SophiaWilliams677
New Member
Whether or not he heard the Arab man's plea, the coachman would not slow.
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The trapper had his head bowed as he was drept in a deep slumber. His long white beard clustered itself down to his stomach. He was seated next to two other people. An elderly white lady, dressed in fancy clothing, reading a small copy of the Holy Bible. She had a metal walking stick on the floor. Next to her was an Arab man, wearing a black overcoat with a long black overcoat and a beard similar to the trappers, but black. He was staring outwards.
In front of them was seated a duo. One with a curly moustache and a thin, pointed lump of hair on his chin. His hair was swept backwards and his attire matched that of a typical Englishman, with a suit and tie. He held a cane in one hand. Next to him was a clean-shaven man in a top hat, wearing a suit and bowtie.
They were all on one stagecoach riding East. On the top of the coach was a body tied up and wrapped in a thick flannel sheet, tied to the other side of the ceiling, it's head bobbing consistently, up and down, reminding the passengers of its presence. All knew but nobody wished to acknowledge it.
As it was in vapid silence, the man with the cane began to tap his cane on the floor in rhythm to a song, a smile having been spread across his face from the moment he had entered the stagecoach. He began to sing a song to the trio opposite to him.
“Has anybody here seen Molly?
M-O-double-L-Y,
Has anybody here seen Molly?
Find her if you can,
She is not all skin and boney, oh-
No, her face is quite well knowny, oh-
Has anybody here seen Molly?
Molly from the Isle of Man!“
The trapper stirred awake, his face murky and filthy, as he blinked his wrinkled eyes open and coughed. The man with the cane blinked and smiled at him.
“I do apologise, good sir. Didn't mean to wake you.“ he said gently.
The trapper grumbled, “Y'did not wake me... Fer I was... Not asleep.“ he lied through his teeth.
“Not asleep. I see.“ the man with the cane winked at the trapper, then turned to the other two. “I apologise for disturbing anyone else if I did.“
The lady gave a nonchalant response of looking his eyes up and blinking, before looking back down to her Bible, and the Arab waved his hand as if to say he hadn't been disturbed, still with his head peering out of the wooden stagecoach window.
The trapper removed his hat, which appeared to be a beaver that had been stuffed and contorted. An animalistic picture of pure torment. He looked outwards, then spoke again.
“How much to go, y'reckon?“ he asked, scratching his eyebrows. He looked outwards to the endless plain sand and the occasional bird that flew by.
“Oh, not a great distance. Not great at all. We're making good time here,” the man with the cane yappered with eloquent speech, “You haven't been to Fort Morgan before, I reckon?“ he asked the trapper.
“Me? Nah... You?“ responded the trapper with inquisition.
“Oh many times, yes, many times. Ferrying cargo-” he pointed to the ceiling, in reference to the body tied up on the top.
The trio all slowly looked up, all mildly intimidated by the man's calmness.
“Him's your'n?“ the trapper asked.
“As much as he's anyone's, isn't that right, Thomas?“ the man with the cane said, turning to the man with the bowtie next to him, now known as Thomas. Thomas chuckled. “As much as he's anyone's, Arthur.“ he repeated, nodding his head and chuckling as if it was an inside joke between the two.
The lady shifted uncomfortably, placing a bookmark in her Bible, before letting on a nervous smile. “A loved one, perhaps?“ she asked.
“By somebody, no doubt.“ the man with the cane, now known as Arthur, responded.
The Arab finally spoke, “You did not know who he was?“ he asked in surprisingly good English.
“We knew him, only at the end.“ Arthur responded cryptically. He had that same grin on his face that seemed consistently plastered since he had taken foot on this stagecoach.
The entire stagecoach was silent for a bit, seemingly unsettled by Arthur. Finally, after a while, the trapper spoke, which seemed to make the lady incredibly uncomfortable. In fact, his mere presence seemed to annoy her.
“No, I have not been to Fort Morgan. I know very little of cities. I'm a trapper living alone in these last few years, but I would descend every so often into town with my pelts. Sell 'em, and talk, keep my hand in, talk. Ye gotta keep yer hand in talking, if you want to survive the outside world.“
“Is true, practice-” The Arab began, before the trapper interrupted.
“Every so often I would talk to thems talk to me. Saloon mostly. Till they asked me to take my buisness elsewhere. What kinda sense was that? There was only the one saloon! Keeper called me 'tedious.' Me? Tedious? If tidings from the outer world are considered tedious, I would descend from the mountains, having not spoken a lick of anything for months, to a saloon where I had much to tell. Much to tell, having been stored considerable. Though I was not always alone in the wilderness, I did have a wife once. A Spanish lady, from Mexico. A life together marked by the passing of the seasons and the corresponding travels of game. In the latter, she took very little interest. Seemed to prefer staying at home and cooking meals. I would trap and hunt and she would terry on hearthside. We did not talk! She did not know English and I am not schooled in the gibberings of Spanish. Well... I say we did not talk, but sometimes we did! Often times we would, at length, to each other. Each without the benefit of understanding each other. But the sound of a human voice is a comfort! When you're cabined up in the woods and all'd otherwise be the murmuring of the wind and the clop of snow on the frozen floors. Well, I say 'did not understand each other' but it weren't entirely of the truth. I could often understand her by the tremors of her speech and the facial expressions planted on her eyes and the emotional import. She was often vexed with me. I seldom knew why. And then she moved on.“
The entire stagecoach went back into a long silence. Perhaps the enormity of the trappers monologue had left them without words, or perhaps they were hoping he would shut up.
After a long while, Thomas straightened his bowtie and his throat at the same time.
“...Did you love her?“ Thomas asked.
“Oh, I don't know! I never even knew her name! But I do know this. Thems vocal voices and the softness of her dress, helped me gather that uh... People, people are like ferrets... Yep! People are like ferrets, or a beaver. All pretty much the same. Yep. I doubt it'd change even ye traveled to Siam. Yep. People are like ferrets.“ the trapper said, nodding to himself of his own self assurance.
The lady holding the Bible seemed offended by that statement, staring wide-eyed at the trapper. “People are not the same! There are-there are... Two kinds, utterly distinct.“
“And what would those be, madame?“ Arthur asked, leaning on his cane with that same grin. Both him and Thomas had been watching with a strange silence.
“Lucky and unlucky?“ The Arab offered, now seemingly interested by the conversation.
“No! Hail and frail!“ Thomas offered himself, “Difficult to knock to the floor, or wilting.“
“Those are not the two kinds, you buffoon.“ the lady snapped at the Arab, turning to the trapper. “You very well know the two kinds.“
“One kind. Ain't no two kinds. 'Less ye mean trapper and townsman.“ the trapper responded, getting a bit frustrated.
“Upright and sinning. Do not be a tedious fool.“ the lady responded curtly, holding her head high with a sense of arrogance.
“Tedious fool?“ the trapper laughed. “Yes, yes. 'Tedious fool.' Yer not the first one to lodge that complaint. I challenge yer credentials for assessing human worth. People are like ferrets.“
“I have said already. People are absolutely not like ferrets!“ the lady said, her voice raised. “And I speak, not on my authority, but on the authority of the Holy Bible. And here I speak on high authority. My husband, Dr Benjamin, was an expert. A lecturer at Cambridge University, on moral and spiritual hygiene. Now retired.“
“Moral hygiene-” The trapper repeated, trying to understand the concept, before the lady interrupted.
“I have the benefit of his insights. His lectures were spectacularly attended. He was--he is considered an expert on spiritual betterment.“ the lady said, smiling to herself. She turned to the trapper. “...Moral hygiene? Jacobs Ladder? Betterment?“ she asked him, seeing if he understood what she was saying. He seemed to have not.
“Well of course, nobody here has ever considered indulging in the true betterment of their own soul.“ the lady said with a scoff, “A dumbfounded old man and some foreigner. My day could not have gotten worse.“
“Hey, I ain't an enemy of betterment,” the trapper said with a frown, before blinking and looking down. “But I am kept often busy with me traps.“
The lady let out a loud guffaw, giggling to herself. She let out another small laugh, as if to her she saw everyone in this coach as beneath her.
“Your husband isn't with you.“ Arthur noted at the lady.
“We have been... Seperated for some time. Not divorced, heavens, no! He has just been... East, because, well, illness has taken him... But... We will be... Reunited.“ the lady said with a constant stammer, and Arthur and Thomas looked at each other for a split second, smirking.
“He awaits you in Fort Morgan?“ Arthur asked.
“Indeed. It will be a great joy. I have been living with my daughter and son-in-law for the last 15 years.“ the lady responded with a smile.
“Parents should not burden the household of their child for such a long time, this was very wrong of you, ma'am.“ the Arab said, finally speaking.
“I was not a burden! I was welcome, in my daughters home! Does your own religion not say to take care of your own parents?“ the lady snapped back.
“Indeed it does, but for 15 years, on top of the fact that she and her husband must pay additional food, you could probably read, from her facial expressions, as pointed out by the tedious man, that she was not very happy with the situation.“ the Arab said with a frown. “We each have a life. Each, one of our own, yet not our own whatsoever. We believe it. We believe we can change the course of it, but it is still of going. Still of moving. It is planned out to us by the almighty, above. We cannot change it. It is simply the will of something beyond us. We cannot know each other. I cannot know you, because from what I have seen, from your personality, you will show yourself in the most positive light of all time. Your pride. Your arrogance. It clouds showing the truth. I cannot know you. I can never know who you are. All I know is we must spin our own wheel and hope it is laid in a good enough vision for us. We cannot know anyone.“
“We can know 'em! People are like ferrets!“ the trapper challenged.
“Oh for the love of goodness, people are NOT like ferrets!“ the lady yelled.
“You misunderstand, my friend,” the Arab said, gently, “We can know each other to a certain degree, but to know entire? Impossible.“ he said with a chuckle, leaning back.
The lady shifted, her eyes narrowing at the Arab. “You are a foreigner. A Muslim, I take it? Well this only means you have pursued a life of vice and dissipation.“
“Vice and dissipation,” the Arab said with a cackle, “I believe in a God. You believe in a God. Yet somehow we are so different. The only thing that truly seperates our beliefs is false prejudice. See, these assumptions hold no ground, because you can not know of me. But by your personality, I think I can take a guess at you. You say your husband had a spark of flame, that you loved and cared for each other, and now you fly to him with the hopes that he still loves you the way he did 15 years ago... My lady, 15 years. There was a spark. You cannot ever know that there still is.“
“Among decent people, relations are eternal!“ the lady cried, becoming upmost frantic. “Decent people remain true, to others and themselves.“
“Change is life. People change. Unless you are The Messenger Of God, you will change.“ the Arab replied, remaining calm.
“You presumptuous man!“ the lady growled, heaving ever so slightly, “You say my daughter doesn't love me. That my husband no longer does?!“
“Do not take offense, my lady! I am merely saying that we cannot be so self-assured about everything. To pretend you know about everyone is to attempt to play God, and you are not God, my lady. You are just a lady. The 'relations' with your husband, you shall never know! He is a charasmatic man, is he not? Were you so charmed by him, you forgot that he didn't show care you, for your pridefulness, for your arrogance? Love is a thing that should be taken as an honour. To seam love in, sew it gently, attach to each other in a beautiful light. But YOU, my lady, would not be gentle! Instead, you would grasp it as HARD as you could like some beggar with money!“ the Arab ranted, pointing an accusing finger at the lady, “It is exactly as us Arabs say-”
Before the Arab could finish his sentence, the lady pulled out her walking stick and began hitting the Arab repeatedly on the head, gritting her teeth in pure rage.
“You DEPLORABLE, DEPRAVED-” the lady cried, as the Arab shielded himself. The trapper cut her off and attempted to grab the ladies stick, trying to stop her, “Hey, ain't no calling for that! He's just a foreigner!“ the trapper yelled, pulling her backwards. The coach suddenly went over a bump and made the lady jump. She let go of her stick and began breathing intensely, her throat tightening and her eyes bulging. She began to shake rapidly.
“Oh christ, you've given her a fit!“ the trapper yelped, taking off her hat and waving it in front of the lady to give her air.
The Arab panicked, “We must stop the coach!“
“Coachman won't stop.“ Arthur said nonchalantly, seeming annoyed by the whole ordeal.
“We must stop, we are the passengers!“ the Arab insisted.
“Coachman won't stop.“ Arthur repeated.
“We must stop!“ the Arab cried once more, before sticking his head out of the window and shouting to the coachman. “Coachman! Coachman, I say! We must stop! We must stop!“
The wind blew wildly across the Arab man's face as he watched the coachman stare ahead. Whether or not he heard the Arab man's plea, the coachman would not slow.
The Arab man pushed his head back inside, staring, befuddled. “He will not stop.“ he said, feeling horribly surprised.
“He never stops. Policy.“ Arthur responded. Thomas leaned over and held the ladies hand awkwardly, “You're alright miss. You're alright.“ he let go of it.
The lady slowly calmed down, wheezing and panting. Thomas stared, then took his tophat off and sighed slowly.
He began to slowly sing in an almost heavenly, serene tone.
“As I was a walking
Down by the loch
As I was a walking one morning of late
Who should I spy
But my own dear comrade?
Wrapped up in flannel
So hard is his fate
I boldly stepped up to
And kindly did ask him
Why are you wrapped up in flannel so white?
He spoke with a sorrowful tone,
'My body is injured
And sadly disordered
All by a young lad
My own dearest friend
Oh had he but told me
When he disordered me
Had he but told me of it at the time
I might have got a letter
And I might have said goodbye to mother
But now I'm cut down
In the height of my prime
Get six pretty maidens
To carry my coffin
And six pretty maidens
To bear up my pall
And give to each of them
Bunches of roses
That they may not smell me.
As they go along'.“
The entire coach went back into an empty silence. The outside was now drenched in a dark blue, as night overcame them. The silence was quickly broken by Arthur sniffling into a hankerchief. Thomas smiled a bit and gently patted his shoulders.
“I am very sorry,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes, “He does this to me every trip. I can never not resist it... Oh, goodness... You'd think with the buisness we're in, I wouldn't be so... So...“
“What is yer buisness?“ the trapper asked, craning his head.
“Well, I like to say that we're reapers.“ Arthur said, straightening himself up and smirking.
“Harvesters of souls.“ Thomas added as an affirmative musing.
“We help people who have been ajudged to be ripe!“ Arthur said with animated enthusasiam.
The trapper stared, seemingly unamused. “Yer bounty hunters!“
“Cruel man! Literal man!“ Arthur said with an exaggerated hand wave, “Yes, fine, “bounty hunters,” an ugly title, as if emolument were the point. It's an honest calling. Is the cobbler not paid for his shoes?“
The trapper looked at the ceiling, “So him on the roof, he was wanted?“ he asked.
“Mr Thorpe was very much wanted, judging by what they're paying for him.“ Arthur said with a knowing smirk to Thomas.
“What'd he do?“ the trapper asked.
“Oh I do not know... Does it matter?“ Arthur rhetorically asked, turning to the lady, “Just as you said, madame, there are two kinds of people. In our world, they are, dead or alive.“
“So... You will take them alive?“ the Arab asked nervously.
“I didn't say that.“ Arthur said, turning to the Arab with an unsettling smile.
There was another beat of silence, before the trapper broke it with his loud voice.
“Neither do I take 'em alive!...'Course it's an entirely different buisness and I work alone.“ he grunted.
“Yes, well, we're a duo! A tandem! A team!“ Arthur said with an elongated smile. “They're so easily taken when they're distracted, people are. So I'm the distractor, with a little story, a little song, a sparkle!—and Thomas does the thumping, while their attention is on me.“
“He's very good, this one.“ Thomas said, chuckling.
“No, he's good.“ Arthur responded with playfulness.
“I can thump.“ Thomas said with a bit of modesty.
“Mr Thorpe up there, he was a typical case... I told him the story of the Midnight Caller.“ Arthur said. He began to smirk, then paused. He suddenly lifted his cane and slammed it down 3 times, heavily. His eyes were wide and his demeanor serious. “Someone is outside... Knocking...“ he said in a whisper, paraphrasing the story. “No, don't open it mother! What living thing could be alive in such a storm?“
He broke into a disarming smile, speaking again.
“You know the story, but people can't get enough of them, like little children. Because, well, they connect the stories to themselves, I suppose, and we all love hearing about ourselves, so long as the people in the stories are us, but not us. Not us in the end, especially. The Midnight Caller gets Mr Thorpe in the end. Not me. I'll live forever.“
The entire stagecoach was enveloped in blue shadows with darkness touching the outer-skirts of the wood. Arthur leaned on his cane and watched the trio, his eyes unblinking. His face emotionless. He spoke again.
“I must say... it's always interesting watching them after Thomas has worked his art. Watching them negotiate... The passage.“ he said cryptically.
“The passage?“ the Arab man asked fearfully.
Arthur looked the Arab man dead in the eyes.
“To the other side. Here to there. Trying to make sense of it as they pass to that other place... I do like to look into their eyes as they try to make sense of it...“
He looked to the lady.
“I do.“
He looked to the trapper.
“I do.“
The trapper trembled, his hair standing and his rough frontier like appearance no longer appearing accurate as he seemed terrified.
“... Try to make sense of what?“ the trapper asked.
“All of it.“ Arthur simply responded, barely breathing. His look was gaunt and empty.
Fearing the response, the lady trembled slightly and spoke.
“And... Do they ever... Succeed?“ she asked with a stutter.
Arthur stared at her and slowly craned his head, watching her gravely. Studying her.
He then smiled.
“How would I know? I'm only watching.“
The stagecoach suddenly shrieked to an all about halt as the coachman pulled back his reins and forced the horse to an all compasing stop. The passangers bumped up and down a bit and stayed still. The trio stared at the duo in front of them. Arthur cheerfully lifted his cane to get up.
“Well—Fort Morgan! I presume we're all staying at the same hotel?“ he inquired, getting no answer from the terrified passengers. “Including Mr Thorpe, too late to drop him off at the sheriffs office. Ain't that right, Thomas?“ he turned to Thomas and asked.
“Yes sir, yes sir.“ Thomas chuckled. The duo got out and reached up from the stagecoach to retrieve Mr Thorpes body. They carried it down and both began dragging it to the hotel, muttering joking musings to each other as two good friends would. They opened the door and went on in, closing it behind them.
The three passengers were at a loss for words. The trapper looked to the hotel. It was large and encompassing, red velvet streaks running down its smooth brick work. There were steps that led to the double-doored entrence, layered with a smooth carpet surface. Non of its enticing, articulate design did anything to allure the three passengers.
The trapper gulped, staring out. He turned to the Arab. “Ye can go on.“ he said.
The Arab nervously smiled and waved his hands, “After you.“ he said, attempting a veneer of politeness.
The trapper looked back at the hotel fearfully. It seemed like a venus fly trap.
“Ladies first.“ the trapper mumbled. The lady looked over as well, fearful. She maintained her haughtiness.
“I must be helped down.“ she said to the trapper.
Finally, the trapper resigned himself to his fate and came down, helping the lady come down as well. The Arab followed. The trio all walked in front of the double-doors, staring. They were all perpetually petrified.
“Will someone open the door for a lady?“ The lady said, straightening herself up, “Dr Benjamin is waiting.“
Finally, the trapper opened the door and kept it open for the lady, then let it close. The Arab waited outside for longer. He watched the coachman leave, clattering off into the distance. He watched the darkness of the pathway engulf the stagecoach, and looked up at the starless skies. He took a long, deep breath. Trying to maintain a lofty insouciance, and even somewhat succeeding, he straightened up his overcoat and walked into the hotel, closing the door. The trapper, who had been so full of words before, now had himself crested inside the all overpowering hotel, readying himself for a long silence.
—————————————
THE END.
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The trapper had his head bowed as he was drept in a deep slumber. His long white beard clustered itself down to his stomach. He was seated next to two other people. An elderly white lady, dressed in fancy clothing, reading a small copy of the Holy Bible. She had a metal walking stick on the floor. Next to her was an Arab man, wearing a black overcoat with a long black overcoat and a beard similar to the trappers, but black. He was staring outwards.
In front of them was seated a duo. One with a curly moustache and a thin, pointed lump of hair on his chin. His hair was swept backwards and his attire matched that of a typical Englishman, with a suit and tie. He held a cane in one hand. Next to him was a clean-shaven man in a top hat, wearing a suit and bowtie.
They were all on one stagecoach riding East. On the top of the coach was a body tied up and wrapped in a thick flannel sheet, tied to the other side of the ceiling, it's head bobbing consistently, up and down, reminding the passengers of its presence. All knew but nobody wished to acknowledge it.
As it was in vapid silence, the man with the cane began to tap his cane on the floor in rhythm to a song, a smile having been spread across his face from the moment he had entered the stagecoach. He began to sing a song to the trio opposite to him.
“Has anybody here seen Molly?
M-O-double-L-Y,
Has anybody here seen Molly?
Find her if you can,
She is not all skin and boney, oh-
No, her face is quite well knowny, oh-
Has anybody here seen Molly?
Molly from the Isle of Man!“
The trapper stirred awake, his face murky and filthy, as he blinked his wrinkled eyes open and coughed. The man with the cane blinked and smiled at him.
“I do apologise, good sir. Didn't mean to wake you.“ he said gently.
The trapper grumbled, “Y'did not wake me... Fer I was... Not asleep.“ he lied through his teeth.
“Not asleep. I see.“ the man with the cane winked at the trapper, then turned to the other two. “I apologise for disturbing anyone else if I did.“
The lady gave a nonchalant response of looking his eyes up and blinking, before looking back down to her Bible, and the Arab waved his hand as if to say he hadn't been disturbed, still with his head peering out of the wooden stagecoach window.
The trapper removed his hat, which appeared to be a beaver that had been stuffed and contorted. An animalistic picture of pure torment. He looked outwards, then spoke again.
“How much to go, y'reckon?“ he asked, scratching his eyebrows. He looked outwards to the endless plain sand and the occasional bird that flew by.
“Oh, not a great distance. Not great at all. We're making good time here,” the man with the cane yappered with eloquent speech, “You haven't been to Fort Morgan before, I reckon?“ he asked the trapper.
“Me? Nah... You?“ responded the trapper with inquisition.
“Oh many times, yes, many times. Ferrying cargo-” he pointed to the ceiling, in reference to the body tied up on the top.
The trio all slowly looked up, all mildly intimidated by the man's calmness.
“Him's your'n?“ the trapper asked.
“As much as he's anyone's, isn't that right, Thomas?“ the man with the cane said, turning to the man with the bowtie next to him, now known as Thomas. Thomas chuckled. “As much as he's anyone's, Arthur.“ he repeated, nodding his head and chuckling as if it was an inside joke between the two.
The lady shifted uncomfortably, placing a bookmark in her Bible, before letting on a nervous smile. “A loved one, perhaps?“ she asked.
“By somebody, no doubt.“ the man with the cane, now known as Arthur, responded.
The Arab finally spoke, “You did not know who he was?“ he asked in surprisingly good English.
“We knew him, only at the end.“ Arthur responded cryptically. He had that same grin on his face that seemed consistently plastered since he had taken foot on this stagecoach.
The entire stagecoach was silent for a bit, seemingly unsettled by Arthur. Finally, after a while, the trapper spoke, which seemed to make the lady incredibly uncomfortable. In fact, his mere presence seemed to annoy her.
“No, I have not been to Fort Morgan. I know very little of cities. I'm a trapper living alone in these last few years, but I would descend every so often into town with my pelts. Sell 'em, and talk, keep my hand in, talk. Ye gotta keep yer hand in talking, if you want to survive the outside world.“
“Is true, practice-” The Arab began, before the trapper interrupted.
“Every so often I would talk to thems talk to me. Saloon mostly. Till they asked me to take my buisness elsewhere. What kinda sense was that? There was only the one saloon! Keeper called me 'tedious.' Me? Tedious? If tidings from the outer world are considered tedious, I would descend from the mountains, having not spoken a lick of anything for months, to a saloon where I had much to tell. Much to tell, having been stored considerable. Though I was not always alone in the wilderness, I did have a wife once. A Spanish lady, from Mexico. A life together marked by the passing of the seasons and the corresponding travels of game. In the latter, she took very little interest. Seemed to prefer staying at home and cooking meals. I would trap and hunt and she would terry on hearthside. We did not talk! She did not know English and I am not schooled in the gibberings of Spanish. Well... I say we did not talk, but sometimes we did! Often times we would, at length, to each other. Each without the benefit of understanding each other. But the sound of a human voice is a comfort! When you're cabined up in the woods and all'd otherwise be the murmuring of the wind and the clop of snow on the frozen floors. Well, I say 'did not understand each other' but it weren't entirely of the truth. I could often understand her by the tremors of her speech and the facial expressions planted on her eyes and the emotional import. She was often vexed with me. I seldom knew why. And then she moved on.“
The entire stagecoach went back into a long silence. Perhaps the enormity of the trappers monologue had left them without words, or perhaps they were hoping he would shut up.
After a long while, Thomas straightened his bowtie and his throat at the same time.
“...Did you love her?“ Thomas asked.
“Oh, I don't know! I never even knew her name! But I do know this. Thems vocal voices and the softness of her dress, helped me gather that uh... People, people are like ferrets... Yep! People are like ferrets, or a beaver. All pretty much the same. Yep. I doubt it'd change even ye traveled to Siam. Yep. People are like ferrets.“ the trapper said, nodding to himself of his own self assurance.
The lady holding the Bible seemed offended by that statement, staring wide-eyed at the trapper. “People are not the same! There are-there are... Two kinds, utterly distinct.“
“And what would those be, madame?“ Arthur asked, leaning on his cane with that same grin. Both him and Thomas had been watching with a strange silence.
“Lucky and unlucky?“ The Arab offered, now seemingly interested by the conversation.
“No! Hail and frail!“ Thomas offered himself, “Difficult to knock to the floor, or wilting.“
“Those are not the two kinds, you buffoon.“ the lady snapped at the Arab, turning to the trapper. “You very well know the two kinds.“
“One kind. Ain't no two kinds. 'Less ye mean trapper and townsman.“ the trapper responded, getting a bit frustrated.
“Upright and sinning. Do not be a tedious fool.“ the lady responded curtly, holding her head high with a sense of arrogance.
“Tedious fool?“ the trapper laughed. “Yes, yes. 'Tedious fool.' Yer not the first one to lodge that complaint. I challenge yer credentials for assessing human worth. People are like ferrets.“
“I have said already. People are absolutely not like ferrets!“ the lady said, her voice raised. “And I speak, not on my authority, but on the authority of the Holy Bible. And here I speak on high authority. My husband, Dr Benjamin, was an expert. A lecturer at Cambridge University, on moral and spiritual hygiene. Now retired.“
“Moral hygiene-” The trapper repeated, trying to understand the concept, before the lady interrupted.
“I have the benefit of his insights. His lectures were spectacularly attended. He was--he is considered an expert on spiritual betterment.“ the lady said, smiling to herself. She turned to the trapper. “...Moral hygiene? Jacobs Ladder? Betterment?“ she asked him, seeing if he understood what she was saying. He seemed to have not.
“Well of course, nobody here has ever considered indulging in the true betterment of their own soul.“ the lady said with a scoff, “A dumbfounded old man and some foreigner. My day could not have gotten worse.“
“Hey, I ain't an enemy of betterment,” the trapper said with a frown, before blinking and looking down. “But I am kept often busy with me traps.“
The lady let out a loud guffaw, giggling to herself. She let out another small laugh, as if to her she saw everyone in this coach as beneath her.
“Your husband isn't with you.“ Arthur noted at the lady.
“We have been... Seperated for some time. Not divorced, heavens, no! He has just been... East, because, well, illness has taken him... But... We will be... Reunited.“ the lady said with a constant stammer, and Arthur and Thomas looked at each other for a split second, smirking.
“He awaits you in Fort Morgan?“ Arthur asked.
“Indeed. It will be a great joy. I have been living with my daughter and son-in-law for the last 15 years.“ the lady responded with a smile.
“Parents should not burden the household of their child for such a long time, this was very wrong of you, ma'am.“ the Arab said, finally speaking.
“I was not a burden! I was welcome, in my daughters home! Does your own religion not say to take care of your own parents?“ the lady snapped back.
“Indeed it does, but for 15 years, on top of the fact that she and her husband must pay additional food, you could probably read, from her facial expressions, as pointed out by the tedious man, that she was not very happy with the situation.“ the Arab said with a frown. “We each have a life. Each, one of our own, yet not our own whatsoever. We believe it. We believe we can change the course of it, but it is still of going. Still of moving. It is planned out to us by the almighty, above. We cannot change it. It is simply the will of something beyond us. We cannot know each other. I cannot know you, because from what I have seen, from your personality, you will show yourself in the most positive light of all time. Your pride. Your arrogance. It clouds showing the truth. I cannot know you. I can never know who you are. All I know is we must spin our own wheel and hope it is laid in a good enough vision for us. We cannot know anyone.“
“We can know 'em! People are like ferrets!“ the trapper challenged.
“Oh for the love of goodness, people are NOT like ferrets!“ the lady yelled.
“You misunderstand, my friend,” the Arab said, gently, “We can know each other to a certain degree, but to know entire? Impossible.“ he said with a chuckle, leaning back.
The lady shifted, her eyes narrowing at the Arab. “You are a foreigner. A Muslim, I take it? Well this only means you have pursued a life of vice and dissipation.“
“Vice and dissipation,” the Arab said with a cackle, “I believe in a God. You believe in a God. Yet somehow we are so different. The only thing that truly seperates our beliefs is false prejudice. See, these assumptions hold no ground, because you can not know of me. But by your personality, I think I can take a guess at you. You say your husband had a spark of flame, that you loved and cared for each other, and now you fly to him with the hopes that he still loves you the way he did 15 years ago... My lady, 15 years. There was a spark. You cannot ever know that there still is.“
“Among decent people, relations are eternal!“ the lady cried, becoming upmost frantic. “Decent people remain true, to others and themselves.“
“Change is life. People change. Unless you are The Messenger Of God, you will change.“ the Arab replied, remaining calm.
“You presumptuous man!“ the lady growled, heaving ever so slightly, “You say my daughter doesn't love me. That my husband no longer does?!“
“Do not take offense, my lady! I am merely saying that we cannot be so self-assured about everything. To pretend you know about everyone is to attempt to play God, and you are not God, my lady. You are just a lady. The 'relations' with your husband, you shall never know! He is a charasmatic man, is he not? Were you so charmed by him, you forgot that he didn't show care you, for your pridefulness, for your arrogance? Love is a thing that should be taken as an honour. To seam love in, sew it gently, attach to each other in a beautiful light. But YOU, my lady, would not be gentle! Instead, you would grasp it as HARD as you could like some beggar with money!“ the Arab ranted, pointing an accusing finger at the lady, “It is exactly as us Arabs say-”
Before the Arab could finish his sentence, the lady pulled out her walking stick and began hitting the Arab repeatedly on the head, gritting her teeth in pure rage.
“You DEPLORABLE, DEPRAVED-” the lady cried, as the Arab shielded himself. The trapper cut her off and attempted to grab the ladies stick, trying to stop her, “Hey, ain't no calling for that! He's just a foreigner!“ the trapper yelled, pulling her backwards. The coach suddenly went over a bump and made the lady jump. She let go of her stick and began breathing intensely, her throat tightening and her eyes bulging. She began to shake rapidly.
“Oh christ, you've given her a fit!“ the trapper yelped, taking off her hat and waving it in front of the lady to give her air.
The Arab panicked, “We must stop the coach!“
“Coachman won't stop.“ Arthur said nonchalantly, seeming annoyed by the whole ordeal.
“We must stop, we are the passengers!“ the Arab insisted.
“Coachman won't stop.“ Arthur repeated.
“We must stop!“ the Arab cried once more, before sticking his head out of the window and shouting to the coachman. “Coachman! Coachman, I say! We must stop! We must stop!“
The wind blew wildly across the Arab man's face as he watched the coachman stare ahead. Whether or not he heard the Arab man's plea, the coachman would not slow.
The Arab man pushed his head back inside, staring, befuddled. “He will not stop.“ he said, feeling horribly surprised.
“He never stops. Policy.“ Arthur responded. Thomas leaned over and held the ladies hand awkwardly, “You're alright miss. You're alright.“ he let go of it.
The lady slowly calmed down, wheezing and panting. Thomas stared, then took his tophat off and sighed slowly.
He began to slowly sing in an almost heavenly, serene tone.
“As I was a walking
Down by the loch
As I was a walking one morning of late
Who should I spy
But my own dear comrade?
Wrapped up in flannel
So hard is his fate
I boldly stepped up to
And kindly did ask him
Why are you wrapped up in flannel so white?
He spoke with a sorrowful tone,
'My body is injured
And sadly disordered
All by a young lad
My own dearest friend
Oh had he but told me
When he disordered me
Had he but told me of it at the time
I might have got a letter
And I might have said goodbye to mother
But now I'm cut down
In the height of my prime
Get six pretty maidens
To carry my coffin
And six pretty maidens
To bear up my pall
And give to each of them
Bunches of roses
That they may not smell me.
As they go along'.“
The entire coach went back into an empty silence. The outside was now drenched in a dark blue, as night overcame them. The silence was quickly broken by Arthur sniffling into a hankerchief. Thomas smiled a bit and gently patted his shoulders.
“I am very sorry,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes, “He does this to me every trip. I can never not resist it... Oh, goodness... You'd think with the buisness we're in, I wouldn't be so... So...“
“What is yer buisness?“ the trapper asked, craning his head.
“Well, I like to say that we're reapers.“ Arthur said, straightening himself up and smirking.
“Harvesters of souls.“ Thomas added as an affirmative musing.
“We help people who have been ajudged to be ripe!“ Arthur said with animated enthusasiam.
The trapper stared, seemingly unamused. “Yer bounty hunters!“
“Cruel man! Literal man!“ Arthur said with an exaggerated hand wave, “Yes, fine, “bounty hunters,” an ugly title, as if emolument were the point. It's an honest calling. Is the cobbler not paid for his shoes?“
The trapper looked at the ceiling, “So him on the roof, he was wanted?“ he asked.
“Mr Thorpe was very much wanted, judging by what they're paying for him.“ Arthur said with a knowing smirk to Thomas.
“What'd he do?“ the trapper asked.
“Oh I do not know... Does it matter?“ Arthur rhetorically asked, turning to the lady, “Just as you said, madame, there are two kinds of people. In our world, they are, dead or alive.“
“So... You will take them alive?“ the Arab asked nervously.
“I didn't say that.“ Arthur said, turning to the Arab with an unsettling smile.
There was another beat of silence, before the trapper broke it with his loud voice.
“Neither do I take 'em alive!...'Course it's an entirely different buisness and I work alone.“ he grunted.
“Yes, well, we're a duo! A tandem! A team!“ Arthur said with an elongated smile. “They're so easily taken when they're distracted, people are. So I'm the distractor, with a little story, a little song, a sparkle!—and Thomas does the thumping, while their attention is on me.“
“He's very good, this one.“ Thomas said, chuckling.
“No, he's good.“ Arthur responded with playfulness.
“I can thump.“ Thomas said with a bit of modesty.
“Mr Thorpe up there, he was a typical case... I told him the story of the Midnight Caller.“ Arthur said. He began to smirk, then paused. He suddenly lifted his cane and slammed it down 3 times, heavily. His eyes were wide and his demeanor serious. “Someone is outside... Knocking...“ he said in a whisper, paraphrasing the story. “No, don't open it mother! What living thing could be alive in such a storm?“
He broke into a disarming smile, speaking again.
“You know the story, but people can't get enough of them, like little children. Because, well, they connect the stories to themselves, I suppose, and we all love hearing about ourselves, so long as the people in the stories are us, but not us. Not us in the end, especially. The Midnight Caller gets Mr Thorpe in the end. Not me. I'll live forever.“
The entire stagecoach was enveloped in blue shadows with darkness touching the outer-skirts of the wood. Arthur leaned on his cane and watched the trio, his eyes unblinking. His face emotionless. He spoke again.
“I must say... it's always interesting watching them after Thomas has worked his art. Watching them negotiate... The passage.“ he said cryptically.
“The passage?“ the Arab man asked fearfully.
Arthur looked the Arab man dead in the eyes.
“To the other side. Here to there. Trying to make sense of it as they pass to that other place... I do like to look into their eyes as they try to make sense of it...“
He looked to the lady.
“I do.“
He looked to the trapper.
“I do.“
The trapper trembled, his hair standing and his rough frontier like appearance no longer appearing accurate as he seemed terrified.
“... Try to make sense of what?“ the trapper asked.
“All of it.“ Arthur simply responded, barely breathing. His look was gaunt and empty.
Fearing the response, the lady trembled slightly and spoke.
“And... Do they ever... Succeed?“ she asked with a stutter.
Arthur stared at her and slowly craned his head, watching her gravely. Studying her.
He then smiled.
“How would I know? I'm only watching.“
The stagecoach suddenly shrieked to an all about halt as the coachman pulled back his reins and forced the horse to an all compasing stop. The passangers bumped up and down a bit and stayed still. The trio stared at the duo in front of them. Arthur cheerfully lifted his cane to get up.
“Well—Fort Morgan! I presume we're all staying at the same hotel?“ he inquired, getting no answer from the terrified passengers. “Including Mr Thorpe, too late to drop him off at the sheriffs office. Ain't that right, Thomas?“ he turned to Thomas and asked.
“Yes sir, yes sir.“ Thomas chuckled. The duo got out and reached up from the stagecoach to retrieve Mr Thorpes body. They carried it down and both began dragging it to the hotel, muttering joking musings to each other as two good friends would. They opened the door and went on in, closing it behind them.
The three passengers were at a loss for words. The trapper looked to the hotel. It was large and encompassing, red velvet streaks running down its smooth brick work. There were steps that led to the double-doored entrence, layered with a smooth carpet surface. Non of its enticing, articulate design did anything to allure the three passengers.
The trapper gulped, staring out. He turned to the Arab. “Ye can go on.“ he said.
The Arab nervously smiled and waved his hands, “After you.“ he said, attempting a veneer of politeness.
The trapper looked back at the hotel fearfully. It seemed like a venus fly trap.
“Ladies first.“ the trapper mumbled. The lady looked over as well, fearful. She maintained her haughtiness.
“I must be helped down.“ she said to the trapper.
Finally, the trapper resigned himself to his fate and came down, helping the lady come down as well. The Arab followed. The trio all walked in front of the double-doors, staring. They were all perpetually petrified.
“Will someone open the door for a lady?“ The lady said, straightening herself up, “Dr Benjamin is waiting.“
Finally, the trapper opened the door and kept it open for the lady, then let it close. The Arab waited outside for longer. He watched the coachman leave, clattering off into the distance. He watched the darkness of the pathway engulf the stagecoach, and looked up at the starless skies. He took a long, deep breath. Trying to maintain a lofty insouciance, and even somewhat succeeding, he straightened up his overcoat and walked into the hotel, closing the door. The trapper, who had been so full of words before, now had himself crested inside the all overpowering hotel, readying himself for a long silence.
—————————————
THE END.
