The Cleaveress of The Dalles

As the sun set behind Mount Davidson and darkness fell across Virginia City, under the glow of old Chandler lights, Piper’s Opera House readied for a spectacle unlike any other. The air buzzed with anticipation as the crowd eagerly awaited the next act.

“And now, for our next act, please welcome to the stage… Roberta, the Cleaveress of the Dalles.”

Polite applause rippled through the audience as a stout woman with fiery red hair ascended the circular platform. Adorned with several gleaming cleavers dangling from her belt, she commanded the attention of all who beheld her.

Socks and Westerly, seated side-by-side, watched the scene with interest. Socks, his neck craned to catch a better view, found himself intrigued by the Cleaveress, while Westerly remained skeptical.

“That is a lot of woman,” Socks remarked, his admiration evident.

“Not my type,” Westerly retorted, his tone dismissive.

As the Cleaveress showcased her remarkable skill, effortlessly hitting bullseye after bullseye with her precise throws, the old stage master regaled the audience with tales of her tragic past.

“Quite a talent, really,” Socks conceded, watching in awe as the Cleaveress continued her impressive display.

Meanwhile, Westerly could not help but reminisce about his dalliance with Helen, the daughter of a Gresham butcher, drawing parallels between her and Roberta. The narrative painted by the stage master was a picture of a young woman whose life became felled by romance.

As the targets began to move, circling the stage with increasing speed, Roberta’s throws grew more determined. But as the spectacle unfolded before him, his gaze shifted, and he found himself staring intently at the Cleaveress, a dawning realization creeping over him.

His breath caught in his throat as he observed the telltale signal of deception in her appearance. The crimson hair now revealed itself to be nothing more than a clever disguise, a mask to conceal her true identity.

As he watched, rivulets of sweat traced paths down her forehead, leaving behind streaks of reddish-pink tint on her skin. And beneath the powdered facade, he discerned the unmistakable truth: the roots of her hair were midnight black.

His mind raced, connecting dots that had long remained unconnected. In a sudden moment of clarity, Westerly rose from his seat, his movements urgent as he pushed his way through the crowd, propelled by a revelation that sent shivers down his spine.

“Where are you off to?” Socks called, but Westerly did not hear him.

“And it is her burning shame which propels her arm to this day,” the stage master proclaimed, unaware of the turmoil within the audience.

In his haste to escape, Westerly stumbled, tripping over a boot. An angry shout erupted, and a forceful shove sent Westerly reeling backward.

His heart raced as he turned the stage, his eyes locking with those of the Cleaveress. At that moment, he knew it was Helen, the butcher girl.

Her chest heaving with exertion, sweat glistening on and between her ample bosom, she gripped the last blade in her hand, and as the final words of the stage master echoed in his mind, “And to cleave him to her at last.”

And as the crowd erupted into screams, spilling onto B Street, Westerly came face to face with his past.