Delivering Virtue

by Brian Kindall

  A quiet pool appeared before me, wide and calm. On yonder bank, I spied the gathering of a picnic. My old friend Delight was there, naked, kneeling on the grass before a child. This child had blue wings and a white face and I recognized him as Turtle Dove’s little boy who had died. He was giggling and playing pata-cake with Delight while Turtle Dove’s husband sat watching from the side, eating red berries from a bowl, one at a time. He, too, sported a pair of beautiful blue wings, his face white like paper.

  Turtle Dove then glided down out of the trees and came over to the edge of the water. She stepped right out onto the surface of the pool and walked three paces in my direction.

  I was amazed. “Say,” I called over to her. “That is quite a trick. Do you think you can teach me how to do it?”

  She did not smile, but lifted her hand toward me, in a gesture indicating that I should come hither. She spoke some words, but they only came out sounding like water rippling over rocks, and although I failed to understand them exactly, I sensed that she was urging me forward in that way a mother does when trying to prompt her child to take his first steps.

  Now I wanted to walk on water. Who would not? And I most certainly wanted to join again with my beloved Turtle Dove. The memory of her sweet milk still lingered on my lips. But when I looked down into the pool, I saw dark shadows cruising in the depths. I could not decide if they be benign or malignant. Dare I take the chance?

  No.

  I called over once more. “I am sorry, but I am the Blessed Deliverer. I have unfinished business to which I must attend.” I peered back over my shoulder, but there was nothing awaiting but darkness, and it occurred to me that it was somewhat unreasonable to choose such gloom over the pastoral scene before me. And yet…

  “I will be back,” I called. “Please save me some berries.”

  And then I turned on my boot heel, squirming back through the window just as it was about to close.

  *****

  When I came to, I found myself slumped against a wall, gazing out at a long windowless room. The walls were earthen, apparently made of sod and dried mud, and timbered with bent and twisted hackberry limbs. The warren was dimly lit, with only a few small candles dispersed like votives in a church, but this offered enough illumination to see that the place was untidy. Pelts and traps and rags were strewn across the floor. A cooking fire flickered at the far end of the hall, its smoke swirling up through a hole in the high ceiling. The hole itself was black and glittering with intermittent stars, leading me to understand that it was nighttime. A large rack of ribs hung over the flames on a spit, dripping fat and filling the air with an aroma I found most repulsive. The three hoodlums sat hunkered around the fire, casting misshapen shadows up the dirt walls, while drinking from buffalo horns and gnawing at fistfuls of meat. They did not appear to notice that I had rejoined them here in the waking world.

  They continued to laugh at every little thing.

  My head ached horribly, and I was disheartened to realize myself viewing everything solely through my left eye, as my other eyehole was swollen shut tight. I touched the side of my head. It was tender and puffed. The metallic taste of my own blood was on my tongue. I feared my noggin had been fractured and now essential portions of my brain were leaking out through a fissure in my skull. It hurt to think.

  One of the trio stood and went to a barrel, dipping his horn tankard into its depths. I was surprised to see he wore my faded red shirt wrapped like a turban around his head. A single sleeve dangled down his bare back. He was otherwise naked as a proverbial jaybird.

  Hmmm, I thought. If he is wearing my shirt, what is this I am wearing myself?

  I looked down at my body.

  “Ho!” I said. I was staggered to find myself in a dress. “Oh!”

  It was admittedly a lovely cut of velvety fabric – quite soft, with crenulated ribbing all around its midriff. I felt, oddly, that I had interacted with this dress before, and had I not known it was improbable, I would have sworn it had been plucked directly from Delight Tuttles’s wardrobe. I laid my fingers on its front, tenderly stroking its fineness.

  “Ha Hoooo!”

  I looked up to find one of the fellows pointing my way. The other two turned to see. They all laughed and stood and laughed some more.

  “!GLOR^_~`!” they shouted, and raised their drinking horns my direction.

  Except that they were unclothed, and rather disconcertingly disported erect members the size of wapiti femurs, it was almost a comfort to receive their greeting. For these boys seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

  The one fellow wearing my shirt tore a rib from the meat hanging over the fire. He then marched over the cluttered floor and brought me a bit of supper. He waved the rib beneath my nose.

  “Oh,” I said, and tried to smile graciously. “Thank you all the same. But I am a sworn vegetablearian, and do not partake of the sensate foods.”

  Like any good host, he would not take my No for an answer, and tried to force the meat betwixt my teeth. I reluctantly took the bone in my hands, and nibbled off a bit of the charred flesh. I suppose having gone so long without eating such fare made me inordinately sensitive to its taste. It was all I could do not to gag.

  They all cheered when I swallowed, and then one of them gave me his flagon of drink. I sensed straight away that the concoction held therein was of a disreputable derivation – something like fermented sagebrush and dung – and although I wanted nothing to do with it, I was sorely in need of something to cleanse the taste of meat from my palate. I raised the horn in a gesture of thanks, put it to my lips, and poured a bit down my gullet.

  The liquor blazed a path down my insides.

  They cheered again.

  Thus began the party.

  *****

  The drink was strong and effective. It blurred the details of the subsequent events, and I suppose, all in all, I should consider myself thankful for that small blessing.

  The festivities commenced with a game that was most daring and unusual. The boy wearing my shirt for a hat took one of the candles resting in a dirt alcove. Then, while the other two looked eagerly on, he delicately balanced the little torch on the end of his rigid, upturned penis. He slowly let his hands rise out to his sides, until they were as high as his shoulders, and then he strolled across the room, skillfully stepping over the debris, balancing as if he were walking atop a pole fence. The little flame wavered, but did not topple. When he reached the far wall, he took the candle and held it high over his head, melted wax dripping into his matted hair, crowing like a rooster.

  Everyone laughed. Then they turned and looked at me, as if to ask, “Are you not impressed with our circus trick?”

  I nodded with faux enthusiasm. “Remarkable,” I said weakly. “Bravo!”

  This balancing game was played for some time, the candle trading penises again and again, punctuated only by bouts of stuffing me with meat, and then chasing it down with the rude liquor. The meat had a familiarity to it that I could not quite place – a sweet spiciness that I somehow knew – but it was not until I spied the party-wear of one of my hosts that I understood whose flesh I was consuming.

  “Oh!” I gulped. “Oh, No!”

  The fellow had a horsetail dangling over his backside, tied around his waist by a thong, wearing it as if it were his own. Of course, it was lovely and long and blond, decorated with colorful beads and feathers.

  I glanced at the partially consumed rack of ribs cooking over the fire. I had never much cared for the flavor of horsemeat, and liked it even less upon realizing that it was the selfsame flesh that had so recently housed the soul of my dear friend Sabrina.

  “I am truly sorry, my lady.” I felt that I had failed her dreadfully, and now, eating her, only made that failure more poignant and insulting.

  Of course, I retched up. But by then, admittedly, the damage had long been done.

  I imbibed the sagebrush solution, seeking a door by which to escape into some more favorable oblivion.
>
  After the candle game, there was a wrestling match. And then the boys took their rifles and shot bones from off each other’s heads. The bones exploded and the slugs thunked into the walls, raising puffs of dust, and sending down little fountains of dirt streaming onto the floor.

  The room filled up with gun smoke.

  Through it all, the laughter never ceased.

  The whole time, I felt as if they were competing for my attention. “Look at me,” they seemed to say. “Look at me!”

  “No! Look at me!”

  I felt, rather correctly it turned out, like the sole whore at a brothel.

  Ultimately, after they had exhausted their games, they turned my way.

  *****

  I prefer not to dwell on the happenings that ensued. Suffice it to say that Brother Bartholomew had been correct about the essential animal natures of certain men. And yet I found myself unwilling to immediately condemn their actions, even as they were inflicted upon me. After all, it could get awfully lonely out here on the frontier, without much by way of diversion. Things get so distorted in one’s morality. I knew that for a fact myself. And in truth, I did not think they were as despicable as they might have seemed to anyone coming from a more civilized environment, just misdirected, and perhaps left out a little too long in the wilds. But in the end, so to speak, I simply felt that if I were to judge them, it would be unfair. I would only prove myself to be some sort of hypocrite, casting – as that old Bible story warns us not to do – a self-righteous stone at someone no more a sinner than oneself.

  They twirled me around and around, always laughing.

  And then, after a bout of bickering, they took their turns with me.

  “Careful,” I requested, with some fearfulness and dread, “that you do not mar my velvet dress.”

  DID THAT BACCHANALIA LAST a single night, or was it spread out over a collection of many nights? I could not rightly say. My non-lucid condition made it impossible for me to know. But I do remember being greatly relieved when my hosts at last wearied of prodding and promulgating my amenities, and then, one by one, collapsed in a heap on the floor. This should have been my opportunity to slip away. After all, enough merrymaking is most certainly enough. But the last fellow standing thought it prudent to tie my wrists to a weighty stone in the corner, thus preventing my timely departure.

  So there I sat, alone, tethered, contemplating the stars I saw turning slowly above the smoke hole.

  The candles sputtered in their alcoves.

  The cooking fire dwindled, only a small portion of carbonized horse ribs dangling on the spit over the glowing coals.

  The three hooligans snored and snored.

  “Oh, Rain,” I whispered, as if calling to myself from afar. “Oh, Mister Didier Rain, at what juncture didst thou turn so terribly astray?”

  I was worried about Virtue and the others. Surely they had heard the shot that felled Sabrina, and then were moved to fretfulness and confusion. I trusted it to the gods that they were all right. I even went so far as to mutter what one might call a prayer, although I merely cast it out the smoke hole, with no particular deity in mind. I was only being hopeful that it would find a compassionate and capable agent to my troop’s wellbeing.

  Thinking about Virtue brought her vividly to my mind. Her face. Her freshet blue eyes. Her gentle ways and wizened mien. I remembered her mother way back in Independence, how she had touched me so tenderly, like a lover, and I was amazed to see, as if I had conjured her from within my reverie, a younger copy of that same beautiful woman now parting the buffalo blanket that covered the door-hole at the other end of the room. She wore a black dress, and her blond hair was drawn back into a ponytail. The girl glided my direction, silently avoiding the clutter and sleeping brutes strewn asunder. Was she the Angel of Death come to free me from the shackles of my despair? I was still convinced that the young lady was no more than a drunkard’s hallucination when she stopped before me, kneeling close. She peered into my good eye.

  I felt her breath on my face; I smelled wildflowers by a brook.

  “Virtue?”

  She placed a finger to my lips, giving me to know I should be quiet.

  “But…”

  She shook her head.

  I was both delighted to see her, and fearful that the ruffians might find her out.

  She took the knife and, all business, began to saw through the ropes binding my wrists.

  Once freed, I stretched my fingers, urging the feeling back into my hands. Virtue then laid down her blade and took hold of one of those hands, helping me to my feet. I started to fall, but she held me steady until I was over my feet. She then gestured that we should stealthily make our way back to the door. She led, and I followed. As a precaution, I picked up the knife and held it at the ready.

  My feet were not directly connected to my brain right then, and it was most challenging to keep them from stubbing on the disorderly floor. I had to walk slowly, with my arms held out to my sides. The ground seemed to pitch and swell. But eventually, and without too much clopping, I made it as far as the sleeping pile of sodomites.

  There they lay, flaccid, each one donning a blissful smile within the greasy tangle of his beard. Virtue was at the door, holding the flap open and waiting, but I stopped. I regarded the knife I held in my hand. I thought to myself, surely they are so lost to their inebriated slumber that they would not even notice if, one by one, I slit their throats, or plunged my dagger into their hearts.

  I felt strongly compelled to avenge Sabrina.

  What kind of Deliverer would I be if I let these three get away with their murder?

  I brandished the blade over their bodies, considering where to begin. One of the bastards still wore my shirt on his head. Another used my trousers for a pillow. But then I suffered a wave of vertigo – the three beasts blurred into one – and it was all I could do not to topple over on top of them. The spell soon passed, but within that intermezzo I decided that a righteous massacre was ill advised at this particular time.

  You may not possess the faculties to pull it off, I warned myself. And besides… I looked down at my dress. Bloodstains are all but impossible to remove from such a finely brushed velvet.

  I abandoned my scheme and made toward Virtue and the doorway.

  Unfortunately, distracted by my woolgathering, I kicked a bone, and it went clattering loudly across the floor.

  I froze, gazing down at the trinity of miscreants below me.

  One of them squirmed, and wiggled his nose. His snoring stopped. He held his breath, as if in indecision. And then, much to my vexation, his eyes flickered open, and he gazed up into my face.

  I DID NOT, WITH the conscientious protocol of a good-hearted whore, wait around to enquire if the whiskered gent had enjoyed a pleasant and restful repose after his last night’s raucous indulgence in my orificial endowments. Rather, fast as a one-eyed, intoxicated man in a dress is able, I scampered for the door.

  Virtue took hold of my hand and led me running into the chilly dawn. A rosy glow illuminated the ragged landscape into which we fled. Behind us, one could hear the clamor of my former captors rousing to wakefulness.

  A rooster crowing!

  The bark of a dog!

  A jackass braying as if stung by a bee!

  I clutched the front of my dress with my free hand, lifting it clear of my feet so that I might take more galloping strides. But in truth, my gait was less than impressive, and I found myself – even in the midst of my distress – developing a newfound respect for the female variant of my species. How cumbersome, if comely, these dresses were!

  I fell – “Oomph!” – losing hold of Virtue’s hand.

  Once I had sorted my flailing limbs from the mountain of velvet in which I was encased, I found myself on my hands and knees, wheezing.

  Virtue waited.

  “Go!” I gasped. “You must not let them catch you!”

  But she only leaned down and tugged at my arm, raising me to my feet. I d
id not see much hope for escape at that moment, and it fretted me terribly to think of those three candle-balancers catching up to Virtue.

  “You should go!” I pleaded. “I will follow as best I can.”

  She said nothing, only pulled me forward, and I found myself running once again.

  The hoots and hollers of our pursuers seemed to be growing imminently near.

  Virtue led me onward, urging my haste. Who now, I had to ask myself, is delivering whom?

  We sprinted through the sagebrush, over a swell in the earth, to where Puck, Brownie, and Genevieve awaited our arrival. Seeing them all there saddled and stamping at the ground put a lift in my step. I grew slightly encouraged, and ran harder those last few rods.

  Virtue mounted Genevieve in a wink, and then I, with much effort and rustling of fabric, managed to heave myself into the saddle on Brownie’s back. The horses did not wait for a command, but took off at once, running as fast as they could go.

  I glanced back to see the naked man-creatures bounding over the rise. They carried their rifles strapped over their shoulders. They howled and leapt the bushes, taking great strides in our direction. They seemed to be gaining ground on us, even as our horses ran at top speed.

  The race continued for most of a mile. We fled down a dry riverbed, kicking up the sand and gravel, using it as a road for our escape.

  Our pursuers loped along on the high banks, two on one side, one on the other, maintaining their awesome pace. How could they run so fast?

  “Go, Brownie! Go!”

  Our horses sped onward, and at last, we appeared to be outdistancing the wild men. They called after us, howling and bawling like mournful coyotes, as if truly saddened to see us go. I grinned with relief when I sensed they had given up the chase.

  But alas! My celebration was premature. Of a sudden, I felt a bite in my lower ear. I flinched and nearly pitched from Brownie’s back, barely catching hold of the saddle horn. And then I heard the belated rifle shots behind me. I reached up and was sore distressed to find my ear all throbbing and mangled. I brought my hand down and saw that it was sticky with blood.