SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.21: The Local Hero

"Why are we running?" I asked, huffing.
"Because you said he was gonna kick out some beggars," The Artist told me, hustling her pregnant belly as fast as she could. She had to lift her dress to her thighs just so she wouldn't trip.
I was surprised to be strugglin' to keep up with her. "So?"
She looked at me with a grim expression. "We're the beggars."
We made our way back to the house, but it was too late. The Warrior was already inside.
"Well," he leered at us, "I like what you've done with the place, but uh... I'm gonna need this back."
The Artist stood firm. "We can't move, there's nowhere else. Why don't you stay at yer pa's house? It's been empty for years, now."
He put his hands on his hips. "And why exactly is my father's house empty?"
She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Because he died, the year you left. Black Plague."
I was expecting The Warrior to be stunned, or moved, but he was grinning... eyes lit up like wild-fire.
"REEEAALLY now? You know what that means, don't you?" he bragged.
I gave The Artist a confused look. "What does that mean?"
He laughed with a huff. "Mind you, if you've been keeping the place warm for me all this time, you must be looking to wife for me-"
"I'm not," she butted in. "Ever."
He walked up to her, and stood over her like a pine tree, shadows under his brow as  he looked down on her. He breathed a warm, heavy gust from his grimacing, half-open mouth. "Careful, now, lass... that's no way to speak to your New Lord."
The Artist's eyes watered, and I wasn't certain if it was fear, or just his rotting, yellow teeth; they shined with filth, diffusing airy stench into her face. Just as I started to try and stand between them, he walked out of the house, still grinning.
He turned around, and said, "Good fortune smiles on us all, then! I have the long-house, you have my old abode, everyone's happy. You're welcome, by the way!"
The Artist said nothing back.
"Consider it a gift, I suppose, for watching my property for me. And we can call it your repayment of my kindness, as well: for taking you and your brother in when you had nothing, and no one. You can raise your child here – I trust you won't claim it's mine!" he chuckled. "I DO have an alibi. Where is your brother, by the way? Is it his?"
I stood close to her. "He's dead." I took her hand, seeing that she was too shook to speak.
"Aahhh," he sighed, "Such a pity. I really liked that boy. What's your name, by the way? You're a pretty little thing-"
"I'm The Grim Reaper," I told him. "And the child is mine."
"OOH," he joked. "A spooky seraphim. Should I be terrified?"
I noticed that his accent started out casual, and a bit Scottish, but gradually became more focused... by now, he was sounding diabolically intelligent, and absolutely Roman. He was clearly an expert at masking, but he let it slip as a show of power. I said firmly, "If Death scares you, it's because it should."
He narrowed his eyes, seeming to feel outdone. His grandeur wasn't matching up to my humble strength, tested by years of journey.
So I said, to dig in, "You look scared. What have you been doing all these years, if not forging your bravery? Did you not claim to be a Warrior?"
He gritted his teeth. "War is fought with many things: one of them words; another, love. Only a fool worships the sword." He took his leave before I could reply, his long, dark green cape fluttering behind him. He wasn't wearing it off the boat – he must have found it inside the house. 'Why would The Artist have kept it?' I pained. 'Wouldn't it be hard to see it, day after day?'
I looked at her, and said, "We got lucky, right?"
She said, eyes wide, "You have no idea."

I sat down with my lover in the kitchen, and boiled the uneasiest pot of tea I ever made in my life. The stench of the monster presiding lingered in the room, and I had to keep the door open so it would leave with him. Somehow, in the brief moment he'd stood here, he soiled his... or at least that's how it smelt. I swung the door back and forth a few more times, and sat down to hand The Artist her cup of tea, and I sipped mine.
She started her story. "I was fourteen, my brother was only a year older. Our parents had just died."
"Plague?" I asked, mostly so she could breathe.
"Bear attack, actually," she replied. "They over-hunted the deer in the woods, so the bears got hungry. Lots of children were snatched, adults too. But the long-house family ate well that year, iron-bolted doors kept them safe, and they had antlers on every wall. The Lord slept safe and sound, each night, while my brother and I slept in the woods, terrified for our lives."
"What about your parents' house?"
She sipped her tea, and bit her tongue. "Too fuckin' hot, AGAIN," she snipped.
"Sorry."
"Whatever." She shook her head. "We're IN my parents' house, and he never 'TOOK US IN', like he says... truth is, he busted his dad's favourite table and chairs, along with some clay urns of his ancestors, from drinkin' too hard and fightin' too rowdy. So the old fuck gave him our home, to keep the dumb, lazy bastard somewhere else to roam. And to pretend he gave a fat shyte about us, by giving us one. And the first thing he did was kick us out of the house." She started to shake. "And when he let us back in... we had to do everything for him. Cook, clean, fetch wood, all of it. We even washed his clothes for him." She stopped. "How come you've never asked-"
"I did!" I laughed, trying to lighten the mood just a little. But not too much... I'd learned on my travels to respect pain by sharing it. I was surprised with what I knew, and more-so with my demon's silence, but I also figured this was hardly the time to self-congratulate. "I asked, but you never answered," I told her.
She looked down at her tea. "Yeah, maybe, I just... we were having picnics, and playing dress-up. I didn't want to bring any ghosts with us, because I feel so fucking haunted-"
"Gonna stop you right there," I cut in, seeing her tears come back. "I'm your Angel of Death, right? So show me your ghouls, and I'll banish them. I'll put them back in their graves where they belong." I held her hand.
She wiped her eyes, and sniffled. "He started beating my brother, every day. He told us we were 'ungrateful'. He'd send him out to fetch things, and he'd sit me in his lap and read to me. I didn't understand why he was so nice to me, and cruel to him – but there was nothing I could do about it."
"You were a child," I confirmed. "You both were."
She nodded. "Soon, he stopped making me do chores, and when my brother spat at him for giving him all the work, he said, 'You should be more like your sister – you should respect me.' Agh, as if I even knew what respect was... my brother had it in spades, I didn't."
Her cup was empty, so I filled it again. "And here comes the bad part," I sighed.
She nodded, lips pursed. "It was my birthday, he said. But I didn't know when my birthday was, so I've no idea if that was true. He brought two of 'is friends over, said they were celebrating for me. He sent my brother into the woods, he said, 'Don't come back 'til the sun's down.' He didn't have to beat him again, his poor eyes were already black. Then, the fucking coward he was, he plied me with cake and beer... told me I was growing up, an' that's what grown-ups did. I was buzzed, so he gave me another. And another. When I blacked out..." She looked tired already. The tears were dry up, and like it was no more than matter of fact, she said, "Next thing I knew, they were having me. All three at once. I couldn't move, but they told me I wanted this, said it was 'good of me'. They were spitting at me, spilling beer, laughing with one another. They said, 'She's the best we've ever had,' and 'Get 'em while they're small, that way they love you for life.' But they were wrong. I hate every single one of them, and I'm glad two didn't make it home. All I want now is for their enabler – our so-called New Lord... to join them in the ground."
I nodded, and sighed. "That's fucking terrible."
"You're telling me!" she laughed, miserable. "He tried it again, but I told him no, and I wouldn't drink, and I wouldn't eat the bloody cake. I said, 'I don't like cake anymore.' And he slammed my head into a wall until I was bruised. But he left me alone, because I guess he thought I'd really loved him, or some shit. Like it was my fault I didn't appreciate him! How's a fourteen-year-old supposed to measure up to a grown-up in the first place? How was I supposed to be good enough for a man when I was barely even a woman?"
I looked to the side, to The Author's room, and she saw what I was thinking.
She nodded. "Exactly. He started treating me like he treated my brother."
I thought. "It sounds like what he cares about most in the world... is being liked by other people. Getting things from them is confirmation of it."
"He thought I was too young and too stupid to refuse him, I think. That once he'd had his way, that'd be it, and I'd be his for life. By my own, I fucking showed him, I bet. I wasn't safe, and I was ashamed then, but I'm proud, now. Proud I at least told him 'no'."
"I was told the soldiers left five... no, six years ago. But you said you were fourteen, and you're twenty-three now, right? Twenty-four?"
She relaxed into her chair, and took another sip. "I try not to keep an exact count, but aye."
I said, "So what about the other four or five years?"
She shrugged. "They left in waves. The Lord sent his son out not a few months after what he did to me, and the other drunks went with. Only half were left then, of men in town. My brother took care of me from then on, none of the soldiers remaining tried anything. I think the coward bragged about it. I think The Lord sent him off because he was an embarrassment for doing so."
"So the other men weren't participating, but they stayed silent. I think they had demons whispering in their ears, telling them to enjoy the idea... telling them they were missing out. They were scared to speak of the abuse out loud, for fear of being found liking it. Nobody wants to air out what stinks, so they hide it away where it can fester. Which only makes it worse... even quacks know that."
She cocked her head. "What makes you think that, exactly? That there are demons doing all this work to make evil happen?"
I said, "Because that's what mine sounds like, and that's what it wants. And I put in hard time shutting it the hell up."
She looked unnerved, and was eyeing me up. "That's a bit too spiritual, isn't it?"
I shrugged. "Better to believe there are monsters upon men than that all men are monsters."
"If you have to, Christ," she rolled her eyes.
I leaned back. "I'm surprised The Lord cared at all. Did the apple fall far from the tree?"
"Not too far. Don't get me wrong, Celts..."
"We have our problems."
"Right, but we're not-"
"BLOODY CATHOLIC," we said in unison, and let out each a wry smile.
"Oy," I slapped my knee, "someone's gonna write us an angry letter. We can't rib on the Caths all day."
"They deserve some shame," she jeered. "As does our New Lord. How's about we remind everyone who he is?"
I was struck. "That soon? He shows up, you're pale as a sea-shell, and you want to confront him? Today?"
She stood up, and held her belly. "Why not? Strike while the iron's hot. Unless you want him doing the same awful shit to our child one day, when we aren't around to stop him."
She looked at me expectantly, and I was speechless. It hadn't occurred to me.
She went on, "Just picture it! Really think to yourself, 'I'm letting a man live free who could one day hurt my child and laugh about it.' Does it make you feel safe to see him walking about? To watch him guzzle booze and tell jokes? To know that he's making friends again? Or does it BOIL your FUCKIN' BLOOD?!"
I awed at her rage, and the power in her voice. "Aye, if my ears could whistle!"
She cried, "Then let's get the fuck outside, and raise some Hell!!"
Her and I carried ourselves out in a hustle, and I felt her radiance in front of me. This was more than vengeance; it was the light she'd kept hidden for years, suddenly finding its way out again. In my stay here and my many evenings watching theatre, I'd heard tales of women cutting down their prosecutors – but those were stained with politics and fantasy, and support for the heroines often felt feigned and token. It began to feel fake to cheer for someone by virtue of their sex alone, and with no offense to The Author, the fire coming out of their unsinged palms. The Artist was more than just a symbol of commercial femininity, in a tale woven by men to pretend they're held accountable, so they can chuckle and keep thrusting. This was real, and I was proud of her for standing up for herself while carrying so many burdens – her past, her brother, her child, and sometimes, me. She was just like The Huntress, a world away.

Unfortunately, that pride could not extend, not to anyone else... because when we went back to Catalite's square, The New Lord was there, using the theatre stage to hold a drinking contest. He was gulping down fizzy mugs, and so were three men next to 'im. Everyone was laughing and cheering them on, yelling and shaking their fists with excitement. They all had mugs of mead in those shaking fists, which splashed among them like water over-flowing into the lower hold of a ship.
I asked someone I recognized, the chubby fan-boy, "Where'd all this drink come from? I thought all we had was cold tea."
He sneered. "Tea's for losers, mate. The New Lord brought us MEAD! Ah, glorious golden ale," he sipped.
I was upset. "What about crafting, and tourism? The show?"
He frowned at me. "I don't craft except to make shit," he balked, "and we're done with all that! The stores are full, time to relax-"
"TIME TO RELAX!" The New Lord announced.
"-with a nice cup-" the fat man continued.
"WITH A NIIICE CUP..." The New Lord echoed.
"-of Golden Showers-"
"OF GOLDEN SHOWERS' BRAND..."
"-Premium Pineberry mead!"
"PREMIUM PINEBERRY MEAD! AHAAHAAA!!" The New Lord bellowed with laughter, and made a mess of himself with bubbles an' drip, dumping a mugful on his head and gargling the last swig. Everyone cheered, and another round was had by all. The crowd was looking warm-cheeked and stupid with glee.
I said, "Right, but isn't this a bit much?"
"What," he laughed, "Are you some kind of priss? You don't drink, eh? You should, you know-"
"IT PUTS HAIR ON YOUR CHEST!!" The New Lord announced, and ripped open his shirt to bare his furry man-breasts.
"-it puts hair on your chest!" the fan-boy repeated, unthinking. "Honestly, this man's my hero for bringing it with him. I can't believe  he came back from a war so loaded! Makes me think there really is a  God."
  "...right," I replied bitterly.
"Christ," The Artist gawked, "They're bigger than yours."
It made me embarrassed to be compared, but I did find comfort in seeing that my waist-line was a mere fraction of his. Probably not very nice to pick on someone's weight, though, given the man I was speaking to was just as large and not nearly as evil. It only frustrated me to have to grapple with my own prejudices and bodily insecurities, when a true villain was dancing the jig to thunderous applause, not a hint of self-awareness about him. I snapped myself out of it. "But I thought everyone was enjoying the sober... thing."
He turned away from me, and turned back. "Look, I'm here to have fun, okay? We went without mead for too long, now look what happens! We splurge. That's why you don't take things away, you'll only make it worse."
I nodded, annoyed because he was right. "Thank you, yes, I realize that now." I turned to The Artist, and I could already tell she'd lost all her steam. Her light was dimming. My Celtic Goddess had lost to dumb advertising, and a lifting of unintentional prohibition.
"Let's just... go home," she croaked.