From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr
(2,700 words)
It is a ghost town, yes, but in its ruin it is more alive than any bustling metropolis, for it serves as a monument of martyrdom. Listen: the west wind blows down Dream Street, bringing with it the irresistible tide of memory.
Long before any of you were born the name of the town was Bastion, the outpost at the borderline between hope and despair, and the limit of the western expansion. Many a pilgrim and pioneer set out from Bastion to follow the sinking sun and cross the wind-swept plains of the west, none to ever return. But it was not death but martyrdom which lay in wait for them. The Mourning Martyrs, a sect without a religion, for no kindly god of men would allow the wretched race into his heavenly herd, defined themselves by their grief, and if no grief was to be found, it was to be made. The Martyrs were cursed by their two-fold sacrilege; they ended their own lives, yet remained to mourn the loss. This is what was meant by martyrdom in circles where the west wind was thought to carry with it the separation of souls, and it was the ranks of these forlorn figures the men who dared to follow the sun invariably joined.
After a time no traveller alive challenged the western plains, Bastion remaining the westernmost settlement in the world. The Martyrs themselves did not build cities. Their budding societies crumbled under the weight of their desire for sorrow, as the works of men cut down in their infancy is a tragedy equivalent to a blossom withering in early spring.
But the plainsfolk, as the men of the frontier towns called themselves, did not remain blissfully ignorant of the poisonous presence of the Martyrs, and none less so than the brave men and women of Bastion. There were those Martyrs who would leave their desert home to come into towns, preaching their twisted teachings and leaving sorrow-ridden souls in their wake. Like false prophets they spread their dogma of suffering, like lepers their hatred of civilized life. Their special brand of self-flagellation through asceticism taken to extremity was so appealing to the younger and more idealistic plainsfolk, tired of and appalled by what they perceived to be the bodily and spiritual cost of the expansion, the Elders were left with no choice: to protect these misguided youths most susceptible to live like animals to be at peace with nature's ways, they banished the Martyrs for good, sending the wicked race of the west to live with their winds.
Oh, but the winds. Not long after the banishment it became clear that the Martyrs themselves were a mere avatar for the melancholy message of martyrdom, it being more than capable of spreading itself like the disease it was, and no quarantine would have been sufficient to limit its lethal influence. The wind was its swift-footed messenger, the undiscriminating assassin of some heathen deity of yore left to plague the unhappy earth. It was in those days the desert wind came to be known as the breath of the Beast. It travelled low, and when it blew from the west no plainsfolk were seen outside. It struck the ankles like so many icicles, crawled up the victim's legs to cradle the chest in its frosty fist, and then a squeeze, and all that could be done in that vice grip of winter was to gasp for breath in vain.
Such was the world when the sunset was robbed from the plainsfolk, no man courageous enough to direct his eyes toward the west at dusk lest they themselves should feel the contagion of martyrdom, and nothing but hard-held hope keeping them from fleeing back to the east. They were the days of fear and uncertainty for the plainsfolk, but from that fear was born the introspection which was the cause of the great moral strength of their character, as the eyes of a man who examines his own reflection are always alert and critical. This is what made Bastion the crossroads of hope and of despair: the men of the town lived in hope in preparation for despair, certain that the time would come when the tide of martyrdom would rise from the sandy sea and swallow the town whole at one fell swoop.
Was it predestined, then, that when the sun sank unwitnessed on that day in late summer, the sky orange and the red dry earth naught but shadows, a figure travelled on foot from the west toward Bastion? None lived who had seen a Martyr, alive or dead, but there would have been no mistaking the identity of the lonesome wanderer. Shrouded entirely in black, the heat of the desert only adding to their perverted embrace of strife and struggle, his only humane feature a white mask, the plaster face entirely emotionless, even the eyes covered with a thin layer of gauze. Although uniform in their outward appearance of sorrow, the mask of this particular Martyr was chipped at the corner of the mouth, revealing a patch of pale skin around faint dry lips.
But the Martyr was not alone, as they seldom were. Beside him walked a matted grey mutt, any colours being offensive to its master race. Indeed, it is a symbol of our woeful world that this most loyal of creatures should be twice-wronged by history: in antiquity cursed to serve as the animal of Ares, to pull the cowardly god's wagons of war over the ensanguined fields; in our time to share the Martyrs' silent company, save when the moon was full. Under a canopy of stars they would send their grief to heaven on their howl, instead of savouring it, for even dogs understood what the Martyrs did not.
No eyes bore witness when the Martyr walked into the mouth of Bastion. Dream Street, the thoroughfare of the town, was empty and silent, but that did not mean the arrival went unnoticed. None were asleep, and the plainsfolk, their souls wide awake, needed neither sight nor sound to confirm what they already knew: martyrdom had come to Bastion, and more than ever each and every one of them was aware of the first lines of the familiar nursery rhyme of their childhood: when the west wind wakes, the spell of sleep breaks. But had they gone out they would have felt the western breeze like never before: the wind that should have chilled and killed outright scarcely scattered the dust and dirt of Dream Street.
In the saloon were gathered men who scoffed at stories of the searching sorrow at daybreak and kept a silent vigil at nightfall, and never more so than this night. Prepared to sleep under the tables not to face the sickly dark of Dream Street, fear had made a home in each man’s heart. At first all they heard from outside was the anxious whinnying of horses, save in their stables, but soon the planks of the red cedar deck creaked under the weight of unwelcome feet, and all eyes were fixed on the large window which the darkness without had made a mirror, revealing with terrible accuracy the terror sketched on each countenance around the large table. At length, behind the reflection of their terror-stricken faces, they saw a patch of darkness grow deeper and moving, until it left the window and reached the door.
With a wail the wind entered in, and for a moment the room became a playground of flickering lights and wavering shadows. Paralyzed by fear, the men could do nothing but pray in silence and wait for the nocturnal visitor to let loose the Beast upon them, but the door closed and the wind died, and all they saw was the solitary Martyr. To the men at the table he paid no attention, but walked to the bar and took a seat on a stool, the hem of his dark robe cascading to the floor, as if to put his coal black soul on display for all to see. The barkeep recoiled at first, but soon recognized the universal demeanour of a man in need of a drink and approached. The Martyr spoke, so quiet no man at the table heard him, and the barkeep poured him a snifter half-full of scotch. Another silent word and the barkeep filled it to the brim and left the bottle. The Martyr stared at his glass for a moment, as if contemplating some deeper meaning behind it, then signed the barkeep back. From underneath the counter the barkeep produced a straw, its added mass enough to spill some scotch, which the martyr then used to suck the liquid through the crack in his mask.
The men in the room stared at this peculiar sight in wonder, finding themselves more at ease in their logic that no man who drinks can be all bad, that numbing nectar being the sinner’s remedy to the world. The bravest man in town, Gilliam O’Malley, a man wary of the formless wind but who would not tremble before any creature of flesh and bone, rose from his seat and went to the Martyr. Behind the protective bulk of O’Malley came his son, a lad of fourteen.
“And just what the hell ya reckon ya is doing?” O’Malley demanded.
“Pardon?” The Martyr replied, terminating his endless suction for a spell.
“I don’t know what ya’ll be up to in that big ol’ desert of yours, but I know it ain’t no good.”
“I assure you, I mean no harm, friend. “The Martyr replied. “To you or to your town.”
“You ain’t my friend, martyr! You git back to yer kind and we won’t have no problem here.”
“There is no my kind.” The Martyr said. “The wind tells the news of the desert, and no longer does it carry the grief of my kin, just echoes of my own.”
“What ya say? Speak sense, martyr!”
“There are no Mourning Martyrs left,” the Martyr said. “You are all free to live in sin and decadence.”
The ineffable emotions which flooded every mind in the room at these words no man ever dreamed of hearing hardly need expressing. O’Malley merely gasped out loud, “No more martyrs!” and rushed for the door. Even in his excitement he paused upon reaching the exit and took a deep breath to prepare for a dive into the depths of the unholy night of the wind, but when he pushed it open a light gust entered again, even weaker than before, and every man present rejoiced in what they knew to be the death rattle of the Beast. “No more mourning martyrs,” O’Malley's declaration sounded from the streets.
The Martyr was left to his drink by the counter with the barkeep and O’Malley’s boy. The barkeep had found a glass to rub with a rag as he approached his newest patron.
“I was under the impression you martyrs weren’t suppose to drink.”
“I have mourned their way long enough,” the Martyr said. “Now I’ll mourn in mine. I’ll drink until I die.”
“That’s no way to drink,” the barkeep advised. “The trick is to drink just enough that you don’t die, that way you can drink more later.”
“Repetition is not particularly appealing to a man sick of the desert.”
“I can see how that might be the case, but there’s other things for a man to do,” the barkeep mused, all the while cleaning his conspicuously clean glass. “Like the brothel.”
The boy heard his father’s call, and followed in his footsteps. Outside a crowd had now gathered in front of the saloon. Hardly could the boy believe his eyes. The wind was blowing from the west, a weak but noticeable breeze, yet people were outside at night, smiling and laughing. O'Malley was talking to the Sheriff, and beckoned his son to him. As the boy stepped forward to go to his father he saw out of the corner of his eye the Martyr's mutt sitting next to the door of the saloon, panting in the escaping heat of a summer night and looking at the throng with its pleading eyes, but whether the Martyr's canine companion was asking for liberty or death none could tell.
The Sheriff had decided to send a messenger immediately to the nearest town. O'Malley of course desired to be this man no doubt songs would be written of, but due to an inner ear condition was unable to stay on a horse. Not one to give up so easily, and to ensure his name would live on in legend, he had volunteered his son to go instead. While waiting for a restless horse to be saddled for him, the boy listened to the Sheriff and the crowd argue what should be done with the Martyr in the saloon. Lynching was the most popular suggestion, but the boy told them about the Martyr's intention to commit suicide by liquid, the last pus seeping out of the world's wound of its own accord before the long healing process could begin.
“This is wonderful!” the Sheriff declared. “Let the bastard drink until he pops, no need for the fine plainsfolk to soil their hands with him.”
So the boy set off to the cheers of the townsfolk, with a heavy heart. But it was not the leaving that was grieving the chosen courier. All his young live he had dreamt of leaving Bastion, but not the way he was going. Even to spread the happy news going east felt like a retreat to a son of Bastion. It was the west his soul had always longed for. Far from the town he turned his head, and over his shoulder he saw Bastion all alight, and on his back he felt the wind. But far from pleading him to halt, it seemed to spur him on.
The boy rode through the night, his horse’s hooves barely touching the ground. It had started the journey in full gallop, yet its speed seemed to be ever increasing, seeming to fly over the West Road on wind’s wings. But was the animal eager to spread the news, or did it know something men did not?
With such speed the boy soon reached the nearest town and was received immediately, for a courier from Bastion would not be kept waiting even in the dead of night. The news were met with incredulity that soon gave way for unbridled excitement and ecstasy. Riders were instantly dispatched to all towns of the plains to spread the word, and a convoy to Bastion was to be set out the following day, representatives of all the men of the plains were to enjoy the very next sunset in Dream Street. The last Martyr's endeavor was expected to be complete by then, the plains finally free of their curse.
After a long but restless sleep the boy joined the convoy that was to reach Bastion just before dusk. Riding in a wagon, the horse he came with having been uncontrollable since his arrival, he expected to see the well lit town from far away, shining in the night as the new beacon of progress in the retreating dark. But when it at last came in sight, no lights were seen, no people celebrating outside. The sun was beginning to set when they reached Dream Street, shivers traveling down each spine upon finding not a soul in wait. The doors were all ajar, window shutters flapped despondently in the wind, and tumbleweeds charged toward the procession on a wind that crawled up the legs. A trail of clothes, shed like dead skin or torn off like soul sucking parasites, ran down Dream Street toward the west. That boy knew then that Dream Street would spend forever dreaming in restless sleep, and that nothing living would ever again call Bastion home.
Well, plenty of time left then : )