What others have said about 'A Ragman's Vow'
"‘A Ragman’s Vow’ by Brent Knowles is a wonderful tale of magical realism, and the best tale in this installment of On Spec. Dan is the creator of a comic book featuring Ragman, a dark superhero who draws his power from the misery of the slums…" -- Jim Stratton at The Fix
"The stories of the artist Dan and his character Ragman are told in neat parallel with an ending that may be fantasy and may be luck…" -- Eamonn Murphy at SFCrowsnest
A RAGMAN'S VOW
by
Brent Knowles
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Brent Knowles on Smashwords
A Ragman's Vow
Copyright © 2008 by Brent Knowles
This story was originally published in On Spec #73.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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A Ragman's Vow
(Ragman, Issue #14) Below the slum known as the Labyrinth, Ragman sits atop an overturned crate, half submerged by sewage. Rats cover him.
"Stop with the puppy dog eyes," Ragman says to them, "you won't make me feel guilty about leaving the boy..."
The cab stopped. Dan's fake-leather shoes stepped into dry snow, and he thought of how his own life seemed to parallel the city's seasons, in pattern, if not in fact. The hustle and bustle of a wonderful summer had given way to a melancholic fall, which in turn was now replaced by an impassive winter. He had forgotten his scarf again, and so he pulled his business jacket tight to ward the mild wind as he left the cab to plow through sterile streets towards the bank. Rumbling bass turned his head in the direction of a long black sedan that had stopped for a red light on the street parallel to Dan's sidewalk.
A curl of smoke drifted out of a half open window, and Dan stopped and stared at the smoker. His hands pawed at where his scarf ought be. How many times had she rushed out the door of their little suburban house to hand-deliver it to him? The light changed before he could do more than stop and gawk, and soon the car disappeared around a corner. Three years since he had last seen Amanda, his wife.
He shook his head, desperate to dislodge the past.
Ahead was the gauntlet, the homeless sitting or kneeling on cardboard with hats, cups, and folded hands held out. Mark and Stacey were singing and Dan smiled, donating more than he could afford, all the while pretending not to know these people. They returned the favor, with understanding in their eyes.
"That only encourages them," Dan's boss, the bank manager, said with a frown of disappointment. Dan did not care. Amanda had not been the only one to hit rock bottom. Difference was, he supposed, that he had scrambled back to the surface.
Or so he liked to believe.
#
Ragman rocks himself, his mind lost in the past. It had ended with violence and blood-the Ghoul's body never found. So Ragman had crawled down, down, down to where no one would find him. Not even the boy. Here, only the rats would blame him for what would happen next.
Dan's apartment was a swirl of chaos, the focal point a drawing easel in the living room where a television ought to belong, paints and books of paper piled and scattered across the floor, and beer cases serving as support furniture around the easel. A worn stool sat in front of it. The only element of neatness was the stack of comics, piled straight and square, just like Carl had always insisted, on a second stool.
The boy's school photo was tacked onto the corner of the easel so Dan always saw it when he worked. He looked up now, his hand covered in dried ink, from working on Issue #14. The stack held thirteen comics. Though Carl would never read it, Dan still thought his son would have appreciated Dan’s continuing the series. Memories warmed him: Dan had handled all stages of production for his home-brew comic, from writing to distribution. Dan's career had been in full swing.
Before the dying.
With a headshake, he knocked the dark thoughts back. Almost done this issue, his atonement.
Ragman still listens to the city's gossip. The rats that run through sewers, live in cupboards, and climb across sleeping couple's beds, they all talk. A big, old-fashioned chat room. Ragman listens to the rats as they whisper of bodies and bits of bodies. Yes, Ragman listens; knows that Ghoul has returned.
Police sirens stirred the night air, and Dan took advantage of the interruption to go to the window, draw back the simple canvas curtain, and look out at the night. He lived several blocks from the Labyrinth-a shantytown growing out, as if a malignant tumor, from the city proper. A clever journalist had lifted the label from Dan's comics. He supposed he ought be flattered. That meant of course, that there were two Labyrinths: a real one and an illusion. For Dan, his Labyrinth was the real one; for he had never visited the slum town that sat a half-dozen blocks from him.
His eyes flickered around, focused finally on the frozen mounds of snow that littered the street side. Already they browned, as if the dirt beneath them fed on the snow, and grew from that feeding, brown maggots erupting from a snow-white corpse. Much like how Dan imagined Ghoul returned in the Ragman series.
Was Amanda out there? His worry for her surprised him, and brought his gaze to the pile of clothing hidden behind the curtain. It still smelled of barrel fires, sweat, and street.
#
Ragman crawls up and into a world of sirens, sky-clutching scrapers, and bright lights performing macabre dances with the lingering shadows of this never-night but always-dusk place. War has come. Again.
He wanders, keeping to those shadows, but staying free of their dance. Ragman does not dance. Not his thing, you see. He walks for some hours, the rats foraging ahead, whiskers busy.
"You there, stop!" A voice, familiar, causes Ragman to pause, to look up. A young officer stands at alley mouth, holding a revolver nervously. Recognition.
"The boy has become a man," Ragman says, his smile hidden by the cloth covering his face.
The cop smiles. "Rags! You're back. You're back!"
"So it would seem."
"No one believes, not anymore. They've forgotten. But here you are, flesh and well..."
Yes, the boy had always been Ragman's number-one fan.
Dan waited outside for the Beggar-Priest, sweating beneath the layers of clothing -baggy red-checkered logger's jacket, a sweater, and two t-shirts, all of it filthy except for the scarf wrapped about his neck. He sat, sharing a piece of sidewalk cardboard with Mark, his coworkers from his day-job at the bank walking past, not even recognizing him. Mostly Dan kept his head down while he waited, avoiding the eyes of strangers, not wanting to invite a mocking laugh, or worse: a pitying kneeler with ear ready to listen, dredging up hurt like a pick-wielding miner.
"Here he comes," Mark spoke softly before rising and walking away, obviously made uncomfortable by the man moving towards them, the Beggar-Priest. Dan looked up; and for a moment the dead winter sun was obscured. What light escaped, brushed against the back of the man, and created the illusion of an aura. Then the Beggar-Priest spoke and ended any angelic allusions.
"Welcome back, buddy." The Beggar-Priest's voice assumed an unwarranted familiarity with Dan-they had never met, though Dan had often watched this man push his way through a soup kitchen line or wander alone by the dead bridges near dusk. The aged man's face was old and not kindly looking; his almost rat-like features made him seem a man who enjoyed chewing on food, ideas, or if the occasion presented itself, people. The old-timers whispered dark rumors about him.
With a grunt worthy of his stature, the Beggar-Priest sat in the spot Mark had vacated.
"Nice. Still warm," he said, "I heard you were looking for me?"
Dan nodded, finding it uncomfortable to look the man in the eye. He said, "I started asking around this morning. Didn't expect-"
"I know all your problems Daniel. I've always known. This is why you're here, no?"
"My wife-"
"No," the Beggar-Priest interrupted again, "your troubles do not start with her. That she burns her own candle bare is not the reason you're sitting here. Again."
Dan sighed. Thoughts triggered tears but he kept both inside. Or tried to. "My son, he died."
"No Daniel. Not there either. It is in the middle. This is where you seek."
"I'm just looking for help."
"Here on the streets there's little enough of that," said the Beggar-Priest.
Frustrated, Dan braved a direct look, a direct challenge. To hell with piercing eyes. This man, this Beggar-Priest, knew everyone. All Dan wanted was to know where Amanda was. "I can pay you," he said, "I just want to find Amanda."
"Sad lot of bums out here today, Daniel. They take to wisdom as moths to flame. A tiny fire and they make of you a god. I'm just a man. But I've seen much. I know where your wife is, but my point is simple. You won't get where you need to be until you understand what put you on this path."
"Is she... is she on the street?"
A nod. "Hendrickson."
"Jesus." That name they all knew; he owned the Labyrinth.
"She's fallen, Daniel; and Hendrickson, he's only burying her deeper. He uses your wife like a trophy. You try and mess that up, he'll have at you in a bad way."
"I need to talk to her," Dan said.
"That don't sound smart."
"But I-"
The Beggar-Priest said, "I was not finished. You get old, you talk a bit slower, takes a while for the tongue to keep pace with the mind. It don't sound smart Daniel. But it does sound right. You talking to her. It'll take some doing, but I think you'll make it. I feel it about you. Like you're finally seeing."
"Yeah," Dan said, nodding his head. He had been so damn sure that he had come to grips with it all when he had left the streets, but Amanda had disrupted his fragile stoicism. He confided, "I thought I could put my past behind me. Thought I should. But these last few months, they've just been a different type of hiding, haven't they? I wasted so much time."
"Time's not wasted, not if, in the end, you do what needs doing." The Beggar-Priest looked away, and Dan wondered if the old man was thinking of his own unfinished struggles. Old-timers said he had run afoul of Real Evil, sometime in his past, and that had pushed him to the street. Suddenly, he leaned towards Dan, his face too close, his eyes too wide, his lips trembling just a little much, as he continued, "There's some of us that are touched. You remember, at the end, when all matters, that there's more to this world than what our eyes show us. See, I'm too close to God, so close that no one else in the Church could bear it. Funny that I'm telling you; but I think it's all part of your path, and maybe a little part of mine."
Dan trembled beneath this deluge of crazy mouth. The Beggar-Priest must have smelled the disbelief. He rose with surprising agility, a big grin on his face as he finished with, "You'll see. Just remember, when you do, what I said. You're touched, Daniel. Tonight, wait at the restaurant, the one beneath Hendrickson's Tower. You'll find your wife again."
"Where?" Dan asked.
The Beggar-Priest paused and pointed towards the Labyrinth before walking on, and disappearing into the gloomy morning.
#
It stretches skyward like a malicious child's tottering block tower. A slum city, the kind that used to exist only in the poorest regions of the world-this is the Labyrinth. The wretches who make this place their home believe it to be the most dangerous place in all the world. They are right.
But still more move here every day.
The Labyrinth grows like a termite mound with one family building a clumsy house, and then selling their roof to another family, who then build another story on top of the first family's dwelling. This process repeats. Common wisdom suggests that five stories are as tall as a family ought to build. Most stand much taller.
Ragman has left the boy in the city, in safety, to hunt down the Ghoul who has made the Labyrinth his home.
The Labyrinth terrified Dan, but he shuffled ever deeper inside it, keeping to the fringes. His feet had carried him across the slums all through the night in his search for the restaurant. At first he had assumed his quest a simple one; but the number of shops, food stalls, and even banks that littered this unofficial extension of the city surprised him.
He pushed deeper, avoiding any contact with roaming gangs, but twice saw screaming men dragged into alleys. Gunfire erupted sporadically, though always as a sound off in the distance. Frustrated as the hours dwindled, Dan wandered, head hung low, feet pushing him ever forward. And then he saw it.
The Tower rose above the other slum apartments, a massive black entity, unique in that it looked almost properly built. The two buildings beside the Tower showed signs of construction on their upper levels, but they still stood well short of their neighbor. And below them, nestled at the foot of the Tower, sat a small restaurant with a simple yet obvious sign that read ”Food”.
As he approached, a black sedan pulled in front of the restaurant; and he stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Wrapping himself in shadows, he stared as Amanda stepped out, wearing a trashy red top and a short skirt. Two men, dressed casually, but wearing guns strapped to their waists, followed her out of the car. As the sedan drove away, the bodyguards steered Amanda towards the tall building but she veered towards the restaurant; and after a short argument, they left her alone. They walked into the Tower while Amanda entered the restaurant.
Ragman follows the trail of bodies deep into the Labyrinth, into the Ghoul's territory. Even the rats seem agitated. His gloved hand finds a bloody object. Ghoul often left notes for him this way, in the past. Now is no different. Ragman lets out a deep hiss as he realizes that it is the boy's badge.
Dan followed her into the poorly-lit restaurant. As he entered, he paused. She sat in a booth at the far end of the restaurant, her matted blond hair dull, an old bruise highlighting her cheek. She stared out the window, sipping at her coffee, and did not even bother to look his way as he slid into the seat opposite her.
"I'm done for the night," she said.
"Hi Amanda."
She almost fumbled her coffee as she turned her head towards him. " If Hendrickson sees me talking to you... fuck Dan, what are you doing here?"
"I came to ask you the same question."
"As if you need to ask," Amanda replied, her voice edged with anger, "It's a new life, a clean start. The memories, they have trouble finding me here. Last I heard Dan, you were on the street too. You don't need me to explain."
"I cleaned up Amanda. I...was fine. Until I saw you, yesterday."
"Just leave me alone," Amanda said, "it doesn't matter. Not anymore."
"It matters. You matter. I still worry. I want to help."
"Help? Yeah, right. Have you forgotten why you left in the first place? What I did?"
Dan's face flushed red, remembering how she had spilled from man to man, not even bothering to hide her affairs. She had called him emotionally unavailable, and that became her excuse. Finally, Dan had drawn a line-and Amanda had jumped over it. He remembered the day he left her, how she had stood at their doorstep, her expression almost victorious.
Dan said, "I understand my own part in that now. How I was never there for you after Carl died."
"My new life suits me Dan. I don't need you messing it up."
"You're being unfair. We had-"
"Fair?" Amanda asked. "What else did you expect? You killed our son, killed Carl!"
Dan recoiled. His tongue fumbled for words, but found no purchase. He never heard the footsteps, never noticed Amanda's rage cooling to concern as she looked up, behind him. They hit him. Hard.
#
Gunfire fills the night. Ragman leans against the spiked fence that surrounds a large, peaked tower, whose innards are a mystery for no light emanates from any floor. As if vacant. Or waiting.
"I have found your Haunt," Ragman whispers, knowing full well that he has been guided here. The Ghoul has chosen their final battlefield. He leaps onto the fence and lifts his head to the smog-suffocated sky. He roars. The cry is meant for the scurrying dark things that live in the bowels of the city. The shitter's critters.
The stench was so ripe and rotten that Dan was almost able to ignore the throbbing of his skull. A quick touch to the back of his head assured him it was still intact, though his hand came away covered with sticky blood. When he finally opened his eyes to a gray and murky darkness, he groaned in despair. Blood, rats, and filth disgusted him, as did sewers and violence. Truth was, Ragman's world scared Dan. But as he woke, he found himself on his back in it.