by Ian Dyer
The Butcher and the Butterfly
Ian Dyer
Copy write 2015 Ian Dyer
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are all from the authors mind. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
All that I do, I do for my two everythings: Cheryl and Isabella. Love ya to the moon and back.
Table of Contents
Prologue - Running Into Trouble
The Book of Stephen - Just Follow Orders
Rockfall
Thirsty Birdies
Tiny Clouds For Scurrying Rats
For All Your Sins I love…
The Ones Needing Luck
Your Lives Are Coming To An End
Mashed Up Blackberries
Mid-Point
The Book of Martin - Plans and Propositions
The Hanging Fairies
Nightmares
Play Time
The Butcher and the Butterfly
Hanging By A Thread
Epilogue
Back to Top
Prologue - Running Into Trouble
1
A weary traveller makes his way across the vast hardpan of the Wastelands. Martin is alone, save for the memories of those he loved and lost that he carries under his hat. For two months he has been walking across the Wastelands, for two months he has been on the run – running from trouble but unaware that he was now running into trouble.
On his tail were his hunters; and they were close. Getting closer with each passing hour. Martin had started his journey on horseback, but within a week that horse was dried out and dead to the bones; its body now decorated the bleak rock strewn hardpan being pecked clean by giant vultures. Since then Martin had been on foot, walking through the night, resting during the hottest part of the day. He slept for a few hours, his dreams consisting of one single image – the face of the man he had killed. It would smile back at him, blood dripping from his mouth the eyes full of fire.
During the nights he headed off; following the Great Star to ensure he headed north, stumbling across the desert taking care not to trip, taking care not to die. Recently though, now that the Wastelands were close to claiming another soul, Martin walked during the day and slept during the night. It went against all his training and he knew his old tutor would turn in his grave if he ever found out.
The days were long, starting as the sun heaved itself over the horizon like some giant all seeing eye. It would get hot quick and his skin would burn and his throat would dry. Sips of water weren’t enough but they were all he had. The sun would beat down on him all day, shade was hard to come by but when a group of rocks or the carcass of a tree crossed his path he would take advantage of it. But all the time he was aware that he was being hunted.
Most nights, Martin would set a small fire to keep out the chill and to boil himself some sour coffee. He would face south, watching the dark horizon lit by the high moon for a glimpse, a sign, of the men that stalked him and tonight, when we join him, is no different – except for one thing – he wasn’t alone anymore for on the horizon was the glow of a small fire, much like his own, surrounding it was a huddle of shadows.
2
Martin spat a wad of dusty phlegm onto the dry ground as he watched the shadows on the horizon. He knew who they were and he knew that they would be relentless, they always were and for a trick he understood why – after all, hadn’t he killed one of the greatest men Ritash had ever known?
His hunter’s didn’t know the truth though. If they did they would be on the same journey Martin was undertaking, they too would be heading to the unknown lands of the north, hunting the evil that grows there. An evil that was thought long dead.
Sipping his hot sour coffee he stretched his legs out and leant back against the cool rock he had set his camp to. The ground was hard on his backside, pebbles digging into the soft flesh but he cared little. In a strange way, he liked it; it was a reminder to him that he was still alive. But for how long? He was reaching the end of his time in this hellish place but he feared he wouldn’t make it to the other side. He was tired, his feet ached and throbbed a deep beat. There were blisters upon blisters, hard, dead skin rubbed against soft new skin irritating him with every step. His backpack, emptying with every passing day was becoming heavier on his back, eventually he would strip it from his body leaving it for his hunters to gather up. The worst thing though, his most troubling concern was that tonight’s coffee signalled the last of his water. Before drinking the last drop of sour liquid, Martin raised his wonky tin mug to the sky and tipped it to the fates that played their wicked game.
Martin didn’t sleep that night.
3
He stood as the sun began to rise. He took his water on the dying embers of the fire, zipped the fly to his worn jeans and headed back out. The sky was red this morning, it turned his dirty white shirt a bleak shade of pink, whilst his dusty coat, three quarter length made from bull-leather remained brown and non-descript. The wind non-existent today, much like it always was, the heat growing, much like it always did. Another hot, dry day and Martin took a deep breath as he carved his way across the never ending hardpan. His feet barely left the dirt as he walked, his arms were slumped and his head low shadowing his face and chest. The sweat ran down from his hair, over his eyes and into his mouth. It was salty and his lips narrowed as it soaked into the cuts caused by vitamin deficiencies.
One hour into his day he turned and looked behind him. His hard face, covered in stubble shaded by his old hat, his wide blue eyes scanning the horizon. Unsurprisingly he couldn’t see anything but white washed sky and desert. But what had be expected? His hunters were miles behind and were following the same pattern – sleep in the night, walk during the day. Facing north, off he went again.
The desert was changing. The barren rock strewn hardpan was showing signs of life – long grass and razor grass popped up through the dirt and the occasional cacti stood to attention; their wonky arms pointing in all directions, their spines a deadly hazard. Odd looking lizards would scurry from hole to rock then back again. Scorpions would poke their heads out as they felt the earth shake but would quickly retreat when the sensed the man the footfalls belonged too. On the breeze he could smell life; it belonged to the forest that bordered the Wastelands. Even the horizon was altering, becoming darker as the forest came into view, higher as the hills revealed themselves and fluffy white clouds darted from east to west following the high winds.
Two days was all he needed. Two more days, that’s all he needed to make it out and for a couple of hours he walked a little faster.
But then he fell. Hard. His right boot had scuffed on the ground for the millionth time but this time an errant rock had decided to get in his way and over he went. Dust and pebbles flew and the silence was lifted with a guttural ooof when he hit the floor. His hands broke the fall but their heroics caused cuts and grazes on their hard fragile skin. Martins left leg twisted violently but would be okay. It was his pride that hurt the most and making the most of a crappy situation, Martin decided to stay there a while, lying upon the hardpan, using it as a masochistic mattress.
That was a mistake; he fell asleep.
4
Martin awoke suddenly. Harshly
dragged from his sleep. He was still lying on his front and for a moment he was unsure of where he was but the grit tearing at his face and the dust he inhaled with every breath was good enough to remind him of his situation. He coughed, turned his head and tried to breath without taking in any of the Wastelands dirt. When he did he noticed a change in the air. Someone was near, he could smell them – sweat and grease with an undercurrent of alcohol. It was a sickening smell. Martin tried to lift himself up, his aching muscles straining with every movement. He made it halfway up, started to feel better about the situation and then buckled, his arse hitting the hardpan.
‘Fuck it.’ He wheezed, his own voice unfamiliar to him.
He tried once more, looking about him as the smell intensified, but it was no good. Drawing his gun but leaving it concealed he twisted and faced north. He looked across the horizon slowly. It must be midday as the sun was high and the horizon a miasma of heat haze. There was something new out there and it was heading his way; it flickered and danced like a flame refusing to take a form. Mixed with the smell came the clip-clop of hooves and the whine of metal against metal. Martin coughed, reached for his water skin and then sighed as he remembered his water situation. He tried to lick his lips but that was pointless.
Squinting his eyes he continued to try and make out what the hell was coming toward him. What felt like hours went by but it was but mere minutes as Martins mind raced and concerned itself with thoughts of how he would defend himself. He couldn’t stand, he could barely see and to top it off – he couldn’t lift his own gun.
‘What the hell?’ Martin said as the heat haze lifted and the unknown revealed itself.
5
A manky old horse, limping hard on one side, dragged a rickety cart; its wheels whining and its wooden hulk creaking – teasing its passenger with threats of collapse at any point. Its driver was a dishevelled old man who wheezed with every breath as he sucked on a destroyed cigarette. His skin was dirty, tanned like burnt hide and wrinkled almost to the point of ridiculous. He wore a long black coat, beneath that, for all Martin knew, he could be as naked as the day he was born. It was the horse that stunk and as it moved alongside Martin he shifted away. At this height he could make out the ulcers and abscesses that were strewn across the horses body; the occasional maggot popping out to say hello. How this horse wasn’t dead was a miracle to science. The driver twisted the reign slightly and brought the cart – which was full of all kinds of metallic and wooden crap – to a halt.
The driver removed the cigarette from his mouth, coughed up a wad and spat it out upon his broken boot. Placing the cigarette back into his crooked mouth he turned to Martin and looked down; an odd look of amusement upon his face.
His voice was deep, covered in phlegm. ‘Having a spot of trouble there, stranger?’
‘You guessed it.’
‘Looks like ya had a fall.’
Martin smiled and looked at the horse. Of all the people to have met out here in the middle of butt fuck nowhere he had to meet a mad old loon. He didn’t grace him with a response.
The old man coughed and blew out a greenish brown puff of smoke. ‘Where ya headed? Give a lift for a charge.’
‘Headed north, to the forest and then on. How far can ya take me?’
The old loon laughed. ‘Depends on how deep ya pockets are fella,’ he looked Martin up and down, ‘Not that deep, I’d wager.’
Martin considered informing him that you shouldn’t judge a book and all that but didn’t bother. ‘How’s about five copper coins and a pouch of rolling tobacco.’
The loon licked his lips, took a swig of water, which Martin watched intensely, then patted the seat next to him. ‘Come on up, stranger. I can take you to my old place and then fill yer up with enough for at least a month on the road. Best be quick about it though, old Fanny here aint far from turning to glue.’
It was a struggle, but Martin managed to heave himself up using the cart as a leaver. He clambered aboard and tried to ignore the smell of decay. The cart turned and the two men headed off with old Fanny leading the way.
6
It was a bumpy ride, taking up most of the day. The old loon tried in vain to stay away from the rocks and tufts of long grass but it was to no avail. Martin bounced and bumped his arse pummelled by the hard wooden plank. In the back of the cart the metal clanged together like a mad drum and the wood cracked and groaned much like the cart that held it did.
Fanny did well though. She was old, threadbare and underfed but she kept on going. Over steep inclines and down slippery slopes she didn’t stop. It was on one of these steep inclines that the loon pointed to as they reached the top and looked over to the border in the far distance – tress and hills were clearly visible now.
‘There’s the border, lad. A couple of days on foot but nothing compared to what you have been through I’d wager.’
Martin had noticed how cool it had gotten, he was still uncomfortable but he couldn’t deny that the air was better here. There was water near, a lot of it and the smell of decay was sweeter with its inclusion.
‘That there is my place.’ The loon pointed to a small hut below them in the shallow valley. It fitted the man perfectly, twisted and gnarled and as ancient as the gun at his side. Surrounding the hut were piles upon piles of rubbish – metal shards poked out, wooden beams loomed large whilst household furniture and rubbish littered the ground.
‘What is it that you do?’ Martin asked not really wanting to know the answer.
‘This and that. Used to clear out old houses and make money selling on what I got. Guess I stopped selling it.’ He cackled at the sight the detritus surrounding his home. ‘That’s where I got my name from.’
The cart continued on, down the slope and then weaving in and out of the piles of clutter that adorned this part of the desert. Martin was waiting, expecting the old loon to tell him his name. But then he remembered – this old loon wasn’t so straightforward.
‘And what name is that, may I ask?’
‘Rag and Bone Man. They would shout it as I came through town, especially over there beyond the forest in ‘Sands. That was my main hunting ground.’ Rag and Bone Man veered the cart around the side of the hut and brought it to a sudden halt under the overhanging roof. On the side of the building written in decaying white painted letters was “Rag and Bone Man” – the O of Bone being a skull and crossbones. Behind the hut, Martin could make out the makings of an old stable – it was as gnarled as the hut and full of what once could have been called straw.
‘Well, thank you, Rag and Bone Man, you can call me Martin.’ He held out his hand and the old loon took it and squeezed hard. His grip was impressive for such an old timer. As the grip was released the old loon coughed, it was deep cough that echoed of disease ready to pounce.
When he had finished coughing he said, ‘Please Martin, call me Albert. Bit easier on the old tongue.’ He let go of the reigns and eased himself down from the wagon, Martin followed suit and the two men untied Fanny from her cart and led her into the stables. She drank deep from her water bucket and then slumped to the floor. Albert stroked her twisted mane and she leant into his hand. It was a sweet sight.
‘That’s her for the day. Don’t never go that far out into the desert. Bless her old maggoty self.’
‘She’s a good horse, Albert,’ and then a thought came to Martin, ‘What made you venture out?’
Albert turned to Martin, concern etched upon his face and his hands trembling. ‘A man came to me, months past now, told me that one day, this day in fact - when the sun rose and turned the sky a blood red – that I should venture out. That I would come across a traveller, sat on his arse – exhaustion etched upon his face and I should help that traveller.’
Martin swallowed hard, his spit dragging down his throat which had turned into a cavern of nails and glass. ‘Who was it, Albert?’
Albert screamed with laughter and then moved away from him. Somewhere far off there was the distant sound of thu
nder. ‘It was the man you killed, Martin. It was the Sorcerer himself.’
7
‘So you know what I am, Albert?’
The two men walked away from the stable and to the front of the hut. ‘Aye. I know what you are, but it makes no odds to me. I just did what I was told and took the coin.’
Martin reached down to his gun as Albert opened the old creaking door. ‘What were you told to do?’
Albert raised his hands above his head which seemed to take some effort. The gun in Martins hands waivered, the muscles twitching hard. ‘What were you told to do?’
The old loon hacked and hacked until he was red in the face but he didn’t move. He waved his hand to gesture for more time as Martin leaned in with the gun.
Finally, when the coughing had stopped Rag and Bone Man said, ‘To bring you here. To bring you here, fatten you up and then to send you off on yer ways.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Aye, that’s it.’
‘If this is a trap, Albert, I will blow your fucking head clean off! Now speak the truth, this is your last chance.’
The old loon laughed and pointed to the hut and then to the piles of old junk that surrounded them. ‘How could old ‘Bert build a trap? Honestly, that was all I was asked to do.’
The old man lowered his hands as Martin lowered, then holstered his gun.
‘I may be a sneak thief from time-t-time, but never a liar. And anyways, I would never lie to a Marksman such as yerself.’
Albert went into this home and flicked a switch. From somewhere behind the hut an old generator kicked in and spark lights came to life lighting up the one room. Cautiously, Martin walked in, slightly knocked back by the scent of whiskey but comfortable in the knowledge that there was no trap. No Sorcerer waiting for him. Martin closed the door behind him, now that the cool night air was beginning to wrap around his feet, and slid his back pack from his body, letting it slump to the floor. He could feel his legs buckling but made sure he remained standing.
