The Last Hurrah of Malcolm Heathercomb
(3,000 words)
A stranger from a strange land, perished from some unknown sickness: an ailment more of mind than body. His remains were found at the edge of the Forlorn Forest, near the town of Woodsprite. This noble race of men, their only sin the occasional inbreeding, a practice not only natural but necessary in such a small and insular community, had never seen a creature quite so peculiar. His face and physique revealed him to be a human being, but his clothes were strange to behold. He was dressed mostly in dark colours, and there were layers. His black coat covered a white shirt, and on his feet were brown, heavy shoes that covered the toes. The feet also seemed to be covered with some kind of tubes that were mostly hidden by the trousers, both of which were uniformly black. Around his neck hung a crimson cord. This was the suspected cause of death at first, but it was loose enough to place fingers under it, and no marks of strangulation graced the throat.
“I told you he was here! I wasn't fibbing!”
“No, you were not,” said Malcolm Heathercomb, the mayor of Woodsprite, to Rudolph Waxtree, the eager youth who was anxious for everyone to recognize his find. Malcolm studied the corpse with great curiosity. A cold carcass seemed so out of place amidst the full bloom of summer, but it was not the poetic reminder of mortality that he contemplated. It was the cadaver's clothes he admired as his fingers coiled around the handle of his cane. How wonderful those shoes would look if you scrubbed the mud from them, he thought, now looking at his own bare feet, his toes wiggling in new-found disgust over the soft grass. How shiny and sophisticated.
“What a ghastly beast,” said Margaret Blossombirch, the town dressmaker. “A man without a beard. And so much black. It's unseemly.”
“Now, now, Ms. Blossombirch, do not be so hasty to judge,” Malcolm replied amidst the muttering throng, rubbing his own thick beard. “No doubt to him it would be us who appear savages.” Because we are, he continued in the privacy of his thoughts, and examined the body more carefully. There was something more around the dead man's neck, something shiny glittering beneath the red noose. The light it caught ignited a long-dormant desire within him, and he knew what he had to do. “But I agree, we do not know what killed it. We must bury it at once.”
“That's my thinking likewise, sir,” said Harold Oakenbloom, a stout fellow with a jolly face. “I brought us a shovel and I can rid us of the thing in a blink.”
“No, I will do it,” Malcolm declared, grabbing the shovel. Although your heart attack would be most welcome, we would feast for weeks. “As the mayor, it is my duty to, hm, deal with this find in a suitable manner. You all go back to town.”
“What about me, sir! I found it!” Rudolph protested.
Malcolm looked down on the young man as if he had just been slapped and the palm print was still red on his cheek. What manners! he thought, but then stopped to consider the body again. He does looks rather heavy.
“As you wish, Rudolph,” he finally said. “You shall assist me.”
“Spirits protect you, sir,” the receding crowd murmured as they took a last look of the corpse, then turned their lowered heads away, glad to leave such a gruesome sight behind them. Margaret Blossombirch gave Malcolm an encouraging smile before following the townsfolk.
Left alone with the corpse, Malcolm and Rudolph grabbed it and carried it deep into the Forlorn Forest, the end of the known world. No man had ever been known to cross that chasm of civilization and live to tell about it, and their unfortunate guest was no exception. When they found a patch of soft ground, they dropped the body and Rudolph took the shovel.
“Begin digging a grave for our new friend, Rudolph. Let no one say that the people of Woodsprite do not provide appropriate accommodation for their guests. I will go back to the forest for a moment.”
“Nature calls, eh, sir?”
"What, no...” Malcolm began, until realizing that explaining himself to a whippersnapper such as Rudolph Waxtree was beneath him. “I will have none of your vulgarity, do you understand?”
As Malcolm Heathercomb backtracked his steps, the thought occurred to him that Rudolph had not been entirely wrong. It was nature that sent him back into the forest, only not biology but psychology. He had been the mayor of Woodsprite long enough to be familiar with the nosy side of the community, and the last thing he needed was a lot of them snooping around, concealing their curiosity under the guise of offering a helping hand. Fortunately no one could be seen, and Malcolm returned to his fellow undertaker. For once they had the good sense not to poke their noses where they don't belong.
When he arrived back at the burial site, Rudolph had finished digging a shallow grave in the soft soil.
“You can leave now, Rudolph,” Malcolm said, reclaiming the shovel. “I'll take care of the rest.”
Rudolph headed back for the town, a tad too willing to part with his find for Malcolm's liking, but the mayor was too engrossed in his task to care. He waited until the young man vanished and the last rustle of undergrowth died in his wake. Then, planting the shovel into the ground, he approached the body.
*
The next morning the corpse clad in black and adorned with a bizarre red noose was the talk of the town. Men and women alike talked, whispered, theorized and gossiped all around Woodsprite, until all fell silent. The mayor strutted down the main, and, as it happens, the only, street of Woodsprite, his head held high and his cane marking the the earth with tiny holes as he went. Long after he had gone his merry yet dignified way, the village seemed to find its voice, and almost as one they gasped: “He's wearing the dead man's shoes!”
After his stroll, and after everyone had got a gander at his new footwear, Malcolm headed for home, the Heathersprite Manor, a three-storey mansion carved into the trunk of a colossal cypress tree. The estate had passed down in his family for generations; the current mayor was in fact the 15th Malcolm Heathercomb, and the sole living male progeny of his family.
Inside he placed his cane into a wicker basket and dragged in the dirt and grass stuck in the soles of his shoes with pride. In the hall he admired his latest acquisition in the full-body looking glass, to see the sight the whole town had just enjoyed. With a satisfied smile he rubbed the coarse stubble on his face: it had taken half the night and many painful cuts to rid himself of all that hideous facial hair, but he was rather pleased with the results of his first effort.
He then went into his study, in the corner of which was mounted a block of wood on a post. On it hung the black jacket and trousers, the white under shirt, and the red noose. Malcolm stood in front of it a moment. He had decided not to wear the whole ensemble at first, to allow the uncultured townsfolk time to adjust to his new style, and had accordingly only worn the shoes and the peculiar tubes that go on the feet before insertion. Of course he had also worn a pair of very short pants that the dead man had been wearing beneath all his clothes. No one could see those, though, so wearing them could cause no harm. Malcolm could not understand how he had lived before he had found this soft fabric to cradle his manhood, all firm and snug. Just the idea of all that dangling and flopping now made him feel sick.
Malcolm moved to the bookshelf and opened a secret compartment. Inside he found a long wooden tube. He tipped it over his desk and then unfolded the old leather parchment. It was a map, and at its centre was Heathersprite Manor, and around spread the Forlorn Forest, with lakes and rivers and valleys. Faded, but so vivid in Malcolm's eyes, were arrows that pointed towards strange sounding places, civilized places. They were a guide to a world that awaited him and his illustrious family which misfortune and fate had cast down to govern over this small, insignificant nook of nothing beyond all human knowledge.
“Son,” he recalled his late father's words. “The Heathercombs are not small world people. Some day we shall take our place in society.” He knew that to be true, for what was there for him in Woodsprite? Get married and start a family? Condemn another generation of Heathercombs to suffer amidst these rural buffoons? Not to even consider that the only viable candidate for marriage was Margaret Blossombirch, and he had long since rejected that prospect as a folly fit for a fool, but not for a true Heathercomb.
While daydreaming about the glory that no doubt awaited him now that he was dressed for success, there was a knock at the door. Swiftly he rolled up the map and hid it back into the tube: the world was no concern of the locals. He had expected a visit or two after his promenade, but was still taken by surprise by what he saw when he went to answer the door: almost the entire village had gathered at his manor. The awaiting crowd stood in a semicircle, and standing on the threshold of the manor made Malcolm feel like a lowly performer on the stage of an amphitheatre. Whoever it was that had summoned up the courage to come knock at the door had lost it almost as fast and had already returned and blended back into the ranks.
Knowing that the best defence was a good offence, and that nothing could be gained by letting the rabble see him rattled, Malcolm assumed a casual air. “Yes, is there something you require my assistance with?”
Glances were exchanged, nudging and shoving, a cough here and there, yet no one spoke as Malcolm's forefinger impatiently tapped the handle of his cane which he had prudently recovered before opening the door: a true gentlemen is never seen in a state of undress.
“As delightful as I find such a thoughtful visit, and you know my door is always open, but regrettably I am a very busy man, so if that's everything...”
“Your feet...,” someone who was certain he could not be seen volunteered amidst the crowd.
“Yes, what about them?”
Margaret Blossombirch shouldered her way through the throng and pointed at Malcolm's feet.
“Those are the hideous shoes the dead man wore!”
“While I'm sure you know a thing or two regarding hideous clothing, Ms. Blossombirch, I'm afraid you are mistaken. These happen to be the most elegant footwear available.”
“Look at yourself!” she wailed. “How can you wear shoes that won't let you relish the moist green grass after a summer rain?”
“How can you you live with filth under your toenails and and dried mud lodged between each and every toe?”
Malcolm's retort was no met kindly, and the crowd began to shout, their voices united in unintelligible babble that nonetheless conveyed the intended hostility. The mayor could do nothing but observe and wait for the uproar to pass: his words would have been lost in the cacophony. Naturally he had expected his new flamboyant flair to be controversial amidst the peasantry, but he had severely underestimated their resistance to progress. Their unwillingness to embrace culture bordered on the barbaric.
So this is how it's going to be, Malcolm thought as the storm of complaints swelled all around him. To think there was a time I entertained the possibility of marrying that trollop Blossombirch, but it's ever more clear that no amount of Heathercomb blood could have washed away the stain of her family. And there's Harold Oakenbloom, face all aflush and corpulent body quivering with indignation. And even Rudolph is here, but at least he has the good sense to keep his mouth shut. He does seem even more awkward than usually, fidgeting around like...
That thief! Malcolm had been so excited by all the his treasures that he had almost entirely forgotten the enticing glitter that had lured him on in the first place, going as far as to think that it had been some supernatural sign to guide him on his quest, but there was no mistaking the glint his eye now caught, tucked away inside Rudolph Waxtree's collar, and slowly but surely the mayor felt himself ready to burst with uncontrollable rage that clouded his judgement.
“That's enough!” Malcolm shouted, all the while wringing his cane like the neck of his worse enemy. “I will not listen one more word of this nonsense! Get away from my home! Go! That's right, go back to your sad little lives and stop pestering your betters! NOT YOU RUDOLPH!”
The stunned townsfolk retreated from the manor, shocked by their mayor's outburst. But none was more dejected than Rudolph Waxtree, who lurched in with downcast eyes while Malcolm held the door open for him. “In my study, Rudolph.”
Rudolph seated himself, and Malcolm took his place behind the desk. For a moment he observed the young man over steepled fingers.
“Is there anything I can get you, Rudolph? Perhaps some tea? Biscuits?”
“I'm good, Mr. Heathercomb, sir.”
“Oh are you, Rudolph? Good, that is. Good people don't steal, Rudolph.”
“I haven't stolen nuthin'!”
“Don't lie to me!” Malcolm struck the desk with his fist. “I will not be lied to by pond scum like you! I know what you stole from the dead man! I saw it!”
“I found him! It's no stealing to take what you find!”
Malcolm stood up, and walked across the room to the the wooden block acting as a mannequin. He took the red noose and ran it through his fingers. “I do not want to argue about this, Rudolph. Just show me what you took.”
Rudolph hesitated, then slipped his hand in his shirt. What he revealed made Malcolm's eyes spread wide open. It was a yellow, shiny necklace. The design of the amulet was elegant in its simplicity, two lines running perpendicular to each other. Malcolm knew instantly, by what secret source he could not tell, that if he only had this amulet, everything would work as he planned, nothing would stand in his way.
“I think you should give that to me, Rudolph.”
“I found it!”
“I am the mayor, Rudolph. I have to do what's right for our town, and what's right for the town is me having that necklace.”
“Why should you have everything!”
“Rudolph, Rudolph,” Malcolm pleaded. “Be reasonable. Give it to me, and I will, I will, I will give you this!”
Malcolm snatched the red noose and offered it to the young man, his eyes glazed with lust.
“I don't know...”
Rudolph couldn't finish before he was already being ushered in front of the looking glass in the hall. Malcolm forced the noose around his neck, and made him admire its reflection.
“Look how stylish it is!” Malcolm gushed. “Just magnificent! Why would you want a tiny trinket when you can have something so beautiful?”
Rudolph was torn, but only for an instant. The noose was clearly bigger, but it did not shine. Not like his trinket. He shook his head, and said “no”.
While Rudolph struggled to get the crimson cord off him, Malcolm was seething. He lunged at the young man, trying to snatch the necklace. He could not reached it, but got hold of the noose instead. Rudolph yelled and tried to run, but Malcolm was furious and helf on tight: he pulled the noose so hard all the voice went out of Rudolph, and then pushed him on the floor. With his heavy shoe firmly placed on the back of the hapless youth, Malcolm pulled the noose ever harder. When Rudolph moved no more, the heavily breathing Malcolm, as if he were now drawing breath for the both of them, saw a horror-struck face in the glass looking back at him, and he could not reconcile the joy he felt with that miserable face, until he realized what it was exactly he was seeing. Malcolm Heathercomb was looking at the face of Margaret Blossombirch in the window.
*
Dawn came, and the whole town had gathered to bid farewell to their deposed mayor. The tears that flowed on the occasion where not those of parting but of grief. The only face in the crowd that remained unperturbed belonged to Margaret Blossombirch, the sole witness to the dastardly deed. At the time of the act, the horror she saw had been mirrored in her countenance, but now she observed Malcolm Heathercomb with uncaring, emotionless eyes.
Malcolm himself was dressed in the full costume of the dead stranger, save for the red noose that snuffed the life out of poor Rudolph Waxtree which would be used to fan the flames that would give the final caresses to Rudolph's body before it nourished the town. The former mayor turned his back on the people of Woodsprite for the last time and faced the Forlorn Forest, one hand resting on his cane, the other clutching the amulet through the white under shirt. With his head held high, Malcolm Heathercomb was finally ready to step out into the world.
