Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Children of the Pebble ❯ Descent ( Chapter 2 )

Children of the Pebble

By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.

 

Disclaimer: “Trigun” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

 

Comments and criticism welcome.

 

Chapter Two - Descent

“…close your account?”

Meryl's knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the teller's window and pushed herself upright.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said. “What did you say?”

“Do you wish to close your account? Hardly worth keeping it open, miss, with such a low balance.”

The gentleman beyond the iron bars waited with professional patience. The question was proper, delivered with appropriate courtesy. Meryl gritted her teeth. It wasn't his fault she was having a hellish morning.

“Miss?”

“I'm thinking, I'm thinking,” Meryl said. She rubbed her forehead. “What was the balance again?”

“One double dollar and twenty-eight cecents.” The teller shuffled his documents into a stack and tapped them on the counter. “Again, miss, I must remind you that a savings account balance of less than one hundred double dollars will result in a twenty-five double dollar charge per month on the account.”

A double dollar twenty-eight. At least she wasn't completely broke.

“Leave it open,” she said.

“Miss, please, there's no need—”

“I just want to keep it open, all right?”

The teller nodded, slid the papers into a folder and launched into a dry litany of bank policy concerning low-balance accounts. Meryl let the words go past her like a line of faded highway billboards. She thanked the man and turned to leave.

“Oh, miss,” the teller said. “Miss Stryfe? Tell me something, please. Would you happen to be that Derringer Meryl I've read about in the paper?”

Meryl stopped. All she heard was the footsteps of the bank's other patrons on the polished granite floor.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Out the door and two blocks north, Meryl turned east up the ile-long climb to her old neighborhood. As she walked she bounced on her toes, hefting the weight of her cloak. They seemed heavier than ever, little more than scrap metal now, anyway, for all the good they'd done her.

Half a block later Meryl found a pawnshop. A minute after that she was back on the sidewalk, her ears full of the proprietor's laughter. The three spheres of the pawnbroker's sign dangled over her head. Meryl resisted the temptation to shoot the man's balls off.

At her parents' house Meryl circled around to the back door. Mother was slicing carrots at the kitchen counter.

“There you are,” Mother said. “Where have you been? We missed you at breakfast.”

“Just running some more errands,” Meryl said, slipping out of her boots. She passed through the dining room and hung her derringer cloak on the coat rack. Lifting the cape over her head made her arms tremble.

“If you're trying to avoid your chores, darling, you're going to an awful lot of effort,” Mother called from the kitchen.

“I'm doing no such thing, Mother,” Meryl called back. “I just had some business to take care of.”

“That's what you said all last week. Well, if you can find some time in your busy schedule would you peel these potatoes for me?” Mother lifted a bulging sackcloth bag onto the counter.

Meryl slipped a sheet of newspaper from the recycling stack near the back door and laid the paper over the disposal side of the sink. She opened the utensil drawer. The space intended for the potato peeler was empty.

“I'm sorry, darling,” Mother said. “You'll have to use a knife.”

“Yes, Mother, I know.” Last week the peeler had met a violent end in the disposal.

“You're taking more potato than peel.”

“Goddamnit, Mother, would you leave me the hell—” Meryl gasped and held the tips of her fingers to her lips. Mother's face showed no sign of anger, only open curiosity. A subtle smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

“So, what's he like?” Mother said.

“What do you mean?”

“This young man you've been daydreaming about. What's he like?”

“I have no idea who or what you're talking about.”

“Oh, come now, Meryl, did you think you could hide it from me? I know what a young woman in love looks like.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, for starters a young woman in love does things like stare out the window for hours at a time, hum to love songs on the satellite, make bread and draw hearts in the flour on the counter…”

“I didn't!”

“You most certainly did. Now come on, give your dear mother the details.”

Meryl laid the potato on the pile of peelings in the sink. She set the knife on the counter and wiped her hands on her apron.

“He's tall,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Mother said. “I've always been attracted to tall men.”

“Does Father know this?”

“Oh, yes.” Mother's eyes took on a dreamy cast. “But your father has other—desirable qualities.”

“Mother!”

“I'm sorry, darling. Do go on.”

Meryl put her hands to her face as if to quench the fire burning in her cheeks.

“He's tall,” she said. “And…”

He has the most amazing eyes that seem to change color with the light or with his mood, a dopey, idiotic smile that makes me weak in the knees for some stupid reason I'll never be able to explain, the most adorable little mole under his left eye, and a body that demands touch and exploration—

“Well…he's tall.”

“I'm guessing, Meryl—and this is only a guess, mind you—that your young man is tall.”

Meryl moved her hands over her eyes.

“I can't tell you everything, Mother. It's embarrassing.”

“Then I'll just have to meet him.” Mother held an imaginary appointment book and pen. “How's Tuesday next? We could invite him to dinner and really get to know him. If your father approves we could set a date for the wedding the week after.”

“All right, all right. You win. He looks somewhat scrawny, to be honest, but that's only because of his height. He's—well, he's not scrawny.” Meryl crossed her arms and focused on a randomly chosen spot under the kitchen window.

“You look a little warm, darling. Can I get you some water?”

“Could we get back to work, please, Mother?” Meryl grabbed the knife and set the edge to the upraised skin on the potato where she'd left off.

Men like Vash shouldn't exist, Meryl thought. Better for women like me if men like him were never born. I wouldn't have to choose between career and companionship, or ambition and intimacy. I wouldn't be humiliating myself in front of my own mother or be trying to figure out a way to explain to my father that following in his footsteps may be impossible however much I may or may not want that.

Sometimes I wish I'd never met you, Mister Humanoid Typhoon, Destroyer of Cities, Despoiler of Innocent Young Women. I wish you were the monster I thought you were from the beginning and not the kind, decent human being I came to know. I wish you weren't the fabulous kisser, the gentle would-be lover, the man with no shortage of his own desirable qualities—

Meryl looked into the sink. Blood dribbled from her lacerated thumb and spattered the wet newspaper. She dropped the potato and the knife.

“Mother…”

“What—” Mother's hands flew to the faucet and turned on the water. Mother grabbed Meryl's wrist and held her thumb under the stream. “Meryl, when was your last tetanus shot?”

“I don't know. About a year ago, I guess.”

“You should be safe, then. Hand me a clean towel, darling.”

Meryl reached behind her and pulled a towel from its assigned drawer. Mother pressed it to her thumb.

“You should be more careful,” Mother said. “My goodness, you're shaking like a leaf. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?” She reached for Meryl's forehead. Meryl backed away.

“I'm fine, Mother. I just slipped.”

“You're so pale. Have you been sleeping well? You certainly haven't been eating much.”

“Please, Mother, just—”

“What are these marks on your wrists?” Mother grabbed her other hand and held them together in front of her. The skin around her wrists bore a faint yellow cast.

“Just bruises. They're fading, see?”

“Bruises?” Mother pulled her closer. “How did you get these?”

Meryl shrugged.

“I got roughed up a little. It happens in that—my line of work.”

“Meryl, you look at me. I see bruises like these all the time at the orphanage. They are never just bruises and they are never the only marks on the poor child's body.” Mother bent down to look in her eyes. “Meryl…did someone hurt you?”

“It's nothing, Mother, don't worry—”

“Meryl Cynthia Stryfe, don't you dare lie to me. You tell me right now. Did someone hurt you?”

I wanna know something, ladies

(Am I hurting you?)

Would you prefer pleasure before death

(No…no, you're not hurting me…)

Or death without pleasure?

“No, Mother,” Meryl looked at her feet. “No one hurt me—like that. I'm fine, okay?”

Mother stared into her eyes as if looking for a speck of dirt on an otherwise clean window. She stood up straight and released her hands.

“You go upstairs and find a bandage. I don't think it'll need stitches, but we'll go to the doctor and make sure.”

“Mother, I'm fine, I don't need a—yes, ma'am,” she said, her will to resist withering under the look in her mother's eyes.

 

---

 

“Spend time together?” Father said.

”Yes,” Mother said.  “I think it would be wonderful.  For both of you.  Meryl could even stay here.  With us.”

“I'm afraid that may not be possible, Maddie,” Father said. “Our new cavalry contract is my first priority.”

“Surely you can set that aside for a few days?” Mother said. “Can't you see that our Meryl is home?”

“Yes, mother. I can see that just fine. But I suspect our daughter has other plans.”

Just her imagination, Meryl decided. The flicker of parental pleasure in his eyes, the hint of a smile when he laid eyes on his daughter for the first time in seven years. All a fantasy. Father might as well have been standing across the room when he hugged her. The quick kiss he left on her cheek might as well have been blown to her from the Fifth Moon. The dinner table, considered by ordinary families to be a catalyst for intimacy, might as well have been a thousand light years of interstellar space.

Nothing had changed. Except for the new lightning streaks of gray in his indigo-black hair, Father was just as Meryl remembered him: all business, no nonsense.

“Actually, my apartment is off limits while my landlady has a water leak fixed,” Meryl said.  “I thought I'd impose on your hospitality rather than rent another room.” 

“I see. Do you know how long you'll be staying?”

“No, Father. Mrs. Chattum said all I can do is call periodically until everything's back to normal.”

“Interesting. Know how to use a phone, do you?”

On her first day at Bernardelli Meryl had been directed to report to the manager of the clerical pool. That interview proved her first boss to be a man beyond reason, capable only of authoritarian cruelty and possessed of a gift for invective and humiliation a cavalry drill instructor could only dream of. For a solid year she'd worked her way into a promotion, each day willing herself not to break into tears after every confrontation, each day determined not to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.

“Yes, Father. I know how to use a telephone.”

“Are you sure?  I can buy the instruction leaflets by the gross from City Hall.”

“Matt, please,” Mother said. “You promised, remember?”

“Maddie, it's all right.  I'm just trying to determine whether our daughter has in fact been physically and mentally able to write or call her parents.”

“I wrote to you, Father.  To both of you.  I wrote you a letter from Promontory.”  Meryl looked at her bowl and kneaded her napkin in her hands.  “Nine months ago.”

“Nine months ago,” Father said.  “Considering you let the previous six years go without a word, I suppose we should appreciate the effort you made.”

The air in the room seemed to still itself, as it had in New Oregon minutes before the arrival of Jacqueline.  Meryl imagined herself back in that room, walking toward the door, reaching for the knob.

“You weren't in a particular hurry to write to me, either.”

“Your mother wrote to you all the time.  Did you ever reply to her?”

“I was working overtime, I barely had time to eat and sleep, much less write, much less—Mother, I'm sorry, I read your letters when I could, I really did.”

“That's all right, darling.”  Mother forced a smile that stung Meryl like a handful of wind driven sand.  “I understand.  Would you care for seconds?”

“I work overtime, Meryl, and I still had time to wait for your call.  Was picking up the phone so difficult?” 

“And what would we talk about, Father?  My miserable life away from home?” 

“Knowing you were, in fact, still alive would've been a kindness.”

“Would anyone like some dessert?” Mother said. “I've made the loveliest banana upside-down cake.”

“No thank you,” Meryl said with her father.

“Wonderful. I'll bring some right out.” Mother headed into the kitchen.

You have a lot to answer for, Father glared at her across the light years.

So do you, Meryl glared back. So do you.

The sweet scent of bananas called Meryl back from the brink of regret for wounding words. The cake was delicious, one of Mother's best recipes, and when her piece was gone Meryl could not recall tasting any of it.

“You may stay here, Meryl, until your apartment is ready,” Father said.  “I'm sure your mother will appreciate having an extra pair of hands around the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be bound by our rules while you are here.  I'm sure you remember what those are.”

“Yes, sir. Mother, may I please be excused?”

“Yes, I think that would be best.  We're all tired.”

“Thank you.  Good night, Mother.  Father.”  Meryl headed for the stairs as fast as she dared.

“Meryl?”

Meryl turned at the landing.  Father stood beside his chair, his facial expression lost to the chandelier's halo around his head.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and his voice revealed what Meryl had imagined seeing in his eyes.  Meryl wondered which was hardest to bear.  When Father spoke again, she knew.

“Welcome home.”

 

---

 

Where was home? Meryl asked the night from her bedroom window.

A half ile south the Land Rush Highway emerged from the end of the shipfall scar, a thread of civilization pulled from a dropped spindle of tangled history. The old Stryfe Homestead lay five iles down the highway, a house and barn built on forty hectacres during the Forty-Nine agricultural expansion initiative that gave the road its name.

Time not spent at home she'd spent there, sitting at Grandma's feet, holding her yarn as she spun tales from her youth, tales of a life lived outside the bland comforts of city life, life lived on its own terms. 

Walk your own path with your head held high, said the old man in Promontory. Poignant and potent advice, at the time. Yet when she looked back on her life, she could remember doing nothing else. My job or my life? My job is my life. Was my life.

Meryl had always prided herself on her ability to negotiate Bernardelli's mazelike bureaucracy: which supply clerk would disburse pencils without a requisition, which apprentice made the best coffee, which manager would expedite a claim submission in exchange for a jar of contraband geo-Plant peanut butter she'd purchased from the night custodian who had a cousin in New Georgia…the company had its own economics and Meryl had known it like the back of a ten double dollar bill.

Until she'd tried to collect her back pay, and it was as if she'd gone blind and Bernardelli had rearranged the furniture in her absence. Fill out these forms in triplicate, please. I'm sorry, we have no record of such a request. You'll have to consult Personnel for that information. Meryl Stryfe, Meryl Stryfe…I'm sorry, we have no record of a Meryl Stryfe. Are you sure you're she? Fill out these forms in quadruplicate, please. Please calm down, miss. I beg your pardon, there's no need to question my ancestry. Hey, let go of my tie—

Just before two ham-handed security guards dragged her out the front doors, Meryl was left with the terrible knowledge that she'd receive her back pay in—oh, six months or so. Making good on four months of unpaid bills had depleted her savings. Mrs. Chattum would have to wait for the back rent.

Meryl laid her head on her hands. Perhaps it was for the best. Vash the Stampede was dead. With a little luck he would stay that way. And if Derringer Meryl had to die with him, for Vash's protection and hers, that was no great sacrifice, was it? Not if they were together, not if she and Vash could find a small, out of the way place to call their own and live quietly, happily, work jobs that didn't involve violence and imminent death work hard at building a life and a home and maybe one day a family until bounty hunters find them and kill her and her husband and her children as they sleep—

Meryl gasped, staggered back from the window. She rubbed her face with cold hands. Two days ago, her first day back in her parents' house, Mother had allowed Meryl to rest. On the second she'd put her daughter right to work, announcing that she was going to run some errands and meet Father at the steamer dock. While Mother was gone, Meryl was to wash the linens.

“Can't it wait until tomorrow, Mother?  I was going to borrow the jeep and—”

“Nice try, darling, but not a chance.”

“But—”

“Meryl, it's been seven years.  I don't think it's too much to ask that you be here to greet your father when he comes home. I want those linens hanging out to dry by the time we get back.  Do I make myself clear?”

Later, after all the linens were on the clothesline giving up their moisture to the afternoon, Meryl laid down on the living room couch for a nap, an indulgence she'd denied herself longer than she could remember.

Meryl turned on the couch and hugged a throw pillow to her chest. The photographs on her desk were back on the living room wall.

I'm alive again, she thought, and closed her eyes. Her dreams took her back to Jeneora, and as she stood before a mountain of corpses the dead opened their eyes and looked at her. She awoke to the scent of rotting meat.

Thank goodness she'd made it to the kitchen. Explaining a stain on the polished wood of the dining room floor would've been troublesome.

The visit to the doctor had been a disaster, too. One minute she's having a nasty cut sealed by a handsome physician, the next she's backed against his door, trying to get away from him. If Mother hadn't butted in and suggested a full physical it would never have happened. There was nothing wrong with her, nothing at all, but over her protests the doctor insisted on examining her. The first thing he'd done was check her pulse.

Under the south window her bed, made by a meticulous mother to military specifications, beckoned her to sleep. A touch on the wrist. She could still hear the scream.

Meryl sat against the wall, hugged her knees to her chest and waited for the night to grow old.

 

---

 

I'm not a monster, no matter what you think.

“Two bottles of beer on the wall,” Vash said, and found strength to take another step forward. He gasped at air that, even at night, thee days ago would've seared his lungs. Thank God for celestial mechanics.

That is what you think, is it not?

“Two bottles of beer.” Vash punctuated each phrase with a boot stomp on the crater's hard baked earth. “Take one down. Pass it around. One bottle of beer on the wall.”

You cannot shut me out forever. I'll admit your cleverness, using that infantile song as a semihypnotic mental barrier to—

Not that clever, Vash thought. The song was making him thirsty beyond any nightmare of thirst he'd ever endured. Starting at ten thousand bottles may not have been his best idea. But this ancient traveler's jingle kept Knives from filling his mind with poison.

So much solicitation for my welfare. How touching. Truly, Vash, I am moved by your brave sacrifice, enduring all this heat and hunger and thirst on my humble behalf. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

Each step brought Vash closer to the end of his brother's harangue. The only thing at the bottom of Knives' heart was a deep crack in the ice of his soul through which all of his brother's positive qualities had drained like so much raw sewage.

My dear brother, how you misjudge me. Do you truly think me evil?

“Take.”

For example, that little human bitch with whom you miscegenate. Did you really think I would permit Legato to kill her or her simian companion? I could never, ever, EVER do that

“One.”

to you, Vash. But do you know she's not the docile housebroken pet you'd have her be?

“Down. Pass it.”

She wanted to kill me, the little whoreslutlapdog. I could taste her hate, feel it wrap its hands

“Around.”

my neck and throttle the immortal life out of me. Can you sleep in peace next to such hate? Can you know she will not turn her carnivore's bloodlust on you someday? No, of course not. All she'll have to do is whine and offer up her hindquarters and you'll be helpless, lost in the scent of her heat like a thomas in rut.

Vash stumbled forward. His hand slapped against smooth metal.

The ile-high spire of the derelict Ship rose from the floor of its impact crater, a spear thrust into the ground by a vengeful deity. Two more dark shapes, megawatt-rating photovoltaic panels, extended from the Number Two berthing deck like tattered black wings.

The relentless wind had covered the door with sand. Vash dug, lungs and throat aflame in the raised dust, until it was free.

Indulge my curiosity, brother. Where is this sad journey going to end? I don't believe you've ever said.

Vash, contemplating Doc's wry sense of humor, punched in the access code: ABANDONALLHOPE. With a hiss of equalizing pressure the door recessed, slid aside.

Knives, have you ever read Dante's Inferno?

Author's Afterword

Those of you familiar with the first version of this story will remember that it turned to excrement right about here. Those of you who hated the story in the first place will not notice any difference, but I digress…

In my defense I can only say that my biggest error was lack of confidence in my story and my ability to tell it. I couldn't make the story of Meryl's nightmares and the mental and physical toll they take on her compelling enough to stand by itself and resorted to a parallel subplot to carry the story forward. In addition I was enamored of the backstory I had created for Meryl and wanted to tell as much of it as I could. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

And if I have failed again in telling the story I wanted to tell, the story of a young woman who's seen and endured more pain and loss than any ten people ought to see and endure, I ask the reader's pardon. I believe I've improved since taking down the first version and promise to do better still. Milly's story remains to be told. I want very much to do it justice.

Next: Vash keeps his promise to Rem. Meryl's nightmares chase her down. Both are alone and have far to go. Will they find each other at last? Read on and see.