The Butcher and the Butterfly

by Ian Dyer

  As he trundled along, the trees that surrounded him slowly evaporating, he found himself in a clearing; the grass gone, the dirt replaced with a strange hard black concrete with white and yellow lines painted across it. It was an old crossing of paths but one that had not been altered with the passing of time. Stephen had seen crossings like this, but they had been made of dirt, cobbles or in some places; wood. It must have been at least one hundred feet long heading north and double that heading east to west. Looking east, but not walking on the black stuff itself, he saw that the – tarmac? Is that what this is called? – went on for miles, up into the hills and disappeared as it touched the horizon.

  He took one cautious step onto the road and when it didn’t collapse or a bolt of lightning strike him down he walked into the middle of the junction and stopped below a sign that was raised up on wires that hung east to west from four giant metal posts that stood at each of the four corners of the black stuff. The sign wasn’t rusted, nor pitted with age. It didn’t even swing in the soft breeze. It was as new as the day it had been put there – which Stephen guessed would have been over a thousand years ago if the tales were true of such things.

  The sign read:

  North - Doscro/Hull/Tremaine

  South – Rockfall/Wastelands/Ritash/ Rag and Bone Man (this was written in white pain, the O of Bone was a skull and crossbones)

  East – St Petersburg/Under Path/Lud’s Mine

  West – Great Forest/Christian Sands/Gatwick-Airport

  Some of the names Stephen recognised others he had never heard of. He looked at the four paths that lay in front of him. North seemed to carry on skirting the forest but looked to be headed for the mountains. South was out of the question. West, the path was non-existent and every time Stephen looked that way his gut twisted and a voice screamed to stay away – STAY AWAY!

  East, the black tarmac road was smooth, flat and didn’t veer; it headed toward the mountains into what looked like a valley between them – it reminded Stephen of a boy he knew back in Ritash and his mossing tooth right in the middle of his mouth. It was a wide road, perhaps two or three carts wide in both directions. Along its edges there were metal poles sticking up from the earth with what looked like spark lights at their tips. It seemed to be the only way ahead for him; no voice screamed its dissatisfaction, his gut didn’t twist or hairs stand up on the back of his neck. This was doubly confirmed as the way to go when Stephen read the white painted words that were written at the start of the road:

  THE CAVE -THE BOY

  2

  Deep underground in the caverns and tunnels known as Lud’s Mine there lived an ancient race of men known to those that knew of them as the Clankers.

  Their skin was pale, translucent in the dim yellow glow of the spark lights that lit their world. Their eyes were large, colourless and their noses mere slits. Most of them were emaciated; muscle stretched over bone held together by the ruined clothes they wore. All except one – their Chief - the one they called Lud.

  He was old, for the mine was old and he was the mine and the mine was him. He had lived a thousand lifetimes of men under the mountain, leaving it from time to time but not as himself – oh no – he had tricks and gifts that meant he didn’t need to.

  A once good Chief, in the early years of the mine when the coal was plenty and the money rolled in. the mine had been fruitful; alive but now it stood as barren as his long dead wife. The days turned sour and the coal disappeared and with it too went Lud’s charity, his good will – his soul if ya fancy. The rumbling in the caves had stopped, the furnaces went cold and the steam ceased to rise.

  Surrounded by the ancient controls of his ancient machines he watched from his office as his men went about their daily tasks; oiling, tinkering – creating, the air filled with the smell of diesel oil, sweat and sulphur and always the tink-tink clunk-clunk of hammer against metal. He puckered is old fat lips together and made small popping sounds as he slapped them together; contemplating what to do with the boy.

  Times were changing again. The world was turning, going back to how it had been when he walked in the sunshine and bathed in fresh waters. When he had taken a wife and danced with her under the blue moon as their song played out. He was glad to see those days coming back, but now they would be different for he was the master now. He scratched his fat belly through his threadbare vest – for it was hot in the mine; that was one thing that never changed – and ceased his lip smacking as he heard soft moans coming from the boy tied to a chair on the opposite side of the room. He breathed in deep and closed his eyes contemplating his next move.

  ‘Mr Lud, sir.’ A soft voice hissed from one of the speakers, ‘We have a visitor. Coming from the crossing. He should be on your monitor.’

  Lud leaned to the right, just enough so that his enormous frame moved so that he could see the small screen, its picture flickering. He watched it for a moment, the road was empty. He was just about to tell the fool on the other end of the radio what a colossal twat he was for disturbing him, when the image on the screen flickered and a man came into view. He licked his lips and started popping them together again.

  ‘What do you want us to do, sir? The scan detects a weapon. Do we send out the Mech?’

  Lud squinted; making sure the screen wasn’t lying; making sure that the man that had come into view was the man that had killed the woman he hoped to have born his only child.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No, no Mech. We may have a use for this one. Leave him be, let him in. He doesn’t know of us yet. I don’t want to scare this one away.’ And as an afterthought he added, ‘He seeks the boy.’

  Times were changing; the machines were coming back to life. Once again others wanted what he had. But old man Lud had other plans

  The Book of Martin - Plans and Propositions

  1

  Reader, let us drift back a little, would it please ya, to just after the meeting between Stephen and Death, for our story has other paths.

  The Angel of Death sat upon the harsh desert floor, his face pointed at the burning sun. He always felt calm in the desert, at one with the Wastelands. His burnt body, black as ash, was unaffected by the heat, the dryness, the death. He had been to hell and back, literally, and his body was a testament to that. This desert was nothing more to him than a giant sand pit where men came into and where men died.

  For a hundred life times of men he had lived in this body and for another hundred more still, if he didn’t have his way.

  Deaths wings unfolded of their own accord, their time in this mortal world running out. He was magic now, ancient magic and like the Orbs; he had grown twisted, rotten, and un-well. He tried to look back on those times when he too was a mere mortal man. When he walked the world, loved, ate, slept, drank, felt the cool breeze on his face and the water on his tired feet. But it was impossible. He had lost that now. His soul gone, burned away by the Fates long, long ago and he was left lifeless but with a purpose. He could not simply throw himself from a mountain anymore or sink deep down into the nearest sea, for he was Death and death does not become an Angel.

  How he yearned for it to be over. For his life to be whole again. Looking at the sun, through eyes that weren’t there, looking at the harsh blue sky, bleached white with the heat, he sighed heavily. It seemed that all he could feel now was anger. But anger mixed with hope. Hope that soon, so soon, the Orb would be his and he would be free of this immortal coil and free to be human again. To love again, to eat again, to drink again and to feel as if ones accomplishments meant something.

  Turning his face back to the floor he watched the winds move the sand. How like the sand he was. Where the winds of fate took him he would follow, helpless but willing. The Fates, however, where in for a shock. No more would he do as they bid. He had already disobeyed them with letting Stephen live, and in a few hours he would disobey them again. Martin Doyle’s life was, at the moment, coming to an end. He had been a plaything for the Fates, he had been the one chosen to
kill the one known as Samson Little but it had failed and the Fates had the answer they had been puzzling over for many a year and then some; the power in west, the one known as Barnabas, was growing stronger and it was up to men, mortal men, to kill this One King. But Death was unconcerned with such trivialities.

  Martin Doyle would be saved and the Angel of Death would have his plaything. All Death needed after that was the white ball of evil nicknamed Satan’s Eyeball - as white as chalk and with a heart as black as coal. She needed souls like all of them but her power was the strongest, if used properly. It had been Satan’s Eyeball, or shall we call her Varula, for that be here name, that had made Death what he is now and it would be the same power that gave him back what he wanted so much; his soul, and if it meant that Martin Doyle had to give up his own then so be it. So be it.

  Death stood, his huge frame blackening the floor beneath him in shadow. He stretched out his arms and waved them through the air feeling nothing. His wings unfurled once more, the sun shining through the soft, thin membrane. Soon he would step from this body, this dead ashen like carcass and into another body. Soon he would walk the earth a simple man again and finish his days happy. Soon he would eat, drink, laugh and cry. Soon. So soon. And if Death could laugh like a hyena and smile at the sky then he would have. By the bastard Fates he would have.

  With no effort the Angel of Death launched into the air and headed for the small hut situated on the outskirts of the Wastelands and into a world where the Fates had control no longer.

  2

  Stood over Martin, with a wicked glint in his eye was a man he knew from Ritash. In his hand he held an ancient gun and that gun was pointed right between his eyes.

  Martin, his mouth agape in shock – his eyes wide with awareness and anticipation – pulled himself back, hitting his head against the beds headboard.

  ‘Fuck it.’ He said.

  ‘Fuck it, indeed, Martin.’ Said the holder of the gun, ‘Now get yer canny hands up and make yer way outside. Slowly.’ The man who was dressed in a long beige coat, a Stetson upon his head – a white scarf covering his mouth, ushered with his gun to the front door. The bullets around his waist rang like dulled church bells.

  The Marksman, shifted his weight, feeling for the soft prod of his weapon. But it didn’t come. And then he remembered – he had left it in his bag. The bag that was now in the possession of the man stood over him. His old tutor would have beaten him senseless for such stupidity.

  ‘Come on, Martin, up ya get. Quickly now.’

  Martin made his way outside, the gun pressed against his back. He rested his hands upon his head and squinted as he moved from the building into the blinding light of the Wastelands. It was still morning, early, but late enough that Martin should have been awake by now. The sky was big and blue but instead of the familiar sight of miles upon miles of hardpan, Martin gazed out and saw the rolling hills and the dense dark green of the forest. He kept walking until he felt a hand against his shoulder. Martins boots kicked up small ash clouds from the night be fore’s fire.

  ‘That’ll do ya, Marksman.’

  Beads of sweat ran down Martins face. The sweat went into his eyes, then his mouth. It was a familiar taste and he welcomed it in a strange sort of way – the way in which the taste of your own blood reminds you that you are alive. And being alive at least gives you a chance.

  The man with the gun walked from behind him and made his way over to the rest of the party that had left Ritash all those months ago. All the men looked travel worn. They looked as if death could take them at any point – their eyes were vague, their hands which held revolvers or a shotgun shook and their clothes sprayed dirt to the air with every gust of wind.

  Silence encircled the men and then the man that had wakened Martin – a man Martin realised he knew, spoke. ‘Not often you catch a Marksman off guard.’

  Martin smiled. ‘Just giving you boys a fighting chance.’ He scanned the five men. He knew only the one by name but recognised the others. ‘I should be honoured. Five Watchmen all sent to kill little old me. Guess they didn’t trust you to do the job, Jessie?’

  Jessie’s eyes narrowed and his face puckered like he had sucked on the world’s sourest lemon.

  So you do remember, Jessie. I’m glad. I’m glad you remember what I did to you.

  ‘That was a long time ago, Oath Bearer. Just boys playing with toys. Besides, I count five of us and only one of you.’

  Martin nodded with agreement. There was no arguing with the math, he was outnumbered. But much like when they were boys, boys playing with toys, Martin had out smarted Jessie and now it was time to do it again.

  ‘I knew you hadn’t forgotten that day. I thought the beating I gave you would have mashed yer brain up pretty good. But I suppose a mashed up head is just what the Watchman General was looking for, so I suppose I was doing you a favour.’

  The other four Watchmen shuffled and squirmed at the insult. Jessie ushered for them to calm down with his free left hand. ‘Now, now boys, let’s not get bogged down in this ancient squabble. Let’s just look at the facts. Over there is a murderer, pure and simple. He killed one of his own and he killed the man than made him.’

  What

  ‘What the fuck you talking about, Jessie?’

  ‘Oh, here comes the denial.’ The five Watchmen smiled as one. ‘You mean to say, and I must say that the look on yer face is priceless by the way, that you deny murdering both Samson Little and Eric Truth?’

  And then it struck Martin, like one of Eric’s finest swipes across the back of the head – this was the doing of Little. It needed no long winded explanation for the explanation was a simple one and it came back to the threat that Martin had made against Eric on the day he was signalled a Marksman.

  ‘Would it change anything even if I did deny those murders, Jessie? Would it matter if I told you that Samson still walks this earth, that he is the true killer here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  Martin, his hands still resting on his head, exhaled hard. ‘So gentlemen, what’s it to be then? Am I to be taken back to Ritash and hung for my crimes?’

  Jessie smiled. It was a dangerous smile; one that had been used time and time again not only for intimidation but also for sexual conquest – by the Maker how the women loved a dangerous smile.

  ‘Nope,’ Jessie said raising his own weapon, ‘The King wanted it, but I can’t be bothered with all that. We shall make up some fairy story of how you wouldn’t come quietly. I can’t see him loosing much sleep. And besides, I’ve waited years to get you back for what you did to me. So I shall shoot yer down and then cut off yer head as a trophy.’

  3

  ‘You can put your guns away, chaps.’ Jessie said, and the four Watchmen holstered their ancient killing machines. Holstering his own gun, Jessie opened Martins backpack and took out his gun – its surface, even though dulled with age, glistened in the sunlight. From the look in his eyes, it seemed to Martin as though the Watchman appreciated his weapon.

  ‘Going to kill you with yer own gun, Oath Bearer. Any last words?’

  ‘Fuck you, cunt.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Jessie pulled the trigger and the gun shot echoed across the Wastelands like the last scream of the Devil.

  4

  Martin braced his body for the impact and took a step back. Many times he had faced off against more men, but he had been armed, well positioned and ready for the fight. Right now he had none of this and had no real training to fall back on; as Eric had once said – if ya caught outnumbered, with no weapon and yer cock swaying in the wind, then you are a fool for being there and no training from this old bastard can help ya.

  It would be over quick at least and as he heard the gunshot Martin instinctively threw himself to the floor. He curled his body as he fell, trying to make the target smaller, he also mentally scanned his body for the pain the bullet was causing as it tore through his body. But there wasn’t any. He t
hen, in that single moment of awareness braced himself for what would be the death blow.

  But it didn’t come.

  Martin thought he heard a scream, but put it down to his own internal voice and then an odd silence enveloped him. It seemed to drown out all other sounds and he was all too aware of his own breath; his boots scraping on the dirt and the twang of old bits of metal as they clanged together. He could hear his own heart pumping, and beneath him, buried under the hardpan, he could hear the beating heart of a scorpion. He raised his head, expecting to see Jessie either pointing his smoking weapon at him or the boots of the Watchman as he came in closer - like shooting fish in a barrel as he father would have said.

  But Jessie wasn’t there. The Watchman was about twenty feet in the air, engulfed by a giant winged creature as black as the night’s sky. Beneath the winged beast, covered in their own gore, the other four Watchmen lay dismembered – their guts now a banquet for the oncoming crows and vultures.

  There was another muffled scream as the winged beast took hold of Jessie’s throat with one bony and burnt hand and thrust the other through his chest; bursting out the other side spraying more dark blood over the dry hardpan of the Wastelands.

  The winged beast released his grip and tore away his arm from the massive hole in Jessie’s chest and threw him to the floor; his body bouncing and snapping as it hit the rocks.

  Upon their dead bodies the Angel of Death landed, crushing their bones with his enormous weight and he looked upon them with his featureless face. Martin could sense he was smiling for hadn’t he been smiling the day he had come to the Marksman and told him of Samson’s plans?

  5

  Martin stood up and brushed himself off. Scratching the back of his head he coughed out some the dust that had settled in throat and watched; a grimace upon his face, as the Angel of Death devoured the five Watchmen. He tore at their clothes and their flesh, feasting first upon their hearts and then whatever came within its terrible reach and its terrible razor claws. Within ten minutes, enough time for Martin to gather his backpack and his gun - which was located some distance from Jessie’s body, the bodies of the five Watchmen had been stripped bare of their flesh and only their blood stained skeletons remained.