The Butcher and the Butterfly (2 page)

Fanny did well
though. She was old, threadbare and underfed but she kept on going.
Over steep inclines and down slippery slopes she didn’t stop. It
was on one of these steep inclines that the loon pointed to as they
reached the top and looked over to the border in the far distance –
tress and hills were clearly visible now.

‘There’s the
border, lad. A couple of days on foot but nothing compared to what
you have been through I’d wager.’

Martin had noticed
how cool it had gotten, he was still uncomfortable but he couldn’t
deny that the air was better here. There was water near, a lot of
it and the smell of decay was sweeter with its inclusion.

‘That there is my
place.’ The loon pointed to a small hut below them in the shallow
valley. It fitted the man perfectly, twisted and gnarled and as
ancient as the gun at his side. Surrounding the hut were piles upon
piles of rubbish – metal shards poked out, wooden beams loomed
large whilst household furniture and rubbish littered the
ground.

‘What is it that
you do?’ Martin asked not really wanting to know the answer.

‘This and that.
Used to clear out old houses and make money selling on what I got.
Guess I stopped selling it.’ He cackled at the sight the detritus
surrounding his home. ‘That’s where I got my name from.’

The cart continued
on, down the slope and then weaving in and out of the piles of
clutter that adorned this part of the desert. Martin was waiting,
expecting the old loon to tell him his name. But then he remembered
– this old loon wasn’t so straightforward.

‘And what name is
that, may I ask?’

‘Rag and Bone Man.
They would shout it as I came through town, especially over there
beyond the forest in ‘Sands. That was my main hunting ground.’ Rag
and Bone Man veered the cart around the side of the hut and brought
it to a sudden halt under the overhanging roof. On the side of the
building written in decaying white painted letters was “Rag and
Bone Man” – the O of Bone being a skull and crossbones. Behind the
hut, Martin could make out the makings of an old stable – it was as
gnarled as the hut and full of what once could have been called
straw.

‘Well, thank you,
Rag and Bone Man, you can call me Martin.’ He held out his hand and
the old loon took it and squeezed hard. His grip was impressive for
such an old timer. As the grip was released the old loon coughed,
it was deep cough that echoed of disease ready to pounce.

When he had
finished coughing he said, ‘Please Martin, call me Albert. Bit
easier on the old tongue.’ He let go of the reigns and eased
himself down from the wagon, Martin followed suit and the two men
untied Fanny from her cart and led her into the stables. She drank
deep from her water bucket and then slumped to the floor. Albert
stroked her twisted mane and she leant into his hand. It was a
sweet sight.

‘That’s her for
the day. Don’t never go that far out into the desert. Bless her old
maggoty self.’

‘She’s a good
horse, Albert,’ and then a thought came to Martin, ‘What made you
venture out?’

Albert turned to
Martin, concern etched upon his face and his hands trembling. ‘A
man came to me, months past now, told me that one day, this day in
fact - when the sun rose and turned the sky a blood red – that I
should venture out. That I would come across a traveller, sat on
his arse – exhaustion etched upon his face and I should help that
traveller.’

Martin swallowed
hard, his spit dragging down his throat which had turned into a
cavern of nails and glass. ‘Who was it, Albert?’

Albert screamed
with laughter and then moved away from him. Somewhere far off there
was the distant sound of thunder. ‘It was the man you killed,
Martin. It was the Sorcerer himself.’

7

‘So you know what
I am, Albert?’

The two men walked
away from the stable and to the front of the hut. ‘Aye. I know what
you are, but it makes no odds to me. I just did what I was told and
took the coin.’

Martin reached
down to his gun as Albert opened the old creaking door. ‘What were
you told to do?’

Albert raised his
hands above his head which seemed to take some effort. The gun in
Martins hands waivered, the muscles twitching hard. ‘What were you
told to do?’

The old loon
hacked and hacked until he was red in the face but he didn’t move.
He waved his hand to gesture for more time as Martin leaned in with
the gun.

Finally, when the
coughing had stopped Rag and Bone Man said, ‘To bring you here. To
bring you here, fatten you up and then to send you off on yer
ways.’

‘And that’s
it?’

‘Aye, that’s
it.’

‘If this is a
trap, Albert, I will blow your fucking head clean off! Now speak
the truth, this is your last chance.’

The old loon
laughed and pointed to the hut and then to the piles of old junk
that surrounded them. ‘How could old ‘Bert build a trap? Honestly,
that was all I was asked to do.’

The old man
lowered his hands as Martin lowered, then holstered his gun.

‘I may be a sneak
thief from time-t-time, but never a liar. And anyways, I would
never lie to a Marksman such as yerself.’

Albert went into
this home and flicked a switch. From somewhere behind the hut an
old generator kicked in and spark lights came to life lighting up
the one room. Cautiously, Martin walked in, slightly knocked back
by the scent of whiskey but comfortable in the knowledge that there
was no trap. No Sorcerer waiting for him. Martin closed the door
behind him, now that the cool night air was beginning to wrap
around his feet, and slid his back pack from his body, letting it
slump to the floor. He could feel his legs buckling but made sure
he remained standing.

‘What else did he
say?’

‘Nothing much but
I will tell ya, you can be sure of that. Just sit down and relax a
whiles whilst I make us a brew. Coffee?’

‘Aye. Black and
sour, please.’

Albert shuffled
over to the one burner stove and fiddled with it until the flames
licked at the dented pan. He grabbed two mugs from a pile of books,
blew in them and then cleaned them out with the bottom part of his
coat. Martin regretted his decision but he was thirsty. He would
ask for water but seeing the state of the place he knew that boiled
water was the way forward. Martin slumped in one of the old wooden
chairs and breathed out letting his body calm and muscles rest.

The coffee took
but a few minutes and Martin didn’t wait for it to cool before
drinking it. It was sour, too sour, but he didn’t care. The hut was
run down, barely standing, and it stunk, a mirror image of the man
that had helped him, but he didn’t care. He asked for another mug,
drank that just as quick and gave his thanks.

As he stretched
out his legs and untied his boots he looked at the floor and
wandered where the hell he was going to rest for the night. He was
about to ask when Albert, busying himself by the stove said, ‘You
can have the bunk behind me, Marksman. I sleep in with old Fanny.
Nights get cold and I aint as pert as I used to be. Need the warmth
of that old cunny I do!’ he cackled and it made Martin squirm. He
didn’t want to think about it but was grateful for the bed.

‘Coffee, a soft
bed and company. Seems like I haven’t had those things for a long,
long time.’

Albert wiped his
hands on the front of his coat and placed a frying pan on the one
ring. ‘Not much company for me, either, except old Fanny and she
aint much of a conversationalist. Mostly I stumble about the wares
I have collected. I might pop into town to get some bits but I
don’t talk to anyone except the butcher. My travelling days are
long since gone.’

The meat in the
pan started to sizzle and released its aroma. Martins gut rumbled
and he began to salivate. He had been eating on his travels but
jerky and stone bread weren’t exactly the best travel
companions.

‘Smells good.’

‘Always does. But
don’t ask what it is. Only know that it smells good and doesn’t
taste like fried arsehole.’

8

The two men ate in
silence, something both had become used to. Martin considered his
future – he had been on the run, fleeing from a murder he had
thought was righteous but turned into something darker. But now,
with the knowledge that the man – or whatever Samson is now – is
still alive his self-absorbed mission isn’t over. Martin would have
to carry on, hunting down the Sorcerer – he was too dangerous to be
left alive especially if the Wretch King was reborn. Fleeing Martin
had believed that in time he would find peace, solace and a place
to end his days, but now the hunt continues and he can think of
nothing else.

Once finished
Albert took the two plates and threw them into the bucket which
stood for the sink. He didn’t wash them and Martin guessed that
they would never be washed, only reused time and time again until
that cancerous cough got the better of him and he hacked up his
last breath.

Albert grabbed a
bottle that was hidden behind an odd looking metallic machine and
two dull glasses that were close by. ‘Saving this bottle for a
special occasion. Fancy a swig or four?’

‘Sounds good to
me.’ Martin couldn’t remember the last time liquor had passed his
lips. Months? Who knew?

‘Grab those old
cushions, Martin, we shall drink this like the old desert folk do;
under the stars getting pissed as they twinkle at us.’

Martin gathered
together some wood and kindling using the light of the moon to
guide him. Occasionally he would pick up what he thought were twigs
but turned out to be sharp copper wires – some protruding from
heavy metal, others twisted around like mad spiders fighting. When
he had enough for a good sized fire he knelt next to Albert and
began to build.

He built the
kindling up like a chimney until it was two hands high. Martin then
gathered some razor grass, taking care not to cut himself, and
shoved it into the centre of the construct. Fiddling in his pockets
he removed some matches and went to light. Albert grabbed his arm
and leant in, his free hand holding an odd pencil shaped
object.

‘Allow me,
Martin.’ Albert flicked a small button on the pencil thing and a
small flame instantly sparked from the metallic tip. There was no
flint, no sour smell nor did the flame burn a pale orange. It was
truly a marvel. Albert smiled, his crooked teeth glinting in the
glow of the flame. He touched the flame to the razor grass and the
dry weed smoked for a while and then with a familiar popping sound
it took to the flame. Within a minute the small chimney construct
was aflame and both Martin and Albert added to it.

Albert sat back a
bit and grabbed his tobacco pouch from his pocket. ‘Ya smoke,
Martin?’

‘Nah, didn’t take
to it. Though at times I do regret it.’

Albert hacked and
laughed spitting some vile phlegm into the fire. It hissed with
anger. He placed the tobacco back into his pocket and produced
instead a freshly rolled cigarette which he didn’t light it but
placed it into his mouth – this would be the way in which Martin
would always remember him. ‘Been doing it since I turned the man’s
age. Back then though the weed was different.’

Martin had heard
the term “man’s age” before and knew it to be from day’s long, long
past. It wasn’t a term used anymore and represented the dark days;
when the earth was becoming new again. It was rude, but Martin had
to ask, ‘How old are you, Albert?’

The old loon
opened the bottle, the cap resisting for a while until finally
giving up with a satisfying crunch and poured some of the reddish
brown liquid into the two glasses. It smelt sweet, hot and old.

‘How old!’ Albert
croaked, ‘Fuck the days, I have no idea.’ He scratched his ancient
chin and downed the drink in one, his mouth narrowing and his
nostrils flaring. As he swallowed he cracked his teeth together and
sucked in some air, he then gestured to the Marksman to follow suit
and Martin did as he was told. The drink was as it had smelt but by
far more intense. As he composed himself, letting the heat from the
drink lessen in his gut Albert continued.

‘It doesn’t rain
out here much. Something stops the clouds as soon as they reach the
forest over yonder. But there is a pattern ya see, not many people
see it, or know about it, but I know.’ Albert’s eyes were wide with
psychotic delight and the fire danced in them, ‘In that forest
there is a great bird, black as night with a beak as blue as the
ocean – I know, I have seen it – and this bird is a sleeper. It
sleeps for three years until its hungry and when it wakes it takes
flight and heads east out toward the unknown lands. Two days later,
black clouds, black as the bird itself loom from the east and
whatever stops the normal clouds from leaving the forest has no
control over these black carpets of death. On the third day it
rains and rains and rains; turning the desert a lush green. Aye tis
a sight to behold ya figure.’

‘Sounds it.’
Martin said pouring the two men another shot each. The both downed
it simultaneously and it tasted better.

‘Aye, so the rains
come every three years and when they do I mark the occasion on the
side of my hut with a single mark.’ Albert pointed over to his hut
and to the opposite wall where “Rag and Bone Man” was written. ‘I
shall leave it as a surprise, Martin. Something to look forward to
in the morning.’ The old loon hacked and laughed; the cigarette
hanging on one lip as if its life depended on it.

The desert went
quite except for the crackle of the wood. The sky was clear
tonight, the stars bright and Xerxes Flame shone from east to west
filling the sky with a cloudy orange and blue beauty. The night was
getting late and Martin could feel the weariness begin to take
him.