The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  “What shall we do?” asked Half Moon. “Shall we run them down?”

  Black Crow just raised the spear he held, from which were hanging scalps he had taken in yesterday’s fighting and pointed it north, as much as to say, “Drive them into the sea.”

  Half Moon turned to Clumphy. Clumphy felt out of place. He was mounted on a large but very tractable mare, as befitted one of Half Moon’s inner circle, but he had no spear, no scalps and no war paint. He had been presented with a feathered head dress, but hadn’t been able to figure out how to put it on. His head was bare. “Clumphy,” said Half Moon, “I feel the time is near when I will see again those enchantresses who tantalize me in my dreaming hours. But perhaps we must finish these soldiers off first. What is your counsel?”

  Clumphy looked at Half Moon. He realized the words he spoke to the Indians were not the words they understood him to say. He realized that communication between one person and another was a chancy proposition at best, that people’s minds were like stars separated by vast distances twinkling to one another, that anything he said to this man would be creatively misunderstood and applied in ways that no doubt would make his flesh crawl, but that he would be given the credit for having passed on whatever insight it was that Half Moon would be inspired by. He opened his mouth to say these things. “I think that –“

  Half Moon cut him off. “Did I ever tell you about my grandfather? He also was given the promise of a great revelation to be made clear after he had finished destroying the last of his enemies. For him it took the form of an eagle that led him to the spot where he found Dappled Doe and made her his squaw. I wonder what form it will take for me? You are right, Clumphy, as always. We must complete the job that is before us. We must drive the remnants of this army into the sea and then we will see what is revealed.”

  They rode on. The Coast Road came into view. Half Moon rode in triumph across the Road, onto the strand and saw the ocean. Gulls were in the sky. He waved to them, his brothers. He looked all around. The cloud wrack that had hovered over the Sound for most of the day was moving inland, portending rain later in the day. But apart from that there was nothing, no great secret waiting to be unveiled. Just a few Indians whooping it up, a stiff wind from offshore, and a lot of clouds. Not a bad day, but he’d expected something more.

  Something in the waves caught Clumphy’s eye. It was hard to distinguish amidst the frothy masses of foam the waves were washing onshore, but there seemed to be – no, could it be? – a piece of paper being pulled slightly forward and slightly back, at the sport of the surf. The more he looked the more certain he became that it was a piece of paper and, what’s more, there was writing on it. “Look,” he said and pointed. Half Moon saw what he was pointing at and he dismounted and walked to the water’s edge. Clumphy slid off his mare and followed him. Half Moon picked up the piece of paper. The ink had run slightly, but amazingly the words could be made out. There could be no question this was the message he had been promised and which he had come so far to receive. A look of dumbstruck disbelief and dismay came to his face.

  “What does it say?” Clumphy asked him.

  Half Moon stood, staring at the piece of paper, but said not a word.

  “Well, man, don’t keep me hanging,” said Clumphy.

  Half Moon looked at him in perplexity. “It says, ‘I will not marry a wallaby.’”

  “Alleluia!” shouted Clumphy. “The Lord has spoken!” He danced up and down, sand cascading from his sandaled feet.

  “But it is not clear what He means to tell me.”

  “Of course not. The words of the Lord must be interpreted. You don’t expect Him to come right out with what He means, do you?”

  “Why not . . .? The black bear spoke clearly. He said I would have a great triumph and a glorious death. I had no need to interpret his words.”

  “This is different.” They had been joined now by Black Crow and some of the other Indians. “The words of the Lord are always subject to interpretation. This is why priests are necessary. Now, let’s start with the first phrase. He says, ‘I will not.’ This is the negative. There is something He will not do. Or, putting yourself in the position of the first person you can interpret it as a commandment directed to you, something you must not do.”

  “I mustn’t marry a wallaby.”

  “That is the literal meaning of the words, but what is their spiritual meaning? To read the words of the Lord you must always look beyond what the words say to the awesome truth that is being uncovered. Marriage is a joining together. God is telling you there is something you must not join together.”

  “What?”

  “It is a great mystery . . . God is saying you must not join yourself to a wallaby. But what is a wallaby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s a marsupial,” said Black Crow.

  “Now if you were to join yourself in marriage to someone, it would be to a woman. So the wallaby in this commandment must stand in place of some sort of woman.”

  “What sort of woman?”

  “That’s the question: what sort of woman? A w —, a w — . . . a witch! Of course. They even start with the same letter. Could it be any clearer? You must not join together with the witches!”

  “I mustn’t?”

  “No, of course you mustn’t. Don’t you see? ‘I will not marry a wallaby.’ You mustn’t join the witches. You see how interpretation makes everything clear.”

  The upshot was that Half Moon did not lead his Indians to the spot where the witches awaited them. He did not unite with them to sport again with those incomparable beauties Issoria and Vanessa, and to receive the magical help Deirdre could have given him. He turned away instead and, the rain now coming down in earnest, the Indians stayed where they were, where they were encountered by the fresh troops under the command of Colonel Milquetoast that had been convoyed across the Sound. Fatigued after almost a full day’s fighting the Indians were cut to pieces by these reinforcements coming to Hobsbawm’s aid at the eleventh hour. Half Moon was killed leading a charge against the colonial armed cavalry. He fell from his horse shouting his war cry, and his close friend Black Crow fell at his side. So he had his great victory and his glorious death, as promised by the black bear. The day that began in triumph was turned to defeat by the time darkness fell. Colonel Milquetoast’s victorious forces routed the Indians, sending them east along the Coast and south into the Forest, where the great gathering Half Moon had forged into a unified war party dissolved into bands of separate tribes seeking the safety of their individual home grounds. Many warriors returned to crops that had not been harvested, bearing tales of a campaign that had wreaked awful destruction on the white man but which, despite its many triumphs, had ultimately fallen short. The guns of Lost Bastard Island had been demolished and three regiments of the colonial army commanded by General Hobsbawm had been effectively destroyed. But in the end there were just too many soldiers. It was General Hobsbawm’s dedication to the recruitment of new soldiers that proved decisive. The white man had made it clear he was here to stay.

  But what had become of Stuart Lovejoy?

  After leaving General Hobsbawm’s tent for the second time the night before, he had stood alone for several moments. Killing his erstwhile friend and companion had given him an irrational feeling of grandeur which he was allowing to rocket through his veins as he realized he’d just outshot a dangerous and unexpected antagonist and perhaps saved the entire campaign. At the same time he had a duty to fulfill but was still without a written warrant authorizing him to enlist another’s aid. Oh well, he thought, the sooner I get started the sooner I’ll be done. So he decided to make the ride to San Dorio on his own. This was the first of a string of decisions he made that night that perhaps he should have reconsidered.

  He spurred his horse and rode out of camp, galloping to make up time. However, what with his hurried pace and his wandering thoughts, in the dark he missed the path Hobsbawm had told him to take. He kept on f
or more than an hour, convinced he would come to it soon, before finally deciding he must have gone far past it. Just as he slowed his horse and prepared to turn back, he saw a faint trail entering the path he was on from the left. Of course he knew this was not the turning he’d intended to take, but doing his best to bring to mind the map he’d seen in Hobsbawm’s tent, he thought he remembered seeing a trail that intersected their route further to the east and which led to the port of San Dorio. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he had seen it on the map, and that this unprepossessing little track must be it. At any rate, if it wasn’t, by taking it he would almost certainly be heading in the right direction, and since Hobsbawm had told him he’d have to leave the beaten path anyway, he reasoned that he’d be no worse off than if he’d taken the correct turning to start with. So, to save the time involved in retracing his steps, he decided he’d best take this path. He thought this all through and then laughed at himself because he realized it was all total nonsense, and he wouldn’t even have considered doing it if not for his grandiose and giddy mood. Obviously, he should just accept the fact he’d made a mistake and ride back the way he’d come, to the path Hobsbawm had told him to take. His horse already had taken seven steps backwards as he considered this, before he dug in his spurs and headed into the little track.

  The little track quickly faded into a porridge of soil, gravel, weeds, bracken. He found himself picking his way between the boles of birch trees and the shadowed shrubbery. He felt confident he was continuing to head north, though in the darkness under the leafy branches he was unable to get a fix on the sky above. As his assurance in his direction slowly waned, he contemplated turning around, but at this point he was certain that doing so would definitely do away with any sense of direction he’d been able to hang onto, so he continued moving ahead. His procedure was to pick out a tree trunk directly in front and move towards it. Once he’d gotten there he would pick out another one, and this way he was satisfied he was going in a reasonably straight line. From time to time he’d tried looking backwards, to identify the trees he’d used as landmarks and assure himself they led directly back the way he’d come. He thought he was able to do this, but the trees looked different when viewed from the other side, so he wasn’t sure.

  It had been a hot night when he started, but as he went deeper into the woods the air took on a definite chill. He wondered if this was a sign he was approaching the shore. He noticed that the ground was becoming less overgrown, there were fewer small bushes and vines to contend with and his mount was having less trouble with its footing. If he was approaching the shore, this had definitely been a worthwhile short cut and he congratulated himself on having made the right choice, but if that was the case why was he still heading uphill? He didn’t remember any high points in this part of the woods, so this was an altogether puzzling development. This was to be only the first of many puzzles. The trees had become corkscrewed, scanty and bare. It wasn’t always possible to find one directly ahead, so he now attempted to guide himself by gaps between the tree trunks. In addition, it was becoming much colder. He folded the collar of his coat up to prevent the chill night air from getting to his neck, and he saw his tired horse’s exhalations were making plumes of condensation in the frigid gloom. It never gets this cold here, certainly not in the summer. He was nearing the summit of the hill and he hoped he would be able to spot some landmarks and make sense of where he was, but when he reached the top and looked around he didn’t recognize anything. It was a landscape wholly unfamiliar to him. He wondered if he was still in the Forgotten Forest. Perhaps he had wandered somehow into another forest further north, or into another season, or another year. Where was he? He looked up, and as he did a snowflake landed on his nose. This is impossible. It never snows here. But he looked around, and snow was falling. He was on the peak of a high hill somewhere, where only a few scrawny pines were able to establish a foothold, and it was snowing. He must have traveled thousands of miles from his starting point in the Forgotten Forest, but he couldn’t have. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since he’d left the army encampment and gotten lost.

  He saw the sky now. It was full of stars, but no constellations he could recognize. He stood in his stirrups. He tried looking west to see if he could spot any sign of the army. But . . . which way was west? He’d come completely untethered. He looked about himself and everywhere he saw the pure revelation of an answerless puzzle. He’d left the desperate grinding broken desperation of war, where nameless thousands tossed themselves at death, and in the darkness he’d found a mysterious still solitude here, which was nowhere, somewhere above and away, where snowflakes were falling now with more weight and almost with a purpose, covering the ground in a uniform whiteness, glistening in the starlight, concealing all the bumps and gashes of the wounded ground under a primeval blanket of the purest white.

  PART THREE

  ENDGAME

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DODGY EYEBALLS

  Who can say where love starts? In a fancy or in the heart? Is it buried within, or a thing apart? Does it start with a look? Or maybe a smile, a laughing eye across a room, a gentle guile persuading us in words we thought were long forgotten. Does it start when two people know something no two people knew before? Or was it there already, before those things could happen? Did it start as a secret in the heart? A secret trapped that couldn’t get away, that had one thing to say, that escaped one day when that look, that smile, that guile found the words they had to say? I love you. The love was always there, just the you was lacking.

  Thoughts such as these went through Tom’s mind as he trudged the dusty Coast Road towards Port Jay. He’d left one trouble behind, and there was sure to be trouble ahead, but this afternoon trouble lay on him lightly. He reasoned if Port Jay had burned, refugees would be streaming towards Kashahar and he thought he might encounter them, but so far he’d seen no one. That puzzled him. There were also very few overtaking him in the direction he was headed. Of course he wouldn’t overtake any, he was going slow as a man could go, bar crawling, which he had considered. The pain in his right foot was as agonizing as any pain he’d ever felt and his boots had worn blisters on his heels and toes. Dusky light was stealing across his path and there wasn’t a house or building in sight where he’d be able to beg or borrow a roof over his head. It would be a night in the woods beside the road, but the night looked to be a fair one, so he sought a likely spot.

  For Tom it had started with a brew, a potion he’d quaffed, and ever since he’d not been able to call his heart his own. It happened the afternoon of the honsung – that was the name they gave the celebration when a merchant ship returned after a profitable voyage – when the Master and the merchants distributed the proceeds to the sailors and the crew. The townspeople came and of course the women came too who were always wanting to help the sailors celebrate. It was a happy day. Tom took his portion as always to his aged father, but when he got to his house he found a stranger at the door who told him if he was looking for the old man who’d lived there he’d died three months ago, and he’d find his old rags, that were all he’d possessed, down at the town hall. He’d tried to learn more but the door had been shut in his face. Coming back to the celebration he hadn’t felt like drinking and carousing with his fellows, and the women all repulsed him with their pasted-on smiles and calculating eyes, so he’d gone to sit outside the saloon and ponder what he’d come to. He was sorely distressed, and the little he’d drunk only deepened his gloom, and the jaunty music from inside, where couples were dancing and acting gay, couldn’t find the smallest chink in his spirit to get in and give him some cheer.

  He was on the point of leaving and losing himself in the streets of the city, when he saw a woman was seated across from him. She bore an air of having sat there awhile, though he hadn’t noticed her before. Silent mystery hovered about her, and he realized he was staring at her silver locks, and the way the light seemed softer when it fell on he
r pale skin. He met her gaze and looking quickly away was on the point of apologizing when she held up her hand.

  “Don’t speak. I know your sadness well. Today it stings, but sorrow cannot last. Memories of your father’s goodness soon will fill your heart. Unhappiness is all illusion.”

  “How do you know of my father?”

  Her eyes rested on him and he felt like an empty vessel seen all the way through. “I watched as you made your way to his house. The firmest foundations on which we rest our lives sometimes turn to water.”

  “Were you one of the women inside? I don’t remember you.”

  “My daughter is inside. Your throat is dry.”

  Tom realized he was parched.

  “She’ll bring you that you thirst for.” She rose and disappeared into the saloon.

  A moment later Katie came out with a pitcher of wine and two glasses. “Come, my friend, this is not the place to be sad and lonely. I’ve brought you a drink.” She sat beside him.

  “It’s kind of you to share some time with me. But I’d not be an object of your pity.”

  “This is pity I’m showing, is it? No. I call it kindness. You can call it what you want. But I believe a kind deed done will come back to the one that did it.” She poured them each a glass.

  “Then I think you’ve not much experienced the way of the world. Nothing’s rewarded less than a kind deed.”

  “Oh, aren’t you the wise man. Drink up your wine and I’ll have no more of your long face and your sorry words. Why must you be the one blister of woe on such a happy day as the honsung?”