Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater

by Brent Michael Kelley

  "I'm… I can't." Shola rubbed her index finger against the blackened chalk on the table.

  "Seventy years, though. Alone?" Chuggie asked. He sympathized with her lonely plight. Isolation could do strange things – could play cruel tricks on the mind.

  "I have my scarecrows. They keep me company and take care of me."

  He couldn't tell if he saw sadness, madness, or both in her eyes. But as they spoke, her features had softened. She no longer looked like such a skeleton in rags. Color returned to her skin, and her wrinkles didn't cut so deep.

  "Why is it you can't leave this place?" he asked mid-chew.

  "I was banished, exiled. Here I'm bound." She finished in a whisper, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Great, all he needed was a crying woman on his hands.

  "Let's hear it," said Chuggie. "What's the story?"

  "You tell me your story first. What brought you here, my thirsty friend?"

  Chuggie shoveled the last of the food on his plate into his mouth. He thought as he chewed. "Well, I'm not a regular fella."

  "No," she said. "You're thrice-cursed and old as the world. That much I learned last night. So what are you, traveler?"

  "Could say I'm Drought. Y'see, back when the world was made, me an' my sisters an' my brother got the job of destruction. That's the truth of it, if you believe that kind of thing. You got Fire, Flood, Disease, and Drought. Once we were all one, but somehow we split apart. Could be wrong, who knows. We're talking about a long damn time ago." Chuggie fished the tobacco pouch from his satchel, and rolled a smoke as he continued.

  "Most recently, I was far north. Not sure how long I was there. Like you, I guess. Coulda been a century, could have been a couple of years. Memory gets a little fogged up about that." He lit his cigarette.

  "Had myself hid in a little cave, y'see. You gotta understand, I get ran out of every place I go. Thought I'd get myself nice an' remote, stay out of trouble. Can't be layin' waste to regions or anything like that. Not anymore."

  "But you left your cave," she said.

  "Well, it gets to be cold up north. Freezing and thinking about bad history, that's double misery. So, I was starting to think about moving along when I got found by some ice hunters. They seemed to think I'd make a good slave. They're sorry now, but once trouble finds me, it'll find me again." He puffed smoke rings. "Figured I'd go someplace warm and suffer in comfort. Been making my way southeast over the last couple months. Trying to get out of the north before winter."

  "What happened to them? What happened to the ice hunters?" Shola leaned closer.

  "Well, let's just say they're still up there in the tundra. And let's say that their huntin' and slavin' days are over." Chuggie snorted smoke out his nose. "Let's also say they're dried up mummies stacked upside down in a fairly disrespectful manner. And let's say, lastly, it was probably a little over the line how I dealt with 'em."

  Shola's eyes narrowed, and she gave Chuggie a lop-sided smile. "You regret how you treated them," she said.

  "I guess I do. When I give in to the Big Thirst, I tend to lose control. I suck up all the water, y'see." Chuggie hung his head. He hated that part of himself, and he'd never be rid of it.

  "The Big Thirst. Is that why you drink so much?"

  "It gnaws at my mind constantly. I've found being good'n drunk helps keep it a little quieter. One night, I got fairly tore back and got it into my head to make it permanent." Chuggie shrugged.

  "You put a curse of permanence on yourself?" Shola hooted. "Thrice cursed," Shola mused. "By your creator, by men, and by yourself."

  "I admit, it was a bold move," he smiled. "But I'm a bold man."

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  "Hello, hello!" gushed Dr. Leightfast, the stocky toady who ran River House. "Mr. Haste, Mr. Fitch, Mr. Kale! What a rare pleasure it is to host you gentlemen."

  "Fine, fine. Why don't you make yourself useful and see that your residents are in their rooms. We don't need the riff-raff mobbing us. We're here to see Arden Voss, and we'd like to keep it brief." Haste straightened his waistcoat, pretending to brush fuzz off its brocade front.

  "I see, sir. Please wait here. I'll go see if Arden is available." Leightfast waddled off, dabbing his brow.

  "This place smells like piss and death," Kale said. "I don't know what you expect to learn from that old man. His mind is gone."

  Haste screwed his face up as if he'd taken a bite of shit. "He taught me much over the years, and you've benefited as a result. Remember that."

  "The Arden Voss of yesterday isn't the Arden Voss of today. The man in that room is old, mean, and confused." Kale stood stiff as a soldier. "Nothing he can say is going to be any use to us."

  Kale could feel the minutes ticking away. Such futile wastes of time were the very essence of Haste's leadership style. But not for long, he told himself.

  Fitch put his hand on his gold senfen. "He might not be clear headed all the time, but when his mind is sharp there are few sharper. His memory is clear when it comes to his glory days. If we need information about something from the past, he's the one to help us." Fitch bowed when he finished speaking. He always gestured like that to make people think he was a humble, spiritual, man.

  Kale wasn't falling for that crap. Fitch loved to play at humility, but his fancy robe, with its detail and flourishes, would make any dance-hall girl jealous. The garment likely cost more than a dozen Steel Jack shockspears. The fool spent more money than his church was actually worth trying to look like a saint.

  Leightfast, whose wheezing entered the room before his body did, returned to the waiting area. "Mr. Voss will see you. He was sleeping, so I'm afraid he is still dressed in bedclothes. Right this way, gentlemen."

  The doctor stepped out into the hall. Beautiful paintings of still-lifes and landscapes hung in elaborate frames. Beneath them, bouquets erupted from vases atop stately pedestals. The flowers did their best, but couldn't mask the odor of waste. Drooling idiots peeked their heads out to look as Haste, Fitch, and Kale walked down the hall. Kale tucked in his elbows to stay clear of them.

  Leightfast stopped abruptly in front of door with a plaque engraved with A.V. "Please don't agitate Mr. Voss. He is having a difficult week."

  "Of course, of course. And we'll meet with him alone." Haste waved Leightfast away.

  "I'm afraid the rules —."

  "Arden Voss is the former Chief Magistrate of Stagwater, as well as my mentor. We need to speak with him in private." Haste turned before Leightfast could argue.

  Haste squeezed through the door, followed by Fitch who crowded in behind him. Apparently, the cretins couldn't wait to hear Voss's doddering rants.

  Barely visible in the dimly lit room, the old man lay on the bed. A thick blanket came up to his armpits, and his skeletal hands folded across his chest. Liver spots covered his head, bald but for wispy streamers of white hair.

  Haste crossed to the window and flung open the curtains. "Ah, the morning sun."

  Arden Voss threw his bony arms over his face to block the light. He moaned as if sunlight caused him actual pain.

  Kale smiled.

  "What do you want?" Arden Voss's voice rattled in his throat. He coughed in a fit, ejecting a wad of phlegm onto his blanket.

  "I wanted to pick your brain about something," said Haste.

  "Oh," said Voss. He hacked more phlegm onto his chin.

  "Arden, a traveler came to Stagwater. We steered him north, but he went south. My walk on the Pheonal Path showed me he brings trouble." Haste made a choking motion with his hands.

  "You have the face of a fish, and the brain of a rat!" Voss croaked. His unfocussed eyes wandered around the room.

  "This is useless." Kale went to the window and looked out, turning his back on the interview.

  "Everyone's thrilled that you're able to form an opinion, now pipe down." Haste snapped.

  Kale squeezed his eyes and fists tight. Not much longer.

  Haste turned his attention back to the o
ld man. "Arden, remember years ago? Remember when you used to travel the Pheonal Path?"

  "Eh? Of course I do. You damned fish-rat." Voss's eyes rolled like peeled grapes until they landed on Haste.

  "Long ago, was there a vision about an interloper with five horns?" The bedsprings groaned as Haste lowered his lumpy butt onto the bed.

  "You blundering ass. I'm rotting in this shit-hole." Voss succumbed to a fit of hacking and wheezing. In his fit, he coughed a gob onto Haste's sleeve.

  Fitch scurried over and dabbed at Haste's jacket with his handkerchief.

  Haste brushed him away.

  "River House is a very nice place. You are lucky to spend your old age in such luxury. Be thankful the citizens of Stagwater take such good care of you." Haste patted the old man's arm.

  "Eh? Get to the meat of it, and don't waste my valuable time. I've got lying in bed to do, and later I plan to forget who I am for a few hours. Why would I help you with anything?" Voss strained to sit up a little straighter. A sparkle of mischief shone in the old man's eyes.

  "I saw five horned traveler carrying a chain. He brings destruction. The phrase 'not many live' echoed in my mind even after the trance subsided. The same day, a man wearing five horns and a chain appeared outside of Stagwater." Haste wiped the phlegm from his sleeve with a look of disgust.

  Fitch chimed in, "Yes, and he should have gone north, but he chose south. The concern is he'll return."

  Kale sighed at Fitch's attempt to seem useful.

  Voss's gaze turned to the bottom shelf of his bookcase. "You're very right to be concerned. Coming to me was the smartest thing you've done in your entire life. Don't think I'm a stranger to the Pheonal path. I may be old and I may lack your Steel Jack gadgets, but I march the Pheonal path day in and out in my old age! I see —."

  "You see what I've described?" Haste interrupted.

  How convenient! Kale faced the others.

  Fitch stroked his senfen rapidly as Haste leaned closer to the old man.

  "Yes, damn you. On the bottom shelf of that bookcase. Those three white volumes are filled with notes, predictions and such. That vision concerns an exiled witch."

  "A witch, you say?" Fitch squeezed the senfen tight in his hand.

  Kale knew the reason for Fitch's sudden excitement. Who didn't like a good witch-burning? Everything in good time.

  "What's the witch's name?" Kale marched to the bookcase and slid a thick volume off the shelf. He opened it briefly, glanced at the pages, then slammed it shut. He shoved the book into Fitch's arms and pulled the other two from the shelf.

  Haste's blubbery lips curled up into a slippery smile as he watched Kale take the book. If the pudgy dolt thought he didn't have to carry one of the heavy books, Kale would correct him quickly.

  Voss erupted in a fit of coughing. His fragile frame flopped on the bed like a puppet possessed. "Shola," he managed to spit out.

  "I'll pray for you," said Fitch, one hand on his gold pendant, the other on Voss's bony shoulder.

  "Choke on shit," coughed the old man.

  Finally, Kale had found some common ground with the old man.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Guard Captain Rorid didn't like being called away from his duties. He especially didn't like being called to the Stagwater Municipal Building. The less direct control the magistrates exercised over the guardsmen the better, in his opinion.

  His commanding officer had ordered him to bring Guardsman Priole, so this debriefing must have something to do with the drifter from the day before. They'd followed orders. He had nothing new to report. Bureaucrats just loved useless meetings.

  Rorid sat with Priole in the windowless conference room on the main floor. Sitting in the cushy office chairs should have been more relaxing.

  "We should just leave," Priole said. "I'm telling you right now this is going to be a waste of time for everyone." He flexed his hands, making his knuckles crack over and over.

  "If we leave, we'll be unemployed. Guardsmen serve the magistrates. They ask to meet us, we meet them."

  "Waste of time, sir," Priole repeated. He wrenched his neck side to side, cracking it even louder than his knuckles.

  "Keep it down," Rorid said, "Magistrates can use Steel Jack listening devices. I've seen it done. And I've seen torturgy used to remedy insubordination more than once. Keep your mouth shut in here, dammit! And remember who your superior officer is."

  Priole might have been the strongest, fastest guardsman Stagwater had ever employed, but the kid wouldn't get far 'til he learned his place. Rorid hoped he could enlighten the young man, but Priole ignored sound advice. He acted like he had nothing more to learn. The problem couldn't persist.

  Priole resumed cracking his knuckles, since there wasn't anything else to do while they waited. What the kid needed was a good man to man. Maybe he never got that from his father. Rorid gathered up some of his own father's wisdom and opened his mouth to speak it, but the door opened before he could.

  Kale stepped through the door, dressed in pressed pants and a jacket with unearned guardsmen insignia. The man walked tall and had a commanding swagger like a veteran, but in Rorid's opinion, Kale was no hero. The closest he ever got to service was when the Woodsmen denied his admittance. As a magistrate, however, he could make life miserable for a guardsman.

  Fitch followed him into the room. He was a head shorter than Kale and nowhere near as broad. He clutched the gleaming gold pendant hanging around his neck like someone was going to steal the damned sacred artifact. Rorid had no interest in Fitch's spiritual leanings. He never took advice on gods, death, or the afterlife from rich men.

  Rorid sprang to his feet in salute. Priole did the same, a relief to the older guardsman. The salute wasn't strictly necessary, but it couldn't hurt, especially where Kale and his crazy military aspirations were concerned.

  "Sit," Kale said, digging inside the exotic slug-plated satchel hanging at his hip.

  The slime of a vanishing slug, when scraped from the creature's back, dried to become nearly indestructible. The cattle-sized slugs had the ability to vanish from one place and reappear in another in an instant, making their slime nearly impossible to harvest. That Kale possessed a slug-plated satchel, was a testament to the man's wealth, as well as his priorities. From the satchel, Kale produced some papers familiar to Rorid. In fact, he'd signed the bottom of the last page.

  Fitch stood to the side smiling, as if he were waiting for Kale to finish so he could evangelize the guardsmen.

  "Your report," Kale ran his finger down the page. "Norchug Mot Losiat, alias 'Chuggie.'" Kale looked from the papers to Rorid and then to Priole. "What did you find when you searched him?"

  Rorid glanced at Priole. How he hoped the kid would keep his trap shut. "We didn't have to search him, sir. He emptied his duffle bag and spread the contents for us to see. He had all manner of useless junk, and he wanted to sell it to us. It's all in the report." Rorid nodded toward the paper in Kale's hand.

  "This report is incomplete, soldier," Kale stabbed at the paper with his index finger.

  "That's right," Fitch agreed with an overenthusiastic bob of his head. "Incomplete."

  "The last line of this report should say you observed him travelling north." Kale turned his leer on Priole and leaned toward him. "Why doesn't it?"

  "Um, I don't know, sir. Is that why we're here?" Priole looked grim. "This is not good, gentlemen," Kale's chair screeched as he slid it out from the table. He stood up. "Your orders were to bewitch him and send him north!"

  Rorid stared straight ahead at the ill-gotten insignia on the man's chest. The damned magistrates could take a turn as guards if they thought it was so easy. "I'm not a conjurist. I bewitched him. I don't know why he didn't go, sir. I did my best."

  "Best!" Kale scoffed. "You'd best watch your tone."

  "Sir, he was just a drunken junk man, without weapons. He didn't pose a threat." Rorid held his tongue, hoping Priole could do the same.

  "We determine who's
a threat and what constitutes a weapon. Just because you don't see something doesn't mean it isn't there, guardsman."

  Fitch stood next to Kale, looking a bit feminine by comparison. His voice rose and fell as if delivering a sermon. "You are Stagwater's armor. If orders aren't followed, the armor falls to pieces."

  "I don't know why you didn't just have us arrest him if it's such a big deal." Priole blurted out. "We could have done that, no problem… Sir."

  Kale pounded his fist on the table.

  Rorid knew trouble was on its way. He glanced at Priole. His head hung down, and his face was red.

  "My son," Fitch's lip twitched as he spoke, "If you'd accomplished your mission, this mischief would be resolved. As it is, the man is still at large, still threatening Stagwater. Your incompetence has put us all in great danger."

  Danger? If the threat was so great, the drunk should have been arrested, not sent north. Rorid understood: he and Priole were scapegoats for the magistrates' blunder.

  "On your feet!" Kale barked out the words like an order. "We're taking a walk."

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Chuggie tromped around Shola's yard carrying firewood and stacking it next to the house. He pulled turnips and dug potatoes in her garden, placing them in her rickety storage shed. He felt a wave of embarrassment every time he looked at the area he'd trampled the night before.

  And something else itched at his mind. Shola sat weaving wicker at the table by the cliff. Each time he passed her, she looked a little bit younger. At first, he'd convinced himself that his mind was playing tricks on him. But on his first pass, she'd looked like a skeleton wrapped in cobwebs. At breakfast, she looked old, sure, but not more than seventy. As the morning progressed, though, her face and bosom filled out noticeably. Her dirty-white hair darkened. Her shoulders lifted, her neck straightened.

  With an armload of wood, Chuggie stopped in front of her.

  Humming and rocking in her chair, Shola looked no older than fifty years old. Her eyes were no longer milky and dull. The left had gone bright white and her right a brilliant, deep blue.