by Ian Dyer
By the time Samson neared the fenced off area holding the many bee hives the sky was darkening and dusk was approaching. In the air around him the buzzing of bees could be heard but Samson could see none of the little flying bugs; which he was thankful for. The wind blew stronger and a voice was carried upon it. Samson looked to his right, from where the voice came from but could see nobody. The white fence stretched out for some distance left and right but along both lengths Samson could see no one. But yet the voice, which was singing a song the Sorcerer could not make out, carried on.
Trying to ignore the voice, which was distracting to say the least, Samson moved on until he could go no further; the fence blocking his way. Upon the fence, written on a rough block of wood in black paint and tied around a fence post was a sign saying:
NO ENTRY
KEEP OUT
Samson sniggered at the final comment:
BEES CAN KILL IF PROVOKED!!!
The singing stopped and from behind one of the bee hives a young woman stood up, her straggly brown hair covered half of her pale face and her blue shirt and black trousers were covered in white paint.
‘What’s being so funny, mister?’
Samson looked at the woman, his eyes wide with shock. He had been so deep in memories, so far from the moment that he hadn’t seen the woman painting the bee hives.
‘I have never heard of bees killing a man before. That’s all.’ Samson moved a little to his left so he could get to see the woman better. She was tall, well over six feet. Her hands were massive, her face hard. He knew she was well built underneath that clothing and her eyes had the glazed look of a simpleton.
The woman stared at the black cloaked man that had seemed to appear from nowhere. For a moment she was concerned and that showed in her eyes and then, like someone turning on an electric spark light, a thought came to her.
‘My old ‘pa told me that old man Paulie got stung once on the neck and he was dead within hours, so mister, men can be dead’d by bees. If my pa says it then it’s gotta be true.’ The woman wiped a drop of snot from her nose and carried on looking plainly at the Sorcerer.
Samson nodded. ‘Aye, lady, your father is right, bees can kill. How far is it to Christian Sands, can I be there by nightfall?’
The girl walked from behind the last weather beaten bee house, the rest all fresh white paintwork. She was tall, by the Maker, and her body, as the wind swept tight her clothes, was muscular. In her right hand she carried a well-used paint brush and in her left she held a large paint tin covered in old dry white paint. The woman, pretty in an odd way was too; covered in white paint. Her eyes, deep emerald green shone like marbles in the sun and Samson felt a twitch in his pants he hadn’t felt in a long time. A long time.
‘Abouts three miles, mister. Be there by sun down nay problem,’ she dropped the brush into the paint tin then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her large hand which, on closer inspection, was missing the third finger, ‘what’s yer name mister? Mine’s Dotty.’ She stood there, rooted to the spot awaiting his reply.’
Samson looked at the girl. How he could play tricks on this one. She was dumb and an easy target and he could have her eating out of his hands. He could sense Arda, a soft humming had begun in the back of his head and he knew she was awaking and would soon need feeding again. But that was days away. He would leave this young filly alone.
‘My name is Samson. Please to meet you Dotty.’
Young Dotty clapped her right hand against her thigh numerous times making Samson wince. By the Maker she was stupid and he was regretting not taking advantage of her.
‘Samson…Samson. I have a new friend called Samson.’ She sniggered, turned and walked back behind the last weathered bee hive singing as she went:
‘Hey doddle diddle the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.’
Samson watched her for a few minutes then looked at the bee hives that she had painted. In the fenced off field there must have been well over two hundred of the small white houses. There were ten neat little rows of these houses and they stretched out into the distance. Each one had been painted bright white and they reflected the sun’s rays almost blinding the Sorcerer. The white fence was tatty and worn and no doubt was the next job for the young Dotty.
The Black Sorcerer took one last look at the woman and watched her paint. She painted with a lot of care. Each brush stroke was given a lot of attention and she was oblivious to all around her. Her work must have taken days, weeks even and Samson wanted to meet the person who had given her this job as not only was it cruel, funny but cruel, it was also a good use of someone that has, in the real world, no use what so ever.
Samson, as he moved away with a smile upon is face, did not say goodbye.
5
The Black Sorcerer walked until he came across a well-used path. Wheel ruts were carved into the soft earth and he followed it as he climbed up a small hill. He reached the top of the hill after half an hour and he stood at the top looking out over the outskirts of Christian Sands.
In the distance he could make out the faint outline of rooftops and tall chimneys and in the foreground the track went on, crossing a river on a large wooden bridge. The river was wide and snaked through the earth from east to west.
On the left the lush green grass gave way to fields of barley, corn, fruit orchards and all were ready for harvesting. Warehouses were dotted here and there and under their roofs farmers kept their machinery, their harvested crops and their livestock and on the right the grass was segregated into many fields and in those fenced off field’s cows, sheep, horses and the odd bull roamed.
Under the sound of the soft wind Samson could hear the clank-clank, thud-thud and chug-chug of machinery. Christian Sands was a large town by his memory, hundreds of people lived and worked there and most were well fed and well looked after. Like all towns it had its crime and its poverty but this place, this heaven on earth to some was more rich than poor. The sky was turning dark and in the west the sun was beginning to set turning the sky shepherds red.
Day was turning to night and just as Samson was about to head off an image of two fairies eating the man that hunted him filled his vision and the Sorcerer rubbed his eyes to try and remove the images. They faded away and the Sorcerer started to walk toward the town but again the visions came and he could clearly see the Marksman being devoured by two fairies.
‘For fucks sake. That’s not a way for a Marksman to go. He’s mine you little fucktards.’ With that the Sorcerer placed his hands upon the black orb hidden beneath his shawl and disappeared.
6
Martin Doyle left the hut just after dusk opting to walk the remaining journey across the desert through day and hopefully, within a couple of days, he would find the path that led out of the desert and into the lush forest of the West Lands.
He felt low. The Old Loon had been a good man. Honest and true, and Martin regretted not being able to save him. That regret, however, soon turned to anger and then to revenge. The Black Sorcerer had caused all this. Twisting the will of the King. Twisting right from wrong. But soon Samson would be dead.
But first he had to find one of the bitch Orbs. He had to find Varula or Satan’s Eyeball as it is known. The nearest place to find information on the Orb would be Christian Sands, the large city on the other side of the forest, but finding information would be hard; the Orb had been lost for many, many years, and like all magic, the Orbs have found a way of hiding in the hardest of places.
Walking through the cooling desert he shrugged off the town’s name and concentrated on getting out of the desert sooner rather than later. He slept only for a few hours during dusk and sun down making sure to walk double time during the night when the air was cool.
He spotted the first tree sprouting from a massive wind smoothed rock. It was tall, gnarled and seemed older than time
. Its bark was white and its fragile branches stretched far out but there were no leaves upon them. In faded letters were the words - Rag and Bone Man - and below a small arrow pointed in the direction Martin had walked. The tree seemed lifeless, but it was still alive, and Martin could almost hear it breathe. How many years had it been there? How many years without rain, without the smallest drop of water? Without a good life? Martin walked into its dappled shade and placed his hand upon its rough skin, then, slowly, he placed his right cheek upon it.
The wind made the tree groan in pleasure and for a while Martin stood there with the old tree. Martin began to feel faint after a time, a sickening feeling rising in his gut. He swayed a little but remained focused. Something was happening to him but he didn’t know what. Waves of nausea pelted him, washed over him like waves upon the beach. He tried to move his head away from the tree but it was no good. The tree was mystical, older than time itself and Martin was being taken. A part of Martin was taken.
He stayed there, under the tree, for the rest of the day and slept beneath it.
By late afternoon on the second day, Martin saw on the horizon the dark outline of trees that marked the start of the forest and as he moved further toward it so the sand gave way to gravel, then to stone, then to dirt and finally; grass.
When it was time to rest Martin had found the path that led through the forest and he hunkered down for the night meters from the hot desert but cooler than he had been in weeks. Beside him he lit a small fire and cooked some of the meat he had taken from the hut.
He would enjoy tonight the best night’s sleep he had had in a long time, but above him, looking down with Cheshire cat grins upon their faces were two little fairies; eyes as red as rubies and faces as pointed as their teeth. Their little wings wrapped around their backs and their hands holding onto the thin branches. They sniggered quietly to themselves as not to disturb the sleeping Marksman. They sniggered hard for they knew they would have fun with the human below them and when the fun was over they would have a good meal.
When the laughter was over the girl fairy looked to the boy fairy and said very quietly ‘We shall have to change the sign post tonight before the fatty man gets up.’
The boy fairy nodded and looked at his sister. ‘Don’t forget, Gretel that this one will have to last longer than the last biggun’ that walked through here. Don’t get all greedy again.’
Gretel giggled and put her small hand across her mouth. Her nails looked razor sharp in the moonlight and after a couple of seconds her giggling stopped. ‘I can’t help it. They taste so good. If you only cooked it Hansel, you would know what I mean.’
Hansel poked his tongue out and pretended to be sick and the two of them laughed. When they had finished they both took one last look at the biggun’ asleep below them, unfurled their small fragile wings and flew off into the dark forest, sprinkling fairy dust as they went and making small buzzing noises as they flew.
7
Martin awoke; refreshed, alive. The sun was high, it was ten in the morning, and its bright light shone through the forest’s roof in epic god rays. A light mist was rising from the ground, the grass, the moss and dead foliage were covered in a cool dampness. The Marksman marvelled at the beauty of this place, heightened more so by the total opposite of the desert not one day’s walk away. It was a million shades of green. The trees; a hundred shades of brown and yellow. Martin felt strangely at home here, more at home then he had felt back in Ritash, in his own home. He looked back, toward the path he had walked down yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he was in the desert, but its dirt: its monstrous heat was still upon him, still fresh. He needed rid of it.
This place had once been the home to forest dwellers known oddly as ‘Huggers’ and when they finally left they had not taken down the small huts in which they had lived. Martin needed to find one of these for the huts where always built on, or near, water.
Looking over his shoulder, his eyes watering with the strain as they looked through the harsh god rays, he knew, instinctively, that a hut lay not two or three hours walk to the south, and the more he thought about it, the more he could see it; built next to a massive oak, its roof intact but covered in leaves and overgrown roots. By its right flank was the well which still had water at its bottom and a bucket on a pulley at its head. Its windows were black with the dirt of time and its wooden walls were green with moss and fungus. Inside would be a table, some chairs, a wood burning stove, a small stone hearth fire place and in the corner, the left corner by the fire, was a copper bath, a deep flame orange copper bath. And it was this bath that held the attraction for the Marksman. He would sink down into it and let the water flow over the edge. The water would penetrate deep down into his pores and wipe clean the filth of the desert.
The hunt for the Orb could wait.
Martin headed south. Thoughts of the Black Sorcerer were far from his mind. All he could think about was that hut and the bath that sat inside. He had to forget about the desert and the loss of Jonathan. He had to forget about the Black Sorcerer if he were to focus on the Orb but soon after an hours walking through the lush forest he had forgotten about the deal made with the Angel of Death.
If we were to look now, through the eyes of an un-bewitched man as it were, we would see the path Martin was walking shrouded in silvery glittering confetti. Fairy dust gets into you, plays with you; owns you.
Midday approached and the Marksman was drenched in sticky sweat. The forest was hot, humid even, and under the canopy of a million leaves it was sealed in tight like a wasp caught in a sticky jam jar. The sun only speckled through in patches but it was enough to heat the place up like the desert upon which the Marksman had walked a lifetime ago.
The path to the Hugger’s hut had been easy to follow as if the wildness of the forest not dares to cover it up. Trees and shrub’s dotted the green path and where they failed bright yellow daisy’s shone like candles along a narrow corridor. The path wound its way through dense growth until the forest gave way to a bright clearing enclosed by giant Grand Oak tree’s and the sun was allowed to shine through in all its mighty glory. In the grass, which was a wash of light green, huge amounts of wild flowers basked in the sun’s golden shine and their colours radiated like a rainbow upon the floor. It was a picture of heaven.
Martin looked about the clearing with eyes full of water and wonderment. He had never seen such a place. Even the old hut, which was falling apart at the very seams, was somehow magical. The well was covered in dark green moss and the wooden construction that worked the winch was splintered and haggard beyond repair. It looked exactly like he had imagined and all thoughts of what he had to do or where he was going where gone. The invisible silvery glow emanated from the hut but the Marksman was totally unawares.
Everything was peaceful here. It felt like a home from home and the Marksman, now only a few meters from the hut, sat upon the moist grass and sighed a sigh of a million relieved souls. He allowed himself to relax totally, his heart slowing and his mind as clear as glass, and he fell back onto the soft earth with a thud; his eyes squinting as they gazed into the ultramarine sky and his mouth widening into a smile only akin to lovers.
He lay there for some time. He replayed songs sung by his mother when he was just a child in his mind and for a while he was a child again. He moved his hands out as if he was being crucified upon the earth and he plucked flowers from the ground. He tossed them into the air like he did when he was a boy and he watched them fall softly to the ground.
He could have laid there forever and a day; the forest consuming him like it had the earth and the rocks but a song his mother used to sing to him reminded him of the hut and the bath he needed to take:
Come one, come all, come ye Kings of men
To the hall’s I call my home.
Join me now and know my love
We shall drink and we shall eat.
You are welcome here! You are welcome here!
What’s mine be yours! What
’s mine be yours!
To the hall’s I call my home.
He heaved himself up and sang the song out loud for the forest to hear as he walked to the hut he thought of as home.
In the trees above, little Hansel and Gretel laughed so hard it was enough to shake leaves from the trees.
Martin lifted himself up, slowly, thoughtfully, and he stood gazing at the Hugger’s hut before him. He had walked a lifetime of miles in the desert. It had left scars upon his skin like ravines upon the earth. Dirt was in those scars, the dirt went by many guises: fear, hatred, anger, revenge but all would be washed away with the help of the Hugger’s bath. In its water’s the dirt would wash away and he would be reborn. Yes, that’s the right word for it: reborn.
His search for Samson was lost now. His need for redemption gone like Albert. The deal with Death but a mere shadow of a lost thought.
Martin walked toward the hut tired. He opened the old creaky door and let the sun into what was a dusty old ruin and his body cast along shadow in the doorway. He stepped across the threshold and was amazed to feel such an intensity of heat coming from inside the hut. He wasn’t perturbed by this only encouraged to run himself a bath and get on with whatever his life had in store for him.
He looked over to his left and looked at the fiery orange copper bath that was in the corner like his vision had foretold him. It wasn’t green with age nor rusted through with rot. It was as gleaming today as it had been on the day it was created. The fire place was made, wood stacked in a triangle ready for the tinder and flame. All was well in the hut of a Hugger. Too well, but Martin did not consider this: the fairies’ dust was working very well. Martin placed his bag down and stretched out his arms to the sky. The heat in the hut was overpowering and walked over to the copper just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. All was well; as it was supposed to be and he stood back and looked in wonderment at the copper bath. The heat grew stronger, blinding almost and he closed his eyes as if to escape it.