by Mike Miller
Sek turned to Conrad. “He said--”
“I know,” said Conrad, smiling and cracking his knuckles.
Chapter XI
A Wager of the Highest Stakes
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Douglas asked.
“Of course,” Baxter said, clapping his hand on Conrad’s back like a boxer’s corner man.
Conrad said, “Thank you for the confidence, Baxter. You chaps just be ready if they’re sore losers.”
“If you lose, you’ll be sore. That I assure you,” said Douglas, with more animosity than jest in his tone. ”And if you win, they’ll likely gut you too. You thinking your refined English ways hold any sway up here is malarkey.”
“I’m not so worried about that,” said Conrad, shaking out his limbs and stretching his muscles. The elder soldier glanced over at his rival performing a pre-exercise ritual which involved rotating his torso with his arms draped over a sheathed sword. “Not worried at all.” Baxter watched Conrad’s eyes narrow into thin blue slits, the pupils locked on his enemy like artillery barrels.
When Conrad sauntered forward into the circular opening of the crowd, the large brute responded in kind. The already raucous crowd surged into a new level of frenzy, as the various witnesses began crowing wildly at the start of the evening’s newest entertainment.
A skirmish erupted on the side, as a group of men began wrestling with one another, diverting attention from the main event. Their rumble was nothing remarkable, as the audience on the periphery of the viewing circle quickly swept them off to disappear in the background as a less fascinating spectacle.
When Conrad returned his attention back to the task at hand, he found his undistracted opponent had remained stoically in place like granite except for his seething huffs of breath in the cold air.
“By the by, what is this gentleman’s name?” Conrad said, motioning to the muscular thug standing across the circle from him.
“His name is Chiksai,” Sek explained, and Conrad nodded at the dubbing of his opponent. “His name means ‘the moment of death.’“
“Does it now?” Conrad said jovially. “I didn’t ask, but thank you for the explanation.” Sensing Conrad’s nervous hesitation, Chiksai revealed his toothless grin to gnaw some black teeth together with a small, grinding sound.
“Remind them all of the rules,” Conrad informed Sek, who was enthusiastically eager to be the de facto master of ceremonies for the contest. Like a trained carnival barker, he screamed at the top of his lungs. His raspy voice was anchored with a baritone that carried throughout the wild bar’s cacophony. Conrad looked back at his comrades where the three other men waited solemnly in stark contrast to the lively and drunken revelry surrounding them. Conrad reassuringly smiled.
Sek said in English now, “You do one thing, he must do exact same thing. Five times! Gold for skin map!” Sek held up his palm in rude proximity to Conrad’s face, showcasing the filth and scabs on the hand to his disgust.
“Yes, indeed,” Conrad answered while lowering the grotesque appendage. “Five!” Conrad held his own hand up with theatrical swagger, his fingers spread wide. Slowly he lowered the palm down and closed all his fingers except for his index finger, which remained pointed at the roof. “One,” he said calmly.
Sek screamed the count in his own language, and held his own finger high like a torch. The crowd echoed the count, and Conrad enjoyed the contagious excitement.
When the cheering finally silenced and the crowd held in rapt attention, Conrad settled into a stance, almost as if he were about to draw down his pistol on a hapless victim. Slowly and deliberately, he held his arms out wide as if about to give a giant hug to the surly Chiksai. Then he clasped them together like a parody of a seal clapping. Next, he flipped his hands to point outwards as if his wrists and elbows had been broken. The outwardly turned palms reached past each other, than clasped together from their opposite sides. Fingers over knuckles, he bound his two hands together in a tight ball, looking as if he was trying to restrain himself in some cuffs.
He then rotated his balled hands down towards his stomach, folding his arms at the elbows so that his hands spun just up under his chin. Conrad winced as if the motion were rupturing his arms, but eventually the clasped hands were able to settle in place positioned slightly below and before his face. Suddenly, the index finger on each hand peeked up from the other fingers like earthworms from the ground. He waggled them to cockily dare the befuddled Chiksai to follow suit.
When the act finished with a flourishing sweep of Conrad’s arm towards the competition, Chiksai and his posse erupted in laughter, soon followed by the rest of the crowd.
“That it?” Douglas said. “That?”
Conrad shouted sternly over the mocking laughter of the tavern, “Tell him to do it, or he forfeits the match!”
“‘Forfeit?’“ Sek asked.
“Lose,” Conrad explained.
Sek lectured Chiksai to repeat the motions immediately, which finally quelled his chuckling. Clearing his throat to grow more serious, the bald Asian held his arms out, flipped his hands outward, and clenched them in a similar manner to Conrad’s gesture. He folded the arms inward and under, revolving his interwoven hands back before his face. The whole crowd stared intensely at the rugged, scarred fingers as the index fingers popped to dance about like a pair of intoxicated revellers.
The audience laughed and applauded in approval, though beneath the sentiment bubbled an undercurrent of disappointment at the unexpectedly demure exhibit. “Is that bloody it?” cried Douglas.
“Relax,” assured Baxter, raising a hand to hold him back.
Douglas petulantly wrenched his arm away from Baxter’s grip, scowling at him in the process. “Don’t lecture me,” he snapped.
Conrad condescendingly clapped at the feat, then flipped up his hand with a pair of outstretched fingers. “Two!” he announced with menacing calm.
“Two!” shouted Baxter in support of his contender. Though Baxter direly wished that the show would resolve itself quickly, he had to offer encouraging morale in support.
Sek shouted aloud, and the other patrons of the tavern who hadn’t dizzily passed out from the smoke and drink echoed the count as a singular chorus. “Two!”
With a wily determination that demonstrated pure seriousness, Conrad lowered himself to the ground. Laying face first on the ground, he spread his legs out to a wide base with his toes elevating himself off the ground. Wrapping his left arm behind his back, he used his right arm to shove himself upward off the ground until the arm was fully locked and his body suspended over the ground.
The audience cheered their approval.
With a devilish smile of confidence, Conrad proceeded to pump himself up and down off the ground like a locomotive piston for five full depressions.
Sweat now dripping from his brow like the rain’s drizzle over the edge of a roof, Conrad paused at the top. His merriment completely vanished to be replaced with complete concentration. It was as if he was attuning his mind on a single point on the grimy floor beneath him. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, then dropped low only to shoot himself back up off the ground. His body pivoted on his still grounded feet while his upper half launched into the air. In a flash he clapped his hands together at the apex of his rise, before descending back to the floor.
But now his right arm wheeled around behind his back for his left hand to spring forward. With mere inches to spare from collision, Conrad’s off hand caught himself so that the point of his nose was just an inch from the ground. As if they had rehearsed the routine, Sek leapt to the floor beside Conrad and motioned with his hand that there was a thin layer of space separating the man from the ground, like a magician demonstrating the illusion of unassisted levitation.
Pleased with the successful completion of the feat of strength, Conrad felt compelled to gloat by stooping his face down to kiss the floor, causing numerous onlookers to groan with disgust. Conrad too immediately regretted the a
ction, spitting at unknown fibres and debris from his whiskers while he struggled upwards to a fully extended arm.
He sprang to his feet triumphant, stooping slightly at the waist to bow after his successful performance. The rogues that comprised the spectators were not uncouth enough to applaud politely and respectfully at the performance. Douglas marvelled in awe, “Well, the old man’s still got some vigour after all.”
Using his left hand to massage his right bicep and chest, he swept an arm forward as an invitation. Chiksai arched his brow, his wrinkled bald head furrowing with new ridges at the impressiveness of Conrad’s feat. His mouth curved upwards to sweep the long whiskers on his upper lip out like a curtsied skirt.
Without warning, the man toppled over to the ground as if his heart had just stopped. But instead of falling upon his face, he caught himself with his right arm, and began fiendishly executing his own one-armed push-ups while sporting a delighted sneer. Never breaking his gloating eye contact with Conrad, whose happiness diminished with every compression of the man’s swollen arm, Chiksai next casually popped himself into the air to shoot off a quick pair of claps before nimbly catching himself again just a moment from landing. The emergence of Chiksai’s familiar black-toothed grin accompanied a change of pace, as he switched to supporting himself with just two of his fingers for his final heave back off the ground.
The crowd stumbled over one another in delirium at the magical superiority of their native son. Chiksai’s corner went wild to share in the victory, dancing around their champion and revelling in his glory, though Chiksai himself was simply content to just silently gloat. Even Sek was possessed with appreciation as he vigorously applauded the effort. The adulation was abruptly cancelled with a swift slap from a clearly irked Douglas. “You can’t defeat them muscles, you fool,” he explained with a fiery wrath at Conrad’s failure.
Quick to regain momentum, Conrad shushed his irate companion with a wave. He snatched a drink out of Baxter’s hand and partook in a heavy series of gulps.
“Three!” Sek shouted, which was quickly echoed throughout the bar. Conrad’s eyes bulged at the unexpected announcement, his swilling coming to a slow end as he lowered the mug and returned it to Baxter.
“Now hold on!” Baxter cried foul, but Chiksai the enemy had already snatched the nearest chalice and began glugging the grog inside as well. Finishing the drink, he opted instead to smash the stone cup on the floor with a hearty roar of victory. The tavern joined in on the celebratory yelling. The bespectacled bartender became perturbed at the chorus of broken beverages.
“They can’t do that to us! That’s hornswoggling!” Douglas groaned while slapping the imbecilic Sek for losing count. “Let’s just gut them and take back what’s ours.” His hand anxiously tapped the machete scabbard at his waist with impatience. “We demand another chance.”
Chiksai shouted a short curse, and Sek explained, “He said two more only.”
Before Douglas continued, Conrad held back his friend’s bluster with a simple raised palm. Though dismayed and tempted to focus his frustration upon Conrad now, Douglas instead silenced his complaints.
“Four?” asked Sek with uncertainty. When he checked back with his party, all the other men shook their heads no. Douglas now pulled his knife to threateningly stab in Sek’s direction, which also answered his question.
Conrad motioned for the nearest onlookers to step back a few paces to allow for the creation of a small circle about him. Then he paced some distance which shooed people aside to forge a long path down the length of an aisle.
Satisfied with his effort’s design, he first squatted down with bent knees, holding the pose for a moment before rising back fully to his feet. Conrad stepped forward in a small circle with arms held high, then quickened his pace, then began briskly hopping into the air while flapping his arms like a baby bird. Tilting his head back towards the ceiling, his legs kicked upward into the air with flamboyant goofiness.
While the room was usually filled with short bursts of misty exhales and wafting puffs of smoke accompanied by raucous chattering, the air and din cleared and quieted as everyone in attendance that evening became breathless by the bizarre routine. Gradually their speechlessness dissipated into laughter at Conrad’s erratic acrobatics.
But then Conrad’s hand whipped over to Chiksai with four fingers raised to the rafters. “Four!” the room sung aloud.
Conrad’s pacing slowed to leave him standing at one end of the open path.
He breathed deeply inwards through his mouth, then exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he repeated the large breath but with the air first entering his nostrils, then languidly sighing out from his mouth.
After an initial hop, he took two quick steps. Then while he dashed forward across the floor, Conrad jumped and spun himself backward through the air, heels over head in the midst of a flip. When Conrad was completely upside down, Baxter could see his friend’s face contorted with the rigors of concentration, as if his old, beaten body would not have the ability to perform the feat unless his mind willed it so. It was not a task of the body but of the head, or so Conrad liked to remind himself during his more incredible efforts.
Now Conrad’s knees rotated back under his still spinning body with only inches to spare from striking the musty stone floor. With a resounding thud, the heavy heels of his boots stuck the ground. Conrad wobbled momentarily in a squat position, then sprang up to his feet with his arms theatrically extended like the spray atop a Venetian fountain.
He held up the four fingers of his left hand defiantly to his opponent Chiksai, then bowed at the waist in acknowledgment of his audience’s clamouring approval.
“I’m sorry for ever doubting you,” said Douglas, almost tearful with admiration and pride while frantically clapping as if his hands were ablaze.
Chiksai’s posse shuffled nervously, dispersing doubt amongst each other at their leader’s ability to surmount this particular challenge. Oblivious to their worries, Chiksai rubbed his mitts against his scalp, massaging his skull as if the soothing reverberations would help limber his entire frame.
The crowd instinctively retreated backwards to clear a path for the big man to execute the trick. Chiksai removed an axe kept at his waist, and handed over some necklaces to an associate. He steadied his gaze at the floor ahead of him. His arms hung limp at his sides, his breathing became slow and heavy.
In the sudden silence of the enraptured room, Douglas scoffed, “Impossible. The lug probably can’t even touch his toes.”
Chiksai looked over to the band of Westerners, then curtly nodded his head, which puzzled them. Then Chiksai puckered up for a kiss to blow at them with a wink and a grin, thus obliterating any dutiful regard he had previously exhibited.
“Oh, no,” prophesised Douglas.
Leaning forward Chiksai’s first step was a hop, followed by a quick and balletic shuffle. He sprang up and swung his heavy feet up over his head, his bald dome spinning beneath the rest of his body. The barbaric savage landed lightly on his toes, his legs barely bent and quivered upon the landing.
The crowd cheered as fawning judges presenting a perfect score. The entire scene was reduced to unabashed celebration at the spectacle, save for a small group of stunned British soldiers and their equally flummoxed friends.
“We should’ve stabbed him,” groused Douglas, his green eyes furious. “What tricks you got left now, Connie? Because you’re nothing compared to this monster.” Conrad’s lips pinched together tightly, draining his lips of colour as he mused his next and final manoeuvre.
While Chiksai’s gang triumphed in victory, their stoic leader still cautiously eyed his rival, knowing full well that the grand finale was yet to come. Conrad circled Chiksai while glowering with harsh intensity.
The Englishman held up his right hand with all fingers fanned wide. “Five!” screamed Sek, and the spectators clapped with excitement. This time the applause was with less cacophonous and consisted mostly of subdued clapping, as
if they were witnessing a distinguished prize-fight.
Conrad picked up a tiny glass from the bar counter. He didn’t like that first selection, so he chose another, turning it upside down to complete his inspection. Satisfied, he spun about with the mouth of the cup held outwards to demonstrate to the crowd that it was completely empty.
Conrad reminded everyone about the count with his upheld palm. “Five,” said Baxter with a grin.
Upon facing his opponent, Conrad positioned the empty glass under his mouth. His puckered lips spewed a small waterfall of liquor which tumbled into the cup. The cascade of liquor continued until the entire cup was filled with brown fluid. Conrad raised it up into the air and tipped his head. “Cheers, mate,” he said merrily, then lowered the drink onto the wooden bar.
At this latest turn to the contest, the entire crowd broke into uninhibited laughter for the unexpected climax to the competition. Chiksai’s placid face twisted with rage. He stomped on the ground and began aggressively protesting the treacherous duplicity, but his cries were buried by the waves of adulation from the audience.
As Conrad’s companions all clapped each other on the back with glee, Chiksai and his squad now became the pariahs in the building, abandoned to their gloomy misfortune. Chiksai was smouldering, where even light wisps of steam rose from his head due to his frustrated temperature amidst the icy atmosphere.
“Bloody brilliant,” Douglas said. “I never doubted you.” His mutilated face was bright with glee.
“How you hold that rotgut in for so long I can’t even fathom,” Baxter said. “Good job, sir.”
“Thank you, sir,” Conrad said, the two friends shaking hands.
Molor remained to the side of the others’ doting huddle, but still seemed pleased at the outcome.
“Now let’s go fetch our prize,” Conrad said. But as the group wheeled about to find Chiksai, they caught only the backside of his hairless dome as it meandered away from them through the thick of the crowd. Before Conrad and Baxter could even determine how to react, Douglas pushed right past them after their prey.