Patrick E. McLean

Inspiration… that son-of-a-b***h

I’m having a problem with inspiration right now.

He’s been ducking me.

I mean we have this regular arrangement. He shows up and

Inspiration, that son-of-a-b***h, has been ducking me.

I know what happened. He got all cracked out on the ideas he was supposed to bring me and now he’s embarrassed. So he ran away. He’s jittering around Times Square circa 1976 clutching a Bendix brake drum in his left hand, trying to pawn it off on tourists as a novelty ashtray.

Somewhere men are laughing. Somewhere children shout. But in Times Square circa 1976 it’s just starting to rain and that cigarette he bummed off a schoolteacher from Maine is ruined

He slides into a pizza joint to get out of the weather, but gets yelled when he doesn’t order, because he doesn’t have any money. That son-of-a-b***h, I was prepared to pay cash.

“Come on man, I got a great idea for a Tweet,” he says, starting to shake real bad now. “I trade you straight up for a slice.”

If there’s one thing I can tell you about the creative process it’s that you can’t depend on inspiration. He’s a real shitheel.

You just gotta make it happen for yourself.

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He called them with the same magic that brings the fog in the morning or a thunderstorm on a hot summer afternoon. They came from the reservation. They came from hiding places deep in canyons or high in mountains. They came because he was the War Chief. and before they passed from the world, they wanted to go on one last raid. They were the moisture in the earth or the charge in the sky before a storm. They came because they wanted to be released.

At Fort Sill, he was forced to live in a canvas tent, because they would not allow him to build a wikiup. Many of the people had moved into poorly built houses that the Indian agents had provided for them. As if going tame would save them. As if it would let them forget how the white man had hunted them, driven them from their homes, crushed them in a war without honor or skill or bravery. Just a relentless press of men and weapons devoid of cunning.

No one would ever sing songs about how the cavalry defeated the Indians. It was a sad, shameful thing. But Goyaate knew that as long as men told tales of battle they would recount what he and his warriors had done. Still, they had lost. And now the tribes were learning to wear the white man’s clothes and sleep in the same ugly place for year after year. An Apache was meant to wander in mountains and his soul died when he didn't.

In twos and threes they had come, through the early spring. Braves he knew brought with them younger men he didn't. In this way had come Black Knife, Loco, Delgado, Coleto and Ponce. When they squatted they did not talk of the ones who did not come or the ones who would never raid again because they had ridden on into the unknown. They spoke of the weather and what they had heard from travelers, of the hope that the Buffalo would return and the knowledge that they would not.

Vittorio told him of a fine rifle he had hidden away from the soldiers and how good it was to hunt with. Little Delgatito complained about his wives. At the end, they all had the same question: when are we leaving? To them Goyaate said, “I think I will stay a little bit longer.”

To this each man answered. “Then I will stay a little longer too.” And by this, he knew they were with him.

Rumors spread among the people. But this was always the way with people who stay in one place. They grow weak and prone to gossip and other evils.

The rumors even made their way to Major Thomason. So he told Captain Evans, to go and speak with Goyaate and learn his mind. Captain Evans was eager. He had come west only after all the fighting was over, so he did not know who he was talking to. He had heard the stories about the man, but he did not believe them. No one who had not fought against Goyaate would believe them.

Goyaate squatted in the dirt in front of his tent, playing with stones beside a barely guttering fire. The Captain walked up to him, his freshly shined boots collecting flecks of dust and ash as he approached. He wasted no time on pleasantries and spoke his mind straight away. A good quality in a warrior, thought Goyaate.

"There are rumors that you are growing restless, sir. That you will attempt to raid.”

Goyaate shrugged and said, “People who live in houses have much time to talk." He swept up a handful of stones and began to lay them out in the dirt.

"We do not know each other, sir,” said Captain Evans, “There is no bond of friendship between us, but I do implore you, honor your agreement and stay put."

Goyaate said nothing, now arranging the stones in a circle around a few stones in the center. When he was done he swept the shape away with his hand again.

The Captain continued, “Have your people not suffered enough? What point to lead more young men to their death, sir?"

Goyaate now counted the stones out by three. There were 26 stones so there was a group of two left at the end. Goyaate shook his head and muttered disappointment.

"So you will not raid, sir? You give me your word?"

Goyaate looked up. The young man had ruined it by speaking too much. Goyaate stared at him a long, long time before he said, “It is not our way to be in such a hurry."

Captain Evans nodded and left, saying more empty and foolish words before he went. The Captain felt sad that the mighty warrior had been reduced to a foolish old man playing in the dirt.

When the major asked him what Goyaate was doing when the Captain found him the Evans replied, "playing with pebbles the way small children play with marbles. I found no fight in him, sir. In fact, I suspect that his mind might be going."

The Major nodded and dismissed the Captain.

Before returning to his billet, the Captain rode a half a mile out of his way and used his spyglass to check on what the old War Chief was doing. He saw that Goyaate still squatted on the ground and played with stones. Evans shut the telescope with a snap. He shook his head and wondered how one ignorant savage could've caused so much trouble for the governments of both United States and Mexico.

Next to his dying fire, Goyaate rearranged his stones again, but still he had two left over. Bad luck. Threes were strong magic, fours were even stronger, but twos… bad luck.

A new shadow fell across the stones. Goyaate looked up slowly and saw that it was Red Sleeve, an old man who had been chief of his own tribe of Apache. Now his tribe was scattered, mostly dead, and they were both prisoners here on a military reservation.

Goyaate looked at the old chief and thought, not for the first time, that it would have been kinder for the white man to have killed them all, and that they had left them to die here as the worst punishment of all.

It was said that when Ussen made the lands and the people that he made each land fit for each people, with climate and food and herbs to suit them so they could flourish. And that when you took a people from their land, as they had taken the Apache to this Oklahoma, the people would grow sick and weak. This had happened to all of the Apache here at Fort Sill, and the lines in Red Sleeve’s face now looked like they were cut there by a knife instead of old age

Red Sleeve squatted and said, “When you leave, I will go with you."

Goyaate said, “The warpath will be hard, and you are a great warrior grown old. Maybe it is better if you tend the fires and pass your stories on to the next generation.”

Red Sleeve laughed bitterly, “They have destroyed us. I think there will be no more Apache, only tame Indians, captive on the reservations." Then he tossed a small stone into the pile with the others. He said, "I think I will die soon but I do not think I will die here.” He looked at the bleak plain around with its ragged tents and clapboard shacks, “This is not a good place to die.”

Goyaate saw it then. Twenty-four stones, in six groups of four on the ground before him. There was power in it. He could see the stones as warriors on a raid, a flowing formation that would shift naturally to take advantage of every enemy weakness.

Goyaate said, "I have stayed long enough. We will leave tomorrow night, after the moon has set.”

---

The next night, Goyaate and his men, built two fires in a low place, out of the wind, that could not be seen from the Fort. They sang the old songs, danced the opening to war, even though many of them were stiff and old. Had there been any young Braves left they would have laughed at the old man creaking and slow. Some, like Red Sleeve, teetered more than turned, and none of them whirled as they raised their voices.

But if anyone who looked into the old man’s eyes, he would not have laughed. They had all traveled the sacred warpath and honored it with the blood of many foes.

Many times had Goyaate led them as War Chief and Goyaate had always come back. Many of those who had followed him had died. But all who died had found a good death. The old men knew there was no good death to be had on the reservation.

The dancing stopped and Goyaate spoke, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind and the crackling fire. He spoke of the unstoppable waves of th…

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The summer was immense. It was so hot that the mud dried in the blasted cracks in the yard as all the crops died. Across the range, cattle moaned as they cropped the dried grass and pawed at the creek bed for water. And still, the sun hammered the earth.

Each day they would scan the sky for clouds, and each day this sky was as pure and blue as a tropical ocean. They were drowning in sunshine.

Each day the kids would pump water from the well and take a bucket to the garden, trying to save as many plants as they could. The children were tiny but determined against the immensity of the land.

Even if they could have saved the garden there wouldn’t be enough silage for the cows come winter.

The next day the well ran dry. They took the wagon 15 miles to the river to fill every container they had with water. When they returned they found that the cattle had eaten the well-watered garden. His children cried.

The cattle smelled the water collected in the milk jugs and pans and jars in the back of the wagon. They crowded close aggressively large but gentle with dehydration.

Ethan drove the wagon right up to the porch and handed the water inside straight from the back. He unhitched the horses and led them around to a back window where his wife gave them water from a pot.

He bedded them down in the barn, the hay on the floor so dry he worried that his boots might spark a fire by grinding against the boards.

Back in the house, the children were quiet. Ethan looked at the window and hung his head. Finally he said, “We leave in the morning. Back to the river and we’ll head South.”

Mary gasped a little and said, “but what about our things? We can’t just leave…”

“There’s no water,” he said, his voice growing sharp with her for the first time maybe ever.

She nodded, pressed her lips together, and tried not to cry. But she was weary, weary to the bone. The tears came, silent and huge dropping to the dry boards below. Crying made her feel better and feel worse. He went outside, kicking his way through the dying cattle. He doubted they’d have the strength to make the drive to the river, but he leave them loose and perhaps some of them would survive.

He came back after supper. That night he couldn’t sleep for the cattle lowing outside and chewing the wood of the house. He stared at the ceiling and thought of everything needed of him that he could not provide. Then he thought it would be good to cry but no tears would come. He felt better about himself for not wasting water. He knew he would need his strength, but he could not sleep. 

The air hung heavy in the house and the sound of livestock filled the air. He thought about closing the windows to shut out the pitiful lowing of the cattle, but it was just too hot. 

The next morning everyone was slow to get up. The night’s heat had wrung every drop of water out of them. By the time he got the horses hitched it was nearly noon and none of them had eaten. Mary cried and the children cried and he could not get them off the porch. He raised his voice and cursed at his children for the first time. Then he begged them. Then he threatened his wife. But still, they sat on the porch of the dry, dying farm and wept.

Out of frustration, Ethan kicked one of the cows and it fell over as if dead. That broke the spell of his anger. All of them looked at the dead animal and it sank in. Without rain nothing would live here. It was time to go.

Ethan loaded the last of their scant possessions into the back of the wagon. Mary climbed onto the buckboard refusing to speak or even look at him. As if somehow this was all his fault. 

As he stepped up onto the Wagon, he heard it. The sound was so strange, he did not recognize it. He thought that maybe the axle had cracked or part of the barn had fallen in. Then he felt the wind. And smelled the moisture. 

Again there was thunder and the cow he had taken for dead rose from the ground. He could see the darkening — clouds by God — behind the barn. He jumped off the wagon and ran to see. 

Thunderheads, miles away across the plain, but coming towards them fast. And with them sheets of rain. Lighting lanced into the Earth and he howled with laughter and sang and as the first drops hit them. 

The skies open up and the water poured forth on the land, swelling the broken Earth, Ethan fell to his knees and wept with joy and relief. Mary and the girls had taken cover in the barn and she called to him to see if he was all right.

Ethan rose, baptized anew, and joined his family in the barn. 

Mary said, “Look at you. You’re soaked.”

She brushed the wet hair from his face.

He seized her hand and kissed it.

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(Previously: Chapter 1 - A Man Goes on A Journey)

The Journal of Archimedes Croryton, July 23rd, 1888

I have been informed that my train has just crossed into Texas and the terrain has already become wilder than I could ever have imagined. The emptiness of these spaces is immense. It seems scarcely possible to me that men could lead their lives here. Not merely from want of sustenance and water, the scope of the landscape itself crushes a man with his own insignificance.

In England each mile brings its a new town and a more pleasant vista. Ours is a land built on a scale a man can walk in a day. Well-tamed with its reassurances of ancient manor houses, village chapels, welcoming taverns. Our island is, as much as anything, a well-tended and civil garden.

But this is a vast wild expanse. There is nothing on the grasslands to stop the wind on its rush to the equator. How could this place serve to do else but drive men mad?

July 24th, 1888

Since San Antonio, the terrain has grown steadily more impossible. The train rises through rough terrain into a rocky desert almost devoid of life and greenery.

This is the New Mexico territory. A fellow passenger, seeing a look of unabashed concern writ upon my face, attempted to reassure me by saying that all of the savages had been pacified shortly after the end of the war. But, I suspect they are all savages here, to one degree or another.

What seemed a grand adventure in Boston and a splendid project in New Orleans now seems something else entirely. The wisdom of taking employment with Jean DuMont, a man I have never met, now escapes me. But as I have never wanted or needed employment before, perhaps mistakes are inevitable.

The fact remains that I have designed and built the components for the largest Cornish engine the world has ever seen. While my technical employment may no longer qualify me to be a gentleman in the strictest sense, it gives great satisfaction to both my purse and my person. And I feel that the future belongs not to gentlemen but men with great machines and greater ambitions.

On the morrow, I disembark the Union Pacific line in Tucson, with the 300 tons of my cargo. And from there, it and I go by wagon, to construct a pumping engine for the Morning Star Mine of Grantham, Az.

Archimedes Croryton stepped down from the train into a scorching Arizona day.

One of the roughnecks on the platform pointed him to the freight yard and Archie employed him to carry his trunk across the rail lines, and onto the freight platform, which was no more than a sea of railroad ties set directly on the desert floor. In the center of the freight platform was a crude shack, constructed against the relentless hammering of the Sun.

Archie took shelter there and watched the yard crew unhook his boxcars from the train by means of a crude, small steam engine mounted on a cast-iron platform. Everywhere he looked his engineer’s eyes saw the opportunity for mechanical improvement. The diameter of the engine’s drive wheels needed to be enlarged. The platform also would benefit a trailing truck wheel. Without, it the drive wheels unweighted while reversing and slipped against the rails. This made the whole process of moving the freight cars a Sisyphean cycle of start, slip, stop that pained Archie to watch.

Soon, he imagined, the cast iron platform would crack or bend so much against the strain that the engine would become unusable. Still, he allowed, it was easier than pulling boxcars by hand.

Some distance off the siding men had gathered in a circle. He had assumed they were some of the men meant to haul his freight. They were yelling and cheering some action within their ranks. As Archie approached, he saw a large man with a full red beard hoist another man by his collar and belt and hurl him out of the circle. Unable to regain his footing after such an undignified exit, the poor soul sprawled on the railroad ties, just short of Archie’s fine English riding boots.

The large red-bearded man disappeared back into the knot of shouting men and re-emerged with a battered black cowboy hat. He threw it at the man on the ground saying, “I told you nay to meddle.” Then looked up and saw Archie in his khaki expedition suit complete with pith helmet and quickly composed himself. He knuckled his forehead in the customary salute of the British Navy and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. No offense meant to yer personage.” And then turned back into the crowd.

Archie heard an ear-splitting crack and the crowd gave a collective, “Oooh,” and went silent. He pushed his way into the ranks. In the center was a tall woman, dressed in men’s clothes — was that buckskin? — beating a man on the ground with a bullwhip.

Archie said, “Good Lord,”

A grubby man next to him who wasn’t letting a few missing teeth stop him from grinning ear-to-ear looked at Archie and said, “I don’t reckon, even the good Lord can save him now. And that’s sure. She told him. She told everybody. Don’t you dare show up drunk in the morning!”

The man with the red beard reached over several smaller people and clouted the toothless man in his ear, saying, “No blasphemin’!” Then he nodded to Archie as if somehow decency was their common cause.

The man on the ground struggled to rise and the woman let fly with her whip again. It snaked through the air and exploded into the man’s side, causing him to yelp in pain. He fell over and lay on his back.

The woman coiled the whip in her right hand, threw her hair back, and glared at the rough men of the crowd. “I told him the same as I told you. I don’t mind the drinkin’, but if you’re too drunk to walk your wagon, ya don’t get paid. Now anyone else feel like arguin’ contrary-wise?”

Most of the crowd said nothing, but here and there a few said, “No ma’am.”

“Alright then, back in line and I’ll see where our goddamn haul is!”

As the crowd broke up, Archie caught the eye of the giant with the red beard and waved him over. Archie said, “My good man, what is your name?”

“MacAllister. At your service, sir. Even if you are English.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a savage land, sir. We civilized, Christian men must stick together.”

“Am I to take Scotland for a civilized land, then?” Archie asked with a smile.

“Ach, only in the summertime, sir,” MacAllister said with a grin.

Archie liked the man’s easy and open way. He extended his hand. MacAllister took it and wrung it heartily, crushing Archie's knuckles with affection. “Thank you much, sir. A pleasure.”

As he rubbed his hand, Archie said, “I’m looking for,” and here he removed a letter from his vest pocket, unfolded it, and read, “John Siskin. Could you help me find him?”

“No sir. There’s no John Siskin. She’ll be the one you seek,” MacAllister said, hooking his thumb at the woman with the bullwhip. “Jane,” he said, nodding encouragement.

“But I’ve engaged a company to haul freight.”

MacAllister nodded at the wagons, “And the finest company in Arizona. But it’s her’s.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Husband drank himself to death and now she runs it better than he ever did,” MacAllister said with a shrug. “Mind your manners, and’ll you’ll do fine.”

From behind him, Archie heard the woman’s voice, “What the hell are you supposed to be in that getup?”

Archie turned and Jane Siskin was glaring at him, with her coiled whip around her shoulder and her hat pushed back.

Archie smiled and said, “Ah yes, Miss Siskin,’ as he bowed and doffed his pith helmet, “I am Archimedes Croryton, at your service.”

“Croryton? A. Croryton?” she asked, ”You’re our client for this haul?”

“I am.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ but that’s an awful lot of s**t to haul to a nowhere town like Grantham. What’s in them boxes. Like it said in my letter, I ain’t hauling no dynamite for nobody.”

“Mining equipment, parts for a large steam engine. Nothing explosive, I assure you.”

“And the A? that’s for Archimedes? Name like that sounds like you should be selling snake oil.”

“You may call me Archie. You know, my great great grandfather, the 18th Earl of Corn…

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If there was one thing that I wish I knew about writing years ago, it is this: Every story you write comes with obligations. These obligations are driven by expectations. First yours, then the readers. The simple way to say this is “every genre has obligatory scenes.” This is 100% true. If you write a Western (even a transitional, hybrid western like “A Town Called Nowhere”) you are obliged to have a bar fight scene. And a showdown and a bunch of others. Your conflict better involve themes like justice and the individual against society. Because that is what we have come to expect from all the stories in that genre that have come before. 

So the job of writing a story isn’t reinventing the form — not at first — it’s figuring out a great way to do all of those obligatory scenes. 

It’s not dialog. It’s not description. It’s not even coming up with original characters (if there is such a thing). It’s not even plot. These scenes are moments, without which the reader will be left unsatisfied. So the first and hardest job is figuring out how you are going to do a version of those tired old scenes in a way that you and then your audience will find fresh, meaningful and full of emotion. 

Now, that may seem impossible for something like a bar fight scene. But if it can be done for a love song, it can be done for anything. And people are still writing fresh and surprising classic love songs in even the oldest styles of popular music. 

Exhibit A - “Lucky Sometimes” by Pokey LaFarge

Subverting Expectations?

You can, if you must, subvert the expectation. But the more I read the more that this seems like cheap trickery to me. I think that most people who believe they are ‘subverting expectations’ aren’t. And most works that consciously try to subvert expectations don’t seem to work very well. The author is trying too hard to be tricky or shocking for its own sake and in the process the story gets lost. 

But what you can never do is ignore the expectation. And from what I’ve seen, that’s the mistake that trips up beginning writers more than anything else. Yes, we all want originality. But we also want it within a familiar structure. Just like we all want freedom but we also all want safety at the same time. It’s the human condition. 

For a Western or an Action movie, the bar fight scene is something of a black hole. You can orbit around it for a while, but sooner or later you’re going to get sucked into writing one. You can pay homage to it or you can make fun of it. You can tell one from a fresh perspective or with a new twist, but you can’t get away from it. You can only do it well or do it badly. 

When you understand that you can hear legions of writers groaning in agony down through the ages. “Geeze, how am I going to take the curse off this scene and make it fresh and exciting again?”

Here, in no particular order, are some of my favorites: 

* The Cantina Scene from Star Wars

* The Spittoon Scene (intro) from Rio Bravo

* The fight that spills out into the real world in Blazing Saddles

* “He shoulda armed himself if he’s gonna decorate his saloon with my friend.” Unforgiven

* Roadhouse (The whole movie is basically a bar fight scene)

* “I’m you’re goddamn partner!” Raiders of the Lost Ark

* Dusk ’til Dawn (the second half is all bar fight)

* The Soup Scene from Bad Day at Black Rock

* Saturday Night Fever Scene from Airplane

* Mayfield (Bill Burr) shoots his old commander in the Mandalorian 

And that list could go on and on and on and on. There have been a lot of bar fight scenes. I haven’t gotten to one yet in A Town Called Nowhere, but rest assured it’s coming. 

And there’s a whole bunch of other obligatory scenes that I have to fill in. So far, my list includes:

* Inciting attack by antagonist

* Duel/Showdown

* Chase scene

* Murder

* Savages attack

* Cavalry comes to the rescue

* Magic is real

* Hero at the mercy of the villain

* Protagonists discover what the antagonist wants

* Epic fantasy battle

* Evil Wizard defeated

* Indians doing badass Indians things

* Protagonist lashes out (tests being bad)

* All is lost

* Ticking clock

* Speech in praise of the villain

* Hero(es) prevails when expresses special gift

So my questions of you are, given the setup, what scenes are you expecting? And, did I miss your favorite bar fight scene? Everybody’s got one. 

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You and I are the creatures who turn silence into words.

And if you find it at all difficult to know what you should do or say: first ask yourself about the silence.

Only when you are still, can the voice inside you be heard.

Only the blank page can be filled with words.

That’s some zen-sounding b******t. I mean sometimes, when you are still and quiet the only thing that comes to you is a nap.

But for sure, the voice cannot be heard while you are watching TikTok.

What is this mystical “voice”? It’s the stew of everything you’ve ever heard or read or thought bubbling around inside of you. And this stew is made of the finest possible ingredients: words.

Emerson wrote that, “Every word was at first, a stroke of genius.” And I think that’s right.

To speak of the light is to invite it into your soul.

To name the darkness is to hold your fear at bay.

But to name a bear that is trying to eat you is pointless.

Just stand up real tall, wave your arms and yell, “Motherfucker“ at it and hope it all works out.

Do not turn around and run, because then you become a faceless, wordless meatsnack. We all know how that ends.

If the bear had words it would name you Slim Jim and then snap you off.

But, if you survive to tell the tale, you will do it with words that have been invented and perfected — indeed survived, because they were powerful. Each word is the survivor of a process that is hundreds of thousands of years old.

Every word of meaning is a deeper well of meaning than you can know. It’s scary to realize that you know not what you are calling forth when you use a word.

The simplest words are the trickiest of all. In the “Shorter” OED the definition of the word “take” stretches out across four pages.

You know what you are trying to mean when you use the word “take”, but that is not the same as knowing what the word “take” means. Neither do I, Neither does anybody.

If you truly tried to understand a single word, you’d never have time to go on that hike. You would never meet the bear. You wouldn’t have any great stories to tell.

My point is that deep meaning is baked into every word you use. So when you read them carefully, when you really listen to the voice, it will speak to you. If you give your words proper attention they will create new meaning for you and it will change your life.

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The team had been hitched to the wagon before dawn, but Virgil still hadn’t left. As Laura Miller folded and sorted the new fabrics for display, she could see the stout draft horses through the front window of the store. They stood, patient as time itself, in the first light of the day.

Laura liked this frontier town best in the morning. If she were to walk Grantham’s two streets now, she would undoubtedly see bodies. Almost all of them would be sleeping off a drunk, but one or two might be dead, of overwork or disease or from that lethal combination of being too quick with a mouth yet not quick enough with a pistol.

Grantham was a boom town, flush with silver. That made it a hard place for honest folk to get a good night’s sleep. But at dawn, wasn’t every place born anew? And if you squinted, and were careful to step over the drunks and look past the w****s, you could see the potential of the place, the potential of the West.

This was a place to grant new hope for saints and sinners, miners and cowboys, outlaws and lawmen, w****s and mothers. And everyone, no matter who they were, wanted for a thousand things to make their dreams real or bring an end to their nightmares. Most of the time the things they needed were simple like shovels and pans, beans and thread, rope and coffee, cartridges and knives. Which meant that all of them, good and bad alike, needed the Miller General store.

In contrast with the patient horses outside, her husband Virgil hadn’t stopped pacing. She wanted to say that she had never before seen a man move so much without actually going anywhere, but she knew to hold her tongue. She loved him, and knew him to be was a worrier.

As Virgil paced the length of the store, he checked the shelves, straightening things that had already been straightened. He looked upstairs to where their daughter slept, and out back at their son, gathering wood. Laura folded a sample of the new Gingham and pretended she wasn’t watching her fierce man and his tender conundrum.

She had never seen Virgil afraid of anything, at least not while facing it. But since the children had come, he had become a worrier. Grantham was a rough, wild town, and she knew the last thing he wanted was to have his son turn out like him. Virgil had been a wild, murderous falcon of a man when they had met. Every time he went on a journey, they both remembered that falcons were never tamed for life. A falcon would always go back to the wild.

She had snared him with all the subtle and ancient ties that women use to capture wild men. She had done it, at first, because she had needed him to survive, but now she realized, the cords that bound them together were woven from the stuff of her own heart. She had trapped them both in the same snare.

Virgil looked to the wagon, then paced back to pour more coffee from the pot on the cast-iron stove.

Mac came in with the firewood and dumped it in the bin next to the stove. By noon, they’d have the doors open and the heat of the day would be oppressive, but night in the high desert was cold no matter the time of year.

“Pa, you want I should come with you?”

Virgil smiled, his sharp face softened by love. “No. I need you to stay here and look after the store.”

She thought it a foolish thing to say. Mack was still so young, but boys were fragile at his age. And her husband knew how badly his son wanted to be a man. As he took in the words, Mack straightened nervously, nodding, taking the responsibility seriously.

With this new respect, Mac dared a question. “Pa, when you get back, can we shoot the big gun?” he asked, looking to the Sharps .50 rifle hanging high on the wall above the vertical rack of smaller caliber rifles and carbines.

“Not until you’re full-grown, if then. But ain’t much point in it.”

Virgil resumed pacing, but Mac continued to look at him so insistently, he stopped and resumed his answer instead. “They were used to hunt buffalo, and they’re about all gone now, son. And there never was any down here anyway.”

“Couldn’t you hunt other things with it?”

“You could, but most men can’t even fire it. Or wouldn’t want to. Least not more than once. Kicks like a mule. Probably break your shoulder.”

“But not your shoulder,” said Mac, with pride.

Virgil considered the gun and winced a little. “I’d only fire that thing if I absolutely had to. You don’t even need something that big to kill a grizzly.”

“Then why do you have it Pa?”

“Because everyone wants to come in here and have a look at the biggest rifle they’ve ever seen. And once they come, they buy their flour and their sugar here instead of at somebody else’s store.”

“Will you ever let me shoot it?”

Virgil smiled and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Alright, someday, when you’re taller than me or when the town gets overrun by elephants, whichever comes first.”

Laura placed the last of the fabric in the glass case and closed the top. She walked over to her husband, kissed him on the cheek, and took his coffee from him. “You’re wasting daylight, Mr. Miller.”

“I’m admiring the view, Mrs. Miller,” he said, as he took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he turned to Mac and said, “Mind your Mother and keep her and your sister safe.”

Mac nodded, taking that seriously too.

Virgil stepped behind the main counter and took his gun belt off a peg beneath the cashbox. Unlike the fancy rigs the cowboys liked to wear around town, this belt had pistols in two cavalry holsters that closed with heavy flaps. Also on the belt was a knife with a carved antler handle in a fringed sheath like the Indians wore.

The heavy Colt Army pistols were set in the holsters with the handles facing forward, so they’d be easier to draw in a gallop. Where other men wore belts of fancy, tooled leather, worked with silver, the leather on this belt was all but invisible. Every free inch of the belt was covered with fabric loops, and in every loop was a .45 caliber bullet. It was ugly and worn. Mack watched, wide-eyed, as his Father belted it on.

His father rarely wore his pistols and Mack had never even seen shoot them, not even for target practice. In fact, he had never seen the pistols out of their holsters. All he knew of them were that the handles were made of simple wood, nothing special.

Virgil took his hat off the peg on the wall and snugged it on his head. This hat had once been white, but he had worn it so long it was battered and scuffed and stained in places, and fit all the better for it.

Virgil walked out of the front door of the store and looked down at the wagon, its emptiness enhanced by the loose canvas tarp in the back. Then he looked up at the sky. Clear, no sign of weather. Laura and Mack came to see him off. Virgil was about to ask Laura to go get Pen, but Laura indicated the back of the wagon with a nod of her head. He took the hint and said, “Well, shame that no-account daughter of mine ain’t here to see her father off. But all the same, I never liked her frowning face overmuch anyways.”

The canvas cover in the back of the wagon exploded upwards and a tornado of strawberry blonde hair announced itself by saying, “I was going to come with you!”

And there was Penelope in all her 8-year-old glory. She pouted savagely at her father with a face that was like to break his heart. She had Daddy’s number, that was sure, thought Laura.

Virgil held out his arms and Penelope dove into them crying, “Don’t go!”

He stepped down from the porch and stood the little girl on the wagon so he could look her in the eyes. Then he said, “Just a couple of days. I have to go remind Mr. Fetterman of his contract with us and collect our flour at the price he promised. Otherwise, people here in town aren’t going to be able to have bread and cakes and cookies. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No biscuits either?”

“No biscuits either.”

“Well that’s okay,” said Penelope, playing at trapping her father, “I don’t like biscuits anyway.”

They all laughed. Mack climbed up in the back of the wagon and he and his sister played at bouncing th…

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The King paused in the telling. Gripping the sword in his right hand, he rose and threw a few more coals in the brazier with his left. The stable boy, to pretend he wasn’t interested, resumed sharpening his knife.

The King returned to his seat and asked the stable boy, “So what happened then, did I kill him? Did the Dragon? Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“You took your revenge, as I will take mine.”

“Did I now? How can you be sure? We haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

“You stuck the blade in Beowulf and twisted it. I know because that is what I am going to do to you. That’s why you’re so proud of that sword. Finish your tale and don’t forget our wager. Or are not going to keep your word?”

“Very well,” said the King, “Beowulf drew his sword and gave it to me. This sword, in fact.” The King tapped the naked blade against his thighs for emphasis.

“We charged the dragon where it lay on the turf. Beowulf with shield raised, and I with sword. The beast lashed out and struck at Beowulf as a snake does, closing around the King’s leg. Beowulf brought the shield down upon the Dragon’s neck. As the Dragon held fast to his leg and engulfed him in fire, Beowulf held the beast to the ground.

“Battered by its wings I charged in and shoved this sword into the soft place of its armpit and deep into the heart. It died quickly, just like anything will when you stab it in the heart.

“Then, I held the dying, charred Beowulf across my knees and begged him not to go. But he died anyway.”

“You didn’t?” asked the boy, “You didn’t kill him?”

“I did not.”

“Why?”

“I am not at tenth or even a hundredth of what he was, but what I am, I am. You have that same thing in you, boy, that angry, unrelenting thing. That thing which strives, which seeks, that which would not yield without struggle to god or monster. And that thing is a flame I would not extinguish lightly. Not in him. Not in you.”

For a time there was only the sound of the knife on stone. Then, from far away, the sound of a cock crowing.

The King said, “It is morning, and I don’t think I’ve convinced you.”

“You haven’t.”

“Then enough games with your knife boy. You can sharpen ’til the end of days and it still won’t be a tool fit to your task.”

The King stood and tossed his sword in the straw. He undid the sword belt and took off his tunic. His bare belly hung, soft, white and heavy over his hips, but the King’s arms and shoulders were knotted with ropy muscle.

“I’ve lived long enough. So if you won’t fight for me, then it’s time for you to kill your monster.”

The stable boy stood with his knife. He pointed at the King’s stomach. Then he lunged a little, to see if the King would flinch. Wiglaf stood his ground and smiled, his fear falling away from him at last.

“Ah,” said the King, “battle.”

The boy lunged. 

* * *

Naked from the waist up and smeared with blood, King Wiglaf strode into the courtyard. The men saw the head he carried and murmurs swept through the ranks. He climbed a wagon next to the main gate and held his trophy high. Without ceremony, he said, “The Scyllan’s sent an assassin.” Then he threw the head to the ground.

The King said, “I am old. I am tired. And last night I was afraid that I did not have another battle left in me. Against odds like these, who would not tempted by a clean death and a forever after in the mead-hall?

“But then I thought of spring. And your mother,” he said pointing to young man in the front rank. “And yours, and yours, and yours. And how much I loved them all. And I realized, you dog-faced, unloved b******s, that I had one more rutting spring left in me.

"So fight with me now, and I will promise you two things. Victory and a fresh crop of brothers come January.” He waited for the laughter to die down. “Or do not fight and go your slaughter, meek as lambs. For me, it changes nothing. I  wait here no longer. I go to meet my fate.”

He drew his Dragon-killing sword and with a mighty stroke, he sundered the timber that barred the gates. As the cold wind of morning swung the heavy wood gate open, Wiglaf charged and the Geats followed with him.

THE END.

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The men panicked and fled. As Beowulf had foretold, not a one went for a spear. Some dived back into the barrow. Others ran up or down the coast. Only the Dragon was not in a hurry. I remember that dread shape against that grey winter sky, flapping lazily as if it had all the time in the world. It wheeled off to the left of us in pursuit of some of the Thanes. Over the hill, I heard the roar of its flames and men screaming.

With a calm equal to the Dragon’s, Beowulf strolled down the hill to where the ponies had been. The beasts had also had fled, but the poor pony that carried the mighty shield was trapped. The bronze and iron had slid free from the pack and dragged behind the whinnying beast like an anchor. Foam flecked the pony’s lips and madness roiled in her eye.

Beowulf cut the lashing and the pony ran down into the valley. Then he shouldered the giant shield. As I watched the pony run, I hoped that she would make it, but somehow I knew that she would not. In that moment,  knew, with certainty, that none of us would make it out alive.

And it was then that I understood what Beowulf had meant when he had spoken of hatred in the heart. For men to war with men, courage is enough and greed will do. But to do battle with monsters, one must meet fear with something stronger.

The dragon flew low across the bottom of the hill, and snatched up the fleeing pony up with a lazy whip of its neck and a snap of its jaws. Then it breathed fire and spit the burning animal back at the Earth like a curse. It dove over the cliff and disappeared.

This was not a falcon on the hunt — terrible, beautiful, but still a part of the same skien as you or I.  This Dragon was a withering, animated greed for the suffering and end of all living things. Its joy was burning of crops, the eradication of species, the extinction of the sun. How could men who fought for treasure or power or glory in the eyes of other men stand against this monstrosity?

I looked to Beowulf, and saw him leaning on his shield as if all of this bored him. He felt my gaze upon him, turned, and saw that I had not fled. He nodded once. As much as I hated the man, I felt that I had just been awarded an honor worth having. Then he pointed to one of the spears the Thanes had abandoned.

As I took my first step towards the weapon, the hill beneath me erupted in flame. Where I had clawed an opening in the turf, a torrent of fire now poured forth. Smaller tendrils of smoke and flame welled up from the shaking ground. I fell and rolled down the hill, managing to stop near a spear. I picked it up and ran to Beowulf. I did not look back until I was behind the tower of his shield.

The Dragon’s head rose up over the edge of the cliff. It swiveled, snake-like, and filled me with an ancient revulsion. It clacked its jaws together twice, then vaulted into the air.  The Dragon blasted the unburnt oak tree with its flame, then settled onto a burning perch.

Beowulf’s eyes were filled with tears of fierce joy. The beast and the man roared as one and Beowulf advanced behind the shield. The Dragon dropped from the tree and breathed fire. As the flames surrounded us in the lee of the shield, Beowulf shouted, “When he passes!”

When the Dragon came, I stood and jammed the spear into its belly. The point scraped scales and caught between them. The force of the beast’s passage slammed the haft of the spear into the earth and it shattered. A splinter of wood lodged in my left hand. As I pulled it free, Beowulf roared for another spear and shoved me out from behind the shield.

As I ran, mostly falling toward the next weapon, the shadow of the beast passed over me. I dove for the spear, and when I came up again, I saw the Dragon, over the ocean, roiling around itself in a turn and lining up for another pass.

As it dove on me, I thought to myself, this is when I die. But the Dragon passed over me and struck at Beowulf with its claws. The bronze shield rang like a bell. Beowulf was cast one way and the shield the other. He landed hard and did not rise.

Now, I thought, Now is my chance to snatch revenge even from the jaws of my own death! I leveled my spear and charged. Beowulf raised himself wearily to hands and knees, the chainmail and the years weighing on him at last. The mouth! If he lifts his head, spear him in the mouth. But in the sky beyond Beowulf, I saw the Dragon turn again. No you damned worm, I thought I will take him first!

But when the Dragon dove, I could not tear my gaze from the  horrible thing. As I charged Beowulf, the beast opened its mouth to burn us both down. In that moment, my choice was made. I threw the spear not at Beowulf, but into the maw of the beast. It struck home in the jaw, and the creature veered off to the side, crashing into the slope and rolling away, screaming pain and fire as it went.

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At the end of a long, upward march we found an old oak tree on a cliff facing the sea. It was gnarled and had grown at an angle from being blown inland by constant punishment of the sea wind. The base of the trunk was wider than three men could wrap their arms around, while the top of the tree was wispy branches that I could scarce believe could hold their leaves in that wind. But we saw nothing that looked like a barrow.

Beowulf asked, “Where?”

“A path, down the cliff face,” came the answer.

Beowulf commanded me to go and see. 

Fear fueled my impudence, so that when I spoke, it was to say, “Should I kill the beast if I find it?”

Beowulf said, “Leave your spear so that you won’t be tempted.”

Defenseless, I crawled over the edge of the “path” and clung to the cold rock, as the ocean crashed against the cliff face far below. Everywhere was slick with the leavings of sea birds, but the birds were gone. I realized the last time we had seen animal life of any kind was before we had reached the burning forest.

I came to a hole in the cliff. As I moved and slipped my way closer I could see that that it was ringed by blackened rocks. A foul, sulfurous smell hurt my lungs. The fresh ocean air could not take it away.

The hole had been created where the rock had been blown outward, and a narrow path led into the depths. I listened carefully, but all I could hear was the keening of the wind in the rocks. Was the beast within? I am not ashamed to say that my hands shook as I lit the torch.

The walls of the passage were scorched. As I pressed deeper into the crypt, my feet scraped piles of melted gold and silver. Gems littered the floor.

The passage opened into a high vault. I saw a company of dead men in stone chairs. They must have been important in their day. Now they were skeletons in rusted armor and once fine jewelry. The one closest to the entry had been burned and knocked over. I listened again, but heard nothing. So I made my way through the crumbled chests and the caches of coins and the pillars that held up the roof.

At the head of the room, was the one who must have been their leader in life. At his side still dangled a fine sword. Without weapon and afraid, I tried to draw it from its sheath. It came easily, as if it had just been oiled.

I heard… Well, I don’t know what I heard. I imagined that it was  the scraping of claw across stone. I turned quickly and knocked the torch against a pillar. It exploded in a shower of sparks and went out.

In the darkness, I panicked. I lost my reason and screamed and ran. I blundered through the barrow until I found a pillar with my head, and was knocked senseless.

When I opened my eyes I saw my salvation. Lying flat on my back on the floor I could see a space in the ceiling where roots of the oak tree had pushed a few of the ceiling blocks free. There was the faintest glimmer of daylight. I rose and maneuvered a chest under the lightest patch in that dark room. Hacking with the fine blade, I climbed up in to the space among the roots. I moved through the earth as an apprentice mole, and  was just as blinded by the sunlight when I emerged.

The men recoiled in horror, fearing, I suppose, that I was the Dragon, Harrower of the Dark. When they lifted me clear, laughter rippled through the company. I did not join them, for the terror of that dark place was still on me. For fear of crying out, I did not speak.

Beowulf did not join in the merriment. He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me so hard my teeth rattled. Then looked me in the eye and said, “Master your fear.” I managed a nod of assent. Then he asked me what was in the tomb.

“Riches,” I said.

“Go and see,” he told the men.

They clawed their way into the underground chamber. There were shouts of delight as they discovered the treasures below. But Beowulf paid them no attention. He strode up the hill to the tree and considered it. Then he said, “It is unburnt.”

I sat and hugged my legs to my chest. I did not want him to see my knees knocking together.

“All of the trees we have seen, entire forests of them, were charred. But this tree was spared.”

I looked up to see that what he said was true. In the whole of the valley laid out below us all the trees had been burned.

Then came the sound of edge against edge. The men fighting over the treasures they had just hauled out into the light, greed turning man against man.

“Should you stop them?” I asked.

"Let them fight. Their blood may yet bring the beast,” said Beowulf, scanning the horizon. “See squire, they have dropped their spears,” he said, repeating it as a grim prophecy.

I watched one Thane fight another over a golden hunting horn. The bigger man laughed mockingly as he wrested the horn from his smaller companion. The smaller man drew his sword and hacked the man’s hand from his forearm. As the larger man screamed in rage and pain, the smaller retrieved the horn and put it to his lips. The note he sounded was of bone ground against bone, yet it swelled until it filled the whole of that blasted valley. As the echoes of that terrible sound died away, I could hear the sobs of the now one-handed man again.

Beowulf pointed and cried, “There!”

Far below, one of the charred trunks of a tree unraveled from itself. Three flaps took the beast into the sky. The Dragon screamed fire, and rose to meet us.

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