The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  Then she picked up her rifle and aimed it at Tavish. She fired, but her trembling hands betrayed her and she missed. Tavish stepped back and concealed himself in the trees. “Don’t shoot me,” he shouted. “Come out and be with me.” Then he added, “I’ve no one else I can kill for you.”

  But she’d never come out. “Show me your face,” was what she shouted back. “Show it to me so I can send your sorry soul screaming straight to Hell!”

  But he wouldn’t show his face. Instead he shouted, “Talk to me, Katie.”

  There was no answer.

  “Katie, I love you, can’t you see I’m protecting you still. Always I’ve protected you. Can’t you see?”

  Now she answered that with a bullet.

  He despaired. His plan had come to nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He might as well step out in the open and let her kill him. Sure it was what he deserved. Poor Archimedes. And poor bewildered Cunning Fox. He saw Cunning Fox’s bow at his feet, where he was almost treading on it. He picked it up, and as he did a notion came to him. He found the quiver of arrows too. He knew how he could force her out. He ripped off the bottoms of his trousers and tore them to make rags. He wrapped the rags round one of the arrows. That done he used his flint and steel to make a spark that set the rags alight. He let them burn long enough to be certain the flame had taken. Then, aiming his bow up to the sky to compensate for the weight of the rags, he shot an arrow into the air. It flew up then down and landed on the grass the other side of the hut. But now he had the range. He tried again, and this time his arrow landed on the hut’s thatched roof. The flame was hesitant at first, but then a wind fanned it and the thatch caught and the fire was burning merrily. He thought one more for good luck so he lobbed another burning arrow into the sky. Soon the roof was burning in two places.

  Katie caught sight of a little flame coming from the roof. Oh no. She caught up a bucket with some water and tried to dowse the burning, but seeing the flames in many spots and smelling the smoke, she knew she couldn’t put it out. The whole hut was going to burn. If she left, he’d have her. She saw no way around it but to remain in the hut and let it burn. She fell onto Tom’s bloody corpse but his heart was still and she tasted the bitter heartbreak of good-bye forever. She gave a wail of grief for all her love had come to, but she wasn’t one to feel the burning, and all she wished was that all was done, so as the flames closed around her she turned the rifle to her head and pressed the trigger.

  Tavish heard the shot from the burning hut. “Come out, come out,” he called. It was no use. The whole hut was burning now and down it all came in a savage blaze, casting logs and many sparks onto the grass. He came out from the woods and approached the remains of the hut, which now was a torch incinerating everything he’d ever valued or treasured. He came as near the flaming heat as he could and called, “Please come out. Come. Be with me . . .” But nothing burned but his dreams, and all his hopes were ashes.

  The Last Chapter

  A MEDITATION ON LADYBIRDS

  Obadiah Rumple had fled from Port Jay on the night of the great fire, and found his way to the sleepy fishing village of San Dorio. He’d retained his Bible, as well as a large supply of smuggled rum, so he felt confident he’d be made welcome in his new surroundings. He erected a small house on the edge of town, put a cross over the door and called it his chapel. As Chaplain Rumple he set about ministering to the spiritual needs of the people of San Dorio. They were a stolid lot, living on the cycles of sun and storm as men must have done on these shores for centuries. Embarking on the offshore winds in the morning, returning with the onshore breeze at eve, it was a simple life, bounded by the tides and the horizon. Each day, like the clouds above, was a little different but still the same. Rumple wasn’t made particularly welcome at first, although the rum did help open a few doors.

  He made the acquaintance of the Sheriff, who gave him a tour of the jail. He was pleased to see the cells were being kept clean and reasonably free of vermin, and was a bit surprised, at the tour’s conclusion, that he hadn’t seen a single prisoner.

  “We don’t get a lot of criminals around here,” said the Sheriff. “It used to be the main point of my job was to keep the Indians out, but even they haven’t been raising much hell lately.”

  “When you do have criminals, what happens to them?”

  “There used to be a circuit judge who’d do the rounds. He’d come and hold a trial. We have a man in the village who’s studied some law books, so he’d help. But with all the disturbances lately, the judge hasn’t been coming round.”

  “Then it’s just as well you have no criminals. Seems like a waste, though, having so many cells and nobody to put in them.”

  “Well we’re sure to round up a few. When we do you can come and pesterize them.”

  “Yes, ‘tis a well known fact every jail needs a chaplain. And I think the word is proselytize.”

  Rumple spent some of his time tracking game in the woods when he was hungry for something other than fish. One day he was almost knocked over when three men came hastening out of the Forest. They had a panic-stricken air about them and their clothes were torn and dirty, as if they’d been many days in the trackless woods. Rumple, seeing they were in need of some succor, brought them to the town square where they could sit and have a cup of tea, and then summoned the Sheriff, who listened to the tale they had to tell.

  It was a strange one. They’d been caught up in some sort of squalid slavery and murder spree. Two men named Dane and Bramij, together with a third named Harry, who’d thought he was the boss, had caught them and put them in a chain gang, along with some others, with the intention of selling them as slaves.

  “It sounds like these were some enterprising lads,” said the Sheriff.

  “Too enterprising, I’d say,” said one of the men, who was sipping his tea with an air of distaste. “They grabbed us and brought us down to Indradoon. When they got there they wanted to sell us, but the man who ran the market saw some of us had no black skins, nor any stamp of the jungle, so he asked where they’d gotten us.”

  “What did they say?”

  Here another one of the men, a portly one with a huge posterior, interrupted and said, “They answered like true philosophers. They held it as a maxim, which at the same time could be a universal law, that if they could beat a man up that made him their slave, so they’d beaten us up and brought us there and now they wanted to sell us. The auctioneer thanked them deeply. He said he couldn’t recall ever having had the moral basis of human society explained quite so succinctly. Then he went on to tell them that due to a tremendous fire – of which he was startled to learn they’d taken no notice, considering the sky had been black with smoke for days – many of the largest plantations had recently burned to the ground and as a consequence there was no longer any need for slaves. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘many landowners have asked us to sell their slaves at ridiculous bargains so as to avoid the cost of feeding and housing them.’ Well, you can imagine that left our lads feeling a trifle foolish.”

  “So did they set you free?”

  “No,” said the third man, who wore the tattered remnants of an army uniform. “They should have, but they didn’t. They were afraid of what we’d do once we were free. All we’d have done would have been to get away, but they debated what to do, whether they should just massacre us, or maybe chain us to some trees deep in the Forest and let us starve. While they were arguing, it came out that one of the Indians had told them there was another place where slaves were sold, and she’d offered to lead them there. The only problem was the Indian who’d told them this had escaped. However, they had another Indian, and since obviously all Indians would share this sort of arcane information, they were sure this other one could tell them where to find the place.”

  “I’d doubt such place exists.”

  “Which was exactly what the Indian told them,” said the one who’d spoken first. “He said the whole story was a lie. He said there was nothing
to it, and that anyone with a brain the size of a pea could have seen right through it. But when they threatened to shoot off his toes he suddenly remembered how to get there. So they took us barging around in the woods, letting this Indian lead them in circles, till finally they ran out of supplies and then there was a big fight. Dane got hold of the only pistol and used it to shoot Harry and the Indian, while the rest of us escaped. There were a couple others, I don’t know where they went, but the three of us stuck together till finally we found our way here. By the by,” he asked Rumple, “is that a bottle of rum in your pocket?”

  They gave the three some supplies, then let them go their way. The next day Dane and Bramij came into town and the Sheriff, knowing his duty, arrested them and threw them into his jail. Once they were there, he wasn’t certain what to do with them, but he thought the circuit judge was bound to come round sooner or later and till then they’d just have to wait.

  Chaplain Rumple found these two to be a sad warning of what men could come to when their imaginations were smitten with sin. “These men are like those trees that stand out yonder. You know the tall ones I’m speaking of?” he asked the Sheriff.

  “Certain I do.”

  “Well men are like those trees. Their branches reach up to the sunlight, but their roots are planted in deep gloom far below.” He considered this commonplace an awfully shrewd insight, showing the conformation of all parts of a man, from the dust beneath his toes to his angelical aspirations. He took great relish in repeating it.

  A day came when a pillar of smoke rising over the woods led the Sheriff to the scene of an horrific crime. When he arrived at the source of the smoke, he found Tavish crouched on the ground that surrounded a charred pile of rubble that had been Trogle’s hut. He knew him at once to be one of the notorious Three Bandits, and he found the bodies of the other two nearby, as well as that of a dog. Once the embers had cooled, an investigation of the ashes revealed the remains of two others who must have been burnt in the hut. The prisoner made not the slightest resistance when he was put in cuffs, only muttering that he’d murdered them all, without saying any more.

  The Sheriff put Tavish in a cell well away from the other two so they’d not be able to talk to one another. The Sheriff found his prisoner to be a man of few words, who complied with every order he was given. He willingly told them where all the plundered loot was stashed, heedless of the value this could have held as a bargaining chip. He had little motive force of his own, and was content to sit idly in his cell and let the hours pass.

  Chaplain Rumple’s rounds took longer than before, now there was a third prisoner. He didn’t quite know what to make of this quiet, introspective man who looked at him out of a ruinous face, one with a broken nose and eyes not the same size. He sat on the stool in Tavish’s cell and asked him if there were any steps he felt the need to take, to reconcile him with his maker.

  “And why would I be doing anything of the sort?” Tavish asked.

  “God placed you on this earth for a reason; you’re a part of His plan for all of creation. If you have not acted worthily in His eyes, it’s never too late to ask forgiveness.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “It’s a belief that brings me great comfort, knowing I’m doing my best to walk in the path He laid down for me.”

  “And what is the purpose of this path?”

  “To help my brethren, my fellow pilgrims through this shadowed vale of life. If I can ease the burden for just one, I’d rejoice in a life well spent.”

  “That’s why we’re here? To help others?”

  “When you come to the end of your life and look back, only those things you’ve done to help others will be of value in your eyes.”

  Tavish thought this over. Then he said, “If we were logical, and of course we aren’t, far from it, but if we were logical and we wanted to do the one thing that would be of the greatest benefit to others, I think we’d kill ourselves. Remove ourselves entirely from the competition for the good things in life. That would be a real help. Anything else is just selfishness.”

  “You think all that’s in your life is only yourself? You’d be best off if your fellow creatures were dead and there was just you, the only one in all the world?”

  “Of course . . . Apart from myself, what is there?”

  “That’s an evil logic if you ask me.”

  “Logic is just logic; it’s not evil unless you think it is.”

  “I’d not have your thoughts for any money in this world. ‘Tis said an idle mind’s the Devil’s workshop. Before I leave, might I provide aught to exercise yours? Maybe a deck of cards?”

  “No thanks. My mind is sufficient for itself . . . Except for my dreams.”

  So Rumple left Tavish alone with his thoughts. He knew he wasn’t really a good chaplain, he knew everything he said was just silly nonsense, and anyone who was determined to feel bad would find a way around all he could say. But he also knew his silliness brought hope to people. He saw it in the village fishermen he spent time with. Where did they get their hope? Surely not from the drudgery of their daily existence which left them disemboweled with care, fearful to grasp any joy, knowing before it can be theirs it will have been snatched away. They got their hope from him. And there was always the rum.

  And Tavish, in his own thinking, knew there was no way out of the senseless logic that was all he could make of life. As he sat in his cell sometimes thoughts of Katie and Tom came to trouble him. He remembered how he’d loved her, and he’d call up again his hatred for that bastard Tom, but he no longer felt those things directly. Love and hate were only words. It felt like his life was over, as if he’d been buried alive, unable to see past the coffin lid inches above his eyes, awaiting the final suffocation. There was no longing in him anymore. He was truly empty, hollowed out.

  Then one day there was the sound of hammering and sawing coming from the town square. Rumple arrived with news that a gibbet was being erected in anticipation of the long-awaited arrival of the circuit judge, which was expected tomorrow. He’d arrived yesterday in Kir-a-Vanta, a few miles down the Road. There he’d taken matters in hand. He was a hanging judge and had not acquitted any. In fact he’d hung the witnesses as well, and the bailiff, even the old lady who unlocked the courtroom door. None were innocent in his eyes, and all deserved the hangman’s noose.

  Tavish spent that night considering what was likely to be done the following day. He tried to picture the judge and the courtroom. He thought again about the conversations he’d had with the chaplain concerning guilt and innocence, and the reasons for punishment, but it all seemed like some obscure joke that would have to be explained to him. And then of course it wouldn’t be funny. He lay on his bed idly watching the moonlight from his window creep across the wall, wondering how many other men had slept on this same bed, and what their dreams had been, and if any were still alive.

  The Judge arrived in the morning. He was a solitary traveler; no others were required since his person embodied also the roles of jury and prosecuting attorney. It had been found that this precluded any number of tiresome legal shenanigans.

  He dealt with the two brothers first. It didn’t take long. When Tavish was brought in he saw the Judge seated behind a raised desk. He was a short man and his face was shadowed by the broad-brimmed hat he wore, but when he looked at Tavish he set the hat aside and put on a pair of spectacles, hooking the temple ends over his ears. He spent some minutes regarding Tavish sternly. A young man in a dark suit came in and sat next to Tavish. Also the Sheriff found a seat in the back.

  “Looks like we’re all here,” said the Judge, as he banged his gavel.

  The young man in the suit stood and said, “May it please your Honor, the defendant is entitled to a lawyer to aid in his defense.”

  “Where’s the sense in that?” asked the Judge.

  “The defendant, not being an expert in the law, requires the advice and guidance of one who is, in order to assure that none of
his legal safeguards are overlooked or given short shrift.”

  “That argument would carry some weight if the law played any role in these proceedings, but in this court the law matters no more than a hen’s fart, so I see no need for a lawyer.”

  The young man looked at Tavish and smiled as if to say, “Well I tried.”

  “Call the first witness,” said the Judge.

  “The witness must first be sworn in.”

  “There’ll be no swearing in. It matters not a fig to me if the witness be truthful or no so I’ll spare him the pangs of conscience.”

  The first witness, who was none other than the Sheriff, took the stand.

  The Judge said, “I have but one question for you. Is the defendant guilty?”

  “Guilty as sin, your Honor,” said the Sheriff.

  “Objection,” said the young man. “What is he guilty of?”

  “I hold it to be a widely acknowledged fact that all men are guilty,” intoned the Judge. “The doctrine asserting that guilt is a consequence of a specific malfeasance is a tawdry legalism of recent invention. Guilt existed before there were laws. In fact, there was guilt long before even the possibility of innocence had been hinted at. Guilt is a habit, one we imbibe with our mother’s milk.” He then turned to Tavish and asked, “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

  “I won’t waste my breath. The world will doubtless be a better place once I’m no longer in it.”

  “Then I pronounce you guilty. Were I a cruel man I’d sentence you to life imprisonment, but I’ll be merciful and condemn you to hang by the neck until you are dead. As the gibbet has not yet been perfected in its construction the sentence cannot be carried out just at present, but will be deferred to sunrise tomorrow, which,” here he consulted a calendar, “is the last day of October.” He banged his gavel again and that was that.

  As he was led away Tavish said, “Hardly seems worth the trouble of having a judge come out. He could just send us his verdicts on a post card.”