THROWBACK THURSDAY

DULL

Way back in the olden days, (2003) they had a writing contest that started out here: The Three Day Novel Contest. I don’t know if it’s still a thing. I wanted to try it. It took place over the Labour Day long weekend. The idea was that you sat down and wrote a novel over a span of three days. I suppose if you were a fast typist, you could get a story out. I’ve never been a fast typist. I’m still not.

But I was on the afternoon shift. I remember that. I also remember that I was working on the water. I enjoyed working on the water. It gave me lots of time to read and write. I had a bag I put all my books and papers into, and lay it in a cage one of the millwrights made for us. (The guy on the opposite shift liked to read as well.) I was determined that when I got home I was going to set myself up for the morning and start writing.

I got home, opened up a Word document, put the tile down, and went to bed with the intention of getting up in the morning and writing all day. The wife promised to take the kids out and enjoy the weekend. So after a shower, I went to bed. I was up by 7:00 am and started writing. It took a while, but eventually, I had about 20 pages.

And this is when shit hit the fan. A bird landed on the wires on the telephone pole, and rather than just standing on one wire, stood on two and everything blew up. The power died. It took three hours to have it restored. Now, remember that part where I said I opened a Work Document? I was thinking I had it all beat. I’d just have to sit down and start writing. Well, the one thing I didn’t do, was save the page. I woke up, and simply started writing. So when the power went out, I LOST EVERYTHING. It was 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon. I had to decide whether I was going to scrap the whole idea, or start over again.

So I did. I started over. When it was all done, I had 32,000 words, and change. I sent it in. It was a rewrite of MacBeth, from his step-son’s point of view, and they told me it was unacceptable because it was plagiarism. Say…what? I write a totally different interpretation of the story, and they tell me they won’t accept it? So I have 88 pages of a story I don’t know what to do with.

So here it is. I don’t have it in an old Substack file, so I had to copy and paste it here, as is. Tell me if you think I should finish this story, or if it is a work of plagiarism.

LULLOCH THE BRAVE

CHAPTER ONE

A LETTER ARRIVES

The rain came down with a malevolence, and I thought, so fair and foul a day I have not seen. Things had started off well enough, with the promise of a cloudless morn heralding the coming day; yet even as the last of the great horde passed out of sight, heavy clouds swept in from the outer isles and I felt the first spatters of rain. I remembered being told once that warring through the elements was a dispiriting annoyance. I smiled at the thought of it, thinking how being left behind was even more of a dispiriting annoyance.

We stood on the uppermost battlements of Inverness Castle – Flea and I - where the wind was cold and insistent, and the rain soaked through our woolen cloaks as if thirsting for the evil within us. We both felt the same keen sense of disappointment at not marching off to battle, but at fourteen, we were told we were too young for battle.

“And what of Rodney?” Flea had asked his father. “He’s the same age we are.”

“You’re being left behind, and that’s final,” his father said through his growing anger. “Besides, ‘young Rodney’, as you’re so fond of calling him, is twice the size of you two put together. If he lives through the day - if he lives through the march - and if he doesn’t die of a wound, he’ll make a good soldier. A warrior, perhaps, if he lives through his mistakes. But that’s all he can ever hope to be. You two are the future of Scotland.”

“Not Dull!” Flea laughed. I looked at him with growing anger, not liking the name anymore than the looks or the laughter that seemed to follow it.

But Banquo did not laugh.

“Especially Lulach,” he said, looking at me. “As Macbeth’s heir, his role is even more important than yours.”

“But he’s adopted.”

“And what of it? History’s full of kings who have adopted their sons.”

“Was I adopted?”

“Perhaps I should have let some relative take you off my hands after your mother died, but no, you’re not. Now if you don’t stop your arguing with me, don’t think I won’t send you off to someone,” he added with a laugh.

Banquo was a large, imposing man with a flaming red beard, and a barrel-sized chest. His blue painted face gave him the look of an ancient Pictish warrior. His eyes were as grey as beaten metal, seemingly as hard as he stared down at the two of us. His long hair scrolled down over his shoulders in thick, dark tresses, pasted close to his skull with dried mud.

“You will watch over the women and children, as well as the old ones, or you’ll find yourself among the infirm – no use to anyone,” he added.

As if my mother needs tending.

“I’ll make it up to you when I return,” he said. I wondered if he was talking to Flea, or both of us. Being left behind was bad enough, I thought, but being told that we had to tend to the women and children was a slap to our ever-encroaching manhood.

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” Banquo said, clapping a hand on Flea’s shoulder. He looked at me and winked. “I heard there was a two-headed pig born this morn. It might not sound like a very good omen, but maybe you can see it before they kill it?”

“Why kill it?” I asked.

“It’s obvious it’s come from the Devil. Something like that in a place like this can’t be good; people’ll blame it for all of our woes.”

As we watched the rag-tag army of battle-hardened veterans and lanky youths pass through the castle gates below, we tried spitting on their heads. It was useless, the wind carried our silvery lines of spittle into the castle walls. Flea said maybe we should piss on their heads and I laughed.

Across the distant sward, they met with the Viking horde of Thorgamund Hammerskull, the sworn and proclaimed enemy of Sweno, the Norse king who had betrayed our king and enlisted the help of the treacherous Thane of Cawdor, Macdonwald.

We despaired at not being among that grand gathering of Lords, knowing we might never have another chance at standing shoulder to shoulder with Viking mercenaries. How we had dreamed of glory where we would be enjoined with them, in this, our first great day of battle - but it was not to be.

I looked down and saw Mother in the Courtyard, standing with Lady Macduff and the other women. She stood tall and proud among the few fey men too old and worn out to fight - men like Fergus the Gatekeeper - left behind like ourselves to guard those self-same women and children now singing songs and praising the old gods as the rain came, driven by a harsh wind.

We laughed as the children screamed and ran for the cover of the castle proper. I asked myself what the need of gods were when they wouldn’t see to my own needs and desires. I looked up one last time and saw distant clouds sifting low along the horizon, beating a fast track across the sky, and looking to blow out to sea - or so I thought.

We saw a flash of the Cross Father Garrin held up as a sign of encouragement for the troops. I’d heard how at the feast the night before, Garrin had proclaimed his new God - the White Christ - would lead us to victory. It was said Macbeth scoffed at the idea, saying the old gods were good enough for him; there was no room for new gods on a battlefield.

“Are we Roman soldiers with legions of gods to march with our legions of soldiers?” he’d asked.

Fleance said Thorgamund Hammerskull had asked what harm could come of it. He said Macbeth reluctantly agreed, but that Garrin would have to follow behind - because he wouldn’t have this new god forsaking the old.

I don’t care anything for the gods — old or New. I’m staying behind because my mother said I was too young, in spite of anything Banquo might have said. I found myself locked within the confines of the castle walls, relying on whatever information Flea could glean for me. I watched from the ramparts while Hammerskull and his horde of ten thousand Vikings arrived, camping on the distant hills about Inverness castle. I watched their campfires burn long into the night, wondering if I’d ever see a Viking up close, and in the flesh.

*

We made our way through dark castle halls, the scent of rough-hewn timber heavy in the air, mindful of the scuff our soft heeled boots made against the stone landings. Flea suggested we see the two headed pig, and said he might be able to talk the swineherd’s daughter into lifting her skirts for us.

“And how will you do that Flea?” I stammered. I have a habit of stammering when I’m nervous, and the idea of a girl lifting her skirt for me was certainly something to unnerve any fresh faced lad of fourteen, I thought.

“You’ve never been with her before?”

“Should I have?”

“Yes!” he laughed. “By all your gods old and new, yes! This is your father’s castle -”.

“My Step-father’s castle,” I reminded him.

“It makes no matter. You should know these things.”

“And how is it you know?”

“My father makes it his business to know these things.”

“Your father told you which girls would lift her skirts for you, and which not?”

“It’s what a father does for his son.”

“Except mine?”

“He’s your Step-father,” Flea reminded me with a laugh. “Besides, your mother probably won’t allow it.”

“Why would my mother even know?”

“As mistress of this castle, believe me, she knows everything that goes on.”

We came into the courtyard, a wide-open pit thick with mud and the stench of fresh horseshit. The rain poured off the sloping roofs of small huts lining the inside walls, forming huge puddles before them. We stood under the shelter of a sloping roof, the steam of our wet cloaks rising about us like a couple of draft horses. Flea ran a hand over his wet face, clearing his long hair out of his eyes, and I did the same.

“It’s a foul day, to be sure,” Flea laughed.

“Aye. A good day for a march off to war,” I smiled, and Flea laughed.

“While we stay here guarding old men and young girls.”

We set off across the courtyard, making our way to the pigsty - slogging through the muck and shit that seemed to come bubbling up out of it. We were soaked through, and I could feel the weight of the rain on my cloak as it began dragging in the mud. Soon, even my soft skin boots were wet, and I could feel the cold in my bare feet. Flea stopped as one of his boots got sucked into the mud, and he reached out to me before he took another step and fell off balance.

We made our way to the pigsty once Flea recovered his boot, hearing voices inside. It was Fergus, the Gatekeeper, laughing.

“You say you won’t bend over for me because I’m too old, but you’re more ‘n willing to do it for Banquo, or even Macbeth hisself.”

“There’s old like them, an’ then there’s old like you, Fergus,” she laughed, filling a bucket of swill for the three pigs to eat. There was an old sow in the corner with six tiny piglets sucking on her teats, but I did not see the two-headed beastie anywhere about.

“An’ ‘ow old does a man have to be?”

Flea looked at me and motioned for me to be quiet. We stayed back in the shadows, watching the two of them in the dancing light of the single torch behind.

“She’s not much to look at,” Flea said with a whisper. “But what difference does that make in the dark?”

“How old?” she laughed. “You ask me the same thing ever’ night, an’ ever’ night I say the same thing to you: No. I’ll not be bendin’ over for you, or any other man in this God-forsaken place.”

“Ya say that now, but what about when m’ Lord returns? Are ya saying ya won’t be lifting yer skirts for ‘im?”

“An’ what makes ye think I’d be doin’ that for ‘im? What would my dear ol’ Da say t’ that?” she laughed as she stepped into the pig shit and mud of the sty, spilling the swill about.

“Are ya saying ya haven’t?”

“Ye’re a brassy man Fergus, an’ the only reason ye’re sayin’ anythin’ a t’all is ‘cause my dear ol’ Da’s not ‘ere to throw ye out on yer ass. Don’t be thinkin’ I’m not averse to throwin’ ye out on yer ass mesself.”

“Oh Dotty, ya’d do that to an old man like meself?”

“Don’t ye Dotty me, ol’ man. Why don’t ye go home to that ol’ woman you call a wife, an’ have a go at her ol’ cunny? Leave mine alone.”

“Ach, Dotty! Hers is all old an’ wore out from me slippin’ in there, an’ the sons she’s bore us over the years, slippin’ out,” Fergus laughed.

“You’re a crude man Fergus.”

“It’s a crude man what gets the answers ‘e needs.”

I watched her bend down in front of us to hike her dress up between her legs once she put the slop bucket down; I could not help looking at her breasts swaying freely in front of me under the loose fitting bodice of her tattered dress. Hers were the only breasts I had ever seen, aside from my mother’s, and I felt a sudden embarrassment coming over me. Her legs were covered in mud up to her knees, and the dress was wet where it dragged in the mud in spite of how she was trying to hold it up.

Finally, she picked up a length of stick and turned to look at Fergus again.

“Maybe it’s time ye were thinkin’ of leavin’?”

“Aw Dotty, that’s no way for ye behavin’.”

“Isn’t it? Maybe I should be sayin’ that about yerself? Now get back to that ol’ woman of yers, an’ let ‘er be holdin’ that pecker of yers, instead of askin’ me to do it.”

“But Dotty!”

“But Dotty nothin’! Now git!”

“It’s a shame how a man can’t go off an’ fight wars anymore,” Fergus said with what might have been a sigh. “There’d be no sayin’ no to me then, girl. I’d be taking what I wanted, and there’s nothin’ ya’d be sayin’ to dissuade me of it either.”

“Well, ‘til rapin’ an’ pillagin’ come to Inverness castle, I’ll be here remindin’ ye of what’s yers to take, an’ what’s mine to give.”

Flea stepped out of the shadows and into the soft light of the torch. Dotty gasped, and Fergus turned in time to see the kick Flea had aimed at his rear end.

“What’s with you, Ol’ Man?” Flea yelled. “You don’t know what ‘No’ means? Maybe I should be tellin’ my Da how you’re behavin’? He said we had to look after the welfare of the women an’ children, but I didn’t think he meant for us to be lookin’ out for their welfare on account of the likes of you.”

“Where’s Dull?” Fergus said frantically.

“I’m here,” I said, stepping out of the shadows.

“Ya won’t let him hit me again, will ya Dull?”

“He hasn’t hit you yet, an’ he won’t, if you get out of here an’ leave poor Dotty alone.”

“You’ll be wantin’ a piece of ‘er for yerselves,” Fergus said with a laugh. “She’ll be grateful to ya for having saved ‘er from an old letch like me.”

“You get out of here, Ol’ Man,” Flea yelled at him, pretending he was going to run around me to get at him. I held him back, turning to Fergus.

“Get out, Fergus!”

The old man hobbled out as quick as he was able as Flea ran to the doorway with a handful of pig shit and threw it.

“We came to see the two headed pig,” Flea said, turning to Dotty with a grin.

“The pig? He’s dead. He didn’t live much more than two hours.”

“Did it really have two heads?” I asked.

She laughed, stepping out of the mud and wiping the muck and shit off her legs with the bottoms of her feet. She bent down in front of me to scrape the rest of the mud away with her hands. I found myself looking at her breasts again, and felt a strange stirring in my loins. She was looking down at her task, but watching us from under her brows, smiling up at me.

“Why did ye really come, Flea?” she asked as she straightened up. She walked toward the water trough and stepped in it, washing herself clean.

“What makes you think I came for something else?” Flea asked, dipping his hands in the water and washing the pig shit off.

“Ye’ve been here three days out of five, pestering me with yer little pecker,” she laughed.

“Are you complaining?” Flea asked. He was laughing. “You didn’t seem to care last night after I gave you the coin you asked for. In fact, you told me you were tired of having all those old men chasing after you.”

“So why’d ye bring him tonight?” she asked, pointing at me.

“I thought, since maybe he’s never done it before, you’d sort of show him what it was like?”

She looked at me and smiled. She had an ugly smile.

“And ye thought, because I did it with ye two or three times, I’d do it with him too?”

Flea nodded slowly, like he was thinking it over in his mind once he heard the idea put into words. She looked at me as if considering it. Then she stepped closer to me and pressed her hand against me.

“There’s no doubtin’ ye’re excited at the idea of doin’ it. I saw ye looking at my titties, Dull,” she laughed. “Would ye like to see them for real, instead of peeking down my dress?”

“I—I—I—I don’t know,” I managed to stammer, and Flea laughed.

“Of course you do, stupid,” he said. “Go on, take a look.”

Dotty untied the lace in front of her bodice and I looked at her ample breasts, milky white and pale with her thick nipples fading near the edges. I felt her give me a squeeze as she pushed her hand into my breech pants. I tried to back away from her and she laughed at me.

“It’s not like I’m gonna hurt ye, Dull,” she smiled, and then she bent down in front of me, pulling her dress up and showing me her thick, bushy quim. “Once ye get a taste of it, the world’ll be a better place. It’s what all the wars are fought over, an’ here I am givin’ it up to ye.”

I don’t remember much of what happened after that moment, and what I do remember is difficult to understand. I know she had my prick in her hands and began squeezing it hard and making it grow, laughing and saying I was much bigger than Flea, or his father. I was bigger than any man she knew from here about. And then she bent in front of me, spit into her hand, and rubbed it along her quim.

“Push, Dull,” she laughed, and I did, feeling myself push against something soft and dry. Then all at once it gave way, grew wet, and I heard her gasp, like she was in pain. I stopped pushing. She pushed against me, and told me to push harder; she was gasping with every thrust, and I fell into a rhythm that ended with an outburst I only knew in those strange dreams somehow tied up with Father Garrin’s idea of sin.