The Butcher and the Butterfly

Ian Dyer

Copy write 2015
Ian Dyer

Smashwords
Edition

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This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are all
from the authors mind. Any resemblance to persons either living or
dead is purely coincidental.

All
that I do, I do for my two everythings: Cheryl and Isabella. Love
ya to the moon and back.

Table of Contents

Prologue - Running Into
Trouble

The Book of Stephen - Just
Follow Orders

Rockfall

Thirsty
Birdies

Tiny
Clouds For Scurrying Rats

For All Your
Sins I love…

The Ones
Needing Luck

Your
Lives Are Coming To An End

Mashed Up
Blackberries

Mid-Point

The Book of Martin - Plans
and Propositions

The Hanging
Fairies

Nightmares

Play Time

The
Butcher and the Butterfly

Hanging By A
Thread

Epilogue

Back to
Top

Prologue - Running Into
Trouble

1

A weary traveller
makes his way across the vast hardpan of the Wastelands. Martin is
alone, save for the memories of those he loved and lost that he
carries under his hat. For two months he has been walking across
the Wastelands, for two months he has been on the run – running
from trouble but unaware that he was now
running
into
trouble.

On his tail were
his hunters; and they were close. Getting closer with each passing
hour. Martin had started his journey on horseback, but within a
week that horse was dried out and dead to the bones; its body now
decorated the bleak rock strewn hardpan being pecked clean by giant
vultures. Since then Martin had been on foot, walking through the
night, resting during the hottest part of the day. He slept for a
few hours, his dreams consisting of one single image – the face of
the man he had killed. It would smile back at him, blood dripping
from his mouth the eyes full of fire.

During the nights
he headed off; following the Great Star to ensure he headed north,
stumbling across the desert taking care not to trip, taking care
not to die. Recently though, now that the Wastelands were close to
claiming another soul, Martin walked during the day and slept
during the night. It went against all his training and he knew his
old tutor would turn in his grave if he ever found out.

The days were
long, starting as the sun heaved itself over the horizon like some
giant all seeing eye. It would get hot quick and his skin would
burn and his throat would dry. Sips of water weren’t enough but
they were all he had. The sun would beat down on him all day, shade
was hard to come by but when a group of rocks or the carcass of a
tree crossed his path he would take advantage of it. But all the
time he was aware that he was being hunted.

Most nights,
Martin would set a small fire to keep out the chill and to boil
himself some sour coffee. He would face south, watching the dark
horizon lit by the high moon for a glimpse, a sign, of the men that
stalked him and tonight, when we join him, is no different – except
for one thing – he wasn’t alone anymore for on the horizon was the
glow of a small fire, much like his own, surrounding it was a
huddle of shadows.

2

Martin spat a wad
of dusty phlegm onto the dry ground as he watched the shadows on
the horizon. He knew who they were and he knew that they would be
relentless, they always were and for a trick he understood why –
after all, hadn’t he killed one of the greatest men Ritash had ever
known?

His hunter’s
didn’t know the truth though. If they did they would be on the same
journey Martin was undertaking, they too would be heading to the
unknown lands of the north, hunting the evil that grows there. An
evil that was thought long dead.

Sipping his hot
sour coffee he stretched his legs out and leant back against the
cool rock he had set his camp to. The ground was hard on his
backside, pebbles digging into the soft flesh but he cared little.
In a strange way, he liked it; it was a reminder to him that he was
still alive. But for how long? He was reaching the end of his time
in this hellish place but he feared he wouldn’t make it to the
other side. He was tired, his feet ached and throbbed a deep beat.
There were blisters upon blisters, hard, dead skin rubbed against
soft new skin irritating him with every step. His backpack,
emptying with every passing day was becoming heavier on his back,
eventually he would strip it from his body leaving it for his
hunters to gather up. The worst thing though, his most troubling
concern was that tonight’s coffee signalled the last of his water.
Before drinking the last drop of sour liquid, Martin raised his
wonky tin mug to the sky and tipped it to the fates that played
their wicked game.

Martin didn’t
sleep that night.

3

He stood as the
sun began to rise. He took his water on the dying embers of the
fire, zipped the fly to his worn jeans and headed back out. The sky
was red this morning, it turned his dirty white shirt a bleak shade
of pink, whilst his dusty coat, three quarter length made from
bull-leather remained brown and non-descript. The wind non-existent
today, much like it always was, the heat growing, much like it
always did. Another hot, dry day and Martin took a deep breath as
he carved his way across the never ending hardpan. His feet barely
left the dirt as he walked, his arms were slumped and his head low
shadowing his face and chest. The sweat ran down from his hair,
over his eyes and into his mouth. It was salty and his lips
narrowed as it soaked into the cuts caused by vitamin
deficiencies.

One hour into his
day he turned and looked behind him. His hard face, covered in
stubble shaded by his old hat, his wide blue eyes scanning the
horizon. Unsurprisingly he couldn’t see anything but white washed
sky and desert. But what had be expected? His hunters were miles
behind and were following the same pattern – sleep in the night,
walk during the day. Facing north, off he went again.

The desert was
changing. The barren rock strewn hardpan was showing signs of life
– long grass and razor grass popped up through the dirt and the
occasional cacti stood to attention; their wonky arms pointing in
all directions, their spines a deadly hazard. Odd looking lizards
would scurry from hole to rock then back again. Scorpions would
poke their heads out as they felt the earth shake but would quickly
retreat when the sensed the man the footfalls belonged too. On the
breeze he could smell life; it belonged to the forest that bordered
the Wastelands. Even the horizon was altering, becoming darker as
the forest came into view, higher as the hills revealed themselves
and fluffy white clouds darted from east to west following the high
winds.

Two days was all
he needed. Two more days, that’s all he needed to make it out and
for a couple of hours he walked a little faster.

But then he fell.
Hard. His right boot had scuffed on the ground for the millionth
time but this time an errant rock had decided to get in his way and
over he went. Dust and pebbles flew and the silence was lifted with
a guttural
ooof
when he hit the floor. His hands broke the
fall but their heroics caused cuts and grazes on their hard fragile
skin. Martins left leg twisted violently but would be okay. It was
his pride that hurt the most and making the most of a crappy
situation, Martin decided to stay there a while, lying upon the
hardpan, using it as a masochistic mattress.

That was a
mistake; he fell asleep.

4

Martin awoke
suddenly. Harshly dragged from his sleep. He was still lying on his
front and for a moment he was unsure of where he was but the grit
tearing at his face and the dust he inhaled with every breath was
good enough to remind him of his situation. He coughed, turned his
head and tried to breath without taking in any of the Wastelands
dirt. When he did he noticed a change in the air. Someone was near,
he could smell them – sweat and grease with an undercurrent of
alcohol. It was a sickening smell. Martin tried to lift himself up,
his aching muscles straining with every movement. He made it
halfway up, started to feel better about the situation and then
buckled, his arse hitting the hardpan.

‘Fuck it.’ He
wheezed, his own voice unfamiliar to him.

He tried once
more, looking about him as the smell intensified, but it was no
good. Drawing his gun but leaving it concealed he twisted and faced
north. He looked across the horizon slowly. It must be midday as
the sun was high and the horizon a miasma of heat haze. There was
something new out there and it was heading his way; it flickered
and danced like a flame refusing to take a form. Mixed with the
smell came the clip-clop of hooves and the whine of metal against
metal. Martin coughed, reached for his water skin and then sighed
as he remembered his water situation. He tried to lick his lips but
that was pointless.

Squinting his eyes
he continued to try and make out what the hell was coming toward
him. What felt like hours went by but it was but mere minutes as
Martins mind raced and concerned itself with thoughts of how he
would defend himself. He couldn’t stand, he could barely see and to
top it off – he couldn’t lift his own gun.

‘What the hell?’
Martin said as the heat haze lifted and the unknown revealed
itself.

5

A manky old horse,
limping hard on one side, dragged a rickety cart; its wheels
whining and its wooden hulk creaking – teasing its passenger with
threats of collapse at any point. Its driver was a dishevelled old
man who wheezed with every breath as he sucked on a destroyed
cigarette. His skin was dirty, tanned like burnt hide and wrinkled
almost to the point of ridiculous. He wore a long black coat,
beneath that, for all Martin knew, he could be as naked as the day
he was born. It was the horse that stunk and as it moved alongside
Martin he shifted away. At this height he could make out the ulcers
and abscesses that were strewn across the horses body; the
occasional maggot popping out to say hello. How this horse wasn’t
dead was a miracle to science. The driver twisted the reign
slightly and brought the cart – which was full of all kinds of
metallic and wooden crap – to a halt.

The driver removed
the cigarette from his mouth, coughed up a wad and spat it out upon
his broken boot. Placing the cigarette back into his crooked mouth
he turned to Martin and looked down; an odd look of amusement upon
his face.

His voice was
deep, covered in phlegm. ‘Having a spot of trouble there,
stranger?’

‘You guessed
it.’

‘Looks like ya had
a fall.’

Martin smiled and
looked at the horse. Of all the people to have met out here in the
middle of butt fuck nowhere he had to meet a mad old loon. He
didn’t grace him with a response.

The old man
coughed and blew out a greenish brown puff of smoke. ‘Where ya
headed? Give a lift for a charge.’

‘Headed north, to
the forest and then on. How far can ya take me?’

The old loon
laughed. ‘Depends on how deep ya pockets are fella,’ he looked
Martin up and down, ‘Not that deep, I’d wager.’

Martin considered
informing him that you shouldn’t judge a book and all that but
didn’t bother. ‘How’s about five copper coins and a pouch of
rolling tobacco.’

The loon licked
his lips, took a swig of water, which Martin watched intensely,
then patted the seat next to him. ‘Come on up, stranger. I can take
you to my old place and then fill yer up with enough for at least a
month on the road. Best be quick about it though, old Fanny here
aint far from turning to glue.’

It was a struggle,
but Martin managed to heave himself up using the cart as a leaver.
He clambered aboard and tried to ignore the smell of decay. The
cart turned and the two men headed off with old Fanny leading the
way.

6

It was a bumpy
ride, taking up most of the day. The old loon tried in vain to stay
away from the rocks and tufts of long grass but it was to no avail.
Martin bounced and bumped his arse pummelled by the hard wooden
plank. In the back of the cart the metal clanged together like a
mad drum and the wood cracked and groaned much like the cart that
held it did.