Prologue - Final Draft

Prologue

The farmer looked back at the field baking in the sun, crows already picking at the seeds he had just sown. Heavily, he sighed and turned back to the freshly tilled rows that anxiously awaited his hands to plant new crops into the earth. He couldn’t be too mad at the birds, as they were just following their nature, but the ragged, straw scarecrow could afford to do its job a bit better. The farmer bent over to poke a hole into the ground with his short stick, and took a deep breath. Smells of fertilizer, dirt, and grass permeated the air. He chuckled, reminiscing of a time when the stick was long, untouched by wear, and he did not have to bend as far.

As he covered each seed with soil, he buried a day of his youth. Time had been hard on him and his bones, depriving him of the ability to till without a break as he seemed to yield aches instead of plants. He wouldn’t let that stop him though, as he spent his days tilling and planting in hopes of another good crop. It was ironic to him how much his body had changed, but his life and his dear farm stayed the same.

While he was no Inner Ring aristocrat bathing in golden tubs of money, he was grateful for his little house and this bit of brown dirt. However, his two sons never had any interest in running the farm, he made sure that he taught them to love and appreciate it. After all, this farm had brought them just enough for each of his boys to go to school, start their careers, and begin families. This land had been good to them all and was the farmer’s closest friend. Only second to his wife, though, who had left a life of plenty to follow him, a foolish, young farmer at the time.

As he loved his farm, his wife loved her kitchen. His wife’s favorite moments were sharing a meal with her family when the day’s work was done. Despite the fact that her sons had grown up and left home, she still thought of their little handprints in the flour, how small they looked in her aprons, and the light in their eyes when dinner was served. The sights, the smells, and the tastes all reminded her of those most sacred moments.That’s why she insisted on cooking every evening. Despite growing older, like the farmer, she held onto what she loved. If aging was just the consequence of being lost in those passions, that was all she, and the farmer, needed.

As the sun began to set, the farmer propped himself up onto his planting stick, which also became his walking stick in the passing years. He slowly pushed himself upright, and happily looked at the work he had just finished. All the rows were planted, and the crows were courteous enough to leave most of the seeds alone. The farmer glanced behind his shoulder to admire his humble home. He saw his wife through the open window buzzing around the kitchen as she joyfully prepared their dinner. He smiled, confidently. Despite the distance between them, he was convinced he could hear the faint sound of her sweet, familiar song. He knew she was humming her favorite tune. Broadening his view, he scanned the length of his property. The aged heart inside of him swelled with pride.

That is, until something else caught his eye.

It appeared to be just a speck of dust along the horizon, but eventually the familiar black car came into view. The vehicle looked more like a monster than it did a coupe, surveying the land with circular headlights, and wheezing through a ribbed grill. Silver chrome lined nearly every edge and trim, from the windshield to the exhaust pipe, as if to emphasize its glossy, black paint, like ichor, that coated the sleek vehicle in an ominous darkness. There were no rear-view mirrors. It was a predator with nothing to hide from.

Only a small handful of people ever drove vehicles like that, hiding behind tinted windows and capitalizing off the misery of others. The farmer felt nauseated as he became certain that this unwanted visitor was a Messenger. His disgust was quickly accompanied by panic as this appalling vehicle crept closer to his property.

The farmer desperately wanted to run into his house, lock the doors, and pray that this heinous visitor would just drive on by. However, the farmer knew he would never make it past the fence before the car would catch up to him. While his body would fail him, he knew his voice wouldn’t. The farmer cupped his hands around his mouth and hysterically called out to his beloved wife. “Ethel! Lock the doors! A Messenger is here!”

Ethel looked up from her place in the kitchen, her eyes locking onto her husband, as his shouting beat against her ears. A look of dread cast over her face, obscuring any semblance of ease. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but no sooner than the words left the farmer’s lips and the breath filled her lungs did the car pull up next to him.

There was no escape.

She winced and dropped her spatula as a bit of oil splattered against her hand, snapping her attention back to the approaching harbinger of unsettling news. She grabbed a dish towel, quickly wiping the splatter off her hand as she bolted out of the kitchen, ignoring the clattering of metal resounding with the crackling oil. She desperately wanted to stomp outside, and give this Messenger a piece of her mind. But she obeyed her husband, trusting that he could defuse the conflict before them. She frantically darted between rooms, locking all the doors and windows before she drew the curtains in the front room. Feeling that she’d covered all of her bases, she slowly parted the curtains no more than an inch so she could peek out at the confrontation occurring outside. Their only hope was that the Messenger had the wrong address.

Ethel’s focus was unwavering. She fixated on her husband’s every move as beads of sweat raced down her forehead. She hoped with all of her heart that she could read their lips, and know exactly what this god-awful person had to tell them. However, it was no easy task with her glasses fogging up, and having to wipe them clean every minute. Something nagged at the back of her mind, telling her something was wrong. Still, she shoved the feeling aside as she narrowed her concerns to her ability to see clearly.

***

Messenger #540 hadn’t been thinking about much that day, besides regretting not grabbing lunch before he left the city. This delivery was completely out of the way of his normal route, and his stomach was screaming for a meal. He shook off the pangs of hunger and continued staring out the windshield, with only the static of a two-way radio, and a black envelope with the Bureau’s seal to accompany him. Henry said this would be the last delivery for a while. Even though Messenger #540 had only been employed for six months, he was eager for vacation. It was the least the Bureau could do for blackmailing him into a job he didn’t exactly want.

Nobody “wanted” to be a Messenger. Nobody wanted to ruin somebody’s life by reading from a parchment that altered fate. They were viewed as lapdogs by civilians and the Bureau alike. Dogs were bred for the hunt though, and Messenger #540 was no ferocious hound. In fact, he felt being a Messenger was more synonymous with being a target. Regardless, he was more afraid of what the Bureau would do to him for turning down the job than whatever aggressive response a civilian conjured. It was easier to go through the motions than try to change what was outside of his control.

When the car came to a stop, Messenger #540 exited the comfort of his air-conditioned coupe, basking in the blistering sun as he entered into a world of humidity. He could taste the heat with every breath he took, and nearly gagged when he felt a wave of warmth crash against his teeth. He undid the second button of his white shirt as he attempted the “young thirties, clean and shaven” look. He didn’t do a bad job of pulling it off in the least. Still, he couldn’t hide the discomfort he felt as sweat and grime began to act as a bonding agent between his suit and his skin. He never understood when he heard civilians outlandishly say they “felt as uncomfortable as a giraffe giving birth in a cubicle.” Yet, with every bead of sweat that formed on his forehead, he started to grasp the concept with each passing second.

Messenger #540 glanced down at the envelope to verify the address. His sunglasses reflected the field before him. “Yep, this is the place,” he said to himself as he haphazardly shut the car door. He approached the farmer, doing his best not to smirk as thoughts of his bed and the piles of money he’d receive from this week’s paycheck raced through his mind.

If looks could kill, everything within miles would have dropped dead as the farmer leaned against his stick and glared at the Messenger. Despite the farmer’s efforts, the Bureau’s emblem, sewn over the Messenger’s right breast pocket, seemed to express a colder stare with every encroaching step. The wind picked up around them, sweeping the dirt along with it. The world around them grew heavy as the muddied air enveloped them. Hungry, cawing crows circled overhead, but the intense silence of the farmer screamed louder.

Once the Messenger had obtained a wary distance between him and the farmer, he wryly smiled. “On behalf of the Bureau of Bad News, I, Messenger #540, have a fate to deliver to Marrion Vernon. Are you the recipient?”

“Look boy, I know what yer here for,” Marrion spoke in a rough, stammering voice. He took a deep breath, mustering the courage to stand up to this vermin. “A-And we don’t like your kind ‘round these parts, so leave me and my farm alone!”

Messenger #540 nodded, his facial expression unchanging as he unsealed the envelope and revealed its contents. “We regret to inform you that your home will burn down, and your wife will die inside. We are very sympathetic for your impending loss. Unfortunately, this message is classified as a U.P., thus, it cannot be changed. We do hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

Marrion took quick breaths as fear faded and anger fumed within him as the reality of the Messenger’s words set in. “Do you realize what your job is, boy?” he shouted.

The Messenger, recognizing the building rage from the recipient of this message, placed the envelope on the ground, stood, and nodded. “To bear the news, sir. My job is to do so, and it’s no one’s place to tamper with fate.” With that, Messenger #540 abruptly turned around and walked back to his car.

The wind shifted, and the smell of smoke filled Marrion’s nostrils. He shakily turned to see his home ablaze and black smoke pluming into the sky and around the field. Grief overcame him. He shook, fell to his knees, and sobbed in disbelief as he saw his love and his life burn to the ground. “No! No! Gloric, have mercy!”

Without looking back, Messenger #540 winced with guilt as the farmer’s cries echoed through the air. The Messenger’s mind grasped for something else to think of. His mind raced, altering between what he could grab on the way home for dinner, or where he could go during his time off. He scrambled to think of literally anything to distract him, to shut off the emotions. U.P. 's were always the most difficult to deliver, and unfortunately, the past five messages had been U.P.’s. Messenger #540 shook his head, caught a whiff of smoke, and sneezed while covering his face with his coat sleeve as he quickened his pace towards the car.

He was too busy rummaging for his car keys to notice the hard object swinging towards the back of his head. Once the object made contact, Messenger #540 let out a cry and gripped his wound. The object cut through the air again and whacked against the backs of the Messenger’s calves, and he fell to his knees. He quivered as he quickly looked up to see the farmer shrouded in anger, his eyes reflecting the same callous flame that burned down his home. Before there was even time for the Messenger to react, the farmer raised the stick above his head, and swung. Messenger #540’s vision laggardly blurred to black with each swing as this incarnate of fury enacted its punishment.

Marrion stood, panting as he stared at the corpse at his feet, ignorant of the blood seeping into the gravel road. His head pounded as his ears rang with rage and heartbreak. Once his eyes wandered to his arms, he gasped at the blood coating the walking stick, and his hand clasped violently around it. His dear walking stick, the companion that had helped tend to the farm, and carried his weight in his old age, had become tainted and corrupted with an action that couldn’t be taken back. Marrion’s eyes panically shifted between his weapon and the man on the ground, and he hurled the stick away from him. “What have I done?” he wailed as he looked at the field before him again. “Oh, Gloric, forgive me! Dear God, forgive me!”

Hours of hard work and productivity unraveled before him in measly minutes. The damned crows fled with caws like sirens. The wind ripped through the topsoil, scattering the carefully planted seeds. The fire bellowed a hymn that mocked the legacy the farmer and his wife had built here. Smoke obscured the last of the daylight, bringing forth a calamitous night as the vestige of the sunset glazed the fields with a crimson hue.

Overcome with panicked sobs, Marrion grimaced as a light periodically flashed in his eyes. He wearily glanced in the direction of the flickering light, and watched as the flames reflected off of the Messenger’s coupe. The vehicle, a monstrosity that escorted an unpreventable catastrophe only moments ago, seemingly lost its intimidating demeanor. It now paled in comparison to Marrion’s pain of losing everything that ever mattered to him. Seeing this coupe at a closer view, Marrion could tell it was owned by a man who frankly did not give the slightest care in the world. He observed the worn tires, the trash piling on the dashboard, and chipped paint on the door edges. A passage from the god, Gloric, crossed Marrion’s mind, “If a man cannot care for himself, how can he be expected to care for the wellbeing of others?” Regardless, Gloric taught that murder was a vice, and while Marrion was ready to atone, there was no reason he couldn’t hold this defaced coupe and its driver accountable as well.

Engulfed with agony, and remorse, Marrion opened the rear doors of the coupe, and dragged the dead Messenger to the seats. He wished he was stronger so as to not sully the man anymore than he already had. As he hoisted the lifeless body inside, he uttered a tearful prayer.

“Oh, Gloric have mercy on the souls departing this day...” Marrion rolled the Messenger onto his back and placed his hands over his heart.

“For sin is meaningless when faced with unjust death...” Marrion rummaged through the deceased Messenger’s pocket until he found the coupe’s keys.

“May you guide us all to the Underworld below…” Marrion shut the rear doors and hobbled to the driver’s side. He pushed himself along to the driver’s seat by using the roof and doors of the car as support, forsaking the aid of the walking stick.

“May you bring peace, and cease our hatred…” As he swung the driver’s door open, his muscles shook as he crawled onto the seat. He grunted and strained as he used the last of his strength to close the door. He took one last deep breath, rolled down the windows, and turned the keys in the ignition.

“May you bring the love yielded from this farm to someone who needs it more than we did…” The vehicle howled to life once more, echoing across the empty miles. After shifting the gears, the farmer bravely slammed his foot against the gas pedal, driving the car over his farm. Dirt and seeds were kicked up into the air as the tires tore across the fields. He drove the car into the blazing house, the frame of the home collapsing onto the vehicle. He leaned back, and placed his frail, wrinkled hands over his chest. Flames caught onto his clothing as his lungs, nostrils, and eyes burned from the acrid smoke. An illusory aftertaste of chicken and oil lingered in the back of his throat.

He slowly closed his eyes, unable to bear seeing his world around him burn, allowing the fire to give a dead man the funeral he deserved, and to consume everything Marrion had left in his life.

After all, “it’s no one’s place to tamper with fate.”