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…”

The fervour of the day had worn the towns people out. Lights flickered in a few windows, but most were still and silent. All lay sleeping soundly in there beds, safe in the knowledge that the thing that had been culling their people was now dead – or at least dying. All, that is, aside from the brothers Harkon. It was the sound of Buck’s belt buckle clinking against the side of his bed that woke Bay. He was drowsy and couldn’t quite see his brother clearly in the darkness, but knew that he was standing up.

“Where are you going?”

The boy rubbed his eyes. They were still sore. After the crucifixion, the men and boys of the Harkon family had returned home to a hearty meal prepared by good Mrs Harkon. Bay, however, would not eat. He sulked into his mothers arms and remained there until forced to sleep – something he was reluctant to do for fear of having nightmares, his mother explained to his father, vexed by the whole affair. Up until he was awoken by his brother, the boy had slept soundly, but his fear returned him within an instant of looking up at the barely visible shape of his brothers face.

“The yard,” Buck replied, as he knelt by his bed and retrieved the boomstick he hid there, strapping it over his shoulder.

“Why?!” Bay jumped, startled by the sound of his own voice.

“I want to see it for myself.”

And with that Buck Harkon headed out into the night. In his fifteen years living in the family home, he had come to learn its ins and outs like the back of his hand. Every creaky floorboard, every clattering pipe was burned into his mind. He moved nimbly along the hallways, scooping up the front door key before edging out into the cool evening air. A quick glance left, then another right, and he was on the move. Bay watched from his bedroom window, the bed coverings gathered up to his chin, as he trembled terribly.

Buck followed the well-worn path to the yard without really having to look where he was going. There had been a time, when he was younger, when the parish had been (inconceivably) more zealous than they were now and in that time he had walked this way, guided by his father’s steady hand, on a worryingly regular basis. While there were not many killings, there were plenty of instances of public shaming. His own father had been stoned at the hands of the community, and yet now was looked upon them like a brother. They forgive and forgot quickly when another scapegoat arrived.

As he moved through the silent town, his curiosity grew and grew and his heart began to thump so loudly in his chest that he feared it might betray him. Still, no one but young Bay Harkon saw him as he slipped past the church and towards the silhouette of the yard. Though he could not clearly see what was ahead, he could certainly smell it.

Without the smell of sweat to mask it, the potent stench of shit filled the air. Older boys had told him stories of how, when crucified, a humans body would become limp and thus simply dump all of its waste in one putrid pile. Thankfully, this body had not yet passed from the land of the living, but Buck could not stave off the gruesome thought. There was a handkerchief in his breast pocket, which he held over his mouth as he came closer. It was almost within reach now, less than a minute away. Adrenaline surged through his young limbs as he picked up his pace to a run, regardless of the thud his boots made against the sandstone.

Ahead, he could see the ladder used by the preacher and executioner was still propped against the platform. It would allow him to climb up and get a closer look – this would be necessary, as he carried no light and, even if he did, would not have used it. As he came but ten foot short of the platform, he stopped to look over his shoulder. The coast was clear and so, removing the cloth from his face, he placed his hands onto the ladders rungs. For all the ladder was not large, it seemed like it took an eternity to climb, as he paused at virtually every step to ensure that it was not about to fall or creak under his weight.

And then he saw it.

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.

“…help…”

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.

“…you…”

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.

“…down …”

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

Four hours later, the boy was at its nerves end.

Since he had arrived at the site of the crucifixion of the nameless woman, he had been on edge. For a time, the adrenalin had fuelled him, kept his senses keen, but now he had passed into a state of exhaustion. His movements were sluggish and his awareness of his surroundings poor. What Buck really needed was a good nights rest, but somehow he didn’t imagine he would get more than a wink of sleep that night.

As he carried yet another box from his home out into the streets of Ben’ma, he wondered what would happen if someone was to wake and see him shuttling back and forth to the graveyard. The people of the town were a suspicious lot and, had he been a girl, Buck would have been marked as a witch for sneaking around the resting place of the dead at night. Luck seemed to be with him tonight, however, as he had yet to hear a peep out of any of the towns residents on his numerous journeys back and forth.

The town graveyard was a pitiful thing. Directly behind the church, it was comprised of row upon row of twig crosses and a single mausoleum. The towns rulers were laid in stone tombs of intricate designs, with glorious eulogies carved into their head stones. The common people, however, were bury in nameless graves. In death, the preacher said, we are all equal. As he approached the crypt, Buck wondered if some people were more equal than others.

The wrought iron gate on the front of the burial chamber groaned as the boy pulled it closed behind him. He didn’t worry about that, though. If someone was going to hear him, they would have done so by now. With great effort, he gathered up the pale of water in his hands again and waddled towards one of the many stone slabs the room contained. This one in particular was quite different to the others, however, as it had a scantily clad woman laying on top of it.

In years to come, Buck would look back on this whole evening as quite the adventure. Perhaps as an old man, graying with age, he would regale young boys with his tall tale – and believe me, he would say, it’s as tall as they come. He would tell them of how he had come across the untamable woman, nailed to a cross, and how she had asked for his help; how he, the merciful, had taken his fathers hammer to her moorings and torn them free, then wrapped over her wounds in gauze borrowed-not-stolen from the towns primitive infirmary. Finally, he would wax lyrical on his many trips between the mausoleum and his home, as he retrieved food and water for his lady in waiting, who lay curled beneath his bantha fur-lined jacket.

“Here, have a drink.” Buck dipped a glass of cool water and the woman drunk it as though it was the last on the planet. She looked at him again with those hungry eyes, so he filled the glass once more. In the past hours, he had watched as a significant change had come over his contraband. She had lulled in and out of sleep numerous times, but was always awoken, presumably by the pain.

For all Buck had tried to apply proper medical aid, he was no doctor. He still wasn’t even sure if this woman was human. In his absence she had administered herself some treatment as best she could, but with her hands in their current state, she wasn’t apt to get much done. She seemed content for the time being, though, while drinking the bucket of water dry.

Bucks suspicions, pertaining to her appearance, were confirmed now that she was cleaned up. There was a tomboyish beauty about her. There were flecks of freckles across the bridge of her nose that made her look younger than he imagined she was. If he had to guess, he would have said she was three, perhaps four, years his elder, but there was something in her eyes that suggested an age beyond that. There was something about those sea shade eyes that was mesmerizing. She had reddish hair, too. That was something Buck had never seen. He found himself staring at her in a way not unlike the way one would gawk at an animal in a zoo.

“Do you have anymore food?” she asked. Since he brought her to the mausoleum, Buck had only heard her speak a handful of times, and that was always to ask for more water, or that he hand her something. Even these small utterances fascinated him. She spoke in a voice his was entirely contrary to his own, each word articulated perfectly, in a way that Buck thought the great thinkers of the wide-galaxy might have spoken. In truth, her grasp of Basic was not perfect, but it was light-years ahead of young Harkon’s and, frankly, even if she had spoken with a heavy speech impediment he would have still fawned over her.

He looked down into the satchel of bread and cold meat he’d brought with him, and saw there was only a single pouch left. It wasn’t the best, but it would do, and the woman devoured it without pause. When she was done, she eased herself back down against the cold stone beneath her. Buck slumped against one of the chamber walls. It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open now, as they grew heavier and heavier, but he would not allow himself to fall asleep. If he did not return home before morning, there would be trouble – especially when the townspeople saw that their bloody martyr had gone missing.

For a long while, neither Buck nor the woman moved, and nothing was said, until her voice broke the silence once more, drawing a lazy smile onto the boys lips. “Thank you, Buck Harkon.”

And with that said, her eyes closed one more time, and would not open for many hours to come. The boy, too, felt sleep creeping upon him, and so carefully stowed the various items he’d brought with him behind the grave that the woman slept on. He was reluctant to leave her, but somehow knew that she would be safe – that is, unless one of the nobility dropped dead over night. Buck smiled something sadistic at this thought, before he crept back out into the dying night.

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.

The bundle hit the floor with a soft thud. Buck worked quick fingers over the fastenings, pulling loose the knots that held the roll of clothing together. The woman watched him as he laid out the various items on the floor. When he was done, the boy rose to his feet and turned away. It was true that he had already seen the woman naked, but it was not right to watch a woman while she dressed. In the quiet, he heard her set her feet down on the cold stone floor then stumble slightly, griping at the slab behind her to maintain her balance.

Behind him, she crumpled to her knees, still unable to walk without a great pain in her ankles. Not more than an hour ago, she had redressed her wounds. The bandages that had previously adorned her hands were soaked red, but those she now wore had only a faint hint of blood about them. As she knelt over her new clothing, taken from the boys own wardrobe, she flexed her fingers. They ached at the slightest movement and a jolt of pain shot up through her forearms as she tried to lift the cotton shirt in front of her.

“Please…”

Buck stiffened. His head began to turn, slowly, as though he expected her to withdraw her request. Finally, he stood facing her, as she knelt helpless. Looks were deceiving, the boy thought. Her body may have looked frail and helpless, but that look in her eyes held. The determination radiating from her body was tangible. She would not have asked for his help had she not desperately needed it, and now was this woman’s time of desperation.

The boy knelt silently beside her. Nothing needed to be said. With trembling hands, he pulled on the shirt, his eyes firmly locked on the ground as he fastened each button with laborious care. Next came the drawers, also his own. It was here that he shook the most, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of scarlet. If he had not been so preoccupied with staring at the floor, he would have seen the woman’s faint smile as he sighed with relief at having finally dressed her, right down to the hole-ridden socks on her feet.

As he stood, he admired his handiwork with the briefest of glances, and thought how odd it was to see a woman in his clothing. She may have been older, but she was a good deal smaller and everything hung loose in a rather unflattering fashion. That is aside from the chaps, of course, which were anything but uncomplimentary. Looking on this feminine vision of himself, he wondered what the woman would have chosen to worn, had she a tailor at her disposal. A little voice in the back of his mind suggested that she might have chosen that outfit regardless, and Buck was inclined to agree.

“I hope this is alright,” he said, in a small voice.

“You’ve been too kind, Buck. I only wish there was some way I could repay you.”

She shifted her limbs so that she was comfortable, and watched the boy indolently.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, the woman replied, “Vega.”

They were on first name terms now, Buck thought. All this while, he had thought of her simply as the woman or the martyr and occasionally the killer. It made their relationship (whatever that was) seem very impersonal. Knowing her name, he thought, was a big step. There was something marvelous about that name, too – Vega. It sounded foreign, yet had strength to it. Silently, he wondered what other names she might have, but decided against asking. There were things at hand that were far more important.

“When do you think you’ll be fit to leave?”

“So you want me gone already.”

The boy began to protest, but the woman shook her head, continuing. “The sooner, the better. It is risky to linger here. Before I leave, however, I have some things I need to find. Do you know where they will have taken my clothing?”

The lack of anger in her still amazed him. The fact that she could speak of the terrible acts committed against her without any acrimony was astounding. “They burnt your clothes,” he explained. “The preacher said they were tainted by the devil. There were some things that wouldn’t burn though… he said the church would keep them so that they didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Vega gave a know nod. “Then you’ll let me keep these for now?” she asked, tugging on the sleeve of the heavy jacket she had just pulled on. It was warm now, but it would be cold before long. Buck nodded in reply to her question. In all honesty, he did not mind how long she kept them, whether it was ten days or ten years.

“Buck, I would like to ask a favor of you. You have already done more than enough for me, so if you feel you cannot or do not wish to accept this task, I will understand.”

A look of urgency came over the boy, as he blurted out his reply. “No, no. Tell me and I’ll do it.” Now there was something in his eyes, a hunger for approval and a genuine, sincere will to help those in need. It made the woman smile.

“Good. Now, this is what I want you to do…”

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.”

The people of Ben’ma were a trustworthy lot. In the town, everyone knew each other and in some way or another seemed to be related. This community spirit and goodwill created a sound foundation of respect, one that allowed worries of crime to all but slip from the minds of the townspeople. Doors were left unlocked, valuables in clear view- the people did not fear that something would be taken, because in the end they knew that given the small size of the town, it would surface again soon enough. It was thanks to this blind trust that Buck Harkon was able to complete the first step of his task for the martyr.

With his boomstick slung round his body, he moved silently into the towns church. A relatively modest building, it was one that he had visited many times as a child. If he remembered correctly, the building was laid out in such a way that rooms were only accessible in sequence. For example, to get to the main hall from the kitchen, it was necessary to pass through the vestry. This made the whole process of getting to his destination a little more dangerous, as he had to pass through potentially inhabited areas. So far, however, he had heard no noise or sign of life.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr- Buck jumped and twisted awkward to the left, where he saw a rolling pin teetering precariously towards the edge of the table. He caught it in his free hand, and froze in the guilty stance. For a minute, he stood without moving, listening for the telltale sound of advancing footsteps. Luckily, nothing and no one came.

As he moved through the kitchen, filled with smells of flour and days long gone by, one thought nagged at the back of his mind. From the moment he had originally discovered the woman, nailed to the cross, Buck had been gifted with a peculiar good luck. He was, by no means, a quiet boy and certainly did not practice creeping around at night all that often, so it was highly perplexing to him to think that even now he had not been caught. This thought alone brought a patch of gooseflesh up on his back. How long, he wondered, would it be before fate decided to stop indulging him and deal a dangerous hand.

The boy came to his first door. While he fished into his pocket for the crude map he had drawn, scrawled on parchment with charcoal, he pressed his ear to the grain of the wood. A little echo of his past surfaced in his mind, as he remembered playing with the church’s jovial old cook in the kitchen, scores of children skipping around her frilly frock as she dished out oat cookies and glasses of milk, to satisfy their wandering minds if only for a minute. The thought of that innocence made him smile. Back then, he had seen the church as something to revere and respect. Now, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Each time he thought of it, the image of the woman martyr crucified came into his minds eye.

His eyes shifted to the door, and he found to his surprise this his knuckles had gone white from griping the hardwood door handle. Buck hastily loosened the grip, looking around nervously, as though he thought his anger might be tangible or that he might have clasped the handle so hard that it creaked. Though adrenaline was keeping him on his toes for now, there was still a faint paranoia in the back of his mind. Every time he felt he was getting comfortable, or used to this midnight subterfuge, it would give him a little prod, just to remind him of the severity of what he was doing.

The process of moving through the various chambers was an arduous one. It became an automatic routine after the first few, however, allowing Buck to occupy his mind with other thoughts. He wondered, as he had often done in these past days, why he was helping the woman. His conscience would rear its head from time to time, to question his motivation behind conspiring with a killer. Just as quick, another voice would tell him that he was a good person for helping so selflessly. But was it selfless? Did he expect anything in return for the troubles he had gone to? No. No, he did not.

What should have been the last door Buck needed to move through clicked open before him. All the while, he had been in the church, he had been engulfed in shadow – until now. Ahead was a long narrow room. There was a central walkway, along the edges of which ran a row of arches. Beneath these arches were two smaller pathways. Torches lined the archway walls, spluttering as they spilled dull light across the stone floor. The boy felt another pang in his stomach, stronger than before. At the end of the central walkway, he could see something, faintly reflecting the brazier light…

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...

Interlude: The Tutors Gift

Even in the dim light, they shone. Those ocean eyes were filled with wonder and excitement. Knelt before the altar, the girl looked up into the shadowed face of her Master in silence reverence. All her senses seemed heightened, sharpened to perfection, so that she might appreciate every facet of this glorious moment. Even the smallest details, down to the earthy aroma of the wool cloak pulled around her body. Everything was important. The Tutor had instructed her to shun sentimentalism, and yet already she sensed that this day would be forever frozen in her mind, crystallized as a point of achievement and pride.

Pride was not discouraged. If anything, the Tutor had always taught her to take pride in her work. The very first lesson she had been taught had been spoken as such. None of us become who we are by chance. While destiny and fate may play equal parts in the creation of what we carelessly define as our identity, it is our own hands that shape, mould, bend and break. We are all a product of choices. Even if they are not our own, it is our action and reaction within these choices that defines us as an individual being. Take great care in all that you do, for it is your actions that will echo in time far beyond your words. They are the makers and the destroyers. The shapers of worlds.

It was these very actions that had brought the girl to where she was today. As she knelt before the Tutor, impassive and emotionless, she was reminded of the wise words he had spoken to her over time. He was a man of few words, but each spoken was imbued with all the knowledge of his years. Though the girl did not know his true age, she surmised it must have surpassed that of the average human lifespan. Upon arriving at the sanctuary as a young child she had glimpsed his face, and in the fifteen years she had been there it had changed not one jot. She, on the other hand, had grown substantially, and it was for this reason that she knelt before the Tutor.

“You know why you are here, child Vega.”

“Yes, Tutor. You have something for me.”

The Tutor, who though addressing the girl had been embroiled in the seemingly intricate task of inscribing something onto the tablet before him, paused. His posture shifted somewhat, and the girl recognized the reaction in him – either of surprise, or anger. Though she anticipated a swift reprimand, none came. The Tutor instead angled his hooded head towards her inquisitively

“And what do I have for you?” he asked, in his rasping voice.

The girl confessed, “I do not know, Tutor.”

“A lesson,” the old man replied.

All at once, the girls spirits sank. Lessons were not conducted as such. On the few occasions that she had been brought before the Tutor in the hall as such, it had been for the purposes of punishment or reward. As far as she could recall, she had acted in no way that would warrant punishment and could only guess that she had progressed far enough to earn one of the mysterious and elusive rewards that the Tutor promised would come of hard work.

“Give me your hand, child,” came the Tutor’s command.

Obedient, the girl offered an up-turned palm. No award would be dropped into her hand, however. Instead, the Tutor seized her wrist in his firm grip. With a strength beguiled by his old age, he wretched the girl forwards. She flinched yet did not draw away, sensing a test. With his other hand, the Tutor drew up the scribes tool that he had used moments before. The top was hot to the touch, hot enough that it scored easily into metal, and far easier into flesh. In the blink of an eye, and with a flash of pain, he had carved a marking into the back of the girls hand. Searing red-hot and bubbling with blood, her hand trembled.

The Tutor’s grip slackened and he allowed the girls hand to fall away. Without another word, he turned from her. For the time being, however, she paid no mind to him. Her thoughts were consumed completely by the pain she felt, and by the need to fight away the tears that stung at her eyes. Unfettered by the swell of emotion in his pupil, the Tutor turned away and retrieved one last item – a wooden box. He placed it in front of the girl and stepped away.

“It is done,” he spoke at last, and with these words departed. Though the door closed behind him, he listened silently at the frame as the girl began to sob freely. Tears streamed over her cheeks. Tears of joy.