The Butcher and the Butterfly Read Free Page A

the bucket which
stood for the sink. He didn’t wash them and Martin guessed that
they would never be washed, only reused time and time again until
that cancerous cough got the better of him and he hacked up his
last breath.
    Albert grabbed a
bottle that was hidden behind an odd looking metallic machine and
two dull glasses that were close by. ‘Saving this bottle for a
special occasion. Fancy a swig or four?’
    ‘Sounds good to
me.’ Martin couldn’t remember the last time liquor had passed his
lips. Months? Who knew?
    ‘Grab those old
cushions, Martin, we shall drink this like the old desert folk do;
under the stars getting pissed as they twinkle at us.’
    Martin gathered
together some wood and kindling using the light of the moon to
guide him. Occasionally he would pick up what he thought were twigs
but turned out to be sharp copper wires – some protruding from
heavy metal, others twisted around like mad spiders fighting. When
he had enough for a good sized fire he knelt next to Albert and
began to build.
    He built the
kindling up like a chimney until it was two hands high. Martin then
gathered some razor grass, taking care not to cut himself, and
shoved it into the centre of the construct. Fiddling in his pockets
he removed some matches and went to light. Albert grabbed his arm
and leant in, his free hand holding an odd pencil shaped
object.
    ‘Allow me,
Martin.’ Albert flicked a small button on the pencil thing and a
small flame instantly sparked from the metallic tip. There was no
flint, no sour smell nor did the flame burn a pale orange. It was
truly a marvel. Albert smiled, his crooked teeth glinting in the
glow of the flame. He touched the flame to the razor grass and the
dry weed smoked for a while and then with a familiar popping sound
it took to the flame. Within a minute the small chimney construct
was aflame and both Martin and Albert added to it.
    Albert sat back a
bit and grabbed his tobacco pouch from his pocket. ‘Ya smoke,
Martin?’
    ‘Nah, didn’t take
to it. Though at times I do regret it.’
    Albert hacked and
laughed spitting some vile phlegm into the fire. It hissed with
anger. He placed the tobacco back into his pocket and produced
instead a freshly rolled cigarette which he didn’t light it but
placed it into his mouth – this would be the way in which Martin
would always remember him. ‘Been doing it since I turned the man’s
age. Back then though the weed was different.’
    Martin had heard
the term “man’s age” before and knew it to be from day’s long, long
past. It wasn’t a term used anymore and represented the dark days;
when the earth was becoming new again. It was rude, but Martin had
to ask, ‘How old are you, Albert?’
    The old loon
opened the bottle, the cap resisting for a while until finally
giving up with a satisfying crunch and poured some of the reddish
brown liquid into the two glasses. It smelt sweet, hot and old.
    ‘How old!’ Albert
croaked, ‘Fuck the days, I have no idea.’ He scratched his ancient
chin and downed the drink in one, his mouth narrowing and his
nostrils flaring. As he swallowed he cracked his teeth together and
sucked in some air, he then gestured to the Marksman to follow suit
and Martin did as he was told. The drink was as it had smelt but by
far more intense. As he composed himself, letting the heat from the
drink lessen in his gut Albert continued.
    ‘It doesn’t rain
out here much. Something stops the clouds as soon as they reach the
forest over yonder. But there is a pattern ya see, not many people
see it, or know about it, but I know.’ Albert’s eyes were wide with
psychotic delight and the fire danced in them, ‘In that forest
there is a great bird, black as night with a beak as blue as the
ocean – I know, I have seen it – and this bird is a sleeper. It
sleeps for three years until its hungry and when it wakes it takes
flight and heads east out toward the unknown lands. Two days later,
black clouds, black as the