The Twins of Noremway Parish (19 page)

As Falcon continued his survey of the land, he could not cease his amazement that the world, as it now existed, was much different than his newly acquired memories told him it should be. The world he remembered was lush with green foliage, vast seas and oceans, and diverse wild life.

How long had it been since those days?

He was confident all his memories would eventually return, which was something that begged the question, how did he lose his memories in the first place? Of course the answer was obvious: he had died and was newly resurrected. Who did he have to thank for such a miraculous occurrence? When he remembered that, he’d likely discover much more about his past.

From his vantage point high above the desert landscape, he could see far. He could see the desolate ground devoid of vegetation. Sparse populations of mangy carnivores roamed about in search for their next meal as several camel-drawn wagons surrounded by groups of 100 to 200 people each made their way across the countryside, perhaps in search of a settlement, perhaps something far more sinister. More than likely, given the parched air and ground, they were in search of water. Of course, he could venture closer and find out. Everything he could ever want to know about these nomads would present itself without them ever knowing he was there.

Bassingway Parish was straight south of Noremway Parish. He knew this because Rita knew this. He knew what she knew, and felt what she felt. Her emotions ran high with paranoia and fear, but she hadn’t felt anything close to what she was about to feel. That was for sure. There was an old saying from when and where Falcon had come: If you play with fire, you’re apt to get burned. Of course that was true then, and it remained true today. Rita had made a deal in a fiery rage, a deal with a being that she didn’t understand, with consequences she couldn’t even begin to imagine. And in his desire to rediscover his identity, why not have a little fun?

This deal didn’t have any real meaning to him; when it came right down to it, Rita Morgan was nothing but a useful idiot. He was still casting about for his identity and purpose, but one thing was clear, he was here as a source of chaos. He knew of the chaos. It was a concept strong in his mind, but he didn’t know if he was a mere servant of the chaos, or if he was something more. Either way, chaos was in the pot, and he meant to stir it.

Bassingway was slightly smaller than Noremway, and as his body took on its corporeal form, he noticed that it was also slightly less inviting. It was surrounded by a tall wall similar to Noremway’s, but this one was cracked in some places, crumbling in others, and covered sporadically in graffiti. The homes that lined the main stretch of town were run-down—as were the shops in the town square. The cathedral and the attached chapel were parodies of their northern counterparts.

As he walked the potholed roads, a man dressed in rags approached and flashed a badge. “I’m the sheriff in these parts. What can I do you for?”

Falcon could read his soul—just like he could read all souls—and found this man to be too uninteresting to deal with. However, there was one important piece of information that he gleaned from him: the location of Abigail Morgan. He removed a dagger from his cloak and slit the sheriff’s throat.
Now that’s how you deal with a useless person,
Falcon thought with a smile. As that particular thought dissipated, another memory returned to him. Something having to do with a story teller, but the memory was too vague to understand clearly.

He continued on, allowing the sheriff to bleed to death in the street. No one came to help. Maybe there were no witnesses. Or perhaps this sheriff was as foul as the one of Noremway Parish. More likely, humans were temporarily blinded to the evil he committed until such a time when said evil was irreversible.

Abigail was living with her husband on the west side of Bassingway in a small, run-down shack with a patched roof. He didn’t want to linger in town any longer than he had too, especially since the sheriff’s body would likely be found soon and a manhunt for his killer would begin. That would make for some unwelcome guests, but it could be fun, always assuming that they hunted him with the carelessness of a pack of animals. They surely would do so without realizing what they were up against. In fact, Falcon himself couldn’t say for sure what those people would be up against; only that they would all die horrible deaths.

From the center of town, he headed west and saw the shack immediately. A woman was reading a book on the small portico outside the door. Whether she was Abigail Morgan remained to be seen; he was too far away to read her soul. As he drew closer, images flooded his mind. She most definitely was the daughter of Rita Morgan, but unlike her mother, she had grown into a mature, intellectually strong woman. She wrote books and just happened to be the mayor of this parish. Bassingway Parish was certainly more open about that than Noremway Parish. Teret Finley was her inspiration for success. Sister Teret had taught her (not through words, but through what she had to put up with from the patriarchs) that women had it hard in this world and they needed to push their way into positions of authority and not allow men to subdue them. A female mayor wasn’t unheard of in Noremway—or it was reasonable to assume the concept had at least been
imagined
a time or two—but because of Abigail, it was a reality in Bassingway–a great accomplishment for such a young woman. Too bad she was going to die today .

Falcon stepped up to the portico. Of course he knew she was reading
The Book of Ragas
, but he asked anyway, “What’s that you’re reading?”

The girl looked up from the book. She really was quite stunning, looking almost nothing like her mother. She closed the book, and squinted at him through the bright light of the day. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He laughed, “My name is Zuriz Falcon. I’m from Noremway Parish. Your mother wanted me to check on you.”

“
No.”

“
I’m sorry?”

“
I said no. Go away. I want nothing to do with that crazy woman. Unless you’re here to tell me she’s dead, I’m not interested in hearing anything you have to say.”

“
Simply amazing. Abigail—”

“
It’s Abby.
Mayor
Abby. Now please just leave me be.”

“
You’re quite a strong-willed woman. I admire that.” Smiling, knowing exactly how to get her to talk to him, he said, “Just like Teret Finley.”

“
You know Sister Teret?”

“
Of course I do, Abby. I said I was from Noremway Parish, didn’t I? She’s a good friend of mine. She’s having a child soon.”

“
She is? My goodness, but parochial vicars
can’t
have children!”

“
And women usually aren’t mayors. She’s pushing for change in Noremway Parish.”

“
My goodness, my mother must be crying like a banshee.”

“
When does she not ‘cry like a banshee,’ as you say?”

“
Aye. Indeed.” She stood from her chair. “Did you want to come in? I’ll make you some lemonade if you’d like. We have a small fruit orchard in the commons; freshly picked lemons. Mmmm.” She opened the door and motioned him in. He gladly entered. So far the plan was going well. She was beginning to trust him. Not that it was at all necessary, but it was a fun game to play. “So what did my darling mother have to say? And don’t tell me she actually cares because I know she doesn’t.”

Falcon smiled. “She heard you got married and wanted to wish you the best of luck.”

“
Well, if she cared so much, why didn’t she come herself?”

“
Because your father’s dying–she can’t leave him alone in the condition he’s in. Gods no!”

“
Daddy’s dying? Oh no, what do I do? I have to go. I can’t possibly leave…but I have to go see him. Can you take me with you, back to Noremway Parish? Dying? What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”

“
His heart is giving out–you know. Such a poor, poor thing you humans must inevitably suffer! His days are numbered, but you shouldn’t be too sad. He still has more time left on Earth than you have.”

“
Wait. What?”

“
Today is the last day of Abigail Rita Morgan’s life,” he said as he stepped up close to her, his knife drawn. “I have an agreement with your mother.”

“
Wha—” she started, but the word was cut off as the knife cut open her throat, spilling blood down the front of her red robe. Her hands went immediately around her neck as she gasped for breath.

“
Now we are going on a little trip. We are going to visit your mother. She wanted to see you. If you’re dead by the time we get there, I’ll tell her you said ‘hi.’” With that, he dissolved into a dark mist, and rushed to Noremway Parish with Abby’s dying body in tow.

***

When Oretga Gool woke the previous morning, he never would have expected to be ending the day in the parish jail with a broken arm, never mind surviving an arrow through the back. It had all happened so fast and, thinking back, the events of the previous evening flashed across his mind like a series of snapshots over which he had no control. The jail cell was small, to be sure, but he didn’t feel confined. The exterior wall was the only solid one. The rest were solid steel bars.

It was now the next morning and the pain in his arm and chest were beyond belief. He didn’t give into the pain. No. He wasn’t going to give Franz Phoenix the benefit of knowing that this was torture.
Torture!

The sheriff played solitaire at his desk near the door, smirking and laughing as he laid down each subsequent card. Hiding the pain, Gool said, “Know any card tricks? Could really use some entertainment. You’re a clown. Entertain me.”

Phoenix started to respond with an acerbic retort, but thought better of it. He laid down another card and, finding his hand empty, scooped up the cards. “You know, Big Hoss,” he said as he shuffled, “I don’t know what you were thinking, but if you’re going to continue being a respected citizen of the parish, you’d better straighten up. I almost killed you yesterday. That would have been doing you a favor.”

That threw Gool off-guard. He didn’t know how to respond. Franz Phoenix was actually giving some helpful advice? He said the only thing he could think of: “I don’t know what happened. I just got so angry and scared. Rita Morgan got me all riled up. I really don’t know what came over me.”

“
You’re lucky I’m not the chancellor. You’d be hanging for sure come morning.” He dealt out a new game and played it in silence with a devilish grin on his face, allowing his prisoner to contemplate his fate.

***

Life was good to Franz Phoenix, but sometimes it could get boring while babysitting prisoners. A game or two of solitaire helped pass the time. During the slowly passing day, his only prisoner silently rested on his bunk. Silence was good, but then the fool started singing some stupid song that Franz hadn’t heard before. Every time Ortega attempted a high-note his voice would crack and whatever amount of tune he managed to carry was lost. Finally Franz had enough. “You mind piping down, Big Hoss?” But he continued his out of tune and off key singing. It wasn’t clear to Franz if he had heard him, but he wasn’t about to let this guy off the hook on anything.

The sheriff smashed a club into the bars, which reverberated with a high-pitch pulse that traveled throughout the cell, spreading to all of the bars on every side. Franz could see blood beginning to drip from Ortega’s ears before his hands went up to them. He fell to his knees, hands covering his ears, and tears welling in his eyes. His shattered arm was a deep purple, turning black. If he didn’t receive proper treatment for it soon, there was a good chance it would have to be amputated; not that he cared. The man would soon be hanging from the gallows anyway. In which case, treating the prisoner’s arm would be a waste of time and energy.

The high-pitched reverberations stopped as quickly as they started. When Gool uncovered his ears, blood smearing his earlobes and cheeks, Franz explained, “That was for not listening. These bars are filled with a highly concentrated material that amplifies sounds. All I have to do is tap one bar with this club and the sound waves will act like bullets against you. So you best listen, Big Hoss, because I can do this all day.”

“
What did I do?”

“
I told you to knock off that racket. Just sit there and be quiet, or your ears will make that arm feel like paradise.” He went back to his desk and started a new game of solitaire while Gool lay silently on the bunk. Blood still dripped from his ears. He would be seeing the chancellor the next day and find out his fate. He just couldn’t believe for a second that a hanging would be in his future. He didn’t do anything but threaten the friar and parochial vicar.

In the two days since Tomias Waterman had died, a new law had come to Noremway Parish. This fact was not lost on him. It was an unpredictable law. They had yet to see it in action, but chaos was on the wind, so anything was possible. He rolled over onto his left side, holding his broken arm close to his chest. He couldn’t imagine he would ever prefer the pain in his arm to any other pain the sheriff could inflict upon him.

***

Several hours went by, during which the corridor lanterns went out. Ortega Gool woke in this darkness. There were no windows in the building at all, so he had no idea what time it was, or even if it was day or night. His ears still rang, and a thought crossed his mind that maybe the lanterns hadn’t gone out after all. Maybe he had gone blind in his sleep. “Franz, I can’t see,” he said. Even though his ears were still ringing, he could still hear. He tested this by knocking on the floor with his left hand. The sound came in clear, crisp taps. There was no reply so he called to Franz again.