The Butcher and the Butterfly (20 page)

He took one
cautious step onto the road and when it didn’t collapse or a bolt
of lightning strike him down he walked into the middle of the
junction and stopped below a sign that was raised up on wires that
hung east to west from four giant metal posts that stood at each of
the four corners of the black stuff. The sign wasn’t rusted, nor
pitted with age. It didn’t even swing in the soft breeze. It was as
new as the day it had been put there – which Stephen guessed would
have been over a thousand years ago if the tales were true of such
things.

The sign read:

North -
Doscro/Hull/Tremaine

South –
Rockfall/Wastelands/Ritash/ Rag and Bone Man (this was written in
white pain, the O of Bone was a skull and crossbones)

East – St
Petersburg/Under Path/Lud’s Mine

West – Great
Forest/Christian Sands/Gatwick-Airport

Some of the names
Stephen recognised others he had never heard of. He looked at the
four paths that lay in front of him. North seemed to carry on
skirting the forest but looked to be headed for the mountains.
South was out of the question. West, the path was non-existent and
every time Stephen looked that way his gut twisted and a voice
screamed to stay away – STAY AWAY!

East, the black
tarmac road was smooth, flat and didn’t veer; it headed toward the
mountains into what looked like a valley between them – it reminded
Stephen of a boy he knew back in Ritash and his mossing tooth right
in the middle of his mouth. It was a wide road, perhaps two or
three carts wide in both directions. Along its edges there were
metal poles sticking up from the earth with what looked like spark
lights at their tips. It seemed to be the only way ahead for him;
no voice screamed its dissatisfaction, his gut didn’t twist or
hairs stand up on the back of his neck. This was doubly confirmed
as the way to go when Stephen read the white painted words that
were written at the start of the road:

THE CAVE -THE
BOY

2

Deep underground
in the caverns and tunnels known as Lud’s Mine there lived an
ancient race of men known to those that knew of them as the
Clankers.

Their skin was
pale, translucent in the dim yellow glow of the spark lights that
lit their world. Their eyes were large, colourless and their noses
mere slits. Most of them were emaciated; muscle stretched over bone
held together by the ruined clothes they wore. All except one –
their Chief - the one they called Lud.

He was old, for
the mine was old and he was the mine and the mine was him. He had
lived a thousand lifetimes of men under the mountain, leaving it
from time to time but not as himself – oh no – he had tricks and
gifts that meant he didn’t need to.

A once good Chief,
in the early years of the mine when the coal was plenty and the
money rolled in. the mine had been fruitful; alive but now it stood
as barren as his long dead wife. The days turned sour and the coal
disappeared and with it too went Lud’s charity, his good will – his
soul if ya fancy. The rumbling in the caves had stopped, the
furnaces went cold and the steam ceased to rise.

Surrounded by the
ancient controls of his ancient machines he watched from his office
as his men went about their daily tasks; oiling, tinkering –
creating, the air filled with the smell of diesel oil, sweat and
sulphur and always the tink-tink clunk-clunk of hammer against
metal. He puckered is old fat lips together and made small popping
sounds as he slapped them together; contemplating what to do with
the boy.

Times were
changing again. The world was turning, going back to how it had
been when he walked in the sunshine and bathed in fresh waters.
When he had taken a wife and danced with her under the blue moon as
their song played out. He was glad to see those days coming back,
but now they would be different for he was the master now. He
scratched his fat belly through his threadbare vest – for it was
hot in the mine; that was one thing that never changed – and ceased
his lip smacking as he heard soft moans coming from the boy tied to
a chair on the opposite side of the room. He breathed in deep and
closed his eyes contemplating his next move.

‘Mr Lud, sir.’ A
soft voice hissed from one of the speakers, ‘We have a visitor.
Coming from the crossing. He should be on your monitor.’

Lud leaned to the
right, just enough so that his enormous frame moved so that he
could see the small screen, its picture flickering. He watched it
for a moment, the road was empty. He was just about to tell the
fool on the other end of the radio what a colossal twat he was for
disturbing him, when the image on the screen flickered and a man
came into view. He licked his lips and started popping them
together again.

‘What do you want
us to do, sir? The scan detects a weapon. Do we send out the
Mech?’

Lud squinted;
making sure the screen wasn’t lying; making sure that the man that
had come into view was the man that had killed the woman he hoped
to have born his only child.

‘Sir?’

‘No, no Mech. We
may have a use for this one. Leave him be, let him in. He doesn’t
know of us yet. I don’t want to scare this one away.’ And as an
afterthought he added, ‘He seeks the boy.’

Times were
changing; the machines were coming back to life. Once again others
wanted what he had. But old man Lud had other plans

The Book of Martin -
Plans and Propositions

1

Reader, let us
drift back a little, would it please ya, to just after the meeting
between Stephen and Death, for our story has other paths.

The Angel of Death
sat upon the harsh desert floor, his face pointed at the burning
sun. He always felt calm in the desert, at one with the Wastelands.
His burnt body, black as ash, was unaffected by the heat, the
dryness, the death. He had been to hell and back, literally, and
his body was a testament to that. This desert was nothing more to
him than a giant sand pit where men came into and where men
died.

For a hundred life
times of men he had lived in this body and for another hundred more
still, if he didn’t have his way.

Deaths wings
unfolded of their own accord, their time in this mortal world
running out. He was magic now, ancient magic and like the Orbs; he
had grown twisted, rotten, and un-well. He tried to look back on
those times when he too was a mere mortal man. When he walked the
world, loved, ate, slept, drank, felt the cool breeze on his face
and the water on his tired feet. But it was impossible. He had lost
that now. His soul gone, burned away by the Fates long, long ago
and he was left lifeless but with a purpose. He could not simply
throw himself from a mountain anymore or sink deep down into the
nearest sea, for he was Death and death does not become an
Angel.

How he yearned for
it to be over. For his life to be whole again. Looking at the sun,
through eyes that weren’t there, looking at the harsh blue sky,
bleached white with the heat, he sighed heavily. It seemed that all
he could feel now was anger. But anger mixed with hope. Hope that
soon, so soon, the Orb would be his and he would be free of this
immortal coil and free to be human again. To love again, to eat
again, to drink again and to feel as if ones accomplishments meant
something.

Turning his face
back to the floor he watched the winds move the sand. How like the
sand he was. Where the winds of fate took him he would follow,
helpless but willing. The Fates, however, where in for a shock. No
more would he do as they bid. He had already disobeyed them with
letting Stephen live, and in a few hours he would disobey them
again. Martin Doyle’s life was, at the moment, coming to an end. He
had been a plaything for the Fates, he had been the one chosen to
kill the one known as Samson Little but it had failed and the Fates
had the answer they had been puzzling over for many a year and then
some; the power in west, the one known as Barnabas, was growing
stronger and it was up to men, mortal men, to kill this One King.
But Death was unconcerned with such trivialities.

Martin Doyle would
be saved and the Angel of Death would have his plaything. All Death
needed after that was the white ball of evil nicknamed Satan’s
Eyeball - as white as chalk and with a heart as black as coal. She
needed souls like all of them but her power was the strongest, if
used properly. It had been Satan’s Eyeball, or shall we call her
Varula, for that be here name, that had made Death what he is now
and it would be the same power that gave him back what he wanted so
much; his soul, and if it meant that Martin Doyle had to give up
his own then so be it. So be it.

Death stood, his
huge frame blackening the floor beneath him in shadow. He stretched
out his arms and waved them through the air feeling nothing. His
wings unfurled once more, the sun shining through the soft, thin
membrane. Soon he would step from this body, this dead ashen like
carcass and into another body. Soon he would walk the earth a
simple man again and finish his days happy. Soon he would eat,
drink, laugh and cry. Soon. So soon. And if Death could laugh like
a hyena and smile at the sky then he would have. By the bastard
Fates he would have.

With no effort the
Angel of Death launched into the air and headed for the small hut
situated on the outskirts of the Wastelands and into a world where
the Fates had control no longer.

2

Stood over Martin,
with a wicked glint in his eye was a man he knew from Ritash. In
his hand he held an ancient gun and that gun was pointed right
between his eyes.

Martin, his mouth
agape in shock – his eyes wide with awareness and anticipation –
pulled himself back, hitting his head against the beds
headboard.

‘Fuck it.’ He
said.

‘Fuck it, indeed,
Martin.’ Said the holder of the gun, ‘Now get yer canny hands up
and make yer way outside. Slowly.’ The man who was dressed in a
long beige coat, a Stetson upon his head – a white scarf covering
his mouth, ushered with his gun to the front door. The bullets
around his waist rang like dulled church bells.

The Marksman,
shifted his weight, feeling for the soft prod of his weapon. But it
didn’t come. And then he remembered – he had left it in his bag.
The bag that was now in the possession of the man stood over him.
His old tutor would have beaten him senseless for such
stupidity.

‘Come on, Martin,
up ya get. Quickly now.’

Martin made his
way outside, the gun pressed against his back. He rested his hands
upon his head and squinted as he moved from the building into the
blinding light of the Wastelands. It was still morning, early, but
late enough that Martin should have been awake by now. The sky was
big and blue but instead of the familiar sight of miles upon miles
of hardpan, Martin gazed out and saw the rolling hills and the
dense dark green of the forest. He kept walking until he felt a
hand against his shoulder. Martins boots kicked up small ash clouds
from the night be fore’s fire.

‘That’ll do ya,
Marksman.’

Beads of sweat ran
down Martins face. The sweat went into his eyes, then his mouth. It
was a familiar taste and he welcomed it in a strange sort of way –
the way in which the taste of your own blood reminds you that you
are alive. And being alive at least gives you a chance.

The man with the
gun walked from behind him and made his way over to the rest of the
party that had left Ritash all those months ago. All the men looked
travel worn. They looked as if death could take them at any point –
their eyes were vague, their hands which held revolvers or a
shotgun shook and their clothes sprayed dirt to the air with every
gust of wind.

Silence encircled
the men and then the man that had wakened Martin – a man Martin
realised he knew, spoke. ‘Not often you catch a Marksman off
guard.’

Martin smiled.
‘Just giving you boys a fighting chance.’ He scanned the five men.
He knew only the one by name but recognised the others. ‘I should
be honoured. Five Watchmen all sent to kill little old me. Guess
they didn’t trust you to do the job, Jessie?’

Jessie’s eyes
narrowed and his face puckered like he had sucked on the world’s
sourest lemon.

So you do
remember, Jessie. I’m glad. I’m glad you remember what I did to
you.

‘That was a long
time ago, Oath Bearer. Just boys playing with toys. Besides, I
count five of us and only one of you.’

Martin nodded with
agreement. There was no arguing with the math, he was outnumbered.
But much like when they were boys, boys playing with toys, Martin
had out smarted Jessie and now it was time to do it again.

‘I knew you hadn’t
forgotten that day. I thought the beating I gave you would have
mashed yer brain up pretty good. But I suppose a mashed up head is
just what the Watchman General was looking for, so I suppose I was
doing you a favour.’

The other four
Watchmen shuffled and squirmed at the insult. Jessie ushered for
them to calm down with his free left hand. ‘Now, now boys, let’s
not get bogged down in this ancient squabble. Let’s just look at
the facts. Over there is a murderer, pure and simple. He killed one
of his own and he killed the man than made him.’

What

‘What the fuck you
talking about, Jessie?’

‘Oh, here comes
the denial.’ The five Watchmen smiled as one. ‘You mean to say, and
I must say that the look on yer face is priceless by the way, that
you deny murdering both Samson Little and Eric Truth?’

And then it struck
Martin, like one of Eric’s finest swipes across the back of the
head – this was the doing of Little. It needed no long winded
explanation for the explanation was a simple one and it came back
to the threat that Martin had made against Eric on the day he was
signalled a Marksman.