The Butcher and the Butterfly (23 page)

‘Hey doddle diddle
the cat and the fiddle,

The cow jumped
over the moon,

The little dog
laughed to see such fun,

And the dish ran
away with the spoon.’

Samson watched her
for a few minutes then looked at the bee hives that she had
painted. In the fenced off field there must have been well over two
hundred of the small white houses. There were ten neat little rows
of these houses and they stretched out into the distance. Each one
had been painted bright white and they reflected the sun’s rays
almost blinding the Sorcerer. The white fence was tatty and worn
and no doubt was the next job for the young Dotty.

The Black Sorcerer
took one last look at the woman and watched her paint. She painted
with a lot of care. Each brush stroke was given a lot of attention
and she was oblivious to all around her. Her work must have taken
days, weeks even and Samson wanted to meet the person who had given
her this job as not only was it cruel, funny but cruel, it was also
a good use of someone that has, in the real world, no use what so
ever.

Samson, as he
moved away with a smile upon is face, did not say goodbye.

5

The Black Sorcerer
walked until he came across a well-used path. Wheel ruts were
carved into the soft earth and he followed it as he climbed up a
small hill. He reached the top of the hill after half an hour and
he stood at the top looking out over the outskirts of Christian
Sands.

In the distance he
could make out the faint outline of rooftops and tall chimneys and
in the foreground the track went on, crossing a river on a large
wooden bridge. The river was wide and snaked through the earth from
east to west.

On the left the
lush green grass gave way to fields of barley, corn, fruit orchards
and all were ready for harvesting. Warehouses were dotted here and
there and under their roofs farmers kept their machinery, their
harvested crops and their livestock and on the right the grass was
segregated into many fields and in those fenced off field’s cows,
sheep, horses and the odd bull roamed.

Under the sound of
the soft wind Samson could hear the clank-clank, thud-thud and
chug-chug of machinery. Christian Sands was a large town by his
memory, hundreds of people lived and worked there and most were
well fed and well looked after. Like all towns it had its crime and
its poverty but this place, this heaven on earth to some was more
rich than poor. The sky was turning dark and in the west the sun
was beginning to set turning the sky shepherds red.

Day was turning to
night and just as Samson was about to head off an image of two
fairies eating the man that hunted him filled his vision and the
Sorcerer rubbed his eyes to try and remove the images. They faded
away and the Sorcerer started to walk toward the town but again the
visions came and he could clearly see the Marksman being devoured
by two fairies.

‘For fucks sake.
That’s not a way for a Marksman to go. He’s mine you little
fucktards.’ With that the Sorcerer placed his hands upon the black
orb hidden beneath his shawl and disappeared.

6

Martin Doyle left
the hut just after dusk opting to walk the remaining journey across
the desert through day and hopefully, within a couple of days, he
would find the path that led out of the desert and into the lush
forest of the West Lands.

He felt low. The
Old Loon had been a good man. Honest and true, and Martin regretted
not being able to save him. That regret, however, soon turned to
anger and then to revenge. The Black Sorcerer had caused all this.
Twisting the will of the King. Twisting right from wrong. But soon
Samson would be dead.

But first he had
to find one of the bitch Orbs. He had to find Varula or Satan’s
Eyeball as it is known. The nearest place to find information on
the Orb would be Christian Sands, the large city on the other side
of the forest, but finding information would be hard; the Orb had
been lost for many, many years, and like all magic, the Orbs have
found a way of hiding in the hardest of places.

Walking through
the cooling desert he shrugged off the town’s name and concentrated
on getting out of the desert sooner rather than later. He slept
only for a few hours during dusk and sun down making sure to walk
double time during the night when the air was cool.

He spotted the
first tree sprouting from a massive wind smoothed rock. It was
tall, gnarled and seemed older than time. Its bark was white and
its fragile branches stretched far out but there were no leaves
upon them. In faded letters were the words - Rag and Bone Man - and
below a small arrow pointed in the direction Martin had walked. The
tree seemed lifeless, but it was still alive, and Martin could
almost hear it breathe. How many years had it been there? How many
years without rain, without the smallest drop of water? Without a
good life? Martin walked into its dappled shade and placed his hand
upon its rough skin, then, slowly, he placed his right cheek upon
it.

The wind made the
tree groan in pleasure and for a while Martin stood there with the
old tree. Martin began to feel faint after a time, a sickening
feeling rising in his gut. He swayed a little but remained focused.
Something was happening to him but he didn’t know what. Waves of
nausea pelted him, washed over him like waves upon the beach. He
tried to move his head away from the tree but it was no good. The
tree was mystical, older than time itself and Martin was being
taken. A part of Martin was taken.

He stayed there,
under the tree, for the rest of the day and slept beneath it.

By late afternoon
on the second day, Martin saw on the horizon the dark outline of
trees that marked the start of the forest and as he moved further
toward it so the sand gave way to gravel, then to stone, then to
dirt and finally; grass.

When it was time
to rest Martin had found the path that led through the forest and
he hunkered down for the night meters from the hot desert but
cooler than he had been in weeks. Beside him he lit a small fire
and cooked some of the meat he had taken from the hut.

He would enjoy
tonight the best night’s sleep he had had in a long time, but above
him, looking down with Cheshire cat grins upon their faces were two
little fairies; eyes as red as rubies and faces as pointed as their
teeth. Their little wings wrapped around their backs and their
hands holding onto the thin branches. They sniggered quietly to
themselves as not to disturb the sleeping Marksman. They sniggered
hard for they knew they would have fun with the human below them
and when the fun was over they would have a good meal.

When the laughter
was over the girl fairy looked to the boy fairy and said very
quietly ‘We shall have to change the sign post tonight before the
fatty man gets up.’

The boy fairy
nodded and looked at his sister. ‘Don’t forget, Gretel that this
one will have to last longer than the last biggun’ that walked
through here. Don’t get all greedy again.’

Gretel giggled and
put her small hand across her mouth. Her nails looked razor sharp
in the moonlight and after a couple of seconds her giggling
stopped. ‘I can’t help it. They taste so good. If you only cooked
it Hansel, you would know what I mean.’

Hansel poked his
tongue out and pretended to be sick and the two of them laughed.
When they had finished they both took one last look at the biggun’
asleep below them, unfurled their small fragile wings and flew off
into the dark forest, sprinkling fairy dust as they went and making
small buzzing noises as they flew.

7

Martin awoke;
refreshed, alive. The sun was high, it was ten in the morning, and
its bright light shone through the forest’s roof in epic god rays.
A light mist was rising from the ground, the grass, the moss and
dead foliage were covered in a cool dampness. The Marksman
marvelled at the beauty of this place, heightened more so by the
total opposite of the desert not one day’s walk away. It was a
million shades of green. The trees; a hundred shades of brown and
yellow. Martin felt strangely at home here, more at home then he
had felt back in Ritash, in his own home. He looked back, toward
the path he had walked down yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime
ago that he was in the desert, but its dirt: its monstrous heat was
still upon him, still fresh. He needed rid of it.

This place had
once been the home to forest dwellers known oddly as ‘Huggers’ and
when they finally left they had not taken down the small huts in
which they had lived. Martin needed to find one of these for the
huts where always built on, or near, water.

Looking over his
shoulder, his eyes watering with the strain as they looked through
the harsh god rays, he knew, instinctively, that a hut lay not two
or three hours walk to the south, and the more he thought about it,
the more he could see it; built next to a massive oak, its roof
intact but covered in leaves and overgrown roots. By its right
flank was the well which still had water at its bottom and a bucket
on a pulley at its head. Its windows were black with the dirt of
time and its wooden walls were green with moss and fungus. Inside
would be a table, some chairs, a wood burning stove, a small stone
hearth fire place and in the corner, the left corner by the fire,
was a copper bath, a deep flame orange copper bath. And it was this
bath that held the attraction for the Marksman. He would sink down
into it and let the water flow over the edge. The water would
penetrate deep down into his pores and wipe clean the filth of the
desert.

The hunt for the
Orb could wait.

Martin headed
south. Thoughts of the Black Sorcerer were far from his mind. All
he could think about was that hut and the bath that sat inside. He
had to forget about the desert and the loss of Jonathan. He had to
forget about the Black Sorcerer if he were to focus on the Orb but
soon after an hours walking through the lush forest he had
forgotten about the deal made with the Angel of Death.

If we were to look
now, through the eyes of an un-bewitched man as it were, we would
see the path Martin was walking shrouded in silvery glittering
confetti. Fairy dust gets into you, plays with you; owns you.

Midday approached
and the Marksman was drenched in sticky sweat. The forest was hot,
humid even, and under the canopy of a million leaves it was sealed
in tight like a wasp caught in a sticky jam jar. The sun only
speckled through in patches but it was enough to heat the place up
like the desert upon which the Marksman had walked a lifetime
ago.

The path to the
Hugger’s hut had been easy to follow as if the wildness of the
forest not dares to cover it up. Trees and shrub’s dotted the green
path and where they failed bright yellow daisy’s shone like candles
along a narrow corridor. The path wound its way through dense
growth until the forest gave way to a bright clearing enclosed by
giant Grand Oak tree’s and the sun was allowed to shine through in
all its mighty glory. In the grass, which was a wash of light
green, huge amounts of wild flowers basked in the sun’s golden
shine and their colours radiated like a rainbow upon the floor. It
was a picture of heaven.

Martin looked
about the clearing with eyes full of water and wonderment. He had
never seen such a place. Even the old hut, which was falling apart
at the very seams, was somehow magical. The well was covered in
dark green moss and the wooden construction that worked the winch
was splintered and haggard beyond repair. It looked exactly like he
had imagined and all thoughts of what he had to do or where he was
going where gone. The invisible silvery glow emanated from the hut
but the Marksman was totally unawares.

Everything was
peaceful here. It felt like a home from home and the Marksman, now
only a few meters from the hut, sat upon the moist grass and sighed
a sigh of a million relieved souls. He allowed himself to relax
totally, his heart slowing and his mind as clear as glass, and he
fell back onto the soft earth with a thud; his eyes squinting as
they gazed into the ultramarine sky and his mouth widening into a
smile only akin to lovers.

He lay there for
some time. He replayed songs sung by his mother when he was just a
child in his mind and for a while he was a child again. He moved
his hands out as if he was being crucified upon the earth and he
plucked flowers from the ground. He tossed them into the air like
he did when he was a boy and he watched them fall softly to the
ground.

He could have laid
there forever and a day; the forest consuming him like it had the
earth and the rocks but a song his mother used to sing to him
reminded him of the hut and the bath he needed to take:

Come one, come
all, come ye Kings of men

To the hall’s I
call my home.

Join me now and
know my love

We shall drink and
we shall eat.

You are welcome
here! You are welcome here!

What’s mine be
yours! What’s mine be yours!

To the hall’s I
call my home.

He heaved himself
up and sang the song out loud for the forest to hear as he walked
to the hut he thought of as home.

In the trees
above, little Hansel and Gretel laughed so hard it was enough to
shake leaves from the trees.

Martin lifted
himself up, slowly, thoughtfully, and he stood gazing at the
Hugger’s hut before him. He had walked a lifetime of miles in the
desert. It had left scars upon his skin like ravines upon the
earth. Dirt was in those scars, the dirt went by many guises: fear,
hatred, anger, revenge but all would be washed away with the help
of the Hugger’s bath. In its water’s the dirt would wash away and
he would be reborn. Yes, that’s the right word for it: reborn.

His search for
Samson was lost now. His need for redemption gone like Albert. The
deal with Death but a mere shadow of a lost thought.