A punk gets schooled by a wise man.
A Murder is just one of twelve short stories compiled in my new novel, Thing Bailiwick: A Collection of Horror, now available on Amazon.com
A Murder
(Things in Groups)
He looked to a sky the color of slate.
It was a shade closely matching the thin blanket cloaking his frail shoulders.
As the cool breeze lifted his snow-white wisp of a beard, he breathed in deeply. He could smell ripe fall leaves and sweet pine needles, the musk of dried cattails from the pond, the clean scent of rain in the distance.
With thin, fragile fingers, he tore a slice of bread to pieces and tossed them to the crows scattered about the bench. One tried to abscond with a large piece, but was quickly accosted by thirty more and a raucous squabble ensued as they pecked the piece to a hundred bits.
He didn’t hear the group of young men coming up the trail until they were upon him. His ears were not what they used to be.
Strutting up to the bench, they stopped before him. “Oh, what is this?” the one with the cowboy hat spoke. “You lost, Gandhi? There ain’t no temples here.” He had an accent. Spanish. And he had dark skin.
The man on the bench gave a regal bow of his head before lifting his face to the four young men. “My temple is here,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. His accent was heavy. Indian. And his voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
“Oh, a holy man,” Cowboy mocked in a bad Indian imitation. He bowed to him, and the others followed suit, bobbing up and down. “So sorry, your holiness. Please forgive us, your holiness.”
The old man broke off more of the bread, tossing it, and the crows pounced, fighting amongst themselves for the meager morsels. “I am not a holy man,” he informed them. “I was a teacher for many years in my country. Forty-two, to be exact.”
“Mireles,” the cowboy said, “the teacher needs a student. Why don’t you take a seat.”
“No problemo, amigo,” the young one said as he sat beside him. He was just a boy, fourteen, maybe fifteen. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a black leather jacket and a gaudy gold chain. Pulling out a switchblade, he snapped it open. “Tell me, Teacher,” he said as he began to clean his nails, “do you know what they call a group of crows?”
He tossed out the last of his bread and then dusted the crumbs from his hands as he eyed the three men still standing. They were older than the boy. The one wearing the cowboy hat was also wearing a silly grin. His teeth were gold. Another was wearing a dark jacket with the hood up and dark sunglasses, even though there was no sign of the sun. He was tall and very thin. The third was wearing a t-shirt with no sleeves, willing to suffer the cold to show off his tattooed muscle arms. His head was shaved and his cheek was scarred and his chest was thrust out proudly.
Leaning back on the bench, the old man stroked his beard. “Do you know that a group of weasels is called a gang?”
“Oooo!” the men still standing howled in unison, their eyebrows shooting high.
“No way, José,” the boy seated beside him spoke calmly, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “Did you just call us weasels? Do you think that’s wise, Teacher?”
He folded his hands neatly in his lap. “A group of mice…is a mischief.”
The three men yelped and thrust out their chests. “Mice? You calling us mice, Gandhi?”
A cold draft drifted from the north, rustling the leaves on the ground and ruffling the wings of the crows. The boy stopped cleaning his nails and looked to his three scowling comrades, then up to the gray skies as if searching for something. “Three blind mice,” he said. “A clan of hyenas—spineless, yapping dogs that feed on rotting flesh. A mob of emus—long-legged, pea-brained birds that have forgotten how to fly.”
“Hmm.” The old man nodded. “Smart. Smart is very good. But smart and wise are two different things. Wise would be…go back to school to get smarter.”
The muscle man bristled. “Don’t fucking preach to him, old man! School’s a waste of time. All we need is street smarts, ain’t that right, Mireles?”
“Si si, señor,” the boy said with a tight grin.
With spindly fingers, he stroked his beard as he eyed the crows. “School is very important. Knowledge does not only expand the brain. It opens the eyes. It is not wise to walk through life with eyes shut tight. You cannot see the dangers that lie ahead.”
He gave another pensive hum as he stroked his beard. “A group of fish…is a school.”
“Hey, Teacher, you know what sleeps with the fishes means?” the cowboy asked, and his two buddies sniggered.
He continued to stroke his beard. “Also catch of fish, shoal of fish, haul of fish, and run of fish.”
“How bout we gut you like a fish, old man,” Cowboy growled. “How bout we—”
With a yelp, he began to dance a jig. Snatching his hat off, he used it to swat at his legs as he hopped away. Tugging off his boots, he then stripped off his jeans to brush frantically at his legs.
His two friends howled and doubled over. The boy’s reaction was more contained, a mere soft chuckling.
“That…is a colony,” the old man said. “As a young boy, I stepped onto an ant colony. I got many bites. It gave me a high fever. A group of stingrays is called a fever,” he added as an afterthought. “My father, he runs a stone’s edge down my arms and legs until I bruise. He says it will pull fever out. I say…it hurts so bad, I will myself better so no more stone.” He tapped his temple. “The mind holds very powerful medicine.”
“Oh, such a sad story,” the thin man in the hooded jacket said. “Very, very sad. See, I cry for you.” Bending at the waist, he pulled down his sunglasses to show off two tattooed tears dripping from his right eye.
“Hmm,” the old man mused. “Do you know what animal belongs to a group called cry?”
With a smirk, Tearman shoved his sunglasses back into place and looked to Cowboy who was shaking out his jeans, slamming them against the ground over and again to rid them of any remaining ants. He was grumbling under his breath as he slipped them back on.
“Hounds,” the boy beside him answered.
The old man nodded. “Si si, señor.”
In the distance, a hound howled, a lonely cry that cut through the chilly gray day.
He looked a sky the color of slate and adjusted the blanket, pulling it tighter about his shoulders. “The sun veils its beauty with clouds this day,” he said, looking back to the crows that were drilling him with beady black eyes. “There are many who think it is wise to veil beauty. The sun can blind if one looks with eyes too wide…as can beauty,” he said, looking to Cowboy who had picked up his hat and was inspecting it for ants. “I did once take a wife named Suravi. This means sun in English. My Sun did not think it wise to veil beauty. Does muster of peacocks hide feathers, she asked. Does exultation of larks keep songs hid inside? Does rabble of butterflies hide velvet wings?”
“I once saw a butterfly sitting on a pile of dogshit,” the Tearman sneered.
He nodded as he stroked his white beard. “Two objects in stark contrast. Tell me, smart one,” he directed to the boy beside him, “what word best describes a butterfly sitting on a pile of dogshit?”
“Oh, oh!” The Tearman threw up a hand as if asking for permission. “Gross,” he answered, and then snickered.
The boy furrowed his brow as he searched for the answer.
“Two contrasting objects in juxt the right position to be shocking,” the teacher hinted.
“Oh,” the boy blurted, “a juxtaposition.”
“Excellent. Now spread your wings.”
“Aww, how sweet,” Tearman crooned. “You hear that, Mireles? The teacher says you’re a butterfly.”
The boy frowned. “Yeah, sitting on a pile of dogshit.”
“Leap for the stars and bask in the warmth of true sunshine. A group of leopards is a leap. A group of crocodiles, a bask,” he informed. “They have tears like him.” He nodded to the hooded Tearman who had turned to watch Cowboy approaching. “I shiver to think of such tears. It makes my skin prickle.” He rubbed his arms beneath the blanket. “A group of sharks is called a shiver. A group of porcupines is called a…” He looked to the boy for the answer.
The young boy thought for a few seconds. “Prickle?”
The old man nodded.
“Si si, señor,” they spoke in unison.
“Hurry up and cut this bitch!” Cowboy huffed as he tromped back, his face inflamed. He plopped his hat back on his head. It was bent horribly out of shape.
“I did once own a bitch named Nisha,” the old man recalled. “She was black as night and good company when the days were long. But…she gave chase to a squirrel and never returned. I looked for her every day, hoping she might come home, but she never did.”
“That’s because she’s dead,” Muscleman sneered. “Just like you, old man.”
“Hmmm. A group of squirrels is called a dray. A group of dogs is called a pack. So is a group of squirrelly rats,” he said, grinning up at the three men who had crowded close.
“You hear that shit, José?” Cowboy whined. “Stick this prick!”
Leaning close, the boy lifted the tip of the blade to the corner of the old man’s eye. “I’m tired of your little game, old man.”
He turned away from the blade and shook his head. “No way, José. You will not shed a painted tear for me this day.”
His three comrades whooped. “Ooooo,” they howled, “Gandhi says you’re chicken, José! Maybe he knows you!”
“Shut up, weasels! He don’t know me! He don’t know shit!” The boy’s voice was shaking. So was the knife in his hand.
Muscleman thrust out his chest. “Then prove it! Spill blood to be blood. Make your brothers proud.”
“Hmm. Pride. What group is called a pride, José?”
The boy’s lips were pressed thin as the edge of his blade. Despite the chilly morning, moisture was beading on his brow. “Lions!” he spat.
“Very good. Pride is fine if kept here,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “But if it moves here,” he said, pointing to his forehead, “it can crowd out sense.”
“Do it or I will!” Muscleman sneered.
The old man looked to a sky the color of slate. “Do you see the many vultures that circle overhead?” he asked the boy. “That is called a kettle. My Sun owned a kettle. It was very big, very fine for lentil soup. Lentil soup is quite tasty with curry leaves and garlic. Association is a good learning tool, but…you know this, don’t you, José?” He nodded and folded his hands in his lap, looking past the men to the pond and the trees beyond. “For sixty years she stirred lentil soup in her kettle, stirring round and round, round and round…like vultures fly.”
“The vultures must smell death,” Muscleman hissed. “And looky here, old man, a rattlesnake.” Striking swiftly, his arm shot out to puncture the old man’s throat with a tiny blade.
The boy gasped.
They heard them before they saw them, an angry buzzing that escalated as the dark cloud descended. The men stumbled backward and turned to run. They didn’t get far.
The boy sat frozen as the churning storm of bees enveloped his fleeing friends. He watched them stumble around in circles, swatting like lunatics and shrilling like girls.
“Swarm,” the old man sighed.
The boy turned to the old man. His hands were still folded neatly in his lap, but blood had stained his white beard and was flowing down the front of the blanket.
The crows cawed in unison and took to flight, making a beeline toward the three men. Their swatting became more frantic, and then they were gone, lost in a black sea of flapping fury. The caws of the crows were deafening, drowning out the screeching men.
A lone figure crawled from the bowels of bedlam. His face was bloody. It was Cowboy. His hat was gone. So were his eyes.
The boy shot to his feet, his arms hanging limp as he watched his comrade struggle to his feet and commence to lurch blindly forward, his arms outstretched before him.
The cawing cloud cleared, the crows taking to the treetops. Tearman was screaming, writhing on his back, clutching at his face. He no longer wore sunglasses. He no longer needed them. Muscleman lie face down, his tattooed arms thrown over his head. But his bulging muscles had done nothing to save his eyes.
With the clearing of the crows, both men staggered to their feet to join Cowboy in stumbling aimlessly in circles.
Slowly, the dazed boy took his seat again. “See how they run,” he whispered.
“It is too late for the three blind mice,” the old man said, motioning to the three staggering stooges. “Not too late for you, mi amigo. I am willing to close my eyes if it means that yours will open.”
He swayed slightly, listing left, before righting himself. “A group of buzzards is called a wake. Are you awake?” he asked, giving him a sideways glance.
He sighed and pulled the blanket tighter, not seeming to notice the blood that stained his hands. “I have been to many wakes, three my own daughters, two my sons, one…my Sun. But I will not brood…as chickens. I do not ask for pitying…as doves. Cast eyes to the sky…as falcons. Hear the exultation of larks. We all must lie in our bed of oysters.”
“No way, José,” the boy moaned as a pride of lions bounded from the woods. Streaking past, they pounced on Cowboy, throwing him to the ground and cutting his cries short.
Still screeching, Tearman went barreling blindly into the pond. The water tripped him up and he fell to flounder on his belly. The surface erupted as a crocodile shot from the dark depths, a huge beast, its jaws gaping. It snatched him by the head, pulling him to deeper waters where it began to roll. Other crocodiles moved in and thrashing ensued as the bask battled over the meager meal. One swam away with a stolen snack. It was an arm.
Cowboy was being consumed as well. The pride had settled in a circle about him and were feasting from his belly.
Muscleman began to howl. He was pivoting in a circle, his arms outstretched, his face bloodied. He was surrounded by coiled snakes. One struck at his leg and he kicked it away with a howl of pain. He dropped to his knees, and another snake struck, its fangs sinking into his arm.
“Rattlesnake,” the old man spoke.
The boy nodded numbly. “Nest.”
“Yes. Also rhumba.”
“Rhumba,” the boy repeated.
“Do you know what is called a group of jellyfish?”
The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head weakly.
“A smack.”
The blow snapped the boy’s head around and rocked him backward, the connecting of palm to cheek ringing loud in his ears.
“What’s wrong with you, Mireles?” Muscleman growled. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”
The boy looked to the three men who stood before him; Carlos in his cowboy hat, Ramon in his sunglasses, Raz in his silly undershirt. Their faces were not bloody and their sockets still held eyeballs, and all looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. He brought his hand down from his cheek, his eyes darting around the clearing to the pond and the bordering trees. No pride, no bask, no rhumba. No problemo.
The crows cawed their raucous call and blue-black wings flapped in unison as they took off to roost high in the bare treetops. In the distance, a hound howled.
The boy looked at the knife in Raz’s hand. It was smeared with blood. He looked to the old man who had collapsed back against the bench. He studied the wrinkled face—the dark brown skin, the snow-white brows, the ancient eyes now glazed and empty—really seeing him for the first time. He was a great man, the greatest man he had ever known. “Teacher?”
He knew there would be no answer. Still, he thought he heard a soft hum drifting in on the chilly breeze.
“I’m awake, Teacher.”
“Come on, Mireles!” Ramon urged. “Leave the piece of shit!”
“Go away,” he whispered, then repeated it when they only stood gaping. Finally, he screamed it at the top of his lungs. The crows scattered from the treetops as he screamed it again and again.
And so the three blind mice turned tail, scampering down the trail and out of sight.
The boy screamed at them long after they were gone. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until his breaths were coming in choked gasps. He beat at his thighs with balled fists, and wept until he was weak and trembling and could weep no more.
Standing on numb legs, he gazed upon the frail, crumpled form. “Mine are open now, Teacher,” he whispered, and, reaching out, gently closed his lids.
Throwing his arms wide and his head back, he looked to a sky the color of slate.
A wonderful story! Very creative and well-written, with both a twist and a very strong moral. Kudos! Makes me want to read some of your other stories as well.
I know it's published, but it would've been nice if you had somehow come up with a name for the old man. Using "old man" would have become redundant and using "he" sometimes made it difficult to connect who was speaking.
Your story had me on edge right from the beginning with your clever turns of phrase. While I found it far-fetched these punks would know such exact terminology, I willingly suspended by skepticism for the thrill of the ride.
The fortunate inherit riches, prestige, positive notoriety. Those not so lucky bear legacies filled with poverty, infamy or, worse yet, the unhinged insanity and murderous urges of their ancestors.
The fortunate inherit riches, prestige, positive notoriety. Those not so lucky bear legacies filled with poverty, infamy or, worse yet, the unhinged insanity and murderous urges of their ancestors.
A Murder
