She felt them grab her, and grab her well, and lift her. She felt their stinking laughing breath in her hair. She felt the small singing harp in her hands. She felt the familiar strings against her fingers. She felt their teeth in her hair. She closed her eyes and rubbed the strings.
The small singing harp sang: “Justice vision, Justice true, fair to the unfair, Justice bleed, Justice be, fairness and equality, Justice be. Justice we, Justice share, Justice to the unjust, Justice share. Justice of my father, Justice of my land, Justice of the people, Justice be . . .”
They had set her down on the table. They were singing along in somber voices. Some were saluting. Some were shedding tears.
One was wailing mournfully, “Fi, fi, fi. Ooohhh, fi, fi, fi. Must war always be the oaf’s schoolmaster? So many comrades have fallen beside me in battle. So many noble oafs I have slain. The sun rises in gold and sets in blood. Let it be worth it, oh lord great creator. Oh, let it be worth it.”
One of them said, “She’s one of us. She plays the anthem. She was a spy for us in their tunic.”
“She may be a spy for them. How do we know she’s not spying for them?” said another.
“Because she’s playing our anthem, pinhead!” the first one growled, spitting.
“Who are you calling pinhead?” the second one said, his hand dropping dangerously to the handle of his blade.
Before it could come to blows, the oaf called Gen’rl arose from his cot. The soldiers parted down the middle to make a path for him to the table. His brow knit up in oafish thought, he peered down at the red-haired female man in the tunic of the wrong standard and with the small singing harp singing in her lap. He was silent for many moments before he spoke to them with the authority of his rank.
“She’s a man. Mans don’t spy. They’re putting these little mud mice in the war but they call us savages because we eat them. Oh, fi, fi, fi. They ran is what they did, all of them, dropped their little blades and ran. They’re not soldiers. They don’t understand war and why it is necessary to kill the other oaf and his kin and his generations and wipe him off the face of the earth forever and ever. They don’t understand that oafs can’t be changed, can’t learn to do things a new way—blood must be spilled for the oaf to learn. Indeed, blood ever be the oaf’s schoolmaster. No, she’s not a spy. She’s a talking man. And she’s a musical man too. A combination like that—why, that makes her very expensive.”
The others nodded at his wise words.
The oaf called Gen’rl said, “Give us another song, girl, if you can.”
Her fingers touched the strings again. The others drew close as she played.
The oaf called Gen’rl said, “Back away from her. She’s mine. The spoils of war. I’m taking her home to my children. And if this Luf’tnt Auutet, whoever he may be, has a problem with that, bid him come speak with me about it. Fi, fi, fi. Bid him come speak with me about it with his blade unsheathed.”
The oafs backed away, and listened enchanted as the female man played their songs.
But her heart mourned. Auutet. Auutet. You shall unsheathe your blade nevermore.
* * *
In the early morning when it was still black, the oaf called Gen’rl would awaken and demand a song, and she would play.
She would be seated on his cot beside him, and he would feed her grains and pet her head as she played. He would nod his head, or mouth the words if it were a song he knew. “My children are going to love her,” he would say.
The other oafs would utter their agreement.
Then he would rise from the cot, and with the assistance of the obsequious, low-ranking officer, don his tunic. The standard of the scarlet star on black was larger on his tunic than it was on the tunics of all the others, for he was their leader.
And Luf’tnt Auutet, whoever he was, never did appear with his blade unsheathed to speak with him about it.
At the completion of his early-morning toilet, he would go to the table with the other officers to gaze at the map and discuss the war, which was not progressing as swiftly or as well as they had hoped it would.
On the fourth day he said to the other officers gathered around the table, “We didn’t see that one coming. It was quite unexpected indeed. They are scoundrels to have developed a counterattack such as that! But we proved our courage, I tell you. We took their best. They will never see a day like that again. We will seize the moment from them. We will dump them back on their haunches. We will beat them into submission, for our cause is the right and just cause and the words of great scripture our guide. Curses to the great leader!”
Then he announced that it was time to go check on the war, and he prayed: “Oh great creator, protect us as we do your will. And if we fall in battle, remember us evermore in your kingdom to come.”
And they said, “Verily in your name!”
And he said, “Verily in your name!”
And he left the cave accompanied by his officers. From outside the cave came a great jangling of brass as the host of oafs trudged away. They were going to meet the war and would not return until the end of day.
She remained in the cave with the other captive mans. They were watched over by the one-eyed oaf, who turned out to be friendly and talkative.
And they were watched over by the one with three teeth in his mouth, who would occasionally eat one of them—but not her because she belonged to the one called Gen’rl, though now and again he would give her face a spit’ly lick to get the taste of her.
The one with three teeth in his mouth had a large appetite, a large belly, and a bad smell. He never strayed too far from his cooking instruments and the roasting spit. He always seemed to have a charred leg of man in his hand that he was nibbling on.
On that fourth day, while the one with three teeth in his mouth was salivating as he slowly turned a man roasting on the spit and the one-eyed one told him funny stories about his wife and children back home, she played the small singing harp to entertain them. She heard a whispered voice behind her: “Where can a man who has lost his way find a plate of food?”
Her fingers continued to glide over the strings, but she turned and saw a man.
He was a funny-looking man. He was a talking man, of course, but unlike any she had ever seen before. He was not wearing a brass tunic with a standard on it. He was not wearing colored cloths in his hair or a pouch around his loins. He was not wearing the long gray shirt of the mines. He was dressed like an oaf, in a shirt and pants.
He had shoes on his feet.
She did not know that they made shoes small enough to fit mans. She spent her formative years in a wealthy home and had never seen a man in shoes. Even the mans dressed as oafs for amusement at circuses never wore shoes. She kept looking at his feet. It was too much. She felt herself laughing and suppressed it, never missing a beat in the song she played.
“Well, Red,” the man whispered, “where can I find a plate of food?”
Using her hips, she nudged her bowl to him.
He said, “Now that’s a right friendly gesture.”
The little man man came out from the shadows of the wall, but was careful to remain shielded by her body from the oafs in the cave. He quickly reached into her bowl, grabbed a handful of grains, and stuffed it in his mouth.
As he chewed, he said, “It’s not much, but it will have to do.”
She whispered, “Why are you here, little man?”
He leaned close to her ear. “I’m looking for loot. These fellows in here are loaded with silver.”
“Money? Yes,” she said, “the one called Gen’rl has some in his bag he keeps under his cot. I don’t think the rest of them have anything. They’re very poor. This is a war of the poor. But the one called Gen’rl is wealthy, though he leads the poor.”
“And would you be so kind as to direct me to his cot?”
“You will get yourself killed,” she warned. “You and your man shoes.”
He had a sly look on his face. “You like my shoes?�
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“They’re funny,” she said.
“Just point me to the cot of the wealthy one, and I will find a pair of shoes to fit even your feet.”
“I wouldn’t wear such obscene things.”
“Point me to the cot then.”
“Be careful.”
“Point, Red, just point!”
“I’m sitting on it.”
He dove under the cot. She heard jangling and became worried, but none of the oafs seemed to have heard it. None of the ailing ones stirred. The one-eyed one kept on talking, and the three-toothed one kept on turning the blackened corpse on the spit. The little man came back up from under the bed with a big grin on his face and pockets bulging with silver that jangled as he walked back into the shadows of the cave and then vanished from her sight.
Later, when the friendly one had finished talking, she rested the small singing harp on the cot and went to the back of the cave to investigate.
There was a low opening in the cave wall. It looked too small for her to squeeze through unless she got down on her face and completely flattened her body against the ground. But the funny-looking man was thinner than she was. He looked like a hungry one. And his master had taught him to steal. He was the man of a sneak thief. She had never met one of those before. She had grown up in the house of the wealthy and then in the house of the poor, but they were honest poor. And clean, not like these filthy oafs.
It has always been said that the quality of the oaf is reflected in the quality of his mans.
* * *
When the one called Gen’rl came back from the war that evening, he was in a dark mood and he demanded song.
So were they all in a dark mood, for it had not gone well for them that day.
They grabbed the mans that were bound by rope, about fifty of them, and swung their heads against the walls or crushed them with rocks or smashed them with clubs as the female man played their favorite songs, and then they did devour them.
She had no real love for these mans that they were devouring. She had never become friendly with them because most of them were weaklings who always cried to be returned to their masters when the work in the mines became too hard—but the smell of their blood made her head swing.
She missed a few beats in her song, which made the oafs gurgle with blood in their laughter. When they opened their mouths she saw pulverized skulls. When they closed their mouths their lips were red and glistening with viscera.
After he had eaten his fill, the one called Gen’rl came to the cot and looked at her with a dangerous fever, and she played the anthem for him over and over again until he calmed himself and fell asleep: “Justice vision, Justice true, fair to the unfair, Justice bleed . . .”
When she thought he was sleeping, she set the small singing harp on the ground and sighed, but his enormous arm shot up, grabbed her, and pulled her down.
He kissed her with lips pasted over with the sticky remains of the dead.
8
In Fever in War
War, war, war, do you know what war is?” the oaf called Gen’rl said, with his lips pursed against her face. “There is a village, and an oaf in that village owns a tree that bears sweet red fruit. The sweetest fruit to eat. Redder than red. Sweeter than sweet. We shall call this oaf Tlotl, for that is a common name. And in this village when the tree of Tlotl is full of fruit, he calls all of his friends who live in the village to eat of the fruit, for the village is small, and all of the oafs who live in it are his friends. Redder than red is the fruit. Sweeter than sweet. Everyone who eats of the fruit is happy. But Tlotl has a friend, and we shall call him Dlapna, for that also is a common name, and this parable represents all oafenkind. And Tlotl and Dlapna have an argument over trifles, a falling out. Dlapna holds a grudge against Tlotl, and Tlotl holds a grudge against Dlapna. Many moons pass during which they do not speak to each other. Then it is that time of year again when the tree of Tlotl becomes ripe with fruit and Tlotl calls all of his friends to come eat of the fruit, for the fruit are plentiful and the village is small, and all who live in it are his friends. They come to eat of the fruit of the tree of Tlotl, even Dlapna, with whom Tlotl had the falling out. Redder than red is the fruit. Sweeter than sweet. Tlotl and his friend Dlapna eat of the fruit together, sharing fellowship and laughter. Neither can remember why it is they have not spoken these many moons. In fact, they have missed each other tremendously. The moral is this: trifles are easily forgiven when the fruit of the tree of Tlotl is in season. So it is in a small village where one oaf owns the tree of sweet fruit and the other has a wife that mends torn garments and another has a bovin that gives sweet milk and another has the gift of sharpening knives and another has the gift of bending shoes for hosses. An oaf cannot stay angry with his neighbor, for his neighbor brings too much goodness to his life. His neighbor is important in his life and he says good morning and good eventide to him each day. War is when Tlotl and Dlapna have a falling out over a trifle, and Dlapna can get his fruit at one of many markets. Then it is the blood of Tlotl and Dlapna and of their children that flows sweeter than sweet, redder than red, in the streets of their village. At least, that is how my father explained it to me when I was a boy. Good night, little mouse. Good night.”
He kissed her again and he fell asleep. And she fell asleep with her face pressed against his lips.
His breath tasted like the corpse of man.
* * *
In the morning the one called Gen’rl said to those gathered around the map, “I have never deceived you, and I will not deceive you now. We have lost the mines. Our forces were outmaneuvered and we were forced into a temporary retreat. We have lost much ground, as you know, and the ground that we have lost cannot be retaken with the number we have here. This is not to say that we will not win the day. We will win the day, just not this day. Our mission this morning is to reinforce the western line. We will do our duty and we will do it well. The western line shall be held. And then tomorrow, we will return to the mines and we shall take them if it costs us our very lives.”
They looked at him with determined eyes, each one nodding his head. This we will do, for our standard is true.
The one called Gen’rl said, “Let us pray. Oh great creator, protect us as we do your will. And if we fall in battle, remember us evermore in your kingdom to come!”
And they said, “Verily in your name!”
And he said, “Verily in your name! To arms, great oafen heroes!”
And he left the cave in the company of his officers.
The female man played her small singing harp, but the talkative one was not talkative today, and did not seem much interested in listening to music. He lay on his cot staring up at the ceiling with his single eye. Yesterday’s battle had turned his mood.
It had turned the mood of the three-toothed one as well. He killed and ate no mans today. There was no fire under his spit today.
An hour or so after the others had left for the war, the three-toothed one and the once-friendly one-eyed one made their way over to the cot upon which she sat. They had words to say to each other out of earshot of the others.
“Fine officers we are. We are traitors.”
The one-eyed one said, “Do you think he knows?”
The three-toothed one said, “Perhaps not, but it’s only a matter of time. All fingers point back to us.”
“But does he know?”
“If we don’t get moving today, we’ll be dead. They’ll eat us like they eat mans.”
The one-eyed one shook his head. “But I don’t think he knows. It’s a long ways to go, and the way is very treacherous. Bad weather is coming too. I would like a bit of certainty, if you don’t mind.”
“Waiting for certainty will get you killed. The old boy is no fool.”
“Well, okay,” said the one-eyed one, “how do we do this?”
The three-toothed one put up a finger for emphasis. “We leave. We leave now. We’ll be across the border in three days.”
“We just leave,” said the one-eyed one, “without taking anything? The old boy has got silver under his cot, you know?” Then he tenderly touched the red-haired female man’s cheek. “The advantage of the man on a long journey: loyal traveling companion, tireless beast of burden, and proper meal when nothing else avails.” He gave her cheek a spit’ly lick and added, “Furthermore, she has to be worth a fortune.”
“Take whatever you must,” said the other. “But let’s get out of here now.”
They put the silver in a sack, and they put the sack under a cloak. The one-eyed one reached for her, and she chomped his hand.
“Ouch! I thought they said she was housebroken domesticated.”
She tried to run, but the three-toothed one grabbed her before she could take a second step. She whipped her head around and tried to sink her teeth into him as he secured her arms and legs and mouth.
Then, muttering profanely, they put her in a sack too.
* * *
She felt that they were walking. They walked only a few paces before the sack in which she was borne fell to the ground. She heard noisy jangling and assumed that the sack bearing the stolen silver had fallen too.
The hands of the one called Gen’rl came into her sack and lifted her gently out and set her on the ground and removed the cloth that was tied over her mouth.
When she was out of the sack, she saw that the three-toothed one and the one-eyed one were bound in rope and lying on the ground. The entire host of oafen soldiers was gathered around them. The chant, “Spy, spy, spy, at the point of the sword, die, die, die!” was bouncing on everyone’s lips.
She and the sack of silver were taken back into the cave and set down on the cot by one of the oafs, who rushed back outside so as not to miss the show.
Oafen soldiers, she had come to learn, took especial pleasure in watching someone else tortured. Only the weakest of those ailing and injured in the cave remained on their cots. All of the other ailing and injured found the strength to hobble out to see the torture of the two traitors.
Every Boy Should Have a Man Page 9