'd get back on land and have the same problem. I know you want to get out. I'm telling you to wait and consider the angles. Think about some things you haven't thought about."

  "Somebody should kill Haste. His little henchmen, too. I don't care if they're all magistrates." Priole lifted his gleaming dagger and pointed it at Rorid.

  "Close your mouth!" snapped Rorid. "Shit like that can be heard in the Pheonal trance, and you damn well know it. I asked you to meet me here, so I could talk some sense into you. You and me, we have to stick together now. Like it or not, I'm the only person in town you can even talk to about this."

  "Fine, I'll wait." Priole spoke through clenched teeth. "But not for long."

  "Stay close to me. When it's time to move, we'll know it without a doubt. And I think we'll need each other then." Rorid looked up at the moons and narrowed his eyes. "They will pay."

  "Sorry for calling you a coward." Priole looked down at his feet. "This calls everything into question, you know? Everything we've done. Raids on the Carnie District, every arrest. Even the drunk we tried to send north. I don't trust them now. Not for anything."

  "I feel the same way," Rorid said.

  "Every order we've gotten cites 'the greater good' or 'the well-being of Stagwater.' The greatest good that could be done for this place would be a group of armed citizens went down to the Municipal Building and —."

  "Enough!" Rorid snapped. "It's late, I'm cold, and this alley smells like piss. I'm going home. Now I want your word that you won't do anything stupid."

  "I remember my wife on that table. I remember her squirming and crying," Priole growled.

  "I told you, they will pay."

  "Then you have my word." Priole stomped off, pausing only to kick a dent into a metal barrel.

  The young man was right. The black and red uniform of the Stagwater Corps of Guardsmen meant something once. Wearing it had been an honor. Those days were gone.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Kale walked with heavy footsteps whenever he walked on the big bridge. He loved the sound his boots made on the wooden planks. The cool morning air invigorated him as the sun rose over the trees. Walking east into the sunrise in the early morning, he could forget the filthy, crowded city at his back.

  Two young men waited for him at the center of the bridge, but the wind and the river made their conversation impossible to hear. Upon seeing him, they stopped talking entirely.

  Jaron Haskall and Dan Diori were nearly inseparable, and they gave Kale as much allegiance as he could buy. Fortunately, he had deep pockets. These two would do just about anything if the price was right.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," said Kale.

  "Good morning." Jaron gave a nod. He was bigger and stronger than Dan. He always wore his long, black hair tied in a ponytail. One of these days, Kale was going to grab that ponytail and lop it off. No man should have hair like a woman.

  "Anything to report from last night?" asked Kale.

  "Not a goddamn thing," answered Dan. He was the fast one of the pair, the thinker. He had short, light brown hair like a good soldier should. His blue eyes had a reputation with the ladies in town, but Kale knew both of the young men would rather pay to beat a person than lay with a woman for free. He could appreciate that.

  "What was your position?" asked Kale.

  Jaron pointed a thumb to the south. "We were south of town, like you told us. We spent a little while under the south end of the swamp bridge, but then we moved further out. We set up a little ways into the forest."

  "I want you to go out farther tonight," said Kale. "I don't want anyone from town or even a patrol on goatback to see you. They better not even catch a whiff of you."

  "Got it." Dan said.

&
nbsp; "Off the road," Kale went on. "A tight ambush."

  "Fucking right." Dan said with a grin.

  "No mistakes." Kale spat over the side of the bridge and watched it fall, just to let Dan know how he felt about bravado. "Kill him and drag him off the road. Bring me anything you find on him. Any questions?"

  "It's about time you sent us a real job," said Jaron. "We're tired of shaking down Carnies."

  Kale glared.

  "Never mind my idiot partner." Dan backhanded Jaron. "He's just saying we want to show what we're made of. Get what I'm saying?"

  Kale eyeballed Jaron. "Can you two idiots keep your mouths shut?"

  Jaron's face reddened. "Of course, of course. You're the man with the money."

  "Well, go home and get your beauty sleep. I want you back out there tonight, an hour before sundown." Kale rubbed his face. "Make this problem go away, and it'll be worth your while."

  Dan flipped his dagger once in the air and sheathed it. "You got the money, we'll get you what you need."

  They left Kale, slapping and shoving each other as they went.

  Kale leaned against the side rail. The morning calm would be over soon enough. He looked out over sleeping Stagwater. Soon, very soon, he'd get this burg in line. The era of Haste would be over soon.

  Chapter 7

  Chuggie awoke to the smell of pork frying. Shivering naked in the washtub, his breath puffed in the chilly air. His only covering was the chain that linked to his ribcage. Someone had unwound it from his torso and left it in a pile on his midsection. The anchor sat atop the pile like some kind of reigning champion. He guessed there had been water in the tub at some point, but he'd absorbed every last drop.

  "Meat's cooking if you have an appetite." Shola's voice carried over to him like a song.

  He started to climb from the tub, lost his strength, and plopped back down.

  "Maybe I'll just lay here a bit," he grumbled. "I don't seem to have the oomph to liberate myself. Guess I'm meant to stay." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  "If you let this meat get cold, you'll be sorry," she said.

  "What kind o' meat are you burnin' over there, anyhow?" He turned his head to look at Shola. She sat down and began to eat with delicate and graceful gestures. Her wild black hair danced whenever she moved. A regular guy might've felt self-conscious about appearing naked before such a lady, but Chuggie's only concern was getting another hour of sleep.

  "This is one of the boars you killed. Remember that?"

  Chuggie muttered, "Nah, but if you come over here and take your clothes off, I'll fake it."

  "What was that? I can't hear you way over there."

  "I said I vaguely remember something like that," he called.

  Honestly, Chuggie's memory of the hog hunt was hazy. The last thing he remembered was being lugged through the woods, and fading in and out of consciousness. Shola's scarecrows had transported him about as gently as a bee-stung wargoat with a crippled puppy tied to its leg.

  "I put fresh clothes out for you," she said.

  Chuggie found the clean clothes sitting within arm's reach. Not far from them lay his old clothes. Muddy, bloody and burnt. He climbed from the tub, groaning. His muscles and bones protested as he bent to pick up the clothes. His new pants had vertical stripes of black and dark green. The shirt, once white, buttoned up the front. She'd even found him a pair of barely-worn boots.

  He hadn't noticed his missing skullcap until he saw a freshly sewn replacement lying on top of a neatly folded jacket. The cap and jacket were both steel gray, apparently cut from the same material. It all fit astonishingly well, and the style suited him perfectly.

  Chuggie hobbled to the water pump. As he cranked the handle, its rusty squeak burrowed into his brain with the fury of a starving brain leech. Only a trickle of water dribbled into his hand.

  "I had my boys cranking that all night," Shola said just behind him. He hadn't heard her approach, and she gave him a little start. "You won't get much more than that for a while."

  "You should fix it." he smiled.

  "Your body sucked the water up about as fast as we could pump it."

  Meeting her eyes, bright blue and white, Chuggie found himself frozen mid-pump. He forgot whatever clever thing he'd been about to say.

  "You absorbed it like a sponge," she said. "Strange to witness. How do you feel?"

  "Like a diamond wrapped in… bacon." Chuggie pulled his eyes off hers and looked down at his new clothes.

  "Well, I have meat that's close to bacon right over here, and it's getting cold." Shola started back to the table, her blue eye looking over her shoulder at him. "Honestly, if we start salting and curing right away, there's almost enough meat here for the whole winter."

  Chuggie walked just behind the witch. His head bobbed side to side as he stared at her bottom. There sure was some nice scenery up on the cliff.

  Across the yard, scarecrows butchered one of the sows. Two held it upside down, while a third skinned it. Together they did a messy job, and Chuggie wondered why they didn't hang the carcass from a tree.

  "Thanks for the clothes." He sat down and shielded his eyes from the morning light. "Where did you even get them?"

  "My boys have salvaged a lot over the years. We saved something especially for you." Shola's eyes sparkled with merriment as she pointed to the table.

  There, beside his plate, sat a glossy black fireboar tusk as long as his forearm. In an instant, he knew what to do with it. He'd carve into a tobacco pipe. That tusk would make one of the finest pipes anyone had ever seen.

  When they finished eating, Chuggie rummaged in his junk bag for some old carving implements. He spent the next couple of hours fashioning a pipe from the tusk of the fireboar.

  He filled and lit the pipe as soon as he was done. He puffed clouds of his own up into the atmosphere. The high, lazy clouds shuffled across the sky changing from turtles to boats to farming implements. A monster tree grasped at a screaming dragon, then both the tree and the dragon morphed into a two-headed fish. The pipe smoked like a dream.

  "You look like you're having a good time," said Shola.

  "Ain't had a pipe this good in ages. Have a puff." He held the pipe out to her.

  He hadn't expected her to take it from him, but she did. After her third puff on the pipe, she broke into a coughing fit and shoved it back at him.

  "Yes indeed," he mused, "she smokes real nice."

  "Come for a walk with me," Shola said, grabbing his hand.

  "All right, but I'm bringing my pipe." Chuggie let her pull him up. She could drag him anywhere, as long as he didn't have to leave his new toy behind. She sighed and led him across the garden.

  On the other side, near where they'd had their first encounter, a grinning scarecrow stood at the entrance to a trail. Chuggie made a face at the scarecrow as Shola pulled him into the woods.

  The trail twisted through a grove of dwarf elms. The trees spiraled out of the ground like frozen dancers with dresses made of golden leaves. Chuggie and Shola followed the path until it gave way to a clearing.

  Across the clearing loomed a dark, bloated tree. Tattered, gray ropes clung to it like cobwebs.

  "Blood maple," Chuggie noted. "They don't just sprout up on their own, do they?"

  Shola stopped thirty paces from the tree. "That's what they used… when they first bound me here. The Stagwater torturgist tied me to that horrible tree. With my own suffering, he built my prison."

  He saw the pain in her eyes and put an arm around her. The whole place held nothing but misery for her. As long as she remained, so would her anguish.

  She sniffed back tears and cleared her throat.

  "When they finally stopped coming, I made my first scarecrow. I thought he could chop the tree down, but he fell to pieces. They all do, as soon as they swing the ax." She stepped away from Chuggie and took a few more steps toward the blood maple. "I tried to set it on fire more than once, but I get sick if I get too close. See that black
thing hanging up there at the top?"

  "I do," said Chuggie. He walked to the tree and looked up into the branches.

  "It's an old oleostex eye," she said. "It's what keeps me bound here."

  "Looks rotten." He gave the tree a kick.

  "This is why I need the goat-face purse," Shola said. "Come, this isn't what I brought you back here to see."

  She led him further on, beyond the clearing. The came to a stand of birch trees, bone white against the ocean blue sky. At their feet, wispy grass of green and gold swayed lazily in the breeze.

  They sat in the grass a little ways apart, looking at anything but each other.

  He knew he had to free her. Had to take her with him far away from this place. Had to tell her how important she was to him, but he couldn't think of how to begin.

  Shola took a breath, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again as she looked away. She crawled to him and kissed him softly on the cheek. She lingered for a moment, and he inhaled her scent, all flowers and campfire smoke. She looked into his eyes, sighed, and put her mouth on his.

  There, in the wide open field with the swaying golden grass and the deep, deep, blue of the sky, she pushed him onto his back. Slowly, with mouthwatering grace, she danced. Her buckskin dress began to slip. She raised one arm over her head, and when she brought it back down, it slid a little more. Then the other arm. The top eased down over her breasts, leaving them covered only by her long black hair. It inched down her hips, about to fall to the ground.

  Chuggie swallowed hard.

  Inch by inch, Shola danced dreamily out of her clothes. In doing so, she barely took her eyes off his. His wide gaze, however, skated up and down her ever-nudening body. His white-knuckled fists held tight to the grass.

  The skirt slid to Shola's feet, and she kicked it away without taking her eyes off him.