Beneath Ceaseless Skies #119 Read online

  Issue #119 • Apr. 18, 2013

  “The Barber and the Count,” by Michael Haynes

  “The Mermaid Caper,” by Rich Larson

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THE BARBER AND THE COUNT

  by Michael Haynes

  The barber’s shop was closed for three days after the death of his elder daughter.

  On the morning of the fourth day, he took his younger daughter to the home of his aunt so she would not have to spend the day alone. Then he came to his shop and stretched out the awning to provide shade for patrons who preferred to wait outside. He entered and swept the floor, ridding it of the hairs left behind from his most recent customer, the one whose shave he had just completed when the news arrived. Then, as the tower bells tolled outside, he opened the door so any who wished their hair cut could enter.

  Georgy came first, as the barber had known he would. Georgy and the barber had been childhood friends, blood-brothers, and even though he lived several miles down the road now, no sword or magic would have kept him away on that morning.

  “I’m sorry,” was all Georgy said, the same as he had said at the funeral the day before.

  “There was nothing that you could have done.”

  Georgy grunted. He could not nod, for the barber was deep into his work.

  Later, as Georgy was standing and paying the barber, two soldiers strode into the shop. Behind them walked their master, Count Rozsa.

  At the sight of the men, Georgy flinched, fumbling the coins he was handing the barber. Neither bent to pick up the dropped silver.

  “Good morning, Count Rozsa,” the barber said.

  The count unfastened his vest and handed it to one of his men. He went then and sat himself in the barber’s chair.

  “A haircut,” Count Rozsa said.

  Georgy coughed, and all eyes—but the barber’s—turned towards him. He coughed again quickly and excused himself from the shop.

  The barber picked up his scissors and a comb but did not begin to cut the count’s hair. “Your Highness has long patronized Filip, has he not?”

  The count inclined his head. “Yes.”

  “To what does this simple barber owe your patronage?”

  The only sound was an occasional drip from the faucet where the barber drew his water.

  “I may have my hair cut wherever pleases me,” the count said.

  “Indeed you may, Your Highness.” The barber began to run his comb through the man’s hair, deciding where to cut first. He would play his part, wherever it might lead.

  With the first snip, the count spoke again. “Filip’s hand shook the last time I was in his shop. A man can’t have his hair cut by someone he does not trust. Your hand will be true. Will it not, barber?”

  The barber drew a careful breath. “It will.”

  Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the time that the barber worked. Several of his usual customers walked down the street and glanced through the windows of his shop, but none entered while the count was inside.

  The count stood when the barber pronounced his work done. One soldier brought the count’s vest; the other paid the barber three silver coins. And, as quickly as they had arrived, they left.

  The barber leaned against his chair and took a shuddering breath. The tower bells tolled again. Had it only been an hour since he opened the door? He stood like this for some time, eyes shut, beads of sweat gathering in the small of his back, until he told himself there was work to be done and a barber did not spend the day leaning against his chair.

  He began to sweep the bright red hairs left behind by the count, mixed with Georgy’s gray hairs. Footsteps told him someone had arrived. He glanced up and saw Stepan, who kept his hair and beard very trim and so was one of the barber’s most-frequent customers.

  The barber carefully tipped the swept-up hairs into a pail and set it aside.

  He and Stepan greeted each other and spoke of the weather, the crops, the trade in livestock and other goods—everything but the barber’s daughter or her funeral. It only came up when Stepan was paying.

  “They say Count Rozsa was in your shop today,” he said.

  “He was.”

  “And that when he left his hair had been cut.”

  “That is the result of most men’s visits here.”

  Stepan frowned a bit. “How could you have him in here after—”

  “How could I not?”

  “But then why let him live? You had blades at his neck for half an hour, no doubt.”

  “And there were soldiers here with him. Elena has grown up motherless her whole life and her beloved older sister is dead now. Surely you don’t suggest she should grow up fatherless as well?”

  Stepan shook his head. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and shook his head again.

  A month later, several customers were waiting to have their hair cut when the Count and his soldiers—three of them this time—arrived. The soldiers made it clear that the Count would have his hair cut as soon as the barber was done with the gentleman already in the chair. Most of the other patrons chose to leave. Only Karol remained, sitting on a stool, his cataracted eyes staring at nothing.

  There was no dialogue between the barber and the count. They simply took their places and acted out their parts.

  The barber’s razor nicked the back of the count’s neck once, prompting the count to gasp. The soldiers, who were nearly napping on their feet in the summer heat, reached for their swords.

  “My apologies,” the barber said as he daubed at the wound with a cloth, which he then tossed aside into another empty pail.

  The count waved a negligent hand at his men, who went back to their former posture. The rest of the barbering proceeded without incident, and soon the count and soldiers were on their way.

  Karol hobbled over to the chair as the barber swept up the loose hairs and threw them away.

  “Bled him, did ya?”

  The barber nodded distractedly and then told the old man that he had indeed nicked the count’s skin.

  “A man in your position must be tempted to sink the knife much deeper.”

  The barber explained, as he had before, that he did not wish to see his living daughter further abandoned.

  “Pah,” Karol said. He spat on the floor. “So be more clever. Some poison on the razor next time, eh? He walks out of your shop fine and dies that night.”

  “I would be suspected,” the barber replied. “A man dies of poison, they look for the person who had reason to want him dead. Now, let us speak no more of this. It makes me anxious, and that makes my hand tremble.”

  Karol laughed but did not say another word.

  On the first day of autumn, the barber opened up shop at his usual hour. It had been over a month since the count’s last visit and the barber wondered if the man had grown tired of his sport. Nevertheless, as he had on recent mornings, the barber lit a small fire and set water to boil. Whether the count visited or not, some customers would wish a warm drink.

  On this day the count arrived with four soldiers, shortly before the shop was to close for the day. The other Georgy in town was the only other person in the shop and even he had not come to have his hair cut that day. Younger than either the barber or the barber’s childhood friend Georgy, he nevertheless enjoyed the barber’s company and would often come to sit for hours and talk. Today, he talked and drank tea.

  This time, the barber’s hand did not slip and nick the count’s neck, and all was silent but for the snick-snick of the scissors.

  The work done, the count stood. A chill evening wind bl
ew through the store, kicking up some of the hair and tossing it around.

  “Your Highness,” the barber said before the count walked away. “I have enough water left for one more cup of tea. Would you care for it before your homeward journey?”

  The count smiled slightly and then tipped his head toward the barber. “That would be most obliging.”

  The barber pulled the lone unused mug from a shelf. He scooped some leaves into the small steeping orb, placed it in the mug, and covered it over with the last of the hot water.

  He took the mug to the count and handed it over. “Three minutes to brew,” he said.

  One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “Your Highness, perhaps it would be best to not drink—”

  The count tossed up a hand, silencing the man. “This barber,” he said, swirling the water in the mug as he spoke, “understands his position quite well.”

  After another minute or two, the count drank the tea, taking the quite-warm liquid in several large gulps. He passed the mug back to the barber with a smile and gave a small, ironic, bow.

  When they were alone again, the younger Georgy scolded the barber for giving the count the courtesy of a mug of tea.

  “Georgy, every man needs to keep warm in this wind.”

  The younger Georgy simply stared at the barber, then shook his head. “Maybe,” he said, “when I am as old as you, I will learn so much forgiveness.”

  The barber closed up shop once Georgy had left. He took the mug the count had drank from, leaving traces of his saliva on the rim and in the dregs of the tea, into his small back room and set it on a counter.

  From a small bin he drew a rag which had a reddish-brown streak in one spot. The barber took some scissors, not the ones that he used for cutting hair, and snipped out the stained piece of rag. He placed it in the mug.

  Then, from a pail, he extracted a handful of bright red hairs. He set these down on the counter and carefully segregated any of the gray hairs which were among them. The bright red hairs went into the mug as well.

  The barber did not need the slip of paper that the witch outside of town had given him. He had read it over and over every night before he had gone to sleep, from the evening of the fourth day after his daughter’s death until last night.

  He struck a match and held it to the tip of the rag in the mug. The flame singed his fingers but he held it there until the cloth caught fire.

  As the fire burned, he recited the words he had learned from the witch’s paper. Once, twice, three times. After the last syllable of the third intonation, he took a deep breath and blew the fire out, blew the magic away from the shop and to its target.

  The barber’s shop was closed—as were all places of business—for three days following the count’s death in the blaze which ignited in his bedchamber.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the barber came to his shop and stretched out the awning. He entered and drew water from the faucet for his teapot and set it to warming. Then, as the tower bells tolled outside, he opened the door so any who wished their hair cut could enter.

  His childhood friend Georgy came first, as the barber had known he would.

  “How is Elena?” Georgy asked, settling into the barber’s chair.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “She is glad to see her sister’s murderer—”

  The barber shushed Georgy, who laughed.

  “Who will object to this description now, my old friend? You are too worried.”

  The barber brushed his comb through Georgy’s hair, arranging it as he wanted before he would begin to cut. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Of course I am. And I am right as well that she—and you—are glad Count Rozsa is no longer among the living.”

  “Yes, you are right.” The barber began to snip at his friend’s hair, first a few small cuts, and then more vigorously. “Please give my thanks again to your wife. What she provided was... most effective.”

  Georgy grunted. He could not nod, for the barber was deep into his work.

  Copyright © 2013 Michael Haynes

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Michael Haynes lives in Central Ohio where he helps keep IT systems running for a large corporation during the day and puts his characters through the wringer by night. An ardent short story reader and writer, Michael had over twenty stories accepted for publication during 2012 by venues such as Intergalactic Medicine Show, Nature, and Daily Science Fiction. He is the Editor for the monthly flash fiction contests run by Kazka Press. Visit him online at michaelhaynes.info.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE MERMAID CAPER

  by Rich Larson

  Crane and Gilchrist wove their way to the prow as the Lighthouse came into clear view. It looked like a castle dredged from the sea, base slimed with algae and heights crenellated by white gulls. The weathered stone edifice had stood for hundreds of years, hewn originally by gray-skinned ettins or lumbering cyclopes, depending on if the story-teller had grown up in Lensa or the North. Since the fables it had become truly massive, built around and up and fortified against the waves. There was an excited clamor from those onboard who had never seen it.

  Gilchrist had seen it. He eased his back against the railing.

  “Ethereal, isn’t it?” Crane remarked. “As if pulled from myth. It’s unfortunate that such a magnificent structure rests under the ownership of so singularly unpleasant an individual.” Crane had seen it as well, but Crane was Crane, tall and bony and wrapped against the elements in a stolen black stormcoat. “Did we not devise some infernally clever moniker for him? After our last... encounter?” Crane’s long hands tightened on the rail and the blue veins threading his pale skin bulged like flooded canals.

  “Don’t remember,” Gilchrist said, still watching the ship deck rather than their destination. He was the dark and wiry antithesis to Crane’s lanky build and sallow skin. His messed black hair hung coarse with sea-spray, and salt was collecting at the corners of his mouth.

  “Then I postulate he will not remember us, either,” Crane said. “So much the better.”

  “Where’s Serena?” Gilchrist asked. His gaze moved like clockwork from face to face on the crowded deck. They did not fall on her knotted sun-bleached hair or sharp chin.

  “Seducing a sailor or scavenging from the scullery, I’d wager. Shall we return below decks?” Crane straightened his long frame and gave the Lighthouse one last look. A smile stretched his face. “I think perhaps a final rehearsal is in order,” he said, “before the game is afoot.”

  Gilchrist nodded. He adjusted his waistcoat, and they started back along the ship’s length. Crew were milling around, filling flash pans and preparing the winches, but they removed themselves quickly from Crane and Gilchrist’s path.

  “It seems our inevitable fate, Mr. Gilchrist, that our reputation precedes us.” Crane pulled open the soaked wood hatch. “I fear it may complicate matters.”

  “It’s been ten years,” Gilchrist said, moving deftly down the ladder. “And down here they don’t care what happens in Brask. If he’s heard any news from the north, it’ll be about the riots. Not us.”

  They dropped into the swaying corridor to the sound of shouts unrelated to docking. The cook had pinned a ship’s lad by his ears and was bellowing about filthy islanders and the idiocy of opening the larder to any passenger, regardless how pretty. Crane and Gilchrist passed them on the way to their quarters and did not try to mediate.

  At the door, Crane produced a tumbler from his sleeve and fit it into the custom lock. Cogs scraped and clicked against each other and the door sprang open. It was a cramped room made more so by the heavy glass tank shrouded in black cloth, the corner of which was now swiftly dropped by a slender girl with a sharp chin and sun-bleached hair.

  “Ho, Crane. Ho, Gilly.” She smiled toothily and scooted onto the tank.

  “How are you in here?” Crane asked sharply. Gilchrist’s hand went into his pocket and cam
e away empty.

  “I thought someone should be keeping an eye on the mermaid,” Serena said, patting the tank. “She’s fine. Still sleeping. Still beautiful. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

  “My key,” Gilchrist said flatly.

  Serena’s smile shrank. She pulled the tumbler out of her waistband and lobbed it over. Gilchrist snatched it glittering out of the air.

  “Quite a natural pickpocket,” Crane said. “As should be expected of an islander. One would have to develop a quick hand to avoid those snapping clams.”

  “Don’t teach her any more tricks,” Gilchrist said.

  “I suppose the fact that you’ve holed up here is unrelated to the cacophony in the kitchens?” Crane said to Serena over his shoulder, locking the door behind them.

  “They had sugar,” Serena explained, running her tongue along her teeth. “So, when do we go up the tower?”

  “Lighthouse,” Crane corrected. “Today, barring drastic delays. And our audience with the master will likely take place tomorrow morning.”

  “How did he get himself such a big old tower?” Serena asked.

  “By serving the Doge of Lensa in a variety of unpleasant capacities,” Crane said. “From jailer to taxman.”

  “To butcher,” Gilchrist added.

  “To butcher.” Crane inclined his head. “In any case, the Doge has since rewarded him with a title, a tower, and the leisure time to pursue his stranger hobbies. May no man call the Doge of Lensa ungenerous.”

  “I remember the nickname,” Gilchrist said. “Cassius of the Blasted Ass.” His mouth grinned without his meaning to. Serena laughed into her elbow, the islander way.

  “Rather less creative than our usual fare,” Crane said.

  “Apt,” said Gilchrist. Up above them the pitons launched with a crack and caught with a thud and the ship began to reel itself to wharf. The scheme was in motion.

  * * *

  They were the last to disembark. Serena stayed out of sight in the cabin while Crane found porters with broad shoulders and quiet tongues and pressed the last of the silver into their grizzled hands. The two boar-like men trooped onto the ship as it emptied and trooped off it with the sloshing glass tank hoisted on iron rods. Crane directed from the front and Gilchrist and Serena followed behind as they joined the procession on the beach.