The City, Not Long After

by Pat Murphy

  She stared at him, not really listening.

  He smiled and nodded. “Dramatic,” he said. “And effective. You could learn a little about dramatic staging, you know.”

  “I should have killed you,” Jax said dispassionately. “Dannyboy was wrong.”

  He shrugged easily, leaned forward, and filled her glass again. “Yes, you should have. You know, in some ways, I’m disappointed in you people. I had heard you were artists, but you don’t take this art business far enough.” He sipped his whiskey and nodded slowly. “You take the easy way. You don’t risk enough.”

  “What the hell do you know about it?”

  “I know you draw foolish lines. You’re willing to die for art, but you aren’t willing to kill for it.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “A good death can be a work of art. So can a good execution. You should learn by my example.”

  “I don’t believe I’ll have a chance,” she said coldly.

  He nodded. When he smiled, the signature on his cheek wrinkled. “True enough. You’ll die tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THAT NIGHT, SHE DREAMED of dark rooftops and empty streets. She rode a horse through the city, and Fourstar rode beside her. Somehow, in the dream, she did not know if she was fighting with Fourstar or against him. As they rode, Fourstar kept lecturing her about the nature of art and death.

  She dreamed of darkness and the smell of smoke. Danny-boy was with her in the windowless room where she was imprisoned. “I guess I’m going to die,” she told him. He handed her a red rose and smiled. “Do you know how to tell if a work is art?” he asked her calmly. “True art changes the artist. The artist puts something into the work and he changes. That’s how you tell.” He smiled and vanished in the smoke.

  She woke to a rhythmic pounding, like the hoofbeats of running horses. In the thin light of dawn, hammers pounded as soldiers built the scaffold where she would die.

  They did not come for her until noon. The guard at her door brought a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a towel so that she could wash herself. He was a tall young man with red hair, and his cheek was signed by Snake.

  She was done washing when he knocked again, bringing her a bowl of canned fruit cocktail for breakfast. He stood uneasily in the room, watching her as she ate. She suspected by his expression and by the way he kept glancing toward the door that this breakfast had not been ordered by Fourstar.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” she asked him.

  “Dan.”

  “Glad to meet you, Dan,” she said. “You know, Snake is an excellent artist. You should be honored that you wear his name. He painted most of the graffiti in the Haight.”

  The soldier nodded. He seemed uncomfortable, but he clearly wanted to continue talking with her.

  “What do you think of all this?” she asked him. “What do you think of this war?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry you have to die, ma’am.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “You didn’t kill anyone. It doesn’t seem fair.” He hesitated, and she knew that he wasn’t done.

  “What is it?”

  “I hope that your friends save you, ma’am. Good luck.”

  She smiled and gave him her empty bowl. “I wouldn’t count on that. I wouldn’t count on that at all.”

  Five soldiers came for her. All of them were DEAD. They bound her hands behind her back with surprising gentleness. Dan stood to one side, his expression carefully blank. She smiled at him as she walked by. She went with the soldiers willingly. She saw no point to struggling. Not now.

  The plaza was quiet except for the chirping of the frogs in the trees. The soldiers stood in formation before the scaffold, and her guards escorted her up the aisle between the ranks. The soldiers stood at attention. Though they did not turn their heads to watch her pass, she could see their eyes straining to see her. She felt very old and they all looked very young. She was glad that she hadn’t killed them.

  The sun shone dimly through the haze of smoke and fog. She could feel the breeze on her face. Bright banners flew over the plaza, snapping in the breeze. She had helped put them up before the war began. Now they were smudged with smoke and a little tattered. Even so, they were a fine, brave sight. The city was a beautiful place, she thought, such a beautiful place.

  Her guards waited below as she climbed the crudely made steps to the wooden platform. Fourstar stood on the platform beside her. Strangely, she did not hate him. He seemed so much smaller now. She had seen the coffee stain on his cuff, seen his face when it was relaxed in sleep. She did not hate him.

  Fourstar made a speech, but Jax was not listening. While Fourstar spoke of her crimes and of the glorious future of America, she admired the way that the light played on the trees. She savored the touch of the breeze on her face.

  Too soon, Fourstar offered her a blindfold. She refused. She wanted to watch the banners fly over the gathered soldiers. As she watched, a man in the ranks crossed himself.

  Fourstar put a rope around her neck and adjusted the knot. He raised his hand, ready to signal to the man who would pull the rope to release the trapdoor and kill her.

  She saw a movement on a roof to one side of the plaza. She heard the sound of a single rifle shot. She saw a blossom of blood on Fourstar’s forehead; he swayed, then fell. The stiffness went out of him as he fell; he crumbled, folded. His body struck the steps and rolled down. Rolled more like a sack of old clothes than a man.

  Jax looked up to see the assassin. Danny-boy stood above the crowd on the edge of the roof. Sunlight glinted on the barrel of his rifle. He was too far away; she could not make out his expression. For an instant, the world seemed frozen. The colored banners stood still; the smell of smoke hung in the air.

  A soldier fired quickly, and Danny-boy jerked. He fell against a stone carving on the building’s facade, clung for a moment, then fell to the ground below. She watched from so far away, unable to move. The soldiers reacted then—some running to Fourstar’s body, some to surround her, others ducking for cover.

  “Gentlemen,” Ms. Migsdale’s voice boomed from a speaker that was hidden somewhere in the plaza. “The ground where you stand was planted with explosives before your arrival. The charges are wired to explode at my signal. We had hoped to avoid this necessity.”

  It was a lie, of course. But Ms. Migsdale lied well, and the soldiers were ready to believe in any lie that would let them leave, free them from the war that they were tired of fighting.

  “If you lay down your weapons, no one will be hurt. We will welcome those of you who wish to join us, and escort the others over the bridge. Please put down your weapons. Now.” The last word was delivered with uncharacteristic force.

  The soldier who had shot Danny-boy was the first to put down his rifle. The plaza was quiet. Danny-boy lay where he had fallen. His head lolled back and the hole in his chest was a deep rich red.

  Fourstar lay tumbled at the bottom of the steps. The hole in his forehead was the same red.

  Jax remained on the scaffold. The soldiers laid their weapons at her feet, then backed away as if frightened. She stood, swaying a little. Her hands were still bound behind her. The numbness that had sustained her was gone, and her wrists were starting to ache. “Well,” she said to the soldiers. “Who won?” She looked at Danny-boy and at Fourstar. “They’re both dead, so who won?” She stopped for a moment, staring across the plaza. “A good death,” she said to no one, “is a work of art.” She started to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat.

  The banners fluttered and snapped in the afternoon breeze. The sun broke through the fog and warmed her face. The clip-clop of hooves on pavement echoed across the plaza. Snake rode a horse through the open space. He stopped in front of her and she studied him for a minute, wondering if he were a part of the long dream from which she was emerging.

  He swung his leg over the horse’s back and slid to the ground. When he untied her hands, she smiled with unaccustomed sweetness
. “It’s over,” she said. And then her knees gave way. He caught her and helped her to the edge of the platform. She took his hand and held it in hers.

  Zatch, Lily, Frank, Tiger and the others moved through the crowd, dividing the soldiers into groups: men who would stay; men who would leave. Jax shivered and Snake draped his jacket over her shoulders. “We spent last night talking about it,” Snake said. “Danny-boy insisted that he would be the one to do it.”

  She looked out at the flying banners and the horse. The horse’s harness jingled when the animal moved its head, searching for a few blades of grass. Most of the grass had been trampled, and little was left. She looked over at Fourstar. Through the blood on his forehead and cheek she could still read the words “BY JAX.”

  CHAPTER 28

  IN AN ISOLATED VALLEY HIGH in the Himalayas stood a stupa, a great white-washed dome topped by a gilded tower. From each side of the tower, painted eyes stared out at the snow-capped mountains, eternally watching over the followers of Buddha. On ropes that stretched from the tower top to the base of the dome, brightly colored prayer flags waved in the breeze.

  The Rimpoche, head of the monastery that cared for the stupa, gazed from the window of his study. From the temple below, he could hear the monks chanting their prayers and the chiming of the windbells that hung from the eaves. It was late afternoon, and most of the monks had returned from the fields for their afternoon prayers.

  As the Rimpoche watched, a young monk hurried into the courtyard, his red robes fluttering as he ran. He carried a bowl of rice and a handful of flowers. Following close behind him were three of the sacred monkeys that lived around the stupa.

  The young monk set his offering before the shrine of Ajima, the goddess of health. As he prostrated himself in devotion, the boldest of the monkeys snatched a handful of rice and leapt to the lowest roof of Ajima’s pagoda to eat. Before the young man could finish his devotions, the bowl was empty. The monkeys perched on the roof of the pagoda, pelting the monk with flowers that they had taken from the offering and found to be inedible.

  The population of monkeys was up to its former levels. The Rimpoche regretted that the Americans would not be back to take more of the beasts away. He smiled and rubbed his bald head, thinking of the Americans. He had liked them enormously—they were so intense and impatient and convinced of their own importance. So much like children. The Rimpoche was fond of children.

  The Americans had come to him to confirm a legend that they had heard about the monastery’s monkeys. With the help of a Peace Corps volunteer, he had told them the story. Yes, the monastery was called the Mountain of Peace. Centuries ago, a powerful warlord had brought his army to the monastery. The warlord had acquired many lands by conquest, but he was weary of fighting and wanted to maintain his kingdom in a peaceful time. He had demanded that the Rimpoche bring forth the secret of peace.

  “I bowed respectfully and declined,” the Rimpoche had told the Americans. “Peace is not something that can be taken by force.” The Americans had nodded, exchanging glances of wonder and doubt. The Rimpoche knew that they did not believe that he was the reincarnation of the Rimpoche of that time, but they did not speak of their doubt.

  “The warlord offered silver and gold for the secret of peace, but I refused again. Peace cannot be bought for money. Finally, he drew his sword and threatened to cut off my head unless I told him the secret. I asked for seven days to consider the matter, and he agreed.” The Rimpoche glanced around at the serious young faces as the translator relayed his words. “On the seventh day, I met with the warlord again, and told him that I could not be forced to give him the secret. He raised his sword to behead me, and something very strange happened. As he raised the weapon, he stumbled and closed his eyes. Right there, he fell asleep, collapsing to the ground at my feet. All around us the soldiers fell, unable to lift their weapons. Peace came to them, whether they would have it or not.”

  The Americans nodded eagerly as the translator passed on his words.

  “The monkeys laughed and chatted from the temple roofs, and the soldiers did not fight. The monkeys, you see, are the keepers of the peace. If they were to leave the monastery, peace would come to the world. Though it might not be the peace you expect.” The Americans had been happy with the legend. They had smiled at each other and had spoken quickly among themselves.

  The Rimpoche smiled, remembering their enthusiasm. They had asked his permission to capture some of the monkeys.

  “You wish to bring peace to your country?” he had asked them, and they said that of course they did. They told him, through the translator, of what the monkeys would mean to the world, what a powerful symbol they would be.

  “It will change your country,” he had advised them. “It will change the world.”

  They had smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes. It will be a wonderful thing.”

  In the end, he had granted his permission willingly. Keepers of the peace or not, the monkeys were mangy, ill-tempered beasts and the stupa had entirely too many of them. If the Americans wanted to bring peace to their country, they could take them.

  Zoologists had come with nets and cages. They had captured dozens of monkeys and taken them away. After they left, the Rimpoche had never heard from them again. From a traveler who had come to the monastery from Katmandu, the Rimpoche had heard about the Plague that struck in San Francisco, Moscow, Washington D. C., Tokyo, London, and all the other places that the monkeys had traveled.

  The Plague had not affected the monastery. The monks still grew barley and corn in their terraced fields. The wedding of a woman in a nearby village meant more than the deaths of thousands in America.

  Sometimes the Rimpoche wondered about the Americans. Had they understood what they were doing when they took the monkeys away? Certainly the legend was clear. He had told them that the world would change, and it had.

  He turned away from the window. On the altar, a golden statue of the Buddha stared serenely over his head. Taking an orange from the bowl on the table, he placed it on the altar. An offering for the Americans, he thought as he placed it beside the flowers and food left by the other monks. He hoped that all was well with them.

  EPILOGUE

  “Gone. Gone. Completely gone. Gone on beyond. Enlightenment. So be it.”

  —Prajapramita Hridaya Sutra

  (The Heart of Perfect Wisdom Sutra)

  FOURSTAR, DANNY-BOY, AND THE MACHINE were buried in the Civic Center Plaza, and their graves were surrounded by memorials.

  Zatch and Lily, with the help of some of the soldiers who had stayed behind, constructed the Arch of Peace from weapons that they had taken from the army. The arch was wide enough to accommodate four people walking arm in arm, tall enough so that someone on horseback could ride through it without stooping.

  Ms. Migsdale wrote an official account of the war and published it in a very limited edition. On the white wall of the house where Fourstar had lived, Books painted the story of the war in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Danny-boy was Ra, the sun-god; Jax was Isis; Fourstar was Anubis, the jackal-headed god of death.

  Rose Maloney buried the army jeeps and the tank up to their bellies on the open lawn, then used them as planters for flowering vines. The camouflage patterns blended with the· leaves. Finches came there to nest and sing.

  Gambit dug through the debris left in the army camp and used the objects he found to build a singing fountain. He strung thousands of empty cartridges together in loose strands. When the water flowed over them, they rattled together like teeth chattering.

  In a tree near the graves, Frank hung a half-silvered mirror that he had found in a warehouse years before. The image in the mirror changed as the light shifted. Sometimes the glass acted as a window, showing the scene on the far side clearly. Sometimes it was a mirror, reflecting back the image of the person looking into the glass. And sometimes it was both: if two people stood on opposite sides of the mirror when the light was just right, the image that they saw was a blend of
both their faces, borrowing something from each person’s features to create a composite of the two.

  Jax did not help with any of these projects. She felt restless, unsettled, uneasy. She remained in the rooms she had shared with Danny-boy, but she did not sleep well. She would wake up at night, peering into the darkness and listening for the thunder of wings. By day she wandered the city, searching for something that she could not name. People tried to take care of her: Snake tried to interest her in graffiti art. Randall showed her secret glens in the park, where ghostly white deer mated and played. Tiger offered to tattoo her back. Ruby baked her cookies and tried to comfort her. Jax was oblivious to their attentions.

  Ms. Migsdale insisted that Jax come to her house for dinner and tried to talk to her. They ate together in Ms. Migsdale’s small kitchen, but Jax would not sit still. She kept wandering to the window and staring out. “Seems so quiet now,” she said.

  “It’s hard to get used to Danny-boy being gone,” Ms. Migsdale said, approaching the matter directly. “We all miss him.” “I wish I could tell him that I think he was right about the war,” Jax muttered, peering out at the darkness. “Do you think he knows that? I wonder sometimes why he didn’t duck for cover after he shot Fourstar. Seems like he had time. I think maybe he chose to die. I think maybe he felt he had to.”

  Ms. Migsdale watched Jax, wishing she knew what to say. “I don’t know. I think he’d be happy with the way it all worked out.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Jax said impatiently. “I just wish I could tell him that I think he was right. We argued, right at the end, and I never got to tell him.” She wandered back to her seat by the fire. “I get the feeling sometimes that he’s just around the corner. He and The Machine—they’re still in the city somewhere. But I just can’t find the right place to look.” She shook her head. “But it’s not over yet. I know that for certain. I just have to find the right place.”