Market Theocracy

10. Trapshoot

Ends await.



She knew who she was and where she was going, but the fact of the matter remained that: the ends await. This is a truth all human kind must eventually admit, a blunt admission of pragmatics no matter how optimistic or mystical minded.

The basic template of existence is the mystery.


Thousands of days and that many or more miles away she’d find herself in a dark and noisy saloon.

She was wearing a much older body; a thing of dense muscles and leathery skin. A face filled with wrinkles and a long crown of iron grey hair pulled back and plaited into a practical mane. Her eyes, if anything, had grown sharper as her body grew more brittle. There was nothing of weakness about her, no hint of softness, no flash or glimpse of mercy.

She was pure Charity now, charity of the blackest and most honest sort. She’d made a vow to rid the world — a second world even — of a monster who walked like a man. Her own pleasure and enjoyment had been set aside to accomplish this end. Her own life curtailed to chase this duty.

The saloon was dark in more ways than simple lack of light. They were very near The Ends here, very close to the blank grey wall of roiling mist that marked the border of the Borderlands. The grey chasm that ate the bleak desert terrain. The grey from which no traveller returned.

Stories abounded about that mist. A cult of rejects made a religion of it — camping near it in tattered tent cities, sending prayers into its unresponsive face. They claimed to hear voices from the blank wall of grey, hear songs of eternal sadness and the weeping of old gods. The muttered confessions of ghosts.

Occasionally, she’d heard, the mist shifted by some cosmic whim and entire tent cities were lost. Vanished. Gone when morning light touched their scoured grounds again.

Such was the price of so flippant a religion, she figured.

Kerosene lamps burned in the saloon, since electricity refused to flow here near The Ends. Motors wouldn’t crank. Watches stopped ticking and even levers failed to shift as much.

Physical laws broke down, it was said. And mortal laws? Justice and fairness?

She laughed aloud, just thinking of them. Such human laws were chancy in even the most stable of times and places. Near the Ends, to hope for them was a fool’s errand.

She touched the bulky talisman that hung from her neck, gently. She felt the smooth cool touch of bone and let it relax her. She laughed again, a bit louder, thinking of Justice and fool’s errands.

Across the room three men sat at a table, speaking pretty lies to a pretty young girl. Charity had been watching them for the past half hour. She wondered what the child was doing here. She was out of place here near The Ends. This was a place for the worn and near broken, the aging and the dull. She was a jolly thing, lively and sweet. She moved with quick liquid grace and the fiery red of her hair seemed to scar the dark of this rotting saloon.

What was she doing here? Charity guzzled the last of her piss warm beer and pondered that. Lost or a runaway, she figured. A fugitive from an ugly past, hoping for a brighter future in a dark place she was too young and stupid to hate and fear on sight. Another pilgrim in search of justice and fairness in a world scant of either.

And she laughed a third time. The third time proved the charm. The three men and the pretty out of place girl looked at her. The men looked wary. The girl smiled an innocent smile.

"What’s so damn funny, old lady?" one of the men asked.

"No need to be rude…" began the young girl, but she was shushed by the other two.

The speaker raised his voice. "I said what’s so damn all fired funny?"

Charity took a deep breath. She wondered if the fool had realized they were all alone in the saloon. That they had been all alone from the moment she’d stepped through the door. Those with good sense and not intent on tonight’s rough pleasure had exited quickly as she sat. Even the owner of the joint had hauled ass as soon as he set the complimentary beer in front of this woman who radiated power and purpose. You got to know such things when you spent time near The Ends. They reacted with the atmosphere, created something like a halo.

They warned those with sense.

"You mute, old woman?" the speaker went on. "Just an idiot laugh left in that empty old head?"

Charity smiled at him. The weight of the talisman around her neck soothed and grounded her.

"You ever hear of the legends they got a bit east of here?" she began. Her voice was strong and loud. It surprised the men. They seemed to shrink a little. "The legends of the Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats?"

The wariness in the eyes of the men grew bright and painful. They tensed. "I ain’t in no mood to hear fairy stories, lady." said the speaker, but his voice broke on the last words. And that was the moment the girl chose to speak up.

"Why, I’ve heard them!" she said, excited and please. "Been hearin’ ‘em my whole life seems like." She closed her eyes and recited, with the air of one telling a favorite story:

"The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats moves through the world on a path all her own. She came from someplace beyond and her destination is not for common folk to understand. The cats who follow her speak to her in a secret language, and those folk who help her on her path are rewarded in a thousand different ways."

"Shut up that nonsense!" one of the men hissed. But Charity over rode him.

"You go on, honey."

"On her hip is a gun as old as the world and almost as big. With her travels an army of wild cats who know secret paths across the land."

The three men heard enough. They were up and guns were drawn.

But they found that a gun was already waiting for them. They hadn’t even seen her move.

"You go on over by the door, honey." she told the red haired girl. "Stay there. Listen. But get ready to run."

The girl backed away from the standoff. But she had the fire, well and true. She stayed. Stared. Her eyes were intent and curious.

Charity smiled at her, then turned the smile on her targets. "Girl tells a story well, don’t she?"

Silence. Electricity coursed the room.

"Well, I know a story of that Woman. One ain’t nobody heard. Want to hear it?"

The men just stood frozen. She looked at the girl. Warming her heart, she got a little smile and an even tinier nod.

Oh, there was fire in this one.

"One night the woman had a dream." Charity began. Her voice became quieter, but her eyes never wavered. "In the dream that first cat — the one who had been with her on the whole hard road — had came up to her and found a voice to speak. This struck the woman as odd until she realized — the way you do sometimes — that the cat had been speaking to her in dreams since the day she’d met him."

"’Mizz’, the cat said ‘I’m getting old and this here game were playing is getting tired and lonesome.’"

"The woman was taken aback. ‘What game are you referring to, Cat?’ she asked."

"’The game where you pretend I’m a cat and I pretend I’m a cat and such.’ he told her. ‘It’s just tiresome.’"

The youngest of the men whimpered and his hand twitched. Charity shot him three times, carefully paralyzing him, and had her gun back at its exact point before anyone else could even breathe different. The thud of the body to the floor was ignored. So was the whimpering. Sweating increased. Blood pressure rose.

The girl, to her credit, didn’t flinch.

After a moment, Charity continued.

"The woman got all insulted and acted like that cat was crazy. The cat was an old hand at his and just told the story again, patiently."

"’I ain’t no Cat, Mizz. I’m just a part of you that you got separated from a long time ago. Your spirit, some might call it. Your will. That fire that makes a person a person.’"

"’You shut up!’ that stupid ignorant woman said. She didn’t want to hear it."

"The cat ignored her, and went on. ‘I’m old and tired of this form, Mizz. Time for you to do what you need to do.’"

The oldest of the men, the one who’d spoke first, broke. He screamed and fired. He missed by a mile.

Very carefully, almost regretfully, Charity blew his head off.

Centimeter twitch, bone and muscle and skin and tendon like steel. She blew the second man’s head off even as he tried to apply pressure to the trigger.

In the sudden silence came a laugh. From the floor. The paralyzed man laughed like he expected nothing less.

The red haired girl helped her pull him outside, where there was a little more light. The girl eyed her like a vision gone bad.

"You need to head on back home now." Charity told her.

"No home to go to." the girl said.

"Well. Away from here will be an improvement."

The child smiled. "You’re right." She turned to walk away, then stopped. She looked Charity in the eyes when she spoke.

"I’m glad I got to meet you." she said, simply. "I’ve been hearing about you all my life. When I was a kid I believed in you utterly. When I got older, not so much." She laughed. "It’s a nice thing to know that the faiths of your childhood are not in vain."

Charity nodded. "What’s you name?"

"Annie." the girl told her.

"A good name." Charity said, with the hint of irony.

"Good enough." the girl agreed. Then she turned and walked away.

Charity focused on the dying man in front of her.

"Where did he go?" she demanded. "Your Boss?"

The dying man smiled at her. "I’ll tell you if you finish the story." he said, voice slurring.

Charity was startled. "What?"

"The story about the cat." he reminded her. "I figured where it was going. I…I know how tales go." he said. There was a pause. "You ate him, right?"

Charity actually laughed. She produced the talisman. It was the gleaming skull of a cat. The empty eyes were as black as space.

"Yeah." she admitted. "When I woke up he was dying at my feet. Old and tired. I petted him a little and he was gone. But his voice was strong in my head. I skinned him and ate him. Shared bits of him with the braver of his army. Then I set his skull on a fire ant pile and let them fashion me this here talisman."

"He was always you, and with you he stays." the man said, blood bubbling on his lips. "I won’t say I’m sorry or anything like that. But I’ll ask you to make it quick."

"Where did he go?" Charity demanded, but her voice was soft.

"He ran into The Ends." the man admitted. "He’s gone. Please. End it quick."

She did so.

Then she headed for The Ends.

She didn’t truly believe it until she neared that ugly grey curtain and saw the abandoned caravan wagon. She caught sight of one of the mules — skinny, near starved, almost wild from abuse — grazing nearby.

She followed a set of tracks until she came right up against that grey border.

Charity stood there, staring into that blank grey wall, and the footprints that staggered so recklessly past it. She stood there feeling the cold emptiness inside, as it echoed the cold emptiness of that grey expanse.

After these miles and these years. After these struggles. Could this be all there was to find? Another set of footsteps leading into the unknown?

Go on, a secret little voice inside whispered. Go on. Keep following. Keep on his trail. Don’t let him escape. She trembled, listening to it, torn.

"Don’t listen." said another voice, familiar and not secret at all.

She turned, gun coming out and up in reflex.

The Smoke Man stopped, hands out in peace.

"He’s gone." he told her, plain and simple. "Gone and past chasing."

"I failed." she interpreted.

He laughed. The laughter held no mockery, no bitterness. It was a laugh of true friendly humor. "Oh, Lord woman. You are too hard on yourself. Ugly Jim was right about you. Nothing by half. Nothing."

"He escaped me." she said. Tears threatened. For the first time in years past God’s counting, her vision wavered and tears threatened. Rage and frustration clashed inside her.

The Smoke Man shook his head, still chuckling. "You terrified the man." he told her. "You hounded him. Even death didn’t give him escape, you followed him even there. You followed no matter the space or the obstacle he threw up. Every mile he got brought him stories of you growing ever closer."

The talisman grew warm. She felt it invading her body.

"You hounded him." he continued, obviously enjoying his words. "All these years, all these miles, and every one brought him tales of you on his trail." His smile grew fit to split his face. "Tales that tore him apart. Tales that made you a queen and a goddess and a goddamn hero. Made you what he’d pretended to be for so long in that other world. What he’d lied himself to be. And the thing that ate him the most, the thing that harried him past all reason was….why, he knew the stories about you were true." That smile no longer looked even the slightest bit pleasant. It was a portrait of revenge, well and true.

"You hounded him, lady. You hounded him right off the edge of the fucking world and into the certainty of extinction. Hounded him with fear and shame and the plain old ugly facts of the matter."

The tears were falling now, but they were a different sort. The gun in her hand sank away, but The Smoke Man didn’t move. Through the prism of those tears she was stunned to see the trails on his own face.

"You hounded him." his voice was quiet, almost a prayer. "Mostly you hounded him with the fact that what your Daddy said was true — no matter what he took away, no matter how hard he hurt you, what your Daddy said was true. You were a good girl."

The Smoke Man turned and spat, into the grey Ends. As near to the clumsy footsteps as he could reach.

"You did him in." said the quiet voice that did not waver despite the tears. "Good riddance. Good girl. Thank you."

And she saw that the shape of the Smoke Man was becoming vague. Dissipating.

The gun was at her side now. "What are you?" she asked. There was no demand, only a desire to know.

His voice was already growing indistinct. But he answered.

"No man is born evil." he said. "In fact, to become evil a man has to kill what is good in him and send it away, into the Borderlands, to trouble his whims no more."

She tried to step up and hold the Smoke Man’s hand as he faded, but he was beyond that now.

He glanced at the implacable grey curtain. "That creature killed me long ago. Sent me here long ago. I’ve been walking this ground for a long time. I did what I could. Life is a trapshoot, and we take our shot. We grab on every chance hit to stay in the game. If we manage to get the chances to stay in long enough, we might get good enough to hang on till something right happens."

Charity fell to her knees and tried to cling to him. She failed, he was truly smoke now, almost gone.

"I was killed long before he set eyes on you. But somehow I knew about you. I waited for you. I hung on till I got to meet you. I felt him come and knew you’d be on his trail."

She wept without shame. He faded.

"Go back east." came the whisper. "Time don’t matter much here. Go to the east and look for your home."

She barely heard his last words over her own grief.

"I’m glad I got to meet you, Annie. I love you. You’re a good girl."

And then the wind took the last of him.

She sobbed for a good long time, and the universe was kind and let her have the peace to do it.

When she finished, she stood up. She dusted herself off. She looked around.

The world abided. From every hiding spot curious eyes peered out. They waited, wondering what came next.

She sighed. She stretched. She hoisted the backpack up and secured the straps. She turned away from the grey nothing of the ends of the world and started walking.

"Let’s go, dammit." she told the cats.




And so she headed back east, in search of a place she’d once known. She wasn’t certain of finding it, of course, but certainties were not the point.

The point was the journey, and that blazing need, that desire. The seeking of a thing was the worthwhile part of living, not the finding.

As she travelled the cats came to her. Ferals from the wilderness, barn kittens who got the itch and urge to travel when she passed. They followed her as birds follow the seasons, as leaves turn to follow the rain. The came to her and fought for her, and loved her up close and from a distance. They responded to something in her that was like themselves, some strength and independence. Some instinct to move together but to never be herded.

To an instinct to forever hunt.

As she travelled the legends whirled and grew around her, shimmering and splitting and becoming great sagas and simple cautionary tales. They became boogie stories and bedtime treats. They became sermons and drunken jokes. They became stories great and simple and none of them were any more or less true than the others. That is the nature of legends. The beating heart of myth.

Legends. Myth. Explorations of that eternal basic mystery, and the simple truth that the investigation of it is what matters.

Legends.

Of the grim, quiet wanderer with the kind heart and a soul full of justice.

Of the army of cats that travelled on secret paths and could not be left behind.

Of the huge steel gun that sounded like thunder.

Of the fall of governments and the rise of new nations.

Of the slaying of dragons herded off the end of the world.

Of the jet black talisman with the space dark eyes.

Of poor Faith, brave Hope and grim Charity.


Of the woman who hitch hiked with cats.





When I was a child, I spake as a child,
I understood as a child, I thought as a child:
but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

For now we see through a glass, darkly;
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am known.

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three;
but the greatest of these is charity.
(1Corinthians 13:11-13)



(For Claire and Sharon, and all the other daughters of Columbia. I love you, sisters.)