The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  I approached. The path near-buried under gull crap, scraps of sprouting grass and moss. Few feet had passed here in long days. The door stood bound and bolted. It looked solid steel. Unlikely. But then, the damned castle was unlikely. It stood in proud defiance of all probability. I rapped knuckles upon the thing. As well knock polite upon a mountain-side.

  I stared a long moment at the ornate lock, weighing the ring of keys. In normal life one finds a strange key in a drawer. Or in the dirt, perhaps inside an old book. For days, even years, one awaits the True Lock for which the mysterious key is destined. It shall open a magic door, or a treasure chest or your prison cell.

  But no Lock of Destiny appears. You find the key turns the back door to the cellar. Else you lose it same as you found it, a riddle never solved. Dropped to the dirt, or left in a book for the next reader to find. Such is mystery in normal life. Something hinted, never completed.

  Of late my life ran abnormal. It bore strange coincidences, astonishingly completed. Not moments of sudden luck. Nothing that protected me from hunger or defeat, loss or imprisonment. Mere inexplicable events that shouted cryptic meaning, theatric messages delivered to imply a grand secret destiny. Magical incoherence substituting for wisdom.

  I considered tossing these keys to the sea. Pointless. I’d find them on my doorstep again tomorrow. Or in my soup. And was not the castle mine? My wife’s, at least. As I was hers. How strange, this belonging of each to each. Key to lock. Both of us still almost strangers. I knew her body, somewhat. Her moods, somewhat. She knew naught of me but my scars, my cock, the easy laugh of a long campaigner. I’d never spoken of the cause I considered my serious work. Nor my fears of living as a beast, eating till I was eaten. Lalena was in nature an aristocrat; by nurture of ancient elite. She would think my interest in the Commons absurd folly; and my need to return to the city a betrayal of what we’d vowed, each to each.

  A year from now we might be deadly enemies. Why not? How soon infatuation and need turn to contempt and loathing. Where were the friends from my life before? Black, Green, Stephano, Dealer. Foes now. I pictured Lalena as enemy in her turn, declaring hatred hot as she now declared love. She’d hiss, teeth bared in rage, leap for my throat. Would I strike her down? I vowed never to do so. But within me something laughed. I pretend survival is my art. In truth, it is my master.

  I watched myself testing keys to lock, clearly looking for answers. A few tries, and the largest turned with a satisfying click. The portal opened inwards with an untheatric lack of creak. Within waited dark. Cold musty air wafting out in greeting.

  It occurred unto my suspicious mind that if you wished someone to hurry through a dark door, you left the key in some mysterious fashion that enthused a foolish seraph to rush in when wise angels would think.

  Thinking, I turned to look at the schooner. It floated small and unreal, a portrait of a ship requiring only square frame, the artist’s signature. How easy to fetch my wife, a few spare vampirics from the portrait. How warm and comforting to be kept safe by others. As fascinating a concept to my spadassin mind as calling out to strangers in the street for help. I considered this concept in wonder awhile. Then rushed into the dark doorway, rapier at ready.

  Chapter 3

  The Art of Continuous Breathing

  It should be asked: if survival is my art, why the hell charge needlessly ahead expecting attack? My answer: I did not really believe aught waited within this sea-bound stone, save cobweb and dust. Perhaps an old suit of armor. I would crash into it, sending pot-steel toppling in comic clatter.

  In point of fact the castle is far from empty. When I rush through that dark door I will be greeted by shadows, a horrible growl and the terrifying assertion “I don’t want to hurt you.” But at the time I judged nothing waited beyond but ghost and shadow. And I disbelieve in ghosts, which left only shadows.

  Why then the caution of consideration, forward charge sword drawn? Because in a life of violence I have gained the habit of weighing shadows; even knowing the sinister shade lurking ahead is only my coatrack. One cannot retreat, shout for help every time one passes the coatrack.

  And final truth: every key challenge of my life I have survived by rushing forwards. In battle, in duel, in marriage. When one is large and dangerous, a forward rush is excellent strategy. My preferred method of not dying in the war. Let us delay meeting the monster beyond the doorway, and first discuss the art of continuous breathing.

  Surviving is my art. In a life of violence this requires mastery of sword and knife, creeping through shadows, striding bold into taverns, charging sudden into danger, running damned fast away. Compare that to Chatterton’s, whose art is mere killing. Trained from infancy by mad masters to deliver death by sword and knife, hand and foot. Our art-work appears similar. Same tools, equivalent corpses. Yet different goals.

  In the war I had a commander determined to see me dead. Any sunrise he might have ordered me hung. But that lacked style; and style is much to officers. Besides, as Seraph I made a popular figure among the ranks. Far better than loathed striker. The change in how the eyes of passersby met mine went to my head like whiskey to a virgin’s buttons. I’d gone from villain to hero, in their measure and my mirror’s.

  Which explains my later politics. The thirst to be seen as hero. What of it? Vanity makes as useful a wind to sail ship to port as any breeze of the soul. To play hero to my mirror is as valid reason to pursue Just Labor Laws, as the thirst for righteousness. One rushes to save cats from burning houses, or defies the Magisterium to save the poor from work-houses, with equal satisfaction of self-worth. Dangerous acts both. But my art is surviving danger.

  Bah. Shelve politics for later. After we cross the castle-door, perhaps. For now, we discuss surviving. I reveled in defying my commander by mastering the glorious art of continuous breathing. Poor man, every bloody mission he handed me I returned bleeding but grinning. At length he wearied of game and grin. He presented me night-orders to infiltrate the French command-post, return with their maps. A death-sentence.

  I argued we had maps of our own, no doubt better maps for being English. He insisted their foreignish maps would reveal where the French troops were placed. I pointed out we knew the French placements. Over that hill, beyond this river, across a few cow-fields and voila Le Français. Exactly as stated on our own paper-models of reality. Alas, he replied, one cannot always trust one’s eyes, nor yet what is writ. A wise officer requires proof.

  Argument spent, I went. I considered cutting his throat for farewell. But that lacked style. Important to seraph as to officer. I vowed to do so on my return, though I had no belief in that return. A vow I kept, self-pride wishes to mention.

  The mission summed to certain death, even for the survival artiste. I stood at our camp’s edge watching the sun set; accepting that I would not see its rise, nor it mine. I put myself at peace, since no other stood by to so do for me. Years later, I am still in that peace. To truly surrender one’s life is a kind of death, whether one continues to breathe or no. And when sun and soul had set, I rushed forwards to my task.

  I crossed this hill, swam that river, slipped past cows and pickets to survey the French camp from the perimeter of the outlier tents. Lines and rows of dreary canvas set beside a ruined farmhouse. Lights here and there. Far fewer men moving about than I expected. There reigned a ghostly silence mixed with river-mist and camp-smoke. This quiet worried me. A huge bonfire burned towards the center. Perhaps they roasted a captured spy. Or waited to so do. I shivered in wet clothes and autumn wind. A mild roasting appealed.

  I needed new clothes to walk in safety. I chose a tent, shut eyes to tune them to dark then entered, knife at point. Rushed in, I point out. Critical that I take who I met before they sounded alarm. I found naught but a cot where a figure lay silent.

  Palm to their mouth, knife across throat. Quick clean slice. Scarce a quiver from the man. A liquid gasp from the cut, but no struggle. God grant me as easy a death. You as well. But something fel
t off. No one passes so easy. I took hand away, said my ‘sorry’s, searched for a uniform.

  Fresh pants, too small but my high boots and his long jacket helped. I could not read insignia. Something higher than private, if not major-general. And really it is not sense to walk about dressed as major-general. Amusing, I admit.

  Exiting I noticed a leather satchel. If it held maps I was a lucky man. But no, it contained scalpels, thread, scissors, bottles and pill-boxes. I examined my uniform again. Well, I was the regiment doctor now. That would do. I left the tent, deciding to make my way towards the great fire.

  The silence of the camp unnerved more than swarms of guards shouting of spies. On a sudden a figure staggered towards me, waving lantern, sending shadows dancing. Before I struck, I decided he was drunk, needing help to walk. No, not drunk. Sick. He gasped each breath, stank of fever-sweat and vomit. He considered me in the light of his shaking lamp. I held knife behind me, waiting upon his consideration.

  “Por fin I find you, Messier Medecin.” He slurred French with the accents of Spain and fading life. “Bon Dios. More are dead than alive.”

  Ah. I understood then. Fever took the camp. Typhus or cholera. Both, why not. The man I killed, the camp doctor on his cot? No doubt he lay dying as I cut his throat. But they would be moving position of the command post from this plague-pit. I had little time. I studied this man by his own light. A priest’s robe. “Come,” he said, tugging my arm. “I will bring you to those who yet live.”

  I felt no compunction in killing a priest. But why do so? He aided my cover. And it stank of poor style. So we walked, slow for his staggers, his retching. He reached out a hand and I felt the devouring fire within. He’d be dead by dawn.

  “I told El Commandante this ground was miasmic,” complained the priest. “Too near the river. Night-mist infects, no? He would not listen. When the fever spread he ordered a fire-pit. Blasphemia. In they tossed the Captain without ensuring soul departed body. He lay in the flames screaming, just screaming. A vision of Le Enfer. The Commandante ordered him shot. While others yet worked to pull him forth. Many ran from camp, from the screams. Ah, Dios mio, c’est triste.”

  “Tres triste,” I agreed. Where officers were, would be the maps. “Where is the Commandante now?”

  “Preparing,” he coughed, then collapsed. I caught him, caught the lamp, held both up. What now? A tent beside us. No sounds within. I sighed and carried the dying man within.

  A few empty mats. One with blanket-rolled body, no doubt dead or deep in fever. I lay the priest down, covered him warm. I wondered if aught lay in the medical bag I carried. Opium to aid his passing? Idiocy. My knife would work as well, and faster.

  “Where is the Commandante now?” I repeated. “What is he preparing?”

  The priest sighed. “Water?” he croaked. “Thirsty.”

  I looked about. A canteen, empty. A wine bottle, empty. “God take mam for a blower,” I sighed. It’s what my father used to say. I have no idea what it meant.

  “Are you colonial?” asked the priest. “That’s an English colonial’s curse.” He chuckled a cough. “A priest knows his swearing.”

  I drew knife. He lay eyes closed, laboring to breathe. But it might not matter. Colonials sided as much with the French as the damned English King. Best learn all I could first. Though the camp lay in confusion, the commander would still have guards. I grabbed the canteen, left the lamp, went in search of water. It made passable cover for scouting. And the poor priest burned cruelly as the captain in the fire. I felt a tug of duty for the uniform of healer, though it belonged to another.

  A larger tent down the path. I poked my head in. Cots and mats, a still body in one. A table piled with papers. A pitcher upon the table. I tiptoed forwards, not rushing. The figure in the cot stirred.

  “Water,” I said, showing my canteen.

  “Yes, please,” answered the man. “So thirsty, but cannot stand.”

  I groaned, feeling fevered myself. No doubt I’d breathed in the plague mist already. I’d lie raving before dawn. But the water-pitcher stood full. He’d lain burning helpless, in sight of drink? Typical of ‘le vie’. I poured the pitcher into the canteen, brought it to the man. A young face stared up, grayed to old age by the fading life within. I poured drink through lips cracked as dirt in summer drought.

  “Merci,” he whispered. I felt a sense of pride. Absurd. What was I doing? I rummaged the medical bag. Ah, a bottle of pills. The light too low to read the label. Did it matter? Probably not even to the doctors. They bandaged you when you bled, bled you when you sweated, gave you pills when you purged. Purged you when you ached. Physics to the dogs then. I shook out two pills, put them to the dying lips, ordered him to chew. He did. Smiled.

  “Trop tarde, Messieur Doctor. Can you fetch the priest?”

  I considered. Nodded. “Rest,” I told him. Left the tent, returned to the previous tent. Within the lamp-light lay the priest. But the other bed showed only blankets. The man I’d seen before was gone. I frowned, debating whether to enter or retreat. A hand clasped my shoulder, pistol pressed into my back. Settling the question.

  “Identify yourself, messieur,” demanded a voice.

  “J’suis le medecin, vous fou,” I said. “I am the doctor, idiot.”

  “A strange boy-doctor with English accent and colonial curses,” considered the other. Well, he was no fool. No hint of illness in the hand grasping me. Yet he had not killed. He was suspicious, not certain.

  “I bring water for the priest,” I spat, waving the canteen. “And then I must drag him to the dying man across. If you are going to shoot, do so.”

  The words had the ring of truth. Well, they were truth. He released my shoulder. “Excellent. To it, then, youngster,” and pushed me into the tent. I near tripped, did not. Nor did I draw knife. I knelt beside the priest, gave him water. It gurgled down his fevered throat. I gave him two pills, wondering what they did. He chewed.

  “Better,” he whispered. He smiled. I smiled. How could any still doubt my guise of healer?

  “Can you make it to the tent next us?” I asked. “A young fellow requests absolution.”

  The priest sighed, nodded. He knew his duty. Cruelly, I helped him rise. Leaning on me, we exited the tent. I held knife in the same hand I grasped the medicine bag. I searched for the soldier with a gun, spotted a likely shadow watching. Well, he had not yet shouted ‘spy in the camp.’

  Priest and I made slow journey to the second tent, where I sat him beside the dying soldier. Both began whispering, confession and absolution wheezing out their dying throats. I sliced the tent-back, slipped out. The two were far on their journey elsewhere, uncaring what theatre yet occurred in the world left behind.

  I crept through night-mist round the tent. The pistol-carrier crouched by the front, eavesdropping to confession. What a suspicious man. My turn to come behind on a sudden. But I had no questions of identity, for him, for me. I held my hand over his mouth till his trembling ceased, till he ceased.

  I put the pistol in the medicine bag, dragged the body back to the first tent, laid it down, covered it. Took up bag and lamp, made my way through the camp. Twice I encountered soldiers who pled for aide. I gave them water and pills, ordered them to rest. When I reached the great fire I stopped, gagging at the stench of burning men. From out the flames stared faces, skulls burned black, opened jaws screaming spark and smoke.

  A man stood at the edge, running back and forth, waving two pistols at the flames. He glowed with madness, sure as the fire sent out waves of heat, as the ground sweated fever-mist. I considered killing him. But he showed no interest for my approach. His flame-lit face stared at the great fire in horror and worship.

  “Do you see any move?” he asked. The man’s face shone bright with fire, wet with tears.

  I considered the pit of living flames and dead forms. Within, all was motion, light, disintegration. And yet those blackened eyes, twisted limbs seemed fixed, unable to pass the door of fire into the pe
ace of ash.

  I put a hand upon his shoulder. “No, mon ami. They are all dead there. Go and rest.”

  He shook the hand away, did not turn from the flames. “Not so! I hear the Captain screaming. He is alive, burning.” The man danced so close to the edge of the pit he near tumbled in. The heat was unbearable. It would soon set his guns to fire. Set his clothes aflame.

  I felt an evil urge to push him into the fire. Perhaps he desired this of me. I did not, I passed on and around, towards the ruined farmhouse.

  Ahead, three French officers loaded a wagon. One greeted the lamp-lit vision of healer with relief, begging for pills. The second ignored my presence, hurriedly piling map-boxes into the cart. The third studied me, frowning. Fresh bright blood shone on my doctor’s jacket. Not entirely out of order. He started to speak when from the fire-pit came screams, the clap of pistols. All three turned. I did not, I used the distraction to cut the throat of the first, backstab the second. From the medicine bag I pulled the pistol, shot the last.

  He died frowning. I had come as healer and brought death? It sickened me. As if I had shoved the madman into the hell-pit. I took the officer’s pistol, went back to the flames. There in the dance of fire I saw the form of a man writhe, twist. If I say he lifted blackening hands in ecstasy of conflagration, you must suppose the rippling air deceived my vision. But I shot cleanly, and he sighed, surrendering himself to the flames.

  I went back to the wagon. I took the maps, freed a horse and spurred away. Past guards not questioning my departure, only envying it. I rode in a daze, brain overcome by flame, by whispers, by swamp-mist rot. Still, I kept mind enough to remove the French coat before reaching our picket line.

  So. My art is survival. In battle and marriage I prefer to rush forwards to what waits. Say what you will, it stands a sound strategy. But enough. Time to rush forwards into my honeymoon castle. Rush through the dark entrance of my wedding-present, monster-haunted castle.