The house stood on the hill overlooking the dry, golden fields of grain. A light wind had them swaying. In the right light, a late summer afternoon, dry and cooling, these fields would look like a shimmering sea of gold with waves rippling in the setting sun. The other side of the house was shielded from the weather and prying eyes by a small copse. It was made of trees that seemed hundreds of years old, tall and strong, unyielding to the elements. They stayed green for most of the year.
Two girls played on the porch. Dressed in pastel colours, long dresses and small black boots. One, with darker hair, read quietly on the long chair made of pine. She was the older sister, but still not big enough for her feet to reach the solid wooden floor of the porch. The younger girl, clinging to a doll made of soft cloth and filled with stuffing, skipped across the porch. Skipped and bounced to a tune that ran in her head and had no words.
Annoyed, the older sister closed her book. Mimicking maturity, she barked at her sister
- Will you stop that?
The younger seemed perplexed at the order.
- I’m just playing.
The older one sighed.
- You’re such a child.
There was movement in the copse below, a shape slipped between the shade of the trees. There was no sound to be heard, no even the rustling of leaves or the short, snapping sound of branches. Well-placed feet made their way through the copse.
A figure emerged, a young man, lean and tall. He walked with a strange gait. Oddly paced, yet deliberate steps. Moving towards the porch, where the girls stood. They froze, unsure what to make of this man. The older sister saw that the legs of his black trousers were too short, nearly rising up half his shins. In contrast, his jacket was too big, with the sleeves coming down over his hands. Both jacket and trouser were black. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt that had become stained will dirt and grime. His skin was pale and off-white, and dark rings surrounded his eyes and hair equally black, shortly cropped on his head and styled in no particular fashion. The older sister could also see three guns strapped to his waist. And something else, like a knife that sat in an ornate sheath decorated in what looked like flowers.
He stepped up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the girls.
The older sister stepped forward, in front of her younger, as if to protect her.
- Hi girls.
His voice seemed to sing a little, though he also seemed out of breath, like he walked halfway across the world to see this place.
- Is your mother at home?
The older sister backed towards the door of the house, while grabbing her sisters hand in reflex.
- Mom!
Inside, Clara looked out the window, the moment she heard her girls stop talking, even before they called out for her. She watched the man glide to the front porch. She stood there at the window the whole time and until her child had called for her, she was transfixed with a fear that this man had finally come to her door. When her eldest daughter, Helen, called out, she snapped out of it. She dashed out the front door and moved to the tops of the stairs, so that she was between this man and her girls.
She stared at him with a transfixed gaze. Half was in fear and the other half, like the evil eye.
- Helen, Kate. Go inside.
The girls followed their mother’s words without hesitation. Clara did not take her eyes away from the young man. The moment she heard the front door close, she spoke again:
- Why are you here?
The young man leaned in close, smiling gently.
- Oh…you know why. You have something that I want.
Clara had heard of him. She received the news from the wire and letters from an old acquaintance. Clara had known the people that this man had killed.
Already she had recognised the man’s clothes and his weapons. They belonged to her comrades – former comrades – from a time that was thought forgotten. Vicious times and brutal days, unforgivable things were done those years past. Now that she had daughters, she found a peace and left her violent ways. But there always was the dread that her past might come back to haunt her.
Originally she thought that it was someone out for vengeance. She had this notion when she heard the potter and poet were dead. They made a bad name for themselves and many enemies in those days. Further letters revealed that this same man tracked a conman on the Mississippi. And some ex-army fellow turned preacher. Two people who had no connection to Clara, her acquaintance or her former comrades.
This was not revenge.
The man spoke again
- So do you want to do this now? I can wait a while. Some like to say goodbye to others first.
- You’re not taking my daughters.
The young man seemed offended by this, as if she mistook his agenda.
- No…You…What I want is inside you. No harm will come their way.
He paused, as he looked at her. It didn’t seem that she believed him
- I promise. Nothing will happen
He seemed to speak the truth on this. He was only after her. Something within her, insubstantial to her, but worth enough for him to travel so far on foot to find her.
Clara went back inside, the young man didn’t move from his leaning on the stair post. She raced through the house into her room, got down on her knees and reached under her bed. Her hands felt something old, oily and leathery. They grabbed frantically at this and wrenched it out into the light. An old trunk made of dark brown hide, worn from years of use and neglect. This was Clara’s past. She opened the case and there lay the shooter, a revolver made of steel and iron. It had a handle fashioned from wood that came from the copse outside. Beneath it was the holster and belt that she had worn at her waist before it gave way to motherhood. It fit around her again. For the briefest of moments, she felt the reckless and dangerous joys of her youth. Somehow she wanted to return to those days, where there was death and beauty. She couldn’t. Her fate stood waiting outside in mismatched clothes. She slid the gun into its rightful place. Striding from her room, about leave out the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of her youngest sobbing. She turned to her family, her husband and father of her two daughters, whose tears were streaming down their small faces.
Her husband knew of the life that she led, though he took no grievance of it. Until now. She took some steps towards them, but then abruptly stopped.
- Go. Leave this place. If I walk from this, I’ll find you.
She wanted to hold her daughters and dry their tears. She wanted to kiss her husband and make love to him. She wanted to run, away with them. But that would only seal their fate. She knew this dark man outside. This demon also took the lives of any who stood in his way. Men, women, even animals and children, he killed without remorse.
- Can I help? I can get the rifle…
Clara shook her head, her eyes told her husband everything, You are no match for him.
Clara turned and walked out the front door.
The man was still there, casually scratching the back of his neck. The afternoon was turning to sunset, and the insects were coming out. As she came down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his dark gaze, he spoke, almost warbling.
- Where do you want to do this? I imagine that around back has a fine view-
Clara had cut him off there.
- Here. Right here. Right now.
The man nodded, complying with her wish, while scratching the back of his head.
They both walked out onto the green grass into the cool shadow of the house, with the trees risen up on the other side. Between them was a distance of about twelve yards. The dark man had removed his coat as he got into his position. Clara saw all his weapons. The dark smoky wood of Jackson the poet’s six-shooter. The eagle embossing on Paris’ SAA. The cherry –blossom pattern on the tanto of Ichi the potter. She suddenly noticed the charms of bracelets, the rings of silver and gold and rosaries that adorned this man. He was the cause of death to many.
- Whenever you’re ready.
His voice was smooth, his dark eyes transfixed on her. Her eyes matched his.
An uncounted moment passed. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees and rushed through the grain. The peep and cry of birds could be heard in the distance. Then everything went quiet, the calm before the storm.
Clara’s hand, quick as lightning, whipped the revolver from her waist and at shoulder-level, delivered her final shot. The dark man was not as fast to draw, but instead dodged, falling, rolling to the ground, and drawing in the tumble. A second shot rang through the trees. Startled birds scattered from their perches.
Clara had her gun fixed on her target that crouched in the soft ground. But though she beared on it, she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Her body was frozen and numb. The gun suddenly became so heavy that her arm fell. The weapon dropped from her hand. There was a burning sensation in her chest, like a coal had lodged itself in her chest and she was choking on it. She coughed and tasted the iron-tang of her blood. She felt the fabric of her dress become warm and wet. Clara fell to her knees, her gaze still as fixed as her adversary. Falling back, her head hit the soft ground. Clara could no longer move. She stared with abandon at the clear blue sky, with wisps of cloud slowly drifted across.
As she lay there dying, Clara heard steps approach her. A shadow fell over the dying woman. She choked back the blood that she was drowning her. Dark eyes met hers. He kneeled down so he could be closer to her.
- That courage. That’s what I was after.
The man’s face was only inches from hers.
- Is there one last thing that you want to say?
He like a holy man taking last rites.
All she could get out in a raspy, painful gurgle was:
- Your name - ?
- Name?
He paused.
- I don’t have one…but some call me a Magpie…
Clara heaved as she drew and exhaled her last breath and then she was gone. The man stared across his newly fallen quarry. He saw something shining at her wrist. A simple band of silver. He took it off and then put it on his own. Returning to his feet he stepped over to where Clara’s gun had fallen and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.
Magpie then looked up at the porch. He saw the oldest daughter and he knew the name now. Not just from when he had heard it earlier. It was now in his heart, as if he had reared that child for the last eight years. Helen. Her name was Helen and her favourite colour was blue because of the sky.
She was just staring at him. The tears that trailed down her cheeks were drying and her eyes were filled with a confused mixture of grief and anger.
Magpie, feeling no guilt or remorse, turned and walked back into the copse. Back the way he came.
Continued in Part 2
Two girls played on the porch. Dressed in pastel colours, long dresses and small black boots. One, with darker hair, read quietly on the long chair made of pine. She was the older sister, but still not big enough for her feet to reach the solid wooden floor of the porch. The younger girl, clinging to a doll made of soft cloth and filled with stuffing, skipped across the porch. Skipped and bounced to a tune that ran in her head and had no words.
Annoyed, the older sister closed her book. Mimicking maturity, she barked at her sister
- Will you stop that?
The younger seemed perplexed at the order.
- I’m just playing.
The older one sighed.
- You’re such a child.
There was movement in the copse below, a shape slipped between the shade of the trees. There was no sound to be heard, no even the rustling of leaves or the short, snapping sound of branches. Well-placed feet made their way through the copse.
A figure emerged, a young man, lean and tall. He walked with a strange gait. Oddly paced, yet deliberate steps. Moving towards the porch, where the girls stood. They froze, unsure what to make of this man. The older sister saw that the legs of his black trousers were too short, nearly rising up half his shins. In contrast, his jacket was too big, with the sleeves coming down over his hands. Both jacket and trouser were black. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt that had become stained will dirt and grime. His skin was pale and off-white, and dark rings surrounded his eyes and hair equally black, shortly cropped on his head and styled in no particular fashion. The older sister could also see three guns strapped to his waist. And something else, like a knife that sat in an ornate sheath decorated in what looked like flowers.
He stepped up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the girls.
The older sister stepped forward, in front of her younger, as if to protect her.
- Hi girls.
His voice seemed to sing a little, though he also seemed out of breath, like he walked halfway across the world to see this place.
- Is your mother at home?
The older sister backed towards the door of the house, while grabbing her sisters hand in reflex.
- Mom!
Inside, Clara looked out the window, the moment she heard her girls stop talking, even before they called out for her. She watched the man glide to the front porch. She stood there at the window the whole time and until her child had called for her, she was transfixed with a fear that this man had finally come to her door. When her eldest daughter, Helen, called out, she snapped out of it. She dashed out the front door and moved to the tops of the stairs, so that she was between this man and her girls.
She stared at him with a transfixed gaze. Half was in fear and the other half, like the evil eye.
- Helen, Kate. Go inside.
The girls followed their mother’s words without hesitation. Clara did not take her eyes away from the young man. The moment she heard the front door close, she spoke again:
- Why are you here?
The young man leaned in close, smiling gently.
- Oh…you know why. You have something that I want.
Clara had heard of him. She received the news from the wire and letters from an old acquaintance. Clara had known the people that this man had killed.
Already she had recognised the man’s clothes and his weapons. They belonged to her comrades – former comrades – from a time that was thought forgotten. Vicious times and brutal days, unforgivable things were done those years past. Now that she had daughters, she found a peace and left her violent ways. But there always was the dread that her past might come back to haunt her.
Originally she thought that it was someone out for vengeance. She had this notion when she heard the potter and poet were dead. They made a bad name for themselves and many enemies in those days. Further letters revealed that this same man tracked a conman on the Mississippi. And some ex-army fellow turned preacher. Two people who had no connection to Clara, her acquaintance or her former comrades.
This was not revenge.
The man spoke again
- So do you want to do this now? I can wait a while. Some like to say goodbye to others first.
- You’re not taking my daughters.
The young man seemed offended by this, as if she mistook his agenda.
- No…You…What I want is inside you. No harm will come their way.
He paused, as he looked at her. It didn’t seem that she believed him
- I promise. Nothing will happen
He seemed to speak the truth on this. He was only after her. Something within her, insubstantial to her, but worth enough for him to travel so far on foot to find her.
Clara went back inside, the young man didn’t move from his leaning on the stair post. She raced through the house into her room, got down on her knees and reached under her bed. Her hands felt something old, oily and leathery. They grabbed frantically at this and wrenched it out into the light. An old trunk made of dark brown hide, worn from years of use and neglect. This was Clara’s past. She opened the case and there lay the shooter, a revolver made of steel and iron. It had a handle fashioned from wood that came from the copse outside. Beneath it was the holster and belt that she had worn at her waist before it gave way to motherhood. It fit around her again. For the briefest of moments, she felt the reckless and dangerous joys of her youth. Somehow she wanted to return to those days, where there was death and beauty. She couldn’t. Her fate stood waiting outside in mismatched clothes. She slid the gun into its rightful place. Striding from her room, about leave out the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of her youngest sobbing. She turned to her family, her husband and father of her two daughters, whose tears were streaming down their small faces.
Her husband knew of the life that she led, though he took no grievance of it. Until now. She took some steps towards them, but then abruptly stopped.
- Go. Leave this place. If I walk from this, I’ll find you.
She wanted to hold her daughters and dry their tears. She wanted to kiss her husband and make love to him. She wanted to run, away with them. But that would only seal their fate. She knew this dark man outside. This demon also took the lives of any who stood in his way. Men, women, even animals and children, he killed without remorse.
- Can I help? I can get the rifle…
Clara shook her head, her eyes told her husband everything, You are no match for him.
Clara turned and walked out the front door.
The man was still there, casually scratching the back of his neck. The afternoon was turning to sunset, and the insects were coming out. As she came down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his dark gaze, he spoke, almost warbling.
- Where do you want to do this? I imagine that around back has a fine view-
Clara had cut him off there.
- Here. Right here. Right now.
The man nodded, complying with her wish, while scratching the back of his head.
They both walked out onto the green grass into the cool shadow of the house, with the trees risen up on the other side. Between them was a distance of about twelve yards. The dark man had removed his coat as he got into his position. Clara saw all his weapons. The dark smoky wood of Jackson the poet’s six-shooter. The eagle embossing on Paris’ SAA. The cherry –blossom pattern on the tanto of Ichi the potter. She suddenly noticed the charms of bracelets, the rings of silver and gold and rosaries that adorned this man. He was the cause of death to many.
- Whenever you’re ready.
His voice was smooth, his dark eyes transfixed on her. Her eyes matched his.
An uncounted moment passed. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees and rushed through the grain. The peep and cry of birds could be heard in the distance. Then everything went quiet, the calm before the storm.
Clara’s hand, quick as lightning, whipped the revolver from her waist and at shoulder-level, delivered her final shot. The dark man was not as fast to draw, but instead dodged, falling, rolling to the ground, and drawing in the tumble. A second shot rang through the trees. Startled birds scattered from their perches.
Clara had her gun fixed on her target that crouched in the soft ground. But though she beared on it, she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Her body was frozen and numb. The gun suddenly became so heavy that her arm fell. The weapon dropped from her hand. There was a burning sensation in her chest, like a coal had lodged itself in her chest and she was choking on it. She coughed and tasted the iron-tang of her blood. She felt the fabric of her dress become warm and wet. Clara fell to her knees, her gaze still as fixed as her adversary. Falling back, her head hit the soft ground. Clara could no longer move. She stared with abandon at the clear blue sky, with wisps of cloud slowly drifted across.
As she lay there dying, Clara heard steps approach her. A shadow fell over the dying woman. She choked back the blood that she was drowning her. Dark eyes met hers. He kneeled down so he could be closer to her.
- That courage. That’s what I was after.
The man’s face was only inches from hers.
- Is there one last thing that you want to say?
He like a holy man taking last rites.
All she could get out in a raspy, painful gurgle was:
- Your name - ?
- Name?
He paused.
- I don’t have one…but some call me a Magpie…
Clara heaved as she drew and exhaled her last breath and then she was gone. The man stared across his newly fallen quarry. He saw something shining at her wrist. A simple band of silver. He took it off and then put it on his own. Returning to his feet he stepped over to where Clara’s gun had fallen and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.
Magpie then looked up at the porch. He saw the oldest daughter and he knew the name now. Not just from when he had heard it earlier. It was now in his heart, as if he had reared that child for the last eight years. Helen. Her name was Helen and her favourite colour was blue because of the sky.
She was just staring at him. The tears that trailed down her cheeks were drying and her eyes were filled with a confused mixture of grief and anger.
Magpie, feeling no guilt or remorse, turned and walked back into the copse. Back the way he came.
Continued in Part 2
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