Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Fifty-Eight: Kieran

9:15 AM, November 8th, 1899

"Hey, mind if I tag along?"

"S-sure, if y-you want to."

As Sadie climbed aboard the prairie wagon, Kieran instinctively hopped down, expecting her to slide from shotgun to the driver's seat—she usually didn't trust an O'Driscoll to lead. But instead she grabbed him by the hole in his navy duster coat's shoulder and said, "Where are you goin'? We gotta get a move on."

He drove them out of the reservation, waving goodbye to Mary-Beth. Uncle pushed her out of the way and flipped the pair off. Kieran chuckled, but only after Sadie did.

It seemed unreal, he thought as they crossed the rickety bridge connecting them further down the mountain, that just a few nights ago they'd pulled that prank on the old man. She musta been sneakin' drinks when I wasn't lookin'. A lotta drinks. It's the only way, cuz she hates me.

Still, when Branwen's hooves broke the border leading into Cumberland Forest, and the high-pitched chitters of the bluejays filled the air along with the pine needles that floated from the towering trees, Sadie's scar seemed to genuinely mirror her emotions. Placid pleasantness was plastered all over her face.

Nevertheless, Kieran remembered all her cold mean words and found his hair pricking when she spoke.

"Nice to be gettin' out of there, huh?"

"Y-yeah," Kieran stammered. "A lot's been goin' on, it's nice to get a break." It woulda been nicer if I didn't have you breathing down my neck, ready to pounce. But he didn't dare say that. "Thanks for the company."

"Oh, this ain't a favor," she said, stretching her arms. "I needed out. Last night some kids tried stealin' my guns when they thought I was sleepin'. Wanted to use 'em for some game of Indians and cowboys they were playing. Not sure what's worse: the image of eight-year-old boys flapping a loaded pistol around, or the fact that all of 'em wanted to be cowboys…" She exhaled and kept rambling, and Kieran pinched himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. Sadie rambling? "Y'know, when I lived with my husband, it was just the two of us, alone with a dozen miles of snow between us and the next feller. Truth be told, I think I preferred that; all these folk… feel like I'm livin' in goddamn Chicago."

"Yeah," Kieran found himself agreeing. "And it sure don't help that everyone's a Kilkenny cat now. It's a… it's a goddamn powderkeg."

Sadie nodded. She couldn't argue with that if her eternal soul depended on it. Dutch beatin' Molly, Bill beatin' Karen, Abigail pullin' no punches at Dutch for what happened to John, Charles and Swanson deciding to fuckin' call it quit. House of cards. And then there's Grimshaw…

He shuddered and reminded himself to keep his guard up with Sadie. Grimshaw changed her tune once. Then it changed right back.

They met a crossroads and continued south by southeast, brushing over dying orange leaves. Despite the alteration in regions, the temperature only perked up ever so slightly.

His companion cleared her throat. "Probably good I'm comin' with you. You need the help."

"T-thanks," Kieran uttered weakly. Something about the life her lips gave that phrase reminded him of Captain Hudson. Trust me, bog, sometimes you gotta hurt a little to help a little. And you need a lot of help.

Sadie's head tilted with her golden-brown Panama hat. "Cuz… uh, the folk down where we're goin' are… a bit weird. Dangerous weird. That's, uh, that's what I meant. When I said you needed help. That's why I said that." She chuckled dryly. "Last time I was there, I was huntin' down O'Driscolls. We were at Lakay, remember? Anyway, the locals are nuts, completely off their rockers. Believin' in demon dogs and magic dreamcatchers. Fuckin' quacks, the lot."

"Uh-huh," Kieran mumbled, knuckles whitening as he squeezed Branwen's leather reigns. He was surprised to feel he hated her suddenly. Hated that she needed to stick to him, to pester, prod, demean. It was like back when he was with the O'Driscolls: he'd used to fish all the time because no one else had the patience for it. It was the only time he could be alone. But then damnable Colm insisted they just had to go to that frozen wasteland up north. There were no fishing holes in the solid lake. And the other O'Driscolls would pester and prod and demean, and Kieran's respite was gone, just the same as now—a man needed peace, just a little.

But I ain't no man. He thought of the Murfree, with his toothless smile and pale shirtless chest. Does baby like that? Flesh bubbled from how tight the straps were coiled around his hands.

"Y'know…" Sadie started, picking a scab and wiping it on the canvas cover of the wagon. "Me and Uncle killed all the O'Driscolls at Hanging Dog Ranch. Funny… I didn't see you there." She trumpeted a strange giggle. When she saw his confusion, her visage hardened so sincerely that Kieran couldn't take his eyes off hers. They refused to even drift to that wicked pink half-smile decorating her face. "That, that was just about the most pitiful apology this state's ever seen, weren't it?" She sighed, struggling to queef the words out. "Kieran… I'm sorry."

In his surprise, Kieran nearly pitch-poled the wagon off the road. He heard her wrong, he must have. A bug must've flown in his ear. But that earnest, honest stare stayed etched on her. S-she means it?

"I carried a lot of hate," she kept on, "because of what happened to me. And I liked it, it was a good distraction. But I'm seeing clearly now, and I know I've been aiming that rage far too often." She laid a hand on his tattered hole of an epaulet. Her touch was usually as cold as ice, but today, it was soft and warm, like Mary-Beth's. "And far too loosely. You ain't an O'Driscoll, Kieran. You're one of us."

"Thank you," he blurted, trying to end her apology before she amended it negatively.

She smiled (a real one). "You're welcome, Kieran."

They began chatting, really chatting, as they rode into the dark-tipped green prairies of the Heartlands. Kieran told her about his time in the army, Captain Hudson, his father's annoying but brightly colored rooster, their failed farm, the way cholera had minced his mother into the dirt, and how his father had mimicked her. He'd told her things he'd only ever told Mary-Beth, and one or two things he'd never even mentioned to her.

And Sadie more than returned the favor. By the time they'd weaved straight east at the junction by the warped tree, she'd made him privy to her childhood, how her mother had died in labor, so she was raised by her grandma and father. Her father had worked as a barkeep until one night when some ruffians had a few too many to drink and tried tossing a shot glass in the air and shooting it with their revolvers. They missed and shot his spine; he never walked again. With her father disabled, her grandmother had cracked down hard on her. She was worked relentlessly, and not in a kitchen mind you. She chopped wood (which had become the new profession), packaged it, drove it to various lumber mills, assisted the staff in shaving the cylindrical stumps of wood into boards, helped her Meemaw manage the books and pay taxes, and she'd only been ten years old. She described meeting and marrying Jake (heh, though quite a few years later, I should explain). She told him of her Meemaw's smile the day they were wed in her hometown chapel. She died shortly after that, and her father hanged himself. She bore more recent tidings: the guilt she felt over a woman named Edith Downes and another called Meredith Buckley, the pain from her scar, that fucking asshole James Langton, and how the trick door beneath her brown and white elk skin rug was thin enough for her to hear every one of her husband's screams as he died.

"Were you happy bein' married?" Kieran asked when she'd finished.

She grunted lightly in consideration. "Yeah, I think so. 'Course it fuckin' hurts like hell now, but… yeah, it was worth every minute." She eyed him slyly. "Any particular reason you're askin' me that?"

His cheeks pinkened. He suddenly found the horsehair on his pants unyieldingly fascinating. "I… I don't know what you're implying."

"You should," she encouraged. "You two look good together. I doubt she'd object."

"Speaking of looking good together," he said briskly, eager to change the subject, "what the hell is goin' on with Molly and Abigail?"

Her green eyes flared with rage and delight. Rage because she knew he'd succeeded in distracting her, and delight because she was glad someone else thought the situation as fucked up as she did. "Yeah! What in God's name is that about? That bitch—oh, she doesn't even blow with the wind, she blows against it. Hell, she doesn't even blow against it, it's like she wants to plug her head in the dirt and forget about the wind altogether. And now she wants to bury Abigail with her…"

A chill danced through Kieran's spine then. "Think Abigail said somethin' to her?"

"I'm sure she did, but what?" Sadie tossed her hands up uselessly. "What on heaven or Earth could persuade Molly fucking O'Shea to think about something other than herself?" She gritted her teeth. "Y'know, when Jack was taken by Bronte, I tried to recruit her to help get him back. His life was the ante and all she had to do was play the part of some stupid damsel—perfect goddamn casting by the way on my part—for five minutes, and that skank wouldn't do it. Now she's shadowing Abigail like a cat, helping watch over John, bringing Abigail food and water—even read a bedtime story to Jack the other night—"

"Yeah, what the hell was that?"

"I don't fuckin' know!"

"Heh, maybe Dutch's beating knocked her marbles back into place," Kieran said, chuckling meekly. Sadie joined him for a moment before their smiles retreated.

"We shouldn't be laughing at that," they said, nearly in unison.

They tilted as Branwen made a sharp right. Kieran had planned to ride straight through Emerald Ranch, but now with his new commuter and all the heat she kicked up last time she was there, he opted to take the longer way around it. A solitary tree stood aside the road, its large limb rended and fallen with all the flakey leaves on the gray pathway.

"Near-death experiences can change you," Kieran added. "Remember what happened to Grimshaw—"

"—before she bounced back?"

"Before she bounced back, yeah. Maybe Molly's goin' through somethin' similar? I mean if she's crashin' with Abigail now she must've changed a bit, right? Abigail would've either tossed herself off the mountain—oh, watch for the limb, buckle up." Sadie clutched the back of her seat for dear life as they grinded over the girthy branch. "Or… or Abigail would've ended up taking Molly's stupid shawl, and—"

"OW!" cried a voice as the wagon jerked from the bump. Kieran turned to each other, as though the noise could've been an oddly produced fart, before slowly turning over their heads through the wagon's bonnet to its content: nothing special, just some rope and nails to fasten anything they might buy at Butcher Creek to their ride. Except for the fact that Kieran found the clattering of the tools grating and covered it with the picnic blanket he used as a bed to muffle the sound. And he just noticed that an awkward shape was bloating from the heavy peach and white colored fabric.

Kieran pulled the wagon to a halt. Sadie leaned over with him, and together they clutched the cloth and unveiled what lay underneath.

It was a boy, wearing an oversized blue coat and golden-brown hair. There was a dime novel tucked in his tiny fingers and he quickly stuffed it in his jacket as though reading was the real offense here.

"Just what the heck are you doin' here, boy?" Sadie asked, mixing a dash of authoritativeness in her voice.

"I, uh, wanted to come with you," he said, attempting his cutest smile. It worked on Kieran, but Sadie's hands never left her hips.

"Why?" The force in her tone let Jack know another blanket statement wouldn't stand.

Jack's eyes stuck to his knees as they rubbed the bottom of the wagon. He never looked up. "I had to get away. They were scaring me. Uncle Bill said their kind guts little boys and hang their flayed bodies up!"

Kieran opened his mouth to comfort the child, but Sadie spoke first. "You're lying. If you'd said Micah I mighta believed you, but Bill don't talk to no one no more."

"It's the truth!" Jack insisted, eyes in outstretched circles. "I don't feel safe! Especially after gettin' stolen away! I still have nightmares about it! And… and you promised you would save me!" Sadie flinched visibly at that. "Mama told me what you said, but… but you didn't even try!"

Kieran remembered when Molly had begun barking along similar lines. Sadie chased her across Shady Belle, trying to rip her head off. He placed a hand on her yellow shoulder and squeezed, trying to console her and gauge how fast her pulse was drumming. She shrugged him off and he was scared for a moment.

But she only sighed cooly. "Jack, if you can't tell me the truth, I'm gonna have to ask Kieran to turn us around and go back. Do you want that?"

"I hate you!" Jack screamed suddenly. "You wanted me to die!"

"Jack, that ain't true—"

"Yes, it is! I hate you, you liar!"

Kieran mouth was slack with shock. That ain't Jack. The words comin' out of his mouth… That ain't Jack. Then the boy turned to him.

"And you too! You traitor! O'Driscoll!"

Misty tears began to spill onto Kieran's cheekbones. He'd heard it all before but never from Jack. Not sweet little Jack. His face drooped into a frown, but Sadie's expression stayed frozenly rigid.

"I'll level with you, kid," she said, more compassionately this time (that took Kieran aback, he expected the exact opposite). "It's gonna make your mom really sad if she doesn't know where you are. After what happened last time, she'll think you got hurt again, or worse. Do you really want that?"

"Shut up!" he yelled, banging his frail arms on the wooden bows of the wagon. "Shut up shut up shut up!"

"C'mon, Jack," she tried again. "I know you don't want that. So let's turn around and go back to your mom and dad—"

"No!" He stopped banging. His pink lips started quivering. "No… Please… Don't take me back to my dad…"

Kieran's mouth widened even further. John… Did he… beat the boy? No, no, he loves Jack. I know that. He turned to Sadie who had a similar bemused countenance.

Jack was crying now, rivulets flooding down his face, dying his pudgy cheeks purple. "I don't want to see him! I can't see him! You can't make me!" He shifted to his feet, but Sadie caught his arm firmly before he bolted off. "Please don't make me…" He was whimpering now. The tips of his golden-brown locks were wet as he slumped his head onto his knees. "I can't see him missing one leg, missing one hand… pale like a page… wailing all night from the pain. Missus Grimshaw gagged him so he didn't wake anyone up. I don't want to go back, pleeease…"

The bluejays must've sensed the thickness of the atmosphere because they ceased singing at once. Silence took hold. Sadie glanced at Kieran. What the fuck do I say to that was plastered squarely on stupified curves forming around her jaw. He scratched his beard, cleared his throat, and said the only thing that came to mind:

"Of course you can come with us, Jack."

Sadie didn't fight him on that.

10:27 AM, November 8th, 1899

"You shouldn't be scared of him, Jack." The words had been gestating in Kieran's throat for miles and when they finally shot out, it was so swift if a bee had buzzed in your ear you'd have missed it. "He loves you. He'll always love you. Nothing's gonna change, I promise."

They had ridden into Bluewater Marsh, heading north to Butcher Creek. Jack's head flumped on the wagon's edge. The cover blanketing the wagon's top was ripped and out it he peered as they drove through the town of Lagras.

"He's gonna need a pegleg and hook now," Jack mumbled glumly. The light from his peephole illuminated his glassy eye, which never blinked. "He's gonna look like a pirate."

"Y-you're damn right he will," Kieran attempted. "Just like all those pirate stories you love. He'll look so cool, I'm gonna be jealous."

"Yeah," Sadie joined in. "I love pirates."

"Me too!" They smiled over their shoulders. "It'll be—"

"I hate pirates," Jack muttered flatly.

"What?" Kieran kept trying, despite his partner's boots on his toes. "Pirates are cool, didn't Dutch teach you nothin'? Mary-Beth told me about this one called Black Sam who—"

"I used to like 'em," the boy said. "Then I read about Bluebeard. He was a charming fellow, wealthy too. Wore an oiled hat with a big blue feather and fine red silk that matched the parrot on his shoulder. But folks didn't like him cuz he had that ugly blue beard. He went 'round, pleading with his neighbors. 'Please will ya set me up with your daughter?' he asked. 'Please? My house is so large and I'm so lonely!' 'He's so lonely!' squawked his parrot, giggling. What he didn't know was that every day, a local girl would stare at him from her window, eyes wide with wonder. She was half his age and twice as pretty, but there was something about him she liked. She'd lived in books, exploring the world through them, tasting the metallic odor of pain, inhaling crisp Greenland air, savoring the ecstasy of victory against an armed robber. And every day she'd look down on him from her window, wondering what adventures, what incredible stories lived inside his wrinkled temples, and every day those eyes would grow wider and wider. Finally, against her father's wishes, she climbed down from that window one night and ran over to Bluebeard's mansion. 'Yes!' she cried. 'I will marry you!'"

"And so it was they were husband and wife, married by the sea, the salt from the ocean kissing them before they kissed each other. Bluebeard, she found, had been true to his word: it was easy to be lonely in such a big house. Not that she minded. He had no maids or servants, so she kept busy, and that was a gracious distraction when he left for England, a three-day trip he made twice a month. Still, once, while she was dusting the double staircase bridging to the third floor, she thought she heard a knock come from somewhere downstairs. It wasn't a knock like something from a door, though, no, more like a heart knocking at the ribs. A wet drum. Thud thud, thud thud."

"'My love,' she told him as they supped together upon his return, 'I fear this old house is stripping me of my faculties! With your permission, I'd like to lock off all the doors to rooms we don't use. I think it'll help make this place seem smaller.'"

"It was a strange request, but Bluebeard loved his wife so much. So, with a turnip in his mouth, he told her, 'Of course, darling.' He handed her an iron ring, with the key to every room fixed on it. 'Lock any door you desire. Oh, but please take care not to use the black one.' She fondled the key in her hand. It was twice the size of the others, the wards sharp as razors. 'That one unlocks the black door leading to the cellar. It's just an empty room now, I used to store wine barrels in it, but I've since given up the drink.' He washed the root down with water proudly as if to emphasize his point. 'But connected to the cellar is another black door, with a flight of stairs behind it, leading under the water line. The tide was not so high when I first built it, you see, but now I fear crabs will leak in through the door and infest the house, or worse, pinch you to death! I shudder to think…'"

"'Shudder to think!' his red parrot repeated.

"Bluebeard's wife smiled. 'Thank you, my love, I promise I'll use my good sense.'

"So it was that they spent their time together, talking, reading, planting in his quarter-acre garden, and walking through town, ignoring the dirty glances of housewives and their husbands who equally believed that age was not simply a number. Eventually, England called and he waved his wife goodbye, swearing to get into all kinds of adventures and detail them extensively to her when he returned. She returned home and continued working, locking every door beyond the first floor. She continued gardening—there was a rare breed of flowers she wanted to surprise him with. She said it was a red rose, but it was really blue as his beautiful beard. When dinner arrived, she ate alone, preferring silence over her neighboring parents. The floors were swept and swabbed, the mirrors polished carefully. She missed her husband terribly, but the lady was happy, truly she was. Sleeping was a bit of a trick, without Bluebeard in bed with her, the sheets were too cold. But eventually, after shivering for a while, she drifted off. Till, one night, when Bluebeard was away, she was awakened by a familiarly repulsive sound. Thud, thud. She held her breath until her heart stopped beating, but still, that fleshy pounding wouldn't cease. Throwing the covers onto the hardwood floors, she pounced to her feet, searching desperately for the sound. What ever could it be, she wondered. A croaking mouse? Rats pulling a chicken leg from the ice well? She tried the kitchen and the dining hall first. Then the lounge, then the bathrooms, but nothing. She tore every carpet from the ground, flipped over every piece of furniture, took her husband's ring of keys and kicked open all the doors in the house, but nothing could be found. There was nothing, except the noise. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. It was no longer faint, now it chimed like bells from a church. She covered her ears, dropping the ring of keys. When she bent down to pick it up, she cut her hand. On the sharpest of keys. The largest, blackest one. She glanced slowly to the shiny dark door leading to the cellar, a demented grin covering her face."

"Like her husband promised, it was empty, but the drums were hammering harder than ever. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. She trailed the room to the end, it was so dark she couldn't see a thing and the candles were buried under the mountain of broken glass and scattered items from her search throughout the house. Eventually, groping in the inky shadows, she found the lockless door and twisted it open. Milky moonlight poured in from cracks in the wall behind the door, blinding her for a moment. Her feet grew wet and she saw her husband's promise was right for the second time: there was water trickling into the empty dank cellar now that she'd opened the door. The water was bright red. There was no flight of stairs leading down, only a spacious closet with six hooks nailed to the ceiling. Strung up on those hooks were Bluebeard's other wives. She counted six, in different stages of decay. The one furthest to the left was little more than a skeleton, gaunt and trim, with rotted black veins stretching across her bones. The one on the right, the one closest to Bluebeard's seventh wife still had blush in her pale cheeks, though that could've been from the dried blood. Her chest was clawed open with greedy hands, and through the distended bones and crusted intestines, her heart screamed a warning. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. 'Shudder to think!' a parrot called from behind her. When she turned, her husband's strong fingers were coiled around her throat. His grip was firm and past his blue beard, she saw his smile was yellow."

Jack took a deep breath when he'd finished. Afterward, silence clung to the air for a time. Finally, Kieran cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry, Jack, that was, uh, w-well told, but I'm… I'm afraid I've lost what your point was."

"There is no point," Jack said, one eye still peering outside the wagon as they drove. "Just tellin' you I don't like pirates."

Kieran took his gaze from the road, aiming it to where Jack was looking. There was a fishing boat out in the green lake of Lagras. On it were two men, one reeling furiously, standing up to jockey the water that moved against him. Whatever he'd caught, it wasn't going on his plate lying down. The second figure in the boat who could only be his son watched enchantedly.

He remembered Arthur taking Jack to fish some weeks back. He wondered if John ever had. If he ever would. Can ya fish with only one hand?

"Y'know," Kieran said slowly, "I thinka myself as a pretty cultured fisherman. If you ever want someone to give you a few tips…"

Jack didn't stir. His eyes were frozen adoringly on the distant fishing boat. "No thanks. I hate fishing."

11:08 AM, November 8th, 1899

Butcher Creek was everything Sadie warned him about. The bridge was as limpsy as an accordion and Kieran decided instantly they would be returning on another route to the reservation. If we try going back that way I don't think we'll be returning at all.

A series of short rundown houses was sprinkled along the small stretch of land. The settlement was far enough from the river that it should have been more than dry, but the blood made the grounds marshy. Kieran's boots sunk as he pulled the wagon to the side and dropped off.
Folk were filthy, smelly, and crabby, muttering bitterly over some kind of curse as they trekked around town. There were officials, no sheriff, no doctors (apart from the shaman Sadie told him about), only butchers. It was customary for all who lived there to hunt, gut, and eat animals of any variety, it was part of the culture. The worst of the lot had shriveled down to bone, sold their shoes so their bare feet stunk. The lack of diversity in goods and services was one of the many reasons why Butcher Creek had descended into poverty. Another was the stupidity of the townspeople. They'd hunted the wildlife in the surrounding region until it was nearly barren of animals—they could never hunt any farther than the surrounding region because they always butchered any horses they bought. And they believed in a sentient evil darkness that bewitched their town (no, no, not me), bringing death and ill fortune. Charming fellows.

Sadie grabbed Kieran's shoulder brusquely, holding him back from abandoning the wagon. They stood near their ride, waiting for a minute, two, before it happened. Some idiot, a bony woman with more warts than strands of muddy hair, cackled and boarded the prairie wagon, thrilled she'd successfully stolen it. A wagon and a horse (and the tools in the back she didn't even know about), that would easily fetch at least… some money!

She hollered and took the leather reins, whipping Branwen to get out of dodge. Her smile fell when she realized Branwen wasn't even connected to the wagon. Sadie yanked her off by her stinking feet, gagging as she kicked the woman while she was down, driving her boots into her ribs twice. When she was finished, Kieran could tell no one else would attempt stealing from them today.

When that ugly business was over, Sadie joined Jack and Kieran as they strode to the butcher in the center of the settlement. He was by far the most accomplished, sporting rows of skinned red meat hanging from the roofless top of his rectangular stall in the meat market.

"Watch what you say," she told her compatriots. "These people are easily offended." She turned to the butcher as they arrived, tipping her hat. "Howdy. How're things?"

The man doffed his straw hat, three yellow teeth showing when he frowned. His was skinny as the next feller, but twice as red. Tan, pink cheeks paired with his shirt, stained blackish red from handling all the deer guts. "Did ya really just ask me that? Things're goin' terribly! Without our shaman, the curse is growing worse than ever before! Demons attack nightly, ghouls plague our dreams! The Devil sticks his hand inside our mouths and holds our bottoms from unloading! I haven't taken a shit in three days!"

Never ask a question you don't wanna know the answer to. Kieran wanted to whisper it to Sadie, but her forced smile seemed to relay similar feelings.

"What's a shaman?" Jack asked.

"I'll tell you later," Sadie said at the same time Kieran said, "Crazy priest."

The butcher eyed him funny, clutch clenching around the blockish cleaver knife he swung at his side.

Kieran ignored the blade by browsing the selection. To his great disappointment, there was nothing but nauseating fly-strewn carcasses of rotting meat. In many places, the flesh was brushed with yellow. He imagined eating it and turning that same shade of yellow—his imagination was vividly apt. That meat is poisoned. He was quite right. Disease was the third factor in Butcher Creek's decline.

"Ya got anything else?" he asked the man. The cleaver was raised and Kieran took a step back.

"What," the butcher drawled, "ya don't like venison? It's a goddamn delicacy."

"I'm sure it is, but—"

"What kind of meat do you like, then? Beef? Pork?" He gasped dramatically. "Baby?"

"Huh?" he keeked at Sadie who was just as perplexed as him.

"Was I not clear enough?" the butcher asked, suddenly enraged. "Do you or do you not eat babies?"

"N-no," Kieran's threw up his hands. He was good at denying things he was accused of being. That just wasn't normally a cannibal. "No, I don't eat babies."

"Oh, okay." He seemed satisfied until horror jumped back into his eyes. "Wait! Satan speaks in lies! How do I know you really don't eat babies?"

"B-because… I… told you?"

Kieran knew instantly that wasn't cogent enough because the cleaver struck the ground, and its owner ran off, mumbling he needed to speak to Elder Obediah.

"Okay…" Sadie said. "How about we try those?" She pointed in front of another tumbledown shack where along a patch of grass no bigger than a carpet, sat three somewhat healthy goats. "And fast. I've met Obediah. He's mad as a hatter and the whole place worships him. Bad combination."

They marched over to the house, rising to knock on the door when they noticed someone was out on the porch, rocking on a chair in the shadows. He was a plump man, wedges of fat poking from the gaps in his chair, a thin mustache on his moist upper lip, a banjo on his lap. And he was horribly disfigured. His neck bulged like a roasting marshmallow so that his oval face only made up about a third of his head. The skin sagged heavily and when his head shifted to them his jowls swung at his shoulders.

Kieran almost passed out.

"Why is your neck so fat?" Jack questioned abruptly.

"Why is your mother's cheek carved up like a Jack-O'-Lantern?"

"Not my son," Sadie clarified.

Jack tugged her pants so she acknowledged him. "What's a Jack-O'-Lantern?"

"I'll tell you later," Sadie said at the exact time Kieran said, "Hollowed out pumpkin with a candle inside."

"Aww… that sounds cool…"

"How much are your goats?" Sadie asked the banjo man.

Jack tugged Kieran's pants now. "Wait, why does Mrs. Adler look like one?"

"They're usually etched with jagged grins." Sadie shot him a dirty glance after the words came out.

"Ooh, can I make one?"

"We'll talk later," Sadie promised between gritted teeth, head whipping back and forth between the saggy boob of a man and them, willing her lips to slope upwards. "Sorry. How much?"

Jack's head was tilted up as he imagined what one of these fabled contraptions would look like. "Is there an age limit on these pumpkin doohickeys, why have I never heard of this before?"

"We'll talk later," Sadie snarled. She smiled sweetly at the man again. "Price, please?"

"For what?" he asked, expectorating something that wasn't chewing tobacco out in the yard. It came just short of Kieran's boots and he wondered if that was by design.

"For the goats." Her patience was on its deathbed.

"What goats?"

"Wha—" She exhaled to calm herself. "What do you mean what goats? Those goats." She pointed to the three in his front yard, boxed in by a shabby cage of chicken wire.

"Oh," he whistled. "I understand the confusion now. You thought those was just average, run-of-the-mill goats. Y'see, what you shoulda said was 'How much are your lovers.'"

Her eyes shot open. "Pardon?"

"What?" He regarded her with derision. "A man needs it at least once a week. You gonna lie down for me, sugar?" His neck jiggled in a thousand places.

You poor beast, Kieran thought, shaking his head at the largest goat. It trodded more unsteadily than the others.

"So," the pile of flesh pudding continued, "now that we're all clear on you buyin' my lemans and my goats in one fell swoop"—a gob of throwup caught in Sadie's mouth—"the question arises: how much can you pay for love? For companionship and pleasure on a cold winter night? For warm flesh and a tight rear? How much is that worth do you think? How much could I possibly charge for that?"

If you had any shame, Kieran thought, the price would be two hundred and fifty less than zero and you'd toss in a plea never to tell anyone what you confessed to.

"Twelve?" he wagered uneasily.

The man gawked at the offer. At least Kieran thought he did; he couldn't peel his sight from his neck. It was a frog's vocal sac and a turkey's wattle all in one. "Twelve?! For all three?! Are you out of your mind?! For love and sex and companionship and all I mentioned before?!"

"I—"

"I won't take less than twenty," he said calmly, folding his arms.

"Fifteen," Sadie countered at the same time Kieran said, "Deal!"

"Deal!" his flabby head bulged with delight as he shook Kieran's hand before his partner could intervene. So, very reluctantly, Sadie stuffed a jade Jackson into the goatfucker's grubby hands. He giggled and sat back down.

"So, I guess we'll just lasso 'em up, tear down the chickenwire, and march 'em over to our cart. Don't bother standing up. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." Sadie didn't even try to conceal her contempt. Kieran almost regurgitated her words about watching what they said, but she seemed angry enough (this is what we call: an intelligent decision).

Pudgy sausages groped and ogled the bill. "Do whatever you gotta do." When Sadie started away, shadowed shortly by Jack, the man whistled to Kieran. "Hey, wait. One fella to another: you might want some hair pomade for those bucks. I wasn't kiddin'. Their rears get reeeeeeal tig—"

"Thank you!" Kieran shouted, hurrying away.

Sadie shredded the lanky fence with her hunting knife while Kieran tied all the goats to a single rope. He led them to Branwen, where he and Miss—sorry Missus—Sunshine heaved them onto the wagon bed. Sadie cupped their horns, Kieran their legs. He took precautions not to put his hand anywhere near their rears.

"My name is Jack," Jack pointed out as they tied off the wagon's butt to prevent the goats from jumping out while they rode. "Is that a connection to—"

"No," Sadie sighed. "You were not named after Jack-O'-Lanterns and vice versa."

"What does that last part mean?"

"No clue," Sadie and Kieran said at the same time.

When everything was ready, they scampered to the head of the cart. Kieran felt relieved when the leather reins engirdled his knuckles. Jack sat between him and Sadie and the goats muttered softly in the back.

"Kieran…"

He clicked his teeth and Branwen began trotting backward. The wheels went with him.

"Kieran!" Sadie yelled this time. When he gyrated his head, he saw why.

A mob surrounded them in a dark ring of filth and odor. A dull old man with a gray beard, massive ears, a cotton shirt blackened with soot, and crackling skin spearheaded the charge.

"Obediah Hinton," she whispered scornfully. "He's a nut, let me do the talkin'."

The crowd was stitched closely to the wagon now. Their faces were dirty and angry. Kieran made out a dozen half-toothed scowls coming his way.

Obediah stepped forward. "Hello, new friends… and old." He treated Sadie to a licentious wink. "A rumor has come before me and as elder to this community, I am compelled to investigate. Now,"—he removed a buff parchment and another man pushed glasses atop his large nose—"I've been told that a 'scruffy twig,' oh, that would be you, confessed to 'eating babies.' Do I have that right?"

"You most certainly do not," Sadie denounced. "This is ridiculous and we have to get this one back home to his momma." If Jack scored any sympathy, Obediah revealed nothing.

"He's lyin', Obediah!" the butcher bellowed. "I heard it with my own eyes! He eats babies!"

The herd of filthy butchers roared.

Obediah nibbled his lower lip. "Ah, this is too much he said, she said. We'll need to keep you for a few days to iron out the truth."

"What?" Kieran shrieked in a high-pitched tone.

A bony woman sauntered to the driver's seat. She must've been an experienced spitter because she nailed Kieran on the face from down on the ground. "I saw him! You ate my baby, you bastard!"

It was only when the people began cheering in agreement and raising their cleavers did Kieran note the smirk on the woman's face and recognized her as the woman Sadie kicked in the dirt.

"Yeah, I think he ate my baby, too!"

"No, Frank, that was me."

"Well, he could've eaten mine!"

"Or mine!"

"Yeah!"

"YEAH!"

Thirty bloody butcher knives glistened in the sunlight.

"Well, after a second heated round of deliberations," Obediah announced, "I have made a unanimous decision to reverse my original ruling on the grounds that we seem to have it looks like we have all the evidence required. Uh, whatever your name is, I find you guilty and sentence you to death by disembowelment."

"YEAH!"

"What?!" Kieran's girly voice rang out again.

"Hey, feel proud, buddy," Obediah reassured. "Your death'll probably ward off the curse for a while longer."

"Alright, enough of this." Sadie yanked the reins from Kieran and whipped Branwen into a frenzy. Instantly, their wagon began skidding in spirals, scaring the sane butchers off and blowing back the ones stupid enough to stand their ground.

With no guns, the locals began hurling their cleavers in the air until they rained down on their enemies. Kieran blanketed Jack with his arms, hoping it would be enough. As it turns out, constant butchering and refusal to sharpen or maintain equipment led to very worn-down blades—not a single sharp edge among them. The flat metal blocks bounced harmlessly off the wagon's bonnet and Kieran's back.

Sadie made sure to ram the butcher and bony woman who'd lied as they pulled out of the settlement. Again they crossed that damned accordion of a bridge and Kieran held his breath as though it would make him lighter. The bridge shook and screamed and Kieran felt the snapping of boards and ropes, yet against all odds, they made it to the other side.

"Christ!" Kieran swore, his breathing evening with every foot further away from that godforsaken place. "All that for three damn goats!"

"Three cheap goats," Sadie corrected, steering Branwen back the way they came. "And they woulda been cheaper if you'd kept your trap shut. We'll need the food for the journey. The border between the US of A and Canada ain't a Bill-cock long."

"Can we buy a pumpkin on the way back?" Jack asked. "We can pass through a town, right?"

Sadie sighed and rolled her eyes. But she wasn't upset in the slightest. "Sorry, Jack, but no. We really need to get you back to your mom now. She's gonna be off her rocker as it is."

"It'll only take a minute," the boy fought. "What difference will it make? She's gonna be mad either way."

Kieran was nearly convinced, but Sadie's firm attitude swayed him. "No can do, kiddo, we gotta get you home to your parents. But I promise, another time, another place, real soon."

Jack's shoulders slumped and he sunk back until his head thudded against the wooden backpost. "Right…" he spoke softly, "my parents."

"Jack," Kieran felt his mouth moving, but the words coming out couldn't have been his, "adventuring for a while can be fun, but you gotta know boring ol' reality is waitin' for you when you get back. And that's good! Because here and now, you just have me and Sadie, us ugly losers, but back home, you have your mom and dad, who love you very much. Fuck Bluebeard, man, pirates are cool. And your daddy isn't like that old Frenchman. He's never going to marry other women, and he's never goin' to stop lovin' you. I promise." He was making a lot of promises, he noticed. Can I keep them all?

All the same, the boy murmured sure, and shut his eyes, letting the jerks and spasms of the ride rock him to sleep. Kieran liked to imagine there was a little more warmth in that final word than there had been when he gaped out the peephole in Lagras.

1:24 PM, November 8th, 1899

When they arrived at the reservation, they pulled to the right—their half of camp. Abigail scooped Jack off the wagon before they'd come to a stop. The boy's hazy dream popped at once.

"Why the hell is he with you?" she demanded, brushing his hair protectively with her fingers. She cupped his cheeks, forcing him to stare at her. "What did you do? Don't you know how worried I was? You can't disappear on me like that! Not after last time! I was worried you was… you was…"

Kieran picked up on the fears and tears in the boy's eyes and spoke up. "Sorry, Abigail, it was my idea." He jumped down, expecting Sadie to back him up, but she unhooked Branwen and ran off with the stallion, mumbling he needed to eat. Chicken, Kieran thought.

"I thought it would be good for the boy to get out," he continued. "He hasn't left this place for days."

"I had a great time," Jack said. "Really I did." Abigail's hateful glare threatened to burn through Kieran's forehead. He found himself tugging his hat lower as if the coverage would help.

Bah! The sound reminded Jack. "And we have goats now!"

Kieran collected the cattle from the wagon, holding them, wondering where to leave them. The land's too damn stony for grazin'. Where are they gonna go? When he turned back Abigail was still shooting daggers at him.

"I… really like milk…" Jack attempted weakly.

All was silent until Abigail set him down to his feet. "Well… I'm just glad you're okay. With bounty hunters, Pinks, Murfrees, the army, and God knows what else, it would be really stupid to take a child out where it ain't safe." She scowled at Kieran one last time before seizing Jack's hand and leading him away."

"We were only gone a few hours," Kieran grumbled when Abigail was long out of sight.

"Try tellin' her that." Sadie stood next to him now, hands at her forehead, blocking out the sun.

"You were a lotta help there, friend," he bit sardonically.

She only chortled dryly. "Kieran, when you lose half your damn face, you ain't gonna be too keen on shoving the other half into the claws of an overprotective mother either. That I promise."

Did I write two pages of a random Bluebeard story? Yes. Yes, I did.

Hope you all enjoyed. Just read The Shining, so if Jack comes off like a child genius here, that's probably why. Figured it was better than him being a clueless idiot.

Butcher Creek is one of my favorite locations in the game, so I tried to do it justice. Lot of references to the side quest here, if you haven't played through it, I'd highly recommend.

Pretty happy chapter all things considered: John's alive, Sadie and Kieran have made amends, Jack learned about Jack-O'-Lanterns, the gang still has the money. What could go wrong...