We cleared the Cascadian Camps. From there, we followed the map to the rolling hills of the countryside. The golden fields were almost invisible beneath Belenatum's sunset. A farmhand slept on the road, dreaming the day away. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. The autumn mosquitos hounded Barroco mercilessly, conducting him like a marionette.
My chest wound ground its stitching. Only after the gravedigger had dug me out did I get fixed up. Even so, the festering and aching was nothing compared to the ringing in my ears.
"....Lady Florence is simply the best. Ouch! I adore her capricious smile! Rare as it may be, it's a wonder of the world," Barroco exclaimed. Ever since we left the camps, he had said little else. Like the raindrop that broke the dam, when I asked, he gave me a biography of somebody so perfect that the angel of beauty, Micashion, should retire.
"Micashion gave us all blemishes not to mar us. She did so to show us that no matter what, we are whole in the eyes of the Greater God. As punishment, Ruak forced her to wear a mask of roses, scarring her." A priestly lecture invaded my thoughts. Where did I hear this? Was I a stout believer in the Faith of the Blind Men? A pebble caught the hole in my shoe, and I snapped back.
"A wonder of the world?" I lazily waved my arms as if I were trying to swat mosquitos too.
Cavalier as he may be, Barroco had struck me as a diligent, intelligent youth. His brilliance outshined his many shortcomings. Now, I'm not so sure.
"Huzzah! I have found another man of culture! You understand the finest things in life."
The greatest thing is this golden sunset. No boy or girl is worth obsessing over in these short, long years, I thought.
But I did not want to break his illusion. Why me when I know that this Florence girl will do it much more effectively? I smiled and nodded.
I was Morrie Griffonson. I matched no descriptions of missing persons. I had no recollection of who I was, though my knowledge of the world was coming back. When I asked for my possessions, the old gravedigger had scavenged the pawnshops and returned with a broken cavalry saber, a rusty Kiss & Lesson revolver, and an ornate pocket watch.
He could not give back the one item that was assuredly mine.
"Was my heart the only thing you guys extracted?" I asked.
"I'm positive, Morrie. Again, I offer my sincerest apologies that I can't get it back to you. Honestly, you don't need it. Your recovery had been miraculous. You have doubled your weight since you arrived." Barroco smugly smiled, pondering his achievements.
I hated how Barroco was correct. I didn't need it. The cavity in my chest felt hollow, as there was no pain. I asked, "Why Morrie?"
"I think Morrie was one of Cletus's older brothers. He was weaker than the rest. So when the cholera outbreak happened ten years ago, he was the first to go. I think deep down, Cletus hoped you were him."
"hmm…" I replied, burdened. I instead turned my thoughts to the other name. Griffonson was, if I recall correctly, the surname given to bastards in Loranisburg. Noblemen would shove their ill-gotten sons into the semi-prestigious royal police, whose emblem was the griffon.
"Wait, is Florence a Springfield?" I asked, suddenly remembering more about high society scandals.
If Barroco's eyes could light up any more, they did. "Why, yes! How could I have neglected to tell you?"
"I know about her family's tragedy" Have I seen it in a newspaper? Heard it in a coffeehouse? Barroco was certainly not interested in this girl for her status or wealth.
"Your amnesia is confounding me, Morrie. The knowledge from your previous life is intact. You hold the wit of a gentleman, yet not a single clue as to your past."
Barroco must suspect me, I imagine.
"But alas, I don't care. If you have played me false, well, I understand having secrets. You have been a great friend these past few days, and I wish to have you around." He turned around and whistled.
I chuckled at his guileless optimism. Youngsters are remarkable, aren't they?
"Are you good with sword and gun, Morrie?" He paused, crouching lower.
"I wouldn't know, but I'm sure that my weapons won't work." The cavalry saber used to be splendid with its leather grip and steel basket guard, but now it has no blade. The cylinder on the revolver won't turn.
"Well, there's trouble ahead."
"I see." I studied the situation. Barroco and I hastily retreated from the side of the road. We hid in a field of wheat.
We were on the outskirts of a quiet rural village. A small, roaring river bisected it. On the northern bank near a rickety suspension bridge were five tied up, soaked, and gagged officers of the royal police. In the middle of the rapids was our capsized wagon, holding itself in place by the current and boulders. On both sides, on the bridge, and loitering in the village were 20-odd gangsters, clean-cut and dressed impeccably in beaver felt fedoras and finely cut linen suits. They were ill-suited for combat if not for the cavalcade of modern weaponry that sprawled around them. Clip-loading steel rifles with varnished walnut stocks lay next to high-caliber sidearms called Loranisburg pianos.
I was surprised at the Courageous Companions' ill-discipline, as very few of them bothered to secure their perimeter. Some were out of shape, and some were openly drinking. They looked like they were having a merry time. Meanwhile, their leaders were racking their brains trying to retrieve the expensive lunarfritz suspended in the river.
"Alright, Barroco, we are up against the finest army in the world," I whispered, checking the pocket watch that could not tell time.