Boots, Buckets, and Backpacks

Brown husks of leaves drift­ed on the autumn road.

Sticky branch­es shiv­ered above, loosed what cladding they yet pos­sessed to spi­ral in the bit­ter wind. Not far over the squat, umber hills, a raven croaked. Down the lane, a clap­ping of horse­shoes swelled.

A rid­er in grey came along. He rode sedate and bored­ly, tucked up into his fur col­lars for the cold. His mount, a pudgy roan, crunched uncon­cerned­ly over the leaves, ears low. They saun­tered with slack reins.

The breeze kicked up. Leaves rasped. A faint yell fol­lowed, mud­died by the wind. The rid­er star­tled. His roan perked her ears, huffed. The reins stiff­ened. “Gee up” mum­bled the rid­er, eyes sud­den­ly bright. He squeezed his boots to the beast. They set off at a can­ter.

Sec­onds lat­er came anoth­er yell, high and afeard. Oth­er voic­es, too, jeer­ing. A rush of three ravens star­tled up ahead, where the road went deep into a brown grove. Rid­er and horse passed under those bows, broke into a gal­lop.

They rode for a minute or more before the shout­ing’s source, now qui­et for awhile, showed. Ahead, in the mot­tled grey shade of the copse, hunched two fig­ures in leathers over a fall­en, blood­ied third. One, a gin­ger woman, was tug­ging at the fal­l­en’s boots. Her fel­low, a scab­by man, was work­ing at the oth­er end with a knife. See­ing the rid­er, they quit their des­e­cra­tion, turned.

“Ho there,” said the rid­er, pulling furs from his mouth.

“Ho yer­self,” said the woman. She wore her hair drawn back tight. At her hair­line, a few flecks of blood showed bright on the scalp, fresh.

“What’s become of him?” point­ed the rid­er. His steed nick­ered, unsteady at the red which pooled midst the leaves.

“Rag­wretch­es, from the bush,” said the man, behind her. He put down his knife, covert­ly held the hand behind his back.

The rid­er frowned. “Rag­men, at this time of year?”

“Ye. Dread­ful large ones,” said the gin­ger

“They clocked your friend here and scarpered, then?”

“You’ve guessed it.”

“And left the two of you unscathed?”

The scab­by man nod­ded. “Mir­a­cle, it was.” He stepped clos­er.

The rid­er leaned in his sad­dle, peered round him. His brows raised, crin­kled. “Clocked him with a pis­tol gun­spring, at that.” He ges­tured to a met­al point pro­trud­ing from the back of the dead man’s skull. “Rare seen a wretch with a pis­tol.”

“Mir­a­cle of mir­a­cles,” said Scab­by. “He sac­ri­ficed him­self to save us.”

“So, you’re steal­ing your fall­en com­rade’s boots,” said the rid­er. “And, what, his gold teeth?”

“See, it might look like that, but—”

“You two are cut­ters, yes?” the rid­er inter­rupt­ed.

“Aye,” smiled the scab­by cut­ter, show­ing rot­ten teeth. “How’d ye guess?” He stepped clos­er. The roan twitched her ears.

“And you work for what bank? Tiber and Fel­lowes?”

“Spot on. Good guessin’.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said the rid­er, smil­ing. “That I am a com­mis­sion­er for T and B.” He opened his coat, showed the insignia on his lapel. The cut­ter’s eyes went wide.

“So you’d best not use that pis­tol you’re hid­ing behind your fat ass, and—” He swung about, glared at the gin­ger, who’d been creep­ing up behind. She grinned, sheep­ish. “Tell the lit­tle minge here to recon­sid­er knif­ing me, lest you meet a team of real cut­ters on a hit.”

Both backed off. The scab­by cut­ter went pale. The gin­ger red­dened, blotchi­ly. “M’apolo­gies, Com­mis­sion­er,” she mum­bled, sur­rep­ti­tious­ly tucked a knife into her boot.

“Like­wise. Mis­un­der­stand­ing,” said the fel­low. He tucked the pis­tol into his belt, looked to the corpse. “You’re not gonna, ah…”

“Report you?”

“Ye.”

The Com­mis­sion­er squint­ed, point­ed to the corpse. “What was his stand­ing?”

“Ain’t had any.”

The com­mis­sion­er shrugged. “In that case, don’t make a habit out of it.” He nudged the roan, start­ed off. 

“Enjoy the boots.”

A key rat­tled in the lock. Muf­fled gig­gling sound­ed through the pan­eled wal­nut door. The bolt turned. Hinges swung. The gig­gling came through in a flur­ry of snow and win­ter’s-night air.

It was a red-nosed pair, wrapped up in coats and swathed in gid­dy rakia fumes. The first, a scarred, long-nosed man, grinned, wob­bling. The sec­ond, the gig­gling’s curly-head­ed source, hung on his shoul­der. Slight, expen­sive­ly made-up. Bet­ter dressed than her scuffed-leather com­pan­ion.

“I must say,” she said, ceas­ing her gig­gle to frown dra­mat­i­cal­ly at the par­lor inte­ri­or; all leather arm­chairs, shelves of curio, and dark wood. “You live bet­ter than I’d expect.”

“Ah, well,” drawled Dacre, fin­ger­ing the but­tons of his coat.

The young woman let him go, wan­dered to the brick hearth. “A new-built town­house,” she said, warm­ing her hands. “And staff to keep your fire, at that.”

“N’ good taste in lunch, I hope.” *

“Din­ner, Dacre,” she gig­gled, rolling her eyes. “And we main­ly drank. You cut­ters have such odd slang.”

“Ex-cut­ter, and a lucky one.” Dacre insist­ed. He tossed his coat and scarf on a chair and moved to loop an arm round his com­pan­ion. She slipped coy­ly free, moved to exam­ine the books and odd­i­ties clut­ter­ing the room. Dacre fol­lowed close behind.

“Good­ness, you do own an excess of skulls. How grue­some.”

“Aw, Silve. ‘S only five.”

Silve tapped the sil­ver teeth of one black­ened skull. “Who was this?”

“Some dead chap.”

Dacre received a frown. “Rather goes with­out say­ing, does­n’t it? Giv­en you own his skull?”

“Fine. M’en­e­my,” Dacre said, tuck­ing his chin on Sil­ve’s shoul­der.

“Why’d you kill him?”

The man shrugged. “Did­n’t. Ene­my, b’still my part­ner. Got his head lopped by an eidolon, so I kept it.”

“Oh,” said Silve, shirk­ing. “Why would you do that?”

“Seemed like a good idea, a’ the time.” **

Silve tisked, moved from the skulls. Dacre wob­bled, unsup­port­ed. 

“What about these?” said she, indi­cat­ing a glass dome con­tain­ing dozens of blue coins.

“Agadese ceruleans. Call it m’ rainy day fund.”

“Where’d you find them?” Silve peered at the coins, at the runic denom­i­na­tions on their faces.

“Some hole inna moun­tain. Inside stat­ues.” None too grace­ful­ly, Dacre peeled the coat from her shoul­ders.

“What kind of stat­ues?” said Silve, push­ing the coat at him.

“Liv­ing ones,” he tossed it away.

“Queer.”

“ ‘Orri­ble.”

“Hmf,” said Silve. She moved to a side table, leaned on the wide arm on the chair beside. “What’s this?” she said, point­ing to a mossy glass cylin­der which occu­pied the table. A steam­ing ter­rar­i­um of the make suit­able for orchids. Some­thing moved inside.

“My friend,” said Dacre, join­ing her there.

“Oh,” bright­ened Silve, kneel­ing to look at the glass. “A pet?”

“A mince toad.”

At that, Silve recoiled from the glass and the watery-eyed amphib­ian with­in. She frowned. “Ah.”

“Ain’t noth­ing to scoff a’. Lit­tle bas­tard’s more faith­ful than most.” He looked grim. “ ‘N longer-lived.”

“Have you no friends but toads?” she grinned.

Dacre looked sour, arms fold­ed. “Like I said, longer-lived.”

“Don’t tell me all your friends are dead?” con­soled Silve, cleav­ing to his side.

Dacre shirked from her. “S’what I implied, init?” His tone was abrupt­ly cold.

“What of the cut­ters you earned your for­tune with?”

“S’ one man’s for­tune,” Dacre mum­bled. “For there weren’t none left to share it with.”

Gin­ger­ly, Silve pat­ted him, hic­cuped pitchi­ly. “I’m s—”

“Don’t,” said Dacre, turn­ing his lip. “Got noth­in’ to do with you.” He slumped into the arm­chair, kicked his hob­nailed boots over the side.

Awk­ward, Silve peered at him, twirling one brown ringlet. Dacre, his coquetry van­ished, paid lit­tle heed, chin tipped to chest, eyes shut. Silve raised an eye­brow, saun­tered to the hearth. Fire­light flick­ered on the drunk­en sheen of her eyes as they slid over the clut­tered man­tel­piece.

“Sword grip,” she mused, touch­ing a bro­ken hilt. “Jar of pret­ty white arrows.” She touched a point, del­i­cate­ly. “And…” she smirked, pluck­ing up a bat­tered wood­en thing. “Er, what do you call this?”

Dacre’s head snapped up. “A hel­met,” he insist­ed. “M’first.”

“But it’s–”

“Hel­met,” he inter­rupt­ed, loud­ly.

“Just a buck­et with eye holes,” gig­gled Silve.

Dacre red­dened. A net­work of pale scares stood out on his worn cheeks. He stood. 

“Sor­ry,” mum­bled Silve, eyes wide. With a terse jerk, the cut­ter took his buck­et from her limp hands, replaced it on the man­tel. He scooped up her dis­card­ed coat, prof­fered it. “Y’should go.”

“But–”

“Can’t be laugh­in’ at m’ past.” Dacre 

“Dacre, I want–”

“Get.” He shoved her towards the door.

“Want to know more about it,” blurt­ed Silve.

Dacre set­tled, blinked. “Y’do?”

“Yes. I should­n’t’ve laughed. It’s just…” She wor­ried the coat. “So extra­or­di­nary, your life. I like you for it. I want to hear about…” She ges­tured round the par­lor, to the col­lect­ed odd­i­ties. “All of it.”

Dacre’s face soft­ened. “Did­n’t think you reck­oned it tha’ way,” he said, passed a hand through his hair.

“I can stay?”

“Aye. M’sor­ry I snapped.” He looked sheep­ish. “Guess cut­ter­ings’a bit sil­ly, some­times. Got­ta be that way.” Stiffly, he took up on a near­by sofa, ges­tured for Silve to join. She did, and, hes­i­tant­ly, leaned into his shoul­der.

“Now,” said the once-cut­ter, ges­tur­ing to the col­lect­ed mar­vels.

“What d’y­ou want to know?”

Cut­ters are a folk of pecu­liar taste.

A caste whose pro­cliv­i­ties, influ­enced by a cul­ture of labor unri­valed in per­il and hor­ror, have grown pri­mal and queer.

They do not begin this way. Novice cut­ters, untest­ed, desire much the same as sim­ple sol­diers. Food, drink, good beds; com­pa­ny and gold to share and afford them with. And of these novices, many enough nev­er grow weird­er in their wants, for after even one bleak ven­ture, the weak and the timid are alike culled by fear and mor­tal­i­ty. Those who do live grow stranger by each ven­ture.

With every delve into the dark and the for­bid­den, a cut­ter may come to desire and fetishize the unusu­al. As folk exposed to the extreme and the trau­mat­ic are wont, they may seek dis­trac­tion and sen­sa­tion either supe­ri­or to or in sub­li­ma­tion of their fell expe­ri­ences. To some, vio­lence becomes nor­mal­cy. Either as a pas­time, a solu­tion, or both. Casu­al crim­i­nal­i­ty, brazen squat­ting or tres­pass, and pre­da­tion of junior cut­ters are every­day activ­i­ties. Oth­er cut­ters acquire a taste for numb­ing sub­stances. Lau­danum, strong absinthes, and coqueli­cot, name­ly, are habit­u­al favorites. Enough of these sorts end their careers not by ven­tur­ing’s dan­gers, but by the addic­tions acquired in an attempt to for­get them. These behav­iors, while com­mon, are not yet among the odd­est cut­ters learn to exhib­it.

A fetishiza­tion of par­tic­u­lar ele­ments of gear num­bers among the ven­tur­ing folk’s chiefest obses­sions. Arms, armor, and spe­cial­ized equip­ment are marks of a cutter’s suc­cess, of the gold earned and burned to obtain them. Among such equip­ment, a super­sti­tious desire is espe­cial­ly present for three dis­tinct items: Boots, back­packs, and hel­mets. These are sta­ples of the cutter’s trade. Boots, for long march­es in the wild and the black; and for cathar­ti­cal­ly stomp­ing one’s foes. Packs, to safe­ly fer­ry gear into and loot out of a ven­tur­ing locale. And helms, col­lo­qui­al­ly known as “buck­ets,” for which cut­ters hold super­sti­tious rev­er­ence. † Cut­ters will read­i­ly bick­er, tus­sle, even kill, if giv­en enough mad impe­tus, over such icons of their trade.

Many choose addi­tion­al accou­trements for which to obsess. Some, obsessed with clean­li­ness both phys­i­cal and mor­tal, crave soap and gray salt. Oth­ers, ter­ri­fied at the prospect of encoun­ter­ing the unknown, hoard bes­tiaries and books of lore. Lots, con­di­tioned by pover­ty and roman­ti­ciza­tion of wealth, car­ry a store of gold at all times; one which they will nev­er spend, only clutch for strange secu­ri­ty.

The queer predilec­tions of cut­ters, though uncount­able in their vari­ety, are in the end joined by a few per­vad­ing traits: By obses­sion over mate­r­i­al gain, the behav­ioral con­se­quence of a trade defined by steal­ing wealth for greedy solic­i­tors; and by an eerie ten­den­cy for gal­lows humor, a jovial man­i­fes­ta­tion of defens­es formed to resist the black effect of often-hope­less work upon the mind. A prod­uct of cama­raderie, of the self-rein­forc­ing fel­low­ship, built of a com­mu­nal rejec­tion of mor­tal­i­ty, with­out which the ven­tur­ing life would be impos­si­ble.

A guardian of the mind, with­out which a cut­ter, retired or alone, is naught but an odd­i­ty: A col­lec­tion of hoard­ed curios and mem­o­ries best for­got.