Orpheus (43 page)

As the few remaining players bid farewell, a cab pulled up to the front of the bar. Ollie held up a one finger and then rolled it to let the driver know he could start the meter. He and John both stalled, as they did every time. The younger man felt that this time was different somehow.

“Kid…Ollie…we need to talk.”

He would soon know how different it was.

“That doesn’t sound good, John.” He stared at his feet and shuffled them, like a kid who knew he was about to be scolded. He had no idea what he might have done wrong.

John realized this and laughed. “Stop looking like that, wouldja? There’s something I need to tell you. Let’s go grab another beer.” He pulled a few rumpled bills out of his wallet and handed them through the window to the driver. John said, “Merry Christmas,” and the cab drove away.

“It’s October.”

“Shut up.” He punched Ollie in the shoulder.

They went back inside and sidled up to the bar itself this time. Ollie’s seat was still warm, and he wondered whose ass he had to thank for that. Looking around the bar, he figured that it was probably better to not know. Ever.

John began to speak. He got to the point quickly, though Ollie still had time to drain most of his mug. John finished, and waited.

“Cancer.” It was the first word that came out of Ollie’s mouth since John told him about his diagnosis, and it was the only word that mattered. He thought he heard something in there about the Festival being left to him in its entirety, but that shot directly to the back of his mind.

As everything else had done.

Cancer.

“How long?” he asked, his voice cracking too slightly for anyone else to notice.

“How long, what?” John said, trying to keep the tone as light as it could be.

That made Ollie angry. “How long until the Superbowl?” John already had who knows how much time to think everything over, and he had obviously made his peace with it. It was all new to Ollie. “What do you think I’m talking about, John?” He voice rose to something just below a yell, the level someone would use when they were trying to be heard over the siren of a passing fire truck.

“I’ll probably live for several more years. But from what I’ve been reading, once it takes hold, I won’t want to. You know I won’t go out like that, either.”

He took a sip from his as-yet-untouched beer. Ollie absentmindedly mimicked him and put an empty glass to his mouth. He motioned for another.

“I know this must be hard for you. I hated having to tell you almost as much as I hated having to hear it in the first place. But there’s nothing we can do about it except keep sticking and moving, right?”

“Yeah.” Ollie felt sick, and for once he wished it was due to alcohol, but the truth was he had become stone sober upon hearing one word. “Stick and move.”

“Listen, we have a big family in this festival. I love every one of ‘em. They all, with a few exceptions, eventually move on, though. When it comes right down to it, you and I are the only real family each other has got. I wanted you to know. No one else needs to, understand?”

“Why not?”

“No one else needs to know!” It was then that Ollie saw the real reason for John’s subterfuge: he was ashamed. He was embarrassed to admit that he had cancer. “We’ll go about business as usual until…you know. Then, I’ll make up some story about wanting to retire and see the world, and you’ll get everything. Hell, it’s practically yours now. Promise me.”

It wasn’t Ollie’s place to deny him even if he had wanted to. “Yeah. I promise.”

“I knew you would. I won’t totally be lying, of course. My body’s getting old and tired, even without Mr. C. moving in. I was thinking of retiring from the combat parts anyway. And seeing the world? Who doesn’t want to see sights and experience cultures they never thought they would? Our whole business is a tribute to a culture that no longer exists, for God’s sake.” He paused, and Ollie saw a crack in his armor for the first time. “But I always dreamed that I’d die with a sword in my hand, standing victorious over an opponent one last time. That would be the way to go, I think.”

Ollie had to agree. In fact, he had the same dream more often than he cared to admit.

*  *  *

He dreamed that night, in his motel room, but it wasn’t of dying gloriously in the type of battle he had missed by centuries. He dreamed instead of the missing years.

* * *

Ollie stopped digging, took a drink of water, and decided to lean on his shovel for a minute. He was in the process of digging a ditch for a new drainage line from his basement, and he definitely regretted not renting a power ditch digger.
Live and learn
, he thought.
Provided I don’t have a heart attack digging this thing.
A drop of sweat fell into his eyes, stinging just a little. He drew his arm across his forehead, intending to clear his brow, but succeeded only in mixing sweat between his forearm and forehead.

He took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled, then set about his task again. After only a few minutes he got into a groove, a nice rhythm that was really helping him move some dirt. The length of the ditch, a seemingly daunting eighty feet, wasn’t what made the hardest work. What really killed him was the depth, as well as the dreaded words “below the frost line.”

Then he noticed that the bottom of the ditch was wet, and getting wetter by the second.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me
, he thought.
I hit water. Son of a bitch.
Then he looked closer at the trench, and realized that he couldn’t be more than two feet down. That was far too shallow to hit an underground well. In fact, the well that supplied water to the house was well over one hundred feet deep.

However, there was no mistaking the fact that water was filling it up, and no denying the fact that he would have to start over elsewhere.
Man, I could just cry right now.
He was deflated for the time being, and planned on continuing the next day, after a juicy steak, a cold beer, and a good night’s sleep. That sounded like a great plan to him. At any rate, it would be much better than starting from scratch on an empty stomach.

He stabbed the shovel into the ground and walked back to the house. The shovel, it’s blade not firmly planted in the soil, swayed for a few seconds in the late afternoon breeze, before falling with a curious clank.

Clank?

Oliver figured that it had hit a rock, but he had to admit that it hadn’t really sounded like it. Whatever it was, he might as well remove it before it destroyed his lawnmower blades the next time he did the lawn. He dropped to one knee and moved the shovel.

Whatever the object was may not have been actual gold, but it was most decidedly golden in appearance and lustre. He dug his fingers under the curved edge and tugged. It came most of the way clear but caught on a root. Oliver reached into the sheath on his belt, flipped open the knife, and with a few strokes cut it loose.

It appeared to be a shield, and despite (or because of) its battle scars, it was magnificent. He turned it over and over in his hands, mesmerized by the way it caught the fading sunlight, even caked with mud as it now was.

Unreal.

He brought it into the kitchen, wet an old, ratty dish towel, and shined it up as best he could. He grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge and lugged the shield into the living room, where he placed it in a chair opposite him so he could inspect it further. It was expertly etched with fantastic creatures and scenes of battle. “At least this day wasn’t a total loss,” he said to the empty room. He reached for the phone and dialed 411. The voice on the other end asked him for city and listing, and he responded with the local museum. If anyone could give him some information on this, it would be the history geeks there. He started dialing, but decided that there was no rush and hit the End button.

He took a pull off his beer, and it was especially good after the tragedy taking place in his back yard. “Now about that steak…”

He never made it to the kitchen. The shield shuddered, like ripples in a pond, and something burst out of it, moving almost too fast to see. He had no time to duck, and it hit him square in the chest with a sickening crunch. It drove him backward off the chair and through the plate glass window behind him. Still airborne, he spasmed and coughed up blood. The object (a hammer, he comprehended) slowed a bit and began to turn. Oliver’s body, any strength he had long gone, slid off and lay prone on his back.

He watched the hammer return to the room on the same path that brought it out here and heard a sound like a large rock hitting a lake; he assumed that it had returned to the shield and, beyond that, he had no clue.

Oliver was vaguely aware that he would soon be dead.

He turned his head to look at the sun setting over the pines.
I can take that with me
, he thought.
There are worse last sights to see
. But it wasn’t his last sight; that distinction belonged to an approaching shadow silhouetted against the sun, a shadow that appeared to have wings.

RAGNAROK
– AUTUMN 2011

Dan DeWitt lives with his wife and son in Upstate New York. He has been writing fiction for what seems like forever, and he's picked up at least a few useful tips that he likes to share from time to time at http://dandewittfiction.blogspot.com/.
Orpheus
is his first novel. He has also published the collection
Underneath: Short Tales of Horror and the Supernatural.