by Andy Monk
He’d become a preacher all those decades ago because he thought he could make the world a better place; he’d wanted to turn guns into plough shears and get the lions to lay down with the lambs. He’d been young and idealistic; proud and vain too if he was going to be honest.
Thirty years of preaching to all those upturned faces who, by and large, ignored everything he told them and got on with the business of sinning as soon as their front doors were closed, had slowly ground him down.
Then he’d found himself in Hawker’s Drift, which, in its own peculiar way, was about as Godless a place as one could hope to find.
Did he even believe in God anymore? He supposed he did, but it didn’t stop him standing outside his church with part of him wanting to toss his bible aside, cross the square, throw as much whiskey and beer down his throat as he could manage and awake the next morning in a strange bed with two pretty young whores wrapped around him.
Why shouldn’t he? Everybody else in this damn town seemed to.
He winced as pain flared up from his stomach, which suddenly seemed to hold a roasting stone where his dinner should have been. He grasped the handrail of the little flight of steps the led to the doorway. His head swam and his mouth was full of sick-sweet corruption. He feared he was going to tumble down onto the little patch of brown half-hearted grass his parishioners shuffled their feet reluctantly over every Sunday, where he’d lay till someone who hadn’t quite drunk all his wits away in Jack’s noticed him.
Just when the pain became so bad hot little tears squeezed out from behind his eyelids, it passed. Not completely, but almost, leaving only a dull distant ache as an unwanted reminder.
He spat at the ground and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It was getting worse, whatever it was; the pain was coming more often and more intensely. It had been a long time since he’d quit telling himself it was just indigestion, but not so long since he’d admitted to himself that he was dying.
He’d gone to Doc Rudi a few times, but not anymore, the quack had given him pills and powders. All expensive. All useless. Nothing worked, nothing save one thing and he wasn’t sure if the pain was better than that.
So, after all these years, this was how it was going to end. His guts rotting away inside him, dying in a town where nobody liked him, a town he didn’t much like himself, but one he knew he could never leave.
He turned his back on the square and returned to the comforts of his church. It was a simple, straight-forward, unfussy affair. Wooden benches, a pulpit, an unassuming altar and a cross; what more did a church need? He’d heard about the big fancy churches and cathedrals they’d had back east and in the old countries. All covered in gold, stained glass and ornate sculptures. Nothing but vanity. No wonder the world went to pieces.
A few candles burned around the pulpit where he’d been scribbling down the next sermon that his parishioners would ignore. He didn’t much care for lanterns, too harsh and bright, so most of the room was blanketed in shadow; which was why the preacher didn’t see the man sitting in the first row until he spoke.
“Been taking the night airs Preacher?”
He gave out a startled little cry, which he tried, probably unsuccessfully, to mask with a cough.
“Mr Mayor… you… startled me.”
The Mayor shrugged his shoulders, reaching out to drape his right arm along the back of the pew he was lounging upon. Preacher Stone hovered uncertainly, caught between the pews and his pulpit, squirming under the attention of the Mayor’s restless eye. When the Mayor remained seated and silent, he retreated to his pulpit, wishing there was more than a wooden lectern he could put between them.
“Working late Preacher?” The Mayor asked eventually.
“Finishing off my sermon for tomorrow; it’s Sunday, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Of course, something profound and moving I trust?”
Preacher Stone looked down at the scribbled notes before him, between the crossings out, underlinings and circled words there was a sermon. Of sorts.
“It’s about neighbourliness.”
The Mayor cracked open a long and dramatic yawn, “It will be riveting I’m sure, however, personally, I find a little fire and brimstone never goes amiss.”
“I make my point… for those with ears to listen.”
“A preacher needs to move souls. Trust me, fire and brimstone. And obedience. Make sure the congregation know they’re going to burn in hell if they don’t behave. It’s what keeps the masses in line after all.”
“I do God’s work. Civil order is your responsibility.”
The Mayor cracked a grin, “Of course, but you need to keep your congregation enthralled Billy; otherwise they’ll all end up listening to Wizzle instead.”
Preacher Stone snorted, “Really? He’s just a sad old clown. You think people would rather listen to him than receive the word of God from me?”
“Who can say who is more touched by God’s grace, eh Preacher?”
Preacher Stone tried to glare at the Mayor from his pulpit, but as soon as that damn roving eye settled upon him, the Preacher found it was his own gaze that wavered.
“How did the McCrea funeral go?” The Mayor asked, finally puncturing the silence.
“Quietly, no one attended other than the widow and Mr Furnedge,” the Preacher replied carefully, before adding, “as you wished.”
The Mayor’s eyebrow, the one above his good eye, shot up a notch, “I don’t believe I asked for any such thing.”
“It was put out she and her husband had crossed you?”
“I never put anything out; there is a small financial matter, which I can’t discuss obviously, but nothing more.”
“Tom McCrea crossed you and then fell off his horse, that’s what people are whispering.”
“Small town gossips,” the Mayor sighed, “Tom McCrea’s death was a tragic accident and I have no grudge against his widow.”
Preacher Stone wrapped his hands around the edge of his pulpit; he could feel his stomach spasming again, “Of course.”
The Mayor rose, “Excellent! I’m glad you understand. Just make sure you mention it to your parishioners once they’ve enjoyed your uplifting little sermon. I do know how much you like to have a chat with them afterwards.”
“I tend to their needs,” the Preacher replied, swallowing hard. The pain was starting to boil his guts again.
“Are you quite alright?” The Mayor was standing directly below the pulpit; the Preacher hadn’t even noticed him move from the pews, he must have screwed his eyes shut against the pain for a moment.
“My stomach… playing up a little.”
“Again? Oh dear, such a shame. Now we can’t have you laid low can we? Not with that flock of yours to care for, all those souls to fleece…”
“Just a bit of indigestion.”
“Now, now Billy, you know you can’t lie to me,” the Mayor reached up and placed a small black bottle upon the Preacher’s scribbled notes, “this will help…”
“I told you…”
“Tsk, tsk, don’t be such a stick in the mud. You know how much better it makes you feel…”
“It... is… wrong…”
“Wrong? Why it is just a little something to put you on your feet and to keep you there.”
“I don’t want any more.”
The Mayor’s eye had stopped moving, and the Preacher felt impaled upon its stare, “Take it Billy, you know what it can do for you. It will make all your pain go away. And your cares too. It’s what you desire…”
The Preacher looked down and found his hand had curled protectively around the little bottle; he knew well enough what was inside it. Or at least what it did. His whole body ached for it as if something had awoken inside and noticed what was before him. Something he wanted, something he needed, something that would make everything more bearable; what did it matter what happened after? It took his pain away. Nothing else did anymore.
When he looked up the Mayor wa
s already at the door looking back at him, his eye once more flicking hither and thither, “Remember though Preacher. Not too much, a little of a morning, a little of a night and none in between. It’s strong, sweet candy Billy.”
The Mayor tipped his hat and slipped out, his final words hanging in the air after him, “Just don’t forget to keep telling everybody what a wonderful chap I am…”
Preacher Stone pulled out the little cork and took a hurried swig before he could hurl the bottle against the wall.
Soon after his pain went away…
The Lawyer
Miss Dewsnap placed his coffee and two of her home baked cookies on the desk, just as she did promptly at ten-thirty every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
“Chocolate chip?” Guy Furnedge asked, looking up from the papers spread before him.
“Your favourite,” she replied with a nod as she hovered, her eyes expectantly fixed upon him.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said, picking up one of the cookies, “I’m very partial to your almond and peanut too.”
“Yes, of course, but I think you prefer these more…” Miss Dewsnap insisted. As with most matters, she tolerated little dissent.
“They are quite delicious,” Mr Furnedge agreed, taking a bite. He knew she wouldn’t retreat until she’d seen him eat.
“Why thank you, Mr Furnedge,” she gave him one of her small, twitchy smiles, “will there be anything else?”
“Not for now.” When she remained, hovering and peering, he added, “I’ll call when I need you.”
“Of course you will,” she beamed, it wasn’t quite a fulsome smile as she always kept her lips firmly clamped together, he’d never been able to fathom why, given her teeth were no more unattractive than the rest of her. She turned on her heels and closed the door behind her.
Once he was certain she was no longer lurking on the other side of the frosted glass, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and threw the cookies into the paper bag that he kept there solely for disposing of Miss Dewsnap’s infernal baking.
His wife, for reasons best known to herself, had decided to keep a couple of pigs at the bottom of their garden and, other than some fresh bacon and ham they had the added benefit of being able to eat pretty much anything. Even Miss Dewsnap’s cookies.
He kicked the drawer shut and washed the dry cookie ash out of his mouth with the coffee, which was at least drinkable.
If it wasn’t for the lack of suitable part-time help in the town he would have disposed of Miss Dewsnap’s services years ago, but Hawker’s Drift had yet to produce anyone capable of filing, typing, note taking and general dog’s bodying of a higher standard than Miss Dewsnap. At least not one who was in the slightest bit attractive anyway.
He would enjoy having some cute young thing running around for him, but his wife would not stand for such perks; which was a shame as he would be an exceptionally generous employer for the right girl.
A slow smile spread over his face, it was only what he deserved after all. He pretty much kept the town running smoothly on his own; land deeds, property sales, wills, birth, marriage and death certificates, divorces (admittedly not many of them), disputes, he arranged the collection of the town’s taxes and made sure everyone was up to date with what they owed, not a cent more, not a cent less, he kept the town accounts, he minuted town meetings. Heck, he pretty much did everything that was required to keep the whole town tickety. And just what did he get as his reward? A drunk, half mad wife and a slightly deranged old prune of a secretary.
It just wasn’t right.
He carried his coffee over to the window and looked down the street through the clear upper pane. The sun was shining, the town was out and about on its business, everything looked as it should.
Mrs Godbold was ambling along the boardwalk with her youngest daughter Ruth. Kate Godbold, now there was a fine looking woman, pretty as a picture with her wide brimmed summer hat, cream dress and pert titties. Oh the things he’d like to do to her. She was definitely on his to do list.
He just had to be patient and wait for his moment, and his moment was coming alright. He was going to get more of the things he deserved. Soon he was going to be free, soon he was going to have the thing he’d spent the last two years craving above all others, soon he was going to get the keys to the kingdom.
And then every goddamn thing was just gonna be real tickety…
The Farmer
“You look… spruced.”
“Do I?” Sye tried to sound nonchalant.
Cynthia Hallows looked up from her darning, fixed a steady eye upon her son and managed to make him feel guilty in one smooth movement. It was a trick she’d been using on him for as long as he could remember, and it still made him feel like he’d been caught with jam smeared over his face when he’d supposed to have been doing his chores.
“Sunday best, I’d say.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yes, precisely, and you’re off into that town. Again. Looking spruced…”
Sye glanced down at the better of his two pairs of shoes and tried not to shuffle them.
“If you’ve got something on your shoe, go clean it off in the yard, not on my only good rug.”
“Sorry Ma.”
His mother’s face softened, “I know you’re young and want to have some fun, but I don’t like that saloon… it’s no more than a fancy shop window for fallen women.”
“I only eat there Ma,” Sye replied truthfully.
“Your father wouldn’t approve at all.”
Sye stood in awkward silence as he often did when his mother invoked the memory of Tobias Hallows, God rest his soul.
“I don’t do anything that would shame Pa,” he said eventually, though his Father was entitled to cut him a bit of slack, after all he’d been doing most of the work on the farm, pretty much singlehandedly since his old man’s heart had given out and he’d gone down face first into the muddy furrows of the North Field one frosty February morning eight years ago.
His mother returned to her darning, “You seeing that Burgess girl tonight?”
Sye went back to inspecting his shoes, his mother had been trying to get him hitched for years; unfortunately their respective lists for “desirable qualities in a wife” were so disparate that pretty much the only thing they agreed on was that the prospective candidate should be a girl.
Mrs Hallows wanted a solid, reliable young woman, from a good family, well versed in homely skills, with a strong constitution and not averse to rolling her sleeves up to help birth a calf or sow a field. Her son was more interested in a pretty smile, plunging cleavage, sparkling eyes, the ability to make him laugh and kissable lips.
Particularly the kissable lips.
Sye knew life out here was hard, even more so on a small homestead than in Hawker’s Drift itself; from burning summers to freezing winters and the back breaking work that had to be done to keep a farm ticking over during both. A pretty smile was a virtue that would not last forever, unlike, say, being able to birth a calf. But Sye wasn’t interested in forever, or even next year. He was interested in now and he’d let tomorrow look after itself, after all, who knew if they would even be around to see tomorrow anyway? Maybe tomorrow he’d be face first in the mud like his Pa.
No, he knew what he wanted and he wasn’t going to compromise, no matter how much his Ma might complain. He wanted a wife who was pretty and funny and smart and who would make him ridiculously happy.
And if she just so happened to sing like an angel too…
“No, I’m not seeing Estelle.”
“Why ever not?”
Sye considered mentioning the fact that most of their dairy cows had smaller backsides and better table manners than Estelle Burgess, but doubted his Ma would quite see the problem, “She’s been stepping out with Albie Huggins.”
Mrs Hallows rolled her eyes and sighed expansively, “Well, that’s another good un you’ve let slip through your fingers my boy – it’s
not like there are herds of eligible girls round here you know?”
On that point, at least, Sye and his mother could agree.
“So, what is your plan now then? The Hortez girl, she’s just turned sixteen, bit waifish for my liking, but she might fill out a bit in time. Actually, I did hear from Mrs Coburg that…”
Sye drifted off, it was a well-trodden path and it would take her a good while to rattle through all of the unattached young women in Hawker’s Drift and the surrounding area. He also knew better than to interrupt, as then his Ma would just think he wasn’t taking the matter seriously. Then she’d inevitably conclude that he was spending his time cavorting with whores at Jack’s and generally blackening the family name when he should be tracking down prospective brides.
Although he was interested in a particular girl, he knew it wouldn’t appease his Ma any given that she worked at Jack’s. Regardless of any other qualities that would be enough for his Ma to disapprove of her thoroughly.
Cece Jones…
Even her name excited him. She was beautiful, smart, talented and, unlike most of the girls he’d met before, he could actually talk to her! This was, in Sye Hallows opinion, a significant bonus.
For the most part he turned into a fumbling, tongue-tied buffoon around girls, or at least the ones that featured on Hawker’s Drift’s Young and Eligible list anyway. But Cece was different, she seemed so confident and assured, not to mention exotic and exciting. Wherever she was from, it was nowhere near Hawker’s Drift.
The thought of the two of them disappearing over the horizon had crossed his mind more than once since he’d met her. He had his guitar, she had her incredible voice. They could travel forever, singing for food and rent, seeing the world. No cares other than which fork in the road to take. No more rising before dawn, no more shovelling cow dung, no more mud. No more grass. No more farm.
