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Sweat coursed down his spine as he exhaled a rough grunt with every swing of the machete that sang a high-pitched tune as it glided through dense underbrush as if it wasn't even there. He could feel a mild tightness beginning in his upper arms and lower back, but knew he'd loosen up so long as he maintained his momentum. Henry was no longer the lean, lithe fellow who had moved through jungles with the ease of a deadly predator. Age had sapped his endurance, forced him to factor in recovery time after some of his more physical exertions, but left most of his strength and the wisdom to pace himself.
He had consumed a lot of water before beginning his latest endeavor, and it flowed from his glistening, grimy skin in silvery drops, darkening the light cotton fabric of the shirt he wore unbuttoned halfway down his torso, the sleeves rolled and bunched at his elbows. He wore an old pair of plain brown trousers with one belt loop dangling free and some fraying around the cuffs, and on his head he had tied a simple bandanna folded to the width of two fingers to keep sweat from running down into his eyes.
Insects buzzed and a gnat occasionally attempted suicide in one of his eyeballs or a nostril. The work was tedious, but relatively mindless, allowing his thoughts to wander. Before him loomed some woody-stemmed plant, something that could eventually prove to be a tree if he allowed it to stand in his path. The rhythmic swinging slowed as he pondered it. Just a weed, he thought dismissively, and lunged forward to direct a blow like a corsair's scimitar meant to bisect a nemesis. The broad blade bit and stuck, sending a tremor up his arm. Pain bloomed through his right shoulder. He had torn his rotator cuff years before while performing wild maneuvers with his bullwhip, and while he had regained full use of the arm after a couple of months, it didn't take much to aggravate the injury.
The injured weed trembled as the blade was wriggled free. Henry struck it again, shifting his position to reduce further shockwaves. He chopped at it again and again before he seized the top portion with his left hand and forced it to the side with loud cracks and grunts, thinking maybe he could just twist it free of the thick, long, woody fibers that still held it.
As the top succumbed, he was confronted with the innocent, owlish gazes of three children passively watching him. One sat astride a bicycle rigged to pull a small wagon, one was perched on the edge of the laden wagon, and one was on foot.
"Hey, Mister, you wanna buy some magazines?"
For just a brief moment he absurdly thought of powder magazines, but the smallest child in the wagon lifted a copy of a periodical he knew was popular with a number of local families who lived simple lives off their own land, who imagined a quick jaunt to the next town over was a major undertaking.
"No. No, thank you," he told them, wiping sweat from his face with a meaty hand.
The children fidgeted and then the one on foot remembered, "There's someone at your front door."
"There is? Thank you," he said again, setting the machete down and trudging through the overgrown section of the back of the property.
He didn't hear knocking or anyone calling halloo, and as he moved around the side of the house he failed to see a tell-tale vehicle parked anywhere nearby. Perhaps the visitor had departed or the boys had been mistaken. As he stood at the corner looking at the street, he finally caught movement to his right and was surprised to see a bold figure standing in what was left of the long-neglected shrubbery, his face pressed to the edges of his hands which were pressed against the glass of one of the front windows.
Henry thought to approach the stranger stealthily so he could land an unexpected tap upon his shoulder, but stepping upon a dry leaf thwarted his plan. The man turned casually, a beaming smile upon his features, and said, "Good day! Do you happen to know if this place is for rent?"
"It will soon be for sale," the sweaty man answered, tugging free the bandanna so he could use it to mop at his skin.
"Ah, well, I didn't want it forever," the younger man said, just enough of an accent in his tones to make him sound perhaps Scottish.
"Just in town for a little while?" Henry asked him.
"I'm a photographer. Freelance," he said, finally stepping away from the house. "Do you know whom I might speak with? About possibly residing here a little while?"
"Well, that would be me."
"Oh! Really? And here I thought you were perhaps the gardener! Rory McKenna," he said, offering a pale, long-fingered hand.
Henry shook it, noting it was well scarred and calloused. More like the hand of a laborer than a photographer. "Been taking pictures long?"
"Oh, off and on," the man replied evasively. "Been more of a hobby, actually. I'm putting together a portfolio of specific types of architecture."
"Architecture?"
"You know, houses and such." He turned to appraise the one beside him. "This one's rather pleasing. Had it long?"
"It was my father's place," Henry answered. "He passed away about a year ago."
The young man pulled his porkpie hat down over his heart and lowered his gaze. "Sorry to hear that."
Henry studied the other man; his lean figure, broad shoulders, and a scar across his nose. He had an oval face dotted with a few freckles, a somewhat shapeless blob of a nose, wavy rust-colored hair, a full lower lip and sparkling light eyes. He was dressed nattily in a vest that matched the fabric of his hat over a sea foam-green button-down shirt, a narrow rust-orange tie, a thin black belt holding up dark chocolate trousers, and laced boots of a sort he suspected rose high beneath his pant legs to just below his knees. While appearing very put-together, the young man's attire also happened to be a bit shabby as though he didn't own many changes of clothing, or perhaps he bought second-hand. "Rory McKenna. You sound Scottish. Where are you from?"
"It's Irish, actually," he admitted. "I call New York my home. When I'm not out and about taking photos of things, that is."
"Do you travel with your wife?"
Startled, Rory gazed at the slim band of weathered gold that ringed one finger. His knuckles were so enlarged that it looked like the tiny ring would have to be cut if he ever needed to remove it. Large knuckles bespoke possible arthritis, and Henry wondered if the man was more used to hard work or fighting. "Gods, no," he chuckled. "The woman would be bored to tears." He smiled grimly, and then queried, "How much might you charge a fellow by the week, sir?"
"Henry," said Henry simply with a slight nod. "I'm afraid the place is in no shape to be occupied. I had planned to stay here myself while I finished repairs and cleaning, but it's really not fit to remain in."
"I see," the other said, glancing downward. He lifted his cap to his head and patted it in place. "Well, I do appreciate your time then."
"I needed the break."
"By chance," the red-headed man tried, "could I bother you for the use of your water closet?"
"Ah," Henry began, spreading his hands apart, "the plumbing's not exactly in working order. The place has been unoccupied for some time. I had a neighbor checking on it for me, but he just kept the front lawn down and made sure kids didn't break the windows out."
"Thank you, then," said Mr. McKenna understandingly. "I suppose I'll just return to the diner in town."
Before he could walk off, Henry addressed him again. "What made you think this place might be for rent anyway?"
"Oh, nothing," Rory told him, strolling off with his hands in his pockets. "Just fancied the look of it, 'tis all."
