The Accidental Highwayman (39 page)

He took his almost negligently, holding it loosely in his hand as if considering the weight. For my part I wished to dismantle the pistol given me and inspect every part for tampering, then load it with fresh ball and powder—if only to delay the inevitable. But I could do nothing of the sort. Honor demanded I accept it without question. The only action I was permitted to perform upon it was to depress the trigger at the appointed time, and hope something like a pistol-shot occurred.

So burdened, Captain Sterne and I stood a few feet apart and bowed at the waist. A droplet of sweat fell from my brow and I hoped none of the others saw it. My legs felt like columns of cold air; they were so weak it's a wonder they held me up.

“Dost thou wish to measure the ground?” hissed Mr. Scratch.

“Not for myself,” Sterne said.

“Nor I,” I replied.

If he wasn't afraid to blaze away at close range, then neither was I. Or, to be more accurate, I was so frightened of being shot that it didn't matter to me if we stood an inch or a mile apart. Any distance was too small.

Dr. Mend completed the ritual observances. “Then you, Mr. Bristol, take your ground, and inform the Captain when you are ready to settle the matter.”

“Here is as good a place as any,” said I.

I know not if I spoke faintly, or if the rush of blood pulsing in my ears was so great I could not hear my own voice. Sterne's eyes were locked upon my own like cannon-bore: unfeeling, cruel, and certain. My own eyeballs felt as if they were mounted on clock springs, but I was able to master them sufficiently to maintain my stare against his.

The rules of dueling have changed over time; most people now believe the practice has always been to stand back-to-back and march some fixed number of paces apart, then turn and exchange fire at more or less the same time. It was not thus when I fought my duel.

This is how it went: now that my place was established, the seconds moved well back from the field of fire, so that none might be wounded. When they had found their ground, Sterne tore his eyes away from mine and nodded to them. Then—as if he was merely strolling a little distance to pick a flower, he walked away from me. When he stopped, he would turn and fire.

I tried my best to stand still and ready, my eyes upon Sterne's back. The pistol in my hand seemed to weigh as much as a mountain. How would I find the strength to raise it? In truth it took my entire will not to break into a run at full tilt across the field, pursued by the gibbering phantoms of unfired guns. Who would prosper because I fell to this ruthless man's bullet? What honor should I gain in death? My opponent regarded such encounters as trifles, because he so often had them; he no more expected to fall to my shot than I expected to fall from Midnight's back. Poor Midnight, thought I. He should never know what befell his best friend, and whomever became his master, he could never be the friend that I was.

Each pace Sterne took brought to me a new specter of doubt and sorrow. I would lose Morgana, as well, and fail her cause, and all the Faerie people, for an absurd human ritual of destruction. I was giving up a life that promised two worlds. But most of all, I was facing the end of love.

It's difficult to explain romantic love to a person who has not been so afflicted. Some know the love of a parent, or both parents; some love also brothers and sisters and relations. I had never enjoyed this kind of love, being an orphan. It wasn't unusual. There were many orphans, and many whose families did not love them at all, although they had them. Those were hard-hearted times, and it wasn't advisable to indulge in sentimentality. Even husbands and wives were mostly joined of necessity, having fallen in together to improve their odds of survival, rather than from some bond of selfless love.

Most times are hard, as I have learned over the years. So I expect romantic love is still scarce. If you've endured it, you can skip over this bit and get to the shooting a little farther down the page. But indulge me if you will. I speak of the species of love that causes all else to dwindle to nothing. It makes life seem trivial, and at the same time desperately important. In that moment, all my cares were but distractions compared to the consuming interest I had in Morgana's well-being. The leaping fire in my heart drove out any chill, always spreading and never burning. The brighter it blazed, the more fuel there was.

That aspect of love is what makes it most formidable. It nourishes as it devours. The more I loved Morgana, the less of me it seemed there was; that is, the part of me that was my own had dwindled until it was but vapor, like the mist that lifted away from the grass as it ascended into the heavens (as I expected to do within a few seconds). Yet I was no less for my love. My being was fed by the love Morgana had for me, until we were mingled into one bright soul with two expressions in the world, both together something greater than the sum of two.

So Sterne's leaden ball would not merely strike me down; I cared little for myself. But it would pierce Morgana's heart as well. I was sure of it. Yet I was not. Had she not left me alone, without a note or word of farewell? Did I not feel some tremor of doubt, wondering if she might after all have forsaken me for the love of her people, a far more pressing and selfless cause? Had I any right to claim her, after all? I was a peasant, by any standards. She was a princess in two worlds.

Thus did I occupy my thoughts as Sterne paced away, torn between anguish at the loss of so great a love as ours, and the terrible question of whether that love persisted still in her bosom; I would go to my grave not knowing. This was the worst thing.

Even as I thought this, the captain ceased pacing, and the world slowed down until all around me might have been carved of marble. My fingers tightened upon the pistol-grip.

I wondered what made honor the trajectory of man. Of all the things I should never know, this was the one that taunted me the most. I had known Morgana's love once; I was certain she had truly loved me during our adventures together. To have earned such a love, even for a moment, was enough for my meager lifetime. But I would never know if she loved me still, or what became of her, or anything, because I had
honor
to satisfy. There may be some day when honor is not the central pillar of a man's existence, bearing the whole rickety edifice up; there may come a time when fortune or fame or a fine garden are the things a man will not hesitate to die for.

That is all conjecture. In my time, it is honor makes the man. So I stood there at the very end of my life, pistol at my side in a sweat-slicked hand, heart beating under my jaw. My opponent began to turn, twisting his heel in the grass as he came about, the pistol already rising in his hand. I doubted he was concerning himself with love or loss or the riddle of honor. He might be considering whether to have another breakfast kipper before resuming his day. He surely did not expect to die.

But even as I dragged my own weapon upward, I realized I had measured his courage wrong. For he had scarcely completed half his turn about before his pistol was raised, which wasn't good form. We ought to have faced each other and raised our guns eye-to-eye. He intended to shoot me like a pheasant, sweeping his barrel across me. It would make it harder for me to aim, as he would be moving when he fired.
He was also afraid.

In that moment I understood that no man faces a duel without fear, not even a gentleman accustomed to such contests; he simply learns to master it better. When the guns came up, there was no further time for showmanship. Only marksmanship mattered then.

Even as I stiffened my arm to make it steady upon Sterne's top coat-button, exhaling the breath I'd been holding since he began to pace away, there as a flash of fire. The black eye of his pistol bloomed like a yellow rose, from bud to flower all at once, and I hadn't even time to hear the report.

He shot me dead between the eyes.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After attending the Rhode Island School of Design for illustration, B
EN
T
RIPP
worked as an experiential designer for over twenty years creating theme parks, resorts, museums, and attractions worldwide.
The Accidental Highwayman
is his first book for young adults. Visit his interactive Kit Bristol tumblr at
www.kitbristol.com
.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE ACCIDENTAL HIGHWAYMAN

Copyright © 2014 by Ben Tripp

All rights reserved.

Illustrations by Ben Tripp

Cover art by Sarah Coleman

A Tor® Teen Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-7653-3549-4 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-2263-4 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9781466822634

First Edition: October 2014