The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  “There has to be a judge,” said the Sheriff. “Otherwise it’d just be a lynching.”

  Chaplain Rumple came to him that night. He said, “Do not think about death. Death itself is nothing. It’s thinking about it that brings grief. Be nothing but life, right to the end.”

  “I’ve naught but contempt for a man who imagines that those who are to be hanged in the morning can occupy their minds with thoughts of something other than their demise. Get out. Do not sit on my stool. I have no use for you or your consolation.”

  So the chaplain departed, but then Tavish felt a slight remorse when it struck him that now he’d be all alone till they took him out to die.

  The night passed slowly. There were the constant sounds of hammering and muffled conversation coming from the town square as they worked on the gibbet. But the night passed very slowly. It’s true that clocks lie. Not every increment of time is of the same duration. There are moments that rush past in a blur, and others so sluggish they will not give way to the next, but have almost to be shoved aside. It was those latter moments that made up Tavish’s night. He thought it odd that the last few hours of life seemed to drag on forever. He’d imagined that if one had only a few hours to live, those hours would seem hopelessly short, flying away into the past before he’d had the opportunity to treasure them. But he had no use for life. The hours of the night loomed before him like endless obstacles he would have to endure in suffering and perseverance. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, realizing he’d done so when he came groggily awake as the first light of dawn crept through his window.

  So this was it. Soon they’d be coming for him. But they didn’t. His aching senses were dimly aware that the sounds of hammering and sawing that had been going on through the night were still going on. So the gibbet wasn’t ready yet. Delays, as usual. What did I expect?

  He closed his eyes and willed his mind to go blank. It did no good. His thoughts still needed something to occupy them. He reopened his eyes and took an inventory of his cell. Let’s see: there was a stool, a bed, a couple of weeds, a window through which he glimpsed the top of a tree. He looked at the weeds again. It struck him that these were his fellow prisoners, locked in the same cell, but their lives would continue after his was cut short. He decided he would pull them up, but didn’t do it just yet.

  They were so ordinary he hadn’t paid them any attention. In their ordinariness and their insignificance, did they remind him of himself? No, not really. He imagined an artist painting the scene of his last hours. He’d show the jail cell and he’d display Tavish’s anguished self, wearing a brave expression. He’d show the window and the tree outside. He wouldn’t show the weeds. They’d be blotted out, otherwise it wouldn’t be art. The only time anyone pays any attention to a weed is when he’s going to pull it up and throw it away, as Tavish was going to do to these. Now that he looked at them he saw the two weeds were the same type of plant. Where had they come from? Apparently two seeds had found their way, blown into the cell from who knows where, and finding a little dirt and moisture in the cracks between the flagstones they’d sprouted. It was really a tale of adventure and endurance. And now he was going to pull them up.

  He stood and took a closer look. Each had a light green stem with two flat orbiculate leaves at the base and a leafless head at the top. He was forced to concede they were remarkably unattractive, but doubtless this was a sturdy and invasive weed, impossible to stamp out. He had the feeling he’d been looking at weeds exactly like these all his life without ever actually seeing them. He was pleased to think at least he’d been spared long enough finally to take notice. And as he took notice he saw the plants were being approached along the floor by one of those speckled beetles that for some reason are called ladybirds. He decided to sit back down and watch.

  The ladybird moved slowly across the flagstones in the direction of one of the plants. It marched in a straight line, negotiating with some difficulty the cracks between the flagstones, but ultimately staying on course. Tavish felt almost godlike, observing a singularly humble event, but one doubtless of great import in the microscopical world of the beetle. At any moment he expected to be hauled off to his death, but he hoped he’d be allowed time to learn what the ladybird beetle was doing.

  The ladybird was moving in a straight line, approaching the plant it was nearest to. It reached one of the leaves and continued its march across it keeping as closely as possible to the same direction. It was not aiming at the stem of the plant; its ultimate objective seemed elsewhere. Watching the beetle he saw that the surface of the leaf was rough and uneven, causing the ladybird’s path sometimes to deviate from a straight line, but after each deviation it caught itself and returned to its original direction. Having crossed the first leaf the beetle returned briefly to the flagstones before it encountered the plant’s second leaf, which it then traversed just as it had the first. He wondered what its goal was or, for that matter, if it had a goal.

  The hangman, his black hood over his face, was at the bars of Tavish’s cell. It was just the Sheriff dressed to kill. “Are you Mr. Tavish?”

  Tavish was dismayed that he was not going to learn what the beetle was doing. He looked up. “You know damn well who I am.”

  “You’re to be hanged today.” The hangman stood there looking at him. Tavish wondered if he expected a reply. Then the hangman moved off, saying, “I’ll get the other two first.”

  Given a brief reprieve, Tavish returned his attention to the ladybird, seeing that it had finished crossing the second leaf and was heading across the flagstones again. He thought now he could see what its objective had been all along. It was heading straight for the stem of the other weed. When it reached the base of this weed it proceeded to crawl vertically up the stem. Having climbed a distance of perhaps an inch or an inch and a half it paused. This was the first moment since Tavish had sighted the beetle that it was motionless. Up till this point it had moved steadily along, surmounting obstacles, seemingly determined to arrive somewhere, wherever it was headed. Had it reached its goal? Was it going to do something? Tavish watched in suspense. The ladybird started moving again, resuming its ascent of the plant’s stem. The stem was perhaps eight inches tall, and the beetle was now undeterred, climbing steadily upwards. Just as it neared the top, the ladybird transformed. It opened its spotted shell to reveal a pair of wings, and flew away. It cycled lazily a couple times round the cell and then soared out the window.

  As Tavish sat back, a host of questions came to his mind. Why had the beetle bypassed the nearer plant in favor of the one further away? Both seemed identical. Then, what was its goal in climbing up the stem? Presumably it intended to reach the top, but then why had it flown away? What were its motivations? And what had the beetle accomplished? You’d think such a tiny creature would be altogether devoid of reasoning power and would be guided entirely by instinct. But if that were the case, wouldn’t its goals be unambiguous and its actions clearly designed to achieve them? Wouldn’t it have gone to the nearest plant instead of the one further away? Surely that’s what a sensible beetle would have done. But that was not the case. In fact, its actions had been entirely unpredictable. The events Tavish had just witnessed must have encompassed an enormous episode in the very short life span that would be the beetle’s, perhaps comparable to his trek from Port Jay to Kashahar with Katie. And as he thought of that, all he’d felt came back from the oblivion where it had hidden, and his heart broke again, aching for the stupid, pitiless loss of it all. All the pain he’d tried to escape, all the anguish that was his, now fell onto him and he wondered, if God had been looking down on him, had all his actions conveyed the same air of perplexing pointlessness? And what had he accomplished?

  It was clear the ladybird could not have been guided by instinct. It had been guided by considerations of content and discontent. It had rejected one plant and selected another, and then had changed its mind once more and flown away. It had made choices that revealed a senselessness and lack of
purpose that could only be the results of rational thought. In fact, it was impossible to deny that the beetle was a reasoning being moved by its own free will. But if that were the case, then every tiny insect, every mote and glume of life must be just the same. They were all freely making an infinitude of choices. And the resulting universe was shaped by the unpredictable whims of every organism acting chaotically on its own. There could be no grand, eternal plan. Everything was senseless. Life wasn’t a predetermined path of cause and consequence, yet he’d felt shackled to the past, a fly dangling in the iron web woven of regret. Why? He felt he was glimpsing an important truth, one that changed everything he’d ever believed. If a coin was tossed a thousand times, and every time came up heads —

  He was interrupted again by the hangman, this time with Dane and Bramij in tow. “Mr. Tavish, you must come and be hanged.”

  He led Tavish out of his cell towards the gibbet to which the final touches had at last been applied. As they approached the town square they came to a spot with a view of the surrounding countryside and the nearby Sound. He saw a man with a pony. The pony’s nose was deep in its feed bag and the animal was munching happily away. What ever happened to Neddy? he wondered. Over the Sound it was raining. He could see the falling rain, and through it a distant patch of blue sky. The effect was of a shade of azure he couldn’t remember ever having seen before. He paused and stared. It gave him the feeling all of nature was speaking to him, it had always spoken to him, all his life, and there was a meaning behind all the things it had ever said, and all the things it had ever said meant the same thing, and what it meant was –

  “Blast your stinking ass,” said Bramij.

  The hangman gave him a poke from behind. “Sorry to disturb your meditations, but we’re behind schedule.”

  “Ah, no matter, I was only thinking about ladybirds.”

  FINIS

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge people who read some early chapters and offered criticism: Andrew Alford, Tom Cantillon, Todd Honeycutt, Bill Mingin, Jason Radak and Johanna Rodda. And of course, I owe a big debt of gratitude to Dario Ciriello, without whose advice and guidance this book would never have seen the light of day.

  Author’s Note

  If you enjoyed this story, please take a moment to post a review, however short. Tell your friends about this book, or mention it on social media. Since indie authors like me depend on our readers to spread the word, every mention helps. I also invite you to drop by my website at donnallymiller.com, where you’ll find information about me, free stories, and my blog.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  A GRAVE AT MIDNIGHT

  NEW ACQUAINTANCES

  A FRESH PAIR OF BOOTS

  THE TOSS OF A COIN

  WITCHCRAFT IN THE WOODS

  SOMETHING SAVED AND SOMETHING LOST

  A DANCE BY MOONLIGHT

  IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

  PIRACY AND PILLAGE

  TWO VAGABONDS

  PART TWO

  THE EYE OF MADDIBIMBO

  ONCE MORE UNDER THE SUN

  FREEDOM AND ITS DISCONTENTS

  THE FULL OF THE MOON

  A MAN MUST HAVE A PURPOSE

  COUNSELS OF WAR

  COLDBLOOD FARM

  THE DEVIL’S KISS

  LOST BASTARD ISLAND

  THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST

  PART THREE

  DODGY EYEBALLS

  THE SPECTER OF THE WOLFMAN

  HEARTBREAK HILL

  SORROW AND THE TRUE NATURE OF GOD

  IN THE DEVIL’S WORKSHOP

  LOVE CONQUERS ALL

  BUTTOCKRACY

  OBSESSION

  STORY’S END

  A MEDITATION ON LADYBIRDS

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note