To be continued in Issue 2: Legend of the Hour (Free)
Keep reading for a sneak-peek at Legend of the Hour…
“To hear a hoot in the hour before dawn is to mean enduring ill-fortunes and worse woes still for the listener, especially if you’ve got something to hide. Here in these parts we call him the Lynchman’s Owl, and this is his call.”
Other Works by B.Y. Yan:
Eye of the North Wind – the epic fantasy of a crippled secret defender of the wasteland king
The Lynchman’s Owl Serials – the Steampunk Noir Superhero who vanished twenty-years ago; but twenty-years later somebody has come looking…
Origins
Issues 1 (A Lynchman’s Owl)
2 (Legend of the Hour)
3 (Death of the Owl)
4 (Ibbu Harold Bailey)
5 (The Owl Returns)
Collection 1 (includes issues 1-5: the Complete Origins)
(Mercy of the Mighty)
(The Gorilla Press)
(The Lady of May-Tulip)
(Dead Cell)
(The Empress’s Diaries)
B.Y. Yan is a Chinese-Canadian author who someday hopes to do this for a living. He currently lives in Toronto, Ontario but spends most of his time travelling between two opposite points on the globe on business with his wife Jeane, sometimes accompanied by a giant orange tabby cat. In his spare time, he has maintained the same great love since childhood for stories told through every medium imaginable.
The Lynchman’s Owl: Legend of the Hour
This fellow stood head and shoulders above them all. He was tall and fair with the broad shoulders and long arms of a marvelous specimen of his sex, and the endearing smile of a master showman with which he bowed his way into Bailey’s presence. After a quick and swift introduction by du Gale he eagerly professed all innocence from his own employee, who had been ousted from his troupe prior to being revealed as a vigilante.
“His contract was going up in a month and I was not going to renew with him, for he has become as of late hot-headed and impervious to reason. I have never been niggardly with pay, and that was not the reason of strife between us. It was his insistence on keeping odd hours without explanation which forced my hand in the end.” The circus owner rubbed his cheeks as he spoke, looking pleadingly upon Bailey. “He had become rougher in his job as well. Whereas before I could depend on him to play up his part and draw a crowd by his unusual size, these last days I have spent in fear of his wrath, which simmered at all hours oblivious to rhythm and logic. He might just as easily break the neck of his dancing partner in the ring as he would knock down my office door in the dead of night to avenge some imaginary grievance. Truth to be told I put the matter down to drinks as much as I did these new nightly activities I have been let in the know on, and donning a mask seems in retrospect the least of it. The man was becoming unhinged, if he was not already deranged. And in the interest in protecting my staff I made my decision to let him go. What he has done with his life since I am as innocent in my involvement as I am ignorant of the details beyond what I have been told.”
“It seems the man was destined to turn,” put in du Gale. “We have traced movements of the circus courtesy of our friend here, and it soundly corroborates with two or three other criminal incidents in the last half-year on that trail. Wherever the circus goes, it seems, the masked avenger has reared its head without fail. I’ve sent word to my counterparts in those respective places, and I suspect soon we will have evidence to link the chain of events to one another.”
“It is at present not so much the man himself who requires our attentions,” said Bailey. “He is dead. It is the life he has led before his demise where my interest lies.” He turned to the manager. “Who were his sires? Who was his father, and what has become of him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the man replied.
“His mother then, and her father; who were they?”
“Ah! I never knew either.”
“Well he must have come from somewhere,” said Bailey in mild annoyance. “What was he like before you took him in?”
The man mulled chewing on his lips, struggling to remember.
“Oh come on, Mac-Winston,” said du Gale, “If you want to be off the hook you have to offer something up! Anything, really, would do. Details of the man’s life you might have overheard, gossip of his lover from an admirer of his work, complaints from a co-worker. You know it’s not enough to give him up to us, especially when we already have him. You have to hand over his life if we are to stop our badgering you about his death.”
The ringmaster wriggled his nose helplessly.
“Truth to be told, my lord, I found him in Longport to the south where he was working as a part-timer on whaling expeditions. He was famous for the strength of his throw, but it was the side money he made arm-wrestling all comers and knocking out farmers’ cows with his fists that attracted my attention. His radical opinions, which he was inclined to force on others with the ears to listen I disregarded completely, for I make a general habit of disassociating myself from my employees, so if they should incur any sort of embarrassment from their actions I would be readily absolved.”
“You are a prudent fellow, but cold,” was Bailey’s assessment, which brought a flush to the man’s cheeks. “And you can tell me little on what most I need to know. But if you can direct me to someone whose help I can depend on, you will not have to deal with us any longer.”
As expected Mac-Winston jumped at the chance, bringing out a name to shield himself against Bailey’s disappointment. This man was (real name) Jean d’Rooksfield, who partnered with the giant wrestling under the nickname of Madness Mars for the Circle. He was to be found in the employee barracks called the Lockers located behind the main tent. Du Gale sprang into action at once, and ordered the page to go on ahead with a scribbled message to detain the man named for questioning.
“Don’t worry my lord,” he was quick to assert to Bailey. “I have been thorough with my work since arriving, and the 2-26th has the circus completely surrounded, with every man within barricaded from leaving. We shall have answers soon enough.”
Indeed, his confidence seemed not to be unfounded, for when they arrived at the Lockers they found its entrance guarded by no less than four members of the esteemed riflemen division, sharing a smoke with a passing stagehand whose pockets they had pilfered for his sugars and matches. Upon seeing du Gale all four were quick to invoke that they had emptied the Lockers of everyone but d’Rooksfield, and that no one has gone in since. This testimony was swiftly corroborated by the stagehand, who had saw them do this very thing.
Du Gale favored each of his men with an encouraging clap on the shoulder, along with a sidelong glance at Bailey for any signs of approval. He swiftly excused himself, and darted into the tent in search of their quarry. The flaps, however, barely had time to settle before he came bursting out of it again, his face drained of all color and his eyes wild with unwelcomed surprise.
“You!” he cried at the nearest rifleman, who at once stood attention before him.
“Y-yes, sir?”
“You say you have emptied this tent of everybody else except for the man we want—Jean d’Rooksfield?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well where is he then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where is he?” Spittle flew from his mouth in the direction of the cowering soldier. “The tent is empty, man!”
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