The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  Two giant cages were wheeled into the center of the arena, each containing a stomping, darting, black-plumaged ostrich. Standing chest-high to a man, its naked neck and reddish head stretched half again as high. Carrying sticks with which to beat back any ostrich that might try to break through the ring, blackamoors formed a ring around the cages. A small crock of water was set midway between the two cages; the cage doors were flung open and out stormed the two gigantic birds, both bound for the same water. Thirst-maddened, the birds set upon each other, each attempting to keep the other from the water. In their battle, they upset the crock, the water sinking immediately into the parched earth and sand that was the arena floor.

  Now, totally enraged, one sailed into the other, pecking its head and neck, clawing at it with his two-toed foot, driving it away in a flurry of legs. At the circle's edge, the slaves beat them both back with great shouts and clubbings, which only further infuriated the huge feathery combatants.

  The spectators loved it. They cheered and made wagers on one bird or the other and laughed every time the ostriches, coming near the slaves, clawed savagely at them. Steel-tipped whips in turn forced the slaves to close ranks and tighten the circle. Feeling hemmed in, the ostriches forgot one another and attacked their encirclers, only to be beaten back again and again. Here and there a slave went down, slit from neck to gullet by the ostrich's single claw, but another unfortunate quickly was whipped into his place. Slowly but irresistibly, the slaves tightened their circle until it was hardly large enough to contain the two pecking, kicking, gouging birds. Now the slaves stood three and four deep at all points around the perimeter. Sticks rained blows on the birds, who countered with mighty legs, thrusting taloned feet into the front ranks.

  It was a grand and glorious opening event, the crowd agreed, as, by sheer numbers, the slaves beat the giant birds into a bloody pulp, at a cost of a few dead or nearly dead slaves plus dozens more with broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Triumphantly, the slaves dragged the huge carcasses from the arena, it being their only victory in weeks... perhaps years.

  A blast of many ram horns cleared the arena. Through an entrance charged six more of the feathery beasts to gallop, stomp, and glide about the arena. A single archer entered on horseback; his huge bow, lying across his saddle, stretched a meter to either side of his horse. Fitting a shaft from the quiver strapped on his back, he took aim, and dropped his quarry with a shot into its huge chest

  Now the archer trotted his horse to the other end of the arena, the birds spreading out and watching him warily. Then at full gallop, he headed straight for them, scattering them in full flight, drew his bow and drove an arrow through the neck of a moving target. To clapping and cheers and huzzahs he rode proudly out of the arena.

  In came another mounted tribesman—an ebony-hued Negro from Ifriqiya's great desert country with a single coil of rope held in his right hand. Charging into the midst of the squawking, flapping birds, he twirled the rope in a neat loop above his head, then flung it with a snap of his wrist. The lasso snaked through the air and dropped over the head of a startled ostrich in mid-flight, drawing tight and pulling him off his feet as the horse quickly braked to a halt. Like magic, a dagger materialized within the rider's hand arid flew, in a blur of silver, to skewer the long sinuous neck; the strong, dangerous legs clawed once weakly at the sky then fell, still, to the ground.

  Again the horseman set his horse at full gallop, recoiling his rope as be rode. Again he twirled it high and, charging into the scattering birds, flung it out along the dirt where it fairly danced across the surface before snaring a pounding leg. The archer reappeared as if by magic and drove a shaft into the exposed chest, stilling the raucous squawks and the flapping wings.

  Once more the horseman recoiled his well-trained rope and herding the remaining two birds in front of him, chased them the full length of the arena, all three at breakneck speed. The lasso leaped and circled both heads at once, tightened instantly, binding the birds together in its death grip. The birds in a frenzy turned to one another, clawing and pecking, further tightening the constricting rope and forcing it up the long necks until the bulging heads stopped it short.

  For long minutes the death struggle went on. Again the spectators roared their approval and placed their wagers. And when one finally crumpled to the dirt, a talon having pierced its heart, the thumbs went up and the shouts of "Mine!" rang out for the victor. When the Moulay Hassan stood and raised his thumb as well, the loser's neck was cut in two, and the survivor was dragged and chased from the arena, its head still caught in the loop along with the flopping head and bleeding neck of its vanquished foe.

  The Moulay Hassan was enjoying himself. He hadn't thought much of the Olympic events, nor yesterday's camel competition, although he had delighted in its aftermath, as he had the gladiator fights. Yawning, he hoped today's events continued to be exciting; if not, he was going back to bed. He had had an exhausting night last night and stayed up much too late. Which reminded him of Zainab's message.

  Imperiously he gestured for Ali to step forward and said, "Today, I would know who competes. Have their names announced!" . "As you command, rafi as'sa'n," said Ali, bowing and looking askance at Aisha. Her shrug and raised eyebrow conveyed without words her own bewilderment over the Moulay's orders. Even as Ali left to relay those orders to the officials, the crier called for the contestants to take their place at the starting line at the south end. Of the original 180 men, only 57 were left, survivors of three grueling days of competition. One look at them revealed no paunches, no flabby muscles. Only the strong remained. Some blistered and peeling from the sun, others bronzed and golden; only the blacks and Gilliver were apparently untouched by the sun's rays. The frail Scot's skin refused to tan, reddening, then peeling and returning to white. Nor was his body as smooth-muscled and sleek as the rest of the group that now lined up for the start of the fourth day's competition.

  As the men approached the line marked in salt on the sand, horns sounded, gates swung open, and in stormed a thundering pack of ostriches, herded by men on horseback and club-bearers on foot. As the last of the big birds entered, the men retreated and the gates swung shut, the arena left to the birds and men.

  As the dust settled about the birds, it was Carlby who first noted the not readily obvious: "Dammit, the devils didn't give us enough birds to go round." De Wynter, peering at the darting, stomping, angry birds, hazarded a guess that there were no more than fifty and more probably forty in number.

  "That must be their game," Carlby continued. "If you don't get a bird, you're out of it."

  "We'll have to work as a team," de Wynter replied, thinking rapidly what strategy to employ. "For each two we get, one man will have to hold them while the others go after more until we have enough."

  "Aye, but you can bet there will be trouble when it gets down to just a few," Menzies said.

  Cameron agreed. "These fellows will do anything to survive at this point. If they see one of our men with two, they'll try to take one."

  "True," said de Wynter. "We'll have to assign our strongest to do the holding. Fionn, of course. And Angus and Ogilvy. We have

  no other choice but to chance it."

  Officials now passed up and down the line handing out pieces of rope, each carefully measured at only two meters in length, one rope per man. At the end of the line, one man was left with no rope which set off an uproar, each official blaming the others for not counting right. Finally another rope was found, and the contest could begin.

  Carlby and de Wynter reminded their fellows to stay close; the strategy was to catch birds as a team, not individually. "Would an extra rope help?" John the Rob whispered to de Wynter.

  "Not again?" said de Wynter with a grin. "Those hands are going to get you in trouble some day. Right now, I'm glad to have them. Where have you got it?" he added, looking searchingly at John the Rob who was as near naked as he. John the Rob pulled down the edge of his loincloth to reveal the missing rope, wrapped neatly
around his waist. De Wynter shook his head in wonderment.

  The caller cupped his hands and shouted the commands of the Moor from Morocco: "You may start when the ram horns sound and continue until they sound again. There are no restrictions on what you may do to get yourself a bird. Those without a bird, when the horns blow the second time, lose. Winners continue on to the race events in the afternoon. Let the blessings of Allah be on you who compete."

  Pray God, de Wynter thought, there are no experienced men at this strange game. If so, with good teamwork and a little bit of luck, we should come out all right. Provided somebody doesn't get kicked or maimed.

  The trumpets sounded. Fifty-seven men leaped from the starting line. The great birds saw what was coming and ran helter-skelter. Quickly, the men were among them, trying to corner them against the wall, throwing looped ends of their short ropes at heads and feet, and picking themselves up off the dirt when flattened by a kick or tripped by a fellow contestant's leg.

  The nine took off together, following the lead of Cameron, who was their fastest runner. Isolating a pair of the feathery beasts, they formed a semicircle and herded them toward the wall. Then Fionn leaped on the neck of the'first and held on while de Wynter roped me fiercely darting head.

  "Hold that one while we get another," de Wynter yelled to Angus. Then Fionn was upon the second. Soon it, too, wore a halter. And off they went to repeat the strategy. Again it worked, but not without Carlby taking a fearful kick in the stomach and John the Rob having his arm gashed. As a group they chased and dragged their third bird to where Fionn held the first two.

  "I don't think I can hold three!" Fionn shouted desperately. "It's all I can do to keep the two under control."

  "Tie their bloody necks together," Carlby grunted, holding onto his aching stomach.

  "Here, use this," John the Rob volunteered, handing over his extra rope.

  De Wynter quickly made a large loop and by tugging on the two ropes already secured, managed to get the third rope over two heads and tighten the noose.

  "Hang on to them," he yelled at Fionn as the pack sped off for more. It was more difficult now. Half the birds had been captured,

  and the others were the biggest and strongest and wisest of the flock. And these remaining twenty were being pursued by three dozen eager huntsmen. Several bodies—both bird and human—-lay stretched out on the arena floor, some moving, some not.

  Their fourth bird was handed over to Ogilvy to hold. And a fifth was finally roped, John the Rob quickly producing another rope to tie another pair together.

  "Where did that come from?" de Wynter asked in amazement.

  "Just happened to find it," John the Rob said, raising his hand to show three more looped in his grasp. "I'll tell you this, friend, there's some fellows out there hunting birds with no ropes."

  De Wynter allowed himself an appreciative smile at John the Rob's feat. There was no time for anything more, since four birds were still needed, and only a dozen left loose with twice that number of men pursuing them around the arena—each working independently.

  That gave the team a distinct advantage. For one thing seven could comer the speedy, cranky critters more easily than one. And seven could herd it into a wall, where it had to turn and try to fight its way out. And, thanks to John the Rob's extras, seven ropes would find more targets more quickly than one rope.

  They roped the sixth bird around one leg, ignoring the furiously pecking head, gang-tackled it, and trussed both legs together. Ogilvy was left to guard it while the rest went back for others.

  Cornering the seventh, Gilliver took a glancing kick on his right leg, the talons raking deep gashes in his thigh. But the group subdued the squawking bird, and de Wynter looked around for John the Rob to hold tins one while they went for more.

  A strange sight greeted his eyes. Down the center of the great amphitheater came a bird running full tilt, dragging a man at the end of a rope. It was John the Rob and they ran to his aid.

  "How did you catch this one?" de Wynter asked.

  "Some fellow decided he didn't want it any longer," John the Rob shouted, spitting dirt from his mouth.

  "Oh," said de Wynter. "I suppose the one heading this way has simply changed his mind and wants it back."

  The others looked where de Wynter was pointing, to see an angry contestant bearing down on them. With Carlby holding the eighth bird, five of the group lined up to face the irate man.

  "That's my bird, and he stole it," he screamed, pointing a finger at John the Rob.

  "Forget it, friend," de Wynter shouted above the din, tossing the man a rope. "Go get yourself another one." As he spoke, the five stepped forward menacingly toward the man; he held his ground for a long minute, then decided he didn't really want that particular bird.

  "Just one to go," de Wynter cried. And the five sped off looking for another ostrich to subdue.

  The crowd had watched the spectacle with fascination, especially the teamwork. Some thought it clever. Others considered it unfair. The judges, too, had frowned, conferred, and found that there was nothing in their rules to prohibit such action, though they certainly had not expected it.

  Of the five birds still speeding around the arena, they needed but one. At that moment they heard a shout—Gilliver's charge had gotten away. All turned to run this one down, Cameron making a dangerous and daring tackle of one leg, with the others then piling on before the beast could seriously hurt him. Gilliver, whose right leg was still bleeding, was again put in charge of the bird. Now de Wynter, John the Rob, and Menzies could set off to track down their final prey. Horrified, de Wynter looked around the arena to see that there were no more ostriches on the loose. "Now what?" he said.

  John the Rob said, "I'll get us another one. Watch." Twirling the rope about his head, he finally let go, and the rope found its target, wrapping itself about another contestant's neck. Startled, the man let go of his bird, and it took off for freedom. As one, the three took after it, as did every other contestant without a bird.

  Desperation showed on every face. Anyone who got in someone else's way was jostled, tripped, shoved, or belted. John the Rob concentrated on stripping contestants of their ropes, many of them never knowing whad had happened. The result was that out of the eleven pursuers only five had ropes: two others besides de Wynter and Menzies and John the Rob.

  Still moving as fast as his legs would take him, John the Rob knotted his extra ropes together, making them into one long rope. Tying knots at each end, he threw one end to de Wynter and snouted, "Grab hold, milord, we've got to slow these fellows down a bit."

  So saying, he darted off at an angle, taking his end of the rope with him, so that it stretched out on the ground between them. De Wynter took only a moment to see what was on the other's mind. Then with a grin, he carried out his end of the plan. Circling around one end of the group pursuing the ostrich, he dragged the rope behind him, the other end of which was held tightly in John the Rob's hand. Now he cut sharply back across their path, and yanked the rope tight at knee level. Down went the pursuers in a heap, wondering what hit them. All except one. Kenneth Menzies leaped over the rope and sped after the bird, with de Wynter and John the Rob right behind him. The long rope was hopelessly tangled jn legs and bodies and had to be abandoned, but both Menzies and de Wynter had theirs. What's more, the bird still trailed the one by which it had been held captive.

  Menzies caught up to the bird by anticipating which way he would turn as he reached the end of the arena, then cutting him off. Cornered by the three contestants, the bird decided to stand and fight. Too late. While two men made a feint to one side, Menzies dived for the rope. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled with all of his strength. As the bird answered the tug, de Wynter tossed another rope over his head, then pulled it taut, and dragged the creature back to where the rest of their group awaited them, fighting off other contestants as they went.

  Now to figure put how to get the still kicking and struggling birds under better contr
ol. "Hobble them," de Wynter decided. "It works for horses and camels." By combining their strength and talents, one by one they trussed the birds' legs together with about a hand’s breadth between.

  "Check all the knots on those loops," de Wynter said. "We don't want to lose any at this stage. Damn, there should be a way to keep these together without each of us holding one."

  "As you command," said a grinning John the Rob, producing from around his middle the long length of rope used to trip up their competitors. It was short work to join all of the neck ropes with the long rope. Now, to steal one, all must be stolen. All but de Wynter and Carlby were assigned to sit on, pin, or otherwise control the still irritable but tired ostriches until the ram's-horn blared again.

  "So far so good," de Wynter said as the pair squatted several paces in front of the group, ready to do battle with any birdless one who came too close. But their aspect was too formidable. They were left alone.

  "Are we really going to try to ride those creatures? We must be mad," Carlby said, rubbing his sore stomach.

  De Wynter ignored both words and gesture. "We've got to fashion some bridles to steer the bloody beasts. Damn. If we didn't need the extra rope to hold the birds, we could use it for bridles."

  "Suppose we bury one's head in the sand while you turn his rope into a bridle," Carlby suggested facetiously.

  De Wynter ignored his sarcasm. "You have the makings of a good idea there. Suppose we blindfold one with a loincloth then use the neck rope to make the bridle? Come on, it's worth a try."

  Before they could experiment, a loose ostrich went'screaming and flapping down the arena, squawking shrilly as its captor chased it, six men chasing him. No one lifted a hand to help. At that moment, the ram's horn sounded and the silent ones entered the arena, herding the birdless ones, including the seven would-be captors of the loose bird, inexorably toward the Gate of Death. None went willingly. Some tried to scale the arena wall. Others tried to take shelter among the captive birds. At this, the stentorian voice announced, "He who harbors a birdless one will sacrifice his own chance to compete." At that, the luckier ones expelled their fellows, allowing the silent ones to round up all the others. As the Moulay had commanded, each man's name was announced as he was shoved through the Gate of Death. The Moulay, satisfied that the one he was interested in was still in the arena, announced, "I am tired. Hold the games until I return from my nap." Before Ramlah or Aisha could protest, he had left the royal box on his way to the couching room prepared by the slaves days before.