Iron Quill (Pride) - The Orchard

[admiralvorkraft]

The Orchard

Words: 1750

Ingredients used: All

 

“I don’t see what’s so sinister. He’s a simple man, brings fruit to town and lord knows we need them. You think your mines are running slow now, you don’t want to see what an outbreak of scurvy will do to your numbers.” Flynn blows into his hands to warm them. He wonders how Hibble can stand so still against the biting wind.

 

“You don’t see anything unusual in his display?” Hibble’s voice is thin. In Flynn’s professional opinion he seems awfully nervous for a man with his own town.

 

“The grocer takes pride in his work. Nothing wrong with that.” Flynn had noted the way the grocer stacked and ordered his wares, giving each one the time and attention that an artist gives to her work. Does no one realize how cold it is?

 

“Be that as it may, I don’t trust him.” Hibble rolls his cane between his hands, “So look into it.”

 

“I can run him out of town for you, it’s what you pay me for,” Flynn says.

 

“Of course, but if you don’t have a reason then you’ll go all grim on me. You have a sense of honor in there somewhere.” Hibble pokes him in the chest.

 

“If you say so.” Flynn presses himself into the door frame of the Red Dog, trying to get out of the wind, “So why don’t you trust him?”

 

“He takes town scrip,” Hibble says, “If you can’t find some reason to get rid of him then I need to find a sheriff capable of the job.”

 

“I’ll work on it,” Flynn says.

 

“You do that.” Without another word Hibble turns and walks, whistling up the road. His house is up there, an arch stone thing not built by human hands. Flynn can feel it looking down on him through the scudding snow and wishes he couldn’t.

 

Unfortunately, Flynn thinks, The man has a point. Guild scrip is as good as the soulstones that back it, town scrip on the other hand… How are you paying for oranges in November with town money?

 

Promise thrums beneath his feet, pickaxes mark their time and dynamite booms even on the night shift. Men and women dart from building to building, taking cover. Behind him the common room at the Red Dog is coming back to life now that that Hibble’s shadow has left the doorway.

 

Flynn stands silent in the howling wind and watches the grocer with a sniper’s eye. If it were up to him Flynn wouldn’t bother the man, But it isn’t.

 

The grocer looks up, and for a half-second Flynn feels their eyes meet. The wind seems to fade and the cold doesn’t bite so deep.

 

The illusion passes. Just once, Flynn thinks, I’d like a job that didn’t involve freezing my ass off. He crosses the blasted road.

 

“Got something to help a frostbitten man remember the sun?” He says.

 

“Certainly, sir.” The grocer smiles. He has the right number of teeth. There’s no flicker of madness behind his eyes, “Oranges, lemons, these are from the Mediterranean,” he picks up a red orb, puckered at one end. He tosses it, catches it, “Pomegranate they call it. The meat’s no good but it’s packed with seeds, little rubies. Eat one slowly and you can enjoy it for days.”

 

“How much?”

 

“For you, sheriff? Free.” The grocer tosses him the fruit.

 

“What’s your name friend?” Flynn asks.

 

“Call me Hod,” the grocer says.

 

“You travel alone?” Flynn says, nodding to the grocer’s heavy cart.

 

“Surely do,” Hod says.

 

“Takes a brave man,” Flynn says.

 

“It’s not about bravery, it’s knowing,” Hod says, and taps his temple with a gnarled finger.

 

“Knowing?”

 

“The weather, the signs,” Hod says, “Red sky at night for example,” he gestures towards the setting sun, “Wanderer’s delight.”

 

For a second the sun bathes his face, throws the geography of his skin into sharp relief.

 

“I hate to hurry you,” the grocer says, “But it seems there’s a line forming.”

 

Flynn turns. A young woman is standing there, a stranger underdressed for the weather. “Not too late am I?”

 

“Not at all m’lady,” the grocer coos.

 

“Thanks,” Flynn says, and heads back up the only street.

 

Words seep after him through cracks in the frozen air, “What are these?”

 

“...Mediterranean my dear, they call them…”

 

Something inaudible.

 

“For you? Free.”

 

Strange. Flynn looks at the Pomegranate in his hand. It feels innocent, grown in the soil of Earth.

 

His feet lead him to the creaking boarding house where he spends his nights. It’s built long and low like the rest of the town, clinging to the rock as though it might blow away. The wind whistles around the ill-fitting door, and he passes the pot of greasy stew without looking at it. Perhaps the blind woman that runs the house calls out to him. Perhaps not.

 

He sits down on the bed that occupies most of his narrow room. Pride of station has won him the only solo room in the building. Flynn kicks off his boots and rolls the pomegranate around. It smells like sweet rain. He cuts into it with the broad bladed knife he carries at his belt. Tough meat falls away in flakes on the ground. Carefully he picks out a single ruby seed.

 

A drop of blood, a single frozen heartbeat… He pops it in his mouth. There is a burst of light and sweetness and Flynn closes his eyes to revel in it. But it’s gone all too quickly. He dives back in for a second, and a third, but can’t reclaim the momentary glow of that first seed.

By the third his mouth is dry, and the fifth seed finds him exhausted. The sixth seed falls uneaten from his dead lips.

 

***

The world is rocking, rolling him over in the dark. It’s a sweat-stained sawdust world, a cheap perfume and stained lace world. It’s a throbbing headache, And crates and crates of oranges.

 

Flynn struggles to sit up. The cart throws him around like a rag doll on every bounce. His hand touches something soft. The woman? She’s sound asleep but still breathing. There’s a jolt in the road and he’s thrown to the floor, something sharp catches him in the chest and his leather jacket barely turns it aside.

 

He gropes in the dark and finds it, a comb made of bone. The handle is snapped clean to a point. Flynn tosses it onto the woman’s body and braces himself on the far wall. He’s missing his gun and knife, he still has his badge. Great.

 

The cart tips forward sharply and Flynn can barely stop himself from tumbling. For a moment there’s just a sense of falling and then there’s nothing.

 

Think. The cart has a sliding door on the side, if he can take the grocer by surprise then maybe…

 

The wall gives way behind him and Flynn tumbles out onto soft earth. For a split second he looks up at Hod and Hod looks down at him, and then Flynn is up and running. Hod no longer looks like a simple grocer. His hair is wild with twigs, his limbs are wound with roots.

 

Flynn runs through a forest, No, an orchard. All around him the mountains still dare the sky, but here in the valley there are rows and rows of fruit laden trees. Each one is growing out of a neat mound of earth.

 

A shot rings out behind him and Flynn dives to the right. He scrambles out of the line of fire and nestles back into the spongy mound.

 

“This is a fascinating pistol you have,” Hod’s voice hasn’t changed and somehow that makes the whole thing worse, “Did you know the grip isn’t mother of pearl? Not even imitation really. Do you know what it is?”

 

Flynn closes his eyes, tries to pinpoint the grocer by his voice. If he saw where I went down he wouldn’t be wasting his breath.

 

“It’s soulstone. Fully charged. Do you know why that is?”

 

Because Hibble is showing off? It was lost on me then. Hod is coming up on the left, maybe twenty feet. Flynn braces himself.

 

“Can you even use soulstones sheriff? Do you even know what they are?”

 

Slowly, so slowly, Flynn rolls over. The soil of the mound gives way and he catches his breath.

 

“They are lives cut short. You people are parasites, tearing life out of the earth.”

 

Under the soil is a net of thin roots obscuring… something. In spite of everything, Flynn is curious. He leans closer.

 

“Here in my garden I give life back, and isn’t it a lovely thing? In the middle of the mountains there’s something soft, something gentle. I don’t want to kill you, you know.”

 

Suits me fine.

 

“I just want to help you rest, bring you into harmony with the world.”

 

Flynn retches. Buried in the roots is a body, perfectly preserved except where she has been pierced by hair thin roots. They run under her skin and pulse with her heartbeat.

 

“If you’re lucky I may even make you a vessel for my self. This one has outlived its usefulness. I thought the woman might make a nice host. New to town, no one would have noticed. But you… No one likes you but everyone listens to what you tell them. I think I’ll wear you back to town. I’ll plant all of them, I may have to start a new orchard. Think how glorious that will be!”

 

Wait, Flynn counts the creature’s foot steps, Now. He leaps, the barrel of the gun tracks his movement. Hod fires, misses, Flynn is inside his reach. He draws back a fist - and a root punches out of the earth and sends him flying more lash up and in seconds he is pinned flat.

 

So this is how you die, is it? Damn foolish way to go.

 

Then there’s a scream and the roots relax. Flynn struggles free. The grocer is bleeding blackly across the earth. The woman stands over him with the jagged end of comb. She looks lost.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“They told me I was going to be a whore. I agreed to that. I didn’t, this is…”

 

“That’s alright,” Flynn says, “They told me I was going to be a sheriff.”

 

As they hike out of the valley Flynn stops, looks back.

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“No.” But he’s thinking of town, and Hibble’s thriving garden.

[Haunter]

Ooooh, delightfully creepifying!  What a great villain.  "I'll plant them all!" made me smile.

 

I feel like the opening scene of Flynn and Hibble missed a bit for me.  Why were they so far away watching in the freezing cold?  Couldn't they have been closer?  Hibble doesn't strike me as a guy who would go out of his way just to point out a mark.  Once we get to Flynn and Hob it flows nicely though.

 

I thought you captured the bewilderment of the whore after sticking Hob nicely.  It was easy to picture her standing there looking lost while her captor bleeds out from a comb wound at her feet.

 

Oh, and I think there's an unintended line break in 'How are you paying for oranges in November with town scrip?'

[admiralvorkraft]

Thanks, I'll take another pass at the opening. It definitely took me a bit to get my head back to a couple characters I haven't touched in months and I think the writing suffered accordingly. I can do better.

 

I'm glad you like it, I was worried that I might have been doing too much set-up of themes/whatever and that the story didn't work by itself. I'm thinking that this is kind of the beginning of act II of this narrative. Things are going to start coming together, I promise.

[Haunter]

Sweet!  I'm an avid fan of your serial characters, so the start of Act II is rather exciting news!

[admiralvorkraft]

I'm glad to hear it. I should have a new opening paragraph latter today and I'd love to hear your take on it.

[admiralvorkraft]

Alright, I changed the opening, I think it sets the scene better. Flows better too.

[Haunter]

I like it better.  Being in town fits better, and adding the Red Dog gives you a nice sense of place.  The little snippets of town life also help establish the scene.  I like the way you still keep the little hair-raising bit when their eyes meet.  It loses a little something without the distance - Hod seeing him at telescope distance was more unsettling, but being close works better in every other way.

 

Niggly things:  you italicize all of Flynn's thoughts, except "Unfortunately, Flynn thinks, The man has a point. "

 

This line: “He takes town scrip,” Hibble says, “If you can’t find some reason to get rid of him then I need to find a sheriff capable of the job.”   - it feels like it joins two unrelated thoughts together.  Maybe even just a couple words to transition.  It feels like it wants to be an abrupt, irritated dismissal but it needs like a little something extra to move between Hibble's two thoughts.     

 

Maybe something like: "He takes town scrip," Hibble snaps, as if that was explanation enough,"  Look, if you can't get rid of him, I'll find a sheriff capable of doing the job."

 

I like the parallel of this line: Promise thrums beneath his feet,  with the later revelation of the Orchard and what's beneath his feet there.

[Kadeton]

Great stuff. The last line really completes it for me. Congrats on your win!

[admiralvorkraft]

Thanks! I'm really glad you liked it.