The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  “My son, I had hoped for better from you, but truly I am not surprised. I have witnessed your craven disposition in the past. It is permissible to show it to me, but I would caution you against showing it to others. The tribe has need of you. For their sake you must be strong as I have been strong. I have been a mighty warrior and an indomitable support for our clan. Even today, though I am now in my sixth decade I can outfight any man in this tribe, and in the running of the ponies always I come first. This I accomplish through sheer force of will, since it matters not which pony I mount, I win.”

  “Father, these things simply are not true.”

  “They are true. What I say cannot be denied. I can call fire into being with only the sound of my voice, and I can cure the sick by the laying on of my hands.”

  “Often you have boasted of these things, but I have never seen them performed. Just two days ago some came to you to be healed and you beat them off with a stick.”

  “You know I cannot summon the powers when I am disrespected. I did not tolerate disrespect from them and I will not tolerate it from you.”

  “Since we will never speak again, I will not hide from you the truth. I have never respected you. And I am glad for the chance to say this to your face. If you die tomorrow I will always remember you as you are now: angry and indignant to the point of apoplexy. So filled with rage you can barely speak.”

  Storm Panther grabbed the feathered spear and used it as a club, hitting Dark Owl over the head. “You are not my son,” he shouted. Dark Owl pounced on him and knocked him to the ground. The two men wrestled with one another, spitting and kicking in their fury. The traveling man and the brave jumped on them and separated them from one another before they could inflict any serious harm.

  “Fleet Cougar,” said Storm Panther to the brave who was restraining him, “you should have been my son. My wife must have slept with a weasel and gave birth to this one.”

  The traveling man was holding back Dark Owl. “You two are more alike than you know.”

  Eventually Fleet Cougar and the traveling man were able to calm them down. Fleet Cougar then saddled two horses, one for Storm Panther and the other for himself. The two of them mounted and, joined by the traveling man with Fergus, set off for the shore.

  They rode through the night, coming to the water’s edge under cover of darkness. There was a single canoe waiting, beached on the shore. Once they dismounted, Fleet Cougar knelt at Storm Panther’s feet.

  “I have shaken off the fancies of the night, and the ride has left my mind clear. I will go with you. Together we will do what must be done.” As Storm Panther stood undecided, Fleet Cougar added, “You will need another paddle. It is a far distance you go.”

  “This task has been decreed for myself alone. I say this not in pride, but in just forbearance. Go home to your squaw and your pup. They yet have need of you.”

  “My squaw and I have long since said all we have to say to one another, and my pup I do not think is mine. There is no one closer to me than yourself. If I cannot stand beside you I have no place to be.”

  Storm Panther placed his hand on Fleet Cougar’s head and looked for some moments into the distance. Finally he said, “As you say, it is a far distance we go. Your paddle will be welcome.” The traveling man then gave Storm Panther some petards and incendiary devices he had prepared. Storm Panther took those he could comfortably carry. Some he gave to Fleet Cougar. They would use these to get through any gates they might find closed against them. Also each had a rifle. Storm Panther intended to use a shot from the rifle to ignite the fatal spark once they arrived at the gunpowder room.

  They sat in the canoe, Storm Panther in the stern and Fleet Cougar in the bow, and took their paddles in hand. Then, easing into the Sound, they turned to wave farewell to the traveling man and Fergus, left on shore. As they turned back to put their paddles in the water Storm Panther saw a third figure seated on the thwart in the middle of the canoe. He hadn’t seen him arrive, but here he was, his paddle in the water, a figure made of shades of darkness. His face was hidden, one shadow inside another, and at the heart of these shadows were his eyes. They were completely black with no sign of iris or pupil, black orbs that regarded Storm Panther with an uncanny vision incapable of sight. No reflections could be seen on the surface of those orbs. There was nothing, only a blackness that looked out and searched and seeing all, saw that it also was nothing.

  “Death,” said Storm Panther, “of all the gods, truly you are the most punctual.”

  Death spoke, but its speech was a nearly silent mumble, a garbled jumble of sounds, hinting of a terrifying threat and signifying nothing.

  “Had you far to come, or is all distance the same?”

  Again the sad mumble, fading into silence.

  So they had a companion unlooked for and the three of them paddled the canoe across the still waters of the Sound, observed by none but the countless stars. As they traveled, Storm Panther spoke softly, letting his words drift into the night. He spoke of the many joys he had known in life and of the many heartaches also and the mysteries he’d left unsolved and the nightmares he’d endured and the romances and the dreams he’d had, all of them making the one great dream that had been the life he’d led. He mourned the ending of this dream and as he did he thought he saw a tear fall and slowly drift down Death’s cheek. All this was done as they paddled across the Sound, bringing destruction to Lost Bastard Island.

  At one point they saw the lights of a fleet of ships looming out of the night to their left. These ships were going opposite to the direction of Storm Panther’s canoe. These were the Nemesis and other ships of the line, convoying the soldiers who had been stationed on Lost Bastard Island across the Sound, the second pincer in General Hobsbawm’s grand deployment. As the ships passed in darkness some note, albeit very little, was taken of the canoe off their port side. Two midshipmen sharing a mug of grog were out. Happening to glance in the direction of the canoe, one said, “Look, there’s something there.”

  His companion leaned casually over the rail. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s a canoe, an Indian canoe. I’m certain of it.”

  “Oy, Harry, toss that spyglass over here.”

  “I wonder what it’s doing there?”

  “Oh, I see . . . That’s not a canoe. That’s a walrus.”

  “Don’t hit me on the back of the head. I hate it when you do that.”

  “Well I can’t believe you can’t recognize a bloody walrus when you see one.”

  “Are you sure? Give me the spyglass.”

  “Here.”

  “Woops!”

  “Oh crikey!”

  There was the sound of a splash.

  “Well now that’s in the drink.”

  “In any event, I’m certain it’s a walrus.”

  “We’ve gone past it anyhow.”

  Coming into shore they silently beached their canoe and disembarked. They picked the canoe up and carried it to a nearby sycamore, where they concealed it under the leafy branches. The sun was just rising in the east. They each checked their rifle to make sure a bullet was loaded and ready to fire, then they crossed the field of waving grasses between the Sound and the walls of the depot.

  The convoy had already left, so one portion of the traveling man’s plan would not be achieved. But they were probably lucky this was the case, since the barracks being now nearly empty there were very few sentinels on patrol, and those that were were exhausted by the exertions of the night, when the troops had been loaded onto the ships. This helped the two of them elude detection till they had nearly reached their goal.

  Coming to the postern gate Storm Panther saw it was open, as the traveling man had told him it would be, so they entered and proceeded down a hall with walls of stone, gradually giving way to bricks and mortar. Storm Panther led the way. The traveling man had taught him the path to follow to the gunpowder room, which lay at the very center of the arsenal. It was fortunate Storm Panther had
studied this path well, for there were many twists and turns through that stony maze. On either side were corridors leading to unknown places, dark halls and iron doors shut tight against them. Times the light was bright as day, times so dim they barely saw their way. They encountered no one, but imagined watchers in every shadow. Quickly they walked, their moccasins making no sound.

  They were nearing their destination when, hastily turning a corner, they saw a guardsman stretched across the floor, his head resting on his right arm. As they cautiously approached he raised his head and gave them a bleary look.

  “Hello,” he said. “You’re dressed funny.”

  Fleet Cougar raised his rifle to shoot, but Storm Panther, sensing the guardsman posed no threat, stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Are you alone?”

  “Course not. You guys are here.” He gave a chuckle, then looked around. “The others must have left. Spoil sports.”

  Storm Panther gave a glance to Fleet Cougar and then pointed his head in the direction they were going.

  As they were leaving, the guardsman got to his feet. “Wait. There’s another bottle. I’m sure there is.”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Storm Panther.

  “You don’t understand. I have to get to my wedding.” He gave a cockeyed smile. “Won’t you help me?”

  The request was altogether ludicrous, but the guardsman looked so bereft the Indians had to struggle with their instinctive urge to help. Fleet Cougar asked, “Where do you need to go?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s . . . this way,” pointing to a door. “Please help.”

  “Here.” Fleet Cougar helped him towards the door.

  Storm Panther clucked impatiently. “We can’t. Someone could be coming.”

  The guardsman looked over his shoulder to where he’d been lying and said, “There’s blood. There. On the floor.”

  Fleet Cougar looked about. “Where?”

  “Can’t you see it? The floor is slick with blood.” He wailed softly in fear and confusion.

  “Keep quiet. You’ll bring others.” He grabbed the guardsman and hustled him to the door. He opened it as the guardsman’s wails grew louder and shoved him through, then ran back to Storm Panther.

  The guardsman abruptly reemerged through the door with a pistol in his hand. His air of dazed bewilderment had been dropped like a mask. He fired a shot that caught Fleet Cougar in the shoulder, shouting, “Die, you cursed Indians!” Fleet Cougar fell. Storm Panther raised his rifle and got off a shot at the guardsman, but before he could do so the guardsman had fired another shot that hit Fleet Cougar in the head and then disappeared through the doorway shouting, “There’s Indians inside the fort!”

  Storm Panther knelt beside his fallen companion.

  “I am finished,” said Fleet Cougar. “I have just a few breaths left. Leave me.”

  “No, I will not leave you behind.”

  “Already pursuit is forming. I will lie here and slow it down, but you must go ahead.”

  “I am so sorry, my brother.”

  “Be glad. You are able to do what you came here to do. Go.”

  So Storm Panther left him, but it was not very long before he heard voices raised in alarm behind him, and then the sound of shots being exchanged.

  He was in a long hallway leading to a flight of stairs down to the gunpowder room. At the foot of the stair stood two sentries who shouted to him to stop. He stopped just long enough to raise his gun and shoot. He saw Death seize one of the sentries. The other fired his gun, and Storm Panther felt the pain of the bullet in his side. He rushed forward and battered the man, knocking his head against the wall. Then, looking back, he saw his pursuers reaching the top of the stair. Before him was the entrance to the gunpowder room, blocked by a stout, metal door. He drew forth a petard the traveling man had given him and placed it at the foot of the door. He lit the fuse. Then, fighting the pain in his side, stepped back far enough to be safe from the blast. He turned to fire at the soldiers streaming down the steps. Putting the rifle to his shoulder, he shot as many as he could, but took two bullets to his legs, and fell to the floor. The petard behind him exploded, sending fragments of stone and mortar blazing towards him. He hadn’t gotten far enough from the blast, and he was covered in rubble, but at least the pursuing soldiers were set back on their heels and the door to the gunpowder room was shattered. Looking into the room he saw the massed munitions, kegs of gunpowder, shell after shell filled with inflammable material. He tried to stand, but he no longer had legs, only the unspeakable agony of broken bone and throbbing pain. He saw Death, with not a hint of speculation in those ghastly orbs, holding out a hand.

  “Death,” he whispered, “once I take your hand I am done. I must do one thing first.” He tried to crawl through the shattered remnant of the doorway, but already the first soldier from the stairs was upon him.

  Death spoke. This time his words were clear, but only Storm Panther heard them. Then, taking Storm Panther’s hand he lifted him up and held the rifle steady. Storm Panther aimed it through the blasted door and fired, but nothing happened. There were no more bullets.

  “I can call fire into being with the sound of my voice.” Just as the first soldier to reach him grabbed his shoulders and brought him to the floor, he called out the word to ignite the fatal spark.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST

  The blast was heard for many miles up and down the Coast. Teeth were rattled and ear drums concussed. Bits and pieces of the guns came raining down on Indians dancing their war dance under the fragrant boughs of the hawthorn trees in the Forgotten Forest; on a very footsore Tom trudging along the Coast Road in an old pair of boots that were giving him blisters; on fishermen trimming their sails and casting their nets in the waters off Lost Bastard Island. All the silver bells in Deirdre’s bower deep in the woods were set to ringing. The warriors surrounding Half Moon leapt to their feet with a resounding whoop of triumph. It even woke General Hobsbawm as he slept uncomfortably on his cot in the tent that had been hastily erected the night before to serve as company headquarters.

  The adjutant who had been sleeping at the tent’s entrance came in, bringing some gritty morning light with him. He lit an oil lamp and hung it on a hook. “A tremor passed through the encampment, sir. I suspect there might have been an earthquake.”

  “I thought I heard an explosion,” said the General.

  “You were snoring again.”

  “You’ve got some lip. I would advise you . . . Oh the hell with it.” He’d get another adjutant. He sat up. A blue kerchief was tied around his head. He’d suffered from a headache all the day before and he’d adopted the cure recommended by his old nurse when he was very young, although he’d never known it to help, a kerchief to provide relief. “I don’t snore.”

  “How do you know? You’re asleep. Here’s water.” The adjutant set a bucket of water down near the General’s cot.

  “An earthquake, I think, would be a bad omen.” The General rose and placed a three-legged stool next the bucket. “I’m going to need the report from Captain Musgrove. And while you’re at it could you go round Colonel Dunder’s tent and ask him to poke his head in? I have a question for him.” The adjutant left as General Hobsbawm sat on the stool and proceeded to shave. As he ran the razor across his face, with his other hand he pulled a deal table with a map of the Forgotten Forest over to his side. The army had many maps of the Forest, no two alike. The Forest’s reputation as a place where all paths went astray and all travelers were lost was well established. Everyone knew tales of wanderers who’d entered the Forest and were never seen again. And it was thought that it wasn’t always Indians who were responsible for their disappearance. But what other nameless scourge it was that had done away with them none would say. Most of the army’s maps dated from a time when the scouts had made an attempt to survey the Indian trails. This was part of a project, later abandoned, to put an artillery post on Windswept Hill. All the maps of t
he Forest were similar in outline, but differed in countless details. They all showed the glens that were sprinkled through the Forest like a giant’s footsteps. Also Windswept Hill was a notable landmark. But there was much less agreement when it came to other topographical features, such as the bogs and various patches of swampy terrain, and many small lakes and streams that seemed to come and go with the seasons. On the map Hobsbawm was looking over, the major Indian paths had been drawn with great clarity in maroon-colored ink, like veins of blood superimposed on the green of the Forest. Once he’d concluded his shave, Hobsbawm shifted his attention from the map to a large piece of broken mirror in which he inspected his appearance as the adjutant, returning from his errand, shepherded Colonel Dunder and Captain Musgrove into the tent.

  Captain Musgrove’s beard was flecked with gray. He gave his report while standing at attention. “Last night the scouts spread out a bit and took in parts of the Forest we’ll be passing through. There’s nary an Indian between our camp and the Hill. They’re all on the other side.”

  “There are Indians everywhere.” The Colonel was in a rare mood. ”Everywhere!” He could hardly hold still. He was one of those who actually enjoyed the fighting. He put up with the humdrum and discipline of military life just for the chance to devise martial strategies and inflict them on his wretched opponents. “Today’s the day. I can almost smell them.”

  “With all due respect they aren’t between here and the Hill. They’re on the other –“

  “Yes you said that.”

  “— side of the Hill and they’ve been there the better part of two weeks. ”

  “The other side of the Hill?” The General looked at the map. “That would be to the west? Dunder, where is our precise location?”

  “We’re in the Forest,” he answered with a smile.

  “Please, I need specifics. Can you point to the spot on this map?”

  “Let me see . . . If I’d known this was to be an exercise in geography I’d have brought my sextant to get a good reading on the latitude.”