Pockets of snow lay on the frosty ground, slowly melting as the days grew longer. Birds returned from the south, anticipating the break that had come in the weather. The bright sun was refreshing.
The arrow that felled Jonathan came in the first wave. It was surprisingly quiet, like the wind whistling through the trees. Neither of them saw it coming. The thin shaft with its twist of feathers seemed to materialize from nowhere.
The arrow struck Jonathan's collarbone and glanced up through the side of his neck, tearing open his jugular vein. Jonathan sank to his knees, his hands grasping at his throat. Bruce was still trying to process what had happened as Jonathan fell to one side, slipping into the furrows that scarred the muddy ground. Blood soaked into the worn, tired tracks that wound their way up the steep ridge.
Bruce had never seen so much blood. The splash of crimson was jarring to his mind, such a violent contrast to the dark woods still devoid of leaves. Brilliant streaks of red sprayed out across the white snow. He tried to stem the flow. He tried so hard as Jonathan lay there speechless in the bloody mix of ice, snow and mud. His brother's lips were moving but no words came out, just a sickening gurgle as he gasped for air.
It was Jonathan's eyes that were the hardest to accept. In that moment, as Bruce knelt in the muddy track, pressing his fingers hard against the wound, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, it was the look in his brother's eyes that said so much more than any words could articulate. Jonathan couldn't believe what was happening to him, he couldn't believe his life was ending so quickly, so suddenly, so painfully. Just moments before, they'd both laughed, joking around with the warmth of the sun on their faces, a delightful contrast to the brisk cool in the air. They were marching to glory, or at least that's what they'd been told, that's what they believed.
Blossoms grew on the trees along Bracken Ridge, buds opening out into the first flowers of spring. It should have been the start of a new year, a better year. Hundreds of young men had marched forward with excitement, now a ragged line of boys screamed in agony. In the months to come, Bruce learned that the first wave had fallen in much the way the generals had expected, exposing the enemy's position and allowing for a flanking maneuverer. Their sacrifice was called noble, but that was a lie, one that depressed Bruce and left him crying out for answers.
Jonathan looked pitiful as he lay there. No words were spoken, none were needed. Bruce understood. He could see it in his brother's eyes, a plea for mercy, a desire to unwind the moment and escape this cruel blow. Jonathan's eyes shouted out in agony as he gripped his younger brother's hand. Those tender brown eyes couldn't understand what was happening to them, they couldn't accept such a violent and brutal death, and yet death marched upon them regardless.
Volley upon volley of arrows rained down on the muddy track in which the two boys lay. Bruce was struck on his arm and thigh, but he barely felt any pain as he watched his brother die.
Within a few minutes, Jonathan fell limp. His eyes lost focus, seemingly looking through his transparent younger brother, looking up at the brilliant blue sky above. Bruce cried. Whereas once he'd felt like a man, ready to take on the world, now he realized he was still just a child. He wanted the war to go away, to leave him and his family alone, to return them to their innocence, but time ignored his pleas.
Bruce had no idea how long he sat there in shock, cradling his brother's head. The battle raged around him as he sat slumped in the mud, trying to straighten his brother's hair, to clean the mud and blood from Jonathan’s face, but his hands were dirty, everything he did made things worse.
Bruce sobbed with anguish. Jonathan grew cold.
Soldiers fought with swords and spears. Men fell around him. The mud and blood obscured their uniforms. Enemies in life, they were indistinguishable in death.
Bruce barely noticed the clash of swords. His mind was as numb as his legs soaked in snow, slush, mud and blood.
A dark shadow cast over the sun and he looked up. One of the northern soldiers towered over him, his legs set on either side of the muddy rut. He held out a sword, bringing the blade to Bruce's throat.
Bruce looked into his eyes, wondering what he was waiting for, wanting him to end his torment, but the soldier lowered his sword. In the midst of hundreds of other fallen soldiers, this young man seemed to sense the personal tragedy Bruce had endured and had no heart to kill him. The soldier ran on, swinging his sword and fighting to kill someone else.
Bruce cried.
The hours of that day seemed longer than any other Bruce had ever known. As the sun set, someone grabbed Bruce, dragging him from the field of battle, dragging him away from his brother despite his screams. With the fall of darkness, monsters rose, claiming the carcasses of those that had died in battle.
Bruce limped away from Bracken Ridge, unable to watch. Technically, he could have been charged with desertion, but those that would have executed him lay dead alongside his brother. It was in that moment, as he cradled his wounded arm, as he limped away from the campfires of his troop, that Bruce decided to become a reader.
Life was shallow, hollow, just a fleeting fragment of what he'd imagined in the excitement of growing up on a farm. Life was precious, wasted on those brute beasts that thought sacrifice was the highest virtue. For Bruce Dobson, those men were the monsters, not the wild animals with their razor sharp teeth and bloodied claws. Those men, that sacrificed the lives of others like pawns on a chessboard, those were the real monsters.
Reading was a mystical art, the refuge of charlatans. There were many that pretended to read, that knew just enough to fool others, but Bruce wasn't interested in them. Long ago he had realized they were con-men. Bruce wanted to find someone who understood, someone who could teach him reason.
Readers, those who read for the love of knowledge, stayed hidden, and with good reason. Tribes had gone to war over readers. There were those that wanted to abuse their knowledge, to use it for their own ends, to manipulate others. Most of those in authority could read, but what they read was strictly defined. Knowledge was considered dangerous. Like a fire, they’d say, if reading isn’t kept under control, it will burn down the house.
A reader, a true reader, wanted only to set people free, or at least, that was the assumption Bruce carried with him. He knew freedom had always been a dangerous concept, and now more so than ever. Freedom meant having the confidence and conviction to know right from wrong for one's self, and no tribe could abide such insolence. Tribes needed loyalty, submission, unity and dedication, not doubts and questions. Tribes needed heroes, not dreamers.
Over time, suspicions arose around readers. Superstition said they were alchemists, wizards, witches. They were different, they were feared. They sacrificed children to their gods, or so the villagers of the plain said. They drank the blood of those they seduced. They were the monsters that attacked in the dark of night. For Bruce, that was absurd, but such madness prevailed in the valley.
Bruce found his reader by accident. She was older than him by at least ten summers. A couple of years had passed since Bracken Ridge, but the emptiness he felt inside longed to be filled. He had been trading at the southern markets in the village of Amersham when he first saw Jane.
Amersham sat on a low hill surrounded by open meadows and cultivated fields. Wooden ramparts enclosed the original village, giving it the appearance of a garrison, but over time the population had outgrown the walls and the village had sprawled. Log cabins and thatched huts lined the roads and alleyways, with stone buildings being reserved for the wealthy or industrious.
Bruce rode into the village on the back of his pack horse. The monstrous animal lumbered down the dusty road, the span across its hindquarters loaded up with a dozen barrels of Indian corn and several crates full of chickpeas and dried insects. Bruce rocked with the steady motion of the horse. Although its steps were slow its gait was long, giving it a fair pace, faster than a man could walk.
As he entered the outskirts of the village, with its roads paved wi
th fragments of stone, Bruce could see the circuit magistrate and his men collecting taxes at the roadside tollgate. If he'd known they were there this month he would have headed east to one of the other villages to avoid their thieving hands, but it was too late. To pull out would have invited unwanted attention.
The magistrates could read, but for them reading was a ceremonial function, with little or no meaning involved. Whatever they read was only ever used to oppress others. With pomp, they would profess their disdain for all but the laws of the land. For them, reading was tightly controlled, and only ever as it suited their dominance over the villagers. Bruce wasn’t fooled by their hypocrisy.
The guards were armed with rifles, but they had bayonets attached, because even if the rifles worked they probably didn't have any ammunition. Guns were useless against monsters. Bullets tended only to inflict pain and were rarely fatal to the huge beasts. And if there was one thing worse than a monster on a rampage, it was one that was fueled by the anger of being stung with bullets. Nah, he thought, this is just for show. They're trying to look good for the villagers.
Bruce pulled up behind a number of other travelers mounted on their steeds, each waiting to pay for entrance to the markets. One of the judges was preaching, taking advantage of the captive audience. He stood on a raised wooden dais.
“We need to stay vigilant, my brothers,” cried the aging man. “There are those that would try to destroy our way of life, that would see us turn back to the old ways, those that put their trust in the knowledge of science. But what has such knowledge ever done for us?”
It was a call/response sermon, and the villagers knew the drill. Those that were around the gate responded mindlessly with rumblings of assent as the judge continued. Bruce didn't buy it. This wasn't about science, it was about control. These guys would sacrifice their own mothers to ensure submission to their rule, and he knew it.
“We trusted science. We trusted its promises, but where did that take us? What good did that do us?”
Again, the crowd provided the obligatory answer in the form of a barely recognizable murmur, “Nothing.”
Most of them weren't interested, they were just going through the motions. It had always been that way from what Bruce understood, even in the old days when the knowledge of science prevailed. Back then, most people gave lip service to science but they didn't understand it, they didn't appreciate it. Science was just a means to an end, allowing man to live life to the fullest with his moving pictures and flying machines. And now, in the new world, authoritarian rule had become the means to the end of survival. Without banding together, man would have been driven to extinction. And yet in both cases, the common man just wanted to get on with his life and took the course of least resistance. If agreeing with the magistrates allowed him to trade and feed his family, he'd agree.
“We have to work together, not against each other. Our greatest value is in our loyalty to each other. Never forget that, never forget that alone we are nothing. Together we can defeat even monsters.”
It was the same dull, boring lecture, replete with pious platitudes. Bruce hated it. Even before he learned to read he could see through these rants, realizing they were nothing more than propaganda. Bruce could see through the fallacies. Two plus two equals four, he thought. Everybody knows that, no one needed to be reminded of it, but the supposed dangers of knowledge, the insidious evil of free thinking, the canker of written words, this apparently required constant repetition.
Their insistence on repetition struck him as inherently wrong. Ever since Bracken Ridge, his distrust of authority had grown and now he despised the judiciary.
A tax collector approached him as his horse shuffled forward. “Thirty credits,” cried the collector, his outstretched arm barely reaching Bruce's foot as he sat high on his massive horse.
“What?” cried Bruce, looking down at the collector. The man was resplendent in his fine clothes. Dressed in scarlet, with polished brass buttons running down the side of his uniform, he looked out of place in the small town, with its drab clothing and young population.
Thirty credits was highway robbery. Bruce would be doing well to sell all his produce for forty credits at most. He pursed his lips, holding himself back from swearing, knowing it would do no good to draw undue attention to himself. He'd come to town seeking a new plow but would have to settle for something second-hand after paying for access to the markets. Thirty credits out of pocket would leave him with little in the way of money until he sold his corn and chickpeas. He paused, mentally assessing whether he could inflate his prices to recoup the loss, wondering if that would be counterproductive and kill off sales. His hand reached into his purse, fingering the coins reluctantly. He went to say something but stopped as a commotion broke out in front of him.
“This is extortion,” cried the woman sitting on the horse ahead of him. She was talking to another tax collector, arguing over the fee. “This is not a tax. This is robbery. How am I supposed to conduct business and earn enough to pay for your bloody taxes if you keep stealing from me? Taking my very livelihood?”
“Come now,” said the tax collector below Bruce, seeing he was distracted. “Pay up and move along.”
The stout man reached up and slapped at his boot, but Bruce was fascinated by the high-spirited woman in front of him. She had the courage to say what he was thinking. She swung her legs around and slid down off her horse, sliding over the edge of the beast and falling the last eight feet to the ground, surprising the tax collector. That was a dangerous way to dismount, thought Bruce, but he liked her style. A fall like that had to hurt, she could have twisted or even broken her ankle, but what an entrance. And it clearly had the desired effect on the tax collector standing before her. She was in his face, intimidating him, yelling at him.
“You're a thief and a scoundrel. This is not a fair price! I will not pay.”
The judge preaching on the dais, resplendent in his black robe, fell unusually quiet. The chief justice came over, having heard the commotion. He tried to calm the woman but she would have none of it and refused to lower her voice.
“This is an outrage. You have no right to triple the tax. Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to bully us like this?”
The tax collector standing below Bruce suddenly didn't seem so intimidating anymore. Even the armed guards on either side of the gate seemed befuddled by this woman. No one had challenged their authority before. A moment's hesitation on their part had undermined their credibility and they seemed to realize that the longer this went on the less sway they held over everyone else. The chief justice must have sensed the unrest as well as he was trying to appease the woman and get her to move along. Bruce watched as she settled with five credits, which was barely half the regular tax. She had some moxie. She yelled abuse at the collectors as she stormed off, pulling her horse along behind her.
The tax collector tapped Bruce's boot again, saying, “Come on. Pay up.”
“Sure,” Bruce replied, and he tossed a couple of coins through the air, deliberately sending them wide of the collector so they landed in the dust. He wasn't even sure how much he'd tossed, it certainly was no more than ten credits and may have been less than five, but that didn't matter, Bruce was riding the wave. “And that's all you'll be getting from me this fine day.”
Behind him, he could hear other traders calling out similar sentiments. The magistrates had their hands full. With a chuckle, Bruce prodded his horse, sending it forward, smiling at the guards as he passed through the gate.
He lost sight of the feisty woman and spent the rest of the day wondering about her. He'd only seen her from behind, but he was sure he'd recognize her voice if he heard her again.
By mid-afternoon, Bruce was down to two barrels of corn and one crate of chickpeas, having made forty nine credits. The dried insects had been the first thing to sell, and he regretted not bringing more, having underestimated the interest in them. He'd told a couple of the women at the markets abou
t the incident at the gate and they said it was probably Jane, the blacksmith's daughter. They rolled their eyes, saying she was trouble.
Bruce had his head down when Jane walked up to his stall, but her presence demanded his attention. As he looked up, he recognized her from the way her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the soft flower pattern on her dress. He wanted to say something about the morning, but she got straight down to business.
“I'll give you six credits for the lot,” she said, pointing at the two barrels and the remaining crate.
“Six credits,” he cried, somewhat offended that she hadn't asked for a price first and had just assumed she could impose one of her own. “I can't sell you all this for six credits. I'd be running at a loss.”
“Make it five,” she said sternly, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
“Now, wait a minute,” he said, pointing at her, both his voice and his ire being raised. “You can't just come at me demanding an absurd price, and then drive an even lower one. What do you think this is? The tollgate? I'm not some tax collector you can push around.”
“Four,” she said without a hint of emotion on her face. With narrow eyes and pursed lips, she looked as though she were ready to take him on in a fight.
“Hang on,” he said, holding his hand out, appealing for her to let him speak. “You can't keep going down. That's not the way bartering works.”
“Three credits. That's my final offer,” Jane said, her hands set firmly on her hips.
“Oh, you are infuriating,” Bruce said, running his hands up through his hair. “How on Earth do you think you can get away with offering me three credits?”
Jane went to say something, but Bruce cut her off. “No wait. I don't want to know.”
“You were behind me at the gate,” Jane said, regardless. “So I figure you owe me at least twenty credits.”
Monsters Page 3
