The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  “I’m sure your mother told you all the story of my old father’s death and how I learned of it.”

  “My mother? Sure my mother is nowhere near nor has she ever told me aught of your poor father.”

  “Wasn’t it she that sent you out here?”

  “I wasn’t sent, I came seeing a good man with a silent sorrow, thought he needed cheering. The idea just came upon me powerful and I – well I thought maybe he’d be happy to see me. Anyhow I’d had enough of those sodding twits and their hands that won’t let you alone. But I surely don’t know what you’re talking about my mother.”

  “Then there’s been some mistake.”

  “Always there’s mistakes. So what shall we drink to?”

  “. . . To the memory of my old Da.”

  “That’s a good thought and no mistaking. And to the mother that bore me, whom you think you’ve met.”

  So they drank the wine. Then, putting down the glass Tom had a strange feeling as if he was sitting there with her but also he was up above, and he looked down on the two of them and seeing them that way it was as if a great truth was suddenly revealed. And Tom wondered which one was he truly, the one below or the one above, but he knew who he was truly was contained right in the very center of him and it was something he’d never seen quite so clearly before. As if when he was born he’d been told there was a secret he was never to know, and he’d understood all his life he’d never know it and then suddenly he looked in Katie’s eyes and saw the secret shining out and it was something he’d always known. He came back together and was no longer looking down on himself. It was just him and Katie sitting together and the bottle of wine between them and they were laughing, though neither of them could have said what they were laughing about, or what had just happened. They were happy, and they believed their happiness was something no two people had ever felt before.

  As Tom remembered this he was ripping the weeds and bushes out of a little plot he’d found by the side of the road, trying to make a comfortable patch to lie down on for the night. He was on his hands and knees, which took the weight off his aching feet, and he cursed himself heartily and without reservation. It was not the first time he’d cursed himself. He cursed himself for starting out before his foot was healed, before he’d gotten a sensible pair of boots instead of the castoffs he wore, before he had enough money to buy himself a meal. He told himself his heart had been stronger than his head, but there must be more to it than that. He thought there must be something seriously wrong between him and the world he lived in because he couldn’t seem to live in it in a way that made any sense. Suddenly in his anger he took the staff he leaned on as he walked and lashed out with it, hitting the trees and the small bushes around him. He was furious and he was hitting the ground with his staff, just to get the feeling of breaking something. How had this suddenly erupted? Any sensible man would have taken Agata and the farm she offered, and the more he considered it the less he understood why he hadn’t. Now his sudden tantrum was coming to an end and he saw he’d done for a couple of ferns and fair blasted a patch of daisies, and he stood in the little area he’d cleared, exhausted. Why couldn’t he just want the woman he was with? Surely that must be what most men do. He sat and took off the boot on his right foot. His whole foot was swollen and had turned a garish crimson, with the bullet hole a sickly looking green-tinged black at the center of it all. Why couldn’t he decide for himself who it was he desired? It felt like someone else had decided for him. And why was he on this futile quest to Port Jay, searching for the love of a woman who probably wasn’t even there anymore? But if she wasn’t there surely he’d find clues where she’d gone. Oh, it was hopeless. Tossing among these and many other thoughts he slowly passed into a fitful slumber.

  At one point in the night he was aroused by the pounding of hooves, hastening from the direction in which he’d come. He rose to see a horseman thundering past who, seeing Tom, brought his horse to a halt and came round back to him. He held the reins in one hand and gestured with the other, which Tom saw was missing and had been replaced by a hook.

  “Holla, there. Where are you from?” he asked.

  “I’m a native of Port Jay.”

  “I wasn’t asking where you were born. Where are you coming from now?”

  Tom limped to the side of the Road. “The whole story were a long one, but most recently I’ve come from back that-a-ways,” he waved his hand in the direction of Kashahar, “and it’s Port Jay I’m hoping to return to.”

  “How far back-a-way?”

  “Far enough.”

  “From Kashahar?”

  “Not that far. What’s the point of this inquiry if I might ask?”

  “It appears you have a wound.”

  “You’ve keen eyes. What of it?”

  “I’m on the lookout for a wounded man with many pieces of gold on him, that he took from my master.”

  “I am a wounded man, but you can see from the cut of my clothes, not a rich one.”

  “For surety of that, might I take a look at that wallet at your waist?” Here the man dismounted. “I’m not a cutthroat nor any that would waylay an honest traveler.”

  “What would you be looking for?”

  “That I’ll know when I see it. You ken I’ve no weapon.”

  “Other than a hook.” Tom thought he might resist, but truly his wallet was as empty as his belly, so he held it out to the man. “There’s naught but some crumbs and shells.”

  “So you’ve not any doubloons or pieces of eight?”

  Tom laughed. “It’s been some time since there’s been aught there save a copper or two that a widow lady paid me.”

  “You’re not the one I seek. God bless.” He mounted his horse and was gone. There was no more disturbance during the night other than the return of this same horseman in the hour before cockcrow. Someone’s found news of what’s ahead on the road, thought Tom.

  When he rose the next morning the first thing he did was to get some water from a rill bubbling nearby and wash his wounded foot. The pain was less this morning. He stood and attempted to memorize the height of Windswept Hill so he could track his progress during the day by how the Hill stood over the surrounding trees. Then, putting his wallet at his waist and taking his staff in his left hand, he set off on his daily pilgrimage. He did not put any food in his mouth because he hadn’t any. He did not give any thought to his route because the road was there before him. There was nothing more for him to think of, so he bethought himself of the times that followed that drink he’d taken at the honsung. Katie had been his whole world. If she gave him a flower he’d save it till the petals were dead and falling off, or if there were a book or locket she’d fancied he’d hold it close like a talisman. What joy that had given him. One day he’d had the great good fortune to be holding still the scarf she’d worn, after they’d said their good-byes, and he pressed it to his nose all that night and breathed the smell of her. Those were enchanted days and the thought that he could ever experience anything like them again seemed impossible, like a dream he’d gotten into his head and couldn’t forget. Still he kept on, one foot after another, the pain throbbing up his leg, one cursed step after another.

  There was a tavern ahead, with a sign of a bush. He thought he would reach it and then take a rest. Maybe try his luck if he could do some chores in return for a meal. At the same time he was catching some of the banter from a group of travelers drawing near. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw they were a motley group, two on horseback and the rest on foot, six or seven altogether, in good spirits and keeping up some lively conversation. He wondered if this was the party that had sent one of their number scouting ahead during the night. He also realized his strength was not what he’d thought and he would have to rest before getting to the tavern. So he spotted a good block of stone by the side of the road and sat on it and waited for the other group to catch him up.

  When they did he saw that his friend from last night, the one with the hoo
k, was now on foot. There were two large dark looking men riding the horses and the others seemed to be their servants, or at least they took their orders from them. They were all men and seemed like a bunch accustomed to rough work. Besides the one with a hook, there was another with a peg leg. As they drew even with him the one with a hook said, “Here’s the beggar man I told you of that’s going to Port Jay.”

  “Hello,” said Tom to his acquaintance of the past night. “Did you learn any news of the Road ahead?”

  “Only there’s a massive amount of soldiers convoyed to the shore a little ways up the Road. There’s like to be some blows I’m sure struck between them and the Indians.”

  One of the horsemen rode over and asked, “How far back was it you came on this road?” The group had stopped now and he saw they’d ranged themselves around him, eyeing him with what he thought was watchful intent.

  “Far back enough.” He looked at them and saw a cunning intelligence in their eyes, predators with prey in hand.

  “Did you pass a stead hight Coldblood Farm?”

  “I did that.”

  “As did we, and we heard a tale from a widow there. I’d guess you’d have knocked at her door too, to see if there might be a morsel for you.”

  “I know naught of a widow, nor any tale she may have told.”

  “Last night you said a widow woman paid you some coppers,” said the one with a hook. “What widow woman was that?”

  The man on the horse said, “Hush, Elijah, let’s not badger the man.” Then he reached down his hand to Tom and said, “Sure we haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m known as Barnacle Jack.” They shook hands. “This fine gentleman,” indicating the other horseman, an ugly man with a scar and a rich blue coat, “is Crazy Dog Talbot, known up and down the Coast as a defender of the right and a sterling advocate of freedom. And what might your name be if I could make so bold?”

  The names Barnacle Jack and Crazy Dog awakened uneasy echoes in Tom’s mind. “I’m called John. Honest a name as there is.”

  “Oh, it’s honesty you’re after then, is it?”

  “I’d think so. And it’s an honor to have met the two of you.”

  “I can assure you, honest John, the honor is all ours. And often I’ve heard honesty spoken well of, though people tend to avoid it. Personally, I’ve never found a use for it.” Here he gave a large laugh. “We’re on the lookout for a pair of knaves. They sold something that belongs to us but they’ve not brought the money back. No, they’ve kept it for themselves for all the world like a dog who takes his master’s roast from his table and would hightail it off for his own enjoyment. So we’re taking steps, you might say, to find these two so as to clarify the matter.”

  “I see.”

  “There was originally a third of their number but him we found lying in the ground at that stead Coldblood Farm which I believe you were just starting to tell us of. Is that right, John?”

  Tom stuttered, not knowing which way the wind was blowing nor how much was safe to say. So he shammed a hacking cough while he sought a moment to think.

  “Oh, but I can see you’ve been walking a long way, and the dust of this road must be thick in your throat. I’m sure you’d be better for a good pint of ale,” said Barnacle Jack. “It would be an honor if you’d allow me to buy you one at this tavern just ahead.”

  “No, no, I could not allow myself to take advantage of you.”

  “Do you find my company that objectionable?”

  Tom found there was no way to turn the offer down, so he went with them to the tavern. He had to do a bit of a jog trot to keep pace but when they got there they found the place not too crowded, with just some working men at a couple tables in the back. There was a long table near the door made of some good maple which had room for all of them to sit around it. Barnacle Jack and Crazy Dog took the seats to either side of Tom and after some bread and ale had been set before them Crazy Dog took up the questioning. “These men we’re after looking for had acquired a mighty sum of gold, and I’m certain they’ve put it underground somewhere. Buried it, wouldn’t you know? But they’ll keep some on their person. They’d have to. Now that’s what we know. And this widow woman told us a tale which cast a little light on the matter. I know you said you know naught of that tale, but I was hoping a mug of ale might help your memory. And it seems to me likely you’d have had some dealings with these two, wouldn’t you know, John?”

  “That widow woman – was she well when you left her?”

  “She was not a well woman when we found her, and to speak truth I don’t think our visit brought her much comfort. She was kind enough to let us look around a bit, but after what I would call a pretty thorough search we did not find what we were seeking. And this is odd, you see, because we tracked the trail of these three knaves right to her door, and we found that one of them, as I said, had breathed his last and left his remains there, but we’ve been unable to find their track since. And I’ve a suspicion that you might be one that could put us on their trail again. If that was the case, you might find there was some reward in it, honest John.”

  Tom saw he was fairly well cornered and would have to tell them something, but he thought it best not to let on that he knew aught of Vincenzo and his friends. “I’ll tell you all my tale,” he said. “I’m a fisherman by trade and have been all my life. I was in a boat out of Port Jay when a squall came up and I fell off the boat. Well the next thing I knew I was swallowed by a great fish. When I –“

  At this Barnacle Jack gave him a great slap on the back and said, “Alright, John, I see you’ve not the stomach to tell us the truth. It was not our intent to squeeze lies out of your mouth.”

  Just at this moment the innkeeper reappeared with some platters of beef, roasted with potatoes and herbs. As he did so, he asked, “Have you heard aught of these rumors that the guns on Lost Bastard Island were exploded?”

  “I’m certain I’ve not,” said Crazy Dog. “When did this happen?”

  “Early yesterday morning, so they say.”

  At this a couple men at the other tables came over to see if they could learn more and some general discussion broke out. Tom told of the debris that had fallen from the sky yesterday morning, and others told of the explosions they’d heard. There was disbelief and dismay reflected on everyone’s faces. No sooner had they come to grips with the destruction of Port Jay than they were overwhelmed by this fresh news. There seemed no solid ground to stand on. The thought that the colonial government was falling apart was terrifying, but it set Crazy Dog to thinking. He saw an old world ending, and perhaps a new one would be taking its place. Maybe the colonial army and the big landholders no longer had the muscle to keep all under their thumbs. It was times like this, he reasoned, when all was in confusion and the way forward unclear, that a determined man could, with just a little force at his command, tilt the balance in his own direction. He looked about the inn and speculated as to how much force it would take.

  As these ideas were running through Crazy Dog’s mind, Barnacle Jack turned to Tom to inquire what it was the widow had paid him for.

  “I fixed a hen coop that needed mending. Sure I didn’t stop there long.” He saw Jack had a sly little smile and was looking him in the eye. He tried holding his gaze, but had to look away.

  “I see you’ve a notable limp. P’r’aps you’ve recently hurt your foot?”

  “Certain it is that I did.”

  “What manner of injury was it you suffered?”

  “It makes no matter.”

  “Tell me. I’d like to know.”

  “It was a bite.”

  “A bite?”

  “I was bitten by a scorpion. It was while –“

  “The sting of a scorpion! Surely few things are more painful. Well, isn’t this your lucky day? We’ve just the remedy you’re needing. Haven’t we?” He turned to Crazy Dog.

  “That’s the righto,” says Crazy Dog. “Just the item. Elijah!” He called for the man with a hook.
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  “Yessir?” says Elijah.

  “Wasn’t it a salve, a salve to heal a scorpion’s sting, that you purchased from the gipsy woman on Hebrados Island? Have you it with you?”

  “Yessir. I do, sir. As we’re making an excursion on land I brought it with me. The scorpions here are said to be most troublesome.” He opened the tunic he wore, revealing a small pot held on a string round his waist.

  “There’s no need,” said Tom. “The scorpion was small. Very small. It will heal soon. In fact it’s already healed.”

  “Let’s see where that scorpion got you,” said Jack.

  “Please, don’t bother.”

  “Take off your boot.” Elijah was now standing next to him with the pot of salve. It bore a potent stench.

  “No. Please don’t.”

  But the sailors were getting into the spirit of the thing, and were chanting in unison, “Take off your boot! Take off your boot!” Finally Jack grabbed his leg and took the boot off, despite Tom’s protest. When they saw his foot there was a gasp, and then silence.

  Tom knew not what to say.

  “Was that scorpion holding a gun, then?” There was a roar of laughter.

  “I’m sorry, but what happened was I was so clumsy I shot myself in the foot. I was that embarrassed I didn’t want to tell. Now you know my secret.”

  There was general discussion of this, along with many remarks about the wild life now hunting men with pistols, and what a sad state things had come to, and much laughter. Elijah said, “That’s alright then. This salve never did bugger all for a scorpion sting, maybe it’ll help a bullet wound.” He smeared the foul-smelling stuff on Tom’s wound.

  Tom thought the joking had covered the situation and he was out of suspicion, but as he put his boot back on Jack said, “This brings me to a perilous question, honest John, because I’ve a suspicion the good coin I’m paying for the ale you’re drinking is not being repaid with the candid coin of truth. What is it you know of a rogue named Vincenzo, and another that goes by the name of Diego? Because I’ll not believe it that you’ve never made their acquaintance.”