Skillful Death (24 page)

“The Providential and his partner will kill this elephant!” Sasha’s father yelled at the shooter.

The elephant reared, and high in the air perched on the beast’s head, Constantine drove his flint into the animal’s ear. The elephant reached back with its trunk and grabbed for the boy. On the ground, Sasha held his arms in the air and growled at the thrashing animal. Baron came around to the front and jumped to launch his rear legs in a kick towards the elephant’s chest.

“He’s bleeding!” a woman screamed from her position near the rose bushes.
 

Sasha’s father wondered at the absurdity of her comment. Of course the elephant was bleeding, they’d all seen the sword plunge into its chest. Only after he followed her pointing finger did he see the blood stains rolling down Sasha’s legs. Sasha’s father, Sir Alexander Skomin of Hyff Lane, saw the battle with fresh eyes. His dear son, Sasha, was neither the Providential nor the partner. Constantine, the little Forestling, and his own stallion, Baron, were the partners fighting the elephant. That meant his son might be just another victim, and his daughter was at risk as well. The prophecy guaranteed the safety of only the Providential, his sister, and his partner. No others need live to see the end of the day.

Sasha’s father dove down the steps towards his children.
 

Elephant, horse, and boy, all left the ground, thrashing and fighting. The elephant, having reared to its hind legs, jumped and spun its bulky head to reach its trunk to the stabbing boy. Constantine gripped with his knees and sawed his flint at the flopping gray ear. Blood spouted from the wound. Baron pronked in order to launch himself high enough. The angry stallion thrashed out with his hind legs at the chest of the elephant.

Sasha’s father grabbed his daughter’s lavender dress and his son’s fur suit, and dragged his children back, away from the fight.

Some say the blade finally worked its way between the elephant’s massive ribs because of the beast’s thrashing. Others claim that Baron’s kick drove the blade deeper. Whatever the force, the untrustworthy metal blade finally reached its home in the massive elephant heart. Blood spouted from the elephant’s chest and rained down on the girl from the Shylan Road as Sasha’s father dragged the other two children away.

The elephant’s trunk finally found purchase on Constantine and it hurled him forward.

Constantine found himself flying through the air and cast his flint to the side when he saw that he would soon collide with the girl from the Shylan Road. He tucked his head and wrapped his arms around her as they tumbled to the ground. Behind them, the elephant groaned and screamed as it began to collapse. Life left its shape in a wave. First, the trunk stretched, pointing straight up like the trunks of the massive oaks. The hanging lanterns cast a dozen shadows of the raised trunk against the back facade of the town hall. Next, the corners of the elephant’s mouth drew back, seeming to smile and then silently scream. Finally, the elephant’s limbs stiffened and it spun as it fell.

On the ground, Constantine scrambled, dragging the girl from the Shylan Road away from the impact of the elephant. Baron bolted to the hedges, bounced twice as if considering the jump, and then turned. He lowered his head to his foaming, sweaty chest.

The elephant’s bloody tusk plunged into the soft garden turf exactly where Constantine and the girl had lain, moments earlier. The beast exhaled a massive sigh as it hit the ground, and townspeople ran towards the children from all directions.
 

On the steps of the hall, Maria held Sasha’s hand as their father tore open the suit to survey his wounds. Constantine ran to the stairs as Sasha’s stomach was exposed.
 

Sasha’s skin had closed around the wound, but the jagged tear, as long as the boy’s foot, oozed deep red blood.

“My son!” Sasha’s father yelled. He pressed both his hands against the boy’s wound but his pressure merely made the wound gush more blood. Hands pulled the father and sister away as townspeople swept in to take over the care of the boy. Women barked out orders and men brought towels, and water, and fire, and spirits. Constantine retreated to the hedges and stood next to Baron. The boy wiped the sweaty foam from the horse’s coat.
 

The girl from Shylan Road sat stunned, looking down at the bright red blood which stained her white dress. Her hands brushed at the blood, as if it were dust that she could wipe away. The crowd gasped when a second shot exploded from the gun. The shooter stood over the elephant and toed the massive skull where his bullet had entered.

Baron hooked his head over Constantine’s shoulder as the boy watched the group of would-be healers give up on Sasha. Constantine lowered his own head as a sheet was drawn over the head of Sasha, and Sasha’s father and sister were led away. Men came with a halter and rope for Baron, but the horse wouldn’t be led away from Constantine until the boy whispered something in Baron’s ear. Then the horse went with the men.

Two well-dressed men with gold chains dangling from their hip pockets approached and stood in front of Constantine. The boy was watching a group of mothers lead the girl from the Shylan Road away while dabbing at the blood on her dress. On the other side of the garden, men with thick black aprons brought great knives and axes to dismantle the corpse of the elephant. Constantine tried to spy around the two fancy men to watch the butchers remove a cart load of intestines.

“Boy,” one man began, “you must come with us to the Constable.”

“No,” Constantine said. “Sasha.”

The other man spoke. “You’ll understand that Sasha’s family wants to be alone to deal with their loss. You need to come with us so the Constable may deem if you are the Providential Boy.”

“No,” Constantine said.

The two men grabbed Constantine under his shoulders. The boy’s hand went for his secret blade, and he remembered that he’d thrown it aside. Constantine kicked and thrashed. The men’s hands were strong and they easily lifted him and walked him towards a wagon.

They linked their arms with Constantine’s and sat on either side of him on the bench of the formal wagon. As they rode, Constantine appreciated the skein-clad axles of the wagon. The metal cap fixed on the end of the wooden axle would allow the hub to turn freely and protect the axle from wear. Above the axles, the leaf springs buffered the cart from the bouncing road, providing a smooth ride. Their bench had its own set of springs, much softer than the stiff springs underneath. The men dampened the bouncing springs with their legs, but Constantine’s legs dangled freely.

They rode by lantern light to the Shylan Road, and Constantine wondered where they’d taken the girl. He peered ahead and behind, but saw no other wagon making the trek. When they arrived at the cabin of the Constable, most of the building was dark. Only the windows of one room at the back of the cabin glowed with candlelight.

The men lifted Constantine and walked him to the front door of the cabin. The man on the right pulled a lump of metal from his pocket and used that to pound three times on the cabin door.

A minute later, the door creaked open to reveal a woman underlit by a candle.

“Yes?” she asked.

“We have the boy for the Constable,” the man on the left said.

“I’m afraid he’s asleep and can’t see anyone.” The beauty of her young face was marred by puffy wrinkles and worry lines.

“We must insist,” the man on the right said. “He told us to bring the Providential Boy regardless of his condition.”

The woman sighed and pulled the door open as she stepped back. She disappeared into the dark rooms at the back of the house, leaving the men to find their way into the Constable’s sick room. They pushed the door open, still carrying Constantine between them, and waited for the Constable to become aware of their presence.

The old man coughed himself awake and then slowly raised his eyelids on the candlelit trio.

“Who is that?” the Constable grunted. He coughed. “Is that my daughter?”

“No, my Lord, it is the Providential Boy,” the man on the left said.

“Alexei’s boy? That doesn’t look like Alexei’s boy,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up.

“No, my Lord, it’s the little Forestling,” the man on the right said. He stood up straighter when he spoke and hoisted Constantine higher in the air. The boy fussed and struggled in his grip.

“And you have proof that he’s the Providential? Very clever. Very clever,” the Constable said. “Explain yourself.”

“Most of it you know already, my Lord,” the man on the left said.

“Well, indulge me then,” the Constable said. “Defend your thesis.”

The two men who held Constantine looked at each other over the boy’s head. The man on the right nodded and the man on the left began speaking. “This boy was present when the lion arrived, as you know. He, in fact, jumped on the back of the lion as Alexei’s son, Sasha, only held his ground.”

The Constable blew his nose and nodded.

“Alexei and his men said that this boy was present when Sasha killed the giant snake, but we have reason to believe that Sasha was not, in fact, present when the snake was killed. Sasha’s grandmother boasted that the boy spent that entire day in her garden, showing her how he weaves his suits.”

“And then tonight...” the man on the left began before the Constable cut him off.

“Wait, wait,” the Constable said. His words brought on another fit of coughing, which ended with the old man spitting a wad of thick sputum into a handkerchief. The Constable then continued, “If you’re going to prove the absence of Sasha at the giant snake by the presence of that same boy demonstrating his skill to his Grandmother, then how will you attribute a skill to this boy.”

“We believe, my Lord, that young Sasha obtained his suit from this boy, and that he was never able to accurately describe how he constructed it,” the man on the right said.

“So you would say that Sasha is a liar?” the Constable asked.

“No, my Lord. I would not say that,” the man on the right said.

“Because it’s not true? Or because Alexei would have your head?”

“The boy is deceased, my Lord,” the man on the left said.

The Constable didn’t respond verbally at first, but he pushed himself farther back in his bed until he was sitting upright. To Constantine’s eyes, the old man was mimicking renewed vitality purely through the strength of his will.

“You have the right to refuse to impugn the dead,” the Constable said. “Continue.”

“We’re assuming that this boy has the skill to create these suits. He was spotted wearing one before even Sasha had one. He wore a suit like this on the day of the Harvest Festival. He has a new one tonight, that you can see incorporates the snakeskin. Also tonight, this boy helped kill a giant elephant. In the process, he saved your daughter from being crushed by the giant beast.”

“Ah, your final proof. But it falls flat,” the Constable said.

“Because he’s a bastard and has no sister,” the man on the right said.

“Exactly,” the Constable said. “The final act to prove the Providential is to save his sister, and by your story the only one he saved was my daughter.”

The two men holding Constantine tightened their grip but remained silent.

The Constable shifted his weight to the side and began to slide from beneath his bed sheet. His wife appeared in the doorway just as his feet hit the floor.

“Why are you getting up, husband?” she asked.
 

The two men holding Constantine blushed and looked at the floor when they heard her tone.

“We have pressing business, wife,” the old man said. The Constable turned his glare to Constantine. “Where are you from, Forestling?”

Constantine held his tongue. He saw no benefit from trying to conjure an answer to the old man’s question.

“Answer me, boy. Who are your people?”

Constantine remained silent.

“They say he’s from the Midwife,” the man on the left said.

At the mention of the old woman, the wife wrinkled her face, turned her head, and spat on the floor.

“I know where they say he’s from,” the Constable said. “But that’s not what I asked the boy. Little Forestling, who raised you? Who brought you into this world? Where do you lay your head?”

“Answer him,” the man on the right said, when Constantine didn’t speak up.

Constantine cleared his throat and then answered. “Nobody. The Midwife, I suppose. On my hands.”

“He’s an impudent bastard,” the Constable said. He threw off his nightgown and began to clothe his large frame with his best garments, working from the ground up. Constantine was fascinated by the layers of interlocking finery. “Alexei’s son has died,” the Constable said to his wife. “I must pay my respects and you must offer to take over the house for Elena. Send word to Paley and ask if our daughter can stay with them while we take care of the Skomin house.”

“She should come with us,” the Constable’s wife said. “She can sit with Maria.”

“Thank you, wife,” the Constable said. “That’s good thinking.”

“And what of this one, my Lord?” the man on the left asked.

“What of him?”

“Should we consider all possibilities?”

“Haven’t you already?”

“There’s one we haven’t discussed,” the man on the right said. “It fits all the evidence.”

“Would you have me guess at it, or would you prefer to simply inform me?” the Constable asked.

The two men exchanged another glance. The man on the left proffered the theory. “What if he’s a Midwife’s baby?”

“Then he has no standing unless the father claims him. What would the evidence be? If you torture it out of the Midwife, she’ll tell you whatever you desire. Would you call that evidence?”

“What if the father...” the man on the left began, but he swallowed hard and seemed to lose his voice.

“Yes?” the Constable asked. He was fastening a row of buttons across his belly and had nearly finished. After adding a coat, he would be ready to leave. His impatience came out in a phlegmy roar. “YES?”

“What if you are the father?” the man on the right asked.