The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  The oldest grace opened a tiny purse, eyed me, brought forth a shilling, eyed again, then proffered it. She jabbed her sharp chin at the pamphleteer blocking the foot-traffic. "Give it him," she commanded. Her voice held accent. Something northern, I thought.

  I held the coin, considered. It showed a fresh scratch across the womanish face of the King. The middle woman explained. "He’d never touch aught from our hands. We are, are,” she hesitated, considering identity.

  “Of the Unreformed Covenant,” declared the older proudly, just as the youngest offered “We are women.” Flat exaggeration of her years and curves, I thought but did not say.

  But the second grace nodded. “Just so. We are women of the Unreformed Covenant. He’s an, an Unseparated Congregationalist."

  I looked to the youngest. She nodded prettily if a touch too sincere. She leaned forwards to whisper. I leaned forwards to catch the whisper. Of course she shouted. "It's a test!"

  Test of what? I wondered, recoiling. Of me, or the pamphleteer? And if I gave the coin it left me nothing. A sensible street-ruffian would scarper laughing. Also I could use a shilling. The three women waited, reading my thoughts. So I turned, forcing a way through the foot traffic parting around the prophet. He fixed red eyes upon me in suspicion. I offered the shilling.

  "From them on the steps," I informed him.

  We studied each other. He readied to fight, not preach. Probably a theological attack. If so, I’d retreat. I lacked the interest, he lacked the beard. His chin showed a decent layer of dirt but a street-prophet should be full-bearded. Warily, he took the coin, handed me a pamphlet. Test passed? I eyed the tract as I walked away. Seven Signs of the World's End, it proclaimed. The Harvest is Ripe.

  I agreed. The world stood ready for the scythes of bankers and pirates such as Alderman Black. I took a breath of crowd stench, weighed all of existence and decided I would not miss it overmuch. Let the harvest begin. A red blot stained a corner of the paper. I touched it. Still damp. Fresh blood? I considered that eighth sign, and what it portended.

  My sudden turn kept the false prophet's knife from a killing strike. Merely ripped the cloak. Not my cloak anyway. I caught his arm as it passed, broke it with my knee. He screamed, fell, sought to roll for cover in the crowd. As well roll against stone wall. Passersby booted him back to me. I kicked him unconscious, leaving his throat uncut. Milksop mercy? Not at all. Doubtless he'd murdered some real pamphleteer, blood staining the hand-bills. Now he'd be trampled and pocket-picked. Awake to find his teeth and hair stolen. Proper fate for a false prophet. They used to burn such. I retrieved the shilling, I'd earned it.

  I looked to the three on the cathedral steps, wondering if they also were false. They stood singing away, paying no least mind to the prophet’s fate. The youngest gave me a nod. Had I passed her test? The middle woman sang to the sky, tossing back her bonnet, revealing wild red hair, revealing an ear… I stared, not understanding. Her ear showed sharp-tipped as a fox’s. The older woman followed my gaze, turned to the second annoyed. She restored the bonnet, covered the wild red hair, the unnatural ear. They sang on, of angels, devils and pilgrim paths. I turned, fled into the crowd, watching for the next knife, wondering at the ears of passersby.

  I dodged into a cross street, watching behind and ahead, listening to echoes from alleys, scrape of foot on roof-tiles. I came to a street bordering the river, leading towards the docks. Less passersby, fewer idlers. More wagons, more workers. I traded my ripped cloak for a ragged scarf, the feathered hat for an old knitted cap. Another demotion. From Street ruffian down to ha’penny dock-worker.

  I needed coin and food and sleep. I wandered, debating the merit of seeking out friends. Yesterday I’d have claimed a host of allies should I appear weary and bleeding at the door. But after Green's betrayal, I questioned the truth of friends and foes and casual strangers. Which left no one but the dogs. I watched for bolt and blade, for faces seeking my face.

  Faces. Usually I ignore them. My mind is trained to watch the centering of weight, the position of feet, the focus of eye and hand. Noses, chins, mouths, the soul expressed in the arc of the brow? Distractions. And ears are absurd. But today I gave these landmarks to humanity my attention. Especially ears.

  A scarfed creature shuffled towards me. She walked hunched. Her back ached, unless she bent to hide a knife for my ribs. She studied me, as I her. I pictured the face she spied. Did she see a ruffian visage of new bruises, old scars? Broken nose, wild hair, animal mind behind kind blue eyes? My mirror informed me of the wild hair and animal mind. Elspeth my house-maid insists on the kind blue eyes. Sometimes my mirror saw them too. Perhaps the maid erred, the mirror lied. The scarfed woman angled right as I to left. We passed each other in distrust. A sad thing, I know.

  I walked on, considering what I had been, what I now was. Wondered if I felt true pity for every man and child, every dog and beast. Or just anger for the pointless pain of their existence. I watched a tethered cow on adventure to the slaughter-house. Our eyes met. I looked away to meet similar eyes in the faces of the two-legged. The prophet was false but his message true. We all awaited harvesting.

  Except devils like Black, who owned the fields, sold the scythes, gathered the harvest into banks and barns. Past time for a striker to visit the man. I would climb up Black’s terrace, stride through shadows to stand behind him at his counting-desk. I’d tap him upon the shoulder. Let him turn surprised, and then perceive that he too faced a reckoning, and a scythe. After his revelation, I would rest in his chair. I’d pour myself a cup of his whiskey while his corpse cooled upon the floor.

  I trembled, desire shaking me like a goat in spring. Alderman Black had been one of us. He’d shared our ideals, our revolt, our toasts to a better world. Taken our fervor and built mills, factories, banks and farms. Machine-wheels that turned on a river of slavery, poverty and theft. Traitor. Deserter. Let all his warehouses burn. Let flame take his banks, and his fields and his mills. Last and best take his soul to hell. Mine with it, if hell wanted the company.

  I stopped. A child blocked my path. She held an ancient broom, waving it madly over the dirty street in sign that she too had purpose, just as did the ships in the river, the drovers on their clattering carts, the self-important dogs rushing under wagon-wheels. Limbs thin, cheekbones sharp. She wore ragged patches summoning the ghost of a dress. She wore tangled hair, full moons for eyes. She swept at the path, dancing softly, humming to herself or the angels.

  I moved to pass. She whispered. "So proud we were, to be us."

  I stopped, turned. What?

  She shook her head to loose cob-webbed tangles of hair, cob-web tangles of thought. She recited sing-song whispers that could mean nothing to a child. A beggar's spiel, memorized under cuffs and growls of some grownup.

  "Measured by our eyes and no other. Peers we were, caring nothing for, for princes waiting out the door…" she paused, tongue searching pink mouth for the words. "We, we were the night-sky stars, the storm wind, the winter geese-folk. Flying free, free."

  She cocked her head, listening. Waiting for the next line, perhaps. She breathed out conversationally. "So proud to be us."

  I shrugged. "Don’t know that play, darlin'."

  She turned her gaze upon a dog barking at a cloud, forgetting me. She swayed, lost, hungry and cold; drowning in dreams of home, food and fire. I do not ask why a child begs on the street. At least, I do not ask of Heaven. I limit the inquiry to my mirror and my fellow men, those like Black and Green. Though Green is a charitable sort.

  Charity: the temporary purchase of relief from the pain of pity. Less effective than drink. I stared into the moon eyes, then reached into a pocket, found the shilling given by the three gray graces, lost by the false-prophet. I proffered it. She stared, studying it, studying me. Then grabbed the coin and ran.

  I laughed. There was reality as I knew it. Seize the prize and run before someone else grabbed it. Or demanded payment. Though she fled in the direction I traveled. Tact
ical mistake. She should run the opposite way, dodge round carts and crates.

  I walked on. I found myself standing surprised at the docks, smelling the rank smoldering remains of the warehouse. Rag-pickers, late-to-the-party looters and disconsolate porters kicked through smoking debris. I considered the scene. No doubt many lost their employment here. Tradesmen who stocked wares now faced bankruptcy. Their misfortune would pass to clerks and families, on down to their children and dogs. Poverty and pox; they spread through parishes like ripples in the river where you've tossed a dead cat.

  A few guards stood posted to confiscate whatever of worth any should discover in the smolders. Clever, to let the hopeful poor do the gathering in the hell-heat, the tomb-trash stench of smoking rubble. The sort of idea that would occur to Black. Practical, frugal, and cruel.

  I wandered past them, one ragged man more. Demoted again, from ha'penny dockworker down to rag-picker. I walked through a blackened-brick doorway, followed the ruins of a hall, into an area too hot and smoke-filled for most looters to bear. The air shimmered, orange-embers glowing for ten thousand devil's eyes spying from piles of rubbish. Each breath a hot-ash fist thrust down the throat. I kicked debris till I found the charred remain of a table, flipped it over.

  The top was singed, legs broken. But still the image of a girl looked out from a dark battle-field of fire and blood. Her smile held a message writ of knife and mystery. I stared a long time, but could not determine what the message was. For sure I needed sleep. Eventually I lifted the thing, carrying it away on my back, coughing. A penitent bearing a burden to the crossroads. The guards just laughed.

  Chapter 4

  A gathering of beggars recall a lost glory

  The sound of a carriage clattered behind. One horse, two-wheeled, iron-rims clanking. It had followed three streets now. Slow enough that carts passed cursing. I paused to put down the table-top, scratch, turn, observe. The driver hunched over for a capital C. Curtained windows. I saw a flick of cloth, a bit of face. A woman. Hunting me? I have instructed two madam associates. Sad to think either might seek their teacher's life. I would not spare them, I knew. They knew as well.

  Granted, it might just be a weary horse on a busy street. If I jumped at every shadow, I would not last the day. I advised myself to abandon the burned table-top. Absurd, carrying heavy trash across the city. And yet it made a decent shield for the back. An excellent disguise. Passersby avoided me as obviously insane, possibly dangerous. Not that I did so for sly strategy or mad purpose. No, I determined to bring it to a friend who knew of carvings in wood and stone. I craved some hint of the identity of the sword-master of last night, who overthrew my world, smashed my mirror. The mind seeks stories in the turns of Fortuna's wheel. The mind is an idiot. There is no story in a spinning wheel but change and repetition.

  Strange thoughts. I looked strange, a ragged figure carrying a burned table-top. Excellent. I was weary and hurting, fearing each alley, each face. Perhaps I was mad. What better disguise than the truth? I hefted my burden, continued on.

  Two streets later I stopped before a beggar. The same child. She swept my path again, brushing fairy-dust from city cobbles, swaying to no music but the melody of a broken mind. She fixed her moon-gaze on the ghosts and angels about us. Clearly awaiting another shilling. Then she'd dart ahead, take position at the next corner. We would circle the globe thus. Well, I have dreamed worse eternities. Far worse. But I was out of shillings.

  The carriage rattled behind. Farther on the street narrowed. If hunters waited ahead I’d be trapped. I considered the cross-street. To the left the river, to the right an alley blocked by a ragged puppet show. Stage built of a bed-frame, curtains of stained sheets. Cast-off from the charity hospital, seemingly. A few benches cobbled from river driftwood. I pretended to consider this dismal entertainment. It had no audience but me, a boy and a ragged man laying upon the ground, drunk or dead.

  Eyes on the stained curtain, ears following the carriage. No more clanking wheel, it must have stopped. I put down my burdensome table-top, leaned against a street lamp, placing it between me and the carriage. I made a poor target for pistol or bolt. Neither is a proper weapon for a professional. When machine-magicians perfect the gun, twill be the death of assassin-burglars, of duelists and sword-masters. A loss to the world, possibly. Not today.

  A puppet-head poked out from under the ragged curtain. "Can't do a show till we hear some clinking," complained a voice hypothetically from the lump of ugly face. An aged Punch, scarred and weary, twenty years after Judy left him for Jack Ketch.

  The beggar-girl raced across, whispered to puppet and puppeteer. The boy joined in. He might have been her twin, or at least a fellow member of Rags and Tangles. High cheekbones, eyes like fevered cats. I heard words I did not follow. Gaelic, probably. Refugees from Ireland or Scotland. What a long way they came to starve. Parliamentary debate closed, the boy, girl and puppet went silent, turned to me.

  I met their mad eyes and considered whether I was their fellow. I wasn't Irish or a puppet. I might be mad. Yes, a bedlam bearing burned trash, daydreaming the adventures of Spadassin Seraph. Perhaps I had no grand house, no valet-pirate, no feather mattress. No crystal decanter of whiskey on the bedside table. The thought saddened me.

  I didn't believe it. Couldn't if I tried. Madness is the ability to believe this world is something else than what we see. That you are someone else than what the mirror shows. I have seen war, the world and the mirror. I understand full well why one wants to go mad. It just mystifies me how the trick is done.

  Mad thoughts, granted. I met their waiting eyes and settled for a very sane nod. Upon which gesture Punch retreated, the girl pirouetted. The boy rose, stood beside the curtain. It lifted, revealing a second sheet. Behold the world: gray cloth dabbed with shabby yellows and whites for suns, moons and stars. Sticks sewn to the sheet in memory of trees. A faded blue sash for a faded blue ocean. That square stain of mud or blood? Surely a castle. It stood lonely in the middle of the faded-sash sea. An island fortress at the edge of the tapestry-world. A hole in the cloth formed a dark portcullis. An eye peering through. At me. I winked, why not.

  One puppet appeared, then another. They hopped before this make-do world. Along came a third and fourth, movements ironically awkward for being the puppeteer's feet.

  Now the boy recited. Voice girlish but strong. Did he babble what words he heard the moon whisper? No, this sounded similar to the girl's whispers. Words of meaning, then. At least to mad children.

  "In the beginning, so proud to be us. Measured by our eyes and no other. Peers we were each to each, and cared nothing for princes waiting at the door. The least of our blood was royalty in the measure of our love. All others, plaything people. We were the lords of table and battle and bed, of book and dance and secret chant. Nameless, except such names we took to wear as crowns of summer laurel. We were the night-sky stars, the storm wind, the winter geese-folk flying free, free."

  A puppet with wings dashed before the sheet, bobbing with a 'honk, honk' goose-cry.

  The girl tiptoed to the ragged figure lying dead or drunk. She gave him a kick. He twitched, she nodded, tiptoed back to her position opposite the boy. The boy frowned at this. She shrugged. Brushing tangles from eyes and memory, the boy continued.

  "We ran laughing across the world, mocking its muddy face. The wandering folk, magic and untouchable. Glorious in our days, terrible in our nights. A' times it pleased us to march into villages blowing horns, dancing mad steps. Then the common clay threw green branches before us as holy pilgrims, as fairy conquerors, as divine kings returned from Hell or Avalon."

  A dirty handkerchief popped itself upon a puppet. It jumped ghostlike about. The girl turned, gave the specter a critical eye. The ragged man sat up, began puffing on a flute. Hesitant as the first bird-notes of dawn. And as moving. I shivered. The boy nodded, continued.

  "Other times we appeared sudden within castle walls. A lordling looked from high window, wondering what our s
hadows foretold. Then we stood silent as trees, still as stones. Ominous gibbet crows, holding within our laughter. Until the lordling would tremble, offer us their coins and children, their golden cups of rich red wine."

  A puppet twitched its head to mime downing wine. The piper trilled a rising melody, fit to fill a king's cup. I heard the carriage door open, watched a veiled woman climb out. The beggar girl twirled, monitoring puppets and piper. I tensed, eyed the woman, desperate not to kill before a child. A blue ball, with white stars.

  The boy continued. "We tumbled and tangled hearts and bodies, furious in our love. We feuded and laughed, each of us all the world to each. We leapt from high trees into deep waters, daring the next to follow. Raced across desert dunes, leaving mad poems in the sand. We stood alone on mountain-tops singing to the wind, in honor of the next of our blood the wind should meet. Glowing coals we snatched from fire, held to the stars, laughing at the agony and the joy to be us, us, entirely ourselves and nothing lesser."

  The girl lifted a hand to the sky, holding a theoretical coal. The absurd bobbing puppets moved with sudden hints of grace, inspired by the strange words, the notes of the piper. The veiled woman now stood beside me. Ignoring me. She held white hands together. She wrung them in grief. I stared in horror. I'd prefer she wave a knife.

  Steps to my left, and an old sailor tottered to a rough bench. He sat. His shoulders shook. Steps to my right. A tall woman in gray. The eldest Gray Grace from the cathedral stairs. She hurried over, sat beside the sailor, patting him on the back for what comfort that gave.

  The boy took a breath, recitation driving his starved frame to shake. “Slow came our passing; terrible the end. From sweet jealousy of love, we turned envious of excellence in craft and power. We gave our hearts to knowledge, not to wisdom. Pride turned to rivalry; rivalry turned to fear. Alliances were made with dark creatures and mad things, folks of air and fire and blood. The clans withdrew to cave and forest, mountain-top and sea-depth, each seeking some final mastery. Few returned. Those that did wore faces we no longer knew.”