David: Savakerrva, Book 1

by L. Brown

  “No, no-no!” Lasky backtracked. “Not surrender, Father, just—”

  “Then what, exactly, would you negotiate?”

  “Well, we could talk about a truce, I mean, wasn’t it December, almost Christmas? So—”

  Someone groaned.

  “Well, there’s no harm in talking, didn’t Gandhi talk?”

  “So you’d advise Washington to — what, join the British for lunch, some nonviolent tea?”

  “Father, I—”

  “Advice noted, Mr. Lasky. Any other ideas? Mr. Meier?”

  Plucked from a reverie, dreams of a snack, a big-boned student blinked with sudden reboot. “Ideas?”

  “You’re Washington’s aide, what’s left of your army starves in the cold, and since the entire American Revolution hangs on your counsel, you’d advise your General to—?”

  Meier’s thoughts hurtled, scattered like Milk Duds popped from a box. “Hunker down, I suppose, a man’s gotta’ eat.”

  Some boys smirked, but most held back, the line between inspired and insipid was simply too thin.

  “Facing annihilation—” Massaging his mind by rubbing his head, Nkomo wandered to the back of the room. “Washington did not negotiate, nor did he shelter in place. Instead—”

  The priest turned now, ambled toward a rear corner desk, a seat occupied by the boy from the bus. No longer hooded, he wore a shirt like the rest, which nearly, not quite, covered a wire, some conduit of sound feeding his ear and prompting the same motion observed by the old man, that rhythmic nod of his head.

  “Instead, gentlemen, he used surprise.” Cutting the wire with a surgical snip, Nkomo then tugged out the earphone, a severing of sound making the boy flinch. “You’ll show us how, Mr. Smith?”

  Ambushed by a priest, Garth Smith looked up. He said nothing, stuttered no excuse, and when Nkomo nodded toward the chalkboard, he simply stood and stepped to the front.

  “Now, then,” Nkomo resumed, “since I’ve already drawn the lay of the land, perhaps Mr. Smith can show us Washington’s approach, his path from the map in your book.”

  Wincing within, but hiding it well, Garth arrived at the board and chose a blue chalk.

  “And while you do that, your friends we’ll fill in the rest. The date?”

  “Christmas Day, seventeen seventy-six,” replied a confident voice in the middle of the room.

  “The time?” asked Nkomo.

  “Washington led his men to the Delaware River about four in the afternoon,” the same student continued. “But they didn’t finish crossing till after midnight.”

  “Because?”

  “Weather, Father, the river was almost half a mile wide and flowing with ice, and when it got windy and started to sleet, well, it slowed them down. But when they finally made the other side, they still had to march nine miles through snow, so by the time they arrived, it was too late for a night attack, and that’s why the first shots weren’t fired till about eight AM.”

  “Fired where, this all happened—?”

  “In New Jersey, Father, the Battle of Trenton.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Austin,” replied Father Nkomo. “Well played.”

  Confidence encoded to his DNA core, destined for Canton and Cooperstown and a few Halls of Fame more, Travis Austin smiled. Then blinked at the snap, the break of Garth’s chalk.

  “There’s more in the tray, Mr. Smith,” advised Nkomo, now checking his watch. “And while you draw us General Washington’s path, please, tell us about the Hessians.”

  Squeezing his chalky stub — Russians? — Garth felt every glare, metaphorical stabs that somehow, right then, seemed to spawn an actual pain, a clawing sensation deep in his back.

  “Tell us their purpose,” Nkomo went on. “As in, why the Hessians were here.”

  Confounded by it, that pinch in his back, Garth heard nothing, just wondered what it was.

  “Alright, Mr. Smith, then tell us more about Washington, his nine-mile march. You recall what happened to at least two of his men?”

  Garth’s back pain worsened now, devolved into throb.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  Entirely too distracted, Garth scratched his back with the chalk, inadvertently turned his shirt into art with scribbles of blue.

  “Mr. Smith!”

  About to shout, alert the world to his exceptional ache, Garth suddenly felt it fade. “I—?”

  “Yes?” prompted Nkomo.

  “Yeah, I — just felt something, a pain.”

  “The pain of remorse, perhaps? Do you wish you’d prepared, at least opened your book?”

  “I opened my book, Father, I just—”

  “Just what, opened your book right before class, were you too busy last night? Too much social media or mindless TV, do you have a favorite show?”

  He did have a favorite, but suspecting a Sudanese priest might not understand a sponge in pants, Garth mumbled his default, his usual reply. “Whatever.”

  “A response, Mr. Smith—” His tone sharp, his gaze sharper still, Nkomo paced toward Garth. “Which perfectly mirrors the apathy of many in seventeen seventy-six, those sunshine patriots who slept in their beds while others crossed the Delaware and marched without shoes. And maybe that’s why two of them died, why two young men froze where they fell in their bare, bloody feet, but since you hold no interest in history, in heroic sacrifice for a cause barely won, well, whatever indeed.”

  His shake by the scruff complete, Father Nkomo nodded Garth back to his seat. And without reaction, at least to the eye, Garth returned the chalk to the tray.

  “But tell me,” Nkomo added, facing the class. “All these years later, do we honor those who quit, who simply went home? Or do we aspire, as men, to do something more.”

  Aspiring for little, likely much less, Garth just stepped to his desk.

  “As for tomorrow, our test—” Nkomo turned back to the board. “You’ll have—”

  “’Least I never had slaves,” murmured Garth.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  “Nothing, Father.”

  “Nothing, I believe, makes no sound. You’ve something to say?”

  Cheeks burning, torn between a humiliating retreat or a hopeless advance, Garth realized, finally, he just didn’t care. “George Washington, you know he had slaves?”

  Thunder in the classroom, the struck students reeled, every empty stomach and half-lidded eye.

  “And?” Nkomo replied.

  Not the expected response, but Garth had played his card and this was it, either raise or fold.

  “And,” Garth resumed, “if we’re all supposed to be equal, then why’d he own Africans and kill Indians, you actually think he was ‘good’?”

  Students went slack, but Nkomo kept still. And Garth, nothing to lose, went all in.

  “And what about women, what about them!” he challenged. “They couldn’t vote, couldn’t do anything at all, and we’re supposed to respect these dead white guys, study their lives? I mean, look at you, you’re black!”

  Armageddon, the unsaid was said. And Garth had said it, his first classroom participation would now be his last, because as seconds ticked, Nkomo went cold. And then—

  “Mr. Smith?” the priest began, but then it was over, then the bell rang.

  “Chapter test tomorrow,” Nkomo dryly announced. “And save your breath, neither life nor I grade on a curve; dismissed!”

  Tension venting in whisper and gasp, students quickly funneled into the hall, a corridor swelling with shout and awe.

  But Garth stayed quiet. Head down, trying to hide the flush of his face, he hefted his pack and grabbed his book, the same from the bus. Then keeping to the back, he skulked for the door.

  “Mr. Smith!”

  Two steps shy of a corridor escape, Garth stopped.

  “Homework,” Nkomo intoned, “is not an option. Five miles.”

  Garth grimaced at the punishment, already felt the burn, but based on his incendiary remarks, he wondered what would follow, if he
’d then be expelled.

  “Oh, and I believe this is yours,” added the priest, now tossing the snipped earphone. An easy catch, but as Garth reached out, that same odd pain stabbed his back, and that’s why he dropped it, why his book tumbled to the floor and spilled the contraband within.

  American History eviscerated, hundreds of pages neatly cut out, the hollow hardcover tome dumped a cache of comics, titles from Atom to X-Men to various garish more. And though Mr. Meier squeaked at the reveal, briefly forgot about lunch, Nkomo kept still. Maybe just shocked, maybe no Biblical proverb or Sudanese saying addressed ripping out history for men in bright suits, but whatever the reason, the priest with the hands ridged with scars just stood there, just watched the boy scoop them up and stuff them back in.

  Garth departed with a pivot and ducked into the hall. And though Nkomo had seen enough, he also noticed the boy had missed something, a paper under a desk. But when he retrieved it, when the priest flipped it over to a hand-drawn sketch, the fatigue in his eyes lit with surprise.

  Did Garth know?

  Legs ached.

  Hate it.

  His throat burned.

  Hate to run.

  Two miles down and three to go, forty percent there and ninety percent gone, Garth endured his punishment, this five-mile slog allegedly a run. And though his path appeared pleasant, the sidewalks arched in sugar maple blaze, aftershocks of pain nagged his back, still nested deep inside. Cramps also clawed his side, and when every ache combined with his wheezing lungs? Torture, pure thumbscrew and rack, and as the plod continued, his loathing of running slipped all bound.

  Yet worse was the silence, that void in his ear. Missing his music, some lyric to distract or rhythm to numb, Garth cursed every scissors and Sudanese priest. And had he really dropped his history book, did it have to fall then and there?

  Cursing gravity, all history as well, he replayed again that disaster of a class, how he stood alone with his broken blue chalk. Then gradually, reminded by his throbbing feet, he replayed the tale, the priest’s reference to the two shoeless men who froze in the snow. Did they regret they didn’t stay home, was the war really worth their lives? Was any country or cause?

  Garth rounded a corner. He needed to stop, catch his breath, but as he cleared his eyes and looked for a spot, he was stricken with flashback, a plague of signs. Election signs, the same as last year and the years before that, those omens of November — Jack Attack! — were back. Another contest imminent — Jack the Vote! — the same familiar signs staked several yards, so that’s why it happened, why Garth just snapped.

  “No!” he shouted, kicking a sign. “No more!” He punched a second sign, now punted a third, and if anyone watching thought Garth unhinged, well, they didn’t know Jack.

  Yet strangely, neither did Garth. Always an enigma, Mr. Jack had covered Garth’s room, board, and tuition for years. Kind and generous, exceedingly so, but why he did it, his motive or point? A mystery impenetrable, perhaps even deep, for not only had Mr. Jack never told Garth about his parents, who they were or why they’d left, but in all these years, he’d only met him once. And because of this rejection, this inexplicable once, that’s why a dozen yard signs marked Garth’s wake, why he now grabbed a Back the Jack banner and tore it in two.

  ‘Hey!” shouted a deep-bellied voice.

  Tool belt buckled and beer in-hand, a man with ‘AFL’ on his left forearm and ‘CIO’ on the right emerged from his garage; and pondered, perplexed, why some kid in sweats just wasted his sign. And maybe it was the latest pension scare, maybe just the Lions’ record of five losses to one win, but when Garth bolted, Big Labor roared.

  “You!” Big erupted, unsheathing a pliers. “Down, boy, you’re going down!” And throwing hard, he banged a near miss, but the sidewalk ricochet nailed Garth’s shin.

  “Ungh!” Garth grunted, veering off track and clipping an elm.

  “Whoo!” Holding his beer, yet spilling no drop, Big charged down his lawn. “Run, maggot! You like to run?”

  Chased by Big Labor, screwdrivers and wrenches glinting the high autumn air, Garth fled through Detroit, the Paris of the Midwest sliding slowly, inexorably, toward dusk.

  Ignorant of Paris and indifferent to dusk, Mr. Meier dropped into his lineman’s stance. But instead of football, he imagined meatballs, servings of pasta and pizza for the party to come. Assuming, of course, he’d survive this practice, the sophomore halfback staring him down.

  Focusing hard, Meier shook off thoughts of deep dish crust to fixate on technique, how to tackle one-hundred eighty pounds of bony elbows and knees. But when voices arose, when Father Nkomo approached with that oddball from class, Meier wondered what happened, why the kid limped.

  “He threw what?” Nkomo asked.

  “A tool!” Garth shot back. “A ton of tools, I was attacked!“

  Distracted by the claim, Meier never heard the whistle or noticed the charge, never saw the bony knee till it smacked his chin. An agony, Meier dimly decided, due entirely to Garth.

  “And he attacked without reason?” Nkomo continued, now passing Meier face down in turf. “You didn’t do a thing?”

  “I bumped a few signs, is that a crime?” Garth rubbed his shin. “But just to make sure my leg’s okay, I think tomorrow, I better stay home.”

  “For a bruise?”

  “It was a metal storm, Father, life or death, I can barely walk!”

  “Then keep walking, Mr. Smith, walk it out,” Nkomo advised. “We need to talk.”

  Expulsion, Garth knew, what else could it be. “About?”

  “About you, something I found,” the priest replied, fidgeting a folded paper. “But first, let’s explore your study habits, how you prepare. Do you enjoy these miles, you like to run?”

  “Love it,” Garth rasped, trying to lose a string of spit. “But next time, how about I just do study hall, dodge all the crime.”

  “The only crime is refusing to work.”

  What a crock, thought Garth.

  “Agree?” asked the priest.

  “Completely.”

  “No, well, someday you might,” sighed Nkomo, and without warning, snare drums rattled and cornets wailed, a band practice warm-up making Garth wince.

  “And your ‘someday,’” Nkomo added, “should start right now, you could gain discipline through sport. Running, soccer, football—”

  A whistle blew, helmets crashed, and as both glanced back, Meier again sprawled on the turf.

  “Or maybe just golf,” Nkomo revised, now surveying the practice fields, the attempted athletics all round. “Ever play?”

  “Never played a thing, I just — I don’t know, no interest.”

  “Then what about music, weren’t you trying the French horn?

  “I tried.”

  “You mean you quit? You could have marched in the band!”

  “Exactly,” said Garth, and turning away, he headed for the bleachers, his coat and pack.

  “Then you have other interests, a hobby of sorts?”

  “What, like coins?” quipped Garth.

  “Yes?”

  “Coins cost money, Father, I’m not one of them.” Nodding to the fields, to boys running plays or playing horns, Garth sat on a seat and untied his shoes. “I mean, I used to like rocks, collect ’em and stuff, but — I don’t know, it just got boring, everything did.”

  “What’s boring is an incurious mind, now — what about politics, current events; you’re reading ‘A People’s History?’”

  Peering at the priest, Garth wondered how he knew.

  “You’re angry and resentful, I was once the same,” Nkomo admitted, now sitting as well. “Though I confess, I never butchered a book. You saved the pages?”

  “What, you think I threw them away?”

  “Did you?”

  Garth exhaled, then dug into his pack. “Look, Father, just so you know, I’ve got nothing against books, I just prefer these.” And pulling out his hand, he held up two glossy comics,
issues of Hellblazer and Strontium Dog. “How about it, give ’em a read?”

  “Thank you, Garth. But instead of the future, my interest lies in the past, I prefer the classics.”

  “Yeah? That’s how I started, too. Batman, Spiderman — but Superman, he was the first, I’ve seen most every movie and read lots of the books, at least what I could afford.”

  “Yes, well, at least you read. And while our definition of ‘classic’ might diverge, tell me, have you ever tried stories without magic? With heroes not super, but real?”

  Garth considered the question, gave it some thought. “Huh?”

  “You know what I mean, stories of soldiers, scientists, great men of the past.”

  “What, like — history?”

  About to answer, Nkomo thought twice.

  “Okay, well, got to make my bus,” Garth announced, stuffing his running shoes into his pack. “And sorry again about my earphones, but honestly, without a few tunes? I’d lose it, Father, class would drive me nuts.”

  Nkomo’s eyes widened.

  “I mean,” Garth added, “every class but yours.”

  Nkomo grunted, slowly rubbed his eyes.

  “No, really, I like your class, I like the whole school! I mean, true, we don’t have girls, but—”

  “But how about we stick to music. Now, your preference is what; do they still call it rap?”

  “Rap, hip-hop — yeah, some’s okay, but most is just—?”

  “Too vulgar?”

  “Too popular.”

  “Oh?” answered Nkomo. “And that’s bad?”

  “Usually. I mean, not everything obscure is good, there’s reasons stuff stays unheard, but if you just listen to what’s promoted, what’s pushed? Big names, Top Ten, anything that wins a Grammy? Well, if you’ve heard one auto-tune remix, you’ve heard them all. Ever listen to Bruckner?”

  Startled by it, by a name they both knew, Nkomo wondered if he’d found it, the elusive common ground. “The composer?”

  “That he was, and though some call his stuff dark—”

  “You like Bruckner?”

  “Like him, he’s great! I mean, his sound has power, no fluff.” Smiling now, Garth donned his army surplus coat. “But the popular stuff? Nah, fake just annoys, I hate it. Hate fake.”