Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  Odin’s internal struggle created no ripple on his features. After what felt like a long while, his tense posture relaxed and he answered, “I didn’t come here for more warfare. We will leave each other be. When the island is properly mapped we can meet to divide it, your territory and mine.”

  Shaking his head firmly, Alistair replied, “No, sir. That we will not do. I have a small amount of territory already, a tenth of an acre, on the top of the hill.” He turned his upper body to the hut, which could just be made out in the distance. “This is the only territory I call my own. I am not the lord of a dominion, I am a businessman. Anyone who is willing to pay may purchase my services, including anyone and everyone in your camp. I tell you this so we do not part with any misunderstandings. On this island there are no rulers.”

  Odin’s eyes hardened again, and he pursed his lips. “There is a great deal of my property taken by these free men of yours.”

  “There is a great deal of property built by their hands with their tools. If there is something out there that is truly yours, you may purchase my services and file a claim.”

  For the first time, Odin glanced at his subordinates who could offer him nothing more than a look of peeved bafflement. “Let’s go,” he softly said to them, and without a word of goodbye or anything to indicate their acceptance or rejection, they marched back to the north.

  Alistair’s men relaxed; the young Aldran had not realized how tense they were until the tension left. They eased out of formation and Taribo sat down on the long grass of the plain, attempting to root out a pebble from his moccasin. Alistair found Santiago facing him with a thoughtful expression.

  “I think we will avoid a war,” he decided. “You did well. Firm but not pushing too far.”

  “Unless I am mistaken, his population is going to trickle out of his camp until he is left with few men at all. At the last his camp will break up and that will be that.”

  “Let’s head back then,” suggested Ryan. “And let’s get something to eat, too.”

  Chapter 62

  “The key difference from your perspective is that no one is forced to pay for our services,” Alistair explained to Taribo while the latter sat across from him at the table in the hut. “If we don’t please people, I go out of business and you lose a job.”

  “I understand this, my friend,” said Taribo with a disarming smile.

  “I know you understand, but have you pondered the implications? You told me you were in the military.”

  “I was.”

  “Then you need to relearn things. This is not going to be like anything you have ever done or ever seen before.”

  “How so?”

  “Customer service,” was Alistair’s simple reply. To Taribo’s raised eyebrow, he responded, “You have to be polite to people. We have to make people want to hire us, because if they don’t want to, they don’t have to. Every incident needs to be handled with an eye towards making all parties satisfied with the outcome. It won’t always be possible, but that is the goal. Everyone needs to be treated with respect, patience, politeness, and a smile… Everyone is either a customer who deserves our respect or a potential customer who deserves our respect. This isn’t a state police force and it sure isn’t the armed forces. We don’t want to lose anyone’s business.”

  A grin sprouted on Taribo’s face, and by the time Alistair finished it bloomed into a full smile accompanied by a delighted laugh.

  “Customer-friendly police!” he chortled without derision.

  “That’s how it has to be,” said Alistair, a grin of his own forming.

  “I like it. Customer-friendly!” Taribo laughed again. “I will arrest you politely.”

  “And everything else politely.”

  “We are the polite police!”

  “Can you manage that?”

  “They are only one letter different: polite and police.”

  “Close in spelling,” Alistair agreed.

  “It was an ironic coincidence until now.”

  Taribo laughed again, the mirth reaching down into his belly and producing a guffaw. “Polite police.” He shook his head in appreciation.

  Spying an approaching group of men and women, Alistair remarked, “Here they come. You may get a chance to put your new code into practice.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  There were ten who approached the hut. Giselle was there with another woman, while Santiago, Ryan and Miklos were leading five men, one of them a small man of dark coloring, badly beaten and with a foul grimace on his face. Gregory was one of the others, and Santiago was in the forefront, leading them into the hut as Alistair stood to greet them.

  “Welcome. I understand there was some unpleasant business last night.” There were general nods of assent and a couple forearms drawn across brows to clear away the trickling sweat from a hot, equatorial sun. “We hope to clear that up as quickly and pleasantly as may be done. Santiago, who is the plaintiff and who the defendant?”

  Santiago extended a hand to the badly beaten small man and said, “This is Yusuf Hassan, originally of Earth, East Africa. He is the plaintiff.” Yusuf managed a nod to Alistair. “This is Bernhard Rachmann, also of Earth, Austria.” The second man Santiago indicated was a larger man, balding, with an unfriendly gaze and meaty hands. His lips were curled naturally into the beginnings of a snarl and his ears were pierced and sported small rings and stones from top to bottom. He stared at Alistair as if suspicious. Yusuf looked to be nearing forty while Bernhard was closer to thirty. “Bernhard is the defendant.”

  “Please have a seat, or a stool as the case may be,” bid Taribo, and he bowed as he drew a stool away from the table.

  “The plaintiff and defendant may take opposite ends of the table,” said Alistair, and both Yusuf and Bernhard seated themselves. Giselle grabbed a wooden block and a small instrument to carve it and sat down next to Alistair, who took a stool at the middle of the table. Gregory took a seat on the other side of Alistair. Miklos, Santiago, Taribo and Ryan remained standing and spread out, while the other three, the woman and two men, sat opposite Giselle, Gregory and Alistair. Holding her tablet in her hand, with the carving knife in the other, Giselle looked at Alistair expectantly. “Let’s begin,” he said.

  “I purchased protection and I want that son of a bitch to get his!” Yusuf exclaimed, as if he had been poised to spring into action at the sound of the starting gun.

  Bernhard immediately responded with a diatribe of his own and in an instant there were several speakers proclaiming something or denouncing someone all at once. Alistair let it proceed in this way until Bernhard came half out of his stool with an aggressive gesture. Miklos and Ryan, who were standing in his vicinity, stepped closer to him and, with a wary glance at them, he sat back down. This intervention had the effect of dampening the heated argument.

  Using the opportunity to make himself heard, Alistair said, “I appreciate that everyone is upset right now. We are going to try and bring some justice to the situation. Until then, please do not speak out of turn. I’ll have some questions to ask and I need clear, lucid answers without interruptions. Everyone with business here will have a chance to speak. Please be patient until it is your time.”

  His entreaty fell on angry glares the men and woman directed towards each other, but there was no objection.

  “Mr. Hassan, what is the nature of your complaint?”

  “I was attacked,” he replied, his accent thick though he seemed comfortable enough with the language. “What more do you want to hear?”

  “Mr. Rachmann, is this correct?”

  “Naw,” replied Bernhard, as if he were spitting the word. “We got inna fight’s all. He lost.” Bernhard, despite his Teutonic name and country of origin, spoke English like an American.

  “There is a difference between two men getting in a fight and one larger man aggressing against a smaller one,” said Alistair. “If two men escalate things to the point of fighting, we might look at it as an implicit
agreement to engage in fisticuffs and let the past be the past. But Mr. Hassan is claiming a fight is not what he wanted and that you forced violence on him.”

  Bernhard’s expression suggested he understood little of what Alistair said. “I didn’t implicit nothin’,” he finally insisted.

  “That is exactly what I am saying you stupid ass!” Yusuf jumped off his stool to deliver the pronouncement.

  “Please let’s relax,” said Alistair, making his voice loud but not, he hoped, overbearing. “Mr. Rachmann, Mr. Yusuf claims you threw the first punch.” Bernhard said nothing but darkly glared at Yusuf across the table. “Is this true?”

  Bernhard pursed and contorted his lips in what he hoped was a fair imitation of boredom. “Yeah,” he finally grunted.

  “Up to that point, had Mr. Hassan laid a hand on you or was the argument entirely verbal?”

  “He didn’t touch me.”

  “How many blows did Mr. Hassan manage to land during the fight?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Any?”

  “Maybe. Don’t remember.”

  “Can you show us a bruise or other mark to indicate Mr. Hassan landed a blow?”

  Bernhard shrugged.

  “How many blows would you say you landed on Mr. Hassan?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “More than a dozen?”

  “Don’t know.” Bernhard slumped down in his stool and folded his arms. He gazed at the table and would not look up from it.

  “Mr. Rachmann, this is Dr. Lushington. He has given Mr. Hassan a full physical examination so far as current conditions permit. Dr. Lushington, do you have an opinion on the severity of the beating?”

  Clearing his throat, Gregory straightened his posture. “I believe the beating was severe but not life threatening. There are contusions in fifteen different locations, some suggesting multiple blunt force trauma. There are lacerations consistent with Mr. Hassan being dragged over gravel, and a patch of chest hair has been ripped from the skin, leaving a welt. Mr. Rachmann has declined to undergo a physical examination so I cannot conclude anything about his condition.” Gregory, his manner calm and professional throughout, leaned back in his chair.

  “Mr. Wellesley interviewed three witnesses provided to us by Mr. Hassan. Mr. Rachmann, have you brought a witness to testify on your behalf today? Mr. Wellesley indicated you could provide no one at the time he was conducting the interviews.”

  “Nope,” said Bernhard with a sigh.

  “Mr. Wellesley, what did the witnesses indicate to you?”

  Ryan stepped forward, his hands folded in front of him. “I interviewed six in all, but three of them didn’t want to come for the… the thing today. They all backed up what Mr. Hassan said.”

  “Any discrepancies?”

  “Not really.”

  “I see. Does anyone have anything they would like to declare before I make the pronouncement? Very well. Mr. Bernhard Rachmann, it is my opinion you assaulted Mr. Yusuf Hassan. You turned a heated argument into a physical assault with a smaller man who could not defend himself and who had no desire to engage you in combat. I am declaring you guilty.”

  Bernhard rolled his eyes.

  “Mr. Hassan, do you wish to grant Mr. Rachmann any clemency?”

  “What is clemency?”

  “Do you wish to forgive all or part of the punishment?”

  “I want the full punishment,” insisted Yusuf with a defiant look at Bernhard.

  “There’s not even a jail here,” spat the other with dismissive arrogance, and he folded his arms even tighter to his chest.

  “Mr. Rachmann, we don’t anticipate needing to use a jail very often. We offer a different service here, and now we are going to deliver the justice Mr. Hassan has paid for. First of all, you have physically assaulted Mr. Hassan without his permission. This action on your part is a declaration that you consider such violence permissible. As a first course, Mr. Hassan has the right to do to you what you did to him, or to hire someone to do it. Taribo will be doing the honors today, unless Mr. Hassan wishes to do it himself.”

  “He’s bigger,” Yusuf declared with an encouraging nod to the muscular West African.

  “Wait a minute… what the hell are you talking about?” For the first time Bernhard’s tone betrayed some alarm.

  “They’re going to beat the hell out of you, stupid ass!” Yusuf barked.

  “What the fuck!?” Bernhard yelled, rising from his stool. “You can’t do that!”

  “Mr. Rachmann,” said Taribo, “we regret we cannot allow you to leave now that Mr. Ashley has given the pronouncement. We regret any inconvenience this may cause you and ask you to remain seated until directed otherwise.” Taribo finished with an expression of satisfaction.

  Bernhard stared for a moment at Taribo’s hand which pointed to the stool he had just vacated. Eyes wide with fright and taking rapid breaths, he considered the large men before him, most of them even larger than him, and sat back down.

  “It is demonstrably untrue that we cannot beat you, Mr. Rachmann,” Alistair said with the flat tone of a lecturer. “Just as you beat Mr. Hassan, we can beat you. Whether or not this is a proper course of action is, ultimately, Mr. Hassan’s decision, but you certainly have no room to argue you should be treated more gently than you treated Mr. Hassan.

  “In our justice system, after a neutral party determines guilt, the aggrieved party determines the punishment, the maximum permissible extent of which the perpetrator himself determines at the moment he commits his crime. You determined the type, intensity, duration and amount of the beating the moment you delivered such to Mr. Hassan. While you wait for your beating, Mr. Mpala will consult with Dr. Lushington so that an accurate punishment may be administered.”

  In what was a supremely satisfying reaction for Yusuf, Bernhard’s lips quivered and his cheeks lost their color.

  “But that is just the beginning. We beat you with the permission of Mr. Hassan, a permission he received from you when, by your actions, you declared such things permissible. But when you beat Mr. Hassan, you acted without permission. In other words, our beating is a response and yours was an initiation. The pain to follow is a consequence of your own actions, but the pain Mr. Hassan must endure is unjust, something he should never have had to go through in the first place. You will therefore be made to pay a fine upon which interest will accrue for every moment it remains unpaid. This will be compensation for Mr. Hassan’s unnecessary suffering.”

  Bernhard’s jaw, already wide open, threatened to drop to the floor.

  “If you refuse to pay the fine, your property will be taken from you and its title transferred to Yusuf until the debt is cleared. If you do not have property enough to settle the debt, and if no one will lend or give you their property to help you, you will be forced to work off the debt. However, in such a case that you refuse to pay the debt on your own, we will be forced to charge you for the trouble of having to force you to work off the debt. This will only make it more expensive, and the accrued interest will be much greater as well. You may at any time, of course, reach an agreement with Mr. Hassan to settle the debt, both the money or property owed and the beating.”

  It was not entirely clear whether Bernhard fully comprehended what was happening, but he had realized that, short of a sudden desire to be merciful on the part of Yusuf, he was going to be severely beaten and then would have to pay a fine on top of that. The shock on his face morphed into pleading as he looked at a gloating Yusuf Hassan, and then quickly became anger as he gripped the edge of the table and stared down at the floor.

  “You can’t do it!” he hissed. “I never hired you! I’m not part of your… damn… shit!”

  “Mr. Hassan is our client; that is all that matters.”

  In the end, there was nothing Bernhard could do. He was taken to a holding area next to the hut. He waited there while Taribo spent a few minutes in discussion with Gregory, whose manner and glances towards Alistair betrayed his dis
approval. When he felt ready, after Yusuf again declined to forgo the beating in favor of clemency or a monetary settlement, the West African soldier came for Bernhard, guarded by Miklos and Ryan, and led him to a tree with a rope tied around its trunk. A crowd gathered for the spectacle, and excited chatter ran through. There were a few voices expressing disapproval, more that expressed their enthusiasm, but mainly it was a neutral sort of curiosity and excitement.

  “If you’d be so kind as to raise your arms,” said Taribo as if he were a tailor.

  Bernhard, numb with disbelief, raised his unsteady arms and Taribo tied the other end of the rope around his abdomen and then again around the tree, leaving the Austrian firmly secured to its base. The man’s stoic visage shattered as fear overcame him.

  “It is better to stand still for this sort of thing,” suggested Taribo in a chipper tone. “If I miss a target body part because you try and duck, it only means I have to hit you again until I get the target. Are you ready?”

  Bernhard was not listening, and when Taribo drew back his hand the man cringed.

  “Wait!” he implored Taribo. “Wait! I don’t want this. I’m sorry I… I didn’t mean it.”

  “We understand this is unpleasant for you,” Taribo said in a voice to calm a crying child. “We wish there were another way, but we have to remind you that Mr. Hassan did not want to be beaten either. Hopefully, in the future, this sort of thing will be unnecessary.”

  With the terror still shining in Bernhard’s eyes, Taribo readied himself to commence. The crowd, tense like fans before a kickoff, hung on his drawn fist. Bernhard gritted his teeth to stop the chattering, looking helplessly for support from the onlookers. Then, the first punch landed like a blow from a sledgehammer. The resultant cry of pain was cut short by a left to his midsection, and the beating was under way. It was a methodical and precise beating, controlled, with Taribo taking care to position himself just so, or to turn Bernhard’s head or lift his arms so that all blows landed on their targets. By Taribo’s furrowed brow one could see him counting punches, checking off body parts that received their due and proceeding to the next. A rough piece of stone was scraped over Bernhard’s left side, from his ribs to his ankles, and in the end Taribo grabbed hold of his ample chest hair and ripped it from his body, finally leaving him slumped and nearly senseless, held up only by the rope binding him. When this was untied, Bernhard fell to the ground where he weakly moaned.