Moxie the Swan

Kane woke up and threw the curtains apart. The light reluctantly illuminated half of the room, falling through the window like a clumsy drunk.

 

The sun was up. “Damn,” he muttered though gritted teeth.

 

He ignored the bees.

 

It seemed he was back again. Looked like some goddamned author didn’t have the sense he was born with. There was a book out there to be written but it looked that damn fool wasn’t about to do that. Not tonight.

 

The phone rang like a hungry baby and he picked it up.

 

A job to be done. Wasn’t that just the goddamned truth?

 

He ignored the bees.

 

He could have slammed the phone down like 4 damn aces in a game of poker in a goddamn backstreet bar somewhere nobody ever wanted to be. But he didn't. Damn it all to hell.

 

It was Martha. Sat there in that place where her phone was, calling people like some crazy bird looking for a goddamned worm. Only today she had the worm and damn if she wasn't gonna give it to someone. Looked like it was his turn.

 

Like some damn early bird.

 

A swan. Of course it was.

 

He rubbed his shoulder and tried not to be angry about the call. Don’t shoot the messenger, that’s what they always said wasn’t it?

 

He ignored the bees.

 

Time to go. Then he remembered Cara. He had promised her. Goddamn it to hell.

 

Then he remembered Cara was a dog. A goddamned dog. She didn't remember promises. Just as well as he didn't remember ever keeping any.

 

He brushed some of the bees off his jacket, put it on and got ready to go to work.

 

He ignored the rest of the bees.

 

This damn city. This goddamned city.

 

When would it learn?

 

When would this goddamned city take a goddamned night class so it could learn the things it didn't know but which it would be able to learn at a night class?

 

Dammit but he didn't know. Couldn't pretend to.

 

He stepped out onto the street, which he couldn't describe. It was like an author directing his life was happy to perform but didn't like describing things. Like some damn circus clown that had witnessed a mafia hit.

 

Except it wasn't just his nose that was red.

 

He arrived at the club and ordered a drink, like someone who didn't have a damn job to do.

 

His shoulder hurt, goddamn it. At least he was out of the house. Not because of Cara.

 

Goddamn it he had forgotten about Cara.

 

Because of the bees. Those goddamn bees.

 

A swan. The owner was a short man. The kind of guy you wouldn't ask to change a lightbulb. Not without a ladder. Or a step ladder. Goddamn it. For a moment there he almost forgot his stepfather was dead.

 

It was the little things that reminded him.

 

The owner had once been a farmer out in Michigan. Then one day he got tired of being robbed by the damn falling price of sugar beet and decided to move and open up a nightclub.

 

And that was how it was.

 

At least until a damn swan made an entrance.

 

The man was angry. Who the hell wouldn't be?

 

He was still short, sat on that barstool. How the damn hell he got up there was a mystery. Kane guessed it would have involved some kind of stepladder.

 

Dammit. That thought again. The grief was always there. Like bees.

 

Kane told him not to shoot the messenger.

 

The man said, "What the hell should I do if the message being delivered is that the messenger is tired of my shit, and he's armed, out for vengeance?"

 

Kane fixed him with a lazy stare, "Then you take that messenger down."

 

The owner checked over his shoulder and came in close, "I take the percentage shot when faced with an angry messenger. I've got a family."

 

Kane had to respect that. He didn't pretend to understand these people's ways but any man had a right to protect his family.

 

Kane said, "I might want to assess the situation first."

 

The owner grunted like an angry pig, "Well, that's your decision. And your funeral. But if you do decide to take action remember, control your breathing, pick your target. You don't want to panic and miss."

 

"The messenger is likely to miss with his first shot. If he doesn't you're dead anyway."

 

This was getting weird. Nobody had mentioned a swan yet and it was 2.44 in the morning in Scotland, wherever that was.

 

But the owner wasn't finished. Not by a long chalk.

 

"Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it. Aim for the midline. Hit him there, he's going down. Don't worry about running out of ammunition. Two or three shots should be more than enough. Much more than that and you're into spray 'n' pray, which I wouldn't recommend."

 

This was weird.

 

"In colder climates you might consider a double tap, two shots in rapid succession. One to punch through winter clothing, one to follow."

 

Kane nodded like a damn nodding donkey on an oil well that was functioning as designed. Was this over, dammit?

 

The man stared at him, "Good luck. I don't envy you. I've been there. The first messenger is the hardest. After that, well, I'd be lying if I said it was ever easy but you get used to it, somehow. I don't sleep much these nights. Guess that's the price I pay."

 

What the hell was going on? "Tell me about this swan," Kane said, trying to get things back on track.

 

"Moxie. Circus swan. Good one too, until things went bad."

 

Was there any other damn way for things to go? Sometimes it seemed like there wasn't. Not in this city.

 

The owner shook his head, "Broke a man's arm. She seemed a good swan. Told a story about when she grew up she was a..."

 

"Ugly duckling."

 

"Yeah, how did you...?" Kane ground his teeth, "That's the story. That's always the damn story. But that's what it is. A story."

 

Kane put his milk down, "You know what an ugly duckling grows into, Mr Owner whose name I've never established?"

 

The man looked puzzled, "I don't..."

 

Kane shook his head ruefully, staring at the apparently nameless man.

 

"An ugly duck. Not a swan. doesn't happen."

 

Just another damn mark. That's all the nameless man was to Moxie the swan. All he ever could be. Kane realised he hadn't actually established the nature of the crime. The kind of damn thing he should have done early on. The narrative structure was all gone to hell.

 

The man said, "One minute the swan was just flapping around. Then it starts to hissing and then, you;re not going to believe this but it pulled out..."

 

Kane laughed, even though it wasn't funny, "A chainsaw."

 

"How did you..."

 

"It's always a goddamned chainsaw."

 

Kane was so damn tired. It was 3.07 in Scotland but it's not clear why that would be relevant. He was so damn tired he had struggled to spell swan properly a minute ago. Probably he was writing it on a damn napkin or something.

 

He had to get the damn swan. Fast.

 

As he left Kane had to ask, "What's your bodycount?"

 

The man looked at him, "7 angry messengers. Turns out 3 were just grumpy postal employees. I sure as hell wasn't going to wait and find out. Not when I have a family to protect..."

 

"Four wolves. One was in sheep's clothing. Don't know who he thought he was fooling. He gots to huffing and I sure as hell wasn't gonna wait around to see if he started puffing. Can't risk my house getting blown down, not with a family inside to protect. Four sheep. Turns out they were just sheep in sheep's clothing. Sometimes you can't wait until you're sure. Not when a man's family might be on the line."

 

Dammit, Kane wished he hadn't asked. That swan was getting further away. They could glide at a fair rate.

 

"Some things in pokes. Maybe 6 or so. I assume they were pigs. Wasn't gonna wait and find out. Not a risk I can afford to take. 5 birds. On various occasions. Each of them were in my hand at the time."

 

Kane knew that was the same as 10 just sitting there in the bush.

 

"They could have pecked me at any time. Then infection sets in. I've seen it. Don't care to see it again. Wouldn't care to have my family see it either."

 

Kane's attention was wandering. He kept thinking about Cinderella and that damn ball. Something didn't add up.

 

"Couple of babies. That wasn't intentional. Got threw out with some bathwater I judged was posing a drowning hazard to my small children. I'm not a man inclined to take chances with such things."

 

How many people could have been at that damn ball? 300 maybe?

 

"Whole load of eggs containing chickens. But I don't tend to count them unless they've hatched. All I know is nobody in my family will be gettin’ salmonella."

 

299 women and 1 man? That was a damn crazy setup. But if it was true...that's every girl in the kingdom?

 

"I sleep a whole lot better at night knowing that and having old Betsy fully loaded under my pillow."

 

Being damn conservative that meant around 300 women between 18 and 25.

 

7 year span. Call life expectancy 70 damn years. That's 10% of the female population.

 

It's true life expectancy would likely be lower in a pre-industrial society. But much of that would be deaths in childbirth or early infancy. It's a damn common misunderstanding. Many people would live to old age.

 

So, 6000 people in the kingdom...

 

How in hell was the Prince keep a palace on that kind of tax base?

 

At that point the owner of the bar fell off his barstool and broke his damn neck. Typical. Another damn sad story in a city that had too many already.

 

Anyway, Kane thought, "Back to Cinderella."

 

The shoe thing. Why the hell didn't the glass slippers change back after midnight? Every other damn thing did!

 

And that damn midnight thing. Why do that at all? Assuming she doesn't live near that palace (and she apparently needs a carriage to get there)...

 

She's going to have to leave at 11.30. What kind of damn ball ends at 11.30?

 

Kane grunted and thought out loud, "The whole midnight thing smells a bit like a patriarchal limit on women's behaviour. She can go to the damn ball but she has to behave."

 

And why did he need the damn shoe anyway? There are only 300 women in the kingdom and he danced with her all night. He fell in love with her. Can't he remember her damn face? Does he have prosopagnosia? Why is he marrying someone he just met and can't recognise?

 

Kane gulped down the last of his milk.

 

So many questions. What happened to the other shoe? Did it change back? And the other one didn't? Did she get to keep it? Why is it never mentioned? Is she hiding it? Where? How big is her damn room?

 

You had to believe this guy picked his future queen by holding a ball for 300 women, then identified her later using shoe based forensics.

 

How reliable is that anyway? There are only so many damn shoe sizes. Wouldn't it have fitted any of the other 299 women?

 

But that was what really bothered him. The "perfect fit". That was what the whole damn story turned on. Always had. But there was just one more thing...

 

If the shoe was such a perfect fit...

 

Why the hell did it fall off?

 

Why did the damn shoe fall off?

 

To hell with it. He had a swan to find.

 

He went out of the club in a way that could be described by a decent metaphor.

 

Kane knew what a damn metaphor was: It was like a simile.

 

Goddamn English language jokes. As if there wasn't enough going on already.

 

What the hell was this author playing at? He needed to go to bed, if he existed. Outside Kane met Markenson.

 

He stood holding a bundle of parachute silk. It spilled over his arms, trailing on the ground along with those strap things. What was that stuff? Webbing?

 

"Markenson, how many damn times? Get that damn stuff packed neatly in that little backpack thing, goddammit!" Then he saw the swan. It was dead, which would surely hurry things along a bit. He lifted its beak, the neck dangling like white garden hose.

 

His first thought was that it had been poisoned. When he looked again he realised it had been hacked in half with a meat cleaver.

 

Markenson smirked, "I guess that's what you call justice, huh Kane?"

 

Kane shook his damn head, "This isn't justice. Goddammit to hell."

 

Markenson said, "Hey Kane, you know the boy that cried 'wolf'? That story?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"How come they sent him to guard those sheep if they didn't trust him? I mean, if they weren't gonna come when he cried 'wolf' then why send him out there?

 

"What's the point Kane? You ever think about that?"

 

"No, never."

 

Truth was he didn't think about much else.

 

There was something under the swan. A book. Kane turned it over in his hand. It seemed to be a story about a boy living in a hotel in Portpatrick.

 

And the book told the story of a young boy caught up in an endless, pointless war. And the world was ending, slowly. Kane sat and read the book, even after they took the swan away to grind into mulch.

 

A dog ran off with its head while they waited for the mulch truck.

 

Who was Uncle Joe, the boy's uncle? And what was the deal with his mother?

 

He worried about the boy, growing up in an environment like that, with his father away at war.

 

And what about the soldiers at the hotel? Not the normal soldiers, the 'ghosts'?

 

It seemed like some soldiers came home damaged and broken and some were sent to stay at the hotel. Only natural that a young boy would be interested in that.

 

The most interesting thing was the other thing that he found. The thing that was the damn key to it all.

 

And Kane laughed, and cried, and forgot about his sore shoulder, and the bees and whoever killed the swan. The book was about everything. Then it was gone. It just disappeared.

 

Markenson shrugged, "It was never published. Or any of the subsequent books."

 

"There were more?" asked Kane.

 

"Yes and no. He never published them. Just kept them forever."

 

Kane shook his head. Craziest damn thing he had ever heard, "But I had it right here."

 

"Swan based illusion. Dead swans let you see other realities for a second."

 

Yep, that sounded about right.

 

"What about the other books?"

 

"Who knows? About the same boy though."

 

Kane shook his head, "I think I know what's coming next."

 

Markenson looked up, "You mean that big asteroid?"

 

"Yep."

 

The asteroid slammed into the Earth. All Kane could think about was Cara. And the bees. He didn't like the bees very much but it was their home too.

 

Just before the shockwave hit him, all Kane could think was, "What a damn shame that book was never published."