The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

butcherous deed of this day, why taint

  twenty and risk their courage weakened or their conviction wandered.

  Send one toe, one dog, one arrow to wage this one side of combat.

  If he is lost, nineteen will hold. His courage, if

  gone mad, undirected, no conviction runs bloody riot, the rest will devour his ravings with steel upon his teeth.

  If his courage sags and later conviction can not be followed with his life too precariously bundled in his hands, the other nineteen will still ensure the enemy is met.”

  Captain: "And what if I choose but one, Beggar, what tonguings come serpentat our feet then?"

  Beggar: Ha! The philosopher has no neat snare for a warrior! But as you poked at it in a curious expose, I will tell you this: I would have then requested to fight him myself."

  Captain (with a roar of laughter): "And so the nimble goat dances his way off a the ledge! And what if , Beggar, instead of refusing and allowing some passionate but much safer line of attack, I had allowed the challenge?"

  Beggar: "In truth, sir, it was the fight I sought, not the verbal play. Although you know words, you know swords better and it is only fair that I argue in that arena as well. Since no

  reasonable men send men to war, we cannot look for reason amongst war or men at war.

  The conviction we spoke of is not that of logic or reason but is the flow of power, of might. Like a whip it uncoils and sings hard, its force multiplied in the pulsing of convictions.

  Yet one cannot stop the whip at any segment. One must stretch all the way back to the hand.

  But if any segment is corrupt, the whip will veer, strike where it should not, gorge deeper than a hand directs.

  Only for the hand to (daily inspect) will the flaws be known. Or in time the corruption breaks away, now mute to the swing of the hand. But much damage has crept a bloody trail before this mercy. If the hand is mad and the whip sound, the world will snap bare backed a hideous while. It is seldom a whip will turn upon its own hand. Though it may change hands.

  Then what becomes the thing to turn a great courage? If a mule turns to the whip on the right, will it not turn quicker yet to the stronger, sharper crack, sounding at its left. The mule weighs not the men, the hands to the whip, it weighs only the whip. It heeds only the conviction of the master, not the size of the master. So we find the dwarf with a whip of two rods is the larger to the giant man with a whip of only one rod. For does not the courage of the mule greatly outweigh both yet it cringes to the greater conviction?

  But, Captain, I beg you look upon this scene with an eye of pity. What have we but superior hands fiercely plying the whips of their convictions upon the backs of courage. Is this so unlike war? The common soldier, the ravaged village, the plundered town carry the burdens bloodied and scarred upon their trudge between an orchestra of screaming song. The songs of convictions at odds for prevailing might. In the end, strongest conviction of the whip goes cold by the lay of a skinless, shattered, hooved corpse. So I say to you my conviction is this stick I hold beheads

  slaves better than any sword, Just as one longer whip leads a mule sharper than a shorter whip.

  But must we prove thus at the ultimate price of a slave's obedience? Would it not be better that whip first face whip, the victor to secure a mule, whole and ready in its courage?

  You , Captain, pick for your conviction the best sword to

  sever a slave's head. My conviction of the stick will Eight him.

  Thus we determine sword versus stick at a less bloody cost."

  Captain: "So you wish the generals have all the fun, do you, my mad tactician? This fight you so beggingly desire, what are the spoils, the gains, the losses? What oracle of truth will spill

  streaming from your gut for our better swallow, for such 'whippings' are always to the death, are they not?"

  Beggar: "To my death, yes. To the other's, no. Say it is enough I render him useless, without sword. For will he not find it a long pull to behead slaves without it?"

  Captain (laughing): " And good that we could all claim as the slave, that our statute grows higher, nearer the release of death.

  These spoils, though, are still a puzzle. You care or care not to die yet care not to kill. If you win, what do you ask for, what do you prove?"

  Beggar: "Man, it is claimed, began with a first deed. Some

  say war. Some say love. Some say barter. I philosophize the latter since in barter, unlike love or war, he always demands the price first. Who rushes so headstrong that he does not keep a hand to his purse? You are astute, Captain, my whip does covet a

  prize. Two. The first I wish to make a point which is now pointless to make in victory. And utterly pointless to make if

  I fail. The second prize depends upon your answer to this question: Did the King order you to kill the slaves immediately

  or on this day? "

  Captain: "As to your point, you may find more point in a point

  through you. As to the question, he ordered death before sundown.

  They are here now because I am a man not to delay what needs not delaying. Also it seemed cruel to let the wretches

  ponder their demise at length."

  Beggar: "I mean no mocking stance when I say the quick whip can offer the most tender caress. But at the cost of a

  few hours, I would ask you delay the killing till after I speak with the

  king. The conviction of your orders will remain pure only your zealousness need be thwarted. As a man of military and government service, you will have had this experience before no doubt. A ready whip remains easily coiled as uncoiled."

  Captain: "Very well then. I'll pick .a man to a butcher's job.

  The stick of churning dust will meet the singing harvest of steel.

  You to the death. He to disgrace. Victory for you yields a point and a slave's pardon Of a half day. Victory for the soldier yields the gratitude of our silent ears."

  So saying, the Captain gestured to one of the guards, particularly large and brawny, to step forward. Since all had been within hearing of the talk, little explanation was required. The fight began without ceremony. The captain stepped back and instantly the guard drew his sword and sliced an arc directly at the beggar's head. Only by bending backwards to the extreme did the Beggar avoid two inches of sword tip slicing through his skull. Before the guard could recover his stance, the Beggar drove an end of the stick into the ground. Using it as a balance point, he then pivoted and drove both his feet into the guard’s midriff.

  The guard sprawled to le ground; the Beggar as well. Both rose quickly; the guard lunged. The Beggar darted his stick

  upward at the wrist holding the sword but the guard spun on his heels to avoid this blow and drove another killing arc at the Beggar. To avoid, the Beggar dropped to the ground, at the same time driving his stick into the guard's crotch.

  A bellow of anger delighted the crowd while the Beggar rolled and recovered his stance.

  This time the swordsman advanced cautiously, the point of his sword circling for an opening.

  Seconds passed as both

  contestants strove to out manoeuver with quick steps. The Beggar lunged this time, his stick as level spear. As the guard's

  sword swung to check this advance, the Beggar jumped around the guard, spun and battered the back of his head with the stick. Yet, even dazed at this, the guard spun and his sword sliced rags and skin to a bright crimson line across the Beggar's chest. The guard then sprawled to all forms, clutching his sword.

  The beggar did not advance, seconds lost as he absorbed the delirium of pain; the shock of mortality which comes from any intense wound.

  The guard was up, turned toward the Beggar. Danger reawoke the Beggar's instincts.

  Again they advanced sword, stick and bodies circling , weaving, a timeless ritual. The intimacy of lovers, one is so aware, so sensitive to the eyes, hands, feet, body of the partner. The death dance bringing every twitch, every ripple of
the opponent in such intensity to the vision, Each wedded to the other, emotions raging yet checked, moment begged for; yet feared. Lovers with an infinite of hesitations, so swift to respond, embrace an open moment. Love where distance is craved yet closeness desired. Life and death singing for both.

  The guard jabs low, Beggar counters, deflecting. The sword follows the block, arcs high, sweeps past the Beggar's ear, Beggar pivots, stick jabs to guard's chest, guard half spins, sword takes inches off end of stick, Beggar swings stick, clubs guard's ear; guard half drops, sword brushes Beggar's thigh, crimson spurts again. Beggar kicks guard, who sprawls, rolls, gets up, in a roar of revenge dashes at the Beggar; the glare of a sun trickles in orange droplets, red and yellow blend, from the scimitar planing, floating on wind rapidly descending in a downward arc, a single winged hawk hungry for exposed prey.

  The prey lies hidden behind a tree, a leafless branch, rising before the wing, the steel hawk is turned away, its talon tearing away bark and chips in its near miss of flight. Yet the wind that bore it continues on. The prey is down, kneeling, an altar where yet lives the blooded lamb. Death's shadow, the wind of hawks, bears down upon it unable to stop the hooves devouring clay in a sprawling charge. The dark bull staggers wild over the lamb kneeling beside a shattered branch.

  On one knee, the Beggar then springs up, throwing the guard off his back. The guard is sent crashing onto the ground, flung on his back. His sword has been lost. He lies stunned.

  The Beggar looks at the Captain. The Captain nods. As a couple of