Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  He brushed off his clothes, then caught his reflection in the mirror and straightened his clothing. The boy looked in, a mechanic looked back. He dipped his finger in the orb’s carbon and applied the black soot to his cheek, then took off his jacket, un-tucked his shirt and went back to the mirror to agree with the reflection.

  He left his chambers and headed down the stairs. The house cold, empty and the staircase appeared to creak more than usual.

  From the landings window he saw his father and uncle stood outside, a light rain tapped at the glass pane. Baxter ignored it and watched his only family stare doe-like at the darkness of the stables. Both of their postures wilted as they discussed something. Baxter ran outside and found the air charged thick with the energy you find present before a downpour. He waded through it and stood between the two men.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Baxter tracked both their eyes into the stable.

  Alfred looked at Nicholas as though waiting for him to answer.

  ‘Globe’s sick,’ said his father, at last.

  The white Shire horse sat in the far corner of the stable, nestled in a bundle of hay, breathing with a rasp. The noise the ill horse made resembled an old man trying to ask for something he’d once loved, but now forgotten.

  ‘He has the Spell.’ Nicholas threw his gloves on the pile of blood-soaked hay.

  ‘I didn’t know they could get it.’ Baxter said.

  Nicholas grabbed his arm.

  ‘They can’t.’ Alfred looked back at them, ‘I’ll kill him myself, both of–’

  ‘No!’ Baxter cried, ‘what is it with you two? He’s Mother’s horse, you can’t kill him.’

  Nicholas’ hand moved to Baxter’s shoulder. ‘You have to understand. Globe is in a lot of pain. We have to help him.’

  ‘By ending his life?’

  Alfred push over a bucket, turned it upright and sat on it. His hand glided over the horse’s mane, moving with a delicate care; slow, soft and full of love. Baxter remembered the hard hand’s gentle touch.

  Globe let out a cough, it sounded like nails ratting inside a jar. Next to Globe, Alfred opened the stable trap door and climbed down. Returning a moment later with a bucket overflowing with water, Alfred pet the horse’s body while whispering soft ambiguous words to him. Baxter’s legs propelled forward to his father. The mechanical arm shot up from his Alfred’s lap. ‘Nicholas, take the boy back inside.’

  ‘Boy?’ Baxter’s eyes widened.

  ‘Come on,’ said his uncle, ‘leave them both in peace.’

  Caged words trembled behind Baxter’s lips.

  His father’s defeated face looked at Baxter. ‘Go back to the house, both of you,’ he said, and got up from the bucket. He tried to push the barn door across, getting it stuck in the process. Nicholas helped him.

  ‘I can manage,’ said Alfred.

  Baxter walked backward to the house.

  He slammed his quarter’s door shut, spun around and kicked the swollen wood, jamming it in the doorframe’s crease. Out of the window, a soot cloud from the city loomed in the distance. He wished it to come, rise over, explode, covering the house in filth. He collapsed on the bed, grabbed his pillow and squeezed it hard. The smell of clean linen brought back an ounce of something less than rage. Downstairs, his uncle’s chamber door opened, followed by faint footsteps.

  VIII

  Beneath Baxter, a key clicked a series of two loud clunks; it indicated a clockwork record deck was at its fullest. Nicholas Beechcroft closed his eyes as the needle settled on the vinyl. His shoulders sank with a delicate crunch of his chaise lounge velvet, as the records tiny scratches carved in the place he needed them.

  He opened his eyes. The punching bag hung in the corner of his dark green room, void of any recent dents, a calling, he thought, to the part forced from him the day he left the city. He longed to collude with it, prepared to perform the only art he ever knew.

  He got up, squared off to his sparring partner, fully aware bags don’t punch back. He tapped it a bare-knuckle left jab; it rocked backwards, its weight resisting, and then swung back into him. A sharp right jab nudged it slightly over to a bookcase. How he wished for the strength of voice rather than violence, words strong enough to reason with his brother, pull him out of the oblivion he now existed in.

  His fist impacted the green leather of the sparring bag, it cracked and waltzed backwards. Green was his colour. Not a weak pastel green or the bland hue associated with nature, but a green both serious and hard. His parlour walls matched it, green as the defiant ocean battling a storm-torn sky, a menaced, reluctant colour. It reminded him of men when they still sought honour in passionate acts, back when violence was the only answer, back when sharing a wise lesson meant a good punch on an insolent chin. Nicholas gritted his teeth and threw another jab at the bag. Its leather brushed the flora of the parlour palm, and edged closer to the bookcase. Nicholas didn’t notice, threw another sharp right jab in the bag and stung his knuckles. What he loved in boxing came from life lessons of his father. Grit fuelled Nicholas’ punches when at the grindstone of life, everything the old man taught him; gentle graces awarded from hard work, the chaos of the world and patience needed to tame it, he’d practice at the bag. But it was the violence Nicholas adored, the power an outburst of chaotic knuckles created when colliding with leather.

  When his father eventually died, it broke their family apart. Alfred lost himself in ideas and their sister’s heart shattered, a crack ran up to her mind and split it in two – but Nicholas hardened under his lessons. He only feared dying on unresolved arguments.

  In the oval mirror opposite, behind the collection of colognes, ivory-handled razor, creams and exotic soaps, was Nicholas’ reflection. He was a large man, stern with a posture of a ballroom dancer, even present when hunched at the bag. He threw off his overcoat. Removed each brace strap. His chest heaved, fists up he gave them a forward spin, tensed and snapped a punch at the air. His arms housed an intricate network of interconnected veins, they bulged from the mountainous terrain of his shoulders, biceps, forearms, and wrists. He took a breath and stepped closer.

  IX

  Baxter snapped out of his nap. Between the pounding of punched leather and Nicholas’ deep huffs, Baxter felt his stomach rumble. Marketers in the square shouted about half-priced pies they still had for sale. Hungry, he rummaged around in his pockets; they were empty. He opened a few of his drawers, pulled together half a tuppence. He ran down a level and knocked on his uncle’s door.

  ‘Come,’ Nicholas shouted.

  The door opened and revealed his sweat-drenched uncle, vested with a towel around his neck. ‘What is it, Baxter, I’m busy.’

  ‘I’m going to market to grab some lunch, do you want anything?’

  Nicholas wiped the towel over his face and cleaned away the sweat. ‘A pie would be perfect.’

  Baxter nodded.

  ‘Not one of those Tong pies. In fact, give me a moment, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘I’m happy to go on my own, uncle.’

  ‘Ok.’ He looked around the surfaces of the room, lifted a few cream envelopes. ‘Do you have enough money?’

  ‘Half a tuppence.’

  Nicholas waved him in and opened a nearby Chinese medicine pot, pulled out a few silver coins. ‘Fifty Sterling enough?’

  ‘I’m not sure they’ll be able to change it.’

  Nicholas threw his towel at him. ‘Bugger off, Baxter; unlikely I’d give you it. Here, ten shillings.’

  Baxter took the money and left his uncle to his training.

  In the market, the traders had aligned their stalls in a parallel grid across the square selling fruit, meat, and vegetables. A Punch and Judy stand entertained a group of children, it was the same sketch Baxter had seen as a child. Mr and Mrs Peebles never chanced another routine, and how they had never introduced new material in all those years was far funnier to Baxter than the show.

  ‘Well, good day, Mr Beechcroft.’ Tabitha bashed him wi
th her hip. ‘Guess what?’

  Baxter didn’t reply beyond his greeting.

  ‘Father is taking me to the city soon.’

  ‘Soon, Tabitha? How vague.’ He walked past her.

  She scuttled after him. ‘He promised mother.’

  He faced her. ‘Tabitha?’

  She caught up. ‘Yes, mother’s birthday soon, and he’s thinking about taking us all for a trip.’

  ‘And how do you plan to get there?’

  Tabitha’s expression changed. ‘I was going to ask you if we could borrow Globe?’

  Baxter suddenly felt like the blood had drained from his body.

  ‘Rent, I mean, I’m sure father won’t mind paying,’ she said.

  ‘He can’t,’ said Baxter.

  A gang of village children ran between them. One was Jonathan, Tabitha’s younger brother. She snatched the hat from his head and placed it on her own.

  ‘Why not?’ Tabitha asked.

  ‘He’s not well.’ Distracted by the tower of bird pies at the Tong store, Baxter noticed the small signs, labelled chicken, beef, lamb and one left for venison. Both the Tong father and the eldest, Clifford, stood behind the tower of pies wearing smug smiles on their deceitful faces.

  ‘How much for your last venison, Percy?’ asked one of the village dears.

  ‘For you, Mrs Crabtree, five pence.’ Percy Tong slapped his grubby trotters together.

  Baxter approached them. Tabitha, a babble of gossip in his ear. His stomach turned and he swiped the venison pie out of the old lady’s hand. It crashed on the muddy street, breaking into several pieces. ‘It’s bird pie, not venison you’re buying, Mrs Crabtree.’

  The fat Tongs shifted around the counter as fast as their bellies permitted. The father pushed the old lady out of the way and grabbed Baxter by the scruff of his collar.

  ‘How fucking dare, you, you posh little Beechcroft prick.’ The stench of rot teemed from him.

  ‘Mrs Crabtree,’ Baxter said, ‘I’m sorry – they’ve packed them with bird’s meat.’

  ‘Liar,’ shouted one of the piglets.

  The fat man threw Baxter to the ground. He collided with the broken pieces of pie and the pigs snorted together in a repulsive rattle.

  Tabitha leant down to help him.

  He ripped away from her care and sprang up to his feet; both fists clenched.

  Clifford stamped his way through the bird meat and squared up to him.

  ‘What you gonna do, you Zounderkite?’ He pushed Baxter into Tabitha, and both fell back and tripped. Baxter landed face down on the filthy stone slabs of the village square.

  Amongst the scoff filled laughter, a tapping drew closer and a pair of highly polished, expensive-looking shoes parked directly under Baxter’s noise, he sneezed on the top caps.

  Baxter traced to the trouser, Italian cut with a middle crease running up each leg, so sharp enough to cut your fingers on them.

  ‘I’d like to see you push me, pig who makes pies from birds.’ Nicholas stepped away from his nephew. ‘Get up, Baxter,’ he ordered.

  The Tong father laughed. ‘You Beechcroft’s are all the same, coming back here when you wish with your deformed brother, buying up everything, acting like you fucking own the village. Just because that names are above the door don’t mean it’s yours.’

  Nicholas ignored the insult. ‘This fat knacker of a boy, here, is he your son?’

  ‘Fat knacker? How dare you.’

  ‘I dare, sir – how old is he?’

  ‘What bloody business is it to you?’

  Baxter stood next to his uncle. ‘He’s eighteen, uncle Nicholas.’

  He gave the boy an inspection. ‘Is this the one who hit you?’

  Baxter didn’t say a word and just stared at his uncle.

  ‘Let’s go, Baxter.’

  As they walked away, Nicholas said something to Baxter about non-violence and how he was right not to retaliate. The words pacified the anger back to contemplation, then a piece of bird meat splatted into Nicholas’ top hat, knocking it spinning from his head and to the ground. A few of the men back at the square erupted, and more piglet children ran over from their house to surround their father.

  Nicholas stopped. He looked back at the mocking horde, his eyes darting over each of them, not in a scowling way, but in deep study of his newfound enemies.

  Baxter tugged at his sleeve, ‘Come on, Uncle, like you said, let’s leave them.’

  Nicholas bent down and picked up his hat and handed it to Baxter. ‘Keep this safe.’

  Percy trod over and forced up his sleeves.

  As Nicholas approached he readied himself, ready to teach the man a hard lesson in manners. The pig pushed him in the chest. As he carried out the deceitful con, the fat man uttered a final repugnant comment about the Beechcrofts. Nicholas cared little to hear it. Instead, without hesitation, Nicholas ordered Percy Tong a first-class ticket on the express train of pain. Unleashed within a beat, the hell fury locomotive exploded out of the station of Nicholas’ sleeve, quick to gauge its first stop; Percy Tong’s face.

  The fist accelerated at record-breaking speed, cracked the air and collided with the head. It compressed the cheek and splintered the fat between Nicholas’ relentless knuckles. Next stop, the tired bone of the glutton’s skull. It broke apart with ease, like punching through chalk, Nicholas thought. Whatever ugly face existed before Nicholas’ onslaught cast to memory, thanks to the rudeness residing under it.

  As the thick body fell to the ground, startled faces of savage’s eager to see a fight all flashed pale with shock. The mob had devolved to gormless youths. Nicholas looked at Baxter, his uncle’s expression hadn’t changed, calm and void of any smugness.

  ‘Close your mouth, Baxter,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before the remaining birds decide to nest.’

  X

  Tabitha ran back to her house. Her father Harry Parkin rocked in his chair, as always, deep in contemplation.

  ‘You missed it.’ She spread out her arms wider than the sails of the royal flagship.

  ‘Missed what?’ He took a long draw on his pipe, awash with disinterest.

  ‘Nicholas Beechcroft whacked Percy Tong in the face. You should have seen it, father.’ Tabitha ripped her fist up through the air toward the ceiling.

  ‘Enough horseplay. Calm your excitement before your mother sees it.’

  Tabitha slammed her body down in her mother’s empty armchair. The worn leather puffed dust, sending out a spray of particles, they twinkled in the light from the roaring fire her father had built.

  A few days before she watched her father out in the yard teaching Jonathan how to chop wood. She had heard it all before. ‘Not a job for girls.’ A natural bark from those with stubble-covered mouths, why did they get to have all the fun?

  Looking at her father’s fire, she gritted her teeth, tensed her arms, tracked the lines carved in like the moorland valleys, pulled up her sleeves, crossed them over; could they pack a punch as hard as Nicholas Beechcroft’s?

  Her father had in his hand the book she got him last Saint’s Day. An encouragement nagged by her mother for him to read it.

  ‘Father.’ She called his title in a voice broad enough to sound deeper than usual. ‘In the morrow, I want to come with you.’

  ‘Where to sweetheart?’ he asked, from behind his book.

  ‘To the woods.’ She sat upright. ‘To collect the firewood.’

  He appeared from behind the cover, his bloodshot eyes framed by his thick grey eyebrows didn’t notice her arms. ‘We chopped enough yesterday,’ he said, ‘and got enough now to last us the rest of the week.’

  ‘Next week then?’

  The old man put down his book. ‘Jonny likes to do it with me, Tabs.’

  ‘But I’ll be able to carry more,’ she said, ‘and I can chop the wood.’

  As the claim escaped her lips, Marion walked into the room, alerted by her daughter’s words. ‘When exactly have you ever chopped any wood?’

&nbs
p; ‘Before,’ she lied, ‘many times, for the Beechcrofts and the Jones’.’

  Her mother gave her father the look. Tabitha had seen it before. She’d given him the same one when she asked to go on a hunt a few weeks prior. They’d both laughed at her as she stormed out the house and made a beeline for Tom Holland’s; he wasn’t in, so she came back.

  ‘The answer’s no,’ her mother said.

  Tabitha gritted her teeth. ‘I was asking, him.’

  ‘Don’t be taking such an insolent tone with me, girl, and by him, you mean your Father.’

  Harry huffed like a locomotive approaching a platform. ‘I can’t be taking you out there.’

  ‘Why not?’ She mimicked her mother’s stance. ‘How is it a nine-year-old boy can chop wood, build pyres and go hunting?’

  ‘Those jobs are for the men,’ Marion fired both hands to her hips. ‘Why on Terra would you want to be out on the godforsaken Moor, shooting animals and chopping wood?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Harry’s chair creaked. ‘You might be popular with the boys now but trust me, no man wants his woman hunting the boar, rather than staying at home and cooking it.’

  ‘Don’t you have to skin everything you kill?’ Marion raised her eyebrows in a patronising way, convinced she had her daughters number this time.

  ‘Yes, whatever you kill.’ He stroked his moustache. ‘No matter your age, traditionally, you have to skin it.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Her mother spun back to the kitchen and beckoned her daughter to follow.

  ‘I can do it,’ Tabitha said defiantly, ‘all you have to do is make sure you don’t cut out their insides getting blood and guts all over yourself.’