Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “What’s the commotion about?” There followed a long pause in which Duke kept his gaze on the emerging map and the other officers shared looks. “I think I have talents which can be put to better use than building a crude defensive wall,” Alistair continued when it became obvious no one wanted to answer him. “So put me to better use.”

  With an air of reluctance, Duke turned to face Alistair, forced to peer up at him but with a manner that refused to admit a difference in stature. “A scout party was attacked. No one was killed. We’re preparing for a larger attack.”

  Alistair nodded. “I think it is past time I did some scouting.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll take a few men with me and find the enemy camp. I’ll speak to the chief and see if we can’t prevent an all out battle.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. If you find the camp you come straight back to me. The battle started when they attacked us. You go waltzing into their camp with a peace offer and you’ll find yourself the main course for a bunch of starving savages.”

  “I’m not asking your permission,” Alistair replied, his voice even and his face carved from stone. “As a courtesy I am letting you know why I won’t be in camp for the next few hours, maybe couple days.”

  “Alistair!” barked the commander, but the massive Aldran had already turned his back and was walking away.

  ***

  “What does a government do for society?”

  After posing the question, Alistair looked into the eyes of the men around him. They were kneeling down in a small depression near the base of the hill, hidden from view by a few trees and a boulder at the rim. The sun had passed its zenith and a wind rustled the long grass, making swirls here and there. The men considered the question but did not immediately answer, all but Santiago exchanging curious looks with each other. The Argentinean looked at Alistair almost with suspicion.

  “It protects people,” Taribo finally answered.

  “From whom?”

  “Criminals,” said Miklos.

  “Other governments,” said Wellesley.

  “And who protects us from the government?”

  “The Greeks gave us the answer to this,” said Miklos. “The men and women in government must be chosen for their wisdom—”

  “But what if fools get into government? What if wise men get corrupted by the power?”

  Ryan, Miklos and Taribo stumbled for an answer, sputtering and half starting a couple but giving up before a handful of words left their mouths. They seemed bewildered that Alistair should begin a civics lesson at such a time. It was Santiago’s calm and confident voice that finally gave a full response.

  “Men have struggled with these questions for millennia, Alistair; you can’t expect us to give you a short, tidy answer here and now. The question is academic anyway, because what is going to happen is going to happen. People can’t conceive an answer so they go on living with whatever government has arisen, however it arose. What is your answer?”

  “I am going to offer security and arbitration services. I would like you four to join me. We’ll protect people’s property if they hire us. We’ll arbitrate disputes for people. We’ll punish criminals and force them to pay restitution. This is what a government does when it does anything useful, but we won’t force people to join. And we’ll allow them to hire someone else if they prefer.” Alistair grew more impassioned as he made the speech. “If two parties with different security services have a dispute, we’ll have a contract with them stipulating a third party to mediate. We’ll establish common sense laws everyone instinctively feels are right. Differences can be worked out over time. The security firms offering the kind of law enforcement people most agree with will be the most popular, and other firms will have to adopt their law or go out of business.”

  Wellesley, Taribo and Miklos looked uncertainly at one another. Santiago’s face was more impassive, a slight parting of the lips the only concession to the astonishment he felt.

  “If a man cannot steal, murder or rape, then no man can,” Alistair continued. “All men should be bound by the same law. No one may steal from another, but what is a tax if not taking one man’s money whether he consents or not. That’s theft or the word has no meaning. No one may murder another, so no one may declare war either. No one may own another, so why do we tolerate conscription? We’ll be doing the same things a government does when it does anything useful, but we won’t claim a monopoly. We’ll work within the market.

  “This is the time to do it, before government gets entrenched. I’m going to offer my services to the inhabitants of this island. However many there are, they will be eager for some help against the thousands who have invaded. If we get these inhabitants we’ll have some numbers with us. We can take the message to everyone else then. We’ll tell them they don’t have to bow to a chief. They may feel some loyalty to Odin, or gratefulness perhaps, but these are people who are tired of being slaves. There are many square miles of open land here. We’ll tell them to homestead it and be free. We have a real chance here, a chance for a just society with no one dominating another. A real chance for people to be free.”

  Alistair stopped speaking and observed the effect of his words. It was apparent he had done much to unsettle but little to convince.

  “I don’t think Duke and Odin will take to this,” Taribo finally said.

  “What’s the point, Alistair?” Santiago demanded, angry.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s the point’?”

  Santiago shook his head and looked away. When he looked back and spoke, there was a passion underneath the words that cracked the stoicism he tried to maintain.

  “I wish I could send a message to myself when I was your age. You struggle for a cause, you struggle for other people’s benefit and after years of effort you find out they don’t care, they never did. There’s no point!” The last sentence was sharp, like a dog’s bark. “You’ve got eighty or ninety years to live and then it’s over. On this moon you’ve got less than that. Don’t waste years in a futile struggle. Make yourself as happy as you can and let everyone else go hang themselves!” Santiago rubbed his face with both palms and settled himself down a bit. “This is wisdom a young man can’t appreciate. Every new generation wastes its youth on idealism and when it grows wiser it’s powerless to help the next one.”

  Alistair let a few seconds pass before speaking.

  “If I can convince these inhabitants, will you give me a chance? Will you stand with me?”

  Taribo was the first to reply. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  Ryan was embarrassed to have let another beat him to it. “You’re fucking crazy but I’m with you.”

  Miklos shrugged. “Why not. See how it goes. If you can get these others to join.”

  Alistair turned to Santiago, awaiting a reply. The Argentinean let out a sigh from deep within, and when he spoke all fervor was gone.

  “Alright, Señor Quijote,” he whispered. “Let’s attack the windmills.”

  ***

  The day lost the intense brightness of the midday hours. The amorphous clouds in the west were showing a pinkish tint and other colors coalesced near the horizon. Waves lapped at the shore with increased intensity as the wind blew stronger. Around Duke’s camp, the workers’ zeal abated. After noon they waited out the worst of the heat while taking a meager meal, and for the next couple hours engaged only in light labor until conditions permitted more strenuous activity. The wall was in place as sunset approached, and after a few last hours of hard work the immigrants were easing into the last portion of the day.

  There arose a great wail all of the sudden, interrupting the comfortable rhythm of their efforts. It was a long, loud cry with sobs modulating the voice, giving it a vibrato quality. It startled them and when the wail continued hundreds of heads swiveled about, looking for the source of the disturbance.

  In the center of camp, a man fell prostrate upon the ground and a circle of spectators,
wary but fascinated, formed around him, leaving him with several feet of space on all sides. Duke confronted the occurrence with a frown, and he tucked his chin into his chest with a growl and made for the gathering crowd, pushing his way to the front.

  At the moment when Duke reached the interior and spotted the wailer, the man was coming out of his prostrate position, his exposed skin covered in dry sand sticking to the sweat. His hands trembled as he regained his feet, and he grabbed at his head as if trying to wrest it from its neck. The wail diminished to a pitiable moan, and for the first time he became aware of those around him. He reached out with his hands, his eyes wide as if in terror, his mouth open and panting.

  “What the Devil’s the matter with him?” Duke demanded to know, but none could answer. “Someone fetch the doctor!”

  “I saw…” the man ventured to say, his voice feeble and cracked. “… it, it touched me.” He grabbed at his own chest, but there was no longer desperation in his movements; he seemed almost relieved. “An R. An R for… Rick? Ron? Raymond?” The man turned to a section of the crowd, to men and women who stared at him in uncomprehending awe, his arms outstretched as if trying to catch them. “Is there a… a Richard? Or maybe Ronald?”

  “Reginald?” ventured a timid voice.

  The man seized on the answer. “Reginald!” he cried, and he nearly leapt on the man, grabbing him by the shoulders in a fit of passion. “She spoke to me of you, Reginald!”

  The man seemed perfectly horrified about what she might have said.

  The wailing man clutched at Reginald’s chest, where his heart was. “There is so much pain in this heart.” Reginald scowled and drew back, but the man stayed with him and his tone was sympathetic and soothing. “So much pain, so undeserving of so much pain. It’s a dark secret that brings you to Srillium.” The man nodded knowingly, and Reginald blushed a dark red. “But it wasn’t your fault, Reginald. I see violence…” the man covered his eyes with one hand while the other reached out, fingers extended to the heavens. “But you were a victim too. It was a violent act.”

  Reginald was stupefied. “I killed a man.” His voice quavered uncertainly. “In a bar fight.”

  “But you didn’t want to kill that man.”

  Reginald shook his head, his unblinking eyes held captive by the man’s intent gaze.

  “Reginald wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose. It was the pain that moved him.”

  Reginald did not respond but continued to stare awestruck.

  “Reginald deserves to be at peace. His pain drove him, and his pain has been a terrible price to pay. He deserves to be at peace now.” There was the faintest hint of mist in Reginald’s eyes, and the seer cupped the man’s face in his hands. Reginald normally would not let a man touch him in that manner, but his defenses were shattered. “Gaia wishes you to be free, Reginald. I see… I see an instrument. Music. A Piano? Did you play an instrument?”

  Reginald shook his head in the negative.

  “I’m seeing some sort of instrument… there’s music involved. Someone playing something… someone close to you.”

  “My sister played the violin,” he hesitantly suggested.

  “That’s what Gaia is telling me,” cried the seer, exultant. Many of the onlookers murmured. “She made music.” He said the words as if they were the most profound and wonderful thing ever revealed to a man. “She made music, Reginald. Perhaps you will make music for Gaia too.”

  “My sister died…”

  “And now it is your turn to play while she is gone. Will give this gift to Gaia?”

  Reginald dumbly nodded, a slow nod, his lips parted in religious awe. The seer pulled away and peered into the crowd.

  “There is a thief who needs absolution. He took from men what was not his, but he is ready to be forgiven now. There’s a… an F. Frank? Fred?”

  “His father’s name was Fred,” said a man, pointing to another.

  Fred’s son gave his companion a scathing glance, but the seer bounded over to him and held his hands, effecting a look of masculine discomfort on the other’s face.

  “You have stolen,” the seer declared.

  “I ain’t stolen from anyone,” grumbled the man, and he yanked his hands from the seer’s grasp.

  “You stole from your father.”

  “My father died a long time ago.” The man was growing angry. “I’m here for specnine possession.”

  “You stole the legacy your father wanted you to leave,” the seer corrected him. “You think he is no more because he died? His spirit is a part of everything now. Let yourself be absolved—”

  “Bullshit,” the man muttered and, turning away, disappeared into the crowd.

  “We can all be absolved,” the seer announced. “But we must be ready.”

  “I need absolution,” a man timidly said, coming up to the seer and kneeling in front of him.

  The seer knelt down as well. “We will be on the same level,” he said. “As children of Gaia we will be on the same level.”

  The crowd drew closer as the seer described to the other what he saw in him. Duke allowed himself to fall back as others pressed in, coming finally to the outer fringe of the throng. His face was impassive and his arms were folded across his chest.

  “Another religious man,” he pronounced to a companion at his side. He said it with no hint of disapproval, like he would declare that leaves are green.

  “Looks like it, sir.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not well. He’s a new arrival. Clyde I think is his name. Australian.”

  “Well… listen: don’t let this get out of hand. There’s a large dose of work left to do. Inform the sentries there’s nothing to bother about. Keep watch.” So saying Duke retraced his steps back to his command center.

  In the middle of the crowd Clyde approached the Druid who regarded him with a look as rough and hard as stone, but Clyde prostrated himself at his feet, in supplication, reaching out to touch his bare toes while he breathed into the sand.

  “Gaia’s blessing,” Clyde begged.

  There was only a moment’s pause before a dark hand grasped his head. A soft incantation followed, and the Druid bestowed Gaia’s blessing on Clyde.

  ***

  A sentry guarding a sleeping hamlet spotted a lone figure and called out. The cry did nothing to deter the stranger, nor did the rapid gathering of the other sentries, nor the armed men who came pouring out of the lodges with hefted spears and axes. From the large building at the center emerged a man whose raiment, crude though it was, still was intricate enough to suggest authority. His long dark beard, speckled by gray and separated into two braids, bounced as he hustled to the crowd, slapping men on the backs of their heads and sending them off to fortify other areas lest the man prove to be the first of an assault.

  By now the newcomer, a massive man with several days’ growth of beard and hair lingering between short and medium, had advanced to within twenty yards. The leader threw out a forewarning hand and commanded him to stop.

  “What business do you have here, outlander?” demanded the chief in Mandarin, his strong voice easily heard over the wind. His face was flat and his features, ringed by soft wrinkles, spoke of Mongol heritage.

  “My name is Alistair,” replied the young man in decent, accented Mandarin, “and unless I am mistaken, my business is with you.” He stammered a couple times but his speech was understandable.

  “You have no business with me, Alistair,” insisted the chief, mauling the pronunciation of the name. “How many are you?”

  “I and four others. We come in peace. We come to talk. I come to make an offer.”

  “Four others?!” exclaimed the chief, disbelieving. “You are either lying or a fool.”

  “Why don’t you let me—”

  “Speak Mandarin!”

  Alistair nodded, holding up his hands to indicate he meant no offense. “It doesn’t cost you anything but a few moments’ time for listening to what I say.” He stumbled
through the difficult sentence but managed to get it out. “If you refuse my offer, I will leave immediately and in peace.”

  The chief conferred with some of his men and finally, nodding, he turned around and strode, with steps as large as he could manage, back to the main building from which he had come. One of the men he left behind waved Alistair on. The mob parted to let him through, though more than a few spears were pointed at him. He felt their gazes like he might have felt iron wool on his sunburnt skin, and with every step he thought he might stub his toe and stagger, making himself look ridiculous. His legs obeyed his command like the legs of a marionette obey the string: he felt graceless.

  The building, its raw timbers yet to be smoothed over and the gaps between them filled in with mud and straw, lacked a proper door. An animal skin hung like a curtain and he drew it aside and cautiously passed through, his axe still strapped to his back but his hands twitching to grasp it. He stepped into an audience chamber and dining hall. There were two long tables of hewn trees nailed together, and at the other end of the hall, there was a raised dais and a crude throne, its parts also hacked from a tree. Six bodyguards surrounded their chief, standing on the dirt floor at the edge of the dais while the chief himself, going to some lengths to appear at ease, even bored, lounged on his throne, one leg thrown over an arm. The shy Aldran viewed the smaller audience as a welcome relief.

  “Say your peace and be gone,” was the chief’s order.

  “I think it is in all of our interests to reach a peaceful agreement. I am going to make an offer to you and the members of your tribe.”

  “You will make the offer to me. I am the chief of the tribe.”

  “That would… defeat the purpose of the proposal. I propose to offer my services as…” Alistair struggled with the vocabulary, “arbitrator and law enforcer. For a fee I will be… available to settle disputes. I will record property and enforce contract… obligations of contract. If necessary I will investigate crimes and see that victims are compensated by criminals. I will enforce retribution for crimes, or for criminal… how is the word?… negligence.”