The Rebel Faction

The boy chewed thoughtfully on his weed. He squinted into the sun and wondered what time it was. The white-brick walls of the houses of Ben’ma glared with the light. His family was poor and hadn’t the money to buy him a watch, so his father had begun to teach him how to read the time from shadows and stars. He wagered it was late afternoon, but seasons came and went so quickly that it was hard to judge an hour by the suns position in the sky. The toll of a bell was a much surer sign. It struck three, echoing a dull peal throughout the small town.

A squall of wind disturbed some dust and debris at the boy’s feet. He caught sight of a flier advertising some long gone circus-troupe that had passed through the town some twenty years ago, five years before he had been born. The colours in the paper were all faded and the people’s faces looked sad and worn. The boy looked up, frowned, and murmured something like, “Ain’t that how it goes.”

He yawned and watched with idle curiosity as a preacher man exited the church, which was the largest and cleanest of all of the towns’ buildings. A small procession followed behind, huddled around… something the boy could not place. A coffin, perhaps. So many had died of late. His father blamed lowland felines and other prowlers for the deaths, but there were other stories, stories told between trusted friends over campfires, when the moon was high.

A shadow came over the boy, as another figure approached, breaking free of the crowd at a jog. It was a young boy, a few years shy of the boy. He panted through lack of breath in the sweltering sun, his blonde curls damp with sweat. “Pa says you have to come watch.”

The boy sucked in air through his teeth like a man wounded, but made no move. His junior stood in that awkward way children do, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He cautiously outstretched one hand and tipped back the hat the boy wore.

“Pa says-”

“I’m coming, hold your damn horses.”

The boy pushed the hat angrily back into its rightful place. He gave an exasperated sigh and got to his feet, brushing the knees of his slacks free of dust as he did so. The young boy fell into an easy step by his brother, walking quickly then having to pause a short while to allow his brother to catch up. Boy senior walked with a deliberate slowness and an almost swaggering gait. The pair followed the shuffling processions footsteps in the dirt. It was no surprise where they found themselves headed.

“The crucifix yard.”

“Pa says they caught the killer, Buck.”

Buck, the boy, spat out his weed and nodded. He eyed the congregation with a mixture of interest and distaste. His father would swear by every word the preacher said, but he was not so fond of hot days spend kneeling in the pews. While the daily service was being conducted he would sometimes head out onto the prairie and practicing shooting at mirages with the boomstick his old grandpa had given him. It was a primitive weapon, but it was all he had and he was dead certain that in years to come he would have mastered it.

“See the filthy tool of the devil!”

All at once, the words of the reverend caught him. He had climbed onto the raised platform in death’s corner and was holding aloft something that Buck had never seen before. It was polished, gleaming and unlike everything in dusty little Ben’ma. The preacher looked at it as if simply by holding it he had committed some cardinal sin. So entranced was he by this that he failed, at first, to notice that the group had laid down what they had been carrying.

A man hooded in black, who Buck knew to be one of his fathers friends, began to gather the motionless form up, stringing it into place for the time being. Neither Buck nor his brother, raised onto his tiptoes, could see what was happening beyond this. For a community of religious pacifists, the crowd was particular rowdy and settled only when implored to do so by the preacher.

The boys senior and junior took this opportunity to push through the mob, edging their way to the front as quickly as possible. In this mass of people, it was difficult to discern left from right, but in time, they managed to find a spot that would allow them a keen look at the trio on the platform. In spite of his age, Buck had not yet grown enough to allow him to see more than the grim visage of the crucifier and the furious red face of the priest.

He had a mind to hoist his brother onto his shoulders, so that he might be able to relay what it was that they were mounting. With a casual brush of one hand, the boy knocked his hat away from his head, so that it rested comfortably against his shoulders, kept in place by a thin thread. He dipped to his knees and waited while his brother slid onto place, then rose once more. The priest had continued spitting venom, but Buck had not been listening. He strained to look upwards, catching occasional glimpses of the shining trinket.

“What is it, Bay? What do you see?”

BANG went the first nail.

Bay was silent. He had never seen anything like it before. It made his stomach turn. For that matter, it felt like it was making his whole body turn. While it repulsed him, he also found himself unable to look away from it. Very slowly, Buck became aware that amidst the smell of sweat and stray, there was a hint of something else that made Bay tremble on his perch.

“Buck, I want to come down,” he whined.

“Tell me what you see, Bay.”

BANG went the second, the nail penetrating flesh and bone in one.

“Please, let me down.” There was a real urgency to his voice.

Just as there was anger in his brothers. “I want to know what he’s strung up.”

The younger boy had begun to sob quietly now, though he tried his hardest to hide it. He wiped one grubby hand across his grubby face, the tears leaving a smear of clear skin on his dusty face. He averted his eyes from it and tried to compose himself as best he could. Looking down into his brothers eyes he could see determination. Bay knew Buck well, and that look said he would not relent.

“It’s…”

BANG went the third, almost the last.

He choked on his words. “It’s a…”

In small town Ben’ma, there wasn’t much to occupy a boys idle mind. The children of the town were raised to follow in the footsteps of their parents, to work the farms that they their families had owned for centuries. This work kept them busy for the majority of the day, but there were hours when the youngsters were left to their own devices. It was in these times that Buck had come to dream of things that he didn’t like to speak of.

All of the women of Ben’ma reminded Buck of his mother. From an early age, girls were taught to sow, cook and care for children. As soon as they were old enough, they were married, usually to a man twice their age. The life of a daughter of Ben’ma was one of slavery, and it weighed heavy upon them. There was little time for childhood, and no freedom. Buck knew that one day his father would expect him to take a bride for his own, but he knew that the woman he loved would never exist anywhere but in his dreams.

That’s to say, he knew this until he looked at what was hung upon the cross before him. There, mounted on the solid wood, was the naked body of a woman. A mixture of revulsion and attraction set upon Buck. For all she looked grotesque as she was, he imagined that she had been quite beautiful in life. He wondered why it was that the preacher believed this frail looking thing could have been responsible for the killings.

Now stood on the platform, Buck took a few careful steps forwards. He purposefully averted his eyes from the ghastly sight of her delicate hands stained red. Her whole body looked gaunt, but for some reason he thought she might have been pale regardless. As he moved closer, he became aware of a plethora of little scars all across her skin, some fresh and others that looked as though they had been made years ago. There were a few larger blemishes too. One that stretched right across her stomach, and another just above her left breast. Buck could only imagine the stories behind each wound.

It was then that he noticed the very slight rising and falling of her chest – she was still breathing. Relief washed over him. The woman’s head was drooped low, and for a second Buck thought that she might be asleep, before he dismissed the preposterous thought. It looked as though mud had matted her hair, though Buck couldn’t be quite sure if it was just dirt or in fact blood. Again, he edged closer.

“Ma’am?” His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and little above silence. Buck wondered if she had heard, and spoke again. This time, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing paused, if only for a second. The boy noted this as a sign of recognition, and slowly lowered himself to a crouch, so that he could look up into her face (he dared not lift her head himself, for fear that it would fall off).

Looking up into her face, he saw her eyes were half-open. She watched him with a glassy, vacant stare. The boy had expected to see pain painted all over her expression, but instead there was nothing. She was entirely void of emotion, exhausted. Her cheeks were swollen and her lips looked so dry that they might crack, yet in spite of this, Buck thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. “Ma’am, do you hear me?” he asked again, his voice louder now.

crack- Buck flinched, startled, and fell forward onto his knees. He fumbled for the weapon on his back, while looking around behind him for any sign of what had made the noise. There was no movement in the darkness, but he found himself frozen. His eyes darted back and forth, willing whatever was lurking out there in the darkness to show itself. His chest heaved with quick, short breaths. If he was to be seen here, now, he would surely be punished in a manner that surpassed anything his young mind could conjure up.

“[SIZE=1]…help…[/SIZE]”

He whirled on his heels, levelling the barrel of the boomstick with the woman’s thin hips. His grip, which had previously been so tight that his knuckles had turned white, slackened. Had she spoken? As he began to calm himself, sure that he and his motionless friend were alone, he lowered the gun once more. Surprisingly, he did not jump when the woman gave a dry, pained cough. Instead, he moved gingerly closer, feeling as though he should touch her in some way, as if that would make it all better.

“Can you hear me?”

Her head bobbed. Buck was sure this wasn’t simply a lapse of consciousness on her part.

“My- my name is Buck Harkon, ma’am.”

The people of Ben’ma spoke in a thick accent, and Buck wondered if this woman could understand his words. He knew she wasn’t a local, because of the familiarity everyone from these parts had with one another. The world was a vast, strange place to the small people of his town, so for all he knew this woman couldn’t even speak his language, let alone understand his thick country drawl.

“Can you speak ma’am?”

Wide eager eyes watched for any sign of an answer. None came. Again he questioned her, this time with a louder voice, while taking the time to enunciate each word. The martyr gave a heavy sigh and, to Bucks surprise, began to slowly lift her head. Still frozen in his spot, he waited, waited, as she looked upwards ever so slowly. It was a painfully long process and when her bleary gaze finally settled upon him, Buck saw blunt anger radiating from those blue-green eyes. Her head trembled, as she struggled to keep it aloft. Gradually parting, her lips were ‘wetted’ by an equally dry tongue.

There was something feral about the way she looked at him, that made Buck wonder if coming here had been such a good idea. After all, this woman was a killer, wasn’t she? Perhaps that was where she had acquired all of those markings. Buck had images of her wrestling a man to a ground and him blindly thrusting some weapon at her, but doing little more than scratching away skin. For all she bled, the woman thrashed, flailed and fought on until her target lay motionless on the floor. A little cold shudder worked up Bucks spine, as he thought of the maddening glare in her eyes, as she stood over the limp body.

“[SIZE=1]…you…[/SIZE]”

Again, she had spoken, but it was in a voice so small that even in the dead of night he could pick out only a single word. He swallowed his fear and nodded emphatically. “Yes, ma’am? What is it?”

A long silence held. The pair kept their eyes locked. The woman, with her cold ocean-hue stare, seemed to be gathering the energy to speak. Her mouth was so dry, Buck wagered, that it would be difficult to talk. On any other given day he would have carried a skin full of water, but had thought it better to leave it on its peg at home during his nights excursion. Now, he regretted it.

“[SIZE=1]…down …[/SIZE]”

And that was when realization hit Buck Harkon like a tonne of bricks.

When daylight came, the voices woke him. A few hours sleep was not nearly enough, but it was better than nothing. Buck rubbed his tired eyes, shielding them from the light that spilled through is bedroom window. His younger brother stood at the sill, peering down into the street. As he sat up in bed, he realized he was still wearing the clothes he had snuck out in the night prior, and so quickly pulled his sheet up to his neck. Bay was almost leaning out of the window, which he had swung open so that the sound of the voices was clear.

“Where has the devil woman gone?” one man shouted. A chorus of others followed him.

“She has been taken from us.”

This voice Buck recognized as that of Areus Fink, or Father Fink as he liked to be called. Fink had been the town preacher for over twenty years now. His time in the clergy had been to his detriment, Buck’s father would say. He recalled a time when Areus Fink was a fresh-faced young man, recently arrived from outer provinces. All he had with him was the clothes on his back and a will to help. Those times had long since gone, however. Over the years, his sway over the town had corrupted him, and now he was anything but the jovial man he had once been. He looked at the world through beady, accusing eyes that saw fault in everything.

“Did any of you hear or see anything this past eve?”

A murmur went through the people. Buck had risen from his bed now and joined Bay. It seemed the consensus that no one had heard anything out of the ordinary, let alone the sound of some turncoat ripping the killer from her moorings. One or two people attested to the fact that the wind seemed to be making peculiar noise, or that they had strange dreams of a faceless menace, but none made mention of a boy in the night.

“Think you that other minions of evil have taken her from us, Father Fink?”

“This town is a holy place,” another voice interjected. “Imps and hellions cannot walk on its blessed ground.”

“Good Hershman speaks true,” the preacher replied.

“No, it seems that some other, mysterious force has taken the devil woman from us.”

The crowd sounded disgruntled. Though Buck could not pick out their exact words, he saw a good few people turning to one another and exchanging muttered words. While some may have believed Fink’s tripe, others would not so ready to accept that the killer had simply vanished. After all, she had robbed them of their livestock and put their livelihood in jeopardy. They wanted to see her hang on that cross until the flesh had begun to crack and peel away from her bones.

“Get yourselves home and let this be a lesson to you all.”

Buck noted some perplexed faces at this point. He too wondered exactly what lesson the people of Ben’ma were supposed to glean from the miraculous disappearance of a crucified woman, but doubted that any would contest the statement. The people slunk home and Buck did not move from the window until he heard the front door slam. Both he and Bay buried themselves beneath their sheets as the sound of their fathers footsteps thumped up the stairs.

Buck’s mind suddenly began to race. Had he, in the process of removing the woman from the cross, gotten blood on his clothing? For that matter, had he left any marks as a sign of his actions? He had been careful not to disturb anyone, but the thought that he might drop something or leave a trail of dusty footprints in the sand had escaped him at the time. Now, it was on him like the cold sweat on his brow.

“Boys…” Burt Harkon was a tall, broad shouldered man with a square jaw and a squint in one eye. For the majority of his life, he had been a farmer but not more than five years ago, promotion came, to the position of town sheriff. Ever since then, he had worn his badge with pride. As Buck rolled over to look up into his fathers face, the light caught against the little golden trinket and the boy felt a deep sickness in the pit of his stomach. Harkon senior slipped his thumbs into the front of his britches and eyed his two sons with a look of nothing in particular, something which infuriated Buck to no end.

“Boys, did either you hear anything last night?”

Bay was silent. He looked at his brother with eyes full of guilt. “No, Pa.”

“No, Pa,” Buck repeated, as his father came to crouch by his bed. He lifted one work-worn hand to his son’s brow and frowned. There was a look of concern in his eyes, and he inquired as to whether or not Buck was feeling under the weather. Buck nodded and sighed, shrinking back beneath his bed sheets. He could not look at his father any longer, let alone speak to him. He feared that his voice would crack and break.

“Alright then, boy. Your ma will bring you some soup and you can rest a while. We’ll see how ya are in the morning.”

This said, Burt Harkon stepped out. The pair lay in silence. The sound of the sheriff’s footsteps moving along the hallway, then down the stairs and into the kitchen, finally ceased. Bay turned onto his side and watched as Buck stared into the ceiling. He had nothing but trust and respect for his older brother. Buck had defended Bay so many times, even at the expense of his own reputation. Usually, Bay would have trusted Buck’s judgment on anything, but on this particular day he found himself doubting.

“Did you do it?”

There was no reply, yet Bay saw his brother blink.

“Buck? Did you?”

Buck rolled over, so that his back was turned. That was as good as any yes answer in itself. Bay sighed and left the room. For the remainder of the day, Buck lay and listened to the conversations of his family. At first, they were preoccupied heavily with the mystery of the missing martyr, but in time the topic moved on. When night finally drew in, and Bay returned to the bedroom, Buck had not moved, although his eyes had closed and he had begun to snore gently. Soon, Bay joined him, and within a matter of minutes, Buck was silent. He clambered out of bed, reeking of sweat and worry, and let his feet carry him to the graveyard.

Interlude: Detours

The flames flickered. From afar, the ashes cast into the win burned brightly in the darkness, riding on the breeze before settling down into the sand. In the darkness, a lone figure sat, trembling ever so slightly. Hot embers danced in her marine eyes and against her fair skin. The woman kindled the ring of fire with a sigh. It rose up to meet her hands as she warmed them against its heat, and curled lovingly around the strip of meat she held above it. While she was not particularly partial to bantha meat, there was nothing else available to her.

A week ago the meager rations she had some how managed to gather in the desert wasteland hand run dry. She had hoped that by reigning in a beast of burden to carry her, she would find civilization sooner, but there had yet to be any sign of intelligent life, save for the sand people that she had taken the bantha from. As a result, she had been forced to divide her food with the animal. Not long after this, she became aware of the painful truth – that within a matter of days all food would be gone.

Reaching the valley crossing had been the last straw. A monstrous detour would have been necessary to allow the bantha to navigate the shift in terrain, and the woman was simply not prepared to prolong her journey any longer. That night, she had taken a knife to the creature’s throat while it slept. What was left of it now was barely recognizable. It’s fur had been removed, to form a crude cloak, and its bones had been freed of any meat that might be edible. Her hands and clothing were stained heavily with its blood, and she stunk of it – but she was no longer hungry, and that was the most important thing.

Now that he strength had returned, she hoped she would be able to make good progress once more. What was worrying, however, what that although she now had the stamina to run, she had no idea where to run to. This unfortunate fact was something that had hampered her entire journey this far. She had not chosen to come to Tatooine, and would not choose to return again. It was a vast and featureless planet.

In any other situation, she would have relied on her footprints to give her warning if she was doubling back on herself, but the shifting sands covered even this. She would not give in to hopelessness. The woman had struggled through situations far more difficult than this, and she would continue to struggle until there was no breath left in her body. She would struggle until she was off this backwater planet, until she could find her way to the people who left her here, and then…

Her eyes moved down to her belt and she smiled.

… and then, she would have her revenge.

Somewhere in the echoes of the past year, two beings argued.

The first slapped the second, with one stubby cloven hand and rolled its large, sticky eyes.

“You disappoint me, slave girl.”

A Church is a circular place. Not in shape, but in nature. Life began and ended there, starting with baptism, through to marriage and finally a funeral. For hundreds of years men and women had been born, raised and died under the pious gaze of the stained glass window that adorned the rear wall of the main hall. Like much of Ben’ma, time hadn’t been kind to the mural. In places the glass had become discolored, or worse smashed. Of course, in the middle of the desert there’s plenty of raw material for glass, but for some reason the repairs had never been made. Funds had been raised, though Buck suspected they had gone right into the pockets of the Preachers, frittered away on whiskey and sin.

At either side of the walkway there were row upon row of pews. Moth-bitten cushions were tucked underneath the seats. They were stuffed with straw and Buck had often thought he would have been more comfortable kneeling on the hard stone floor than those prickly bricks. Usually there would have been hymn books lining the seats. Of an evening, they were locked away in a large cabinet at the back of the hall. The only volume visible now was a large ceremonial book, laid open on the podium which the preacher stood at. It had a gold cloth bookmark laid in at one page. Buck paid it and its words no mind, just as he’d always done. It was the trinket ahead that caught his eye. Amongst all the ritual goblets, robes, scripts and such like was a most unlikely thing indeed.

Though old grandpa Harkon had been a firm supporter of the use of firepower to solve problems, Buck’s father had never been such an advocate. When his grandfather had given Buck the old boomstick that was currently slung around his body, both his parents had protested ardently. Such things were the tools of the old world, they had argued. Surely civilization had come further than such crude means. Truthfully, if the boomstick was the tool of the old world, then what Buck now held was the tool of the new world. Even in the dim light, they shone...