‘The Marksman and the Mark’
Rosemary Kimble
The Marksman and the Mark
What kind of man needs a blessing to do as he wills? With God at your back, all things are possible. When the Father of the Bride-to-Be answered a knock at his door, in darkness, before the vagitus of morning birdsong, he saw the Groom. He suspected the question he was asked. About time. He almost disliked the Groom. He understood, full well, that they were cut from different cloth. The Groom was made from paper and ink. The Father was made from the bark of the tree and the blood of the hare.
“As you are, I cannot give you my blessing to enter my family. Though if I forbid it entirely, my daughter won’t be happy. There is a way for you to get my approval. But,” he said, for wherever there is love there is often a but, “First you must do something. Look at yourself. Your nails are too clean. The only scars you’ve endured have been given to you by papercuts. A man needs to be able to protect the people he loves. And to provide. Have you ever fired a gun?” The Groom shook his head.
“Nothing like it. There are those who act like a gun is a bad thing, like not knowing how to use one is a good thing. Bull, plain and simple. You can’t use a gun, and the bagman comes to collect: You’re done for.”
The Father led the Groom into his basement workshop. A disemboweled rifle lay on his table, mechanical entrails carefully organized, and a safe sat against the wall. He opened it, revealing a collection of firearms dated from antiquity to the present. The Groom could not tell them apart. The Father handed him a rifle.
“If you wish to marry my daughter, learn to hunt.”
The Father escorted the Groom outside the forest complex he called home. The ancestral grounds, miles from any city, included a manse, two guest homes, a few cabins dotted along the hunting grounds, and a processing facility. The Father processed the meat and the animal hides himself. His family, God willing, would never go cold or hungry. He showed the Groom the facilities, the Groom who winced at the smell of blood and the sight of stainless steel tainted with viscera. He took him outside, and showed him how to load, cock, and fire the rifle. Their pale faces glowed under the setting moon.
“This land is old. Do not forget that.”
And the Father told him the story of Kuno.
Kuno was the first steward of the land. He arrived nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, and possessing no education and no connections, he strove for a career in hunting, ultimately serving in the War of Independence. He had to his name when he settled in Ohio only a rifle, a musket purportedly taken from the body of a British soldier, a one-bedroom hut, and one hundred acres of land given to him as reward for military service. Kuno was cunning, however, and whenever he heard that a neighbor was moving or in dire financial straits, there he would be with a pouchful of money, chewing up the land like strips of carrion, such that one hundred years later his family had the largest unadulterated parcel for miles. When old Kuno finally died, he left in his will only three stipulations. First, that his descendents should similarly seek to expand their land holdings as much as is practical. Secondly, that the land should pass through the family line, unsplit, to the children of Kuno. They need not be a huntsman by trade, but each inheritor should be a hunter by practice.
His will also stipulated that primogeniture reigned supreme, in no uncertain terms. Upon the death of a master of the hunting land, the ownership of the grounds should go to his first-born son, or in the absence of a first-born son, the next-born son, or in the absence of any son, to the husband of the eldest daughter, and so on, and in any case only on the provision that he hunt. If no suitable heir should present himself, then upon the death of the last master of the woods the land and everything in it should be razed.
A suitable heir must pass a marksmanship challenge to seal his inheritance in stone. This was to dispel rumors that plagued Kuno from his earliest days: That he was too good a shot, that he hit impossible moving targets at impossible distances. That he used magic bullets, blessed through witchcraft. But we are a family that loves, fears, and lives with God. Do you hear that? The marksmanship challenge, surpassed only through skilled gunplay, proves our moral righteousness. And so, on the day of your wedding, if you wish to marry my daughter, we will release a flock of doves. You must eye the one with red ribbon attached to its wings, and shoot it dead. And that shall be your second-most valued prize, after your wife.
Surely when Kuno created this will he must have been of sound mind and body, and capable of such moral foresight that his verdict could withstand the revolutions of the Earth around the sun as well as the revolutions of the people around the moral center of the universe. While many in hindsight regret decisions they have made, surely there are some that shall never be regretted. Surely this is one such decision.
The Groom nodded. He had his compunctions. He did not agree with everything his someday Father said, but he knew that he was living under another man’s house, and who was he to challenge the status quo? He bristled at the chill as the sun began to rise, and the two wandered into the forest.
The Groom could be given a map and dropped off at any point in any city, and within an hour he would ascertain his location, the nearest bus stop, and the best cafe to take lunch in, but in the forest he was lost in its variegated beauty. With his sense of natural geography warped by an upbringing of stone and skyscrapers, concrete and cars, he could hear the rivers and see the hills but not be able to say what they meant. He could pass underneath a hanging widowmaker and not see it because he had only been trained by life to look in front of him, but neither above nor below. In fact, he only knew to stop when he walked into the butt of the Father’s rifle. The Father locked eyes with the Groom, then stared ahead, and it took a moment for the Groom to realize he should follow with his eyes. When he did, he spotted it: A buck with 12-pointed antlers, what the Father would call a Royal Stag. He had never seen a deer in his life. The muscular, haughty torso, four thighs and legs like matchsticks, the brown fur atop it, white underbelly below, and the coal-black snout awed him. The buck, still a hundred yards away, jerked its head to face him, and jerked away to bolt. In that moment the Groom did the only thing he could, turn and fire, and learned two facts in an instant. First, that the recoil of a rifle is far greater in the heat of the moment. Second, that deer scream like men.
The stag roiled up on its haunches, landing on the back legs first, and then the front right leg. The left had been hit by the bullet, and it bounded into the woods, splintered leg dragging like a second tail.
“I struck it!” The Groom cheered. “Now what do we do?”
The Father scowled and charged off into the forest, following the trail of blood. By the time the Groom caught up with him, the deer was dead, a second round penetrating the heart. The Groom watched him take a knife along the underside of the deer, and remove the vital organs. He handed the Groom a rope, and simply said “Around the neck.” The Groom had to ask for assistance with the knot. As they walked back, he murmured his good fortunes as having caught his first deer.
“Your first deer? Not at all. My deer. After firing, you did not know what to do. You did not give chase. If it had been you alone in the forest and not me with you, you would not have caught and killed it. It would be limping in the woods with a shattered leg, living with a permanent debilitation, or dying from a slow, painful infection. The life of the animal wasted for it, the meat ruined for us. What you did today was worse than if you had missed. You should not be happy.”
They spent the rest of the day in silence. The following day, the Bride joined the Groom in the hunting grounds.
“I just don’t know how to talk to your Father.”
“He’s a pretty simple guy. He likes guns, meat, men that aren’t trying to marry his daughter.”
“Has he always been this way?”
“He’s gotten worse since Daniel, but he won’t really talk about it. My dad is very good at talking at people, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Right. I just need to get better at hunting.”
The Bride touched the Groom on the shoulder as a hush escaped her lips.
“Is it a deer?”
“No, better. Look.”
She gestured towards a nearby riverbed, and waited for him to notice. By instinct, he trained his rifle, at which she blanched.
“Put that away. You aren’t going to want to shoot this.”
And then he saw it. Movement. The glint of a loricated shell. The dry, pliant neck. A tortoise.
“He’s beautiful,” the Groom whispered, dropping everything to squat beside the creature. He held a finger a few inches in front of the tortoise’s face as it approached and smelled the unfamiliar object, lightly biting it.
“We should get a pet,” The Bride said.
“Why not? Like, a cat or a dog?”
The Bride knelt beside him. “Why not a tortoise? Not this one, obviously. It belongs in its natural environment. But like, one from a pet store.”
The Groom paused. “I’m not sure. Most pets live, what, 20 years at most? But a tortoise could outlive us all. That’s a long commitment to make right now.”
At that moment, they both heard the sound of a single gunshot echoing to the south, shaking the trees like artillery fire.
“Just the scare cannon,” The Bride states. “Though my father tries not to use it when people are hunting. Sometimes he has to, if bears get too curious. There are things in these woods not even he dares to hunt.”
Unlike her Father, who told him how to hunt, the Bride showed him how to hunt. She overlaid her hands on top of his, melding his form to the gun, tracing her fingers along his knuckles to show her approval. She stepped back, allowing the Groom to fend for himself, but whenever he had to make a shot, he missed. Twilight approached, and as much as the Bride admired her fiance's perseverance, she grew tired at his lack of skill. She wanted to continue the family lineage. If she could be the one to take the marksmanship challenge, she thought, they would not be in this mess.
She would be right. She wore out before he did, and returned home, while the Groom remained in the forest.
The Groom thought he could hunt on his own and be perfectly fine, because he was an educated man and could acclimate to the terrain. Education comes in many forms, however, and just as one may spend decades learning to be a surgeon or lawyer, so too is the pursuit of the forest a lifelong endeavor. He did not realize that he was attempting to grow a new organ. He missed shot after shot, and with each shot he missed he grew dispirited until he became unable to spot any animals at all, whether mammal or bird. The Groom was kneeling on the ground, cursing his gun, weeping for the love between himself and the Bride, when a figure came upon him from the direction of the setting sun.
“Bad luck shooting today, is that so?”
I wore crisp slacks the color of the earth, with a beige, long-sleeved button-down shirt. I had a similarly earthen tie, affixed to my chest with a ruby pin in the center. For his sake, I wore sunglasses. The Groom could not see my face, as to do so would require him to look directly into the sun.
“Who are you?”
“Why, I’m the Warden.” I bowed at the waist, and for once he could see my face: A row of unnervingly straight teeth, and rough skin with rivulets of wrinkles. Behind the glasses, my eyes were an impenetrably deep blue, blue you could drown in.
“Do you know whose land you are on?”
“Yes. I’m engaged to the daughter of the owner, sir.”
“Friend of the family, hm? Well, any family of Kuno is a friend of mine. Do you have your permits?”
The Groom balked.
“I’m kidding, of course. We have an arrangement, you see. I’m paid handsomely to turn the other cheek. But you have nothing to offer, do you? Learning to hunt, are you?” The Groom nodded.
“Here, stand up. Look in the trees. That bird. Try and shoot it.”
“I’m not a good shot.”
“You don’t have to be. Just shoot it.”
The Groom took aim, fired, and missed. He wasted a dozen cartridges in this manner. The bird, strangely enough, did not fly away. A better hunter would have asked why, but the groom merely continued with his folly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not a good enough shot. And if I can’t shoot, then I–then I won’t be able to–” The Groom started to choke up.
“Hush. I know all about that family’s old superstitions–which is why I’ll help you. It’s not your fault at all. It’s your gun. You’ve been feeding it the wrong bullets, that’s all. Here–try this.”
I produced from my pocket a single, silvery bullet, and handed it to the Groom. “Go ahead. Fire.”
The Groom loaded the chilling bullet into his rifle. The world was spinning. He had become delirious over the course of the day and had to pace his breathing to calm himself. His palms were sweating, clammy over the metal. He took aim at the bird with what he felt to be the same rigor he had been applying the entire time, and pulled the trigger.
A hit! With a single clean shot, the bird fell to the ground, dead. Even I could not resist cheering.
“Do you see what I mean? The bullets, yes, make all the difference. Here, I have some more for you.”
I rolled up my sleeve, revealing an impossibly smooth forearm lined with splotches the color of wood grain. I pressed my thumb into the underside of the wrist and there was an audible click as the flesh gave way, revealing a compartment in the prosthetic arm which held a small box. I handed it to the Groom, grinning all the while.
“Only two more here, I’m afraid. But as a parting gift: a bag of supplies to help you make your own. There is a crossroads among the paths in these woods–make your way to them on the next moonless night, and cast your bullets there and then. You must finish by midnight, or else–or else I dare not say. May good fortune always bless you.”
I spent some time explaining in detail how to cast the bullets, what to be aware of, what to be wary of, and then I departed. The Groom suspected a trick. But when he returned to The Father’s complex with three fat pheasants for him, his Bride, and himself, he thought the joy on their faces mitigated any trickery that was afoot.
He thought to himself, well, I shot three big birds yesterday. I can make do without the bullets. But after his initial success, days passed without him being able to even take feathers off a grouse with his shots. He remembered the story of Kuno, and rumors of magic bullets, as he let the pouch gifted by the Warden gather dust in his guest house. One night, he bluntly came out and asked the Father what he knew about such bullets.
“Magic bullets! Keep away from them if you have any care for your name and life. It’s thanks to rumors of this dark magic that the marksmanship test exists to begin with. Every hunter I know that has come into contact with magic bullets has come to a bad end.”
The Groom winced, and almost held his tongue, but he knew he had to have his next question answered.
“But what happens if one should unknowingly use them?”
The Father looked long at the Groom, unblinking, nearly unbreathing. Finally, he got up, and left the room, rubbing the Groom’s shoulder as he left. When he returned, he brought a lantern, a bottle of scotch, and two glasses, which he filled to the brim.
“Fortify yourself. I’ve got something to show you.”
The Groom did not habitually drink, so after downing the scotch he felt nauseous. The two put on their coats, left the manse, and walked along the forest edge by lamplight, deprived of the light of the moon. The Father continued,
“It seems a simple thing, to take a magic bullet or two. You need to ensure a shot is perfect so you take a shortcut. You’ve had a bad day hunting, so you load a bullet in your chamber, to give yourself a victory. To take the edge off. Nobody needs a bullet, but every bullet needs a man, a target. And once you get into magic bullets, you can’t get out of them. You start to need the bullets the way the bullets need you. And one day, you will take aim, and your gun will miss. Or you will wish it had.”
The Father paused. They had wandered into the forest, and the wetted ground was loamy underneath. In front of them was a pile of disturbed earth, marked with a cross. “Becoming a father changes you, psychologically. You will do things and think things you never thought possible before, all in the name of protecting and supporting your family. Your instinct says to do anything, but not all instincts can be trusted. Do you understand? Some bullets are fated to hit where they will hit, ricocheting outward, transforming the world around them. Like true love’s kiss.”
The Groom waited for a further explanation from the Father, but no such explanation was forthcoming. The Father walked him back to the guest house, then departed for the night. The Groom did not heed the Father’s words, much like someone who asks for advice on some personal matter when they only seek reinforcement of their intended action. Everything he was doing, he was doing for his Bride. I’ll only use what I need, he thought, and then be done with them.
He gathered the pouch, and a lamp for light, and made his way into the moonless night. The Groom could only make his way by keeping his eyes level, to see the trees blazed with color to form the huntsman's trails. Every sound set him on edge, the flap of wings becoming a harbinger of doom, the snapping of twigs becoming the breaking of bones. But with courage he persevered through fear, and made his way to the crossroads. Once there, he put a cast-iron pot in the center of it, and set at once to gather wood to make a fire underneath. Contrary to the difficulty he had doing anything else in the forest, wood was easy to come by, and once gathered, sparked to life at once. To ensure a healthy pour, he took the mold for the bullets and held it over the fire, until gunmetal gray turned black with soot. He never realized how hot an open fire could be.
When the pot was sufficiently heated, he placed lead ingots inside of it, watching as they lost their shape within the crucible. Entranced by the sight, he leaned in, inhaling deeply, but to his surprise the mixture was totally scentless.
Time to flux the metal. He would not have thought it possible without the Warden’s earlier guidance, but by adding impurity to the concoction he could in fact make the metal more pure, and make it flow smoothly. He was to purify the molten lead with wax from a blood red candle. He tried to light the candle with the flame from the bonfire, but two successive times the candle ignited, then was snuffed by a gust of wind. The third time, he lit the candle, but as he neared the fire the flame reached out towards him, scalding his hand. He let out a primordial scream, and looked at his skin: His hand appeared calcified, with orange bubbles emerging from the flesh. He had no choice but to press onward. He could get medical attention later, but if he failed to cast these bullets, here and now, he might never have another chance.
He gripped the candle, feeling a painful popping sensation on his palm, and held it over the mixture. With each drop of wax that pierced the meniscus of the lead, smoke emerged from the cauldron, at first in thin, ashen lines, then as a black, obfuscating cloud. The Groom fell backwards as his vision was blocked, and found himself unable to move. He could hear approaching footsteps, and felt their reverberations in his bones. As the dark cloud cleared, he bore witness to a creature only recognizable as a stag from its torso and legs, as the head was missing. Blood and muscle pumped within the bisected neck, pulsing from the force of hooves on the forest floor. The creature circled him, and as it circled again he noticed a front leg dangling, as if held in place, which proceeded to wrap around his neck. From the black cloud emerged a horde of birds, multicolored, whose cries reached a fever pitch. No sooner did he raise a hand to cover his ears then the birds descended on his burned limb, pecking at the skin, tearing it cleanly from the muscle. He crawled to the mold for the bullets, strangled by the stag and beset by the birds. He struggled with the leg until it slipped off his neck and around his mouth, at which point he bit into it. His teeth tore flesh, and the stag bounded off into the night. He grabbed a ladle made for the material, and proceeded to cast the bullets. The birds grew closer around him, and he grew dizzy from the fumes and force of them. The black cloud, it seemed, was parted, with illumination growing with each pour. He looked into the sky, and saw a yellow moon sagging. He could not be mistaken in thinking there was no moon before. Could he? But he would not be deterred. He continued pouring, thinking of his Bride, praying for safety. It seemed to him that he was lighter, as if the moon itself were trying to lift him from the earth. He poured the last of the lead into the bullet mold, and the world quieted. The howling was silenced. The light from the bonfire died out, leaving him with only the meager illumination of his lantern. No moon in the sky. He sat, and waited, watching the glimmer of soft metal hardening into something special. He glanced at his wrist–his hand appeared healed yet scarred, but his watch had broken, the crystal cracked, the time stuck at 11:47. He was supposed to finish casting by midnight. How long ago did his watch break? He took the locking pins out of the mold, and pried it open. Sixty bullets, like marbles, like teeth, came clattering out, and the Groom got down on his knees in the dirt to gather his bounty. He was mesmerized by the sound of them, the chittering they made as he placed 59 pieces of cool metal in an ammo bag. When he grasped the last of these, however, he heard a rustle in the trees beside him. He could barely make out the shape of the beast by lamplight, but he saw glistening fur, like a wave of oil crashing down against him, felt the hot, dry breath on his throat, as he came face to face with the bear.
In times of great need, one fails to act with conscious thought. Your movements, actions, words, become not your own, and you operate as if possessed by something greater than yourself. It was with this motion that the Groom shielded himself from the gnashing teeth of the great demon with one arm, and fumbled for his pistol with the other. He scrambled backwards, trying to place a single newly-cast bullet in the chamber, hand still mutilated, the creature slashing at his back. He slotted one in and closed the chamber, then turned and, not daring to look the creature in the eyes, fired. The weight of the bear fell upon him, and for a long while he did not move. He wondered if he had fallen asleep, so long did he lay under the weight of his bear. Suddenly, the weight felt lighter. He tried to push the beast off, but his hands found only soft cotton, and long hair. He rolled the weight off of him, and shone his lantern. He was staring at his bride, pierced through the neck. Surely this wasn’t her? Surely it was just another vision.
Perhaps, but as his pulse slowed and he came to his senses he became only more certain that he had done a terrible thing. It occurred to him that he had to get out of the forest, and to make amends. The Groom gathered his bullets, and supplies, to hide any trace of his ever having gone to the crossroads. He was too weak to carry the Bride atop his shoulders, so he was forced to tie her limbs with rope and drag her behind him. By the time he emerged from the woods, the sun had started to rise, and the Father screamed at the sight of the Groom dragging a massive bear behind him. He was now a true hunter. A date was set for the wedding.
With the bullets guiding him, no prey was too dangerous, too nimble, or too cunning for his gun. Even if the family ate meat every day, at every meal, there would be no way to eat it all themselves. The Father thought it a bountiful sign, that the next generation would have a hunter who had been truly blessed, the second coming of Kuno. The Groom told himself, all things in moderation. He will only use the bullets as necessary. But the more he used them, the more necessary they became. He told himself he would stop, and he did not stop. So he told himself again. A poor sailor does not realize a ship's hull needs to be repaired until the floors feel wet. So when a poor man tries to mend his soul he may not notice that the devil has already taken root, that he has taken on water, that he has been hollowed out and the demon made a home in his bones.
The Groom stopped sleeping well at night. His Bride was normally a sound sleeper, but she would awaken some evenings to find only sweat-soaked sheets beside her in bed where once her love had laid. The Groom had retreated to the cold confines of the butchery. The night before their wedding was one such time. Normally the Bride would allow him some privacy, a hidden spot in his soul, but on this occurrence she thought perhaps it was time to offer him solace. The Groom sat at the base of a meat locker, his head resting against the door, fingering a small pouch which jingled at his touch.
The Bride approached him, and as she placed her hand on his shoulders he flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
He looked up at her, his eyes tinged ruby at the corners and purple below. He remained clutching at the pouch.
“What have you been doing? Why can’t you sleep at night?”
He handed her the pouch. It had inside a single bullet.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
In some ways, his admission shocked and comforted her. She assumed he meant hunting. Though she was proud of the hard work her Groom had undertaken to satisfy an absurd tradition, it galled her that he should suddenly become such a skilled hunter. If he did not have the temperament for the trade, then perhaps he was not as skilled as he appeared.
“It’s okay. You only need to be a hunter for one more day. Then our inheritance will be secured. I’ll provide for us, and you can keep the books in order. You won’t have to kill another animal. You won’t even have to hold a gun.”
He embraced her.
“I’ve done a terrible thing.”
“I know. I know. It will all be okay after tomorrow.”
What a place the world would be if it were not for misunderstandings! Neither party in this exchange said what the other one had heard, nor heard what the other one had said. The Groom thought he had wordlessly confessed and been given absolution. The Bride thought he had bared his animal-loving heart, and that she had given comfort to his fears. The two went to bed happy, but only because they had failed to communicate to one another.
On the day of their wedding, the Groom only had one bullet left–the bullet needed to hit the dove, and then he would be done with magic forever. He wanted to stop himself from using the magic bullet to pass the test, however, and so he brought two more bullets with him. Ordinary bullets. When the time came for the doves to be released, his bride and father-in-law standing behind him, he shuffled them in his pocket, picked one at random, and loaded his gun without glancing at the bullet.
He aimed his rifle, and waited for the birds to be released. His Bride did the honor of tying a ribbon to a dove, then at her Father’s signal, the flock was released. He only had a moment to see them, but by now his marksman’s eyes had been trained. He spied a ribbon on a leg, aimed for where the bird was going to be, adjusted for the force gravity has on the trajectory–and fired! And hit! With a burst of red the dove was arrested in midair, and plummeted to the ground. Everyone hushed, and when the Groom recovered the bird and presented it, they cheered. One voice, from among the group, called for an encore. The Groom thought for a moment he saw the gleam of a ruby tie tack, but assumed he was mistaken. Then I stepped out from the group, holding an apple.
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice, but your aim is so true it might as well. When you struck your dove, it hit a tree on the way down. Wouldn’t it be appropriate, then, if you made this apple which fell to earth your next target?”
There were sounds of disapproval. After such an impressive shot, to hit an apple? Absurd and obscene. Not a worthy follow-up at all.
“Let me clarify. I propose not just that you strike this apple, but that you strike it from the head of your beloved.”
Almost everyone turned to the Groom. The Groom and the Father turned to the Bride. She approached her betrothed.
“William. If you want to take this shot, I’ll trust you. But you don’t have to wield a gun anymore, for as long as you live.”
He held his soon-to-be-wife, and asked her to walk to the other end of the clearing. As she passed, I handed her an apple.
“And for you, dear Groom. A blindfold.”
And thus the Groom was given his most dire missive: Perform an impossible shot, with only the devil’s chance to save him. With two bullets in his pocket, he picked the one that felt warm to the touch. He trained his rifle on his bride, the sight tracing along the white train of her dress, her wrung hands, her tense smile, her eyes, open one moment and closed the next, her flowing hair, to the apple atop her. He inhaled, and he exhaled, noting how each movement adjusted his aim.
“Place the blindfold.”
And the Father placed the blindfold on dear Williams’ head, and many in attendance looked away. Many of the children, not understanding the implication, attempted to look but were blinded by the opaque hands of their parents latticed in front of their eyes. One man who was a true believer wondered if Kuno, once known as the Scourge of the Scioto for his prowess, was watching.
I hope you will forgive me for what is about to happen. The Groom forswore temptation, but what value does that have if he is not tempted? What good is virtue if one is not called upon to practice it?
The Groom could not see anything, so he did all he could and focused on his breathing. In, out, in, out. If his aim did not stray, then he could hit the apple. If his aim lingered downward, his bride would be dead. He needed to fire at the apex of an inward breath. And he did. And he heard a woman scream.
When the Groom removed his blindfold he saw what he had wrought: An apple, cleaved in two from the shot, on the ground. His Bride, untouched. He had made the shot. He ran to her and kissed her, vowing never to touch a gun as long as he lived. For the rest of the ceremony, he felt like a revenant, as if he had not been himself for a long time. He felt like he was finally free.
At the reception, the Bride and Groom gleefully cut into a cake the shape of a lamb. Easter would not be for another six months, but the cake–and the choice of red velvet–was to their particular tastes.
The two sat at ease, and ate their pieces of cake, when the Bride began choking. The Groom placed himself behind her, to hold her and unblock her clotted passageway, but he turned her around when he felt liquid trailing down his scarred hand and saw the Bride’s dress stained red. Still choking, only crimson froth emerged from her mouth. Her gaze looked frightened, then softened into one of peace. She kissed the Groom on his forehead, leaving the red impression of lips behind, as she sat down, motionless save for a periodic movement of her irises, silent except for a low, guttural gurgle.
Who is to blame? Myself, for offering the magic bullets? The Groom, for using them? For casting the bullets in the first place? The Father, whose desire to see tradition followed led to the Groom’s desperation? Kuno, whose centuries-old decree is still followed to the letter it was initially inscribed in? When all is dead and buried, I do not see the point in blame. Instead, I beg you to ask how, along any step of the way, this could have been avoided. Without the magic bullets, how could there have been both a marriage and an inheritance? When was the moment everything was lost? Was it when the Groom cast the bullets? Or had this moment been coming, ever since the decision was made not to challenge the will of a man dead two centuries past? I do not have the answer, so at this juncture I will leave you with an epilogue:
The autopsy revealed a bullet lodged in the Bride’s throat. At this discovery, the Groom checked his pocket. The third bullet was missing. When she died, he took his rifle, and ran from the chapel to the forest. A search was conducted, but all the party came across was a patch of scorched earth at a wooded crossroads. Her Father wept, and bereft of daughter and yet another son, retreated to the confines of his home. He died before the year was out, and when he did finally pass, miles of forest were razed in accordance to Kuno’s will.
Jack Douglas Riter
