Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  Bud sets off at a brisk pace down the road and turns around when he sees that I can’t keep up. He fetches me a long stick to use as a crutch. It’s a good idea, and it compensates well for my limp. Bud disappears at one point and comes back with a few apples. They’re big and sweet. After days of meat and greens, the sugar rushes to my head and feels good there. It’s like instant energy.

  “They grow year-round here,” he says. “It’s the weird climate. I mean, there’s a peak season because of the sunlight, but you can always get apples. There’s a grove over that hill. I used to come here sometimes when I was a kid. It’s a little overgrown now with vines, but the trees are still good. I wonder why nobody is maintaining the orchard.”

  “Maybe everyone left?”

  “No, there must still be people around. This road would be overgrown in a year if it didn’t have traffic to keep the brush down. Do you see how tall the underbrush is on the sides? I think this road still gets a lot of traffic to kill all the grass in these ruts.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  As if to prove his point, we hear something mechanical approaching. It’s a dull grinding sound interspersed with chuffs and hisses. I turn to watch it approach. Bud stands next to me. We’re blocking the road. As the thing approaches, I hope it has brakes. The vehicle looks like a cart but it has some sort of engine in back that’s throwing up puffs of white smoke or steam.

  The driver looks to be in his fifties. He’s carrying a couple dozen extra pounds, has long sideburns, and a funny hat that looks like a beret with a rim on the sides.

  Bud speaks in a language that I don’t quite understand. It doesn’t sound like Russian, but it has the same tone, like he’s swallowing the backs of his words.

  I’m surprised when I understand the man’s reply. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was bitten by a rat,” Bud says.

  “On my ankle,” I add. Bud shoots me a sharp look. Did he want me to keep quiet?

  “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “A different rat,” I say.

  “You’ve got bad luck with rats.”

  The man was sitting in the center of the front seat, but now he climbs down from his motorized cart and walks around to the back. He lets down a tailgate and moves some stuff around.

  “You can sit here, but you have to hold on or you’ll fall. I’m only going to the Yarrow Road, and then you’re on your own.”

  “Thank you,” Bud says. He helps me up to the tailgate and then jumps up beside me.

  It’s a bumpy trip and the engine blows hot steam back on us. I’m surprised at how quiet the engine is. The forest streaks by. I can’t see well to the front of the cart, but it looks like the man is steering the contraption with ropes. Bud’s not even paying attention to the weird vehicle. He’s just watching the woods with a big, dumb smile on his face.

  My foot feels like it’s filling up with blood. It feels like a big tick on the end of my leg, and soon it will finish feeding. It will then either drop off or explode. I lean back and accidentally rest my arm on hot metal.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  After an eternity of jostling, the man brings the weird steam-powered cart to a halt. Bud jumps down and helps me ease my way to the ground. He waves and the driver waves back before taking a left.

  “We’re going straight. He’s going towards the granary,” Bud says.

  “He seemed nice enough,” I say. “Not too xenophobic.”

  “Did you see how he was dressed?”

  I didn’t pay much attention to the guy’s clothes. Except for the hat, nothing struck me as unusual.

  “No,” I say.

  “He was wearing pretty modern clothes. I’m not sure he guessed that we are outsiders.”

  “I figured everyone knew each other here,” I say.

  “No, certainly not. At least not when I lived here.”

  Bud starts walking and I limp behind. I assume we’re still on Hyff Lane, but it’s a much different road here. You could fit two carts abreast and the whole width of it is firm, packed dirt. On either side, the trees grow tall and spread their limbs wide, conspiring to drape the road with a canopy of leaves. In the center of the road, spots of sunlight dance around—the first direct sun I’ve seen in days. It’s dazzling. There are so many trees here that you’re always covered by limbs and leaves. I wonder if the residents even know that the sky is blue.

  Around a bend, we find the road blocked. A tall gate on wooden wheels is drawn across the road. In the forest, on either side, we see a line of sharpened pickets staked out between the trees.

  “What’s this?”

  “I have no idea,” Bud says. He walks to the side of the road and grabs a couple of sharpened poles of the fence. He pulls himself up to see over the top. He returns to me and speaks in a low voice. “There’s a camp down the road a bit with armed men.”

  “Should we turn back?”

  “We have to get to town,” he says. “You’re not looking great, and I don’t want to trust your health to some herbalist on the outskirts of the village. We don’t have a quarrel with anyone here. Let’s see if they will let us through.”

  “This seems like a bad idea,” I say. I must look worse than I feel because Bud ignores me and walks up to the big gate. There’s a doorway cut into the side. He knocks on it.

  “Hello?” he calls. After about a minute, Bud knocks again. The door swings open and Bud is pulled through. The door slams shut.

  On my side of the gate, all is quiet. In fact, aside from the occasional bird, I don’t hear a thing. I don’t hear Bud being interrogated, or hustled away, or stabbed, or shot, or anything. I lean on my stick and wonder what to do. The door creaks and I see it swing open about an inch. I take a step forward.

  It’s dark on the other side of the door and I can’t really see anything, but it looks like there’s movement back there. I wonder what they’re doing with Bud and I take another small step. I don’t even get a good look at the guys. One second, I’m looking at a door just barely cracked open. The next second, the door swings open all the way and rough hands are pulling me to the other side.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  I wake up in a bright, comfortable world. I’m looking at the ceiling of a big tent made of white canvas. The tent is tinted green with light filtering through leaves. Their fluttering patterns shift on the tent’s ceiling and walls. Outside, birds sing. I’m strapped to a comfortable cot, bound at the ankles and wrists. It’s like I’ve woken up into a re-creation of Bud’s childhood. Will a kid come in and tell me I have to live in his barn?

  There’s nobody else in the tent, as far as I can see. Past my feet there’s a split in the canvas wall, perhaps for a door. I keep my eyes glued down there, waiting for someone to come.

  My face feels better. When I blink my eye and move my lips around, it doesn’t feel as tight and swollen. I can’t tell much about my ankle. I strain it against the straps and it doesn’t feel tender, but who knows. I wonder how long I’ve been here. I wonder how I got from the hands pulling me through the door to this tent. I want to call out to see if anyone comes, but I don’t want to squander an opportunity. Perhaps they don’t know that I’m conscious. Perhaps I can take advantage.

  I fumble with the wrist straps, first trying to pull out of them, and then trying to reach back to where they’re tied. There’s no buckle. The straps come up through the cot and loop around my wrists. A knot holds them tight. I can’t see my ankles. A sheet is pulled over my legs.

  I’m trying to remember how Bud got free of the tent, but I don’t think he was strapped down the first time. They didn’t bother to restrain him until he had escaped once. Am I in here for medical treatment? I find it hard to believe that, after a century, they’re still using tents to house sick people. Couldn’t they have built a hospital by now?

  I see shadows on the wall before the tent flaps stir.

  Three men enter. They’re dressed in dark green and two carry rifles. They’re not holding th
e rifles in that efficient, men-moving-around-with-rifles-at-the-ready way. They have them pointed towards me. The armed men split and stand on either side of me, several feet away. The third man walks right up to me and sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Your name?” he asks. His English is good. It has a slight color of Europe, but not much.

  “Leonard Jenko,” I say. I’m trying to match the name on my passport. I have had practice. I have been introducing myself as Jenko since we came to this country.

  “And you’re from?”

  “New York City,” I say.

  “Do you know what hypnosis is, Mr. Harrison?” he asks. Harrison…I haven’t heard that name in weeks. It’s my real name.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And have you been trained to lie under hypnosis?”

  “No,” I say. “Not that I know of. Unless I was trained while under hypnosis.” It’s a dry joke, but he’s not smiling. “What’s your name?” I ask, trying to establish a rapport of any kind.

  “Have you lied today?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

  “Aside from telling me your name was Leonard Jenko, have you lied about anything else today?”

  “No,” I say.

  The man stands and walks from the tent, ducking below the flap. The two armed men stay in position. They’re not making eye contact with me. Their glassy eyes look straight ahead, but their guns are pointed directly at me.

  “Are you going to shoot me, or not?” I ask.

  Another man, also wearing dark green, enters the tent. He approaches and kneels next to my bed. He works at untying the straps as he talks.

  “We’re probably not going to shoot you just yet,” he says. “My name is Michael, if you don’t remember. We’ll need to evaluate you a little more to see if you truly qualify for the reward.”

  “Reward?”

  “You’ve got a residual block. Don’t worry, you’ll remember before too long. You just need time for the memories to come back.”

  “What memories?”

  He finishes untying one arm and moves over to the other side.

  “It won’t help to tell you, since you’ll only fight the information if it comes from the outside. Lev says that you should be allowed to remember on your own. There’s a little work left if you want the entire reward though. I promised that I would help you remember at least that much.”

  I’m very confused, but I don’t want to reveal exactly how confused I am. Michael finishes untying my other wrist and I sit up as he works on my ankles.

  “I’ll take you to him and if you can convince him to give up Circe, then you can qualify for the other half of the reward. But, as I said, we’re still evaluating.”

  All I can think is that he’s talking about Bud’s reward—the prize for proving supernatural or paranormal phenomena. But we don’t have the prize divided up. You can’t qualify for half. Plus, I’m the one who evaluates reward candidates. I don’t know why this guy thinks he has some control over the evaluation.

  “Where’s Bud?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’ll take you to him. It’s so strange that you’re so confused. You were so clear a few minutes ago,” he says.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. Minutes ago, I was asleep in this tent.

  He finishes untying my ankles and then stands.

  “I forgot your clothes. Stay right here and I’ll be back,” Michael says, smiling.

  I don’t want to stay there. I want to run, but the guns trained on me keep me in my spot. He returns and lays a folded stack of clothes down on the end of my bed. I swing my naked legs out from underneath the sheet. I have purple and black bruises encircling my left ankle, but aside from that, my leg doesn’t look bad. The swelling is nearly gone.

  “We’ll give you a moment to dress. Meet us outside?” he asks.

  I sit on the bed and watch the man and the guards exit. I suppose I could duck under the tent and run through the woods like Bud did so long ago. He knew the area though. I’d never make it a hundred yards.

  I get dressed in the clothes they left for me. They’re not the clothes I wore on the hike, and they’re not from my bag. They’re modern clothes. I guess Bud’s village has figured out a way to engage in commerce with the outside world. My new pants don’t fit very well, but the belt is close enough. The shirt is a light flannel—not too hot for the day. I push up the sleeves. The shoes are the weirdest part of the outfit. There are no laces or straps. They just slip on and then clamp to my foot. They feel nice and supportive, but I’d like to ask for my old shoes. Shoes are personal.

  “I’m coming out,” I announce through the tent. I’m thinking about those guys with guns. I don’t want to surprise them.

  Only Michael is there waiting for me.

  “I’ll take you to Bud now?”

  Is that a question, or is that some European way of stating a fact? Either way, it suits me.

  “Perfect,” I say. I figure that response will work either way.

  58 NEGOTIATION

  MICHAEL LEADS ME ACROSS a little grassy area to a footpath. Overhead, tall birch trees flash their silver-backed leaves in the breeze. The smell of the forest is delightful. It smells fresh, and clean, and earthy. It smells like a good cup of coffee tastes. I’m not an outdoorsy type, but sometimes I understand the draw.

  The path is well worn by countless feet. It dips and dives through the forest and we pass between shoulder-high bushes that smell like incense. Vines hang down from the limbs overhead and we walk under an arch of purple flowers. My ankle feels fine. It’s not hot or tight or aching at all. I wonder how long I was asleep in that white tent.

  The light diminishes as we pass into a patch of oaks. I recognize them by the acorns littering the ground. The path turns to the right and I see a cluster of small cabins. Each one looks like it’s only big enough for a room or two, but there’s a half-dozen of them connected by covered walkways. Michael leads me to the door on the right and it opens inward.

  “I’ll be back to collect you in awhile,” he says.

  He shows me through the door and then closes it behind me. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. The only light in the room is coming through the windows on opposite ends. The first thing I see is a face. Someone is sitting in a chair and they have their hands tented in front of their chin. After another second I recognize Bud.

  “Bud! I was worried about you,” I say. I find a chair opposite his and sit down. His foot is resting on an ottoman between us. I squeeze his shoe. He’s wearing the same kind of shoe that I have on. Shoot, I forgot to ask Michael about my shoes.

  “Are you going to talk? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Did they hypnotize you as well?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say. “No. They did ask me about it, though. They asked if I’d been trained to lie under hypnosis.”

  “Have you?” he asks.

  “What? By whom?” I ask. “Wouldn’t you know better than I would? I think you were the last person to have me hypnotized. It was part of my background checks, remember? You said I passed.”

  “You passed, but barely,” he says. “The analyst said you might have either a repressed memory, or a residual block.”

  “Christ, that’s the second time I’ve heard that today. That guy, Michael, said I had a residual block. What the hell is that?”

  “It’s like a submerged memory that you don’t have access to. So, tell me what happened after I was captured?”

  “You were captured? Oh, you mean when you went through that gate? I don’t know what happened to you. You just disappeared.”

  “What happened to you?” he asks, with special emphasis on the last word.

  “They took me to some kind of tent. Like the one you said they took you to after you fought the lion. Not the most recent lion, when you were a kid. I woke up strapped down to a cot, but Michael let me go and brought me here.”

  “So you rem
ember walking from the gate to the tent?”

  Did I? I remember being pulled through the gate and then I woke up. I remember some sort of path, but maybe I’m just remembering the path I just walked to get here to this cabin. There’s definitely something foggy between the gate and the tent, but I can’t quite figure it out.

  “I don’t remember every moment, but I was pretty sick with the infection.”

  “You were hypnotized. We both were.”

  “And you remember being hypnotized?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t I?” I ask.

  “Perhaps they ordered you to forget the hypnosis.”

  “Why force me to forget and allow you to remember? Why not tell me to remember getting from the gate to the tent, to cover their lie? Your story doesn’t make sense.”

  “My story is fine,” he says. “It’s your story that has holes. While they had me under, they made me recall a tremendous amount of detail. Their hypnotist is extraordinary.”

  “Detail about what?”

  “My past. Things I didn’t even realize that I remembered.”

  I’ve seen some interesting hypnotists over the years. They often come in as prognosticators. They will begin to tell you about your future, work in some hypnosis and then get you to spill details about your past. People want to talk about themselves. In most cases, it would be a bigger trick to make people not disclose personal information. I know that people sometimes block out things they don’t want to remember, but I’m not one who believes that every moment of every day is locked away inside your brain somewhere.

  “So they hypnotized you and asked you about your past?”