The Village on Horseback: Prose and Verse, 2003-2008

by Jesse Ball

  It was Lubeck’s mother let Carr in. Brennan came to the door too. Lubeck was sitting in a chair by the window.

  — What is it? asked Carr. What happened?

  Brennan took a letter off a side table and handed it to Carr.

  — Read it for yourself, he said.

  DEAR J. LUBECK,

  It is my understanding that you and three others, L. Carr, F. Brennan, and J. Harp, were on Sycamore Street last night where I went walking with my wife. You must understand that we were at the hospital much of the night. My wife has been caused to have a miscarriage. While I might take this matter up with the police, I prefer, as a gentleman, to meet with you and decide the matter by force. Your family has long lived in this town, and so I believe you will honor your commitment. Come then, tomorrow morning, that is, 5 Dec., to the racing track out past Elridge green no later than 6 a.m. Bring a second, as I shall.

  most sincerely,

  Judge Allen Henry

  — Believe it, said Lubeck’s mother.

  She called to Lubeck from across the room.

  — You won’t fail us, will you, John?

  — There’s nothing to do, said Lubeck, standing up, still looking out the window. There’s nothing to do.

  — That’s right, said his mother. It’s the only thing.

  She looked them one by one, Brennan, Carr, Harp, full in the face.

  — A thing like that, she said. It’s awful. There’s no choice in the matter. You’ve got to have it out or we can’t live in this town.

  Lubeck’s brothers and sisters had come into the room. There were perhaps eight of them of various sorts and ages. Lubeck’s stepfather also had come in.

  — A bad business, a bad business, he said, and pulled at his moustache. Seems to me you deserve what you get.

  — That’s right, said Lubeck’s mother.

  — These days, what with automobiles and propeller airplanes, the power of man is getting stronger and stronger, said Lubeck’s stepfather. If he doesn’t learn some moral strength, it’ll all be as unjointed as a scarecrow.

  — I don’t even know what you’re saying, said Lubeck.

  — Suit yourself, said Lubeck’s stepfather.

  — This is a very very bad thing, said Brennan.

  — It’s a very bad thing, all right, said Lubeck’s mother.

  The next morning, Carr went with Lubeck. Brennan had refused, and though Harp had wanted to come, Lubeck wouldn’t have it.

  — You’ve got to come along, Lubeck had told Carr. Just you.

  They took Lubeck’s stepfather’s automobile, and drove out from the town. The morning light where the snow still held was strong in their eyes, and they squinted as they came.

  Soon they reached the track. A car could be seen through the bare trees, and a few figures beside it.

  Lubeck pulled in and stopped the engine.

  — The pistols are there, the man said.

  He was as old as the Judge. Both wore overcoats over dark suits. Both wore hats and thin leather gloves. They had laid a soft cloth over a portion of the car’s hood. On the cloth were two revolvers. The scene was very dignified. One would want, as a child, to be old enough to take part in such a thing, to be there in the heaving coldness of morning, in the careful grace of winter, though of course, the true penalty of death cannot be considered in its depth by such a little fool as a child. No, no.

  — Either, said the Judge.

  — What?

  — You can take either.

  The Judge’s second walked out and drew two lines in the earth of the cinder track, about twenty feet apart. He called Carr over.

  — The way this thing is going to get done, well, this is it. Lubeck and Judge Henry will wait, each some yards behind their line. At our word, each approaches his line. When the line is reached, they begin to fire.

  — How many shots can they. .?

  — Eight in each revolver. If they both run out, we start again.

  He looked at Carr with disgust.

  — You were with him, weren’t you? You’re one of them?

  — I, well. .

  The man turned his back on Carr and approached the place where the Judge was waiting.

  — All set, he said.

  Judge Henry motioned to Lubeck to take a pistol from the hood. Lubeck hesitated, then chose, lifting the gun uncertainly.

  Carr was at his side. They took a few steps together away from the others.

  — You can leave. You don’t have to do this, he said quietly. Leave the town. Leave the country.

  Lubeck looked at him and away.

  — Tell them I’m ready.

  — To your posts, said the Judge’s second.

  The Judge and Lubeck stepped out onto the track.

  Carr felt as if someone were squeezing all the air out of his body. Things became slow and strained. He heard the man call “NOW!” and watched as Lubeck and the Judge advanced, step by step. Near the lines, they raised their pistols. They pointed their pistols at each other. Carr couldn’t breathe. He was held there, without breath, as the shots began. Lubeck fired and fired. The Judge fired, fired again. Both continued advancing. The noise was incredible. He felt he had never heard anything so loud. Lubeck fired and the Judge flinched, and then they were just walking at each other, just walking. The Judge let out three shots in a row.

  The shots just poured from his revolver. Lubeck was not firing. His face was turned away. The first shot came. The second shot came. The third shot came, and Lubeck was backwards off his feet.

  Carr ran out onto the track. He slowed his pace as he drew closer. The bullet had taken Lubeck high in the cheek and gone straight through his head. The face was a bloody wreck. He was no longer there.

  Carr realized he had started to breathe again. He turned. The Judge and his second were conferring. The second came over, passed Carr, knelt by Lubeck’s body. He was taking the pistol back. He removed the pistol from Lubeck’s hand, opened it, dropped the spent shells on the ground, and walked away.

  Then he paused.

  — You, he said. Give this to Brennan.

  He was holding a letter.

  Across the length of track, the Judge was looking straight into Carr’s eye. His face was carved like a mask of a face.

  the third

  ~ ~ ~

  Carr drove very gently along the road. He had found soft leather driving gloves on the dash and he had put them on and now he was driving gently. He negotiated one turn then another. He was bringing Lubeck’s mother her son’s body. Such a thing he had never done, but he felt it was within him to do it.

  Lubeck was stretched out in the back seat. Carr had wrapped his head in a sack. Other than that, he might have been asleep. One often, however, can take the sign of a bag over a person’s head to mean that something bad has either happened or will happen. So, anyone observing the scene would not have to wonder for very long at the difficulties that were assailing young Carr as he drove gently on the twisting road back into town.

  Over a small bridge and down by the harbor. Along an alley and stopped beside a huge oak. Then, to the door.

  Come out, he said. Come out.

  They came out, many of them, a crowd of them, all down to the road where Lubeck was. Carr went gently away.

  Do you know the surface of the stream? Do you know its depth? Do you see as fish see, that water is not one but many, that there are paths through it, just as through land, and that to pass along a stream is a matter well beyond the powers of any human being?

  Carr was reading from a thin book. He was still near the harbor, on a bench. He felt that he could not leave without giving Brennan the letter. But he did not want to.

  A little girl was there with a cygnet on a narrow leather leash. She drew near and looked at Carr. Carr looked at her.

  — When it grows up, it will do its best to hurt you, he said. I know that much.

  — Her name is Absinthe, said the girl. And I’m Jane Charon.

  �
� Nice to meet you, Jane.

  — Not so nice for me, said Jane stoutly. You say such horrible things.

  — I saw a swan maul a child once, said Carr. The child had to be removed. To the hospital, I mean. The swan was beaten to death with a stick.

  Jane covered the cygnet’s ears. You’ll have to imagine for yourself what that looked like. I don’t really know where a bird’s ears are.

  — But, said Jane. If you were there, why didn’t you help the child?

  — Sometimes, when you see something awful about to happen, although you are a good person and mean everything for the best, you hope still that the bad thing will happen. You watch and hope that the awful thing will happen and that you will see it. Then when it happens you are surprised and shocked and pretend about how you didn’t want it to happen. But really you did. It was that way with me and the swan.

  — So, you were on the swan’s side? asked Jane.

  — I guess so. Yes, that’s right.

  — Well, that’s even worse. It’s all right for a person to pick a side, but once he’s on that side he should stay there. You ought to have helped the swan escape. You should have stopped them from killing it, and helped it away. Or even helped it to maul the child, if you were really the swan’s friend. How could anyone ever trust you?

  Jane gave Carr a very stern look and continued on down the path. The cygnet nipped at him as it passed, but its beak got fouled up in Carr’s coat, and it missed.

  — You can’t own a swan, anyway, Carr yelled, somewhat spitefully. The Queen of England owns them all already.

  And it was true. The Queen of England is the owner of all swans. It was decided a long time ago, and so it has always been.

  THE LETTER

  The letter was in a cream-colored envelope. Francis Brennan, it said on the outside.

  Carr gave the envelope to Brennan. He was standing on the stairs. Then he was handing the envelope to Brennan.

  — What is this? said Brennan.

  — They gave it to me. This morning, they gave it to me, for you.

  Brennan took the envelope reluctantly. He turned it over in his hand.

  — Tell me how it happened, he said.

  — He shot Lubeck, and then they gave me the envelope. That’s it.

  — That’s it, said Brennan.

  He opened the envelope.

  The floor of the room was wooden, and the boards ran for a very long way. Carr saw the board all the way to the wall and then back.

  Brennan handed the opened letter back to Carr.

  — What’s there to do? said Brennan.

  He was a man of some principle, Brennan. He was studying for a Doctorate in Philosophy, and believed in maintaining a certain decorum in one’s manner of life. Nevertheless, he had refused to go with Lubeck that morning, and now he was to go himself.

  — You’ll go with me, won’t you? he said to Carr.

  — I will, said Carr, feeling the massive unbowed hand of fate upon his shoulder.

  A long pause, then:

  — Was he a very good shot? asked Brennan.

  — Rather not. They were pretty close, and firing and firing. He must have missed Lubeck six or seven times.

  He did not say anything about how Lubeck had stopped firing. He felt it might make matters worse.

  — Six or seven times, said Brennan to himself. Six or seven times. At how many paces?

  — Paces? I don’t know about paces. It was about twenty feet, though closer when he shot him.

  Brennan nodded.

  — Twenty feet.

  It mustn’t have seemed to Brennan that the Judge was a very good pistoleer. However, the fact of the matter is, it is not so easy to shoot someone with a gun, even when you want to. In the Great War, for instance, people were always shooting their guns in the air instead of at the enemy.

  — I’m going to just be here, said Brennan.

  — All right.

  — I’ll just be here, all right?

  — All right. And I’ll meet you here.

  — Here’s fine.

  So, Carr left. Outside it was already dark and quite cold. Certain patches of air were colder than others, for there was no wind at all, none. He walked through these various patches and thought all the while of the soft cloth on which the pistols had been laid.

  THE CLOTH

  At that exact moment, the cloth was wrapped about both pistols in an intricate way so that the pistols were both protected from each other, and from outside objects. The pistols had been taken apart, cleaned and oiled, and put back together. Now, they sat in the trunk of the Judge’s automobile. The automobile was in the drive before the Judge’s house. The Judge was inside, sitting with his wife. She was pleading with him.

  the fourth

  Carr could not sleep. He tried to read, but couldn’t make sense of anything. Then, he thought,

  perhaps if I sit at the table, which is bare, I will be able to think of something that will put me in a position to sleep.

  Often, I think, when one can’t sleep it is because one is, of a sudden, required to come to a certain conclusion or think through a certain idea, and one is unable to do it. Only by sheer exhaustion, deception, or pharmaceuticals, can one pass by.

  He sat at the table.

  The ancient Egyptians believed that there was a traveler, a god who was a traveler, who would come sometimes to table. You would never know him. He would just come knocking at your door, begging a meal, and if you let him in and fed him, if you gave him a place to stay, and kindness, he would reward you by teaching you the language that cats speak, so that, when you were dead, you could listen and learn from them the passage to paradise.

  Lubeck was never kind, thought Carr. If anyone ever came begging at his door, he did not let that person in. Brennan was waiting on the steps when Carr arrived. Lubeck’s stepfather came out. He gave Brennan a key.

  — There’s not much to know anyway, he said. It all just continues.

  Brennan stood up.

  — Let’s go, he said.

  Carr nodded to Lubeck’s stepfather. Then away.

  It was the same automobile. The bag had not stopped all the blood from coming out of the head the day before, and the back seat was stained.

  — I’ll drive, said Carr.

  Brennan was singing beneath his breath. Carr could not make out what it was. They passed along the streets, over the bridge, out of the town, through fields on the raised road and, again, there loomed up the specter of the track, the car through the bare trees, the waiting men beside it.

  — How did this happen, said Brennan quietly.

  — It’s happening, said Carr.

  — What’s right? said Brennan. If I kill him, then his wife will have lost her husband and her child.

  — You can’t think about that, said Carr.

  — Maybe I’ll shoot him in the leg, said Brennan. Then it’ll stop.

  The pistols were laid out on the hood again, on the same cloth.

  Which one did Lubeck take? whispered Brennan.

  — I don’t remember, said Carr. They look the same.

  — They are the same, said the Judge’s second.

  — They are not the same, said Brennan. One worked yesterday, and the other didn’t.

  — Are you saying that. .? began the Judge’s second.

  — No, no. I’m sure both revolvers fired, and accurately. That’s not what I’m saying. But one worked. Which one was it?

  The Judge heard the argument and came over.

  — What’s the trouble, he asked.

  — He wants to know which gun was yours.

  The Judge pointed to the left one. Brennan took it.

  The marks were still on the track from the day before, but the Judge’s second redrew them anyway, with a broken stick. He smoothed over the place where Lubeck fell. He motioned to Carr.

  — This goes the same way.

  — I’ve explained it to him, said Carr.

  — Right.
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br />   Carr nodded to Brennan, who was holding the pistol in both his hands with the barrel pointed down. Brennan walked slowly to the line.

  — No, said Carr. You have to be back a bit.