A Night at the Lodge. (after the cemetery adventure)

The fire had died down hours ago, offering no light save for a few dying embers fading in the fireplace's thick ash-heap. In the darkness, Nigel thumbed through a worn thesaurus with frustration. For several moments there was utter silence save for the scritch-scritch of a blotty old fountain pen. Then, the pen fell with a metallic clatter to the cold, dusty hardwood floor.  A single-page note to Pride Mother floated down, its jettisoned tale interrupted not by the writer's lack of imagination but perhaps too much of it. Aside from the salutation and diplomatic well-wishes, the recapitulation was largely incomprehensible-- marred by furiously scratched out words that could not quite describe the horrific sight and stench of the reassembled corpse-parts encountered the night before last. 

Standing to stretch, the man looked about the doorways, looking for something to ease his mind and quell the relative boredom of the lonely lodge.  He was not yet accustomed to the solitary life he'd recently been forced into; Nigel's upbringing was such that he had a constant entourage of military superiors, foreign ministers, plantation servants, fellow junior officers, and the troopers under his command. And always, a trusty animal, whether dog or mongoose or horse. The old nag he'd "borrowed" from the glue factory's slaughter pen to come to Manchester was on its last legs. From the deep whip-scars and poorly repaired hoof-cracks, he suspected it had been abused in its earlier days as a hunter mount.  The creature seemed particularly loathed to trot along these murky, gaslit lanes apparently cursed with unspeakable evils.  After the incident at the cemetery, the animal rapidly declined, and seemed particularly listless earlier today-- refusing to eat, nickering and flicking its straggly tail as if to beg Nigel to let it be rather than be groomed or fed.

Nigel could feel the heavy steel of his pistol weighing upon his ribcage, and his shoulders sank as he pulled on the caped cavalry greatcoat he'd somehow kept mended for over a decade. Stepping into the small courtyard behind the lodge, Nigel squinted in the soupy mist that diffused the meager lamplight, adjusting his eyes to the relative brightness contrasted with the deep shadows of the city's brick and stone edifices.  His less-than-human eyes were soon met by a large shiny black orb that looked down on him from under a bone-white mane. Steam rose off the beast's concave spine and convex belly; clouds of sickly, ripe breath added an indolic perfume to the fog licking Nigel's ever-present, vintage military-issue riding boots. 

"There, Merlin, old boy...there." Nigel's hands fluttered over the animal's broad nose and cheeks, and the horse gave a low whimper, nodding and weakly returning the greeting before turning its head once again to the side, watching the man with a pleading eye. With a small frown Nigel gently turned Merlin's snout forward once more, hands slipping up either cheek until he could rub both of the notched, nearly deaf ears. The lancer let his thumbs trace a downward diagonal from the base of the horse's ears to the opposite eye socket, and he stared at the place in the center of the "X", high on the beast's head. Stepping back, Nigel bowed his chest up, and pulled his pistol to line up the barrel with the heart of the target he'd traced upon Merlin's skull. 

"Sorry, old chap...I'm terribly sorry!" Nigel closed his eyes, and then brought the gun back to his chest as his grip on the trigger collapsed.  Tears burned like vinegar in his cursed eyes, and he feared he could smell blood welling in the ducts again, for the retina surgery and subsequent scarring had left the delicate vessels and tissues surrounding his orbital cavities in a sorry state. This was confirmed as Nigel slid his drippy nose and rheumy eyes over his coat-sleeve, pinkish tears smearing the back of his hand. He turned the pistol over in his grip, mouth quivering and breaths coming in low hitches before replacing it in its holster. The officer stepped to the animal once again, head bowed in shame.

 Nigel eventually lifted his chin and stopped his boyish sobs. The horse, who had watched his would-be executioner with a somewhat inscrutable placidness, exhaled and stamped its hoof slightly, as if to bid the man explain himself. 

"I'm sorry I've not had the money to call in a vet, Merlin. I know you need one badly. I was prepared to do you in, I thought...but then I realized, I've no money to pay for draymen and a wagon to come fetch you and give you a proper burial...and if I leave you to the rubbish-men, they'll just...butcher you to bits...sell you off for hide-glue and fertilizer...and that's what I hoped to save you from! I'm no better than those slaughterers, am I? I am so sorry. I will sell my gun first thing tomorrow, and see to a vet for you post-haste. Do forgive me, please. Poor thing."

Nigel patted the animal's nose once more, resting his damp eyes in its warm cheek. Merlin gave a relaxed sigh, nuzzling the trooper's shoulder, and the deep wheezy lungs seemed to settle into more normal exhalations.

Suddenly, the quiet moment between beast and man was punctuated by a violent thump, and a deep grunt. Then another thump, thump, thump, marked by another grunt. Nigel crept back from the horse, taking to the shadows to slip quietly towards the noises that seemed to come from the service alley. On the mist-slicked brick wall,  he saw the arching silhouette of a tall, broad figure-- a shaded fist pummeling what looked like a supine victim sprawled over rainbarrels. Upon closer inspection, though, Nigel  saw the muscular form of one of his lodge-mates, a fellow veteran of the Queen's Army named Murphy. The man was engaged in boxing what appeared to be sacks of old cabbages positioned atop the gutter-catches.

Straightening his back, Nigel strode forward as if he'd merely taken a stroll through the dark, damp streets, and raised his hand in a sort of halting wave. "Hullo there,  Murphy. A bit raw outside for a sparring session, isn't it? Its just me at the lodge, I fear, so feel free to bring it inside if you prefer. I've slept all I can tonight, so your boxing practice won't be a bother at'all." 

Impromptu sparring match thusly interrupted, Murphy gave the stacked somewhat stinking sacks a last punch, then turned to face his newly arrived audience of one. Head bobbed in greeting, fat drops of sweat dripping from hair's ends, and one wrapped hand twitched as if it might snap up in a salute though it stayed hanging loosely at one side.

"G'evenin', sir," he said by way of unsure greeting. His fellows were still mostly strangers though they'd already put two strange incidents to rest and Murphy remained on unsure footing when dealing with them outside of their fieldwork. Nigel, especially, had him at odds, being not only noble born but an officer besides. A youth in the army had taught the Manchester native to defer, always, to the ranked few and it felt wrong, now, to not do so despite their both being civilians presently.

He had been at his boxing for some time judging by his present state. Despite the chill of the night, he had forsaken a shirt and the same sweat dripping from his brow showed on shoulders and torso. So, too, did a small collection of tattoos; on right bicep showed a lion and stag rearing and flanking a shield crowned by knight's helm, the left had a rose topped by crown while a banner below proclaimed THE LOYAL REGIMENT. The two tattoos on his chest, however, spoke to more exotic locales and interests. A hand of Fatima and Nazur battu in the shape of a boldly colored leering face were etched there, obvious tokens from a time spent far away from England's verdant shores.

Adding to the curious picture the Irishman presented were the rosary, saint medallion and dog-tooth hanging about his neck and the nazar beads wound about one wrist. The tooth, of course, was a memento from their first hunt; Murphy had fashioned it into a simple necklace with a length of leather cord.

Of course, all of this was taken in in an instant though that was a long enough stretch of time for the Irishman. Reaching out, he grabbed a rumpled bit of cloth which was soon revealed to be his discarded shirt. This he pulled over his head, repositioning suspender straps over now-clothed shoulders.

"'S all the same to you, sir, I think I'm done for the night. Don't think Lord Hood would much like my boxin' inside 'n all. 'S not propa," he added with a sheepish smirk, hands now busying themselves with undoing the strips of grimy fabric wound about knuckles, palms and wrists. "But if you wouldn't mind the company, yeah, I'll head on back ..."

Then, at a loss for what else to say, "Nasty bit of business the other night ... What d'you make of that Prospero fellow?"

Nigel nodded as if in agreement that they should retire, but did not make a move to head back.  His dark eyes glinted slightly as they caught the faint glow of the gaslamps. An errant rat appeared from between the barrels, scurrying over the man's booted foot, pausing to twitch its whiskers and peep upwards before going about its verminous business along the gutter.

With a bit of a smirk that was more winsome than grim, Nigel gave a glance back toward the lodge's gate before answering Murphy. "I'm sure boxing is not the most unproper thing that has happened in those walls. Nasty business indeed...but, I do say, the Spirit of Manchester came off as some sort of a quack, did he not? A bit like one of those drawing-room mystics who reads the obituaries then preys on mourning mothers about how they have a message from beyond the grave. A message that apparently only manifests upon payment of quite a few quid to the transcriber!" The trooper's levity seemed to wane, as he met Murphy's gaze briefly with his own deep sapphire eyes that literally held a strange jewel-like quality in certain light.   "But I suppose to successfully project and accept the ruse, either party might possess some true understanding, if not actual ability, of such unnatural powers. I say unnatural...but perhaps they are more natural than we suspect-- but long-buried in our meat and bones beneath the mundane concerns of ordinary life, just like we  forego our childhood ideas of fairies and phantoms."  

Nigel presently led them back into the lodge's study, lighting a small gas lamp before the now-dead fire. He crouched down between two musty velvet wingchairs to go about rekindling the hearth, his well-worn boot soles showing their age. The fire relit, he offered one of the seats to the boxer, taking the other after removing his heavy coat and holster, hanging both over the humped seatback.  Now comfortably slumped deep in the old chair,  Nigel propped a leg up on an ottoman with the nonchalance of a spoiled persian cat. 

"Oh, let's be straight, then, Mr. Murphy. Even though I am still considered an active officer in Her Majesty's Service, no need for protocol, no saluting or sirs or any of that pompetty-poom-- for I saw the tattooed emblem of your good regiment, and know well the sacrifices made by them. My first deployment from school was as a special attachment to the 12th Lancers at  Khyber Pass. Seems those boys couldn't quite convince their steeds to climb the narrow pass at Ali Masjid-- so General Brown had to call in a few Death or Glory men to show them how to handle a horse!" Nigel beamed proudly, sitting up some to slap his knee.  The flames briefly gave his sallow cheeks and purpled eyes a more lifelike color before he sank back into the shadow of the chair, his skin wan against the dark fabrics.  The lieutenant's boastful sing-song voice dimmed to a low, knowing whisper. His long fingers, which seemed more suited to piano playing than the rigors of wrangling war-horses up mountainous badlands, drew a small circles on his own chest to indicate where Murphy had the grimacing mask and hand talismans inked.

"Is Kabul where you came to belief in nabi booti,chasme-badUr? Do they work for you?" While Nigel's exact pronunciation may have seemed a bit different from what Murphy was used to, the horse-man's utterance of the Urdu language was easily understood by anyone familiar with the similiar Hindi or Persian names  for the guardian wards.  His questions were not spoken with skepticism; in fact, Nigel's mirrorpool eyes were wide with an urgent curiosity that betrayed his desperate search for anything that could stave off the gloom-- that foul darkness that could no longer obscure for him the evil that bloomed like black flowers in this a ruined eden of a world. 

"More like a bloody git to me," Murphy sniffed. "Claimin' to be the spirit of Manchester an' all, dressed all in white like that. Don't know what Manchester he's spirit of, but it ain't the parts I know; nothin' stays white like that for long down there."

Something in the man's face spoke to a deeper tale to tell, but he held his peace for the time being, stuffing hand wraps into the pockets of his trousers. He shrugged at Nigel's phantasmal ponderings, eyes meeting and quickly averting from the other's preternatural gaze. "Given all we've seen, I s'pose anything's possible. Certainly seen stranger than fairies and ghosts in my time," he added with another roll of his powerful shoulders.

Back in the lodge, Murphy hung back as Nigel set about making the study more hospitable, only sitting when offered a seat. Though they both lived in the space, he still deferred to the officer as though this were *his* home and study rather than, by rights, both of theirs. Rather unlike Nigel's comfortable slumping, Murphy perched on chair's edge, back hunched forward, arms resting on wide splayed knees.

He cocked an eyebrow at Nigel's disposition of formalities, then slowly nodded in agreement, crooked grin lifting one corner of his mouth. "Yeh, alright. Though don't take it too hard if I slip up; old habits an' all, right?" His grin faded, though, at the mention of Afghanistan and the two place names he was all too familiar with, replaced by a more thoughtful, stormy furrowing of the brow.

For a moment he was taken back to the fortress there, nestled between stark mountains, a blazing sun shining overhead despite the year's advanced month. He had been part of the Third Infantry Brigade, ordered first to storm the fort then ordered to cease action 'til next morning's light. Communication had broken down, had it so often did, Murphy would find out in his years in that desolate region, and the latter order did not reach all eyes and ears. It had been a massacre, or as close to one as the Irishman had ever wanted to witness, as he had been unfortunate enough to be with a contingent of men who had not received the order to halt.

"Ali Masjid was a bloody mess," he said after a moment's reflective silence, eyes fixed on the crackling fire. "Lost my brother there. Lost alot of good men there."

He chanced a glance at the lancer, then, ears perking at the Urdu words. One hand came up to rest briefly at his breast, just over the nazar battu, before falling back to join its twin at his knees.

"After Ali Masjid ... We were struck by a sickness. Field doctors didn't know what it was, couldn't do nothin' for it. Men who were fit as bloody horses got sick and jus' ... wasted away. The lads, at first they thought it were the Sikhs, right? We was joined with the 14th Sikhs and they weren't getting sick, at least, not at first. Load of rubbish that was anyway; my mate, he was Sikh, he told me what was goin' round and I put an end to it best I could."

Given the man's physical prowess coupled with his impressive height and build it needn't be said how he convinced his fellows to leave their Sikh brothers in arms be.

"We was skirmishing with tribesman then, too, nothing like Ali Masjid, mind, but awful all the same. It was through all that the idea stuck that maybe it were the evil eye makin' us sick. One of the lads, I don't know, he found out about the hand and soon enough almost all of us was wearin' it." Murphy sighed, shaking his head and running a massive hand back through his hair. "I don't know 'bout it working; I never got sick. Went on from Afghanistan to India and back through the North-West Frontier ... Made it back home alright. It were in India I got the mask; Amal, my mate, he thought it would do more good than the hand ..."

A nostalgic, wistful smile played at the corners of his lips at that recollection. For all the horrors of war, and there had been many, there were bright spots, too, fond remembrances to be cherished for the light they brought in the darkness.

 The lingering curve upon Murphy's lips did not placate the discomfited visage of his fellow veteran, whose melancholic gaze fell to the floor as he listened to the tale that followed the same formula of so many of the British Army's foolhardy, outnumbered, strategically disastrous battles in foreign lands-- each one, it seemed, cursed by epidemics and violence never before seen. Nigel spoke softly, unable to make eye contact, his dark eyes flashing with licks of fire as if he were remembering hell itself.

"At first I was confused by your tale, for I always counted Ali Masjid as an easy victory--- but after we helped the hussars and artillery get their horses up, my detachment was ordered to follow the 12th cavalry to Peiwar Kotal, and from there, I got to spend the spring and summer fighting the Zulus, fancy that!  So I missed that terrible last battle at Ali Masjid, and any news of this sickness...so any of the pride I had in that medal  is now destroyed.  But after our last stand with the Zulus in July, I was sent back to Afghanistan in November, to help lead about 150 troopers with the 9th Lancers and some Bengals in the siege of Sherpur.  125 of us with no choice but to charge 10,000 of those vicious tribesmen. Pirates, highwaymen they were--not an orderly army. But, even that was nothing compared to Maiwand. Again, outnumbered ten times! I was taken prisoner there. The horrible heat that twisted our vision into hallucinations...the frostbite at night that turned our skin black. The cries of men begging for water as they writhed with torments seen and unseen. And those infernal women! With their veiled eyes and evil magic potions-- their curved blades, their unthinkable desecration of wounded and dying men--"

Nigel stopped himself, then looked at Murphy with a startled expression. 

"My god, you came home through the North West, then? Was it your regiment who liberated me, carried me to India to recover? The inquest didn't believe us, not about the atrocities, the demon-possessed, the sorcery. They court-martialed our commanders, hanged them for cowardice and treason. I was imprisoned as well, facing court-martial myself after Sherpur, which reopened speculation about what exactly happened with me at Rorke's Drift and Hlobane. The top brass assured the rank and file they saw nothing supernatural or demonic in Afghanistan-- it was only the effects of the constant artillery, the 120 degree heat-- mere mirages."

"On account of my father's seniority, and presumably his high-ranking lodge,  I got a sort of a pass for several years. They sent me to Shimla near the place where I was born, playing polo for sport with the 17th Lancers; doing equestrian exhibitions, taking dainty girls to balls in a uniform full of medals. Never was I a hero, never was I thanked. They had no fucking idea. I was merely entertainment for  bored British expat aristocratic ladies who summered at the Raj's compound. Sorry to curse, old chap. But I curse them all the same, ungrateful, puffed-up pompous fools ever ignorant of the world outside their whitewashed walls. Right, I don't hate India---I was born and grew up in the extreme north, high on a Himalayan mountain tea plantation between Darjeeling and Sikkim. My amah were often Sikh, as were much of the staff  except for our Gurkha guards. It was my first amah, Manjeet, who realized that I had... gifts...ways of manipulating how people thought, how they perceived things, and that I had 'sight of the consecrated and the cursed.'  The Buddhist monks who came to see me from Bhutan and Tibet were certain of it-- they feared me, even as a child-- just as the Africans feared me as man."

Leaning forward, Nigel placed a thin hand on the boxer's knee.  "I speak to you in greatest confidence now,  Murphy-- but someone in our party should know.  I am the embodiment of  the duplicity of Her Majesty's Army, and the horrors  its brave men have endured are nothing to the horrors the Army  has  unleashed on its men, until some of those men become horror itself. " Nigel's face was white and sombre as a tombstone, and his eyes stayed locked on Murphy's, the blue irises illuminated by their preternatural silvery-gold glow that outshone even the fireplace flames. 

"If I become inhuman...too monstrous...promise me you'll do me in, John Murphy. Use a gold weapon. See to it that my body is burned to ashes before anyone tries to take any part of it--not even a lock of hair!  And for chrissake, don't place my ashes on  this godforsaken, bloodthirsty soil. Throw me off the cliffs at Clochán an Aifi, or melt me in the snows of Kangchenjunga, so whatever remains will utterly disappear."

The moody officer suddenly lifted his hand, uneasily shifting in the chair.  The rapid shadows of ghosts that had been passing over his visage now sank back into his heart for the time being, and the intense stare softened into a weary half-lidded contemplation.   "So when you say you made it back home-- do you mean, home is in India? Is that where your mate Amal is, and-- is Amal like us?" 

Murphy, and his regiment, had avoided the battle at Maiwand by virtue of the mysterious sickness that had plagued them. So reduced in number were they, they had been recalled to India following Ali Masjid so as to recuperate. From there, they had been sent back through the North-West Frontier to deal with the various troublesome tribesmen. He had stories, though, they all had, of the defeat the British had suffered there.

It was a difficult thing to sort fact from fiction, the news having travelled mostly via word of mouth, from soldier to soldier. He had heard some whispers, too, of what fate befell those unfortunates who had been captured; horrors that must have been invented whole cloth from nothing for surely such terrors could not be real.

He listened intently to Nigel's recollections of Afghanistan, his capture, picturing - too easily - everything named and endured. Murphy knew what the lancer had survived and he knew that the stories that had circulated 'round late night campfires weren't the imaginings of homesick and frightened soldiers. In his time in the North-West Frontier he had seen things beyond rational explanation ...

Murphy tilted his head to one side at Nigel's question, sifting through memories he would rather have left long-buried and mostly forgotten though such sights were not so easily left behind. "Yeh, we was sent to rescue those who had been captured. Gave me bloody nightmares for weeks, what we saw and heard ..." He met Nigel's eyes and held his gaze for a long minute. "I believe every single thing you've said, sir, and I'm sorry none of those who count did. You and your lads deserved better than that."

Nigel's unexpected touch, following the more intimate act of secret-sharing, caused a small frown to appear on Murphy's brow; he was unsure in what direction any of this was heading and, indeed, doubted that the lancer himself quite knew what he was about. Still, he inched all the closer so as to better catch those whispered words. There was a time when he would have dismissed the man as mad for making such a request, let alone leveling such accusations against the Army, but that time was long since past.

Murphy nodded, slowly. "I promise, sir. I'll see you don't suffer."

No small wave of relief passed over the Irishman when Nigel retreated back into himself and his chair, taking most of the oppressive, distressing atmosphere with him as he did so.

Confusion flitted across Murphy's face, followed closely by a huff of laughter and a shake of his head. "Aww naw, Manchester's all the home I've ever known. When I was over there, I mean, we never was in one place too long, you know how it was ... Most times it was just me and Amal and a shoddy tent if we were so lucky as to have that, so if you can count that as home I guess it was."

"Yeh, far as I know he's still in India," Murphy continued with a lift of one shoulder. "I came back here two years ago and that's that, innit? Can't write any letters and ask what all he's about now or read anything he might send ... I don't think he's part of all this. I mean, he saw all the same things I did, but naw. He was more keen on settlin' in on a quiet life once the army was done with him."

 Nigel was grateful for the empathetic gaze and honest words from his latenight companion.  There was a warmth and kindness to the boxer that belied his tough, tatted up exterior and sometimes gruff accent that irrationally comforted Nigel. Yet the officer had long ago given up on ascribing logical explanations to every aspect of life as the English were wont to do. A genuine smile lifted the lancer's gloomy countenance, and he rested his chin on top of his hand as he considered the bravery and goodness of the man across from him.

"Thank you, Murphy.   I hope that your pledge and, god forbid it should come to be, the act of mercy itself will, in turn keep you safe from harm-- a sort of karma, as the Gurkhas say. For I fear I have no other way to repay you for such a noble deed."  

Nigel listened with continued curiosity at the tale of the estranged exotic Amal.  While the officer was known (and even chided) for forming unusually close relationships with the native contingents that supplemented Her Majesty's armies, none of those had lasted beyond the campaigns.  And, partly because of his rank, and partly due to the notorious elitism of the lancer units, it was unheard of for non-whites to occupy the same sleeping quarters. Even when he slept on a vermin-infested, blood-stained horse blanket on the African plains, the English-blooded defined their "area" with a row of munitions boxes and mealie sacks. It was ridiculous to him, especially as it was very apparent the  natives and impressed colonial units brought in from India and beyond were lifelong soldiers, better trained and more disciplined than most of the non-career, prone to sickness, snobbish British troopers. There was always an unspoken, expected divide--- and any attempts Nigel made to ingratiate himself, to exchange words and language and stories with the ethnic conscripts, were usually met with a wary patience at best. 

"Oh, you are from Manchester! I say, has it always been troubled as this? It seems quite strange to have so many things going on, and so few resources to combat it.  I tell you, Murphy, I don't know what is home to me.  After India, I was sent back here  to my garrison, then shipped straightaways to Uganda to exterminate some lions. I had an accident there -- only recently recovered after spending almost eight months in...in hospital I suppose...a place like this, in the north of Ireland. After I received the cylinder, I came to Manchester with little else than the horse and my kit. I don't really know what to expect next...I suppose I'll receive my orders when its time to go elsewhere...but for now it seems there's plenty to do hereabouts, eh?"

Nigel grinned, as if he were eager to avoid falling back into the mire of dark ruminations that he struggled to keep behind a once-prestigious facade-- now a fragile veil had been crumbling from the inside out for sometime now. But his eyes lit up, inspired. 

"Say, if you are staying here, old boy, why don't you have Amal write you at the lodge-- I'll read it to you, and I daresay, I will keep it confidential as needed. Or... do you want to send him a letter? I'll write it for you-- you can sign it." Nigel tilted his head, thinking. "I jolly well insist you start up a correspondence!  If not with Amal, then with me.  If I can teach a naked savage who speaks in clicks to read and write the Queen's English, this should be easy enough, eh? What say you, Murphy?" 

--

The intimacy that had formed between Murphy and Amal had been born and nurtured by extreme circumstance and no small amount of luck. Being infantry, and lowly recruits at that, they hadn't been subject to the same scrutiny that their commanding officers labored beneath. Then, too, there came the loss of life in both their regiments which prompted a greater commingling between the English and their native counterparts; the two wounded halves came together to form a whole.

In combat, the pair were unmatched when it came to ferocity and tenaciousness. More than once, when engaging the frontier's tribesmen, they had found themselves seemingly surrounded, cut off from their fellows, and had come out victorious, fists swinging and grinning madly.

"When I was coming up, we was told stories about boggarts and knockers; never thought any of it was real, not really. Knockers was used to get us lads to watch our kit, right, and the old timers would have a laugh, movin' tools or makin' bloody awful noises ..." Murphy shook his head at the memory.

"Afghanistan's where I first saw anything true strange. Didn't think it would follow here, but maybe them old timers knew something after all ... Maybe it weren't just always them takin' the piss ..."

Nigel's sudden burst of inspiration was met with, at first, stunned silence. Murphy's education had consisted of two primary years in a clapboard schoolroom before he went to work in the mines that employed his father, uncles, male cousins, brothers and grandfathers. There hadn't been much use for reading or writing in shoveling coal or pushing carts; the army hadn't been too concerned with it, either, so long as he could fire three rounds a minute and stand fast in battle.

The prospect of learning, now, and corresponding with his friend, it was almost too much to take in.

"Could you really do that?" He finally asked, as if Nigel had promised to perform some fantastic piece of magic. Then, as he fully realized what it could and would mean to learn his letters, a bright grin broke across his face. "I don't rightly know what to say, but if you think you can do it, then I'm willin' to try."

 Nigel was now fully reclined between the ottoman and chair, resting his head on the armrest and smiling in return. "What do you mean you don't know what to say? Most letters are fifty percent formalities, the rest is just...news and well-wishes, maybe a request or two. Raaaaaaather! Its not infra-dig for me to play at being your amanuensis, old boy."

The lieutenant waved his hands in the air, his voice singing a playful litany of the anatomy of correspondence:  "Righto, here we go!--Sender's Address, Recipient's Address, Date,  'My Dearest Friend Amal, I hope this finds you well....da da da, blobbity-blah, Sincerely, your obliging friend in arms,' signed John Murphy, with your seal-- well, nevermind with that--but maybe a catchy postscript if you forgot a tidbit in the main missive. Although, if its been a while since you've communicated, and you have some longer tale to tell, well, we can just set aside an evening and jolly well take care of it, eh?"

 "As for the reading bit, one day at a time, old boy! Its not about me doing anything-- you'll do all the faggin'(*) and I'll simply tell you how to go about it properly, just like-- " Nigel laughed a bit ironically, "just like being in the bloody army. But I daresay, this will actually be productive1 Plus its  a cracking way to pass the time while we're stuck here by ourselves.  I'll spiff up some playing cards with certain phonetic sounds and draw an example picture-- like ch with a picture of a church--it can even be a Catholic one, I spose-- and the word church underneath. We'll make it a fine game, putting the sounds together in a sort of go-fish, and once you have sounding out words down, we'll make sentences!  I'll also affix little labels of words on your gear and about the lodge if our hosts will grant it. Yes, that's a smashing plan. Fantastic!"

With that sudden pause in his ebullient outline,  Nigel's heavy-lidded eyes poured over the boxer's formidable frame as if the lancer were admiring a race-horse, and his voice became calmer. "I assure you, my good Murphy, if you can survive the coal mines, the war, and whatever goes bump in the night near or far-- then you've got more than enough smarts and stoutness of heart to conquer little letters on a page! I know you sometimes fancy a pint and having the daily news read to you at the pub, eh? Well, if you can read a even few words from the Standard by the end of the week, I'll buy you a round!"

The lancer exhaled softly, as if ruminating on reality for a moment. "If you get frustrated, don't worry, we'll just take a break--  spar for a bit to clear your mind if you like.   I'm not going to be some tyrannical headmaster, and take to your bum with my crop, or humiliate you to the point you break...Between boarding school, the military, and training horses, I've come to believe rewards make for more effective discipline than any cruel punishment. For crafty men-- and clever beasts as well--  will simply pervert  punishments into pleasure-- so--it all ends up being the same thing anyway, but without any of the intended original result of actually learning anything! The abused ones that don't become  masochists just become monsters-- mindless puppets who get beaten into submission,  dumbly following their masters' orders without any real reward, until they die. Or, of course, until they turn against their master one day. I suppose that sounds a bit strange, but its what I've observed...oh you'll see...this is going to be absolutely top hole, Murphy...just top hole..."

The rather introspective thoughts of the officer  coalesced and then clouded  his exhausted mind like the obscuring fogs that blanketed Manchester's grim streets. Leaving Murphy alone to consider the imminent lessons, Nigel slipped into sleep, his eyes not quite closed, flashing a spectral blue-white as the firelogs diminished into softly glowing embers once again.

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(* "to fag" - Brit slang, to do tedious work--like when an upperclassman at the military academy bullies a freshman into doing his maths homework)