While soft winds shake the barley
Oct 28, 2015 11:16:23 GMT -5
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Sadistic, Judge, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Oct 28, 2015 11:16:23 GMT -5
It was a long way from Frankfort to Hangtown, even as the crow flies. Even if you knew how to find it. And it took a long time to make the trip by wagon. As such, the three bodies were in no condition for open casket funerals.
If there had been funerals.
If there had been caskets.
There had been neither. Phinehas Dillinger stood behind three mounds of dirt. The smell of freshly turned earth greeted all who’d come. His handcrafted digging gloves, those with the jagged stitching and worn patina from much use, were as smudged as his face. He leaned on The Shovel and his hoarfrost eyes glanced at the gathering around the graves. These forms were not kin or acquaintances, but instead a mourning party brought in with promises of spiced ale at the Owl and Eel afterward. Because as unseemly and unsavory as the dearly departed had been in life, no one deserved to be left alone in death.
Well, almost no one.
As it was, Phinehas, the mourning party, and the sinister-looking farmer who had fetched the bodies stood silent as a soft wind wound through what had once been Wiggins Christmas Tree Farm. A farm of any sort, let alone one devoted to Christmas Trees, could not flourish in such unconsecrated ground. The patch of land stood outside Hangtown, beyond even the Boneyfiddle district, and was neither holly nor jolly. It was most certainly not merry.
A single tree had been left behind. A fir of some kind, tall but twisted, waving its sagging uneven branches at the few in attendance. This tree, this secondary Hanging Tree, had been set aside for those unfit to grace the branches of the great oak in the middle of town. This tree loomed over a long neglected crossroads where desperate feet once tapped out secrecies on stone.
And tonight, this tree was full.
Silhouettes dangled from the misfit Tannenbaum. Feet swayed in a ponderous gallows’ jig. And all the while, black shapes feathered in the darkness. Waiting to take these wretches piece by piece to their version of Valhalla.
The farmer spit and wiped stray tobacco juice off his chin with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know how long those bodies had been laying there, but I can tell you it was a ghastly trip back. I’m going to have to burn all that hay now.”
“When you do, Mr. McGregor, toss these in with it.”
Phinehas reached inside his coat and produced a stack of patches. Something about 1%, angels, skulls, swords…the usual motorcycle gang regalia and each bordered by shreds of black leather.
“What’s this?”
“I took the liberty of removing them from those fellows’ vests.” He waved a gloved hand in the general direction of the tree. “I thought about mailing them back to their associates as a…suggestion that they never set foot anywhere near Hangtown ever again. But then I figured consigning them to the flames was the noble thing to do”
Mr. McGregor scowled. He held the patches close to his face, turning to catch what little cold moonlight he could muster through the marbled clouds. As cold and unfeeling as the rest of these unhallowed lands. After shuffling through the stack he shoved them in his own coat pocket.
Without a word the mourning party ambled away to town. Towards that promised ale and a fire in the hearth and much better cheer. The farmer stepped to the closest grave and nudged a piece of sandstone with his toe. He then nodded towards the condemned men.
“What about them?”
Phinehas did not turn. He knew how they hung. Those were good, strong ropes with good, strong knots.
“I just need one. Our Hand of Glory is showing its age and any one of those heathens will do just fine. A quick snicker-snack for a hand and then I’ll render the rest of him down for the candle. Billy gets what’s left for the wax museum.”
“And the rest? Want me to help you dig a pit? Or at least lend a hand in cutting them down?”
“Leave ‘em. Crows have to eat, same as worms.”
The growing murder rasped. Phinehas looked round about and sighed, his breath a plume of frost that dissipated into nothing.
“The Saints have brought this…all of this…on themselves. I would have been perfectly happy keeping things between the ropes, all nice and cordial like, but now, well, that simply can’t be.”
“Obviously.”
Phinehas jabbed the blade of The Shovel deeper into the ground.
“I don’t understand their intentions, Mr. McGregor. Nor do I claim to grasp the finer points of Judge’s false doctrine.”
“The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Fortunately our match will not require any discussion regarding the vagaries of the Saints’ beliefs or their end game.”
The farmer spit again. This time it was straight and true – a direct hit on a deathwatch beetle scurrying along the graves. “Not that they’ve thought that far ahead.”
“No, indeed. And yet despite all the unnecessary deaths leading up to this match, Revelation is not out to avenge anyone. Were we to have crossed paths with these very men under different circumstances I don’t doubt we would have been forced to fight to a terrible conclusion. But we didn’t cross paths with them. We’ve crossed paths with Judge and Jury. And any attempt to frame us was an exercise in futility. The Black Hand doesn’t spend time proclaiming its innocence. We just deal with it, whatever it happens to be. It is naught but a problem to be solved. And we have solved it.”
The Hanging Tree protested under the weight of the dead. The black birds grew restless.
The farmer looked to Phinehas. “Are you sure Michaels is up to this? He isn’t too distracted…”
“Michaels has made a fine career of focusing on the task at hand. That being Judge and Jury, for now. We’ll deal with everything else in its own good time.”
“Has he said anything to you? Given any indication about what he’s found out?"
“Not yet. He’s discovered more than some, not as much as others. But he won’t stop until he knows it all…or all that any one person can possibly know, that is.”
“And then what?”
Phinehas smiled underneath his beard. An icy wind swept across his eyes.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. McGregor. Patience is a virtue.”
The farmer nodded. He checked his pockets, double-checked, and then walked back to the wagon. Mr. McGregor groaned as he climbed up onto the seat. He unwound the reins from around a hitch, snapped them with a light touch, and clicked his tongue. Some great unseen horse snorted and pulled. Without looking back Mr. McGregor raised a hand in goodbye and disappeared down a different way.
Phinehas pulled The Shovel free from the earth and moved to the base of the tree. With a tilt of his head he looked up into the branches. There was no disputing they had a singular purpose. Judge, Jury, and the entire litany of the Saints. Violence was all they had. It was all they understood. All they responded to. And so it would be violence that Revelation delivered.
If there had been funerals.
If there had been caskets.
There had been neither. Phinehas Dillinger stood behind three mounds of dirt. The smell of freshly turned earth greeted all who’d come. His handcrafted digging gloves, those with the jagged stitching and worn patina from much use, were as smudged as his face. He leaned on The Shovel and his hoarfrost eyes glanced at the gathering around the graves. These forms were not kin or acquaintances, but instead a mourning party brought in with promises of spiced ale at the Owl and Eel afterward. Because as unseemly and unsavory as the dearly departed had been in life, no one deserved to be left alone in death.
Well, almost no one.
As it was, Phinehas, the mourning party, and the sinister-looking farmer who had fetched the bodies stood silent as a soft wind wound through what had once been Wiggins Christmas Tree Farm. A farm of any sort, let alone one devoted to Christmas Trees, could not flourish in such unconsecrated ground. The patch of land stood outside Hangtown, beyond even the Boneyfiddle district, and was neither holly nor jolly. It was most certainly not merry.
A single tree had been left behind. A fir of some kind, tall but twisted, waving its sagging uneven branches at the few in attendance. This tree, this secondary Hanging Tree, had been set aside for those unfit to grace the branches of the great oak in the middle of town. This tree loomed over a long neglected crossroads where desperate feet once tapped out secrecies on stone.
And tonight, this tree was full.
Silhouettes dangled from the misfit Tannenbaum. Feet swayed in a ponderous gallows’ jig. And all the while, black shapes feathered in the darkness. Waiting to take these wretches piece by piece to their version of Valhalla.
The farmer spit and wiped stray tobacco juice off his chin with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know how long those bodies had been laying there, but I can tell you it was a ghastly trip back. I’m going to have to burn all that hay now.”
“When you do, Mr. McGregor, toss these in with it.”
Phinehas reached inside his coat and produced a stack of patches. Something about 1%, angels, skulls, swords…the usual motorcycle gang regalia and each bordered by shreds of black leather.
“What’s this?”
“I took the liberty of removing them from those fellows’ vests.” He waved a gloved hand in the general direction of the tree. “I thought about mailing them back to their associates as a…suggestion that they never set foot anywhere near Hangtown ever again. But then I figured consigning them to the flames was the noble thing to do”
Mr. McGregor scowled. He held the patches close to his face, turning to catch what little cold moonlight he could muster through the marbled clouds. As cold and unfeeling as the rest of these unhallowed lands. After shuffling through the stack he shoved them in his own coat pocket.
Without a word the mourning party ambled away to town. Towards that promised ale and a fire in the hearth and much better cheer. The farmer stepped to the closest grave and nudged a piece of sandstone with his toe. He then nodded towards the condemned men.
“What about them?”
Phinehas did not turn. He knew how they hung. Those were good, strong ropes with good, strong knots.
“I just need one. Our Hand of Glory is showing its age and any one of those heathens will do just fine. A quick snicker-snack for a hand and then I’ll render the rest of him down for the candle. Billy gets what’s left for the wax museum.”
“And the rest? Want me to help you dig a pit? Or at least lend a hand in cutting them down?”
“Leave ‘em. Crows have to eat, same as worms.”
The growing murder rasped. Phinehas looked round about and sighed, his breath a plume of frost that dissipated into nothing.
“The Saints have brought this…all of this…on themselves. I would have been perfectly happy keeping things between the ropes, all nice and cordial like, but now, well, that simply can’t be.”
“Obviously.”
Phinehas jabbed the blade of The Shovel deeper into the ground.
“I don’t understand their intentions, Mr. McGregor. Nor do I claim to grasp the finer points of Judge’s false doctrine.”
“The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Fortunately our match will not require any discussion regarding the vagaries of the Saints’ beliefs or their end game.”
The farmer spit again. This time it was straight and true – a direct hit on a deathwatch beetle scurrying along the graves. “Not that they’ve thought that far ahead.”
“No, indeed. And yet despite all the unnecessary deaths leading up to this match, Revelation is not out to avenge anyone. Were we to have crossed paths with these very men under different circumstances I don’t doubt we would have been forced to fight to a terrible conclusion. But we didn’t cross paths with them. We’ve crossed paths with Judge and Jury. And any attempt to frame us was an exercise in futility. The Black Hand doesn’t spend time proclaiming its innocence. We just deal with it, whatever it happens to be. It is naught but a problem to be solved. And we have solved it.”
The Hanging Tree protested under the weight of the dead. The black birds grew restless.
The farmer looked to Phinehas. “Are you sure Michaels is up to this? He isn’t too distracted…”
“Michaels has made a fine career of focusing on the task at hand. That being Judge and Jury, for now. We’ll deal with everything else in its own good time.”
“Has he said anything to you? Given any indication about what he’s found out?"
“Not yet. He’s discovered more than some, not as much as others. But he won’t stop until he knows it all…or all that any one person can possibly know, that is.”
“And then what?”
Phinehas smiled underneath his beard. An icy wind swept across his eyes.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. McGregor. Patience is a virtue.”
The farmer nodded. He checked his pockets, double-checked, and then walked back to the wagon. Mr. McGregor groaned as he climbed up onto the seat. He unwound the reins from around a hitch, snapped them with a light touch, and clicked his tongue. Some great unseen horse snorted and pulled. Without looking back Mr. McGregor raised a hand in goodbye and disappeared down a different way.
Phinehas pulled The Shovel free from the earth and moved to the base of the tree. With a tilt of his head he looked up into the branches. There was no disputing they had a singular purpose. Judge, Jury, and the entire litany of the Saints. Violence was all they had. It was all they understood. All they responded to. And so it would be violence that Revelation delivered.
