The Last of the Mayflies

Chapter One

Foreword: My nieces and nephews, and grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and the various strays that have found their way into the collection over the years, have long requested I put this tale to paper. And being that I come upon my hundredth birthday, and everyone in this tale, excluding me (at least at time of writing this note), is dead, I figured I might as well record it before I myself drop dead or forget it entirely (each more likely with every passing day).
Now I am sure through the years your father and mother—or grandparents, or whatever ridiculous term you may have called them—have told you their own version of this tale, and just know that those are entirely WRONG. This, and only THIS, is the true telling of those fateful few months—untainted by their idiocy, egos, and lovestruck biases—and our experience with the Englishman.
Enjoy.
—Eli

***

It was a late September evening, in 1831, the end of my sixteenth summer, when I first met the Englishman and his Irish apprentice, and would begin what would prove to be the strangest eight months of my entire life. It had already been a strange year for me: my voice had dropped and I'd grown about four inches overnight, and not a single pair of pants fit me correctly, and my skin had decided that it was irritated by everything and anything, especially the pitiful hair that attempted to grow on my chin. And despite my atrocious appearance, a girl at church found me so tempting, that she lured me out back with the promise of showing me a family of rabbits sampling the church garden, and then promptly smashed her lips into my face and showed me a brief glimpse of her bare chest. She asked me if I liked it, but I could only wonder where the rabbits were. Needless to say, she was unamused and confession was very awkward that week and I have never gone back to a church of any kind since.
Oh, yes, and my father died.
On that September evening, I found myself at the stream my Father and I always stopped at on our way home from our usual May outing to the city, where we sold the flowers he had carefully cultivated all spring. (Yes, flowers. When I mention to people I grew up on a farm, most assume I milked cows every morning or grew corn and tomatoes and peas—useful things. But no, the Smiths grew flowers.)
The water shimmered orange and gold in the setting sun, which had taken on that "Harvest glow", as my father had called it, where it still lit the world but its strength had weakened, sapped after a long summer of scorching the earth, and hinting at the great death of Autumn that was to come.
Ah death. It had been an unwelcome visitor in my life lately, and still loomed in the shadows, watching my every move and poisoning my thoughts. It was here, as a young child, that I had first encountered death.
Father and I would watch the mayflies hatch each year at the stream, and I was captivated by their quick movements, and how they skimmed the water, the droplets glistening on their little wings.
"Why are they so busy Father? Don't they ever stop to rest?" I had asked.
And then my father had informed me that it was because they had much to do before the day's end, as mayflies only live a single day. And that knowledge had horrified me (interesting how we fear death less and less the closer we get to it), and tears had streamed down my pudgy little cheeks. I couldn't understand, how they were all brand-new, yet none would live to see the sunrise.
"Don't be sad for them, Eli," Father had wiped my tears away. "It's just a part of their life. They don't know any different. We should envy them, look how happy they look!"
But of course, there were no mayflies in September, and there was no Father to wipe away my tears that I hastily wiped away on my sleeve, seeing as he had gone with the last of the mayflies that spring. And most importantly, there was no money for me to bring home to my mother, after my ill fated trip to the city. It was doomed from the start, seeing as I was about four months late and the city folk were concerned with preparing for autumn festivities and the oncoming winter, and not with buying my pitiful weeds that were brown and shriveled and out of season. (Father had had a way with plants that I had failed to inherit.)
Each year we counted on that spring bloom of flower sales to get us enough money to get through the winter, as obviously it is very difficult to cultivate any sort of life in winter (except human children, which tend to be created in abundance in this time, as I am sure most of you were). Our local church had taken a pity pool of donations for us after father's demise, but that already shallow pool had begun to dwindle and dry.
So I sat there, in my misery, delaying for as long as I could, returning home empty handed and seeing how the wrinkles would deepen further under my mother's permanently tear filled eyes. There had to be something I could sell, even for a pittance.
There was the horse, Fig, who dozed with his hip cocked behind me, glad for the break in travel. We were the same age—though he was wiser and considerably more arthritic—and he had worked for us since his days as a young colt. Back then he had been regally handsome, with a smart trot, a fiery temper, and a slicked black coat, but time and the removal of testicles had dulled him down and dappled him out to a light gray. If I sold him, it likely wouldn't be for much, and that would leave me with having to walk home.
Then of course, there was the cart. It was in fairly good repair, and we had just replaced the wheels last summer. It could fetch a decent price, despite the fact that my father's name was painted on the side in cheery red paint. Someone could always paint over it, I supposed.
But that in turn would leave us with nothing to transport the spring's hopefully better harvest in. And the thought of selling something of my father's, especially with his name... it made my nose sting with the oncoming rush of another wave of tears.
I sighed. If only I were a woman. Then I could have easily sold my love at the local Tavern, where most of the men were so drunk by the time they got to the room that they passed out the second they hit the bed and you could just collect your money with your modesty intact. Or so I had been told.
A man in a dark alley in the city had once offered me $5 for my company, but my father had intervened before any sort of agreement had been made. It was an interesting ride home, and I learned quite a few new words that I was never to repeat, especially around my mother.
Briefly, I contemplated throwing myself into the stream and just floating away, and it was in that moment that the Englishman found me.
"Are you alright,?" He asked, with the crisp, nasally tone of a Londoner.
I looked up from my personal pit of despair, ready to inform these would be bandits that there was nothing for them to rob and that they should just save their time and get right to killing me, and found the most mismatched pair of men I had ever seen. On the left, was the Englishman, wrinkled and pale-skinned with red cheeks, and a large gut supported by skinny legs and a handsomely crafted walking stick. He wore a jovial smile and finely tailored attire, complete with a tall, black hat that was charmingly askew. It was a fine riding habit, although he seemed to have forgotten his horse.
And then on the right, was the most terrifying and hideous yet also strangely alluring man I'd ever laid eyes on. He was about four heads taller than his companion, and likely four decades younger as well, with a fiery tinge to his hair and pockmarked skin, and a hardness to his eyes and a scowl that was made crooked by a jagged scar that ran through his lips. His clothes were plain, and dirtied by hard work and suspicious stains. I couldn't take my eyes off his arms, which were well toned, with the veins bulging around muscle in a way I found strangely attractive (this was also the moment I realized I would probably never marry) and covered in what appeared to be drawings of some sort (tattoos I believe is what you call them).
I sort of snorted some snot back up my nose and then choked on it in reply, and perhaps the Englishman took this as a sign that I was paralyzed with fear at finding myself at the mercy of two strange men on a deserted road near nightfall.
"My name is Sir Edward Barnsby," He gave a tip of his hat. "Recently arrived to Pennsylvania from Edinburgh. And this is my apprentice, Burke."
"Burke?" I asked. "Like the murderer? I thought they hanged and gutted you."
(For you young ones out of touch with reality: a couple years before this there had been a pair of Irishmen in Edinburgh, John Hare and William Burke who had taken it upon themselves to solve the "dead bodies available for dissection and lack of drinking money" problem, by murdering various people and selling their freshly dead bodies to an overly trusting anatomist. Hare bought mercy with his confessions, but Burke was sentenced to death and then treated to the same dissections his victims had endured. It was quite a popular thing. I believe they sold tickets to it.)
"No, no, no," Barnsby flailed his hands, laughing nervously. "Not the murderer. I am sure you can see why we had to leave Edinburgh!"
"John Burke," The non-murdering Burke uttered, a low, guttural growl.
"Then why not go by John?"
"There's plenty of Johns," Burke said. "I would hate to be mistaken."
"So, if I have this correct," I felt the smirk forming on my lips already, that slip of the devil's tongue that my mother had tried unsuccessfully to smack out of me. "You would rather be mistaken for a murderer?"
"Don't," Barnsby said softly. "Don't provoke him. He's an Irishman."
"Oy, you feckin' gobshite," Burke yelled, the veins bulging in his neck in a way that definitely wasn't attractive, but definitely caused some terrified shrinkage on a certain part of my body. "I ain't the murderin' type, but you might make one of me!"
Barnsby inserted himself between me and the raging idiot, with a forced laugh and an almost imperceptible jab of his elbow into Burke's stomach.
"Such a jester, isn't he? Anyhow, the purpose of this intrusion was to see if you would allow us use of your horse and cart. With repayment of course."
Repayment?
My opinion of this chance encounter quickly shifted from the likes of thieves and devils to a angel sent straight from heaven, along with his ghastly companion, obviously some sinner atoning for his earthly misgivings.
"It is yours, correct? James Smith?" Barnsby asked.
"Of course it ain't," Burke, my new favorite person, rolled his eyes. "Pup's not a day over twelve. It's obviously his father's."
"Actually," I narrowed my eyes at the man, and tried not to be distracted by his tattoos. "I'm sixteen. And my father passed away, so it is mine. Eli Smith."
And at that, the two men exchanged a look that I can only describe as if two beggars digging through the waste of the streets had found a roast chicken unscathed and untouched by horse manure. In short, it was horrifying and I thought I was about to be eaten myself.
"Passed away? How unfortunate," Barnsby said, but his ear splitting grin did seem to put a damper on his sincerity.
The mention of death, however, caused Burke to jump out of his skin, and he seized my shoulders in his meaty hands and shook me.
"Dead? Why? Was he ill? Old? Shot? Did you bury him? Where? How long ago?"
All I could picture was my father, drowning in the sheets and pillows on his bed, and burning with a fever, while my mother prayed at his bedside for his quick and merciful demise. Eli, he kept calling. Eli, Eli, Eli...
"What is wrong with you!" I shoved Burke off me, my heart suddenly pounding in my throat.
"What Burke means to ask," Barnsby pressed a hand on my shoulder, soft and cool and comforting. Fatherly. "Is how long have you been without your father? Surely you must be struggling. Do you have family back home?"
"Just my mother," I said, my voice suddenly small as I tried to swallow my heart back into its proper place. "He's been gone since the spring."
"Bollocks!" Burke released me and retreated behind Barnsby to sulk.
"How unfortunate," Barnsby had clasped my hands in his now, his twinkling blue eyes level with mine. "Listen, Burke and I will be in this area for the next few months. I could use a reliable driver for errands and deliveries—just the usual, hmm? I myself am a horrible driver, and Burke gets terribly busy and could use the help. Would you be interested?"
"Well...," And here I paused. My grandfather had fought for our independence in his youth, and had warned me (usually after several glasses of whiskey and while aiming his old musket at squirrels on the porch) that those "damned redcoats" might have a pleasing way of speech, but their clever tongues served them well in their conniving ways.
"Does $20 an errand work?"
Barnsby pressed crisp bills into my hand, more money than I had ever held in my entire life. A few errands and I would never have to tend to flowers again. I could even hire a cook and feast like a king every night, instead of feigning enjoyment with Shakespearian talent at my mother's atrocious cooking.
My poor mother... perhaps money would erase some of the wrinkles around her eyes.
"Deal," I shook the Englishman's hand, my grandfather's words thrown to the wind (God rest his soul).
Burke made a loud noise of disgust before crossing his marvelous arms and stalking off. "Hired a feckin' child. What could go wrong?"
"Is he like this to everyone?" I asked, as I watched Barnsby scrawl an address on a slip of paper.
"Oh, he's mellowed out tremendously," Barnsby said with a smile. "If you think his face is maimed, you should have seen the other man. Poor soul."
It dawned on me that I was now to be working with this man, right as Barnsby pressed the paper into my now sweaty palm.
"Anyhow, here is the address. Bring the cart there at this time next Monday—the moon won't do in its current phase. I'll explain the rest then."
"Okay," I nodded. "I'll see you then."
And with a tip of his hat and a wink, the Englishman departed, vanishing into the horizon as quickly as he had appeared.
I climbed into the cart and urged Fig into a canter towards home as night fell, the money and Barnsby's note stuck snugly in my pocket.