The Butcher and the Butterfly

by Ian Dyer

  8

  When he opened them the fire was lit, the bath full of hot soapy water and he was as naked as the day he entered the world. Not right you all think, but to Martin all was as it should be. He clearly remembered fetching the water, heating it up and pouring himself the bath. Undressing himself had been hard; the clothes sticking to his sweaty body but he was finally ready for the bath.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat from the fire, the heat from the water and the heat from the hut was massive. But he knew that once he was in the bath, deep in its curved wall’s, all would be well again.

  Within a heartbeat Martin was unconscious and slowly dying. The fairies were still laughing though.

  9

  The Marksman awoke in a cold room. The bright light of day had turned into royal blue that told of the pending night. His eye’s ached when they opened, his head throbbed and his body hurt. He could see the forest outside of wherever it was that he was and as he looked about him; to his bag by the side of the table to his clothes by his side and the rotten bath behind him he felt afraid for the first time in a long time. He rummaged through his memories to find his last one but the effort hurt his mind. He could remember the desert, Jonathan’s death and the forest but that was it. He had no memory of getting here.

  As his head cleared and the numbness left him he could hear a soft crying coming from outside. He lifted himself up carefully and sat with his bum on the cold floor and his legs stretched out in front of him. Over the crying he could hear a laugh, a wheezy laugh, a sick laugh, and then a voice that was all too familiar.

  ‘You dumb little pricks - Never piss on another man’s rhubarb - my dad always said and you have certainly pissed upon mine!’

  The crying ebbed away and little sniffs could be heard.

  ‘Please, mister, don’t hurt us. We only wants’ to eat!’ The voice was muffled as if it was behind something and Martin wished this all a dream. He hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  He stood up quickly but froze suddenly.

  ‘Ahh,’ the familiar voice said, ‘My hunter awakens. I must see to his needs before he sees to me.’

  Martin looked to his clothes in a desperate need to find his gun but it was too late as in the doorway a wispy shape appeared. A familiar shape that was at the same time unfamiliar. He could tell that the man was smiling. Smirking the way a thief does when he has gotten away with his dastardly deed. All was silent. Not a bird sang nor a tree branch rustled. Martin stood as naked as the dawn and the Black Sorcerer stood before him; his dark majesty covering the hut in shame and hate and all was not well for the Marksman.

  ‘Caught with your pants down, Marksman?’ The Black Sorcerer snorted under his hooded cloak and walked into the hut closing the rotten door behind him with but a wave of his right hand.

  10

  Samson eyes were full of hatred. Martin could feel that hate in the air. He was naked, disorientated and for the first time in ages; scared. The Sorcerer had helped Martin to his feet and they had both stepped outside into the place known as The Clearing to the people of Christian Sands.

  Sat outside in the lush green clearing Martin looked behind him. The hut was dark and not how he remembered it. His mind felt like it had been shaken and smashed up against a rock. He rubbed at his temples still not calculating what was happening.

  ‘Take your time, Martin.’ The Sorcerer said as he sat upon the grass ushering Martin to do the same.

  The Marksman did not sit. He looked to the sky and closed his eyes counting slowly in his mind up until thirty.

  Before he opened his eyes he remembered how he had gotten here. The desert had been cleared, the forest was open to him but he had been tricked by something. Something’s.

  ‘Little fuckers aint they?’ The Sorcerer asked.

  Martin looked to his left and saw two little creatures with pointy faces huddled in the corner of a small jar. From their eyes flowed yellow tears but their mouths were shut tight.

  ‘What did they do to me?’ Martin asked not removing his gaze from the two little things.

  Samson sighed. ‘Played you for a fool, Martin. Tricksy little devils them two. But not anymore.’

  Bird song filled the air and Martin turned his attention back to the Sorcerer. His cloak had been removed and a familiar sight filled his vision.

  ‘You still wear that shirt, I see.’

  The Sorcerer nodded and smiled. ‘I am still the man I was. Only stronger.’

  The two men looked at each other. Martin saw nothing in the eyes of the Sorcerer.

  ‘Would they have killed me?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  So you saved me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Sorcerer ushered Martin to sit once again. The Marksman remained standing his body naked to the elements.

  ‘Why.’ Martin asked again his voice almost a whisper.

  Samson licked his lips and rubbed his forehead. ‘For so many reasons, Marksman, I couldn’t begin to explain, nor will I. Now sit down and we shall chat a while.’

  11

  The Sorcerer allowed Martin to dress and steady himself; all the while Samson watched the two fairies intently, like a lion stalking its newest prey. The silence that filled the clearing was heavy and un-natural. Nature shouldn’t be this quiet.

  When Martin was finished readying himself he scanned the ground and his belongings looking for his gun.

  ‘You shall not find it there, Martin.’ The Sorcerer said absently.

  Stephen smirked and sat upon the soft ground. ‘Am I to presume that I shall never see my gun again? The gun that my father and his father before that fired in protection of the King? The gun that I thought had killed you?’

  Samson shrugged and in a smooth motion drew the weapon from beneath his cloak.

  ‘This old thing,’ Samson said admiring the piece, ‘Old as the hills but still as deadly as it was when it was made. You can trust me on that. You can have it back when we are done. I cannot deprive the man hunting me a fair chance now, can I?’

  ‘So arrogant, Samson, that trait hasn’t left you. Always arrogant and so cock sure of yourself.’

  The two men locked eyes, both of them holding their gaze until finally Samson laughed. It was a different laugh, one that was unfamiliar to Martin. He didn’t like it, didn’t trust it.

  Martin said ‘If you are going to kill me then be done with it traitor. Or if not, then kill yourself and put an end to my burden.’

  Samson shook his head and pointed to the little creatures shut tight in the glass jar. ‘To kill you now would be foolish. Have I not just saved you from a certain painful death? No, I thought we might talk for a few moments. Thought I might show myself to you so that you know that I am real and not a figment of poor old Albert’s mind.’

  Now it was Martins turn to point and he raised his accusatory hand to the Sorcerer. ‘He was twice the man you ever were. On my life I will see his name carved into your flesh.’

  Samson once again chuckled to himself. ‘Just words, Marksman. Words, bullets for that matter, can’t hurt me now. Your hunt will lead you to nothing but your death and I shall go on doing my good work from town to town, place to place.

  ‘I am going into that town down there, Martin as I have heard another one of the orbs lays dormant there. I mean to make it my own and show the Great King that I can do his bidding, that I am strong; strong enough so that he finally lets me kill you once and for all.’

  Now it was Martins turn to laugh and he clapped his hands on his thighs as he did. ‘He thinks you are weak, you fool. That’s why you won’t kill me. You haven’t got it in you.’

  Samson tried to interject but Martin waved his comments away and stood so that he towered over the cloaked man. ‘You can’t deny it. He thinks you aren’t strong enough to kill me so he has told you to leave me alone. Samson Little, the great and powerful Black Sorcerer, a man who controls the stars themselves, can’t be trusted to kill a
simple Marksman like me. You still are a flaccid prick, Samson.’

  Samson looked flustered and Martin could see the rage building inside of him. The Marksman braced himself for an attack. The air in the clearing grew stale.

  Samson retort was calming; ‘Martin, Martin, Martin. Such friends we were and now look at us. Fighting and squabbling like two school girls. You can fret all you want, fluster and bluster away till your hearts content and you believe all the stupid things you say, but believe me when I say that with a flick of my hand you would be as dead as those two little ones are over there.’

  With that Samson flicked his wrist and Martin watched as the two fluttering fairies grabbed at their throats and sank to the bottom of the jar; dead.

  ‘And when I kill, Marksman, you won’t find the Angle of Death waiting for you, nor that pretty little cunt Palaluka to guide you on your way. Oh no, you will walk the Void as a blind old fool for the rest of eternity. You will have nothing and be at the whim of the great Demons that stalk down there.’

  Martin thought about Death and the deal that he had made.

  Samson’s eyes widened and he stood; flicking his cloak so that the bitch Arda was visible. Both men were now upright, their chests out, arms by their side; both poised to attack.

  ‘Your thoughts betray you Marksman,’ Samson said, ‘Made a pact with Death, hey? Well let me tell you, Varula is mine, not yours to give away to that scrawny fuck. I warn you, Marksman, don’t fuck with me, and don’t fuck with her!’

  Before Martin could move and try to capture the Sorcerer, Samson had turned and fled like Martin had when he was being accused of murder. Looking down to where Samson had been standing, Martin could see his gun nestled in the long grass. He smiled, knowing that he had won a little battle between the two of them and that the Orb he was looking for was in the next town.

  The air grew sweet and birdsong could once again be heard in the clearing. Martin, exhausted, collapsed to the floor and slept upon the soft earth.

  12

  Early the next day, the Marksman walked from the clearing and further away from the Wastelands; following the same trail that Samson walked not a few days previous. Once through the main bulk of the trees he gazed out over the town of Christian Sands. He didn’t stay for long, the view wasn’t one that enthralled him and he moved on sensing the presence of the Sorcerer wherever he went.

  After a while he came across a fence that he had to detour around. Within the fenced off area he made out hundreds of bee hives painted bright white by a caring hand. The Marksman paid careful attention to the sign warning him of the dangers of the bees and he made no attempt to steal some of the honey the bees were busying themselves making. Martin stopped and admired the small hives and the hands that worked them. Back home in Ritash there was no place for such things and he felt sad about that.

  He headed off toward the town not knowing what he would find there or how he was going to deal with the orb if he ever found it. He knew the orbs needed souls to keep them quiet, especially Varula; her hunger ran deep, and it would take more souls than the Marksman thought he could get to keep her quiet.

  A nasty thought crossed his mind of the how he would have to get the souls and he quickly thought about how he would begin his search for the magical ball. The town was big, not the same size as Ritash, but when you aren’t familiar with the geography even a small village can seem overwhelming. He also had the Sorcerer to deal with, which made the task even more troublesome as the Marksman knew that for every step he took to get closer to the orb the Sorcerer would make sure that the orb would remain two more away.

  He took in a deep breath and sighed as he walked down from the forest and onto a cobbled road that wound its way through fields and into the very heart of Christian Sands. As he walked he loosened his gun belt letting the gun hang low on his thigh; a position not favoured by many but one that the Marksman felt more comfortable with than the standard high hold. Martin hoped that the gun would not have to be drawn.

  Idiot.

  Nightmares

  1

  It was way past supper when Dotty arrived home. Her meeting with the strange man had made her mind lose track of time and she had continued painting the bee hives carefree. When she was done for the day Dotty had stood there doing nothing for over two hours. When I say standing doing nothing I mean to say that her body was doing nothing her mind was racing. Racing quicker than it ever had and ever will do.

  Dotty was a simpleton. Kind at heart like most simpletons and extremely strong willed. If she believed in something then she would always keep to it no matter what anybody, including her father, said. So when she got home way past supper and her father went mad at her she had what she thought was the perfect defence.

  ‘You wanted the bee hives painted up before dark, so I made sure they was?’

  Her father had stared at her, his eyes gleaming with the disappointment that he was once again about to be put right by his retarded daughter.

  ‘Was I wrong to make sure’s I finished the job?’ To make it even worse for him she cocked her head like a questioning dog.

  He had no choice but to drop the attitude and he told her to sit whilst he fetched up her supper.

  She sat at the large table meant for at least six people with her elbows resting upon its tatty surface. Her home was large and as with the table it was meant for six plus people. A farm house bestowed with a happy feeling even though this family, Dotty and Ted (that’s the dad’s name) had been through a lot of bad times. Four deaths in as many years will leave a stain on a family that takes years of washing to get rid of.

  Her hands were caked in white paint and her clothes stunk of the fumes but she minded not. She was happy to be home with her dad even though he was moody. Because dad doesn’t stay moody too long, Dad wouldn’t stay moody all night. By the time bedtime came he would be too tired to be moody and be happy just to read her a story and wish her good night.

  Ted put the plate down on the table, the steaming potatoes and meat wafted up Dotty’ nose and made her appetite jump up.

  ‘Yummy yummy for my tummy!’ Dotty sang to the plate.

  ‘That’s right, sweetie.’ Ted said as he walked away back to the kitchen. He reached the doorway and Dotty knew he was stood there looking at her whilst she ate.

  She was halfway through the meal when her dad asked how many more hives she had left to paint.

  ‘Bout thirty, maybe more. Hard to say, haven’t been count’n em.’ Her dad sniggered and she did too but Dotty didn’t know why, she just did it because she knew it made her dad feel good.

  ‘Ok. That’s good.’ Her dad said with a deep sigh and almost regrettably said, ‘I need you to go Mr Thatcham’s house soon. You know Mr Thatcham’s house, Dotty? The one with the picket fence you like?’

  Dotty didn’t look up from her plate. ‘Yeah, I knows it.’

  ‘Good,’ her dad continued, ‘because that picket fence needs a painting and he has asked for you especially.’ Ted let the words sink in for a minute. ‘Aint that a neat trick?’

  Dotty was silent for a moment as she weighed things up. How she loved being in the woods painting the bee’s homes. It was warm, quiet and she could sing all the day long without being laughed at. Plus there was no one there who looked at her funny as she didn’t like that. No sir. Didn’t like it one itsy bitsy.

  ‘Don’t like Old Man Thatcham. He laughs at me when I goes to his shop with the pigs.’

  Ted scratched at his forehead and looked down to the wooden floor. ‘That was a long time ago, Dotty. He has seen that you are a good painter and he would like it if you painted his fence for him. I promise that he won’t laugh at you. He has grown to like you now.’

  There was silence in the dining room for a while as Dotty finished off the meal. The plate was near enough clean when she let out a large burp. Laughing, she quickly covered her mouth and looked to her dad.

  ‘Oops. Sorry Dad.’ Dotty sniggered quietly but she did she looked
blankly at the fireplace across from her.

  Ted walked over and picked the plate up off of the table. He stood by his daughter and put a rough hand on her muscular shoulder.

  ‘Look, if you go there and paint his fence it means a lot to yer old dad and if he does laugh at you, well, you just come a running back to me and I will deal with Old Man Thatcham.’ Ted looked down at Dotty who returned the gesture by looking up at him. ‘How does that sound, Little Dotty?’

  Dotty took in a massive breath. Her moon sized eyes gazed deep into her Dad. How she loved him and would always love him because what Dad said he meant. What dad promises he delivers. Dad is always there. Will always be there. When the monsters come at night and try and bite her toes; Dad is there. When the rain clouds come and the thunder smashes overhead Dad is there to sing it all away. When she feels ill and her head aches the way it does when people laugh and throw things at her Dad is there to make her laugh and to rub her forehead and make the pain go away. If the entire world was to disappear and all that was left was her and her Dad then Dotty would be the happiest Little Dotty in all of the world.

  The young woman nodded. ‘Ok, Dad. I’ll do it.’

  Ted smiled and planted a massive kiss on Dotty’ forehead making her giggle.

  ‘Now get on upstairs and get out of those dirty work clothes before pudding.’

  2

  With no sons to help on the land the farm was falling apart. That was the simple truth of it. Ted could work himself to the bone, and he was for all intense and purposes, but it still did no good. Dotty was there to help but she was a simple as the day is long and her mind couldn’t understand how important some tasks are. It isn’t her fault; it’s just the way it is. Thank god she can paint.