Chapter Thirteen and Three Quarters, wherein some explaining is done, Part 3

“This may be overstepping my bounds, but,” Ethan kneaded the putty of his forehead with his thick fingers, “is it true that this house is actually Blueberry's property?”

“Absolutely not!” Gravor shouted a second before remembering what he had told Vera about Blueberry's mislaid inheritance. “Not exactly.”

“Alright, we don't need to make that our business unless you tell us so.” Ethan Lilly put his hands on his knees as if to rise but froze in that posture. He looked up at the ceiling and addressed the rafters. “I don't even want to dignify this with a question,” he sighed. “Are we really to believe that, after all these years, Blueberry, the most dogged scoundrel this town has ever seen,” Beezy's heart fluttered, “and I mean no undue offense,”

“That's alright,” Blueberry said.

“...is actually a nobleman?”

Now Gravor was truly adrift. His story clearly had unanticipated implications. “Can someone possibly be a nobleman if he doesn't own land?” he philosophized.

“A baron-in-exile, perhaps?”

“I'm afraid I have no idea. His side of our family is all but completely unknown. If Blueberry has noble blood, he would be the only one to know it.”

Beezy lit up. “He has a birthmark!” she offered.

Excepting a slight wince, Ethan showed no sign of having heard her. “Thank you, Gravor,” he said. “I suppose for practical purposes that's all we need to know right now.” He rose to his feet, and the men stretched and slapped their tan, short-brimmed caps against their thighs. With downcast eyes, they shuffled toward the door. “Timothy,” Ethan addressed the tall, red-haired youth, “would you mind staying back and taking a full report of Miss Beezy's attack.” The boy gave a succinct nod.

“Attack?” Gravor exploded.

“Oh, I'm alright,” Beezy said. “Just had a scare on my afternoon walk.”

Gravor cocked his head. “Oh, You were attacked. Thank goodness.” He followed Ethan and his men to the door.

As Ethan was about to step out the door, he turned back and declared a final judgment, “What goes on in this house isn't any of our business. If you two want to get married and make the world's smallest estate, Gravor, if you want to turn your home into a house of charity, that's not our business.” He raised one mighty index finger – the same that had stopped a rambling Blueberry mid-sentence a few minutes earlier. “Unless you make it our business. We are going to keep a close eye on things here to make sure everything is as it seems.”

Gravor stepped outside to see him off. Ethan put a hand on his shoulder. “You're a good man, Gravor. You may think that without family in town -- without real family -- you're alone, but there are a lot of people who want to help you."  Ethan frowned. "Now, I see your hands are injured. If this mess with Blueberry has anything to do with it, you can tell me.”

“No, no, Mr. Lilly. As I told Miss Vera, it was a climbing accident.”

Ethan's face retained its stolid expression, but his grip on Gravor's shoulder tightened. “Vera is a kind soul. So kind that she sometimes forgets what's best for her. I know I can count on you to keep far away from her. At least until this business here is over.”

Under the vice of Ethan's hand, Gravor began to lose the sensation in his fingertips. After days of chronic pain, he would have welcomed the anesthesia if he hadn't been too worried about his clavicle cracking. “Oh yes, of course,” he whimpered. “She just happened by today and inquired about my health, so I was obliged to explain. I would never presume...”

“Good.” Ethan released Gravor's shoulder and gave him a disdainful pat on the cheek. “I'll be around,” he said.

Gravor could feel himself redden under Ethan's scuff and lowered his face. “Yes, please stop in anytime. My door is always open, even just for a chat and a cup of...” But Ethan had already turned to join the receding men.

Chapter Thirteen and a half, wherein some explaining is done, Part 2

"Tea anyone?" Gravor offered over the creaking of floorboards and furniture. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Blueberry, could you help me put the pot on?”

Ethan turned in his chair. “This isn't a social visit, Gravor. We've been hearing some interesting things, and we were hoping you might set us straight.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Lilly,” Gravor minced, but he still hovered at the kitchen door.

“First off, we've come to learn that not only is Blueberry living here, but that the two of you are related.”

Blueberry bolted forward in his seat. “I think I can explain this one,” he began, but Ethan cut him short with one raised finger.

“I'd like to hear this from Gravor,” Ethan nearly growled. He continued in a milder tone, “It's alright, Gravor. We're here to help. You can tell the truth.”

Gravor could smell his own sick sweat. Vera had certainly told her brother the tale he'd told her. Now he had either to recant and lose Vera's faith or to live his fiction to the fullest. “Yes, that's true. We're --”

“Cousins,” both he and Blueberry blurted in unison. Both men glared at each other with perplexed relief and suspicion.

“Distant cousins,” Gravor clarified.

The shifting and creaking intensified as the men looked back and forth to guage one another's reactions. “I see,” said Ethan. “And this woman --”

“Beezy!” Beezy interjected.

“This woman, Beezy, is living here as well?”

“She is a recent arrival,” Gravor replied diplomatically.

“And she and Blueberry are engaged to be married?” This time the glare passed between Blueberry and Beezy.

“Yes?” was Gravor's guess.

Merry Christmas!

Chapter Thirteen, wherein some explaining is done, Part 1

Gravor's main room was appropriately sparse for his bachelor's existence.  Notwithstanding, the present company would've challenged the capacity of all but the most seasoned hosts in town. The greater part of the militiamen shifted on their feet or squatted against the wall. Behind the diminutive dining table, Gravor's rough, wooden bench bowed with the weight of the contiguous bottoms of the gaunt Egor Sprig, who preferred to sit out of militia duties whenever possible, Blueberry, and a middling butcher named Owen Askle – known to Beezy as the squat, balding man, but better known to others in town as the only son of Dr. Pious Askle.  All had deferred the single armchair to their leader, Ethan Lilly, elder brother of Vera, son of the preacher Waldron Lilly and a farmer by vocation. Ethan had in turn attempted to defer the chair to Beezy. Beezy had protested and unceremoniously plopped onto the floor. To Gravor's immense relief, she remembered to tuck her dress under her crossed legs.

During all this settling, Gravor and Blueberry attempted a clandestine consort of eyes. Each shot the other a pregnant look of warning. Gravor rolled his eyes to indicate that he was willing to forget differences for the moment. Blueberry rolled his eyes to show that he wasn't angry anymore, and bugged them to import that he'd be doing the talking. Gravor's eyes watered with an unblinking plea that Blueberry please, please keep his mouth shut. Ignored in the exchange, Beezy looked back and forth between the two with furrowed desperation in an attempt to communicate concerns all her own.

Wishing you all the best this holiday season!

Chapter Twelve and a half: The Lie Beezy Told, Part 2

The footfalls slowed, then halted as the men drew near. Beezy lay motionless and prayed that what remained of last year's tan would camouflage her under the newly budding branches. When she finally dared look up, she saw a dozen or so broad-shouldered men staring at her wide-eyed through the large hole she had plowed through the brush. Wooden clubs dangled from their belts, but the men's hands were busy fidgeting with their doffed caps.

Beezy rose to a crouch, arms across her chest. “Hey there,” she said.

One of the older men took a reluctant half-step toward her. “Are you alright? We heard screaming.”

“Oh yes, I'm fine.”

“Where are you clothes?” the man asked with clear unease.

Beezy looked about and spotted the faded orange of her dress a few yards away. “Over there,” she nodded. “Would you mind...?”

The men all turned around while Beezy slinked away and scrambled into her dress. She could hear them grumbling amongst themselves, and through their low tones, Beezy picked out the word, 'vagrant.' She considered running, but instead strode regally back to the edge of the trail. The men had retrieved her bag from the ground and were inspecting it with suspicion.

A red-haired youth, tallest but spindliest of the pack, handed the bag to her. Beezy accepted it with a curtsy, holding up her broken shoulder strap with her other hand. “What happened here?” the boy asked.

“I was attacked!” shouted a suddenly vehement Beezy. She screwed up her mouth and tried to cry, but couldn't. “I'm fine now, but I was attacked.”

“Who was it?” demanded a stout, balding man.

“I – I don't know, a group of men.”

“How many were there?” the red-haired boy asked.

“Five,” Beezy ventured, but the number seemed too round. “No – six.”

“Where did they go?” another man demanded.

“They ran up the path – up the canyon toward town. If you go now, you can probably catch them!”

The men all looked at the older man who'd first addressed Beezy. He nodded, and the balding man and six or seven others took off at a sprint.

The four remaining men helped Beezy up onto the trail. The older man, clearly their leader, explained, “We've been having problems with vagrants lately – a lot of thefts in the area.”

“Well, I'm sure it was the same men,” Beezy reasoned.

The man coughed. “Yes,” he said. “May I ask what you were doing this far into the forest unescorted?”

“I like to take long walks. I go every Sunday – after church, you understand,” Beezy stammered. “I guess it isn't such a good idea.”

“No,” the man agreed. “It's not. And may I ask what's in your pack?”

“One should never ask a lady the contents of her handbag,” Beezy rebuffed.

“I apologize. It's just that I've never seen you around here before, and we've heard complaints of a nude woman wandering around these parts.”

“Well, I have never!” Beezy fumed. “I'll have you know I am a lady!” Her words were met by a quartet of disapproving frowns. “I may not look like much now, but I am a baroness in exile. I was promised to the Baron Blueberry as a little girl, and now I have come to live with him.”

The men took several moments to register the news before bursting into riotous laughter. “What?” Beezy demanded of them. “Why are you laughing?”

When the cadre regained control of themselves, the red-haired boy asked, “Blueberry is your baron?” He paused to wipe tears from his eyes. “He doesn't have a penny to his name.”

“Shows what you know,” Beezy huffed. “I'll take you to him right now, and then we'll see who's laughing.”

That moment the men who'd chased after the bandits returned at a trot. “No sign of anyone,” the balding man announced.

“We'll leave that for now,” said the leader. “Something much more interesting has come up.” The balding man shot him a quizzical look, but the elder simply barked, “Let's go!” He took Beezy by the arm and led the march back toward town.

Chapter 12: The Lie Beezy Told, part 1

Beezy hiked her way down the canyon road and into the forest. Her summer stomping grounds were only a few days away, and thoughts of fishing in the cold runoff streams, filling her lean-to with the sweet smoke of freshly trapped game, and falling asleep in the sun nearly lifted her off her feet. But despite everything that awaited her, the unremitting picture of Blueberry asleep on his bed kept inserting itself between the frames of Beezy's sweet reverie.
Previously when bunking with men, there had always been a reason to leave in the morning, be it hunger, a sore backside, or a wife's impending return. With Blueberry, she had no reason to go anywhere at all. He could keep her full-bellied and well-sexed indefinitely, and it made her feet itch. She didn't dislike Blueberry, and even the other one was tolerable.  In the end, she supposed she just wasn't the type to rub elbows or other things with barons. So she had stolen away while Blueberry slept to avoid the inevitable question, "Why?"   She didn't know how to put her answer into words and was afraid that without an answer, she would have to stay.
But now she imagined Blue waking up in an empty house, and it made her gloomy. “Beholden,” she thought. The word came from thin air, but Beezy knew it was the word she wanted. “That man is beholden me down,” she said aloud.
She tried to shake her funk away. “Har har!” she bellowed into the crisp air. “HAR, HAR!” but for all its rumbustious volume, her laughter rang hollow. Though the weather was still too chilly and she too close to town, Beezy tore her old sundress up over her head and flung it to the ground. She might have left it at that, but the dress looked so limp and helpless lying on the dirt path that Beezy gave it a kick for good measure. The dress flew up and caught against the brush that lined the trail.
Beezy walked on a few steps, and her skin began to goose-flesh. She looked back at her sundress huddled in the shrubs. “I'm leaving you behind,” she called to it. “No two ways about it.” The dress flapped forlornly. Beezy ran back to it and shrieked, “Trying to take my summer from me, are you?” She snatched up the dress and tore at it with her weathered claws. One of the straps broke, but despite its age, the cloth would not rend. Screaming in wordless rage, Beezy threw it deep into the trees.
She stood motionless, legs wide and breathing like a bull, caught between repugnance and the practical reality that she had nothing else but a thin blanket to keep her warm. Before she could decide what to do, she heard footsteps coming from further down the path. A large group was approaching.  Judging by the weight of their steps, it was a large group of very large men, and they were moving quickly. Beezy had been preoccupied, and now they were bearing down close. Leaping off the trail, she crashed through the scrub, branches deeply gouging her ribs and thighs, and dove face-down against the ground.

Chap. 12: The Lie Beezy Told, coming tomorrow

Happy Holidays!

Chapter Eleven, an interlude

Blueberry awoke mid-afternoon with a warm recognition of the soft mattress on which he lay and the sweet musk of lovemaking that hung in the room.  He rolled back and forth in the mess of sheets, inspected his toes, and ensured all his itches had been thoroughly scratched before venturing out of bed.  Only after stumbling into the main room did his mood begin to sour.  He poked his head into the kitchen, then looked out the front window.  He threw open the back door, bounded up the ladder to the loft and sprinted back to the bedroom.  Beezy had left and taken all her things.
There had never before been any question of a woman staying.  Both parties usually beat a hasty exit to avoid discovery or otherwise get on with scheming a living.  Now, though, he had a home and food, even a tub for warm baths.  The question then arose, "Why didn't she stay?" and Berry didn't like to think of the answer.  Beezy had disliked Gravor, he remembered.  Gravor must have said or done something to make her leave.
When he first encountered Beezy slinking down the road after dark the previous evening, he'd imagined she might stick around awhile.  How long, Blueberry didn't know.   At least a few days, or a week.  Long enough for them to get enough of each other, he supposed.  He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted, but despite his inability to envision the endgame, he knew he wanted more.
Berry fantasized about running out and finding Beezy.  He would tell her that they were two of a kind.  He wasn't like Gravor.  Like her, he was content sleeping under the stars, but that kind of life didn't afford the opportunity to laze about together in a soft bed.  Naturally, even if he could find her, telling her would be futile.  On the road there was little he could offer her that she couldn't provide herself.  Besides, he wasn't ready to run off with her, so why did he care about what she thought of him?  When he came to think of it, he didn't even understand why Beezy suddenly seemed so important.  Other women would come, and Blueberry would start things out right.  He wouldn't abide any more lies, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Gravor frighten the next one away.
The house began to feel small, and the slender arms of Blueberry's robe, borrowed from Gravor, constricted around his shoulders.  He needed a little air, he decided, and when he stormed out the front door, he saw Gravor standing at the gate, vacant as a wickless lamp.  Blueberry marched up to Gravor, who turned and glanced at him absently, and tapped a finger against Gravor's sternum with a resounding thump.  "There's going to be some changes around here," he snarled, but he quickly removed his hand on seeing the malicious fury that flashed in Gravor's eyes.
Gravor turned back toward the road, letting his words spill from his mouth like blood, "I. perfectly. ag--"  Something down the road had caught his eye.  "ree...."
The local militia, a band of about ten volunteers from town,  was approaching on the canyon road.  They were still too far off to see, but Gravor thought he could make out a short, dark-maned figure being pushed along between them. 

Chapter Ten and a half: The Lie Gravor Told, Part 2

"But how can that be?"  Vera's question worked on so many levels she couldn't frame it more precisely.
"It seems he's from a forgotten branch of our family tree.  No one knew it, so he was passed over for his stake in numerous inheritances.  And now, you see, he has nothing.  My uncle wrote me just last week to ask if I couldn't do something to help him, and as it happened, it's been good to have him around after my accident."
Vera had never heard anything so honorable in her life.  Still, she couldn't reconcile the reality of Blueberry invading such a gentle and kind man's house with the noble ideal behind it.  "But there must be a limit to what you yourself can do -- he can't live with you forever!"
The thought worried Gravor.  It was not just that Blueberry had saved his life -- the foolish lummox had risked almost certain death to do so.  What was a life worth?  If it meant living indefinitely with Blueberry and his cadre of checkered companions, Gravor was inclined to answer, "Not very much."
When they reached Gravor's gate, Vera released his arm, making it plain that she would come no further, although an invitation was unlikely.  "I know you'll resolve this," she said.  "You always do what's right.  Soon enough we'll be able to laugh about it all, I'm sure."
After they said their farewells, Gravor stared off at Vera long after she'd disappeared down the road, trying to understand how a day that had begun with a naked banshee in his kitchen and quickly progressed to indescribable pain and the threat of amputation could carry with it the floral breath of Vera Lilly's perfume, still perceptible on his sleeve, and the delicate seeds of hope in his breast.  As eclectic as the day's events had been, a common message permeated throughout:  Blueberry could not stay.

Chapter Ten: The Lie Gravor Told, Part 1

At her insistence, Vera accompanied Gravor all the way to his house.  Though he could have easily carried her, Vera braced him up by the arm, and he consented to lean against her as much as he could without sullying her reputation or crushing her ethereal frame.  The sun was bright but still far away, and the wind teased the last, lingering winter chill from the hills and swept it over the town.  With typical optimism, Vera had worn her lightest, Springiest dress that day, and she shivered like a newborn kitten against Gravor's arm.
"Gravor?" she said after some time.
"...Miss Vera?" he said.
"Please don't be angry, you know I'm not one to listen to gossip, but..."  Gravor suddenly did feel the need to be braced up.  "is that man, Blueberry, staying with you?"  Gravor straightened himself, but Vera still clung to his arm.  " I mean to say, your neighbors have seen him coming and going -- maybe he's helping you with your work?  That would be a great charity, giving that man some direction and purpose."
"Well, yes, he does help me now that I can't use my hands."
"What a relief!  When I heard people say that that man had moved into your house, you wouldn't believe how worried I was."
Gravor knew he couldn't hide as obstreperous a presence as Blueberry.  "But he is also living in my house.  For the present."
They walked several paces in tense silence.  Though he had no desire to elaborate, Gravor knew he should cut short whatever images Vera might be conjuring in her mind.  "It's best that he's around all the time to help."

"But Gravor," Vera protested, "There are other people who can help you, and want to help.  It's a wonderful thing you're doing for that man, but charity has its limits."  The words left an awful aftertaste in her mouth. "All I mean is that you deserve better care.  Just look at your hands!  Maybe you need a woman's touch."

"The house is no place for a woman right now," Gravor shuddered to think how Vera would be received, "and besides, I can't just turn Blueberry out."
"But why?"  Vera stopped with a sharp stamp, her face adopting a twisted pout very much like that of a spoiled, little girl.
Gravor wanted to confide in her.  She always knew the right thing to do, and he desperately needed someone to help him figure exactly how indebted he was to Blueberry and the most efficient way to evict him.  Unfortunately, he had no idea how to relate the story without Vera thinking him a complete buffoon.  "The truth is, Miss Vera," he measured his words slowly, hoping that they would somehow conclude themselves.  "I've discovered only recently that... he is a distant relation of mine."  It sounded innocuous enough, but Gravor cautiously added, "By marriage."

Chapter Nine, wherein Gravor visits the doctor

Hopping between the cluttered cabinets and workbenches of his office, Dr. Askle agitated the hodgepodge of bottles and vials with hairy-knuckled hands like a troll among his treasures.  He had injured his leg in a war known to Gravor only from history books, and his resultant jerky gait sent the shadows cast by his bulky frame jumping and twitching in the light of the oil lantern like sinister marionettes.  Settling on a bottle of antiseptic, a second bottle filled with leaves in a dark suspension, and a small, black vial, he unrolled his instruments beside the bed where Gravor lay.  "Let's see what we have here," he barked, and began to unroll the bandages.
The doctor covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and reeled back a step on revealing the flesh beneath.  Both hands were grotesque studies in indigo and cream and effused the stench of stale pus and putrefaction.  Each finger had swollen to twice its size, and they all terminated in freely bleeding patches of intermingled scab and bits of cotton gauze where the now-bloated skin had been shredded away.  When Dr. Askle made his first cuts to re-open and clean the wounds, Gravor slipped out of his body only to awake moments later to the astringent burning of smelling salts in his sinuses and Dr. Askle's broad face filling his vision.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I'd like to let you sleep through this, but the unfortunate truth is that you can't miss a moment."  He ran an antiseptic swab along the depth of a particularly severe laceration.  Gravor lost consciousness again as the doctor drained the fluid from his hands, and once more when Askle dipped a spatula into the black glass vial and spread a thin layer of writhing, silvery worms into the naked flesh of Gravor's fingertips.  Still, he never cried out, knowing that Vera was waiting in the next room.  The doctor, having brought Gravor to again, opened the jar of purplish, lanceolate leaves in bitter-smelling liquid.  He spiralled them around Gravor's fingers.  "The Vigoratum leaves will help fight the infection.  The suturefly larvae eat the rotten and dying flesh, then form coccoons under the skin that help seal the wound.  Don't try to cut or pull them out -- they'll cut themselves out on their own in a few weeks."
Seeing Gravor's face growing ashy again the doctor added, "Don't worry -- it won't hurt.  They stay just beneath the surface, and the skin around the coccoons should be fully healed by then."  He frowned, his eyes disappearing under bushy brows.  "But if this doesn't work, I'll have to take some of those fingers."  He rolled his tools into a towel and brought them to countertop, where he began tossing them into jars of disinfectant.  Over the clattering, he called by means of a farewell, "Change the bandages every two days, but under no conditions lift the Vigoratum.  We'll see how things are in a couple weeks."

Chapter Eight, which introduces a love interest

Out in the garden, Gravor was cradling a hoe in the crook of his arm and kicking the blade through the dirt with the side of his foot, but when he saw Vera Lilly coming down the lane, he decided to pretend to weed behind the hedge instead.
"Gravor," he heard her call from one house down.  He crouched, motionless except for the phantom weeding of his bandaged hands.  Vera's white-stockinged feet in polished white leather shoes appeared before him under the hedge.
"Hello, Gravor!"  Vera's upside-down face appeared under the hedge as well.  Her helical blonde tresses bounced like springs, and her cheeks flushed.
Gravor leapt to his feet and hid his hands behind his back.  "Oh, good morning!  Miss Vera!"
Though they had grown up together, even as a little boy he was taught to call her 'miss.'  He always paused before saying it, though, as if daring himself to address her as an intimate.
Vera rose as well and put a gloved hand on the top of the hedge.  "Good afternoon is more like it!  We missed you at service this morning, so I wanted to come by and see if you are alright."
"Oh, yes, I must have forgotten what day it is.  I'm fine, though.  Everything's fine -- just a lot of work to do around the house."
"You must be very busy.  No one has seen you come out of your house all week."
"Yes, very busy."
Vera smiled.  "Then maybe I can help.  I could cook and clean for you -- until you finish your work, I mean."
Never had Gravor hated anyone so much as he hated Blueberry that moment.  "No, I couldn't.  It's really not so much work.  I should finish very soon.  That really is so kind of you, though."  Vera's eyes were swallowing him.  Drawn to her, he leaned against the hedge.  As soon as he approached, she leaped back and covered her mouth.
"What?  What is it?" he pleaded, staggering backward himself.
"Your hands!" she gasped.  "What happened?"
He had forgotten them.  "Oh, nothing.  It's not as bad as it looks."  He hid them behind his back again, but when Vera reached over the hedge to him, he consented to submit them for her inspection.  The warmth that diffused through her soft gloves against his wrists paradoxically sent waves of chills up and down his arms.  Vera turned his bandaged lumps over and back, over and back, but said nothing.  Gravor had to admit that his hands couldn't be much worse than they looked.  He had insisted on dressing them on his own -- that is, without the use of hands -- and had made up for a lack of finesse with more bandage.  Worse, he had not been able to stomach cleaning them properly, and he dreaded what the wounds might look like now.  After five days, the bandages were bloodied, greyed with dirt and stained with a yellowish weeping.
"Please, please come with me right now to have this looked at," Vera's voice trembled.  She couldn't take her eyes off Gravor's hands.  He could do little but assent.

Chapter Seven: The Lie Blueberry Told

Beezy frowned.  "You two don't seem very much alike."
"Well, we're cousins."
"Cousins?"  Even that seemed improbable to Beezy.
"Distant cousins."
"Then there must be some other family he could stay with."
"Nope, we're all we got."
"Just you two distant cousins, living here in the same house.  How'd that come to be?"

Lying was much more difficult than Berry had anticipated.  Still, if he could get past this one small fib, his honor would remain untainted.  "It's a long story," he said.
Beezy looked at him intently.

"Our family is real old.  My side's from a place not too far from here.  Called Lusnelk."
"I've never heard of any town called Lusnelk."
"That's because it's not there anymore.  And it wasn't a town, it was a big castle, like, down at the mouth of the gorge."
"That's where I live in summer," said Beezy.  "There's nothing there but forest."
"Well, it was right where the forest opens onto the plains, i mean."
"I've never seen any castle there."
"That's because like I said -- it's not there anymore."
"Not even ruins?"
"Nope, not one stone standing on another.  Completely destroyed."
"Oh goodness!  What happened?"
"Nobody knows for sure.  Everyone disappeared."
"Gracious...but what about you?  and your cousin?"
"Well, when my side of the family got wiped out, his side tried to take on a lot of the land my family owned, like this town here.  But there wasn't enough of them to control it all, and all sorts of newcomers came and just took it over.  My cousin's -- Gravy, I call him -- Gravy's ma and pa were the last of the line, and all they had was this one little house.  It still hurts Gravy to talk about it, so you probably shouldn't ever bring it up."
"So it's his house?"
"Oh, wait -- no!  It's my house, because all of this belonged to my side of the family, but -- see, and this explains why i'm around, too -- nobody even knew about me."  Blueberry paused to gauge Beezy's credulity, but she wore a serious pout that may have spelled either annoyed disbelief or an honest attempt to assemble the unwieldy pieces of Blueberry's puzzle.  So he dove in.  "My grandpa was the youngest son of the Baren of Lusnelk, and he was in charge of the mill.  He lived there, outside the castle walls, with my grandma and my dad, but one day, when my dad was just a little baby, a big snow-melt came swooping down the canyon and washed away the mill with my grandma and dad inside it.  My grandpa was out at the time -- he was working in the fields.  I mean, overseeing the workers.  So he survived, but they found my grandma's body down the river."
"Oh, how awful!"  Beezy's concern for the woman and her baby superseded her concern for making sense of it all.  When Blueberry saw he had won her, his words began to chase each other out of his mouth, one after another.
"Yep.  And they thought my dad was gone, too, except he wasn't.  Somehow he rode the flood, safe and sound in his bassinet, straight out of a second floor window, down into the river and about twenty miles south to a little village called Eustace."
"I've been there," Beezy approved.
"That's where I was born and raised.  My dad grew up there and married my ma.  But see, my grandpa never believed my dad was dead, and he never stopped looking for him.  And so one night, he shows up at my parent's house out of nowhere.  He told my dad all about everything, and that Lusnelk was destroyed years back.  They left together before sunrise the next morning, didn't say where they were going.  Dad never came back."  A real tear rose up and blurred Blue's eye.
"Awful, awful," Beezy muttered.  She kissed him on the forehead.  "How old were you?"
"Only a baby, but Ma told me about it all when I was old enough, and I set out to get my inheritance."
"This house?"
"It's all that's left.  I searched for years and years, but I didn't even find out about my cousin here until just last week."
"Last week?  And your cousin just gave it up, no questions asked?"
"That's a real good question."  He felt like he was stitching up holes in a hot-air balloon midflight.  The job was almost done, but it was a long way down.  "You see. . ." he began.  "You see this birthmark?"  He flipped over onto his other side and pointed to an area on his back with a large, bean-shaped mole.  "Looks like a little moon?"
Beezy frowned.  "That doesn't look healthy."
"Well, all the men in my family have it.  That was the proof."
"All the same, maybe you should get it cut off."
Berry shrugged and flopped back over.  "So anyhow, that's why I can't kick old Gravy out.  Besides, he was born here!  What kind of guy would I be to kick a man out of the house he was born in?"  He pinched at Beezy's rump, but she slapped his wrist.
"And you didn't find out anything about your family?  I mean what happened."
"Nope.  Nobody knows what happened.  Except my grandpa, and he disappeared, too, with my dad."  Everything was tying itself up nicely.
"What about your mom?  Didn't she hear about it from your grandpa, too?"
"Well, she didn't hear much -- had to take care of me, since I was a baby back then.  But she did overhear little bits.  Something about some real old trouble with another family."
"Who?"
"I don't know who.  Some other family, from far away.  Out west.  I think."
"So that's it?  Now you just live here with your cousin?"
"Not much I can do.  I've been wandering around for a long time; I'd like to enjoy myself for a while.  Now that I've found my long-lost cousin and all.  You know -- live life."  He grabbed a handful of Beezy's thigh, but she shoved him away.  She lay for a long time, just staring at the ceiling.  Berry closed his eyes and marveled as he tried to recall exactly how such a massive yarn had unraveled.  "Not a bad job at all," if he said so himself.

Chapter Six, which is a day late because I was very tired yesterday

Apparently oblivious to everything, Blueberry lay with one foot caught between the rungs of the headboard and arms draped over the foot of the bed, like a corpse that had washed up from the bedroom floor.  So Beezy squealed when he suddenly grabbed her passing ankle.  She jumped on top of him, squishing the air from his lungs in a gutteral "wuff," and delivered a buffet of not-so-light punches across his back.

After a playful quarter-hour or so, Beezy rolled off Berry.  She mussed his oily hair and scratched at his dandruff as he began to doze off again.  "You should find a new roommate," Beezy said, making no attempt to lower her voice.  As it happens, it didn't matter -- Gravor had remembered some work he had to do in the garden as soon as savage noises began emanating from the bedroom.

"Hum?" Blueberry asked without opening his eyes.

"Your roommate," she repeated.  "He really brings this place down."

"Well, it's not like I can kick him out!" he laughed.

"Why not?  Just tell him he has to find someplace new.  Bossing everybody around like he owns the place...."

Blueberry took pride in telling the truth, especially when it was embarrassing for the listener.  Part of him knew that Beezy would be most impressed by the true story of how he saved Gravor's life, then managed to spin it into a pretty boss living situation.  Still, he liked the idea of owning a real house with a roof to offer lady guests instead of trying to lure them into the brush or an abandoned barn.  Intoxicated by the toasty dreams of a languid morning in bed, he lied.

"I can't kick him out because he's family."

Chapter Five, which features nudity

The following Sunday morning, Gravor climbed down from his loft, careful not to put any pressure on his bandaged hands as he descended the ladder, to find a naked woman in his kitchen.  She was squat, and tan all over, with a mane of wild, black hair.  She was frying something on the stove, and as she did, she swayed her sagging, dimpled bottom to an inaudible rhythm.  She heard him and turned just as he was about to back away.

"Hey," she chirped and trotted over to offer him a pudgy hand.  "You must be Blue's roommate."

Blueberry had moved in to Gravor's home without discussion.  As soon as they had begun walking back toward town after the brush with death in the gorge, Gravor had seen Blueberry's mind.  Every step that Blueberry remained by his side, only breaking his jubilant monologue about the day's events to hoot with laughter, drove the realization in deeper.  When they arrived at Gravor's house, Gravor didn't even attempt to see Blueberry off at the front gate.  He just walked straight inside, leaving the door open behind him.

"I'm Beezy!" the woman announced as if declaring a victory.  Her eyes were bright and honest in her lemon-shaped face.  Gravor would've been ashamed to meet them even if she were swaddled from head to toe.  He held out a limp hand, his gaze planted on the pendulous breast that swung softly under her proffered arm.  Like her entire body, her breasts were dark amber and covered in faint wrinkles.  Much of their considerable surface was covered by two enormous nipples that lent them an embarrassing but tantalizing oddness.  Beezy winced, and a network of wrinkles to leap across her face.  "Goodness, what happened to you?"  She took his wrist gently between her fingers and gave it a gentle shake.

"Hi, um, Beezy, would you mind...?"  Gravor trailed off in the hope that Beezy would finish his thought on her own.  Beezy flashed an inquisitive smile.

"...getting dressed, please?" he finished.

A storm passed behind Beezy's clear eyes, and her lips grew tight.  "That's the way it is, is it?"  Drawing up her mighty chest, she shouldered past Gravor and out of the kitchen.  "You better turn those eggs, or they'll burn!" she warned as she stomped into Gravor's erstwhile bedroom, which Blueberry had made his roost.

Chapter Four, which is very short because i don't feel like writing today

Overlooked in day's drama was the cliff itself, which had been formed from ocean sediment millions of years earlier and contained the remains of billions of organisms.  Creatures many times more numerous than the present and past human populations of the Earth combined had left their impressions in that sediment.  If we were to look at the rock strata after another few million years, Gravor and Blueberry's era would be very dull in comparison.

Chapter the Third, in which i formally introduce the second character

The face belonged, naturally, to Blueberry, who had been strolling down the mountain path and enjoying the apparent isolation by singing as loudly as he pleased, when his voice was unexpectedly joined by a hoarse, bestial harmony from down in the ravine.  At first he was terrified, imagining some demon or harpy waiting to ambush him, but when he got onto his knocking knees and forced himself to peer over the dropoff, he saw the paunchy body of a man slouching off the edge of the cliff.
At Blueberry's shout, Gravor scrambled onto his stomach and clawed at the rock.  He tore the nails and flesh from his fingers, but through his furious efforts managed to pull himself up the slope to where he had been.
Reassured that there were no demons or harpies and invigorated by the chance for heroics, Berry untied the rope that secured his pants -- wrapped several times around his waist just for emergencies like this -- and kicking his legs out from the legs of his pants, headed down the small goat track that Gravor had followed down the cliff and into his present predicament.  Blueberry was quickly stymied by the segment of the trail that had collapsed under Gravor's feet and sent him sliding down the rock face.  Gravor's current position was not far down, but there was no way to reach him.  "How're you doing?"  Blueberry called to the man.  The body on the rock below remained silent. "I've got this rope here, but there's nothing to tie on to."
The body was silent for several seconds, then rasped a simple, "Help."
A few shrub roots protruded from the eroded bluff along the goat path, but nothing that would secure the rope.  He scuffed the ground at the edge of the path to test its solidity, and a spray of grit spattered into the ravine.  A timid groan rose from below.  "Sorry," said Blueberry.
Berry sat on the ground and tied one end of the rope around his bare ankle.  "I'm throwing you the rope," he yelled.  He tossed the rope, but thought better of it the moment it left his hand.  "Wait," he cried, pulling the rope back up.  "I'm going to double-knot it."
Once confident the knot would hold, Berry tossed the rope again, just into Gravor's reach, and flopped onto his stomach.  He entwined his hands in the roots at the side of the trail and braced himself.
At the other end of the rope, Gravor managed to rip one hand away from the face of the rock and grab hold.  He twisted it several times around his forearm and clutched it so hard in his shredded hand that the blood saturated the rope fibers and streamed down his arm.  "OK," he called up through gritted teeth.
"OK," Blueberry called back.
"OK," Gravor shouted again.
Blueberry waited a few moments.  "OK, ready!" he yelled down.
"OK, pull me!"
Blueberry quickly assessed his situation.  To pull on the rope, he'd have to let go of the roots, sit up, and thus be pulled over the cliff.  "I can't!"
Gravor was beyond weeping.  He lay slumped like a saddlebag against the incline, his entire weight suspended by the one arm and threatening to wrest it from its socket.
The weight on Blueberry's ankle was no less of a burden, and Berry began to wonder if he hadn't done something rash.  He blinked away the beads of sweat that dripped from his eyebrows and yelled over his shoulder, "OK, together now!"
He flexed his calf and, screaming with exertion, brought his encumbered ankle up to his butt, then looped his other foot twice in the rope and pulled up again with that foot.  Below, Gravor tried to pull himself as best he could, wrapping the slack around his forearm.  Berry extended his first leg again, twisted it into the rope and pulled again.  Thus, like a slow-motion swimmer, Blueberry, his face as red as a cherry, towed Gravor's bellowing carcass inch by inch up the steep incline.
When his hand reached the top, Gravor clambered onto the goat path in a burst of fury.  He lay on top of the wheezing Blueberry, not thinking or seeing, only breathing, until he'd caught his breath enough to cry.  The two men moaned and sobbed and rocked together on the ground until they spent the very last of their reserves and passed out in the dust and goat stool, still locked in their mutual embrace.
Near sunset, Gravor started awake.  Berry's eyes, about three inches from his own, shrugged dreamily open.
"Hey, I know you!" Berry exclaimed through a pungent yawn.
Gravor frowned.  "Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.

Chapter Two, in which I employ deus ex machina

Steal a slice a bread
steal a bit a butter,
add a little piece of 
something or another.


Slap it all together,
eat it on the sly,
just be sure to finish it off
with another swig of rye!


There was nothing in the song that spoke to Gravor; it was just the old, inane song that Blueberry sang every day as he slouched up and down the road looking for something to steal or a patsy to con.  Now it came to him as clearly as if Berry himself were singing it into his ear, and Gravor thought of all the time he had spent working, saving, going to town hall meetings, suppressing his desires so he could one day live a life just slightly better than the one he had. Now all he wished was that he'd had more sex, drank more and swam naked in the creek every day.  Blueberry had always seemed so repulsive exactly because he embodied those activities, and he would somehow perpetuate his louse-bitten life of poverty after Gravor was dead.  Still, if Gravor hadn't attempted the fatal climb that day, all his investment toward his future self would seem perfectly rational, even though the potential for death lurked between every breath he took.  If some benevolent god picked him up off that cliff and returned him to safety, would he live any differently?  When Blueberry died, presumably of exposure or liver failure, would he hear Gravor's song just as Gravor heard Blueberry's now, growing ever louder as his grip grew weaker and his time drew toward a close?

Gravor laughed, or rather his tightened chest rattled sharply.  He had no song.  He never sang, except softly when the music was so loud not even he could hear himself.  What's more, a dying Blueberry would never pick Gravor out from the crowd.  Gravor was one of hundreds in town that lived, dressed, talked, and thought the same -- at least in comparison to Blueberry.  Gravor tried to think of what his song might sound like.  All he could imagine was a field-mouse beating a massive bass drum with a dandelion puff.  So he decided to do what little could be done in his situation and put the last of his energy into a final, cracking and atonal chorus of Blueberry's song:


Well jail ain't nothing but a roof,
and rain ain't nothing but the sky,
i can swallow most anything,
with another swig of rye.


And with that, he closed his eyes and let the rock slip away under his hands.

Just above him, looking over the edge of the trail, a heavily-bearded face screamed out, "What the hell are you doing?"

Chapter One, in which I introduce a character

"This is the end," said Gravor Stilton to himself.  Though he knew it was true, he had to say it aloud to force himself into recognition.  Death was something that happened to other people.  He was still relatively young, though old enough that he should start slowing down and taking fewer risks -- not, for example, trying to scale the side of a deep ravine instead of taking the safe, albeit longer, path that snaked around the hillside and back down a smaller canyon to the forest far below.  Yet there he was, flat against a gritty sandstone incline, inching inevitably as the soft rock gave way beneath him in small bursts toward a sheer drop that would at best kill him instantly, at worst leave him broken on the forest floor to wait until nightfall for the scavengers to find him.

Shifting his weight up onto the palms of his hands, Gravor tried to dig his fingers into the sandy rock, but the rock crumbled and offered no hold.  The bits that he scratched away cascaded down the face of the rock and tumbled over the edge.  Watching them, Gravor's chest seized.  He felt the blood drain from his face and hands and heard a tinny hum begin to crescendo in his ears, and knew that in only a few seconds he would black out.  Then it would be the end.

A song drifted into his mind.  He absorbed its familiar, whiny tenor without regard at first, but then something in the words caught his attention.

The Beginning

Once upon a time, when someone wanted to begin a story, they began at the beginning.  That is, they began at the earliest point in time.  Then the storyteller would incrementally stack events, one atop the other, until they reached a critical height and all came tumbling down to rest.  This is no longer the case.  It's become old hat to begin with a man's dying breath, or that of his great-grandson blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, and then proceed in both directions.  A storyteller may begin in the near future with the discovery of a long-deceased politician's diary, whose facts will illuminate the true cause of a coming catastrophe that can only be averted by the chance actions of the protagonist in the present.  I could begin this story by listing the origins of every ingredient in a particular woman's meal on October 19, 1983, and only in the end of the ninth chapter get around to telling you that the final ingredient was strychnine.  And I bet you would read it, too, so long as I filled it with compelling trivia.

This is because you know the old beginning to be a lie.  First, it is a lie because it presents a false sense of time, with an origin, a series of resulting effects and a final conclusion.  While there is a profound harmony between actions and reactions, we can not say that event x caused reaction y just because x is at t = 1 and y is at t = 2.  If we look at time as running from t = 5 down to t = 0, y appears to cause x.  Excepting the most clinical of examples, if you placed x at t = 3 instead of t = 1, would you get the same result?  If you moved x from point A to point B?  What if you simply turned back time and started the original scenario over again at t = 1?  Would y follow x 100% of the time?  Given a story as complex as the ones we live every day, the answer is almost definitely, "No." 

Second, the old beginning is a lie because it already existed in the author's mind long before the reader heard the first word.  It probably started as a visionary fragment, a compelling scene near the end of the progress, from which the author built forward and backward, stringing together fragments by sweat or serendipity, until he or she was ready to present to you, finally, the beginning.

In contrast, this beginning is the beginning for us both.  Like you, I don't know what will follow, and I will discover it as you do.  Thus we begin -- I a few steps before you, but nevertheless together.  Once we begin, we may find ourselves at any point at all in time, and we may go forward or backward or jump wildly between, but we won't know until we take a step inside.  So I place the first step before you and set the course for the rest of our voyage with this simple, one-word title:

Westerners