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 Posted: Thu Jan 26, 2012 9:16 pm
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ACT TWO OF ELLY'S MISSION ellies you're so much more amusing when you're not being sad.
There were moments in his life that happened much too quickly even by Elly’s standards. He stood and spat, wiping a line of red connecting the corner of his mouth and his chin. His legs wobbled beneath the lone weight of his body and the clothes of his back and he was almost glad it was so cold today; he knew that without the frost to numb his bruises, he might’ve stayed down.
The man closed his eyes as he swayed. Each point of today played scene by scene as he moved forward, one lead-heavy foot at a time.
When the sun came and casted some yellow on the somber dirty-grey that morning, Ellison West had already pulled a coat tight against his body. Then another coat. A pair of knit mittens for good measure. A plaid brown scarf as well. In his pocket sat the folded parchment, and in his heart and the tip of his tongue sat the speech that he had secretly dedicated to both Avery and Isa.
If you were to ask him early this morning what he was going to say, he would have very keenly smirked, and said this:
“To the rioters of Gadu,” A marked pause and an imagined nod to said rioters. “I am here endeavoring on a peace-making undertaking. I, Ellison Dean West have been ordained to serve as a messenger; to open your Hearts and Minds to spirit God through my words. Lay down your armaments!” ’Armaments’ being the fancier version of ‘Weapons.’ Ellison for all his lack of education, had quite the vocabulary. ”Look to your fellow man, not with Violence for it is not the answer, But with brotherhood and Peace. Why do you Riot?
There is no Reason! None at All. Rioting is Not Good. Violence is Not Good.
Believe in peace, or be stupid twats and drown in your sea of Violence and piss.”
He stepped forth. He would become a Good Person starting today he muttered to himself in-between the practiced lines.
—-
He had found his audience as one would find a bull in a China shop: with ease too sudden and obvious for comfort. They stood— ten or twenty— in every shape and size, fat, small, and skinny, man and woman; some cliché as they were brandishing torches and others pitchforks. A more creative one seemed to be carrying a limb of some sort.
In their wake, came the wail of a baby and the strange paradoxical aroma of wood-ash and burnt flesh with pine, cinnamon, and holly.
His nose dripped a bit and his breath came out in little white puffs; the tips of his fingers felt near non-existent and his toes curled in his cobbled shoes.
A woman stepped forward, volunteering to be the one voice of many. She had been the one carrying the limb and Elly noticed with a later bit of disdain and disgust that the woman’s own leg was just but a stump with a sewn and patched peg. She placed her hand on Elly’s chest, her fingers pulled at his coat, as if to take away the words he had so lovingly quilted. It worked better than he would admit. “Boy…” she hissed, the stink of her breath made him wretch.
He pushed her back and shuddered. She did not budge.
“Boy…” She repeated, “Do you know of the Glutton god?” A few “yeah’s” and whoops came from her followers, though most were as still as stone.
“To the rioters of Gadu,” he began.
“BOY.” she repeated, raising the bloodied limb (a man’s leg; it was also the opposite of the one she needed).
“I am here to endeavor on a peace-making mission, to open your Hearts to a true God. “
She smacked him, leaving a red trail across his face. He heard a crack in his neck. By reflex, he balled his fists and forced his knuckles in-between her eyes. Some more white puffy breaths unfurled from his mouth; the last was accompanied by a shudder. Then, while pegleg laid mouth-agape, out and down, he kicked her head, again, and again, before she could call him “boy” or mention that “glutton god” again… like it was something more important than his success in this mission.
He gritted as he kicked.
“Shut up. SHUT UP. ********. SHUT UP.”
She wailed. He didn’t stop, until he felt something jab into his ribcage, and another crack to the back of his head.
————-
Most would’ve considered themselves lucky to have gotten out a a mess like that with little more than a sprained ankle and a deep gash across his forehead and chest. But, in his experience, Elly had never felt lucky; in truth, what was good was deserved. What was bad, then?
What was bad needed to be destroyed.
It no longer mattered “violently” or “nonviolently”; things had become personal and he needed to force these ******** to make amends to his face, his neck, and most importantly, his failure to complete the mission successfully.
He looked left, the direction whence he heard the continued cajoling and cackle pop of fire.
He looked right back to home. He had stolen at least one thing useful sometime year, hadn’t he?
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Posted: Fri Jan 27, 2012 6:04 pm
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ACT THREE. FINAL ACT IN THIS MISSION.
’I love you, you know.’
‘Tell me why, would you darling…?’
‘Oh, silly Elly, why would I tell you that?.. Oh, don’t you look at me like that. Fine. Listen closely because I’m going to tell you this only once. You’re strong… and brave and fun, and so much nicer than those other boys. You’re one of the kindest people I know.’
‘Kind?’
She nodded, placing her hand over his heart, feeling at the pulse through the thin bit of linen. The prettiest girl in the world gave him the prettiest smile and for a time, he truly believed her.
---
Elly shoved the door of his building, stumbling when it finally gave way to the force and weight of his body. He coughed, pulled off his scarf and the first layer of coat and stamped across the barren dirt floor, up the creaking stairs, and tore into his room. Though he moved like a drunken man—and, he might as well have been drunk on the blood that had come rushing to his head and the copious amounts of saliva he had to swallow to stave his dried throat— his mind remained as clear as air.
In order to achieve the justice he so deserved, the brunette would need these three things: his flintlock musket, gunpowder, and lead shots. He regretted not having taken a rapier as well during his excursion to the market the last month or so; it might have done these bloody swine some good being cut up some. He sighed.
The musket he knew with was behind the mattress. The gunpowder in a tin that should have been used for fancy hard candies or lozenges. The shots were next to gunpowder tin and in a little draw string bag. Edwin had turned over onto his front. Had he noticed, and had he been a poet instead of a beleaguered ex-would-be-soldier, Elly might have thought the nutcracker was ashamed.
Nevertheless, he did not, and he was not a poet. He packed the blackpowder and extra shots, swung the musket over his shoulder and as quickly as he had came hobbled back out into the hard snow.
—-
He perceived things at a more regular pace, attributing this in part to sense of power and strength his gun had given him. While Elly was sure he could give a speech, he now realized that speeches can fall upon deaf ears and that some, especially cripples were those with which one cannot bargain (Even if the bargainer were as clever or charming as The Ellison West was).
This was not so with guns. When you fired a gun, everyone turns to listen. Whereas a speech was all paper and emotions, here, the musket was something substantially physical. Familiar.
Soon enough, Elly heard their footsteps beat against the unforgiving ground and that smell of death and Brethren’s Day. Though it had become bright, the fire carriers had not ceased their burning wood. Though there was no harvest to tend, he could still see the tips of some pitchforks waving like grass in the distance. He hoped the limb lady at least would not be present.
He licked his lips, tasting a bit of iron and blood.
Then, with the odd preciseness of one who had spent too much of his time shooting chestnut trees and cans in the yard and in the wood and too little indoors, Elly unpacked the blackpowder and extra shots and loaded the musket. He ripped the paper cartridge with his teeth, pulled the frissen forward, and funneled the powder into the flashpan. The frissen came back, the musket turned up, powder into the barrel, shot down, paper down, ramrod in, ramrod out, musket into firing position, the butt of the gun to his shoulder, his index finger over the hammer.
All this in 20 seconds. He attributed the extra five to the ache in his fingers, the kind of pain so strong one could feel through numbness and chill. He closed his eyes, inhale. Exhale.
He ambled forward, more and more briskly as the stumble in his step all but disappeared with the onset of the drums in his ears. The walk became a battle march which became a battle charge. When there was a head to aim for, he fired; the discharge of the gun formed a puff of heated smoke on this cold December day.
He could not see in the dingy grey smog, but he could hear, and judging by sickening crack and splatter, the sudden sounds of panic the shot had landed. He reloaded in 10 seconds and using the momentum of his still moving body, he turned and fired again. A wail and flurry of “Obscuvos be with us!” and “A gun! He has a gun!” someone grabbed at his shirt slugged him across the face twice. Some teeth loosened. Elly pulled the musket forward and with deathly intent, pushed the butt into that someone’s ribs, stamped on his stomach while he was down.
Elly saw that this one had a beard and a friendly, monk-like face.
He shook his head of some unpleasing thoughts— what business a sire like himself had with these people, if he had hurt the right man—, and reloaded. 18 seconds then another shot into the dispersing crowd. One fell as she ran. Limb woman.
Good. Reload. 11 seconds.
He turned to the right. Some had already run so far—presumably at the first shot—they were little more than ants in the distance. To this Elly spat; the saliva-diluted blood shone bright against the white of the snow. He turned to the left.
A crushed man, a shot woman, the monk man.
Some blood too pooled from their chests, and heads. One tried to turn onto his front. He shook his head, pulled a pitchfork from the shot woman, placed it into his sling.
Then he loaded his musket, placed the barrel of the musket to the monk man, one shot direct to the head. The man jerked and recoiled. He repeated this to the shot woman, and monk man. Four for good measure to the fallen limb woman.
He had expected to feel a little better, at least after he had killed the cripple. Perhaps, vengeance would be sweeter later upon finding and killing as many of these ******** as he could find, shooting until these shots were gone, or it was too dark to see.
He ran forth.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind,
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
-- Stephen Crane
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