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Tall Tales

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Hellcoats in Bombay
By Sheridan Lardner
Spring 2009

     “Hotter than hell this is. Why did ye have to piss ‘em off so thoroughly.”
   
“Temperature should suit us. Get it? Suit us?...”
      “That’s just bloody terrible.”
      “Bloody amazing you mean. I see the posters in London already: Hellcoats Dressed For Hell Itself.”
      “And underneath all that glossy letterin’ is a portrait o’ heroic Thomas Lardner hacking through the brush, and when all the little lads and lasses gather ‘round and say ‘Oh mother, I want to be like him when I get big,’ they will just chuckle and turn ‘em towards somethin’ with a wee bit more longevity.”
      “No, that’d be you and your non-army regulation Scottish beard they are shaking their heads at.”
      “This heat will be its closest call with the shears yet. Jus’ look at this raggedy thing. It’s already sweated away all its volume.”

     “There you go, the subheading: Lieutenant Lorne Mungo and his Drooping Beard.”

     “Between this an’ the first unspeakable pun, yer a regular jester, Lardner.”

     “Yes, well, pity that Westminster didn’t share your appraisal.”

     “Ye shat on Tarleton in front of his parents, wife, kids, colleagues, members o’ parliament… the damn royal minister was there too.”

     “They all agreed he was a fool.”

     “Aye, but they also agreed ye disobeyed a direct order in a battle we lost.”

     “Bad orders that would have worsened a minor defeat. Our first charge cut through the Colonials; routed a whole line and we lost maybe two men. Then the cavalry came and he still wants me to charge, even though they are at our flank?”

     “Ye’ were tactically in the right, but strategically in the wrong.”

     “That’s an unusually enlightened comment, Mungo, I’m impressed.”

     “That’s just isn’t alright to violate a superior officer’s orders. Remember what that foppish Winney said on the stand, ‘And if e’ery officer put down a higher officer’s orders, what would we have then? Chaos! Anarchy! Bedlam in the ranks! BEDLAM IN ENGLAND ITSELF!”

     “You even have the hand waving.”
     “Good impression isn’t it?”

     “Yes, well, too bad I did not make a better one on him.”
     “Oh no, ye’ made a perfectly good one. Instead o’ just hangin’ ye’ for treason and lettin’ me ramble on with me career, they sent the mighty cap’in, his handsome Lieutenant, an’ his band o’ super-soldiers to a place where their talents be most needed.”
     “The jungles and mountains of Northern India.”
     “Ye make it sound so quaint. Just a bonny trip out to Northern India for a spot o’ huntin’ and supper with the local big wig while we at it.”
     “Mungo, is this all an elaborate complaint I am hearing?”
     “On the contrary, it be our God, er… Devil-given duty to give a little powder, shot, and Scottish steel to these tigers in the Northern wastes.”
     “Tigers…?”
     “Picture one a’ them American cougars. Make him big as a bear and paint him orange. There you go. Tiger.”
     “I know what they are. But why are the rebels tigers?”
     “Who knows? Pro’lly some jargon passed around to make ‘em sound all the more sinister.”
     “American tribesmen named themselves after animals. Remember that Chief Black Bear fellow in New York? The one who took out eight of our lads wielding a tree stump.”
     “Hard to forget a monster like that.”
     “Harder to forget that we knew he would be there. That retreating lieutenant warned us, you know, the one with the buckteeth, that the natives in that area were led by a real ursine brute, and at the time that felt like hyperbole of the highest order.”
     “Guess we shoulda’ known that some random Redcoat would be too stupid for fancy words.”
     “That’s what I’m saying. He was being literal. That chief was literally like a bear.”
     “Not too literally. Bears don’t lift trees.”
     “That fact aside, he charged in downhill and mixed in with the ranks. Bears knock their targets over before circling back for claws and teeth. And what did he do? Knocked down eight of the squad with a piece o’ tree, dropped the trunk on them, and then circled back with tomahawk and knife. He even had the big black bearskin armor.”
     “Lit’rally fightin’ like a bear eh?”
     “Aye. Oh, and he was certainly built like one.”
     “Took our volley and ran on like lead was gnats.”
     “Exactly. You see my point Mungo? He was just like the so-called hyperbolic jargoned description. What’s to say that these rebels aren’t as well?”
     “It’s a theory.”
     “A damn good theory. So, tell me more about tigers.”


     “Thought ye’ knew all about ‘em?”
     “Don’t be an ass.”
     “Ha! Fair enough. Alright, well, so this isn’t the first time I been in this Indian hell hole. Before I linked up with the mighty 666th battalion and wee little Thomas Lardner, I was a mercenary offerin’ me skills on a Portuguese trading ship. We were haulin’ a rich spice cargo back from the Dutch in their East Indies, when a mighty tempest struck the ship. We managed to limp ‘er to shore, but we lost o’er half a’ the goods and a quarter o’ the crew in the process. We were far south o’ Bangalore in some shit port, down on men and about to be down on money.”
     “Wouldn’t your company cover the losses back in Portugal?”
     “Hah that’s a joke there. Thankfully, we didn’t have jokers like you on board, and our first mate, a resourceful lad by the name o’ Jibrin, asked around and found a solution. Deep in the jungle about a four days march from the town lived the area’s maharajabob”
     “What the hell is a ‘majarajabob’?”
     “Indian big wig I think. Now, normally, his palace was armed to the teeth, but a local uprising had drawn the entire army away, leavin’ a skeleton crew to defend the palace. Inside were coffers’ o’ rubies, sapphires, gold, and all other pretties, we would more ‘an make up our losses. So we armed up, left some men to watch the ship, and marched out into the wilds.”
     “Mungo, did I hear this was a trading ship or did you say pirate ship?”
     “Ye’d be amazed how fine the line is ‘tween those two. Anyways, the jungles was treacherous terrain, but we got to the palace in short order, murdered our way to the treasure, and carried as much of that loot as we could out. All’s well, aye? Nay. Not a bit. First night we make camp, I’m settlin’ in to me cot, and I hear a horrible scream, the tumblin’ o’ bushes, and then a growl like the Beast himself. I call out to the sentry, but no response. Then again, the same screams and rustlin’ from where our second sentry was posted. I roused the camp, those that weren’t already bolt up in fear, and we huddled together, guns at the ready. This continued on for three nights, e’ery night two sentries taken screaming and flailing into the brush while we slept, the demons bellowin’ shortly after. For three days we didn’t sleep a wink, sittin’ shoulder-to-shoulder, guns in hand, treasure at our backs. On the final night ‘afore we were to make it to town, we were so damn tired. Half o’ the men nodded off or were noddin’ off when the beasts came. Three of them against thirty of us. What chance did we have? One dropped down right on top of us from the trees, big as a horse, ye could see its muscles under the orange and black and white stripes. Its eyes…Devil himself. Even after our campfire went out in the melee, those eyes was still flickerin’.”
     “Sounds pretty.”
     “Nay nay, anything but. And that beast was only the distraction. Two more charged from the trees. Without light, sleep, or strength, we got torn apart. Jibrin, our bright mate whose idea the treasure was in the first place, got mauled by all three of them at once. Last I saw as I ran off was his leg goin’ in one direction and the rest a’ him in the other. We left that treasure and made a run back for the ships. That was when I retired from that business.”
     “Good choice. Otherwise, what would I be doing without you?”

     “They had this one trick Thomas. Big legs, strong legs, fast creatures they were, and low to the ground. Between the darkness and our fatigue, we were already off our game, but surely we coulda’ shot off some natives. But these things were too fast. They were under the barrels, mixin’ in with us from all sides. Couldn’t get a shot off, couldn’t reload, could barely draw a weapon, lest yer hands drop from knockin’ them back with the muskets. Most of us hadn’t fired, but we daren’t shoot each other as the tigers leapt through us and around us.”
     “Hm. Infighting.”
     “Aye.”
     “Tigers copied my style.”
     “Doubt it, but ye’ should upgrade our own moves to copy theirs.”
     “I would have to see them first.”
     “Or see Prince Ajitabh’s rebels.”
     “Ajitabh. That’s the warlord leading the Northern resistance?”
     “That he is. Report don’t offer too much about him. Sounds to me like e’ery other Indian monarch who has yet to fall under EIC control; big guy, big turban, big sword, big elephant.”
     “An elephant?”
     “Apparently he rides one.”
     “Well this ought to be a fun expedition. What exactly is our itinerary for this trip?”
     “We been floatin’ in this harbor long enough already, so we should be dockin’ soon. After that, you head over to the EIC command and receive our orders, while I take in the sights with our squad sergeants.”
     “That’s right. We don’t know our orders yet.”
     “No we don’t, just as me good friend Lieutenant McFearson didn’t suggest to us we would be fightin’ rebels in India led, and didn’t mention their leader’s name was Ajitabh.”
      “Why all the secrecy?”
      “Ask Governor Willoughby if ye’ see him.”
      “Not that it really takes much of a genius to guess. What else could the Company want of Hellcoats in Bombay?”
      “Thomas me lad, maybe they just want ye around for yer’ English charm?”
      “That’s Captain Lardner once we get on shore. Besides, I’d rather have Lieutenant Mungo’s Scottish petulance any old day.”
       “Yer’ a real riot Captain.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Best Man for the Job
By Sheridan Lardner
Winter 2008

“No more bad news from the North. Leave it to the barbarians, write no more reports on it, and I assure you, the Crown will forget it exists.”
“Governor Willoughby of the East India Company. Last I checked, Northern India was still part of India.”
“But even you do not know the region’s name! London would never miss it.”
“Fine message that sends to your subjects. Can’t even put down a few turbaned marauders.”
“Not a few, Duke. Hordes. Endless hordes pouring from the mountains and jungles.”
“Very biblical of you.”
“See this cacophonous scribbling of ink here? This is Corporal Martin’s artistic rendition of his enemies as they swarmed through his ranks.”
“The same Corporal Martin executed for desertion while trying to flee Calcutta?”
“Evidently he must have been terribly impressed if he went from my office to Calcutta’s port in less than a week.”
“Evidently the Governor of Bengal needs a tighter rein on his beasts.”
“There’s beasts, and then there’s beasts. We have the oxen in line from coast to coast.”
“Ask your average Londoner, and the animal of India is the tiger, not the ox.”
“Harris, I requested Redcoats for this task.”
“You have an army. Tens of thousands are no match for your Northern tiger?”
“Every force of natives deployed beyond our forts has been shipped back in carts, if indeed they come back at all.”
“Sounds like a failure of leadership.”
“Or a failure of soldiery! Tiger cubs cannot beat the mother!”
“Since when have you been so prosey.”
“Good, hard, English force failed in America and now it fails in the North. Maybe we should be a bit more French.”
“And we all know how they fared against good, hard, English force.”
“But perhaps they would do better against Prince Ajitabh. More lace on the uniforms. Might mistake them for exotic plants.”
“I imagine your Prince knows his foliage from his French.”
“He better. They supplied him with his guns, powder, shot, even cannon.”
“Thankfully they are far too engaged to currently provide further aid.”
“Not that it matters. Every doomed man we send is another gun in his hands.”
“Now he has many hands. How very Shivan of him.”
“You are a positive riot, Harris.”
“And what you have is a positive riot up there.”

“Then send me Redcoats.”
“You seem to be wearing a perfectly nice one right now…Don’t look so cross, just a spot of fun.”
“It’s neither fun nor funny. You sailed six months from Westminster to tell bad jokes?”
“I sailed six months from Westminster to inform you that we are granting your request.”
“Of expanding my wardrobe?”
“Now who’s telling bad jokes.”
“I am getting a Company then?”
“A Troop. Fifty strong.”
“Fifty? You are sending me fifty men?”
“Fifty strong, so probably a few more.”
“Three thousand men could not oust Ajitabh!”
“These are not Indians, not even Redcoats.”
“More riddles and jokes.”
“Tell me Governor. Have you ever heard of the Hellcoats?”
“Doesn’t strike a chord…should I have?”
“His Majesty’s Sixth Foot Brigade, Sixth Regiment, Sixth Battalion. Six hundred and sixty-six of the meanest lads from Scotland, Ireland, and England that can be stuffed into uniform and trusted with a musket in hand.”
“A bit sinister for our King?”
“They unbalanced France in the Colonies, enabling our later victories there. That was in ’59. From ’60 until ’63, they kept Frederick in the war. After which th-“
“Frederick? Frederick II? Of Prussia? But we had no troops on the Continent.”
“Oh didn’t we?”
“Hm. I see. Well, continue. After which?”
“After which, the Hellcoats returned to America in their War of Independence.”
“Fat lot of help they were.”
“If we had three more Hellcoat battalions, the war would have been ours within two years. Since then they have been deployed on various operations throughout Britain, maintaining the peace.”
“What distinguishes your miracle soldiers from the rest of the army other than their name?”
“Tactics, weaponry, discipline, the lot of it. At Freiberg, for instance, they mingled with Prussian infantry, presented a weak center, and allowed an Imperial grenadier charge. As soon as the grenadiers closed distance, Hellcoats leapt from the ranks, and the last place you want to be against a Hellcoat is within arm’s reach. In all of a few minutes, they reversed the charge, leaving a gaping hole in the Imperial ranks. The ensuing reforming of the Imperial line left the southern flank weakened; ultimately the cause of Frederick’s victory.”
“Ajitabh does not stand on the field of battle.”
“At Germantown, the American’s attacked through the fog. While Continental and Redcoat fired line to line, Hellcoat elements slipped through the fog. They hit the Americans from their flanks, from their rears, from everywhere and anywhere, forcing two separate brigades to reorganize to fight the threat. The Hellcoats disappeared into the fog again, the two brigades now facing each other. You can imagine what happens next as they load, cock, pull the trigger, and bang bang bang, out goes entire lines of Americans to their own shot.”
“They fight like the savages.”
“Well, they are. British savages, but savages nonetheless. Rough and tumble stock, all of them.”
“Who control such a rabble?”
“A Captain, the one we are sending you, along with fifty of his finest, or should I say nastiest, veterans.”
“And that is?”
“The best man for the job. Captain Thomas Lardner.”

“Lardner? Never heard of the family.”
“You would not have. They were not noble stock even before they left for America.”
“Mere common folk then?”
“What good soldier isn’t? Quite an odd story to this one though. Refused to leave with his family for Philadelphia, snuck aboard a vessel bound for Hong Kong, and at the age of seventeen, wandered around the Orient for a time. I hear he got as far as Japan. Returns to England when he is twenty-one and enlists. Learned a trick or three out in the East. Damn good soldier, and he gets rewarded for that. By the start of the Seven-Years War, he already has his own Troop. Within a year, that becomes a Battalion, and it is only by coincidence that it was the sixth battalion in the sixth regiment of the sixth brigade. Or, destiny, as his commanding officer put it.”
“So you are sending your shining star Captain to the tigers of Lahore for what reason?”
“I thought you didn’t remember the region’s name.”
“Damnit. Don’t remind London.”
“Rest assured.”
“So why? It’s murder up there, and you know that.”
“Our brilliant Captain made a bit of a social blunder in America. One Colonel Tarleton made a foolish tactical decision at Cowpens, doomed his men to be sure. The Captain ignored the order to take the battlefield, pulled out his men and anyone within earshot, and narrowly escaped the America counterattack. Naturally, he saved hundreds. But it was insubordination at its clearest, and once the war was lost, the maneuver was an obvious scapegoat.”
“So he made some enemies.”
“A few more than ‘some.’”
“Can this man be trusted to adhere to orders?”
“No. But he can be trusted to slay your tiger.”
“Well, we can make do with that I suppose.”
“Trust me my friend. In one month time he will sail into your harbor. It will be January. By next Christmas, I promise you on my reputation and honesty as a gentleman, the region will be pacified, the Prince will be dead, and the glory will be yours.”
“And if not?”
“Captain Lardner is not the only man with some enemies in London. I assure you, if he cannot handle the task, both you and I will have other matters to worry about.”
“How cheerful.”

Upon Continuation…
Hellcoats in Bombay

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Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion
By Sheridan Lardner
Summer 2008

The Furies perched at the base of the cross,
their stretched skin blue with rage,
and as they gibbered, from the south
approached the Pilgrim Sage.

The Furies leered their grotesque heads,
Wrinkled, misshapen with age,
the Three babbled gnashing alarm
to the waiting Pilgrim Sage.

“Flee! Or we shall eat your eyes,
chuck your children in a cage,
flay their skin to make a coat.”
Now stood the Pilgrim Sage.

The Furies’, spindly, bloated forms,
blue skin tinged with mange,
with phallic necks and rotten teeth,
they lurched towards the Pilgrim Sage.

“Why travel here, you walking flesh,
through this blasted range.
Turn back now or face our jaws!”
Now laughed the Pilgrim Sage.

“Chuckling slab of charnel meat,
answer: why approach our stage?
This play of death, our work of doom-”
Not yours, Quoth the Pilgrim Sage.

“Marinated in blood, this land is ours!”
hissed the women strange.
High on the cross the condemned awoke,
stirred by the Pilgrim Sage.

The Furies watched as from His robes
the Book poured page by page,
until the paper encircled the four.
Now spoke the Pilgrim Sage.

Plague and infestation cease,
in torment not engage,
I abjure you three foul beasts!
Proclaimed the Pilgrim Sage.

The Furies shrieked a gluttonous sound,
His words did not assuage,
and with a zeal of worm and hound
they expunged the Pilgrim Sage.


The Furies returned to their cursed perch,
through with their rampage,
and turned their tendrils to the cross.
Now hangs the Pilgrim Sage.


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The Traveler: Part 1 of 2
By Sheridan Lardner
Summer 2008

    "What nuisance can I be to you, good sir, when you have twenty other such nuisances rapping at your door? Would not you prefer an elegant speaker to that mass?"
    It was the concluding act of a play staged in the court of Williamsburg, the year 1760 or so, for who can rightly say with the laughable record keeping of the day. Gathered about the wooden platform were fifty or so tradesmen, innkeepers, farmers, ladies of high upbringing, and Corbin the Militia Captain, all of them bent to their breeches in laughter at Poor Beggar Tom's efforts to woo Duchess Carolina. Lanterns flickered with each ghostly breeze, and Bren the Blacksmith softly blamed Talbetha, currently locked inside the Gaol on charges of witchcraft, enchantment, impiety, party to infidelity, and the slaying of an officer of the law. Her trial, such as anything was justly being tried, was to begin after the play, the stage cleared off, the noose set in anticipation of the verdict, and the militia summoned to watch. Governor Arnolds was presiding over the affair, currently seated at the Kings Arms Tavern across the way, observing the play itself.

    Upon the edge of town, militiamen Morris and Hosby patrolled for signs of mischief and ill intent. Perhaps Talbetha would summon aid, whether from fellow sorceresses or something wholly unnatural and born of the Devil. It had certainly not been unheard of in these parts. So their tremendous start was understandable when the snap of a twig revealed a man standing in the dark, cloaked from boot to brim.
    "Account for yourself!" Morris bellowed, his long rifle raised with trembling hands.
    "I am but a traveler passing through these parts in need of food and lodging for the night." An even voice, this man's was, with a hint of worldliness about it that most people of these parts found suspicious.
    "What business brings you traveling sir?" Hosby inquired boldly, his rifle lowered to puff out his already overlarge chest.
    "Books. I am a writer, and journeying provide the most pleasing, most horrifying, most altogether satisfying material for tales."
    "I am none too keen on the idea of being written into a stranger's strange books!" Morris exclaimed.
    "To be honest, my book is presently full. I shall need to purchase a new one before writing continues, and as night has fallen, I thought it best to seek a bed as well as a book."
    "Mind yourself then. You be allowed into the town, but not necessarily welcomed. No trouble out of you neither," Hosby cautioned, wagging his finger at the man. "Do you bear any weaponry we should be aware of?"
    The traveler moved aside his cloak to reveal a long pistol, the sort used by their own militia, and a shorter one, with two hammers and a flared barrel, a model employed by those villains of the Caribbean. They were holstered one to each side, the longer weapon covered in part by a grimy satchel hanging from the man's shoulders.
    "And that be all you are carrying?"
    "The road is a dangerous place as you gentlemen surely understand, and it has been my sad misfortune to have to fire these implements in the past in defense of my life and others."
    "We understand good sir, but be that all the weapons on your person?" Morris questioned tensely. The Traveler silently closed his cloak, closing the matter of conversation. Such a long pause between question and answer did not ease any suspicions of the two men.
    "That be all of concern." Before further interrogation could transpire, the sound of hooves in the distance commandeered the guards attention. They tensed, but then lowered their weapons, raising their hands in greetings,     "Evenin' to you Mista' and Missus Fairyweather!" Hosby called out. Morris waved, but muttered to the Traveler            "Alright then, move along, clear the road...we have our eyes on you matey."
    In the Gaol, Talbetha awoke with a smile and blew a kiss through the window.

Continuation to be Had...

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Ode to the Frisian Islands
Tales of the Mercenary: Cain Valdez

By Sheridan Lardner
Fall 2006

    When Gertrude Krugelwand was found stone dead in a ditch, no one was alarmed. The woman had probably leapt from the bridge above to end the sorrows that accompanied her advanced age. After three such demises the residents of the East Frisian Island of Juist began to experience concern. Initially the local constable dismissed the deaths as coincidence, merely a bad breeze blowing through. It took twenty dead to convince the mayor of Juist to declare these were no accidents. The Juist police could only explain the strange markings, scratches, and cuts as signs of suicide from a tremendous height; they were incapable of solving the case. Thankfully, the mayor remembered an old friend of his.
    “A favor for an old associate?” the mayor asked glumly into the receiver of his phone.
    “O’course mate. Free of charge.”

            Ignoring the process of reaching the Netherlands in the first place, the trip from Amsterdam to Juist was a grueling four hour ride via a bus that had never been cleaned; Cain Valdez found between his seat and the wall a wadded up newspaper from 1962. By the time he was sailing in the fishing boat to the island, he felt about ready to turn around and forget the whole affair.
    A promise is a promise, and reputation is a mite important. Cain often mumbled to himself in the aim of resolving his issues. But…goddamn I hate European islands.

    Cain arrived promptly at 10:43 AM on a Sunday to the island of Juist. His unkempt hair had been so tussled in the brine and wind, that his head had taken the appearance of a broom. He smelled the dark sleeves of his weathered coat. Fish. Maybe it’s just the docks, Cain hoped. Cain was a mercenary, or, as he preferred, “professional adventurer.” He had a reputation for dealing with the strange and the outlandish. Unfriendly spirits, werewolves, pixies, and even a vampire once or twice; Cain solved quite the bizarre problems. And if work in that area were slow, he was a damn good soldier, and on a first name basis with most freedom fighters and dictators across the map.  
    Over the years, he had always found these islands to be more depressing than any other locale he had visited. Looking up to the town of Juist from the docks, he saw tendrils of smoke crawling through the light rain. The only thing taller than two stories on the island was a church, an extremely old one. It looked from Cain’s vantage point to be a Christian spire built atop a Roman or Greek foundation. Quite the oddity out here.
    “Welcome to Juist,” stated a fat man in a fur coat. Cain knew he had been approaching from his parked car down the dock, but had chosen to ignore him. Valdez remembered the fat man’s voice to be less wheezy, but that is what the years must have done to Mayor Bauerhaus.
    “Pleasant island you picked ‘ere,” Cain commented, gesturing to the creaky docks, the gray sky, and the bleak, rocky landscape.
    “No, it’s not,” the mayor shook his head resignedly.
    The two men entered the car and closed the doors. Cain, with his satchel of gear at his side, bandoleers, full pockets, and other paraphernalia associated with the mercenary trade felt rather cramped. Mayor Bauerhaus was fatter, but just as he was resigned to his island, so too must he have been to his car; he scrunched in and started the engine. Cain found himself having to duck to avoid bumping his head as they bounced over the unpaved roads.
    “Murders eh?” Cain suggested as the car pitched to and fro.
    “Maybe, or highly coincidental deaths. Twenty dead in two weeks. All of them killed from a fall. Bridges, rooftops, cliffs, anything high enough to cut them up and snap their neck” The car lurched backward as they rolled their way up the hill.
    “I don’t mean t’be rude, but, eh…I might be leapin’ off a few buildin’s meself if I had to live here for longer than maybe a day.”
    “No no, we are happy people here. No suicides on Juist.”
    "And what is it you happy people do?”
    “We fish.” Cain cocked his head quizzically at the mayor’s response.
    “All of you…fish?”
    “Hmm. More or less,” the mayor shrugged. “Smells like you do too.”
    “Right. Well then, let us assume that it wasn’t the numbing boredom that made ‘em think they were birdies. Where did you say they jumped from again?”
    “I said already. Bridges, rooftops-“
    “Well and good, but do you have an exact list?”
    “The constable will,” the major nodded his head as the car puttered into town.

    The constables office seemed no larger than the car, and certainly no warmer. Couldn’t hurt to light a damn fire. The bearded constable stepped out of the backroom with a folder, reading as he walked.
    “Alright, so we have five jumping from a bridge. Seven went off of their own houses or a neighbors, and four from the cliffs,” the constable read down the list as Mayor Bauerhaus and Cain sat in wooden chairs the creaked with every breath.
    “Are the other three just not important?” Cain suggested sarcastically.
    “Difficult to say. They were found in places where there really were no places to leap from.”
    “My oh my this is a pleasant place.” The constable returned to the backroom to re-file the papers. Cain sniffed his jacket again and still smelled the fish. Goddamnit.
    "Scuse me, but was there anything, oh, the same at each scene of death?” Cain asked.
    “It looked like some of them had jumped off mountains, what with their cuts, bruises, and marks from the fall.”
    “Ah. Strange indeed. Tell me, no one jumped from the church did they?”
    “No actually. No bodies found nearby.”
    “That church…it’s old isn’t it?” Cain inquired to the mayor and constable.
    “Predates the town by far. The lower part is extremely old, classical building from before Christ’s time, but it was converted long ago,” Mayor Bauerhaus responded with a wave of his hand.
    “Tis Sunday now, past eleven. No bells for the church?”
    “I heard there was a problem with ringing them.”
    “I see...Tell me, do you have any…earplugs I could borrow?”
    “No, but would wax do?” the constable replied. “My wife snores something terrible.”
    “Yes indeed. Wax might be more…fitting.”

            Beeswax pushed into his ears, Cain entered the church. It was one of the odder buildings he had ever laid eyes upon. The congregation sat in a converted Roman temple, evident in the faded, crumbling columns outside, the barely recognizable tributes to various vanished deities. Some crazy priest or another had then decided to build a large bell tower through the roof to Christianize the pagan building. The specific nature of the construction was not important, nor was its exact history. Cain had already figured out the source of Juist’s problems.
    He moved in through a side door, using a key given to him by the mayor. The mercenary walked through the dismally furnished priest rooms to the base of the bell tower. A precarious stairwell climbed up to the top of the tower, all done in stone and wood. Cain made certain that the wax was secure, before he began his ascent.
    Ah, but of course. He paused and drew a bulky pistol from his jacket’s folds. For someone of Cain’s trade, it promised heavy firepower and reliability. It was portable enough to carry around, but powerful enough to bring down a horse. He locked a fresh clip of .45 caliber bullets into place and slid the action back. Click-Click. It was a satisfying sound.
    Gun in hand, he stealthily climbed the stairwell. It became colder as he rose, and mist drifted through the slits in the walls. He became acutely aware of a rustling sound at the top of the stairs in the belfry, the sound of something up there. But it wasn’t bats. Cain already knew that. He hid his weapon behind his back as he went around the last corner, confronting the beast in the belfry.
    “Long way from the Mediterranean, eh lady?”
    In the corner of the belfry sat a creature with enormous birdlike wings and legs, but the torso of an old woman. Her breasts were withered, her skin cracked, her face sagging, and her hair in graying strands. She stood over a pile of small bones and various edible refuse. She stared at Cain with vicious brown eyes; there was a vitality there that the creature’s body lacked. She smiled, and her mouth began to move. Her body rocked back and forth slowly, and her eyes became narrower. Sirens certainly gained a few years.

    “Terribly sorry to tell you this, but I’m not a fan of singing, prefer other sorts of music. Saxophone Jazz for instance?” Cain shrugged, using the brief moment of relative calm to locate any exits. The stairs were behind him, and there was a large window with hinges unlatched in the ceiling between the beast and the mercenary.
    She stopped its harmonic motion and merely stared at Cain. Her mouth became a grimace, and her eyes filled with rage. Cain saw her talons move before her wings, and he was ready for the charge.
    She barreled at him with a mighty push of her wings. Bitch’s still fast! Cain realized as he whipped his gun from behind his back and leveled it at her naked chest.
    Bam! The first bullet would have killed a human, but the siren merely picked up speed as she angrily careened into Cain with her talons. The leather armor underneath Cain’s coat and shirt saved him from death, and the shock of impact was not enough to prevent him from firing twice more. Cain saw the clouds of feathers shoot away from her back in a puff of blood as the bullets slammed through her.
    She arched her head back, her eyes shut tight, her mouth open in a scream. Her talons were still stuck in Cain’s shirt, and as she continued the momentum of her charge, she carried Cain with her. They broke through the shingled roof of the belfry and plummeted to the ground. As gravity took hold, Cain grabbed her close and slung a leg over her back. They fell, Cain on top, the screaming siren and its useless, bloody wings on the bottom. Their landing sent Cain tumbling away. The beast had landed on its head with an ironic and resounding snap, and it lay there in a puddle of feather, dust, and blood.

            “What in the hells was that thing?” Mayor Bauerhaus asked as Cain dusted himself off. A crowd had formed, and they all gazed in disbelief at the beast.
    “Siren. Nutty Greek women. The Odyssey and such.” Cain was making an effort to pick the feathers out from his hair.
    “Why…why here? Of all places?”
    “She was an old bitch, and while I will never be able t’tell you why she was in this part of Europe, I do know why she chose your little church. It was something a bit closer to home for her.”
    “You asked for the wax, so, you knew? How…they, sirens, aren’t even real!” the constable said with a stunned look at the dead beast.
    “Real enough to me.” Cain gestured at the body. “This siren was old, not a lot of spunk left in her. Too old to sing a real showstopper, so she prob’ly left her belfry t’persuade your citizens t’bring her food. Then she would pick ‘em up, fly ‘em away, and drop ‘em from the sky. You thought they jumped themselves because the damn island is covered in leaping ledges.”
     “You…you knew all of this then?” the constable was incredulous.
     “Well you said the bells weren’t workin’, and she didn’t want to drop someone too close by, might arouse suspicion. All pretty easy really.” Cain holstered his pistol under his coat, and shook himself off.
    “I really should be paying you for…this thing,” the mayor noted.
    “You want to repay me? Get me off this island,” Cain shouted.
    “What do I do with her?!” the constable demanded, frantically waving his hands.
    “Tourist attraction. Stuff her, frame her, make her into a statute, I really don’t care.”
    All in a day’s work then. He smelled his sleeves.
    I hate fish.

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