A Man Needs a Reason
by Melissa DouglasLorcan raised his red right hand as the young man stumbled down the dusty road. "I canna let ye pass, lad."
The man - cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken - stopped. "I have no quarrel with you. I'm going home; I'm leaving your country."
Lorcan preferred an eager opponent, but this man and his ilk had made troubles for Lorcan's kinfolk. Robert the Bruce, rightful king of the country, was hunted. Young Wallace, a hero to his people, was murdered. Countless loyal people bled, suffered, and died. A man could only forgive so much.
"With blood of m' kin on ye'r blade no doubt." Lorcan drew his sword, the well-cared for blade beautiful in the morning sun. "Ye canna promise ye'll no' return."
Sighing, the man drew his weapon.
As the plane cruised down the runway, Lorcan looked out the tiny window at his homeland, feeling heartsick at leaving. He loved his country, loved the beauty and the memories, but it was no longer enough. The fields were empty of foes; the days of oft-fought skirmishes were no more. But that didn't change what he was. The burning in his red right hand was proof enough of that. Perhaps he would find what he needed in a new land - a land where they weren't cursed with so much damnable peace.
Ignoring the curious stares of the young couple across the aisle, Lorcan drew a skein of water and some salted meat from his well-worn pack.
Then he lifted his gaze to the couple and announced, "I dinna want t' go, I've no other choice left t' me. A man needs a reason, something to believe in, to fight for."
The lass smiled at him, eyes promising she understood what she could not possibly fathom.
Lorcan nodded at her, and then he closed his eyes for the long trip across the water.
Lorcan had given up his plaid; after the terrible acts following the Battle of Culloden he'd had little choice. He had suffered as they quieted the pipes and took the clansmen's weapons. Yet, he survived; they survived. His kinsmen weren't broken.
For centuries, Lorcan had fought with his sword, with his sgain dhub, and with his hands. Now, his kith and kin didn't need his weapons. They needed his tales to remind them of what they still were - a strong people with a proud heritage.
Lorcan saw the boy walking towards him. He sat on the great grey rock alongside the road, and he waited. He pulled out his sgain dhub, the broad dirk that had served him so well over the years, and began carving away at the wood he held in his hand.
"Will ye sit a while?" he called. He didn't lift his head.
The footsteps stopped. "I will."
"I'm of a mind t' tell a tale. Will ye listen?"
The boy nodded and sat on the grass beside the rock were Lorcan was perched. "I've heard of you, you know? You're the wandering man."
"I am." Lorcan's heart was warmed by the heroism they credited him with. It didn't still his needs, but he knew they needed him. For now, it was enough. "Listen well, lad. I've a tale of when the land was sown with the blood o' fightin' men..."
When his plane landed, Lorcan promptly found himself a decent pub. After savouring his pint for a few moments, he called the barmaid back over. "So, lass, where 're the trouble spots 'round about? Where 'tis no' so safe."
"Blount Street. 12th Avenue." She half-heartedly wiped down the bar, swaying to the mellow music in the background. "The whole warehouse district really."
"What of ye'r guarda?" Lorcan crushed his cigarette.
She paused. "Guarda?"
"Ye'r peace-keepers."
"The police?" She curled her lip in a wry smile. "They run through sometimes. Gather up a few people, make a few arrests. It doesn't change anything. Most days, they just stay out of that area."
Lorcan nodded silently as she wondered off to another patron. She was a pretty lass with a ready smile and music in her walk. Another time he might linger, but his red stains were barely visible after so long untended.
Lorcan listened to the tales they now spun for themselves in the pubs. He hid in dark corners, smiling as they called him a hero of the people, as they regaled visitors with legends. Sometimes he let himself believe he was the man they made him out to be.
He wasn't.
After a long walk, Lorcan finally reached Blount Street. Even without directions, it wasn't hard to find the dirty heart of the city. Dark metal bars over windows, dingy houses without yards, and litter strewn over it all. It was a bleak landscape, even with the houses of worship advertising hope on their storefront signs. Like lilies in a flood, they had little chance of withstanding the tide.
He knew where to go: anyone who looked closely would.
Lorcan studied the flow of people, the streams of cars going onto a side street.
He walked up the hill, his step lighter as he went. At the crest of the hill, he found them: young men with hollowed cheeks and twitchy hands.
They leaned against walls, paced the corners, and gathered in groups. Their eyes darted about, watching him, watching for customers. For all their postures of bravado, they were a nervous lot.
Lorcan rolled another cigarette and waited.
Cars pulled up. Young men swaggered over and leaned in the windows. Bills were quickly shoved in the pockets of sagging trousers.
One man stood surveying the others. Unlike the rest, his arms were corded with thick muscles; his eyes were watchful of all around him. The skinnier men milling about gave him scuffing respect and ample room. Lorcan had seen enough battlefields to know this was the man whose word mattered here.
Lorcan tilted his hat forward, shading his eyes, and leaned against the signpost. Then, he waited.
Lorcan strolled down the well trod path. His homeland was a different place, where travelers came to rest, to buy trinkets.
His kin needed neither his blades nor his words, but he still needed the battle and the blood. To stay would eventually be to draw the blood of his kin. To stay would make mockery of the faith they had in him.
He saw a man, a tourist with his camera and his maps.
Lorcan raised his red right hand. Not for a cause. Not as a hero. It had been too long: his hand itched for blade, for battle, for blood.
The man stopped. "Can I help you?"
"Aye. I canna let ye' pass."
"Really?" The man laughed and looked around. "Who put you up to this?"
"Ah, 'tis a question I've asked for many a year..." Lorcan wished he felt remorse, some emotion other than the warm satisfaction of what would come. He didn't. He drew his sgain dhub and walked towards the man.
"Please." The man's eyes grew wide. He held no weapon. He offered no threat. "I'll give you anything you want."
"A reason." Lorcan's soft voice broke the still night. "'tis a reason I need."
"A reason? I'm a married man, my wife is waiting at the hotel, and...and I'm a good man." His eyes darted around, perhaps looking for a friend or maybe a path out. It didn't matter. "I don't volunteer enough, but I will. I donate money to..."
Lorcan interrupted, "No' a reason to spare ye', son. I need a reason t' make sense of drawin' ye'r blood..."
A young boy, barely more than a child, walked up to the muscular man at the roadside. The man tucked his hands in his deep pockets and looked across the street, watching the sporadic flow of traffic as the boy talked.
Brief moments passed. Then the man gazed at the boy and shook his head.
The boy walked away across the sparse grass in the abandoned lot.
A scrawny man, who'd been standing alone, approached and slipped his arm around him.
The muscular man watched, scowling.
The others tensed - bodies still - but no one went to the child.
Lorcan pushed away from the post and moved forward. At his approach, the boy's mouth opened slowly; his eyes widened.
Lorcan smiled. "Run along to ye'r mam now."
As the boy scurried off, Lorcan exhaled, the acrid smoke sweet in his nostrils. He dropped his cigarette alongside the rest of the butts on the street. With the pleasure of the fight so near, his hand itched something fierce, but he couldn't bring himself to rush.
Lorcan clutched the man's shoulder. "A man shouldna poison innocent lads."
"Screw you." The scrawny man yanked away and looked up the street.
Lorcan raised his red right hand and challenged the man. There were rules. "I canna let ye go."
"Crazy old man." The man lifted the edge of his shirt, flashing the gun tucked in his waistband. Shiny and black with newness, it was a sorry weapon. "You'll step off if you know what's good for you."
"Thank ye, lad." Before the man's untrained fingers even found a grip on the gun, Lorcan buried the short blade of his sgian dhub, in the man's belly. The warm blood soaked into Lorcan's hand with a delicious tingle. The gurgle of freed fluid was as sweet as the cries of battle. He'd missed that sound.
With a grunt, Lorcan twisted the hilt and burrowed the blade deeper. The blood slid down the blade, covering his hand, soaking into his skin, sating him like water after a long journey.
Then he pulled out the dirk and laid his hand on the bloodied blade. The blood soaked into his skin, leaving his blade clean again. He felt it then - that sense of peace that he'd not known in far too long. Lorcan turned his deep red palm over and gazed at it. He was right to come here.
He lifted his eyes to the men watching him.
Their gazes shifted between Lorcan and the muscular man. Their feet shuffled as they fought the dual urges to flee and to fight, but no one went towards the fallen man.
The muscular man smiled and nodded once at Lorcan. He turned to the others and motioned to the body. "Clean that up."
A few men stepped forward then, scooping up the body and took him away. The others went back to their business, gazing up the street.
"A man should have a reason, ye see, a cause. A man gets lost without one." Lorcan grinned and strolled back to his new post. Then he went back to waiting.
©Melissa Marr
Melissa teaches college literature and composition in SoCal. Her speculative poetry and fiction for adults can be found in Talebones, Aberrant Dreams, Shadowed Realms, Flytrap, et al. Some of her children's texts can be found in places like Boy's Quest and Wee Ones.