by S. V. Brown
Paris heard a commotion, along with some swearing, to his right. It was along a rugged road stretching deeper in to the forest. He squinted a little finally spotting a strange creature kicking his wagon. Paris looked towards the village, heard his tummy rumble, and headed for the wagon. There might be food there. It was just his luck a farmer had lost a wheel on his wagon.
Paris arrived and saw the man trying to pick up a large wheel. The flesh on his arms wobbled even though there was little fat. The skin was just mottled and saggy.
“Well don’t just stand tha ya dronga. Gimme a hand!”
Dronga? What was that?
Paris nodded though not knowing if he should be insulted or happy to be called a dronga and helped lift the wooden wheel. His stomach rumbled so loudly the farmer burst out laughing. “Help me and I’ll give ya some food.”
“Thanks!”
The farmer kept throwing him odd looks as they worked. He had a long, grey beard, that looked unkempt. Paris was sure there were bits of things in the beard but chose not to stare too hard. Whenever the farmer’s head was down Paris noted the bald patch and red skin where the sun had burned it. Also, whenever the farmer bent over his dungarees gaped at the front and Paris was treated to the fact he wore the pair of old, blue overalls with nothing else.
They moved off the side of the road where the farmer dug around in his bags and brought out some wrapped parcels of what Paris hoped was food. His stomach rumbled. He felt useless as the farmer hobbled around in his gnarly, bare feet clearing a small area with a branch of leaves.
“Gatha some wood, lad?”
He nodded and headed into the brush. Wood. Hmmm. The best idea would be to gather a variety of sizes so he picked everything from sticks to some rather large logs. As he staggered back and burst out from some bushes he startled the old farmer.
“Is this too much?” He dropped the pile to the ground.
The farmer chuckled and lifted a small body that dangled lifelessly. “We’ll have us a grand feast!” The farmer threw the rabbit over and it slapped him in the chest before falling at Paris’s feet. “Pick it up for crap’s sake, lad. Brush off the dirt.”
He bent down thinking he was supposed to have caught it. What next? Did the farmer want him to throw it back? Was this some kind of technique to prepare the rabbit? As the farmer was bending down again, Paris averted his eyes. The farmer lifted a stick from the selection and stepped away, studying it. The rabbit still felt warm and the skin moved around as he brushed the dirt off the grey fur. When the rabbit twitched he yelled, chucked it back at the farmer who yelped and raised his arm. The rabbit was pierced but almost knocked the old fella off his feet.
“Hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha, rabbit on a stick! Hahahaha hahahaah. But we hafta skin it and gets its guts out first. Not much blood in it but what’s wrong with a bit of color!”
Paris tried to process that information, after thinking the situation wasn’t that funny, but his eyes were glued to a strange new sight. How he wished it was the evening. Thankfully the farmer lowered his arms hiding armpits that were sporting hideous bushels of hair. As Paris watched the farmer skin and gut the holey rabbit he was almost put off food altogether. But as it sizzled on the fire he decided he might be able to eat some after all. They sat quietly very close to the fire and Paris noted that the farmer had placed stones in a circle. Some kind of ritual maybe? Homage to some fire god?
As if reading his thoughts, the farmer tapped on a rock with a stick he’d been holding. “Contains tha fire.”
“Ah.” Paris touched his burning face realizing that the farmer hadn’t needed to read his thoughts but was adept at reading silly townies.
The farmer cocked his head. “Does I know ya?”
“No, don’t think so. I’m from the coastal villages.”
“Ah,” said the farmer and scratched his beard. Something fell out, landed on the ground and crawled away. “Off on an adventa then? I eard the coastal towns are a bit provincial.”
Paris couldn’t help staring at the rather provincial farmer but felt too polite to point this out. He nodded wondering if he’d blown his cover. He hadn’t actually been to the coastal towns because he hadn’t been allowed to leave the village. Considered a prize possession he was only allowed to travel with Gareth and O’rah when on a job, usually surrounded by guards. Not to protect them, but to make sure they returned.
Enforced loyalty is what Paris called it.
The farmer was digging around in his old tattered bag.
Paris realized he’d been speaking too posh to. “Yeah, me ma and da had six kids and I was kicked out.” Paris thought that sounded like a good story and the farmer didn’t seem to notice the change in speech.
The farmer’s face suddenly turned sympathetic. “Ya poor kid. I heard dem stories ya know. But who woulds believe em? And ere ya are.” The farmer broke off some bread and leaned over the camp fire. “Ya looks a bit scrawny.”
Paris tried to appear grateful rather than annoyed.
They were made to stay in the village but never starved. He had an efficient metabolism, that’s all. He accepted the bread thinking the farmer actually looked like he needed it more than him.
“Ize surprised that ya da kicked ya out. Ya did a grand job on the wheel.”
They both looked at the wagon with the wheel reattached. Paris had cast a little spell never being very good with his hands. He wasn’t even sure how to put a wheel back on so made a sticking and turning spell on it hoping it would hold until he was gone.
“Ya should see me younger brothers.”
The farmer started laughing and Paris noted the blackened and missing teeth. Poor old codger. “Ara ya headin home?” he asked.
“Been to Ispa and me misses is awaiting. Nag, nag, nag.”
Paris understood that language.
“I waz glad dem wheel fells off.”
Paris looked behind. “I coulds make it fall off agin?”
The farmer slapped his leg and laughed. “Ya a funny lad.” With a poke towards the fire the farmer nodded and smiled. “Times to eat.”
By this time Paris’s stomach rumbled rather loudly and the farmer glanced down at his stomach.
“Never been hungry afor?”
“Why da ya sa dat?” Paris was struggling to understand his own words and thought he was overdoing the farmer’s version of speech.
The farmer frowned at him. “What?”
“Why do ya say that?”
“Ah, cause while ya scrawny ya wouldn’t be making such a racket.”
Again, his face flamed.
But the farmer didn’t bother to wait for an answer and tore the rabbit roughly. A bit of rabbit and juice splattered Paris on the face. He lifted his hand to wipe himself and found a lump of cooked flesh slapped on it instead. The farmer was so busy ripping into the muscle with his teeth, what teeth he had left, he didn’t notice Paris dumping the hot meat onto a rock and trying to circumspectly wipe his eye and nose. As the farmer ate, opened mouthed, and with rabbit juice dripping down his beard Paris decided it was time to leave.
But as Paris shuffled the farmer stopped eating. When he turned back there was a piece of flesh on his beard and an un-chewed mass in his open mouth. “No good?”
Paris quickly turned away, picked up his meat and bit into his rabbit hoping the gurgling from his stomach would turn back to rumbling. The rabbit was rather tasty after he spat out a little rock. “Sorry, just a bit unsettled.”
The farmer started gnawing again and Paris tried to ignore the wet gnashing noises and lip smacking. They finished off with weak wine and bread. By the time they packed up the day was still warm and bright. Time to move on.
After waving the farmer off and watching him trundle down the road Paris wiped his hands on his pants and walked in the opposite direction hoping the farmer didn’t call him back. To make sure he was safe he didn’t cast a spell instead he turned and ran as fast as he could with chest heaving only ten seconds later. He knelt dow
n trying to catch his breath, clasping his chest and laughing. With wobbly legs he continued to Ispa.
Spell Three – Rats in a Hat Act
Four hours later and whistling a merry tune Paris headed up a small hill until he saw Ispa sprawling out before him. It was a large town with lush gardens. They specialized in flowers, herbs and forestry. He smacked his lips and cringed. Smacking his lips reminded him too much of the farmer and the sound turned his stomach. He placed a hand over the flat surface willing the gurgling noises to end. He also wished he had a six pack. Once he was in the marines he would have one. Gone would be Mr. Nerdy, hello Mr. Muscles. He flexed his bicep but felt only skin and bone. While there was little fat it reminded him of his hunger … and the farmer. Sighing he held his hand up to shield his eyes. Days were longer in the warmer season but the sun was low enough to be annoying.
Still, he had everything in front of him.
So far there were no sounds of horses galloping to ride him down, or guards to take him back to the pit. Harro would be happy as a pig in mud and hopefully driving O’rah crazy. He adjusted the strap on his bag and headed down. The only sounds were his feet on the dirt packed road and the gradual sounds of life coming from the town. As he strode past the garden businesses the sounds of hammers, shovels cutting into the earth, the merry sounds of laughter, cats squealing and dogs barking made him pick up his step. Very occasionally he heard a ranger take off from the tiny space port. They had minimal traffic but their moon had a busy space installation. Most visitors didn’t actually visit their backwater planet and who could blame them?
With a little pause, and smile, he stepped onto the paved road and headed past more densely packed business fronts and cottages. It was getting dark and he hurried. The main gates loomed ahead, open at the moment, and he walked in receiving the slightest of nods from a guard. So far so good. It had been a long time since he’d been to Ispa and he turned right at a side street, turned left at an alley, and then angled across another road to a pathway until he hit lower Ispa where the houses made way to apartments—mostly run down.
On the brick or stone walls he saw signs of advertising. The Career Worlds establishment was crying out for workers.
“We Want You!”
“Space Jobs.”
And so on. He paused at a call for marines. “Join up now and fight for your world.”
Paris scratched his head. “Fight for your world?” As far as he knew his world wasn’t at war with anyone. He was ignorant but that oblivious surely?
Moving on as the light died in earnest he raced on and came to a familiar door. He raised his hand and knocked, eager to see the brunette again and receive a warm welcome.
The next morning the scat, aka Paris, left the brunette's in a state of shock. Thousands of years pressed down upon his soul. She looked old and haggard. What had he been expecting? As a bar wench, even in this day and age, they had a tendency to age prematurely. He'd forgotten it had been twenty-four years since he'd last visited the coast. It confirmed his previous thoughts that he'd been part of the Trinity for far too long. The Community was demanding, and the Assembly even more so. They consisted of the rich and powerful under the pretense of representing the people.
Paris nodded, backing away from the needy woman feeling terrible for her but not wanting to join in her misery. At first he thought her complaints were just venting but then they went on and on. With each hour Paris felt more and more trapped.
“I’m sorry that’s happened to you” and (leaning away) “Yes, that’s terrible. How could they do that to you” and (crossing arms over chest) “Hmm mmm. I know. You should report that.”
Finally, she had gone to bed, and after a leer at him he claimed he’d eaten bad rabbit and had the runs. He snuck to the toilet out the back and sat there wondering how long he should sit there. As he waited he heard a twig snap. Had the wench followed him? Paris tried to look under the jagged, wooden door and sure enough he saw a pair of feet with chipped, red painted toenails. She wasn’t even pretending to do something; she was just standing there. Paris began to make grunting noises and looked around for something to drop into the long shaft. He put his hand on mouth and made farting noises. After three more goes she finally moved off.
Paris wiped the sweat from his brow and slapped a fly away. Because he had to sit on the stinking dunny for so long the pit flies were attracted to him now. Pulling up his pants he slapped his body and stomped around trying to get rid of them. Annoyed he slammed the dunny seat and left the outhouse. He walked in and closed the door, listening. There was a creak but it came from her bedroom.
He snuck up the passage and into the room he could use for the night. It was full of old hats of various shapes and sizes, stacked along the walls. Some of the piles were stacked precariously so Paris stayed well away. There was one blanket but he knew it was an invitation as she had shown him her bed full of warm blankets and shit knew what else. He tried not to think of the millions of bed mites crawling around. Shivering with more than cold he closed the door and managed to build a barricade of sorts to keep her out. He lay down on a thin straw mattress, shivering, and curled up in a ball. There was a disgusting stench and he lifted the blanket to his nose.
“Oh, crap!”
Paris almost vomited having taken a deep breath. He lowered the blanket but grew too cold. He lifted it again trying various ways to arrange it so that he could block the smell. Between the smell and the cold Paris lay with his eyes wide open as the night wore on, jerking and sitting up with every creaking board. At times in the night he swore the hat stacks moved or swayed. At other times there was rustling, or the sound of scurrying feet, or eeking. Early in the morning, he saw sunlight streaming through a part in the ragged, musty curtains, a racket made him jump. It was his barricade collapsing. Blinking the grit from his eyes, he must have fallen asleep after all, his heart pounded in his chest.
“What’s going on?” the shrill voice called out in annoyance.
Embarrassed now Paris jumped up and tidied the mess. “Sorry, um … I was attacked on the road on the way here and I’ve gotten a bit nervous.”
“You poor man and here I’ve been offloading all my woes.”
He hesitated on the other side of the door. Had she been planning on surprising him, in sexy lingerie, for an early morning nookie? He cracked open the door but she only wore an old, threadbare frock and thick socks. Paris smiled and nodded and followed her into the kitchen thinking it might be alright this morning. He started coming up with a laudable tale of his own woes even managing to weave in the farmer and rabbit. But she turned and he saw a flash of pale, elongated breast and she saw him looking. “Ah, laddie, I thought you weren’t interested. I wore this specially to entice ya to a bit of canoodling.”
The next minute her hot kisses had been all over his face and hand on his groin. It seemed like she had developed eight arms and he had quickly begged off. She smelled musty and there was a faint hint of rat pee.
“I have an appointment.” He managed to pull away from the panting wench. “I’m sorry. Wish I could stay.”
Wish I could stay? What was wrong with him? He was going to join the marines and he couldn’t even stand up to a demented retired bar wench come part-time dish washer. As Paris ran down the alleyway he sniffed himself hoping he didn’t stink. It was too early to visit the center so Paris wandered aimlessly ignoring his empty stomach waiting for business hours. Finally, sitting on a bench in a park, he saw shops opening around the square.
Striding down the main road he noticed a few people glancing at him so he did a quick check. Everything looked alright. He saw the larger, white washed building with “Career Worlds” emblazoned on the main wall. Feeling better he waited until a group of horse riders trotted by, hearing the horse sneeze, and headed across. As he entered the small office a chirpy, young girl greeted him. “Welcome to Career … Worlds … ooh, what’s that smell?”
Burning with embarrassment Paris desperately tried to come u
p with a good story but everything sounded pathetic or unrealistic. What would a marine say or do?
He grinned at her. “Sorry, miss. I was helping an old lady who was very … sick. She lived in the poor quarter and I was just passing by, hearing a cry for help.”
She immediately flushed. “That’s so good of you. Here, sit down.”
Her cute nose crinkled and she moved off into another room coming out with a drink of water for him. She stopped in front of him, putting the glass on her desk. “Actually, do you mind coming with me? I don’t want the … um … I’ll help you.”
Paris sighed but stood. “Thank you.”
“Do you need us to contact the medical center to assist her? She shouldn’t be in such a state.”
“Ah, no, no. She was fine when I left.”
Paris followed her to a little bathroom with a shower.
“You may clean up and I’ll find you some clothes. I really don’t understand it.” She flashed Paris a concerned look.
“What’s that?” Would a marine invite her to shower with him? He became aroused thinking of water dripping down through her blonde hair and lips parting…
“Well, the village community pitch together and help those in the poor area, even cleaning their homes. They register of course as we don’t want to force people with our help.”
Paris blanched, desire fleeing his body. His little brunette liked living like that? Yuk.
“Unless it was the ‘Rat in a Hat’ lady. She breeds rats in hats that the community donate to her. We use rats to feed the snakes.”
“Snakes?”
She giggled. “We introduced some snakes to the rubbish dump to keep the rats down but then we had too many snakes so now we need to increase the rat population.”
“Ah huh.” Paris suddenly wanted to get off the planet in a hurry. As he showered he kept looking up nervously to the roof thinking snakes and rats might fall through. As he dried he found his stinky clothes had been taken away and a simple affair of pants, top and boots were left for him. After dressing he headed back in. There was the sound of laughing and he saw three marines flirting with the girl. She was giggling and tossing her hair back. Paris smiled. Soon that would be him.
