Blue Flame, Book Three, "ASHES:" Part One

ghostfish (60)in #story • 6 years ago

Claws on walls,

Seek prey.

In dark corners,

A mind bent on oblivion.

Hunger blinds the living into

ethereal agony.

The scratching inside his mind

of void and pain

will never end.

 Part I: These Rags Do Not Precede Royalty

Sixty years ago:

A figure approaches on horseback, a black mirage on a yellow desert horizon. A cloud of sand trails in his wake, rising like smoke into purple blue sky. A dark storm in its infancy. The rider approaches the small desert village. The citizens of Kausia do not get visitors.

At the town’s entrance, the stranger notices two large rectangular signs, standing like sentinels. Billboards were what the old century called them. The Stranger has an eye for relics and things forgotten. On the sun bleached surface of the sign, he can faintly make out some large lettered text of the old language, Got Wood? We stump ‘em an’ chump ‘em Your tree removal team. The rest is too faint to make out. A few numbers run across the bottom of the sign. Across the road, the other billboard stands proud, with a picture of some strange, orange crustacean creature that could be an exotic insect from the ocean: Supreme Buffet Eat Till Ya Drop.

“Billboards,” he mutters through dry blistered lips. His first word in seven days. “Worthless roadside relics of the Capitalistic Era.” He collects a wad of saliva and spits.

“All these years… In this shit little town. I know it’s here.”

He dismounts his horse. Black leather boots land hard on dry soil. A cloud of white dust erupts. A sharp wind riffles his loose jacket. He pulls the black scarf over his mouth, and tips the brim of his hat forward to shadow his eyes. The stranger leads his grey horse past the billboard gates and down the center of the old main street.

Yellow grass grows out of cracks in a parking lot. Dried leaves and skeletal vines envelop gas station pumps. One more remnant of the century of limitless consumable fuel. Now in ruins. A deceased concept. Everything has an end.

Grass bends in the hot breeze as he leads his horse into the narrow street, entering the town. There is laughter ahead. Walkways of stone line both sides of the sand and brick road. Awnings drape from the face of small dwellings made of stone and wood.

His boot heels click on the pavement.

People are gathered a block down the street. They mingle in the shade the awning provides.

Sidewalks weave between buildings. Tiny sand particles fill the cracks in the stone. It’s difficult for the stranger to imagine how this village is able to prosper on this side of the low desert. Perhaps they were isolated just enough that they remained safe. Just maybe, nobody out there knows they exist.

The traveler in black walks into the crowd of locals and merchants. Two short, thin men push a large cart of vegetables. They could be twins. Another man leads a goat. A few have cattle. Some ride horses. They nod at the newcomer hesitantly; confused, and cautious. A woman in a blue gown grabs the hand of a child, and stops walking. Her eyes follow the stranger as he strolls down the center of the road. He tips his hat with a black gloved hand. Nothing but his eyes are exposed. More people stop alongside the road as the stranger passes by. Soon everyone has stopped chatting and follows the stranger with their eyes.

He steps under an awning where a little round man with little round glasses sits behind a table of watches. None of them tick. Some are old pocket watches, most of them are 21st century wrist watches: Rolex, Omega, Casio, Oakley, and Timex. His cheeks are rosy. Too rosy for desert living. Across the table are diagrams, some of them with lightning bolt images. The little man fiddles with a trinket in his stump fingers, and looks up perplexed. The rose color in his face drains. His eyes widen.

“Water?” croaks the stranger. “Very thirsty.”

The little man fumbles the trinket, speechless.

“Water!” The stranger declares, more sternly and removes his scarf. A small, but visible, scar runs across his left cheek.

“The, the, that a way,” points the little man. He drops his trinket. “The, the, that’s the watering hole. Barstrow. Don’t know if they’re open yet.” He reaches down to pick up his precious item without taking his eyes off the stranger. “Usually not open till midday. Not sure what time it is. Haven’t gotten one of these things to work.” The little man pushes his little round glasses further up his little round nose and looks up at the sky. “Not midday yet. You not from around here mister?”

“Not exactly,” the stranger tosses a silver watch onto the little man’s table. “You should try some batteries.” The watch lands hard, and ticks. “Always midday somewhere,” he says. The clock reads one thirty seven. “How much for this working relic?”

The little man scrambles to pick it up for an examination. “Wow! Never seen this before. It works! It’s ticking! How? I’ll give you 500 krons.”

“Is that a lot or a little?” asks the stranger.

“That’s all I have.”

“Then it’ll do.” The stranger smiles. “And add in the rest of your inventory of broken time measuring devices.”

The stranger collects his new items and turns to head towards the watering hole. Behind him, the little man plays like a child with his new toy. All his other merchandise gone. The rest of the town still standing gawk-eyed and speechless.

Down the street, the stranger sees a large wooden shield dangling from a crossbar high above the building. It doesn’t sway, though the wind is blowing. The sign reads BARSTROW in old Celtic font. He didn’t think many people around here would even know what that meant, let alone care. Two carved snake emblems coil around the edges of the shield. Engraved down the center behind the word BARSTROW is a dagger with a twisting blade. The sign was handmade by someone with skill, craftsmanship, and taste.

The stranger leads his horse away from the market, and moves onto the side street toward the BARSTROW.

A red ball rolls onto the street toward him. He stops it with his foot. A young girl with bright blond curls comes quickly, with arms reaching out.

“Careful where you roll your ball kiddo. Might not always come bouncing back.” He says taking his foot off the ball.

She picks up the ball and looks at the stranger. Her eyes widen under his shadow, “The scarecrow. The hollow man,” she whispers and runs off crying.

An old man limps along the wooden sidewalk, leaning heavily on a cane. He looks hesitantly in the stranger’s direction, then carries on as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

The stranger finds his way to the BARSTROW and ties his horse to the post nearest the trough. The horse dips his nose into the water and drinks heavily. The stranger gives it a pat on its crown. “Take a rest, Dogan. We might be here a while.” The horse lifts its head as if gesturing that it understands.

Entering the tavern through two heavy, swinging doors, the stranger delights in the dark atmosphere, sheltered from the crushing sunlight. He strolls to the counter, peeling off his scarf as he surveys the room. No one is around—except the man in overalls and a narrow brimmed hat behind the bar dusting out a cup with a white rag. His back is to the entrance.

“Sorry, we ain’t open yet,” he shouts without turning around. “Not till midday.”

“How do you know you’re really cleaning out those glasses and not just pushing dirt around?”

“What?” The barkeep stops wiping the glass and turns around. “What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘How do you know if you’re not just pushing shit around all day?’ It’s a metaphor, and I’m really fucking thirsty.” The stranger steps up to the barkeep, now eye to eye.

“Apparently you didn’t catch what I said. We ain’t open. And that ain’t no metaphor. It’s a plain and simple fact.”

The stranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold coin and the 500 krons he’d just earned. He lets the krons fall across the counter and roll where they may. Some fall and clink on the wood floor beneath his feet. The stranger lifts the gold coin over his right eye. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Yes.”

“Then how much for a glass of water?”

“Water is free here.”

“Then I don’t need any of this currency?”

The stranger sets the gold coin on the bar top, pulls out a stool and sits down. He twists his neck to one side until it cracks, and takes off his hat. Long dark hair comes free, and falls to the sides of his face.

The bartender sets the dusty glass down with thin boney fingers and a scornful look. He has a sharp chin and deep set eyes that are piercing. The cup makes a hollow sound on the bar top. His eyebrows nearly touch each other beneath a wrinkle of confusion. He picks up the gold coin and studies it.

“I don’t know how things operate in this town, but in the outside world, that coin says I can have anything I want.” Says the stranger. “And seeing how water is free here, I’ll pay you to open now because I’m really fucking thirsty.” He smiles, thin lipped. “Preferably a clean glass.”

“I guess I can make an exception,” says the barkeep. “Seeing you’re not from around here. Wouldn’t want to show no ill hospitality.” He slips the gold coin into this right front pocket.

“That’s a wise choice.”

It's been a long time coming, couple-few-three years, mostly I've been waiting for the illustrator to finish, 'cough' start the drawings for this third and final chapter of the Blue Flame. I got sick of waiting. Here's the story anyways.

And if you haven't been caught up on what's going on check out the previous parts:

Book One:

Part One: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-one

Part Two: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-two

Part Three: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-three

Part Four: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-book-one-part-four

Book Two:

Part One: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt-1

Part Two: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt2

Part Three: https://steemit.com/writing/@ghostfish/blue-flame-ii-extinguish-pt-3