--This follows "Shadows in the Dark"
I hold my breath and will my muscles into stone. Ten paces. I could sprint that distance in a small few heartbeats, and have my blade through his bones in a single feline spring. He only has one shot, but at ten paces I’d have to trust to luck and the gunman’s ineptitude to keep the heavy lead ball out of my blood. Ten paces. I could fling my dagger that distance and hit him easily, but the whipping motion required for straight flight would draw his muzzle. No good arcing the knife gently, with all these branches between here and there.
I’d rather not kill this man. His threat against me is only an act of self preservation, as are my plans to nullify him. For a moment, I am more troubled that my immediate impulse had been to kill. I could call out to him now, and show through my tone that I mean no harm. This course requires me to trust his judgment, which is not something I am keen to do, but I’d rather not kill this man.
I take a breath and a moment to choose my words and my tone. I tighten my throat to call out like an embarrassed neighbor.
A laugh barks off to my right, accompanied by nervous chuckles. Four men, most likely novice bandits, had waited just off the road and let the wagon pass. Now they shamble out of the brush onto the road. They are shades of gray and shadow in the dark, but I can see them, hear the swagger in the leader’s step and the shuffle of the three skulking behind. I can smell their unwashed bodies and steamed turnips on their breath.
"Take it easy, little lady," the first bandit says.
"She’s a pretty lady," chimes in another. The rest guffaw dutifully and continue to close the distance.
The gunman stands solid, and he twists his voice to sound vicious, but I can hear his throat tremble.
"Which one of you wants a musket ball in your chest?"
He locks the hammer back with an emphatic click. All four bandits pause.
They’ve moved close enough to the wagon that the lantern that I can see them clearly. The leader appears to be better fed than the other three, and better armed. He holds a drawn katana it his hands; I can see the chips in the edge and the crust of blood dried to the dull metal. His mongrel cohort sport a pair of long knives and a heavy tree branch with a long nail jabbing wickedly from the end.
With a sneer, the leader continues his approach, and his pack follows closely.
"You don’t want to do that, Miss. You can only kill one of us." He glances at the scythe. "Maybe two. But we’ll kill you and take what we want. You might as well leave your cart and run home."
This talk is pointless. I have been in enough scuffles to know that this bluster means bloodshed is inevitable. I would pull the trigger without another word.
The hammer snaps, and for a moment, I hear only the sounds of the forest. Somewhere, frogs sing next to a brook that whispers lullabies. For a flash, everything is illuminated, and I can’t help noticing the vibrant green of the water-thick leaves.
I leap into a sprint, my body tilted forward, low to the ground, with my left hand gripping my scabbard.
The explosion slams the gunman backward and spews a jet of blue smoke that swallows the attackers. The rumble rolls and echoes off nearby hills, and within the lingering cloud, a body groans and tumbles to the dirt. The remaining three stand flat-footed, and dazzled, blinking and coughing. The leader stands, and does not cough.
The gunman is still staggering for his stance when I reach the clump of bandits. Compared to the fury of the musket, my footfalls were silent, and I remain unnoticed even as my sword flies free and flashes sideways at the nearest man. I catch him in the neck and slide the deadly top third of the blade into his flesh. I feel the tip nick his spine as I pull the steel free of the gurgling body. He does not scream, only bubbles and spews hot blood all over the path.
In front of me, the leader is striding toward the gunman, who has his scythe in a knuckle-whitening grip. The remaining lackey turns and begins to see me, no doubt noticing the fresh corpse, or the lack of companions. He begins to see me, but my sword unzips his ribs along the back with a powerful downward sweep, slicing a clean diagonal through his spine. I miss the heart, but catch a piece of both lungs, which suck air like a toothless man slurping soup. He tumbles forward, landing his face into the road at the feet of his leader.
The final bandit is mid-swing when that body hits the dirt. The jagged edge of his weapon whistles down upon the head of the cart driver. He swings the thing like a club, with no shearing action that gives the katana its elegant efficiency. The strike goes home, despite the poor technique, and bounces a heavy blow against the wagoneer’s skull. The driver goes down, bright red blood tinting his hair, but I know the blade didn’t get through the skull. The fortunate man would have a headache, a scar, and a bald patch, but he would also survive this fight. For now, though, he is on the ground, unconscious, leaving the last bandit to me.
He turns and faces me, and I square off. I let him make the first move: he raises the ruined sword above his head in a huge wind up. I could gut him before he swings, but there is the chance that he finishes the heavy handed swing before he manages to die. The blade whistles down. His arm muscles are bulged. He seems to move so slow. I side step the strike easily, and he swings clear to the ground with his entire body curled behind the blow. When he strikes the dirt, his body is hunched with his head lurched forward. He clearly doesn’t know what to do next. I clear the confusion by stepping my weight into a neat stab through his eyeball. Metal scrapes bone as his skull guides my strike into his brain, and his feet jerk from beneath him as I free my weapon of his falling body. The corpse is still twitching as I wipe the gore from my sword.
I take a moment more to listen. The man who was shot is still alive, groaning. He will die. It could take days, and I am in no mood for mercy killing. Other than that, I sense no danger, so I scoop the limp wagon driver up and load him with his goods in the back. With some careful maneuvering, I manage to get the cart turned around. Where he came from is far nearer than where he is going, and his wound will certainly become infected if it is not cleaned quickly. And so I become the cart driver, clopping through the dark.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Shadows in the Dark
In the dark, smells heighten, and sound is heightened so that every loud heartbeat might be the sound of a predator’s footfall. Wolves or wild dogs, bears, and bandits might rove these woods. I hear a rustle so faint that it might be the noise of my own thoughts, but I freeze and listen, eyes closed in the dark. A breeze stirs leaves and carries the smell of distant rain-wet dirt and breathing trees. The murmur like furtive voices hidden in the distant dark might be the sound of air in my throat. I have never been attacked by an animal, but I find myself pondering the grim; a black beast in black night could have teeth in me before I draw and swing my blade. My hand rests on the tight leather wrap of my katana handle, fingering the ray skin nervously.
The soft dirt trail before me is more of a footpath than it is a road, where here and there boulders had been rolled aside, and occasional trees hewn to stumps to make way for the very occasional single-mule wagon.
I smell it before I see the smoky glow of the tallow-candle lantern. I hear the clomp of rough-shodden hooves, the creak of wood rubbing wood, rattling and jostling as the axels spin and whine. When my eyes make out the shape of the mule’s long face, I can already smell the hay and barn-animal musk. Without my lantern, I am a shadow, and in the dark, every shadow is a threat. I could stand in the path and try to convince the wagon driver that I mean no harm, but that could lead to a few long, tense moments. No telling who carries a musket these days, and a man foolish enough to drive a wagon in the dark is probably too foolish to discern foe from passer-by. It would be safest to hide, and let them pass. That will be easy on this moonless night. I pass from the trail into the thick dark, ten paces over a soft loam of decayed leaves, where I crouch close to the earth. I wrap my woolen cloak tight about me and throw the broad hood over my head. With no distinguishable human characteristics, I look like a stump, or a blur in a cautious man’s vision.
I am still, breathing slowly so my nostrils make no hiss or whistle. The damp soil fills my nose with its thick richness. Nearby, an apple tree grows, for I can smell the smooth fruitfulness of its boughs and the sickly sweet rot of unclaimed windfalls. On the trail, the wagon clatters past. The lantern illuminates the driver’s face, and I can see that his eyes are bulged out against the dark, his hand taut and wiry with fear as he grips the reigns. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears as though he expects a blow to the head at any moment. With a breath I wish him good fortune and a safe journey, too soft for him to hear me, almost too soft to hear myself, and yet he jerked the mule to a stop, the wagon jolting behind him. The night is silent now except for the nervous stamping of the animal and the harsh breathing of the driver. I hear him catch his breath and hold it, probing the darkness with panic-sharpened ears. If he can hear a whisper from ten paces, over the constant racket of the rolling wagon, then he is no country bumpkin, and he would hear me breathing in the silence. Perhaps I should have hailed him openly on the road; if he finds me now, armed and hidden, I will be treated no better than a bandit.
In a sudden flurry of motion, the driver leaps to the ground, grabbing a long bulky rifle from beneath his seat, and lighting the rope-fuse in the lantern. The gunpowder hisses softly in his hands, and the smoke stings my nose. At his side hangs a scythe, glinting wickedly in the dim light. His stance is solid, his face menacing and intent. Suddenly he bellows.
"Come fight, cowards!"
The soft dirt trail before me is more of a footpath than it is a road, where here and there boulders had been rolled aside, and occasional trees hewn to stumps to make way for the very occasional single-mule wagon.
I smell it before I see the smoky glow of the tallow-candle lantern. I hear the clomp of rough-shodden hooves, the creak of wood rubbing wood, rattling and jostling as the axels spin and whine. When my eyes make out the shape of the mule’s long face, I can already smell the hay and barn-animal musk. Without my lantern, I am a shadow, and in the dark, every shadow is a threat. I could stand in the path and try to convince the wagon driver that I mean no harm, but that could lead to a few long, tense moments. No telling who carries a musket these days, and a man foolish enough to drive a wagon in the dark is probably too foolish to discern foe from passer-by. It would be safest to hide, and let them pass. That will be easy on this moonless night. I pass from the trail into the thick dark, ten paces over a soft loam of decayed leaves, where I crouch close to the earth. I wrap my woolen cloak tight about me and throw the broad hood over my head. With no distinguishable human characteristics, I look like a stump, or a blur in a cautious man’s vision.
I am still, breathing slowly so my nostrils make no hiss or whistle. The damp soil fills my nose with its thick richness. Nearby, an apple tree grows, for I can smell the smooth fruitfulness of its boughs and the sickly sweet rot of unclaimed windfalls. On the trail, the wagon clatters past. The lantern illuminates the driver’s face, and I can see that his eyes are bulged out against the dark, his hand taut and wiry with fear as he grips the reigns. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears as though he expects a blow to the head at any moment. With a breath I wish him good fortune and a safe journey, too soft for him to hear me, almost too soft to hear myself, and yet he jerked the mule to a stop, the wagon jolting behind him. The night is silent now except for the nervous stamping of the animal and the harsh breathing of the driver. I hear him catch his breath and hold it, probing the darkness with panic-sharpened ears. If he can hear a whisper from ten paces, over the constant racket of the rolling wagon, then he is no country bumpkin, and he would hear me breathing in the silence. Perhaps I should have hailed him openly on the road; if he finds me now, armed and hidden, I will be treated no better than a bandit.
In a sudden flurry of motion, the driver leaps to the ground, grabbing a long bulky rifle from beneath his seat, and lighting the rope-fuse in the lantern. The gunpowder hisses softly in his hands, and the smoke stings my nose. At his side hangs a scythe, glinting wickedly in the dim light. His stance is solid, his face menacing and intent. Suddenly he bellows.
"Come fight, cowards!"
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
No Bomb Needed
The morning sun soaked into the steely sky and reached out across the land, pushing through fences, sneaking between perfect pickets and neighborly slats. It fell over shingled rooftops, and brick chimneys threw shadows too long for them, like children playing as businessmen. The warmth and glow slid out and the land grew warmer by creeping degrees. The warmth coaxed life from the sleeping world, and a mocking bird, stiff with sleep, coughed notes that shook the silence. The warm ground roused the still air which breathed past windows and doors and chased brittle autumn sycamore leaves clattering down the black pavement.
Laura Wolfe stood barefoot on the front steps of her home, facing east as morning slanted over rooftops. She laced her fingers behind her head so the warmth fell across her soft inner arms, her armpits, her topmost ribs. Her smooth black hair caught the light and threw a lustrous blaze, a glowing mantle about her shoulders. She sighed, and her eyes were closed.
In days past, she might have been self conscious of the way she looked the way the creamy sundress slipped and let the side of her breast relish the morning light, or the way the breezy fabric enunciated every contour of her firm golden body and betrayed the secret shape of her thighs. But she stood unabashed in her sun dress, stretching her spine to the sky. It was her morning dress, the habit of the last priestess of Helios, and she was beautiful and glorious in the glow of the new day. Her skin prickled beneath the bold caress of the sun so her nipples stood and she let out a throaty sigh.
Around her, the streets were empty, and the houses were empty with windows like empty staring eyes. Only one other home still breathed, only one lawn kept its thick wet green, with an old cress-green Mercedes glossy with love and car wax sitting in the driveway. It was Pete and Ethel’s house, but Ethel was dead and Pete was old with a dog that limped.
The other houses stood in rows but they were empty like snail shells hollowed by the scorching sun. Inside, there was only silence.
Laura stood where she stood every morning, watching Pete’s sprinkler snick and shudder, stubbornly fighting back the native southern Californian desert. She’d watched as the first houses emptied, cheap particleboard furniture thrown bitterly with the dark-wood heirloom bureau inside the dented truck, rented by the day. ‘For Sale’ signs had gone up like dandelions in the lawns, and for months the signs creaked in the morning breeze until their shiny red letters faded beneath the bleaching sun and the grass and the dandelions died beneath them. No new people moved in.
Laura Wolfe stood barefoot on the front steps of her home, facing east as morning slanted over rooftops. She laced her fingers behind her head so the warmth fell across her soft inner arms, her armpits, her topmost ribs. Her smooth black hair caught the light and threw a lustrous blaze, a glowing mantle about her shoulders. She sighed, and her eyes were closed.
In days past, she might have been self conscious of the way she looked the way the creamy sundress slipped and let the side of her breast relish the morning light, or the way the breezy fabric enunciated every contour of her firm golden body and betrayed the secret shape of her thighs. But she stood unabashed in her sun dress, stretching her spine to the sky. It was her morning dress, the habit of the last priestess of Helios, and she was beautiful and glorious in the glow of the new day. Her skin prickled beneath the bold caress of the sun so her nipples stood and she let out a throaty sigh.
Around her, the streets were empty, and the houses were empty with windows like empty staring eyes. Only one other home still breathed, only one lawn kept its thick wet green, with an old cress-green Mercedes glossy with love and car wax sitting in the driveway. It was Pete and Ethel’s house, but Ethel was dead and Pete was old with a dog that limped.
The other houses stood in rows but they were empty like snail shells hollowed by the scorching sun. Inside, there was only silence.
Laura stood where she stood every morning, watching Pete’s sprinkler snick and shudder, stubbornly fighting back the native southern Californian desert. She’d watched as the first houses emptied, cheap particleboard furniture thrown bitterly with the dark-wood heirloom bureau inside the dented truck, rented by the day. ‘For Sale’ signs had gone up like dandelions in the lawns, and for months the signs creaked in the morning breeze until their shiny red letters faded beneath the bleaching sun and the grass and the dandelions died beneath them. No new people moved in.
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