by Ike Hamill
“We beg that another Providential will not come to our village,” the old man says to the ceiling. “We beg,” he repeats.
The robed figures around the room repeat his prayer. “WE BEG,” they say in unison.
“Finally, let us reclaim the spirits we’ve exiled,” the old man says.
Two people move to the front doors and open them, making a path for another group to enter like pallbearers. On their shoulders they carry a huge wooden coffin, constructed of dark wood and polished to a mirror finish. At least I think it’s a coffin. As they set it down next to the old man, it looks too high. It comes up above his waist. Why would a coffin be so tall?
Bud’s guards spin him around and drag him backwards. He’s stiff as a board with his hands clasped at his stomach. When they get him to the coffin, a third person lifts his feet and they lay him down on the wood. I guess it’s not a coffin. It’s an altar.
“Amongst our sons and daughters, strange fruit grows,” the old man says.
A woman bends next to Bud’s head and unlocks a door at the head of the altar. Steps fold down out of the side. As he speaks, the old man climbs the steps so his feet are near Bud’s face.
“We nourish this fruit and send it to the world to ripen,” the old man says. “We beg it returns to bless us with prosperity. We beg.”
“WE BEG,” the group repeats.
As the old man speaks, robed figures surround Bud. At once, they kneel. Bud is naked on the altar. He hasn’t moved much since the drugging, but now he’s absolutely still. I wish he would run, but he just lays there.
Here they come with the knives. Hooded people are walking slowly towards the altar from either side and they’re both holding knives out in front of them.
“We harvest this fruit with your blessing. Do you give it?”
“I do,” Bud says.
My mouth falls open.
It’s hard to see from where I’m standing, but these knives aren’t thrust with murderous hate, like the ones into the hanging Providentials. These knives are used delicately. The hooded figures hunch over Bud and work like surgeons. As they work, they pull more tools from their robes. Again, it’s hard to see, but it looks like they have clamps and sponges, and all kinds of surgical instruments hidden in the folds of their robes.
I don’t see them spreading any ribs or sawing through his sternum, but they’re really going at his chest. Bud’s face seems calm. I hope he’s still alive.
After a few minutes of work, one of the robed surgeons hands a big lump of flesh up to the old man, who is still standing near Bud’s head.
The old man takes it in both hands and holds it up. His hands drip with Bud’s blood.
“We take back this spirit so it may enrich us all. We beg this strange fruit nourish us. We beg.”
“WE BEG.”
The old man turns with Bud’s heart held out and he crouches down. From the perimeter of the room, a woman shuffles up. She takes the heart from the old man and carries it towards the door. She exits. Hands reach up to support the old man as he descends the altar stairs.
On the table, the surgeons wrap up their procedure. They tuck all their instruments back into their robes and retreat back to the walls. They tuck their bloody hands back into their robes and lower their heads as they blend back in with the line of people.
Bud’s alone and naked on the altar.
“We thank you for your service,” the old man says over his shoulder towards Bud. It sounds like an afterthought; like it’s not part of the regular ceremony.
Around the altar, the kneeling people rise and many hands reach out to Bud. They lift his body and carry him from the altar. Those at his feet lower, and those at his head raise. Bud’s body is vertical and the attendants back away. To my amazement, he stays upright. To my shock, his eyes open.
He looks down at his chest, where a bloody line drips down to his belly.
Bud raises his hand and wipes at the blood, revealing intact skin. There’s no incision from the surgery.
Now, I doubt the entire ceremony. It has been one of those psychic surgeries like they perform in Brazil on desperate cancer patients. I expel a puff of breath and try not to roll my eyes. I don’t want to disrespect their religious theater right in front of them. I glance around at the hanging Providentials and wonder if even their deaths were real. They’re motionless, but who knows. It could have been another elaborate hoax with fake bags of blood.
A man approaches from Bud’s right and drapes a white robe over his shoulders.
A woman approaches from Bud’s left and drives a shiny dagger into his chest.
They’re only a few feet from me. I see his thick, dark blood spouting from the wound. This is real.
Bud falls to his knees. His face registers no pain, no surprise.
“Bud!” I strain my arms to reach forward, but the guard holds me back.
Bud falls forward, driving the knife deeper. Its tip tents the robe on his back. Blood blossoms on the white cloth.
“Amongst our sons and daughters, strange fruit grows,” the old man says.
I drag my eyes from Bud and look up. The old man is standing near the head of the altar. Two guards spin me around and I feel my body go stiff. All my muscles are tensed. No matter how hard I fight, I can’t move. My eyes see only flashing colors, and all I hear is my own beating heart and the blood flowing through my veins. When my mouth opens, I hear my own voice say two words. “I do.”
65 AWAKE
I WAKE TO THE sound of birds singing. There’s a call and response.
“Cheevo chree?” one bird asks.
“Cheevio cheat chee,” the other replies.
I open my eyes and see the shadows of dancing leaves on a white canvas tent. I lay on a firm cot. I sit up and put my feet on the floor. They have me in a white robe, like the one they draped on Bud, but mine doesn’t have any blood on it, and my chest doesn’t have a knife buried in it.
I look to the edge of the tent, thinking about Bud’s story. Perhaps I can slip under the flap and run into the forest as he did, escaping the nurses.
Just as I have the thought, a nurse enters. She’s wearing a white uniform and her smile is radiant.
“You look better,” she says.
“Better?”
“When they brought you in, you were whiter than that robe,” she says. “Your color looks good now.”
“Oh,” I say. “What about Bud?”
“We’re having a ceremony for all the casualties tomorrow,” she says. She looks down at her feet and folds her hands. Her eyes are swimming in tears. “So many have given us so much.”
“Some gave,” I say. “From others, it was taken.”
“We’ve all sacrificed,” she says. When she looks up, her face is harder.
I raise a hand to my chest and begin to feel around. I poke at my sternum, feeling for any tender spots. I wonder if they performed that same fake surgery on me. At least they didn’t top it off with a knife in my chest. At least not yet.
“Are there some clothes around here for me?” I ask. I’ll have an easier escape if I can at least get some clothes and shoes. “Maybe something to eat?”
“I’ll bring your breakfast,” she says, without a smile.
♣ ♢ ♡ ♠
The food is good, and they dress me well. The nurses are my only company for a couple of hours. They don’t leave me alone for more than a few seconds at a time. I’m starting to think it might be easier to make my escape when night falls.
Two young men in blue uniforms show up and ask me to come with them. It’s a request, not an order, so I go along.
We walk from the cluster of white tents along a narrow path. The two men are in the lead and they allow me my own pace at the back. I’m getting a good look at the landscape, trying to pick which direction I might run tonight. If I follow Bud’s playbook, I’m looking for the misty stream.
We come to the back of a cabin and they take me around to the front door.
&n
bsp; One of the young men knocks and a nice-looking older woman opens the door. She waves us inside without a word and closes the door before she speaks.
“He’s in his office. Please go in.”
The young men lead the way and we go through a door to an office with a big desk. There are two chairs, and the men stand in back. I take one of the chairs. Behind the desk is a fat guy I haven’t yet met. He’s probably forty-five or fifty. His hair is still brown, but his sideburns are mostly gray. I’m judging his age mostly on that. His fat has smoothed away most of his wrinkles.
He glances up as I sit but then his eyes return to the papers on his desk. He traces his finger across a line as he reads it, then he sweeps the finger back over to trace the next line. I’m going to wait for him to speak first.
I wait awhile. Apparently, this is a really important document he’s reading.
Finally, he looks up and clears his throat. It’s a throaty, phlegmy-sounding wet mess. Yuck.
“You’re not getting a house and pension,” he says, “like in the old days.”
I don’t respond.
“One, it’s not in the budget. Two, the people would have my job. Nobody’s in the mood to reward anyone. We’ve all lost too much.”
I cross my legs and fold my hands on top of my knee. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I sense his position is about to shift.
“I can find a little. I can pull in some discretionary money that won’t be missed, but you can’t stay in the village,” he says.
I scratch the side of my face without breaking eye contact.
I let him look away first. His eyes go back to his document. He’s still looking down when he speaks again. “Technically, your contract was never fulfilled.”
I clear my throat.
“Never mind, forget I said anything. Gentlemen, could you give us a moment?” he asks the men in the blue uniforms.
They leave quietly behind me.
The fat man waits several moments until he’s sure they’re gone.
“I’m an elected official, so I’m entrusted to enact the will of the people. When we negotiated your contract, we had to act in secrecy. It was the only way to give you even the slightest chance of success. But you can see how that leaves us in a precarious position, can’t you? How can we honor the agreement without causing an uprising? That would benefit none of us.”
You have to understand the position I’m in. I have no idea what this man is talking about.
“The best we can do is half,” he says. “And we will conduct a public banishment so everyone knows that your involvement with the village is completed.”
I let him stand by that proposal for about a minute, just to see if he’ll talk himself higher.
“I believe I’ve had quite enough public ceremonies for my taste,” I say.
“Well, we must have a ceremony. People will demand a ceremony.”
“I think you’re forgetting something,” I say. It’s not that I think he’s forgetting something—I think he’s purposely avoiding something. I can sense it in the way he’s talking. Assuming he’s not lying and I did cut a deal with him, I would have kept leverage. Just because I don’t remember that leverage, doesn’t negate it. I’ll just have to use it blindly.
“I’m not forgetting,” he says. He blushes a tiny bit, just at the tips of his ears.
“Then you will pay me in full, and we will have no public banishment. Instead, you will send me on my way with six soldiers to guide me through the bamboo.”
“Impossible!” he says. It’s not impossible. He wouldn’t have replied with such bluster if my request were indeed impossible. If anything, his response makes me understand that I could have pushed harder and settled for what I just asked. “You can’t expect me to volunteer the lives of soldiers just to escort you. They would never be able to come back. It would be a death sentence.”
“And you can’t expect me to believe that you don’t know of six young men who wouldn’t jump at the chance to see a little more of the world.” If losing my escort is the only point I have to concede, then I’m doing well. Of course, there’s one other problem.
“I’ll pay in full, and you can leave immediately, but no escort,” he says.
“You’re trying to take advantage of me,” I say. It’s important to allow him to feel like he has won.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says, folding his arms. “It’s the most I can offer you.”
“I understand.” I put out my hand. He reaches over his desk and pumps my hand twice, dry and efficient.
“How would you like your payment?” he asks. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. This is the other problem. I can’t let him figure out that I don’t know the agreed price. If he knows I’m in the dark, he can easily cheat me.
“It’s a harder question than I imagined earlier,” I say. This is guesswork. I hope he gives me a clue.
“I should imagine.”
No help there.
“What would you recommend?”
“It’s none of my concern.”
“You realize that I can still make this difficult for you, don’t you?” I ask. If our positions were switched, I would punch through this argument with joy. I hope he doesn’t realize his advantage.
“Fine,” he says. “We have gemstones. They’re light and easy to carry.”
“And I will have to trust you that the value is commensurate?”
“I suppose you will.”
“And you will bear in mind what I’ll do if I discover you’ve cheated me?”
“Yes,” he says. He tries to stay puffed up, but I see that he’s a tiny bit deflated.
“Then that’s acceptable.”
“Very good,” he says. He stands up and calls for the uniformed men.
♣ ♢ ♡ ♠
They take me in a steam-powered cart to the grounds of the Harvest Festival. My pack is heavier than when I arrived, since I’ve added Bud’s tent and the pouch of gems. I have no idea what they’re worth. They could be glass, but I don’t really care. I just want to get out of this crazy village.
I walk down the slope and think about Bud as a boy, leaping from the bamboo to confront a lion. I can easily picture what he saw, but the setting doesn’t seem right. When I imagine the lion it’s standing in the middle of a road. I must be confusing it with his story of the snake. I don’t think I’ll see that lion again. I think Bud’s machete made an indelible impression on the lion’s foot. It probably won’t seek human company any more.
Along with my pack, I bartered for two blades. I’ll be ready if the rats come back. I’m going to get through the bamboo quickly. I don’t have any intention of being stuck in the bamboo any longer than I have to. I think that’s why so many people have failed to make it through. They don’t believe they can make it so they move too slowly. I’ll get through quickly.
I glance back as I step between the sharp leaves. The uniformed guys are up at the top of the hill near the walnut trees. Put them on the banks of a river and they would seem familiar too.
I’m not as good as Bud was, but I develop a good rhythm of slashing and stepping between the stalks. I stop frequently for water and to listen. No rats, no lions, at least none that I can hear.
Sometime in the middle of the night, my headlamp breaks through the light-green leaves and shines through to trees. I’ve made it out. Now if I had a GPS or a map, I might have an idea of which way to go. In a way, I do have an idea. I’ll just move consistently in one direction—any direction—until I hit a road. They’re everywhere around me. I’m bound to hit one eventually.
I have enough supplies to last a few days, even without Bud to hunt for me.
For the moment, I’m satisfied to hike to the top of a hill and set up the tent for the night. I won’t be able to maintain a steady course without the sun, and I’ve been hiking too long. It feels like I’m past the immediate danger now that I’ve made it past the bamboo.
♣ ♢ ♡ ♠
A big hole is torn into the tent and an enormous growling head pushes through the hole. My light reflects green spots in the center of the brown eyes. For such ferocious creatures, bears have the cutest little round ears.
Fortunately, the zipper breaks away as I crash through the flap of the tent. I’m stumbling backwards away from the tent and the bear, as he shreds his way through the bag I was just sleeping atop. I scramble through branches and try to stay along the ridge. I’m tempted to climb a tree. What’s that old expression? A black bear will climb a tree to eat you. A grizzly will knock the tree down. Trees seem like a bad idea. I glance back. He’s occupied with my pack. He’s tearing into the food there. I should have hung it from a tree. Then he’d probably be eating me instead of the food.
When I’m far enough away that I can’t see him anymore, I stop and reconsider climbing a tree. I can hear him, eating the food and probably half the contents of my pack. Maybe I can get up high enough so I can wait him out. Then I could go back for whatever’s left of my clothes, and sleeping bag, and maybe even the gems. Shoes—it would be nice to have shoes as well. I was sleeping in my clothes, but I did take off my shoes so I could relax.
I decide to keep moving. The image of being stuck in a tree while a bear paces below haunts me. It’s one of those sticky images that once thought, can’t be unimagined.
I run for a while in my socks. It seems like a good idea to have some sort of protection on my feet, but it turns out to be a terrible idea. Anything pointy, like a stick, gets caught on the sock and then you step on it. I take the socks off and try to place my feet carefully. It’s not that painful as long as you can avoid the rocks.