Mother Else pleaded. ‘I don’t, I don’t want to go,’ she said.
‘But we must, Robyn,’ said Nicholas, Father Else. ‘We’re going. Don’t make me… Not without you,’ he said. ‘I’d go mad.’
‘I can’t do it,’ said Robyn. ‘I can’t stand it. Being there.’
‘We’ve been through this,’ said Nicholas, the soul of patience. ‘It could reflect badly on us if we don’t. Especially… since…’ He worked hard to keep his tone measured and stable, but could not express the unspeakable. ‘On any one of us,’ he said. Heavy of heart, Mother Else relented. Gathering up her shawl she joined her bonded husband awaiting her on the porch. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘We’ll make a show of it, together.’
‘Where is Else Two?’ Robyn asked.
‘Someplace,’ said Father Else, without even glancing around to check. ‘Someplace Else. They will be all right. Provision’s made. We must leave now or we’ll be late. That won’t look good, either.’
Robyn, Mother Else, sank deep into the folds of his winter coat, taking brief shelter there. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, her voice muffled.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘I’m pregnant and I have TB,’ she said.
‘… I know,’ he said.
All adult citizens dutifully gathered out of town at the sign of the Circle Squared. The column of their lit torches blazed through the night, embroidering with a spectral orange glow the lowest hanging branches of the all-surrounding trees.
Else Two hung back a ways. They had blackened their face with earth, and wore their darkest clothes – it wasn’t as if they had many to choose from although some of Else One’s cast-offs still fit. This much, they hoped, would sufficiently disguise their presence, just as Father, a skilled huntsman and tracker, had taught them to do: as the many-fabled “Bowman”, his much-beloved mentor, had in turn taught him.
They could clearly make out Mother and Father in the midst of the restless crowd, and the sight caused their heart to swell with pride: Else Two admired how, even as they mingled, they cleaved very close to one another’s side.
The younger families – besides Mother and Father, the Grants, the Sparks, and a couple of the Chandlers – Evelyn with her eldest, Caleb – appeared to gravitate together by nature, as close contemporaries would. Likewise among those considerably older – the Cattricks, plus the widow Cass, and dear Oldmother Medem – who by the looks of it busily consoled Oldfather Warner.
There were so many Gottfrieds they made up their own clan. More than one generation of them – four in all by Else Two’s reckoning, with three at least present. So many Gottfrieds and Gottfriedsons they could – and did – pop-up along the line pretty much anywhere. A good job they hadn’t a lick of sense between them, as Father liked to say, or they might prove a force to be reckoned with. “Gottfriends” he called them, when in good humour: “Gottfiends”, most of the time.
At last their long procession halted. The string of them began to compress into a large and milling crowd, gathering in the small meadow close behind the Old Middens, the one where they’d seen Old Man Gottfried but the Old Man hadn’t seen them, and below the arena, the place – as they now knew – where the main event was soon going to happen. Else Two was a little surprised at just how soon they had got there by the more direct route.
Out of everyone only Bachelor Barnet and the adult Goodmans – already present when the rest arrived – stayed in dutiful position, quietly over to one side. Muted, they gathered up Caleb Chandler to where Jimmy Cattrick also awaited, and escorted them away, intent on some mysterious business.
Even as the remainder circulated ready divisions split the community along complex partisan lines – apparent separations of age, of gender, and now fealty, fidelity, fears of guilt-by-association, call it what you will. That much and more was clear, even to Else Two’s young eyes. Of them all, only Oldmother Gottfried, the family’s matriarch, was missing – a presence anyway rarely seen out and missed not at all. She must have been somewhere back in town, babysitting the youngest children. Oh and Bethel of course. Else Two couldn’t recall ever having seen them, other than propped over the half-door of her old carriage.
Initially things looked harmless enough. Almost enticing. This was after all a neighbourly event, in spirit and at root – a community cook out, partway pot latch, and the closest they had to a Harvest Festival. Else Two had often heard mention of a concurrent “Labor Day” celebration – but weren’t all days labor days? For parents and children alike. Else Two supposed they got off lightly there in comparison to some.
Around one of the larger ground fires the crowds stood toasting marshmallows on long, thin stalks. Plus what looked like… chunks of meat. Some larger breed of animal had been slaughtered, a goat or two perhaps. Smoke on the wind wafting irresistible smells made hungry Else Two salivate.
A weirdling, wheedling music issued from somewhere unidentifiable – someone, or something – the likes of which Else Two had never heard before.
Big glass jars, apparently heavy, were being passed back and forth, filled with a clear liquid: judging by its reception – and equally as much by their reactions, once having eagerly quaffed some – clearly not water. Also, what looked very much like small, thin sticks of tobacco. Even at this distance, the air around them began to stink – ugly, but sweet. Else Two briefly fretted about possibly having tripped over a groundling skunk somewhere in the dark. Had they been sprayed? But no, that was daft. They’d surely know. More likely then it was damp leaf mould – windfall seen smouldering around the base of the burning campfires. Yes, that must be it.
Following some enigmatic form of signal neither seen nor heard the townspeople began to split off in clumps. Disorderly now, they staggered piecemeal through a gap in the tall fence at the top of the grassy knoll: the fence surrounding the arena, the Circle Squared. By ones and twos they disappeared out of direct line of sight.
Stealthily, Else Two crept in a wide arc through the dense underbrush, seeking out and then, having found, taking up a new and improved vantage point. To their very great surprise the massing crowd now filled out the topmost ranks of a short stack of bleachers, high wooden stands overlooking the ring of the arena itself – a significant enough feature that in the intensity of their previous foray they must have missed, or passed completely by.
The tenor of events – communal spirits, along with the tempo of strange music – darkened as it deepened: scarily so.
Moving even further forward now, to a proximity that might be deemed precarious, Else Two observed their parents only pretending to eat and enjoy the shared mallow which was already being passed around. Like normal they proceeded to pocket a good chunk of theirs. Slender hopes arose that they might mean this for a gift – for consumption all together back at their house, later, or perhaps in the morning. Fleeting expressions of disgust, only half-hidden, distorted Mother’s fine features, strongly suggesting her inability to stomach the stuff. All the more then for Else Two.
Bang, once. Bang, twice. Else Two rapped themselves on the forehead with an angry fist. Nothing less than Else One’s living ghost admonished them. They shouldn’t be so selfish. Nor disrespectful. Once more. Twice for good measure. Owww.
Mother looked so drawn and thin. She’d lost a lot of weight.
The drinking continued unabated. Accelerated if anything – the jars becoming obviously lighter tossed back and forth with a reckless abandon: refilled as soon as emptied, which they very often were. People’s voices got louder, becoming brash and distorted.
Finally Magister Chandler, newly appointed, made his grand entrance. Emerging from some place concealed beneath the stands he swept across the circular arena’s entire diameter. As he reached the farther side, and with a broad sweep of his inherited cloak of office, he turned to greet his expectant audience. He beamed. Magisterial, yes. Victorious.
A deathly hush settled on the crowd. Shouldn’t they clap? Should they cheer? Everyone held their expectations yet no one among them seemed to know the new form – what might be required of them under a new order. This was a brand new world, and not so very brave for all that.
Their new Magister thrust one arm up into the air above his head. A big sort of a rig loomed by his side. One lengthy branch extended out from it – above him, some tantalising four feet or so overhead, almost but not quite within his reach. Else Two felt sure they recognized it: the basketball hoop that used to occupy their recreation ground at one end of “the green”. So that’s where it had gone. An anonymous gray tarpaulin slung over the top concealed where the basket should be.
The Magister’s arm swooped low. At this, Magister Chandler’s latest signal, Chandler Two appeared, not so much led into the circular arena as forcibly pushed in from the side. Stripped down to his underwear, he looked terrified: the exact same look Else Two had seen before reflected in Goodman One’s startled eyes, back when they’d still been friends – terror-struck, shaken to the core of their being. Elder brother Caleb Chandler, just one of the willing minions forcing him forward, took their place standing alongside their father. He, Brom, bent almost double, howling with a cruel laughter. The other lackey, Jimmy Cattrick, took up station beside the rigged-up hoopla-thingy. He stooped to take up what looked like guy ropes from the falling sand, one in each hand.
Chandler Two cowered in their midst, adrift where he had been roughly placed – beneath the approximate end point of the rig and its extended arm, hidden by the hanging tarp. Reduced to a stripling, shivering violently whether from nerves or the cold or both, he strove in vain to cover over his modesty. ‘This one goes out especially to you, Benny!’ Magister Chandler cried out. ‘Drink it in!’ he shouted, a comment sufficient to confuse most everyone. And yet, with rousing and repeated arm gestures they were encouraged to laugh aloud and generally to join in the ridicule at this spectacle.
Else Two felt almost sorry for Chandler Two. Spotting their own parents almost submerged in amongst the turmoil, Else Two appreciated that they were not laughing. Crouched down low in their seats, Father pulled Mother in close. Her face looked wretched and appalled. She was nudged gently into turning aside, sheltering beneath his enveloping embrace. Else Two felt the heat of their own cheeks stinging: for bearing witness: for coveting the mallow: for any infinite number of reasons.
Out in front Magister Chandler raised and held aloft both arms, the long fingers of his mighty hands widespread. His command for silence. Once he had it, and only then, completely – it took long moments for the bewildered and panicky onlookers to switch gears – he commenced his inaugural address.
The naming ceremony had begun.
A few welcoming formalities swiftly glossed over, the Magister’s servant helpers stepped up on either side to hand him two books, one taken up in each hand. The first volume Else Two easily recognised as a copy of their Bible, the same beat-up copy in fact so frequently fondled by their Magister – the old, their former, the outgoing Magister that was. This would take some getting used to. The second of the two books looked a little larger, but also floppy, no spine. Nothing much more than a simple childish exercise book like the ones they’d been made to write in during their earliest years of schooling – as brief as those times had persisted. And it was this second, composition-style notebook that Magister Chandler shook open and began to flip through – evidently finding it difficult, with both of his hands full – in apparent search of some specific passage or other. Everyone waited patiently, breath bated.
How odd, thought Else Two, this seeming reverence for the written word, when, by and large, it was otherwise despised or else abandoned – even persecuted.
The Magister yawped having successfully located a spread of scrawled pages previously marked, presumably with the curlicue scroll that fell at his feet.
‘Here we go,’ he said.
Hm, a spread… this might take a while.
“When man kind and unkind first fell, alongside their charges, the angelic hosts of Cherubim endured, ageless and sexless. They were created eternal, without gender. But such was the corruption of the Earth that they all too soon grew genitalia.”
Magister Chandler halted in his speech with an exaggerated double-take. ‘‘…?! Honestly, who wrote this shit?’ he said. ‘It’s such… garbage!’ Casually he flung the exercise book aside, its pages briefly parting during its short flight like ineffective wings. The people gasped. ‘Won’t be needing that anymore!’ he said. ‘A host of golden daffodils!’ Chandler declaimed in ringing, ironic tones. ‘Unsex me here!’ he crowed, cold but unclear in his meaning. The other pagemarked book he passed between right to left hand before hauling it aloft.
In a momentary flash Else Two envisioned once more, Chandler Two, flailing helpless in the air, seized up by the Beast.
“Wipe away all tears from your eyes,” Magister Chandler read out aloud. ‘‘There shall be no more death,” he said. Insouciant, he very briefly pouted. “Neither sorrow, nor crying. Neither shall there be any more pain,” he said. “For the former things are passed away.”
They got it now. This was more proper Bible talk. Of course. The family had tried to find succour, some sort of salvation or salve, in exactly this sort of business before – where none, for them at least, might be found. Almost disappointing, Else Two reflected. That he, Chandler, of all people, from what little they knew of him, should settle for following a script. ‘Scripture’.
‘For you…’ Magister Chandler intoned. He turned to address directly the undressed youth still shaking by his side. ‘Chandler Two…’ he said. Ah, off script. ‘Tonight, your life ends here.’ Notably at the same time Thomas, Father Chandler, began to back away. Chandler Two looked like he might plotz.
‘Behold,’ cried the Magister, ‘I make all things new!’
At his given signal Jimmy Cattrick pulled hard on his ropes and hop-skip-jumped out of the way. The tarpaulin dropped. Great gouts of blood showered from a suspended pair of upturned buckets, drenching Chandler Two from head to toe. He stood petrified – transformed into a glistening pillar of crimson.
‘It is done,’ the Magister said, gravely. It certainly was. Another gesture, and from either side his gleeful henchmen rushed forward, eager to do his bidding. “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” Magister Chandler declared grandly. “The beginning and the end. I give unto HIM our newborn a thirst of the fountain of the water of life… freely.”
They cleansed the baptised being with arcing bucketfuls – with water far too precious a commodity for such folly. Battered from one side and then the other the pillar melted and dissolved, until frail humanity stood once more exposed. Job done, Magister Chandler strode forward. Taking the bedraggled initiate’s hand in his own he raised them both up. ‘Here before you, arisen, stands Toren Chandler!’ he cried. ‘New made!’
Toren?!
“Toren!” The entire Circle rose to their feet as one, cheering their welcome.
Father turned to son. ‘You are a Man. You are Power. You are Pride,’ he said, taking him in both hands, grasped firmly by the shoulders. ‘You are Anything You Want to Be!’ he said. “He…He…He…” Was he laughing? What? No… crying. Actual tears! “He that overcometh, shall inherit all things,” Magister Chandler bellowed out, visible spit flying. “Yea, verily! … and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.” He enveloped the traumatized boy in a bearhug exuding genuine warmth. ‘My son,’ he repeated. ‘YeaAHH!’ The Magister, as their leader, as guiding principal, spirit and soul, central to the community – but most of all as a proud parent – exulted. At last truly triumphant.
A short pause taken in order to reset, the Naming Ceremony for Taron Chandler segued almost naturally into its next phase – the Tournament. Childish excitement, at such levels as only adults could generate, rose to hit fever pitch – nerve-wracked anticipation mixed with anxious dread overspilling at times into flashpoints of sudden anger: hilarity plus vitriol.
Magister Chandler, expertly orchestrating the evening’s events, carefully judged the optimum moment to bring in universal hate object Herbert Spenser. Baying lustily, long and loud, the mob gave voice to their disapprobation. Their former light led slowly around the entire circumference of the arena, and then around again, they barracked and booed, swearing furious vengeance and the bloodiest retribution. Objects were thrown, only a couple of them finding their mark. One even hit Jimmy Cattrick, who pulled Spenser along on a chain. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Watch it!’
‘Aw, Shucks!’ heckled somebody, doubtless one of his bro gang.
Eventually however enough was enough. Rounding off his final circuit Spenser was pulled up short and thrown down, prostrate, before the crowding stands. He would have stayed that way too if not for being dragged back up again and forced to stand in the same hotspot the once and former Chandler Two had occupied before him. Uneasy, he lifted first one foot, then the other – finding himself ankle deep in a sour and fermenting red mash – provoking in him an evident and growing distress.
“I saw a new heaven an’ a new earth!” shouted Magister Chandler. Addressing them now from a raised platform, roughly on a level with the basketball hoop and similarly suspended above the blood pit, he regained everyone’s attention on the instant. Wavering slightly on his perch, slurring mightily, he’d very obviously been partaking in that seemingly never-ending supply of “hooch” something fierce. “For the first heaven, an’ the first, the first earth,” he said, “were pass away. But the fearful, an’ unbelievin’… an’, an’ th’ abominabubble… an’ muddrahs…” Even half-cut he spoke out with absolute conviction. “An’ whoremungahs, an’ sorce-res, and idolatters… and all liars...” Absolute sincerity. “Sh’ll huv theih part inna lake which burneth with fiyah and brimston’: whish IS th’ secon’d death.”
To combine a new adult’s Naming Ceremony with a Death Match was an innovation, but one that worked surprisingly well – up to a point. Chandler, fumbling, dropped his magisterial copy of the Holy Bible from a great height. It landed on the raked sands below with a soft <plop>. ‘Fffuck,’ he mumbled. ‘Bibble…’
Gathering himself, Magister Chandler essayed a swift recovery. ‘NOW, fellas,’ he shouted. ‘NOW!’ He looked around and behind, as if to check. ‘Behole…’ he said.
Finally.
Else Two had been absent on a necessary toilet break but now, returned, looked on. Down within the arena Magister Chandler pointed everyone’s attention toward that gap between the all-surrounding boards. Else Two knew very well where this opening, memorably slender, led – to the old caboose mounted on blocks, and the sorry creature kept in the cage there.
A loud metallic clang sounded, echoing from that same middle distance.
Opposite, up in the stands, everybody held their boozy breath.
‘Beyon’ dimaginin’, beyon’ th’ pale,’ Magister Chandler intoned. ‘The Bastard of the Margin… waits for you!’
Wait… “the Bastard”? The capital B Bastard!?
‘Heeeere it comes,’ he said.
The light of more than one torch cast strobing shadows. These danced across the high wooden walls the entire length of the long, curved corridor. Pulsing unsteadily they heaved from one side to the other. The nightmare shapes gradually shrank in on themselves: the closer they came, the shorter, more solid-seeming – and, as they grew dense, all the more threatening.
‘Be assure,’ the Magister said, in lullaby tones almost soothing, ‘it’ll take goo’ care of you.’
A low and growling moan caused all who heard it to lean back, wherever they stood, crouched or sat – Else Two included.
‘Herbert Avraham Spenser,’ Magister Chandler said, granting his words the full weight of solemn oath, ‘may you fine peace in th’ Bastard’s sweet embrace!’
A dark stain bloomed across Spenser’s trousers. Trembling, he’d wet himself.
Brought out into the dim light of the arena, herded with flaming torches, burdened by chains, the Bastard surged into view. It was truly enormous, a shaggy mountain. Weaving side to side, much as its shadow had done, it dragged along huge meaty arms, each ending in massive claw-like hands. They parted the sands, leaving behind them deep grooves, like the trail of the deadliest plough. Not bull, or bear, nor like any other animal either mythical or real, seen in life, or in any one of Else Two’s old picture books. The Beast!
The Beast was the Bastard. The Bastard was the Beast. All this time their childish legend had been based on a misheard word.
Larger than life, a living death. Cancer with a human face. Spenser fell to his knees before it.
Mother shielded her eyes. Father made himself a shield for Mother.
Around and all about them broke out a melee – frenzied exhortation, incitement, furore – bloodthirsty brute gesticulation. Outstretched hands grasped at the long wooden sticks that were being broken out and distributed.
One other odd stillness – Oldmother Medem, deep in concentration: her facial expression distant, unknowable. Yet she kept her steady gaze fixed on the drama developing down below. Bastard or Beast, the chains around them pulled ever tighter, lashed with gusto, cruelly beaten, compelled toward the very centre of the arena, where it was bound to the large metal ring embedded there.
The Beast roared out its pain and rage. No, not rage. Outrage.
Armed with their long staves, Jimmy Cattrick, Caleb and also now Toren Chandler, dried and dressed, poked and prodded at the prone figure of old Herb Spenser, forcing him once more to his feet.
Storming the lower reaches of the stands, the mad throng used their own wicked sticks to keep the pitiably staggering man away from the sides – from anywhere he might seek let alone find the least bit of shelter. Zealously they made sure that he should remain ever within harm’s reach. Magister Chandler, his wide mouth horribly distorted, egged them on.
Weeping uncontrollably, jerking fearful looks as the black mass grew at his back, Spenser, palms up, spread his arms in earnest supplication.
“Whether Bestial oblivion, or some… craven scruple,” Magister Chandler raved: frothing, ecstatic, “quarter'd… one part wisdom, three parts coward!”
The Beast bore down, then stopped, slavering jaws hovering just above the doomed man’s head. It sniffed at him once, twice. Baring pointed yellow fangs, it appeared to know very well the scent. Burning red eyes looked down deep into his: in, Else could swear, recognition. Rare satisfaction even.
Else Two, turning aside, searched further up the stands for Mother and Father: no longer found in their seats. Urgently they cast about… there! Standing. Shouting. Down at the front, in together with all the rest – their mouths screaming out same as the others. Calling for death, death, death and destruction.
Unable to stand it, no longer willing to tolerate the sight of any more, Else Two thrashed their way back through the ankle-grabbing undergrowth. Quitting the scene they undertook a wide arc, trailing well away from the unfolding horrors, careful to avoid straying too close to the main path into town. By the time they’d reached a far enough point they rejoined it, the going immediately easier and much faster, enough of a waxing moon for them to see the way ahead quite clearly.
The sounds, though, carried for miles in the forest by night. Grisly mental images conjured by what they couldn’t help but overhear, Else Two could not dismiss. Their starved imagination worked overtime. The dull roar of the crowd in the distance (an arm, broken). Then, perhaps a minute later, a loud cheer (spinal cord, severed). A final gasp, an elongated “Ooooh”. And then everything lapsed into a long and hollowed out silence.
It was done. Else Two picked up the pace.
Poor old Father Spenser. As a climax to the evening’s festivities – although little doubt driven to the deed – the Bastard Beast had most likely torn his head completely off.