Purgatory Is For Pencils

PURGATORY IS FOR PENCILS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Update: The story that used to be here was accepted for publication at Everyday Weirdness. After May 21st, 2009, You'll be able to read it here: http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20090522/

Enjoy!

We All Looked So Pretty

WE ALL LOOKED SO PRETTY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Darva became the first to find addiction in the new bodyform drugs. Her skin became smoother and smoother and her pores shrunk until she shone like soft plastic and couldn't go out on warm days. Fortunately, she never attempted exertion.

Mallory's waist shrunk until her bottom half went necrotic and fell off. Thank goodness the age of over the counter Waist-Away was the age of bottom half machines. She changed the faceplate on her artificial colon on a daily basis to match her nails.

David grew enough hair for his brother to cop a comb-over when they hit the bars together.

Trevor's penis enlargement nanos seemed at first to be leading to work in Hollywood but by the end he fainted with every erection with the sudden drop in blood pressure.

Andrea spent days locked in her hotel room after an overdose of Liposqueeze. Fat oozed from her skin until her bridesmaid dress was destroyed and she squirted out of her grandmother's embrace at the reception.

And lucky Drew, a prostitute so hooked on transgender medication that not only was he the first of his generation to reach artificially drug-induced hermaphroditic status, but in fact achieved a third sex as well, driving his/her/its asking price through the roof.

Catherine was found dead in her car days after leaving the pharmacy with her breast augmentation supplies in tow. The fat assemblers were supposed to stop once the nutrient sac was drained. Instead they fed off of Catherine's body while her swelling chest pinned her within her vehicle.

If only she had met Andrea.

The Prophecy

THE PROPHECY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

And there shall come a skyscraper man. And he shall rise from the earth and the sewers shall be his bowels. He shall grasp the wicked with his crooked street light fingers and hurl them into the abyss, the aftermath of his own creation.

Mighty bridges will be his limbs and he will enter the sea in long strides to wrestle with the cold evil of all mankind's hearts which has sunk these long years to the pit of the icy ocean floor and conglomerated into the Demon Bysphor. These titans born of man, one of head and hand, one of heart and tongue shall struggle without relent, seeding cataclysm in their wake. Only the skyscraper man shall survive to rise from the water and shine light upon all the lands of the earth, reflected by his blue mirror-glass shell.

Darkness shall burn like dry fields of tinder. Peace will rain from above and a heaven shall be made upon earth. His labors complete, the skyscraper man shall lay his groaning metal hulk down on the plains of the Serengeti. The hunters will find shelter within his lifeless body. The hunted will find shade without.

Little Girl Giant

Here's a beautiful video. It's incredible that we humans can look at an enormous constuct made of wood and ropes and whatever else, and see a little girl.

Carl's Best

CARL'S BEST
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Carl's restless form had pulled the sheets from the mattress. Jenna knew it was going to be a tough road ahead, but losing sleep wasn't going to help their situation.

"Honey," she said, putting her hand on his chest to quiet him. "We'll get through this. There are plenty of people who want to hire tire salesmen. I'll help you look tomorrow, just get some sleep."

"It's not that, Irene."

"Jenna."

"It's not that, Jenna. I'm just starting to think that I could be something more."

"What do you mean? Like a sales manager?"

"No. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be the best at something? Like Michael Jordan or Mozart or Alexander the Great?"

"Not really. I've got a house to run."

"I want to be the best at something. Getting fired was the best thing that could have happened to me. I'm gonna make my mark."

"That's great, honey. Doing what?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Jenna fell asleep around 4 AM and woke up four hours later to her husband's shouting. She ran to the kitchen to see what was happening.

"I've got it! I know what I'm going to do!" Carl said.

"What?"

"I'm going to be the greatest mustard maker ever!"

Jenna's sigh turned into a yawn. "Do you anything about making mustard?"

"Absolutely!" Carl ran to the pantry and returned with a paper plate and a large yellow squeeze bottle of Belgian's Mustard. He squeezed the bottle's contents onto the plate. "Look, I'm making mustard."

"I think maybe the fatigue has made you a bit daffy, Carl. You're not making mustard. You're just squeezing it out of a bottle."

"I'm making mustard!" he screamed. "Watch!" He opened a drawer and pulled out a few of packs of Whitey's Yellow Mustard they'd gotten with their burger take-out last week. He tore open a pack and squirted it onto the plate. "I'm making mustard!" he screamed again.

"I think I'm going to stay with my mother for a few days," Jenna said, heading to the bathroom.

"You never supported my mustard business!" Carl shouted. Looking at the plate on the table, he dabbed a finger into a place where the two mustards had mixed. "Holy cow! Irene, come quick!"

"Jenna!"

"Jenna, come quick!" When she didn't come, he followed her into the bathroom. She was already showering. He tore aside the shower curtain and jabbed his yellow finger into her mouth.

"Glurp!" was the first thing she said before slapping his hand away. The next thing she said was, "Oh, my gosh!"

"Yes," Carl said, with a dripping, maniacal grin. "I've created Supermustard!"

#

Belgian's and Whitey's sued almost immediately, once Carl's Best Supermustard hit the market. As the months dragged on and Carl's rapidly gained market share, however, the two older companies felt it was in their best interest to drop their suits, as Carl's had become their largest single customer. In two years, Carl became the greatest mustard maker on the planet. People everywhere chastised their spouses for not becoming wealthy through the theft and recombination of the ideas of others who had to sweat for a living.

Jenna knew which way the wind blew. She had her name legally changed to Irene and she and Carl put her lack of support in the lean times behind them.

Notes From The Bottomless Pit

NOTES FROM THE BOTTOMLESS PIT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

At first blush one might think that being thrown into a bottomless pit would be a dreadful thing. In truth it's only the public relations people that have made it seem so. Lokar, the God-King, needs a punishment with which he can really threaten the populace, to keep them in line and all that and the bottomless pit is a good threat on the face of it. No one who's in it can go back and tell the others that it's really quite nice. The commoners would be lining up to throw themselves in, if they only knew.

One gets over the screaming after about twenty minutes or so, once the throat becomes sore. But consider this: What's to fear? It's initially quite unnerving, of course. No one likes falling, but when it occurs to a person that he or she will never hit bottom, relaxation sets in and it's taken in stride.

Even so, you ask, wouldn't a body eventually starve, falling for eternity? Not so. You'd be surprised at the number of marmosets, not to mention imported lemmings, one can just pluck from the air and devour at one's leisure.

When all of these factors are taken into account with the added benefit of not toiling for Lokar's whip-masters for eighteen hours a day, one concludes that falling into a bottomless pit is really quite preferable to life above.

I do miss my wife. Often I find myself wishing that someone would throw her into the bottomless pit and we may some day be reunited.

I sometimes wonder how they knew it was a bottomless pit in the first place. Perhaps that was more PR. Such thoughts interfere with one's sleep and are best left alone.

Road Trip

ROAD TRIP
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"I'm gonna go get the mail," Daryl said.

Tom sprung up from behind the couch. "Dude, hold up, I'll go with you."

"I'm just going for the mail."

"No, no, it'll be good for me, my analyst says I need to go outside more. Stave off my impending agoraphobia."

"He's your stock analyst, Tom."

"And he hasn't steered me wrong yet. Let me just get some pants on!" Tom ran off to his bedroom. Daryl sighed. Getting the mail had been one way to get away from Tom for two minutes. The phone rang.

"Yep?" Daryl said.

"What are you doing right now?" Jerry asked.

"I'm waiting for Tom to put his pants on so we can get the mail."

"Great! I'll be right over!" he said and hung up.

"What the hell?"

"I'm ready," Tom said, buttoning up a pair of red denims.

"Good." Daryl opened the door and Jerry was there. He had two pretty girls under his arms. Jerry's blue and white nylon pants were huge and lumpy. He had his hair slicked back like he was the Fonz and wore a bright yellow sport jacket that didn't match anything.

"Hey!" Jerry said. "Daryl, Tom, this is Michelle, and this is Ditzy."

"Deeta!" she squealed.

"Yeah, whatever. You guys ready to go?"

"Go where?" Daryl asked.

"To get the mail!" Jerry said. "Christ, did you forget already?"

"Great! Let's do this thing!" Tom said, pushing past Daryl. No sooner had Daryl pulled in the door than Tom was back on him, clinging like a leading lady. "Can we take the LTD?"

"We're just going to the end of the damn driveway," Daryl said.

"Please!" Tom begged. His eyes were wet. "It's the agoraphobia, D, it's not me! You've got to understand!"

"Why don't you just stay inside, while I get the mail?"

"No, Daryl, please. I need this." He smoothed Daryl's shirt where he'd pulled at it. "I need this."

"Why don't you just take the car for your friend, you big meanie?" Deeta asked.

"Are they gay?" Michelle asked Jerry.

"Nobody's gay!" Daryl yelled. "Everybody get in the goddamned car!"

They all piled into the dusty green Ford LTD. From the driver's seat, Daryl heard Michelle's mousy voice say, "Nobody's gay?"

"Let's have some tunes!" Jerry yelled, placing beers into everyone's hands.

"We don't have any tunes," Daryl said. "The battery's been dead for three months. Where the hell did you get cold beers from?"

"My new cooler pants, baby! Everybody's gonna be wearing these next year."

Daryl twisted off the cap and took a long swig. He needed it. Then he threw the old Ford into neutral and they were on their way.

Tom stuck his head out the window and howled. "Woooooooo!" And two beers later, they reached the mailbox.

Daryl got out because he didn't expect anyone else would. The mailbox was empty. At least Jerry and Michelle helped him push the car back while Deeta and Tom made out in the back seat.

"That was awesome!" Tom said once they were back home. "Let's all do this again some time."

"How about, like, 3:30?" Deeta asked. "Maybe the mail will be here by then."

"Great," Jerry agreed. "I'll bring some tunes this time."

"Bring some travel games!" Tom said.

"I got Boggle. Anybody like Boggle?"

"Oh, I love Boggle!" Michelle said.

Daryl went to his room, got online, started looking for apartments.

Killer of Killers

KILLER OF KILLERS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

My heart burned arc welder bright as all of them, the insects and the rats and the human vermin skittered to the darkness through the striped shadows cast by my ribs. They knew I was back: The Killer of all Killers.

By nature I had no reputation but my aura shook the preternatural fear in their boiling guts and I was Terror. The broken alley crackled under my boots: shattered vials of Juice and the grit of three lifetimes. A handful of Portnoy's stooges dropped the slug they were beating and darted through the back entrance of their lair. I cut through the stench of piss and rotting garbage and grabbed a straggler before he found his filthy haven.

He screamed until his throat burst and with parted jaws, I consumed his history like a school of starving pirana. In an instant not only did he cease to exist but he ceased to have ever existed. Only I remembered him; I stand outside the timestream. Enriched by vivid memories of a life I had never lived, I savored the familiar bloat of my belly. His name had been Ben. My actual life was crowded a little more as he joined the scores of others who had gone the same way over the last few years.

Tryka wouldn't have wanted this. She could see beyond even what I saw, the alternate presents that I eradicated with my hate. She may have married me only to get my promise to stop. But my promise was only as good as "till death do us part." She was gone now, and those vows were null and void. Besides that, killing the way I did was the only way to bring her back.

The others, the ones that had gotten away, sought safety behind a single steel door, mottled with patches of brown rust and flaking green paint. I made its hinges never be, and with a kick, the door fell outward at my feet. The bullets that Portnoy's goons fired disappeared just inches out of the barrels with a sharp "Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!" The ore from which they'd eventually been made never was. The bullets that might have replaced them were never purchased, or never loaded. When I make things go away, they're ripped out of the Universe leaving a void that's not a vacuum, a hole that can never be filled. Men of flesh and bone scattered before me but I couldn't stomach another one just now and still have room for Portnoy.

I never knew the exact details of Tryka's vendetta. Only that she told me Portnoy had once raped someone she'd been very close to. I knew it had to be her.

"He's dead," I'd said with Hell in my scratchy voice.

"No," she'd said. Her soft green eyes hardened into bulletproof glass. "It has to be me. I have to do this myself. No matter what happens to me, don't do him." I nodded. She had to do it to feel whole again. But I'd have no problem breaking my promise to her if anything went wrong.

I'd assumed human form for her four years ago. Until then I was a force of nature, an impossibly large-scale quantum phenomenon stretching through the fourth dimension. Her passion coalesced me. Her peripheral power formed my consciousness without her awareness of it. I was nothing but a byproduct of Tryka's gift as it dredged reality behind her.

The old wooden steps that ran up to Portnoy's office rang deep and hollow with each slow step I took. The commotion at the top of the stairs abated and drew my attention. There stood Little Maxi, one of Portnoy's inner circle, Ben's memories told me. Dressed in a sharp suit of dark purple, his head was smooth and hairless and his hands and fingers were traced with the thin metallic strips of Sawyer VI exoskeletal modules. Those enhanced fingers gripped a NeuSoviet industrial collapser, one of the few of a growing number of items which are my equal. One which could kill me.

The collapser field manipulated particles at a sub-atomic level. It kept one foot in the fourth dimension in order to do it, so it wasn't affected by my transchronological tricks. But the Sawyer VI modules were. They evaporated from reality an instant before he fired. The unenhanced fingers of his right hand were too weak to work the handgrip. Before he could get a two-handed grip, my titanium alloy fist had shattered his jaw. His small body spilled across the pockmarked hardwood floor at the end of a blood-flecked trail.

Needles spat out of the wall to my side, tearing through my chest before I could stop them. The needle gun was Portnoy's signature weapon. He'd used it to remove the top of Tryka's head after her muddled assassination attempt. I reached out to him beyond the torn gypsum board walls and ripped his being out of the Universe.

"Oh, God!" I moaned. I fell to my knees overwhelmed by this new man inside my soul and everything that he meant. I had destroyed myself.

A warm dish pressed against my head. Maxi was a tough one. Any second now he'd activate the collapser. When he did, countless electrons would fall from their orbits and the atoms that made my head would collapse. My head would disappear. A flicker of my speed-of-thought reflexes and I could dodge. I could kill Maxi, maybe with his own collapser if I felt like it. I shouldn't exist now anyway, but I stand outside the timestream. I am the crux of paradox.

Tryka would never come back to me. She had never existed at all because Portnoy hadn't only been her killer. He'd been her father.

I let Maxi pull the grip.

Fluffy's Biggest Fan

FLUFFY'S BIGGEST FAN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

How many years was this going to go on? That's all I wanted to know. I'd already blown half the afternoon. The warehouse could hold thirty-seven space shuttles, Gabinder had said. Right now, among a billion other things, it held one hamster. And not even a fully grown hamster at that.

What did I have going for me? Not a lot. I had a pile of Hamster food at my feet at one end of the facility. I had a handful of dust that used to be hamster food in my hand. And I had an oscillating fan that dwarfed my car which the maintenance boys had spent the last two hours dragging here from its cushy wind tunnel job. I'd asked Steve and Joey to stick around after delivery. They became the oscillators of our oscillating fan, following a quick rigging of ropes.

We fired her up and the dust in my hand was soon spread to the four corners of the warehouse. The hope was that the scent of the food might lure Fluffy to us. We waited a half hour (The warehouse was one heck of a journey for a hamster at the other end of it). We got diddly.

"Well, he did have a big breakfast before he escaped," I said.

"So what are you looking for after a big meal?" Joey asked.

"A big nap," I said. "But he's had plenty of time for that."

"A big dump," Steve offered.

"He doesn't need us for that. So you've had a big meal, taken a big nap, and taken a big dump. What more could you possibly want?"

"A little action," Steve said with a smile and a nod.

About an hour later, a bewildered Anastasia, freshly delivered from Petland, swam through the air at the end of seven feet of green yarn in the most intense wind stream she was ever likely to face in ten hamster lifetimes.

Again, nothing.

"Yo, Harv," Jackson shouted from the door.

"What is it?"

"Boss says his kid's hamster is a girl."

I grumbled to myself, "I'm gettin' a paper on the way home, and I'm readin' the classifieds from end to . . ."

And then, there she was! Little Fluffy dashed through the door from behind Jackson, just as excited as she could be. Maybe Fluffy ate from both sides of the bowl, I postulated. But I never found out for sure because when she got about halfway to Anastasia, Fluffy was sucked into the fan and summarily sprayed across the whole of Warehouse 17.

I waited patiently while my brain struggled to process what had just happened.

Lured by Fluffy's scent, roughly thirty-seven hamsters (presumably male) and forty-two snakes all made their way into the general vicinity. In the chaos that followed, Anastasia seemed genuinely relieved to be soaring high above it all.

Karma And The Lucky Man

KARMA AND THE LUCKY MAN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"The health inspector came by today," Karma said quietly.

Andy's spatula hit the floor when he froze. He didn't have to study her face long, he knew she was telling the truth. "And we're still open?" he asked incredulously.

"Yep," she said, not looking at him.

He picked up the spatula and flipped the egg he'd been working on before it burned. His brow furrowed as his eyes bounced across the grill, making twenty snap decisions in a few seconds. "What did it cost me?" he asked.

"Your wife's fidelity," she answered, pulling another gallon of milk from the fridge.

"And how much time did it buy me?"

"About a month."

He walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. "You know, a lot of guys have wives who don't support them in their goals."

"You're a lucky man," she said, beaming.

He thought about that as his eyes danced across the myriad flat surfaces in the little diner. He nearly asked her where they did it. Then thought better of it. One food or another had already slapped every one of those surfaces sometime today.

It's better this way. Not knowing.

"Indeed." Andy got that far away look in his eyes.

"What are you thinking about," Karma asked. He looked down at her. Everybody told her she looked like Meryl Streep and he liked the idea of being with an older woman. It was so different from any life his friends led.

"I'm thinking about next month."

"I am too," she said, smiling at the milk she'd just spilled on the counter. She pulled the rag from her apron and wiped it up. "You're a lucky, lucky man."

Jim Comes Out

JIM COMES OUT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

There came a time when Jim's pants felt too tight even for him. He'd loved his pants; they were made of some sort of NASA material and they were the last thing his astronaut father had given him before the accident took him away. They were the only pair he'd ever worn, since he was four years old. But now, twenty-seven years later, crippled and bed-ridden, he was beginning to rethink some of his choices.

He took tiny steps; after a month of discussion with his mother he finally decided to unbutton. It took some pricey hypno-therapy to unzip but half a year later that's exactly what he did. His doctors were astounded with this rapid progress after decades of inertia and updated their papers accordingly. The breakthrough would come any year now!

The next advance came not from up but from down when he turned his pants into cutoffs. The whole process took about eight months, not due to his reluctance but rather his choice of tools. He'd sliced through two legs of space-age corduroy with nothing more than the pointy end of a vinyl coated paperclip.

Eventually, the whole thing came off in shreds. Along with some flesh. He'd expected that part, he'd read about the same thing happening to Michelangelo when he was working on the Sistine Chapel and Jim felt partly as great as the Master for having this in common.

He was quite useless from the waist down and the realization was heartbreaking. All of these years he just figured it was the pants. He was sure that he'd spring from his bed fully formed once the pants came off. Those damned doctors were all, "We told you so!" but to hell with them. He'd show them all.

Jim threw himself into his own therapeutic regimen. He drank from the wealth of positive thinking books that the bookmobile offered.

"Did you see?" he shouted at the nurse one Saturday morning. "Something moved! I'm practically walking!"

"That's because I turned on the fan, Mr. Hallis."

"Up yours! Get out!" he said, and he threw his shoe at her. But it was such a tiny shoe it didn't really hurt.

He'd show her too. He spent the rest of the day concentrating on wiggling his -- well, whatever the hell that thing was down there. This would make one hell of a Lifetime movie someday.

The Adventures Of Smart Guy

THE ADVENTURES OF SMART GUY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"Are you Superman?" Davey yelled. He spotted the 'S' on the guy's chest from fifty feet down the sidewalk. The guy was taking his sweet time about getting to the tree, that was for sure. Davey supposed that was what happened when mother finds you a superhero in the yellow pages.

"No kid, I'm Smart Guy, a vast improvement over neanderthals like Superman." He shook Davey's hand firmly, without crushing.

"Well, can you fly up there and get my cat out of the tree? Please?"

"I don't fly."

"Could you climb up there then?"

"I could, yes. But honestly, my shift just started. I don't want to get all sweaty and stain my uniform."

"Well, what do you do?" Sunset approached and Davey, no fan of comics, just wanted to get this over with.

"I bring common sense to the common man. So many of the world's problems aren't really problems except that people make them so. Do you see what I mean?"

"No."

"Take that, for instance," he said, pointing to the top of the tree. "Why don't you leave the cat in the tree?"

"What?"

"I mean, look at him, sitting up there, he's not even looking at you. If he really cared about you would he be hurting your feelings like this?"

Davey studied the cat for a moment before saying, "No?"

"No. He doesn't give a damn about your feelings. Listen to me, son. Fuck him. Let the little bastard rot up there. Go get a dog instead. There's plenty at the pound whose lives you can save, and they'll appreciate it for the next twelve years or so, unless they get hit by a car or something, but at least they'll go down having a good time."

Davey's brow wrinkled. He looked to the cat, then to the supremely confident man in the cape, then back to the cat which looked quite relaxed and began grooming itself.

"Gee, you're right!" Davey's face brightened. "Thanks, Smart Guy."

"No sweat."

Self-Promotion

SELF-PROMOTION
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

A hotter day I think I had never seen. Listening to old Martin, not being able to get away, well it was like sitting in a pot of Sarah's stew the way she talks to it to coax out the flavor. I decided right then and there to buy the old man a dog so's he'd leave me be for once.

"Ah, Jacob," he says, "You should be mighty proud of yourself, what with the boys working so hard and all. And on their free day! You're sure to get that promotion once Portly Porter hears about this."

It was the same thing over and over again. Of what a fine man I was and how pleased they'd all be to see me as their boss. Soon he'd be spit-polishing my boots to tie up his future with me. I changed my mind and decided to save my money on the dog. Martin would be the first man I fired.

Still, for today, while we were peers, his honey-soaked droning went on and on. And so you can imagine my relief as the boys came around, swathed in clots of filth and sweat.

"Well, we're half-a-ways there now , Jake," Thorn said to me. He was a thin, dark-haired man. His muscles were stretched across his knobby frame just a little too tight, like they'd snap at any time.

"Just so long as you can make it through the other half," I said, throwing them the waterskin. "And see that Daniel gets some of that too."

Big yellow-bearded Kelly licked the dirt from his teeth, waiting for his turn at the skin. He threw the shovel into the ground so that it stood upright (he was a strong one, all right) and plopped himself down onto the dirt.

"Yeah, he'll get his fair share for the work that he's done."

I pointed a snot-sticky finger at him (I'd forgotten my rag at home). "Now, Kelly, Daniel's duties for today are just "

I stopped short, for I talked of the Devil and he had come.

"I believe Mr. Barlay is starting to stir, Mr. Lawton," the young boy said, almost out of breath.

Thorn cursed. "I'd hoped he wouldn't wake till this was over and done with."

"It'll be better this way, you'll see," Kelly spat.

I slapped Daniel on the shoulder without taking my eyes from Kelly. "That's a good lad, Danny, watching the overseer for us. I'll see to him now."

Barlay lay on his side when I pulled the blanket away. His head rolled about like it was ready to twist off the shoulders. He was heavier than I'd expected from such a slight man. But then in his condition he was practically dead weight.

"There now, Mr. Barlay. Yes, it is awfully bright, isn't it? Come and let's get you out of the sun. It's somewhat cooler down here also, I should say."

I generally like to think of myself as a strong man, but I'm ashamed to say I cringed when I saw the size of the lump on his head.

"Lord the pain must be unbearable! Here, let me give you something to bite down on."

I dug down into my pockets and came up empty. For a second time I swore for forgetting my rag, and then remembered I'd forgotten the man's blanket too. But then, inspiration! I pulled at my boot to shuck off a sweat-soaked stocking and stuffed it full into his mouth.

"No need, Mr. Barlay, sir. The least I could do. And don't worry about a thing. We'll be done with our work soon, and I'd be more than happy to fill in for you at Porter's tomorrow morning."

I slipped back into my boot, more aware now of the hole in the side, and stretched my weary bones.

"Thorn! Kelley!" I shouted, straining my dry throat. "Come and cover this poor man up!"

The finishing went much faster than the starting, I'm pleased to say. Though it wasn't the type of work we were used to, the boys threw themselves into it with a ferocity that was as uncommon as the heat, and with Daniel now putting his back into it, we were done in time for a pint before supper. We cut through the woods on the way back and old Martin stopped at the spring to fill his waterskin. I dug into my remaining stocking and fished out two bits. It was five cents a head at Riley's. I had just enough for all of us. "You'll want to hold up on that skin," I said to Martin. "The pints are on me."

This got me a couple of whoops, the loudest being from Daniel, whose mother strongly believed in temperance. Their pace had markedly picked up from that point and they all laughed when I pointed it out.

"Ah, but you've certainly earned it, men, for a good day's work. It was as fine a burial as I've ever seen."