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I don't know what to say about this Dystopian, Western Fantasy. It's good. Please comment. |
| There was an underlined section in the book stating – Beware the ‘Lord’s Prayer’ and the ‘Psalm of David’. They mask the ability to pull the world threads. Deal read the small line running above the sentence out aloud. “‘The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. Now, you are lost.’ What does that mean?” he asked himself. “Why am I lost and why did he write it so small.” He closed the book and stood to stretch sore legs. Deal felt dizzy and sat down again for a moment, trying to shake it off. He even felt a tad numb but blamed it on sitting too long. Jezebel began pawing at the door, a knocking of hooves to breach his blissful sanctity. He’d heard her do this many times before and opened the door to see what ailed her. The boy spoke the ‘God speak’ spell, smiled to the horse and began to chat. “Jezebel, what is it girl?” he asked. The horse brayed, grunted and nodded, still unintelligible, yet she wanted or needed something. “What is it? Why can’t I understand you?” He scratched his head and closed the door. After a moment, she pawed at the door again. Deal re-checked the book, though he found nothing out of the ordinary, except the small line. Still feeling a tad uneasy, he pulled a plank in the floor, dug a deep hole, covered the book in an old fur and tucked it deep inside. The plank fit neatly on top. A few straight nails hammered everything back into place. “Good enough for now.” he yawned. “Maybe it’s time to think about going to town for supplies.” Deal lifted the door latch and stopped, hearing the sound of a heavy hoof. “Jezebel, what do you want this time?” he asked, closing eyes to feel the refreshing breeze as he swung open the door. Instead, he saw a bright glint of blinding light. A great, white horse approached - a man donned in pale, gleaming, clanking metal-armor. He carried with him the slightest hint of royalty. “How goes the war, my good man?” asked Deal, straddling the doorway, a tired look in his eyes. He held tight to the frame, still trying to wear off the numbness in both legs. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.” said the huge, older man with a large, booming voice. “How do you do?” he asked. “Do you feel alright, boy?” “I feel fine. That’s the Psalm of David. I know it well.” said Deal with a hint of curiosity. “I’ve been cooped up in this cabin all day, if I don’t look…” “My name is Worthington, a Knight of the True Nations of Divinity.” he said, dismounting to speak up close and personal. “I’m in need of a squire. You look like a fine, young fellow.” “Well, I wasn’t looking for a job, kind Sir.” “My men were called back to district. My squire took ill and, went... away.” he said, searching outside the home as he walked, then peeked through the one window. Deal followed while they encircled his small cabin in its entirety. “Oh, there’s no one else about." said Deal. "My father died of the cough some years back.” “And, you’ve lived here all alone ever since?” “Why, yes... I... have.” said Deal. “You’ve taken good care of yourself, it seems. I suppose you could also take care of a Knight in the service of God and country?” he asked. “Are you drafting me, kind Sir?” “I am.” said the Knight, mouth snarled, pinching his bottom lip between white teeth which glinted as did the cold steel edges of his armor - the paint worn away from whatever service he’d performed for God and country. Deal sat atop Jezebel. She meandered down a hillside, just behind the white stallion carrying its Knight. His back shown a red cross, hand painted across a two-piece plate. It'd seemed to have been painted by dipping a hand in red stain and swiping up and down and side to side, but shown to be a unique masterpiece of work, taking possibly an entire five seconds to perform. Deal grew tired of looking at the red mark and tried several times to perform the ‘God speak’ spell to be able to converse with Jezebel. She began keeping a greater distance from Sir Worthington as Deal rambled on, mumbling the spell over and over. It would not take hold. He wondered. “Why do you ride so far behind?” asked Worthington. “Your horse... he farts, good Sir.” That was the last of their conversation for a while. The two rode along the trail until reaching a better trail and finally a tiny village. Three quaint homes and a barn stood clean and erect, the Johnson’s home-place. Worthington stopped in front of the oldest and largest cabin, dismounted and tied his horse to a railing. He dropped onto the rock entrance-way with a thud and a tink as spur bottoms ricocheted, rolling along the rock breezeway where he stepped slowly and deliberately, thud... clank... thud... clank... The home appeared in good repair, a big, glass window and a decent, small porch. He knocked with a clasping of metal gauntlet and leather against an oily, worn door-frame. “Who’s there?” shouted a man from within. “We don’t want no trouble with the Knights.” said the man. “The Lord is my Shepherd.” shouted Worthington. “I shall not want.” He raised a boot to waist level and kicked in the door, barging inside, sword clinched at the hilt with both hands. The ghostly guise quietly disappeared inside a darkened room. Deal dismounted and let Jezebel find her own way. He ran to the window to peek inward and heard screams and cursing-a-plenty. Then, he heard Worthington preaching the gospel, just before seeing the large Knight again through the shaking glass. “Our father…” Worthington pushed a man down to his knees with one hand and pointed to the wife with the other. “Who art in Heaven… Hallowed be thy name.” The woman also fell to her knees and cupped both hands, as did the man, though neither should have felt the need to pray during this particular assault. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…” Worthington backhanded a boy sitting up in bed, hitting him with a thick, gauntlet fist, knocking him across the room. The mother and father screamed and moaned where they knelt. “On Earth… as it is in Heaven. Give us this day…” he continued shouting. Deal gasped, silenced by what he saw going on before disbelieving eyes. “Our daily bread… And forgive us our trespasses.” Worthington grabbed a dresser by the topside and pushed it over. It landed with a hard pop, snapping either the drawer front or the floor planks themselves. “And forgive those who trespass against us.” he screamed, pulling a mirror from the wall, throwing it across the room where sparkling remnants showered brightly lit fire-flies all around the sunlit corner. The couple remained knelt in the center of the large room, crying and begging for mercy. “And lead us… not into temptation… but…” He grabbed the small, older man by his throat and picked him up from the floor, holding his neck in one hand and his own wrist with the other for support. “Deliver us from eeevaaal!!! If there be a Threader about…” he spat in the man’s face, then pushed the limp body against the wall, though the man still held bent knees above the floor and arms latched together at his own wrists. “I will find him!” screamed Worthington. “I'm guilty, I'm guilty.” cried the mother. "Please, stop this..." The man gurgled, helplessly clinched by the throat, choked by the menacing Knight. Worthington turned to her and smiled, releasing his grip of the man’s voice-box ever so slightly. “You’re all guilty by association.” he shouted. “Hanging’s too good for you.” The woman spoke straight toward the heavens, away from her accuser at best. “I'm guilty. Let my husband be…” Worthington dropped the man. He fell to the planks and didn’t move, only gasped for air, wet lips throbbing against a hard floor. Tears pooled and fell beneath a hidden face. The woman’s hands were also covered in glistening, tear sweat and strung together with looping bands of snot. Both hands came toward her mouth, pushing and pulling back and forth. Her swollen eyes didn’t or couldn't open as Worthington tied a rope around her wrists. She held the same position of prayer and stiffly remained this way. Worthington picked up a bedpan and poured the foul juice all over the husband where he lay on the floor, coughing and gasping in the fetal position, both hands still locked tightly together by his own volition. Deal found himself also locked in place, holding bent knees in the air, supported by stiff elbows locked in the window frame. He'd found himself somehow unable to move during the entire ordeal. He slowly scanned across the entrance-way, numb and disoriented from whatever had just taken place. When he came back to his senses, he looked at both legs bent at the knees, bleeding from the hard-edged rocks beneath them. His hands clasped together length-wise, held palm to palm, yet it felt a most instinctive and pleasurable position to sit. Both bloody elbows dug into and painfully poked at his ribcage. Deal found himself rocking back and forth, shaking as he saw the woman shake moments earlier. Worthington stepped outside, stared up the hill and laughed loudly, scaring the boy, who fell over on his left side, breaking the spell and causing the Knight to laugh even harder. He tried to stand and fell again. “Boy, are you alright?” smiled the Knight. “No. It's not alright.” Deal McShane remembered reading The Book about the prayer's warning. He wondered if his premonition had been ever truer. Either way, superstition would suffice. Déjà vu had ruled the evening, yet the White Knight had ruled them all. |
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