A Short Story: Mort Cerf by Frank Sonderborg (Republic of B Chapter 4)

Republic of B by Frank Sonderborg

Mort Cerf

Jed ate from the meagre bowl of watery soup. Never near enough to fill his screaming belly. Judy cowered beside him sucking up heat from the blazing fire.

The three Bodkin body hunters, glowered at them from another table. The Inn was well named, “The Flying Trap” as it lay on the runaways escape road north that Jed was taking Judy. Away from the madness that had consumed Londinium.

The Innkeeper stood impassive behind his bar. Open 24hrs to bribes and double dealing. Jed had little faith in his fluctuating loyalties.

At other tables, grey faced men consumed their greasy watery, extra meat soup. Jed could see the Bodkins stirring up a move, after whispers passed with the Innkeeper.

Judy looked on in silence as they made their play. The Bodkins approached one right one left. Smiling Bodkin remained sitting, staring direct at him.

The Inn door creaked open. The heat from the fire was sucked out and into the snow covered yard. Faraway in the broken forest a hungry snow wolf howled. A shadow flowed into the Inn.

Jed watched, iced with fear.

The shadow was dressed head to toe in fuligin black. An unnatural blackness that sucked the light, the very energy out of the room.

The boots were dull black like the long cloak that covered the body. Long black hair and a big black hat covered the head.
A well-worn long blade hung from a back-holster. A savage scar ran across the face.
Intelligent eyes burning like the coals of a distant sun as they took in the enfolding scene. It was staring directly at Jed.

Smiling Bodkin turned and fired his crossbow across the table at the now moving shadow. Missing and dying as a throwing blade flicked through his throat. Bodkin two turned too late, as he was decapitated with a swift blow from the flashing long sword. The confused body continuing forward before collapsing in a pulsing bloody heap.

The shadow then turned smoothly left, like a ballerina and two handed, rammed the spiked sword hilt through the face of the last on rushing Bodkin. Still trying to pull his shotgun. To slow much to slow.

Jed realized he was standing petrified with a bent soup spoon in his hand.
The Innkeeper pulled a sawn shotgun from under the counter and was targeting the flowing shadow. Jed let out a shout and threw the spoon at the bar. Spooked the Innkeeper jerked and the blast missed its intended target.

The Innkeeper was immediately impaled by the shadows long sword. Then it turned like lightning and the bloodied point was tickling Jed’s throat.
There they stood an eternity as the shadow pondered a killing move. As Judy unnoticed under the table pushed the end of the collected Bodkin shotgun barrel deep into its groin.

It glanced down, smiled, a scar faced smile then backed quickly away holstering its long sword. Then throwing a rabbit it had plucked from the Innkeepers satchel at Judy.

It said, in a strange French accent, “People know me as - Mort Cerf - and I hope you mademoiselle can cook better than you can kill.” Then he headed for the warm fire.

We sat and ate as the wind howled outside. We had a new Innkeeper. It’s how these things worked in the out-lands.

The weak will never inherit the wind.
The Darwin process I believe it was called, back when life and living a life meant something.
Mort sat with his back to the wall. Knives on the table. He ate with his fingers. Jed watched him as he scanned the crowd in the Inn. Like an animal.
Judy brought more stew. Real meat. Jed could not get it down quick enough.
“You’s running away,” said Mort.
“Yea, from that black shit hole they call a city. Any place will do,” I answered.
"The Bodkin boys where here for you, he said without looking up. That means a bounty.”
I tensed up as his left hand drifted to his throwing Knives.
“I owe you both. So relax,” he said. Though he never smiled.
“Teach us,” I said impulsively.
“Teach you what? To die more quickly than you will. And you will die.”

“Everybody dies,” I said, “It’s just the way you die that matters.”

“Teach me too,” said Judy, “I don’t want to…” Then she started crying.

“I’m no teacher,” he said.

“You’re a killer,” I said, “You’re a survivor, teach us to kill and survive.”

“You owe us,” said Judy, “you owe me that.”

And he did, Mort Cerf thought us how to survive. And yes it involved killing.

He was a “Blade,” a sword for hire. But he could kill with his bare hands.

Shibumi is what he called it and taught both Judy and me the finer points. What was Shibumi, we asked everyday.
He never could give a straight answer.
It is the power of silence. It is the appreciation of simplicity. It is the tranquility of a moment. It is being the moment without ever becoming the moment. it is Shibumi.

He laughed at the idea of handing over his swords made him defenseless.

He said,"Everything placed on this good earth is a weapon."
And he proceeded to beat me around the clearing with a broom stick then a bucket.
He constantly screamed the word retzev, retzev retzev, over and over again as Judy and I sparred.
He explained it meant continuous motion. Defending was attacking. Attack! attack! attack!
He'd picked it up from operations he had been on with the Shayetet 13.

When we asked who they were, he clammed up. And just said they were all gone.
I visualized them, as 13 great Shibumi warriors. If Mort Cerf was in awe of these guys so was I.

But mostly he spoke of Légion Étrangère. The French Foreign Legion. He had campaigned with La Légion across The Middle East until it fell apart. He then worked as a bodyguard for the fleeing rich Arabs as they headed for Europe.

And in a collapsing Europe he re-invented himself as Mort Cerf. A Blade for hire.

They sat all three in the forest and ate the Kings deer. King Harry was rumored to be on a beach in the sun somewhere out to the west. Thought, so fuck-em.

Mort left them from time to time when he was hired out to do a job.
Some times he came back bloodied and Judy took care of him. Other times he was in a good humor and told more tall tales of the collapse of the west.

He kept telling us, if you work this work. You need a manager to hold your stash. and preferably someone you can trust. He told them of an Inn to the west of Londinium where he picked up his jobs.

The Bad Black Turtle, if you ever need me just leave a message and I will find you.

He gave Judy a .22 Rimfire rifle and showed her how use it, like the fine tool it was meant to be. Judy learned to kill with it. But more important he also showed her how to make her own ammunition. With the shit resources we had.

She became the right little gunsmith. She also started sleeping with him. Which was fine by me as it paid the rent for us both.And she needed the love.

He trained us hard everyday.Then was gone for a week. Then trained us hard some more.
I could now kill with either hand. I could kill with anything that lay to hand. I had, he said the talent.
I had Shibumi.

Mort Cerf left one day and never came back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was dead.
We waited until we could wait no more. Then we packed our things and headed back to Londinium.
We were City people and we missed the buzz. But now there was difference. Judy had a plan.

There may be a bounty still on our heads from the Morogo tribe we scarpered from. But now we could make a living. We had a trade that was in demand in that soot shit city. And it wasn’t snaring stupid outies.