The Foreigner

The foreigner arrived near the town of Andun on foot, an odd circumstance since anyone of substance had an aero-mobile. Red set his book aside and watched him walking far in the distance along the flat straight road across the desert, but he couldn’t make out details.

          Red punched his pal Buddy gently on the arm. “Hey, wake up!”

          Buddy jumped. “What! What?”

          “Look. Out there! Someone’s walkin’.”

          “Who? Where? Nowhere to walk to ‘round here.”

          “True, Buddy. Who walks?”

          “Dunno. Nobody.”

          They stared down the road, squinting to see the distant figure approaching in the bright sunlight. From their perch on a large log bench under a gnarly oak with just enough leafy branches to pass for a shade tree, they watched as if it were some fascinating athletic contest. 

          Buddy broke the silence. “He’s a little guy. Got a big stick. Shoot him with my stinker—easy. Got it right here in my ass pocket.”

          “Ease up, Buddy. We’re bigger’n him. Get him without the stinker.”

          It wasn’t unusual for Buddy and Red, pals since childhood, to take their lunch hour under this oak and not unusual for lunch hour to become lunch afternoon. They’d worked together at the castle farm up the hill since their early teens doing manual labor jobs—digging ditches and new gardens, cleaning out stables, spreading manure, slopping pigs, butchering animals for the markets. They’d been at the farm for so long that they didn’t even notice the stench of blood and manure that clung to them. The work was hard and nasty, but they were able to find ways to avoid working too hard, and they tolerated the nasty parts. They’d been sent here to do farm work at age thirteen by authorities who said they were ‘unruly and inattentive’ in school, but Red, as he matured and developed an interest in reading anything he found in the town’s library, believed it was a ruse to add to the work force. Having only seven years of formal education, they had been targeted and groomed to be laborers with no hope of advancement—a trademark of this community—and this had taught them to temper their expectations and pursue a minimally productive work ethic. Long lunches provided an escape from the monotony—an antidote for their boredom and discontent.

          “Hey, Red. Got ‘nother beer over there?”

          “What? You still got half your beer. Drink that.”

          “It’s hot.”

          “Nothin’ wrong with warm beer. Think we’re made of money? In some places they like it that way.”

          Buddy sulked in silence for a minute while watching the slow progress of the foreigner on the road in front of them. Now they could see some details.

          “Hey, Red! Look at that great big winter coat on that guy. Crazy in this heat. Least this is something different. Not good as a caper though. When we got ‘nother caper, Red? Need a little buzz, ya’ know?”

          Red was a little exasperated now, having explained this to Buddy at least three times. “I told you. Last one was a close call. We barely dodged Sheriff Bonner’s bullet. We gotta lay low for a while. D’you want to get caught?”

          “No. Maybe we need stuff though?”

          “We’re good. We got ‘nough cash for two months.”

          Red understood Buddy’s desire to have some excitement. He could use some himself. In this town there was nothing but work and lunch. Reading about distant places and historical events was his only relief from their repetitive daily activities of work, lunch, more work in the miserable fields and stables, low pay, if any, and the awful hopelessness. Buddy never read and, in Red’s mind, probably never gave life any serious thought as long as the boredom could be broken now and then and he had plenty to eat and drink—beer and ice cream, his favorites.

          Buddy jarred Red back to the present. “Wait! What’s wrong with his hair?”

          Red punched him in the arm again. “Shush. He can hear you now.”

          Whispering, “He’s got funny hair. Real black. Or is it green? Balls! Balls on his hair!”

          “Shhh! Cool it!”

          The foreigner gave his head a slight shake on purpose, causing the balls and his hair to shimmer in the sunlight. The long raven strands brushed over his face and shoulders. He could see, hear, and understand the two figures on the bench now and observed that they were having an extended lunch and a party under the oak—obvious from the volume of food containers and beer bottles strewn on the ground around their bench. He wondered how tall they were but he could tell something about their overall size by their massive bellies. He knew which of the two was Red from a photograph he’d seen the day before. He was at least six feet and built like a wall—broad shoulders and barrel-chest with a generous head of carrot colored hair that had given him his name and with rosy cheeks to match. The other one, Buddy, was not as tall but broad-shouldered and tough-looking. He also knew their reputation around town for being nothing more than stupid laborers and less than honest. It was known that Red and Buddy were responsible for house break-ins and thefts over the past ten years, but the amount stolen was always so small that the ‘victims’ often didn’t report it. No need to get closer for the foreigner to know that he was about to meet his mark.

          The foreigner addressed the two from several yards away to avoid the unpleasant smell of beer and salami mixed with the more unpleasant scent lingering from their morning’s work cleaning out the pig sty.

          “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

          Red and Buddy looked at each other as if puzzled, Buddy mouthing the word ‘gentlemen.’

          Speaking louder, “Gentlemen? Can I assume you are residents of the town here?”

          They still didn’t respond, but they were looking in his direction as if stunned. No one had come along this road and spoken to them in more than twenty years.

          Red answered, “Yeah.”

          “Very good, indeed. Then you know the area, I suppose. Can you tell me how far it is into the town?”

          “Yeah.” Red’s sarcastic response didn’t seem to affect the foreigner, who after a significant period of silence, ventured another question, “Then . . .  how far is it into the town?”

          “About five minutes by aero. Don’t know about walkin’. Nobody walks around here.”

          “Very helpful. Thank you, gentlemen.”

          Red and Buddy glanced at each other mouthing the word ‘gentlemen’ again.

          “You gentlemen appear to be having a fine meal this afternoon. Is this your usual lunch place?”

          Red, the leader of the two, answered, “Yeah, you could say so.”

          “You must work at the castle up there?” The foreigner pointed to the immense stone building at the top of the hill behind Red and Buddy. “Are you, by any chance, zoology experts?”

          “Nope. We slop pigs and clean shit out of those horse stalls up there. Not much to it,” Red responded.

          “I see. I’ll be looking for lunch myself. Can you . . . mmm. Where did you get the food for your magnificent feast here?”

          “Down the road a piece at the road stop place. Can’t miss—”

          Buddy, impatient with this conversation, interrupted, “Hey, mister. What’s with that funny hair you got?”

          Red gave him a harder hit on the arm, now trying to appear polite to the stranger. “Hush, Buddy. Can’t you see this guy’s just lookin’ for information?”

          Eyeing the foreigner with contempt, “I don’t like his looks, Red. Don’t like ‘em at all. What kinda guy are you, anyway? Weird lookin’ balled hair. Funny clothes. Where’d you come from? What’re you doin’ here?”

          Smoothing things over, Red continued, “We sure do need to know who it is we’re talkin’ to. What’s your business here?”

          “You are correct, Mister . . .? Your name, sir?”

          “What’s it to you?” Buddy jumped in.

          Red decided to cool the conversation. “I’m Red and this here’s Buddy. And you are?”

          Avoiding the question of identity, the foreigner pivoted to a different subject. “Ah, yes. I’ve been sent by the mayor of the town of Astrin on the other side of the mountain back there to investigate the cultural amenities of your town. We’re in the market for some art works, sculpture, and perhaps religious objects for our new museum. Is there, by any chance, a museum in town?”

          Buddy whispered. “What’s amenity?”

          He got no reply because this was Red’s specialty—something he liked to show off about. “No museum. Got a historical society and big library.”

          “How about a grand church—with artifacts?”

          Red addressed this question with enthusiasm. “We got a Cathedral. Big one, too. Buddy and me—we go every Sunday. Big procession. Incense. The works. Those bells ring out hymn tunes on Sunday, and we got a big organ. Real music.”

          “Does the cathedral have paintings and sculpture? Or maybe a gold or silver chalice on the altar?”

          Buddy was pleased with himself that he knew the answer to this one. “Sure! Pure gold. Real beauty!”

          “And . . . is the altar accessible? Can you just walk into the cathedral and go up to the altar . . . to say a prayer? And get a better look at that chalice?”

          Red and Buddy gave each other a curious look, as if they’d considered this question on many occasions. Red responded thoughtfully, “You . . . wouldn’t want to do that.”

          “Why is that, Red?”

          “Well, there’s always a lot of people around and besides—God would see you walkin’ up there. Why do that, anyway?”

          “A simple question. I’ll need to get a good look at the cultural objects in your town to see if our town would want something like it. Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been quite helpful.” The foreigner turned suddenly and left, walking quickly down the road toward the town. 

          Red was dumbstruck and Buddy completely bewildered. Why would a weird stranger walk up during their lunch break and ask about paintings and sculptures? It was strange enough to see someone on foot, but dressed like that with silly-looking balled hair—that was unimaginable.

          “Red? What do you make o’ that?”

          “Don’t know. Somethin’ strange about it.” He seemed deep in thought considering whether this could be an opportunity.

          “Ya’ think he’s gonna—”

          “Steal it? Maybe.”

          They sat in silence contemplating this unlikely possibility. Red thought Sheriff Bonner might be in on whatever was coming down. He’d tried to trap them once by sending a cute girl over to get them to talk about their petty thefts, but he didn’t think the sheriff would bother to come up with a character like this foolish-looking foreigner. Could this be a chance to show themselves as heroes instead of dopes and get the town’s attention to the life they were being forced to live?

          “Buddy, if he’s planning to steal that communion cup .  .  . He can’t do that. That belongs to the church .  .  . the town.”

          “Couldn’t trust him. Trust a guy with balled hair? Funny talk? Nope. Don’t trust him. Not a bit.”

          “Right. That’s a bad guy!”

          “What do we do about it, Red? We gotta figure it out.”

          “Yeah. We gotta protect that chalice. He’s walkin’ and we got the aero. We don’t need to use the road. We’ll take the back way.”

          “You got it. Let’s get goin’.” They picked up the cooler with the remainder of the beer leaving the clutter from their lunch on the ground with the clutter of past lunches, and they lumbered up the hill toward the castle building where the aero-mobile was parked.

          They’d gotten the aero from the dump about a decade ago and by now it was old technology—an antique by any standard. Buddy, the mechanic of the two, had rehabilitated it and kept it in excellent running condition, although his skills weren’t challenged by maintaining an aero. A solar powered vehicle that hovers above the ground and doesn’t roll along pothole-marked roads shows little wear and tear.

          As Buddy engaged the starter, they heard the familiar and satisfying whir of the power system. The aero lifted—much like the two-hundred-year old Citroen automobile at the historical society. Hovering a few feet above the ground, Red aimed the aero around the back of the castle and across the pasture, dodging a couple of cows on the way. He pushed the accelerator to the limit and they arrived at the cathedral in less than five minutes, parking behind the building so the foreigner wouldn’t suspect anything when he arrived on foot. 

          They entered through the parish hall door, avoiding the cathedral close and front steps. The building was uncharacteristically empty—no visitors and no clergy. Red thought this was strange, but it was well past lunchtime when people would stop there to light a candle. Bathed in sunlight from the windows high above the transept, the gold chalice sat on the altar, the light seeming to come from within the cup. Red and Buddy had never seen it glow like that, and for a moment Red thought it could be a different cup substituted for the chalice they were used to seeing at early morning services.

          “Hey, Red. How about we stand inside the rail and have a standoff with that balled-hair guy?”

          “Think, Buddy. We don’t know about his weaponry under that big winter coat—or if he has super powers. For all we know, he could be a magician—a Merlin clone. Better plan is to hide the chalice until he’s gone.”

          They scanned the nave, and seeing no one, Buddy dashed up to the altar and grabbed the chalice. They ran down the altar steps and around to the left to hide in a small dark chapel off the transept. It was quiet and cool in there, and the only sound they could hear was their own excited breathing. Buddy tucked the chalice under his beer-soiled shirt and peeked out into the cavernous space outside the chapel.

          Buddy whispered, “Think we should get out of here?”

          At that moment they heard the click of the latch of the gigantic oak doors at the front entrance and the creak of hinges.

          “Shhh. Too late.”

          They could hear the tapping of footsteps approaching up the aisle. They recognized the foreigner’s accent, and then they heard the even more familiar voice of Sheriff Bonner talking to the deputies.

          “As we expected, the chalice has been removed. Officer Herbert, what do you hear from the deputies in back?”

          Referring to the voice in his earbud, “The aero is back there. They must still be in the cathedral.”

          “Check the chapels, the parish hall, and the choir room. Don’t forget to look behind the choir robes.”

          Officer Herbert and two other deputies left the otherwise quiet and empty cathedral nave to search. As they hauled Red and Buddy out of the chapel by the back of their collars, the chalice slipped out from under Buddy’s shirt and clattered to the floor.

          The sheriff gave out a hearty laugh. “At it again, Buddy? Officer Herbert, book ‘em and read ‘em their rights. Any weapons?”

          “Naw. Buddy had a sling shot in his back pocket, but nothing lethal.”

          “Hey, wait a minute, Sheriff.” Buddy protests. “We didn’t steal it. We protected it from that balled-hair foreigner trying to steal it. He was gonna steal it—not us.”

          “Tell that to the judge. We caught you red-handed this time.”

          A look of horror came over Buddy’s face as he was being handcuffed, “What’re ya’ doin’? What’re you gonna do to us?”

          “Jail, Buddy. You’re finally going to jail.”

          As they began the long walk toward the front doors of the cathedral, Officer Herbert received another message. “Sheriff, Rick is out at the castle farm and says we need to charge ‘em with criminal littering.”

          “Ok. Tell him to make nice with the farm manager. He won’t like losin’ his farm hands. And don’t forget to return the chalice to the altar. We can get it if we need it as evidence. I don’t expect this to go to trial. Go ahead and close down this operation.”

          Red, Buddy, and two deputies continued slowly down the aisle between the rows of seats, passing through patches of sunlight filtering down through stained glass windows. This hadn’t turned out as Red had expected with the two celebrating their heroic actions in saving the chalice, but he saw it as possible relief from their purgatory. Although he couldn’t be sure, ‘felon’ sounded better than ‘grunt’ and, finally, someone—maybe a judge—was going to pay attention to them. Their lives couldn’t get any worse than they’d been for the past twenty years.

          Buddy glanced at Red who always seemed to have an answer. “Do you think they’ll make us slop their pigs now and shovel shit out of horse stalls in jail, Red?”

          “Doubt it.”

          “Jail might not be so bad, then?”

          “Could be.”

          “Think they have ice cream in jail?” Buddy never did well with changes, and Red could hear the fear and uncertainty in his voice.

          “Don’t worry, Buddy. Keep your head up. We’ll make it through. Like you said, Jail might not be so bad compared to the castle farm.”

          The massive oak doors bumped closed behind them leaving the sheriff and the foreigner standing in the transept of the cathedral. The foreigner had already shed the heavy winter coat to reveal an attractive pastel summer pantsuit.

          “Sheriff, could one of your agents give me an aero lift home? I’m beat.”

          The foreigner’s metamorphosis was no surprise to Sheriff Bonner, who had planned the ruse to end the irritating thefts that had plagued his office for so many years.

          “Nice work, Barbara. We finally caught those two no-good, small-time criminals in the act. They’ve always managed to dash off in their aero before we could catch ’em. Thanks to you, we got ‘em in custody now.”

          The foreigner reached up to her forehead, grasped the balled black wig. As she slowly removed it, long tresses of honey blond hair cascaded in slow motion over her shoulders.

          “That’s my job, sheriff.” She flashed an enigmatic smile. “All in a day’s work.”