Chapter 4: “The Unjust Incarceration”

Donald was once again underground; this time it was a root cellar that was under the biggest house in a small village. His hands and legs were bound to a chair next to the sacks of fruit liberated from the timbrelyre clearing.

They had removed his gag only after putting chunks of what appeared to be charcoal into the portable oil lamp that was placed on on top of a barrel in the centre of the room of the good-sized root cellar. The oil lamp hissed, producing a steady supply of thin smoke, and after a few minutes Donald’s throat was worse than it had been even during the death march.

Donald worried he would be left to rot in the smoke for days on end. But it took only 20 minutes, he guessed, before one of them appeared. It was the academic and all his bespectacled glory. Now that Donald’s attention could be directed fully towards the man, his impression was far more favourable. His blond hair well-trimmed and neat, and he was not as scrawny as on first glance.

Spectacles opened with good manners. “I am Canon, and who may you be, well, sir? Finishing with a motion that resembled a slight bow.

Now, maybe it was the fact that he was nursing a concussion from being punched in the face while his head was on the ground. Or maybe it was just from all the smoke. But Donald was in no mood for any pleasantries, especially from someone trying to be pleasant.

“Donald McKenzie, former Calgary Highlanders, Corporal, Service Number B060644.”

Which is it, Donald or McKenzie? I want your name, not aliases. Canon took a breath, then continued. “And no number of bushels will buy your freedom here.” Canon shifted away from him towards the open door of the root cellar, clearly hating the smoke. This gave Donald an idea.

“Donald McKenzie, former Calgary Highlanders, Corporal, Service Number B060644.” Donald said again as his throat began to really burn.

“Why were you consorting with the timbrelyre.”

Once again, Donald repeated himself. “Donald McKenzie, former Calgary Highlanders, Corporal, Service Number B060644.”

Canon was not amused and sputtered his next question while sucking in too much of the smoke-dense air. Leading to a coughing spree that only ended after he all but tumbled out of the root cellar, desperate for clean air.

Donald was by now starting to get used to the smoke and was wondering to himself if this was how smokers felt all the time. And in his boredom regretted slightly that he never even gave it a try, particularly with the irony of dying of cancer anyway.

Canon entered again after his long fresh-air break. He was ready for round two with a deep breath of air in his lungs. But before he had an opportunity to use his next tactic-

“Is it wrong to want to do something that could kill you, even after you’ve already died from what the consequences would have been if you did?” Donald said while staring up at the ceiling meditatively.

Donald never learned what Canon was going to say, as the words were caught in his throat and proceeded to sputter out, leading to another massive coughing fit. Donald was starting to feel sorry for the guy at this point as he once again made a dash for the door.

He had to wait for a far greater amount of time; he wished he had his watch, which should still be in his pack, if he had to guess the time he would say about an hour had passed because the lamp had stopped producing smoke.

He wondered if Canon was in deep conference with his party members, conspirators, let’s go with party members for that has some whimsy to it.

This time Canon appeared carrying Donald’s pack, struggling with it to be accurate but still carrying it.

Canon was more comfortable, clearly with the smoke dissipating. Canon began rummaging in the bag, pulling out one article after another. Leaving each object out in an ordered way, clearly hinting that his pack had already been searched through. With feigned surprise, Canon pulled out a tattered crumpled-up piece of paper. Unfolding the paper and with triumph showing it to Donald.

It was the written safety instructions for the Flameless Ration Heater (FRH) that every soldier looks at exactly once in their career. Apparently, his copy had gotten stuffed into his pack.

The combination of Canon’s face in triumph while holding the paper that was only a reminder of the mashed potato incident on the day he was issued his pack of equipment. The absurdity was enough to make him burst out laughing, and only slightly hurt now that the smoke had dissipated.

“Laugh your nervous laugh for you are correct,” his voice oozed confidence. “For I am a master of cipher and this one broke with ease. As I will now demonstrate.”

Canon produced a lead pencil, crude in make and paper of his own. The paper appeared comparable in quality. Donald was happy to know that this world might more advanced than he initially thought with the adventurers’ getups.

“You see that the Count attempted to break up the characters into these meaningless scribbles that was amateurishly done and I reassemble the genuine characters with ease.” Canon presented his translation. It was in Japanese characters; it literally was just Japanese characters.

Before Canon could open his mouth, Donald broke out in hysterical laughter so hard he and the chair toppled to the dirt floor. While in the dirt, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Japan it’s always Fucking Japan.”

Canon was now the one in shock, at witnessing his interrogation victim on the ground laughing with tears in his face punctuated by a spurt of profanity. Tears were starting to leak from Canon’s eyes, and then he proceeded to storm off, pulling the door of the root cellar behind them.

Donald hadn’t even finished laughing when Canon, using his foot, pushed the door open and emerged holding the set of bagpipes. And the look in his eyes was that of a man who had already pulled the pin of a grenade.

“You think that was funny!” As Canon thrusted the bag under the wrong arm and was forced to place his feet far apart to keep balanced as a base drone was attempting to fall to the earth.

Donald only had time to choke out. “Man, don’t, please-”

“I studied at Bock Monastery!” Canon said as he placed his lips around the blowpipe and blew and blew some more. With all his might, but only squawks of sound from the drones. Doubling his effort, the chanter sounded for less than two seconds.

“That’s disgusting — to put your lips around a man’s blowpipe.”