Poem 7: Life Subjectively

We each have our own individual story
Our bodies serve as a memento mori
Life begins and ends in the blink of an eye
But no one ever truly dies

We each breathe the same air
We all feel love when we choose to care
So different yet so same
Same stories just a different name

You say that you do not know me
I have my own unique story
People live life subjectively
And yes you do not know me
But you know anger, excitement, grief, love, and ecstasy

Unique yet we all feel the emotions
Innumerable, the emotions are an ocean
We create entertainment to evoke the feel
But it is we who are not real
It is what we feel which is the reality
Because the emotions live on beyond our mortality

Chapter 7: Blakheart

The sun was setting as we returned to the town. Sheriff Putin was in front of the jail next to his office sitting on a rocking chair, slowly rocking back and forward. He eyed us up as we rode past, flashing me an ‘I am watching you’ gesture. After we parked our horses at the stables Jojo questioned us about our day spent with the natives. He was very interested in how they acted and was quite surprised on hearing many of the similarities they had with the people of the town. The main thing the townspeople and the natives shared in common was their great contempt for the Bank and for the law firm.
“You know they ain’t sound like the wild savages I had pictured them to be, but I suppose that is partly ‘cause I have never met one; only seen ‘em passing through town…” Jojo told us.
I glanced at Gan. She raised her eyebrows. I noticed Michael John grinning. I was tempted to inform Jojo that Gan was of the native indigenous population, but I decided against such. It was irrelevant.
“See you later Jojo! And keep our beasts well fed!” Michael John said with a smile.
“Will do!” Jojo replied with enthusiasm.
As we approached the exit of the stables I noticed several of the townspeople standing on the street. They were all looking in the same direction. It seemed that someone or something was approaching the town from the south.
“The bounty?” Gan questioned slowly lowering her arm to her side.
“I do not know. But let us stay incognito for now” I responded.
If it was the bounty we were not in the best of positions to ambush them, and also I was unarmed. We cautiously exited the saloon. In the distance there was a lone horse trotting slowly towards the town. It was the blackest horse I had ever seen. Somehow it was saturated a deeper black than my eyes thought possible. The rider of the beast on the horizon wore all black. We patiently watched as the rider drew near. I felt relieved yet peculiarly unsettled when I saw the rider for what he was. Riding the blackest horse was an old decrepit looking man. He was more so feebly clinging to the horse than riding it. As he got closer I saw the white collar around his neck.
“A preacher…”
I was reminded of a conversation I overheard last night in the saloon. It was irrelevant at the time, but seeing this preacher in black brought back the memory.
“…after he was finished with him. Then he said that the man in black stroked off his name from a ledger. He said he saw the man in black talking to a boy when there was no one else around, but after the man in black moved on the boy was nowhere to be seen. He just up and vanished.”
“All because of someone he did business with? I thought there was something off about him when he arrived. It was the same with the white haired one when he showed up. At least he…”
I did not believe that the man in black mentioned in the conversation was the same as the approaching preacher. But I do know that all black is an ominous colour. Especially when worn in the desert. We had heard the rumours of a wandering diablo in black. The preacher did not match the description but I could not help but feel somewhat wary. I sneaked a glimpse at Sheriff Putin. He was no longer rocking back and forward. The oncoming preacher had caught his attention. I was curious as to why. Perhaps there was just nothing much to do in this town other than to watch the new arrivals. We watched on as the horse awkwardly trotted past the church. The preacher’s body looked lifeless. He was slumped over on his front. I would have assumed he was dead if it was not for his feeble looking hands clasping onto the reins of the horse. It looked as if he would fall off the horse at any moment. Or perchance the dark black horse would collapse bringing them both into the dirt as it slowly trotted and wobbled. The preacher was lifeless apart from his grip, but as he rode past the giant fallen cross I swear I saw a smile. If he had come to replace the last preacher who had been crushed by the giant cross why was he smiling? I was not so sure if he was a replacement. I doubted that a replacement preacher would have reached this distant town so soon. We were somewhat surprised to see the preacher ride on past us and take the same route we did as we arrived into town. He slowly trotted past us at the stables towards the jail and the sheriff’s office. He circled around the dry well taking his time riding past the gallows outside of B. B. and Blair’s Law Firm. As he rode past the hotel across the street I saw Olaf standing in the entrance of the hotel waving a letter and staring at me. I was not expecting any letters.
“There is nothing to see here” I stated to Michael John and Gan.
We crossed the street towards the hotel. In front of the dry well was where we met the preacher. There was that strange feeling in my stomach as we slowly crossed paths. I was worried.
“Good evening!” I said tipping my hat.
The preacher was still hunched forward. He slowly erected his spine correcting his posture. Then he grinned at us; like how a child smiles when thoroughly interested.
Who are you?
Without stopping he answered “a preacher” as if he knew the question in my mind…
A shiver ran down my spine as he trotted past us towards the stables. I shook it off and headed straight to Olaf.
As Olaf handed me the letter I watched as the preacher dismounted outside of the stables. He hunched forward and then shifted his body weight to his left until he began to slowly fall from the horse. It looked extremely awkward but somehow he landed on his feet. Then with the use of a cane he slowly limped into the stables.
“Who gave this to you?” I asked.
Olaf told me that the letter came in with the day’s delivery.
“It must have been sent the day before you three arrived” Olaf said.
Michael John, Gan, and I all looked each other in the eye. There was no way anyone could have known about us. Instead of my usual slow and meticulous letter opening routine I instead just ripped this letter open. There were three words written:

Do not interfere

As I raised my head away from the letter I glimpsed the preacher flash a smile at me from across the street in the stables. He then slowly limped out of view…

Olaf gave us the duck and we returned to our room upstairs. The duck had apparently been on good behaviour all day.
“What do you think Whiskey?” Michael John asked.
Gan was also looking at me wanting answers. I was as in the dark as they were.
“I do not know… the preacher…”
“Quack!” the duck interrupted.
“Maybe… but that raises too many questions” I answered daring not to speculate any further.
“Do you think they somehow knew we were coming?” Gan asked me.
“No. If they did we would either be behind bars or we would be dead” I answered.
“Hmm… I do not like being in the dark” Michael John said.
“Olaf could be lying about the source of the letter” I added.
“Why?” Gan questioned.
I admitted “I do not know. But anyone could have sent us that letter. Sheriff Putin gave us a certain look when we got back. Perhaps he wants us to not interfere with the natives.”
“You do not sound sure of yourself on that Whiskey” Michael John replied with a raised eyebrow.
“No I am not, but…” I could not go on.
“What?!” Michael John and Gan simultaneously said.
I was reluctant to tell them about the bad feeling I had gotten from the preacher. How I saw him smile at the sight of the giant cross that had crushed the previous preacher. How he was standing across the road, staring at me from the stables smiling as I read the letter. I told them everything.
“What is he up to?” Gan mused.
“If indeed anything” I added.
I did not want to believe that such a man was in town. There was something about him…
“He seemed to take in the town the same way we did when we arrived, especially when riding in front of the law firm” Michael John postulated.
“He seemed more interested in the gallows than the law firm” Gan argued.
I concurred with Gan, but I was not ready to jump to conclusions. A preacher had arrived in town this evening. He was an old man. It meant nothing. Just an old crippled preacher… And the letter; it was too vague to be of importance.
I raised my hands, animating them as I began to talk “I think we may be connecting more dots than there are. The preacher is nothing but a crippled old man. The letter maybe originated from one of the townspeople. It could have come from anywhere, either way it means nothing to us. We should move forward, cautiously, and keep an eye on the preacher.”
The duck quacked “Quack!”
Gan removed her revolver from her holster checking that it was loaded.
“Caution” she said as she revolved the chambers in the cylinder inspecting the yet to be fired cartridges.
She then did the same with her two other hidden revolvers. This prompted Michael John to check his hand cannon. It was a beastly long barrelled revolver that he wore on his holster.
“I know this is always loaded” he said as he grabbed his crotch.
He was referring to his Dillinger.
“I do not think we have actually seen you with your revolver Whiskey” Michael John said.
I had been putting off holding a gun. My fingers tapped against the table nervously. I did not want to have to kill again so soon. Touching, holding, and feeling a gun would bring that sensation back. I had been fortunate that Michael John and Gan had been there to shoot the two banditos. The killer in me had been paralysed. But I knew it was time. I had to pick up my revolver. It was buried in my stuff. I pulled out my torn dress and threw it onto my bed. Beneath it was my revolver which was still fastened securely in my holster. It felt like it had been a long time. I equipped the holster, checked the revolver, and loaded the chambers.
“…”
“You should get your dress repaired while you are in town” Michael John suggested, oblivious to the emotional turmoil I felt as I gripped my revolver, hand trembling.
A voice in my head screamed “Papa papa!”
I have not lost my nerve, I know I can still kill, but I fear I have lost something else…
“You should get your dress repaired” Michael John repeated.
“I will” I replied.
The revolver in my hand had given me an idea.
Gan shushed us as she said “Be quiet! I think I can hear the preacher checking in downstairs.”
We listened intently to the sound of the preacher downstairs asking for a room. After hearing Olaf give the preacher his key I listened out for the sound of a cripple walking. The floors were wooden, but he made no sound. We heard the unlocking of the room opposite ours. The sound of a door opening and then closing, but no footsteps…
I looked at Michael John who was standing in the corner of his room stroking his long barrelled hand cannon.
“Saloon?” he suggested.
“I could do with a drink” I replied.

…

On the way out we briefly asked Olaf about the preacher. He did not know much; I doubted anyone knew anything about the preacher.
Michael John and Gan walked over to the saloon without me. I was going to drop my dress off at Sam’s Cobblers and Tailors if it was open. I entered and had a look around. The place seemed empty. I was about to leave when a voice called out.
“Hello!” she spoke.
I looked her up and down. If I had to guess it was Sam’s wife.
“Hello! I would like this dress repaired. Is Sam in?” I asked.
“No, he is probably drinking, but you do not need him. I do most of the sewing around here. Here let me have a look” she said as she forcefully grabbed the dress off me.
“Be careful!” I said trying to sound like I did not care that much.
“This will be an easy repair” she said with a smile.
Smiling back I said “Oh I was hoping for something special…”
I told her what I wanted. She said it was an interesting request, and that it would be ready by tomorrow evening if I wished it. I did. I paid her in advance and then I left.

“…”
As I exited out onto the street I felt uneasy.

A rap tap tap

The preacher was leaving the hotel and slowly limping towards the saloon. His cane made a tapping sound as he limped. I quickly walked towards the saloon ignoring the crippled old man who had me on edge so much.

A rap tap tap

His tapping sounded loud like he was approaching me fast. I turned and saw that he had barely moved an inch from where I first saw him. The sound of him rapping and tapping must have been playing tricks on my mind.
When I entered the saloon my jaw dropped. I stood at the entrance dumbfounded and awestruck. The preacher was already in the saloon. He was proselytising; advocating in the name of God. The hairs on the back of my head were standing in fright. I turned around quickly to see if the preacher was both inside the saloon and also slowly limping towards the saloon. I saw him across the street limping; rapping and tapping on his cane, smiling at me. I looked at the old man grinning at me with the face of a child. I then turned and looked at the preacher inside the saloon. He was still their speaking for God. Impossible I thought! I looked back outside. There was no one on the street but me…
“Manchuria…” I said out loud to no one, not really knowing why I had said it, but somehow feeling that it was relevant.
I had to calm down. Perhaps I still had some of Chief Kief’s herbs in my system. Whiskey would calm me down… it always did. The preacher was still inside the saloon speaking the word of God.
“Was it open?” Michael John questioned as he passed me a drink.
I finished my drink in one go and responded “Yes. It was.”
Michael John passed me another and I sat down. There were bowls of stew and bread on the table. I did not feel hungry. I normally eat a lot. My mind was not present… it was far off somewhere else. I clenched my fist under the table. I was clenching my anger and frustrations.
“Why?” I had asked Blues.
Why? Why? Why?
I gulped down more alcohol hoping to drown out whatever it was I was feeling. I knew I should not feel this way, but I did. I cannot help how I feel. Objectively and logically I know that what happened is irrelevant to the now of here, but I just cannot separate the past from the present. I know I need to live in the now. I need to be in the here and the now to survive. There is something about the preacher…
“How do you think he got here before us?” Gan questioned.
We last heard him entering his room. Then Gan and Michael John headed straight here.
“I have no idea” I admitted as I finished off my second drink.
I did not care. I did not want to care.

We spent the rest of the evening relaxing responsibly. We made sure to limit our alcoholic intake. I occasionally listened in to the preacher preaching.
His main message was “Thou shalt not kill!”
The preacher extended this message to the killing of anything.
“Thou shalt not kill full stop! Thou shalt not kill humans. Thou shalt not kill animals. Thou shalt not kill!” he preached.
He said that when possible vegetarianism would be the only diet choice that God would support. I stared down at my stew. There was some sort of meat floating in it. I ate it up in an act of defiance. It was not the best bit of food I have ever had in my mouth; it left a lot to be desired.
“Look who it is” Michael John said gesturing behind me.
It was the fat drunkard from last night and his less than amicable friend; Bill and Mark.
Bill stumbled forward shouting slurred words at the preacher “HEY PREACHER! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT HOMOSEXUALITY?”
The preacher did not attempt to respond. He must have known that Bill was the kind of guy who would answer his own questions.
“IT IS THE DEVIL’S WORK AND THEY SHOULD ALL BE HANGED!” he shouted.
Everyone in the Saloon was watching, waiting for the preacher to respond. He slowly limped forward, cane in hand towards the fat lumbering Bill. Mark stood behind Bill giving the evil eye to whoever met his gaze.
“No, they should not be hanged. Thou shalt not kill!” he reiterated.
“Then what preacher? What should we do about their sin?”
“Love is not a sin. But if you wrongfully believe it to be so, then let he who is without sin cast the first stone” the preacher said with a grin.
“The last preacher did not take that kind of approach to homosexuality!” Bill angrily retorted.
“So I have heard. He was against it and he used God’s money to buy favours from the local law firm. He paid them to outlaw homosexuality… and then once more with God’s money he vainly purchased a giant cross. Do you believe the lightning striking the giant cross was an act of God?” the preacher questioned.
“EHMM…” Bill was speechless.
It seemed that the preacher already had knowledge on the town. Why was he here? Was it really just to spread the message of thou shalt not kill. If it was, the message was lost to me. I had killed many times before, and I would be killing again shortly.

…

When we finished our drinks for the evening I looked over to the preacher. He was still talking to whoever would listen. Telling them what God wanted from them. It was a positive message. He made a change from the usual preacher man. We got up out of our seats and left. Michael John waved goodbye to the bartender flashing him a wink. I looked up at the dark sky as we exited the saloon. I took a deep breath taking in the sparkling blue dots amongst the shining shimmering black canvas. The night’s sky always relaxed me, but suddenly without warning a familiar fear crept down my spine.
I heard the rapping and tapping of a cane. We all turned around to see the preacher standing behind us. He had not made a sound; no one had ever successfully sneaked up on the Beautiful Triumvirate before. I was staring at an old crippled man, but my heart was racing.
Speaking slowly and purposefully the preacher spoke “Minstrel, Bard, and Sibyl…” as he looked at Michael John, then me, and finally Gan.
We looked at each other hiding any semblance of the truth. It had been a long time since we had heard those names.
Michael John wearing his best poker face said with a smile “Who are Minstrel, Bard, and Sibyl?”
“Three slaves who went to Manchuria…” he quickly retorted.
“Manchuria???” Gan quizzically asked with both eyebrows raised.
Once more the preacher began to speak slowly taking his time with each word “Fuzhou, Jiangning, the Emp…”
Michael John interrupted him before he could say too much “I am sorry but we do not know what you are talking about. I think you have us confused.”
The preacher chortled to himself and with the aid of his cane he limped past us.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
With gravitas he uttered “Blakheart…”
We watched as he hobbled off into the night’s dark.
“How could he know about that?” I perfunctorily asked Michael John and Gan.
The answer was simple; he could not have known about it. I had a feeling that Blakheart was more than just a decrepit old preacher; there was something else under the veneer of a lame old man… a God or a Devil?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Previously...

@RiskDebonair
Irish Writer, Poet, & Lover

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