This comes before "Shadows in the Dark" on the timeline.
----
I’d been wandering for months, ever since the razing of my home by land-hungry neighbors. I’d just sold my only change of clothes so I could buy a small sack of rice and a pair of chicken eggs. The clothes on my back were thin and torn, stained with sweat and road dust, hanging from my body by a few tenacious threads. My leather sandals had many miles of life left, and a straw farmer’s hat had blown to me upon a breeze, rolling down the road to protect me from the sun.
For these small things, I counted myself fortunate.
My katana, and deadly knowledge bound in my bones were the last remnants of a life that died in fire and siege. I always knew that the life of a warrior would end in battle, but I did not expect to go on living even after that life had ended.
Penniless, weary with month-old hunger, I came upon this: A city. I’d never seen such a thing, except in wood-block prints and the stories of travelers. Nothing I’d learned prepared me for the stink. A thick muck of filth, rotting garbage, horse shit and man shit lined the street. The stink clung greasily with the reek of sour bodies, unwashed since the last heavy rain. I was a stranger here, even among the filthy destitute. My clothes, though ragged and faded, were of a cut and color that marked me an outsider from far away.
I’d slurped down one of my eggs raw, hungry beyond care. I even tried eating the shell, and sucked the slimy skin from the inside. I carried the rice into the city, despite my immediate and growing hunger. In my bartering, I’d failed to consider the difficulty in cooking without a pot, or even a tin cup. So as I slugged into the northern district of this city, I was dazed and giddy with hunger.
I stumbled into a food shop, full of the smell of boiled beef bone, rice, and steaming garden vegetables. A pair of rough wooden tables with benches sat parallel in the square, splinter-slatted building. In front of me, an old man stood, sweeping the hard-packed dirt floor and glowering at me over his red, bulbous nose.
"Not the usual street trash," he spat grumpily, "but just as broke, I’ll wager."
His back was locked in a stoop. His hands were callous hardened claws
"Sir," I began, my voice quavering, my legs weak. The smell of food sank claws into my polite calmness.
"No," he interrupted. "I don’t need my floor swept, or my firewood chopped, or my roof patched." He eyed my sword. "And I don’t need anyone killed.
"What I need is coin, and soon. Those crooks will be through again to collect ‘dues’ soon. So go on, get out! Find some money, and come back!"
I might have broken down and cried, begged even, for him to just cook some of my rice. Suddenly, the old cook glared over my shoulder, then stepped around me, brandishing his broom like a club. I sank onto a bench and watched him viciously jab a bum with the handle, shouting curses and threats. The rice I carried would fill my stomach three times, if only I could eat it.
I put some of the dry grains in my mouth and sucked on them, hoping my saliva would soften the food. I couldn’t wait, and began chewing the hard rice. The crunching was probably audible, but the raw grains were sweet, and my bodily weakness diminished almost immediately after swallowing. I put another small portion in my mouth and held it in one cheek.
"You’re still here." The warty old man shrugged his rounded shoulders. "At least you don’t reek of shit. You know, I’d trade you a week’s feeding for that blade." He eyed my sword again.
The glare I gave him must have been deadly, because he threw his hands up, eyes wide, stammering that many katana were being bought and sold these days, and he thought he’d ask, and a thousand apologies, please rest here as long as you like.
He turned his back on me and hobbled back to one of the simmering pots to stir the contents. At the slap of sandals in the doorway, he snarled and whirled around, reaching for his broom and beginning to say something along the lines of "I told you to get lost!"
He froze, his gnarled hand dropped to his side, and his angry face fell slack. A pair of men swaggered in. They were dressed in cheap, coarse cotton, but the clothes were clean, and matching daggers hung sheathed at their thin leather belts.
"Hey there Roji. You’re looking uglier than ever. How’s your harpy of a wife doing?"
The old man frowned. "Better. You can hardly see the black eye anymore."
The first man laughed a viscous laugh. "Maybe she’ll be more polite next time. What was it she called us?"
"I can’t pay you today," the old man said, ignoring the question. "Your boss has turned this part of town into a slum. The whole north side is a gutter. I can’t make a living here anymore."
Both gangers frowned. The first said, "The Boss is going to be mad that you won’t pay him. But he’s going to be madder that you said that."
The second man said nothing, but moved his hand to his dagger.
"Now," said the first, "how about we just take the money? Or how about we burn your shop to the ground, then kill you and your horrible wife."
"I’ll starve to death anyway if you collect your fee."
At this point, still slightly woozy from hunger, I slammed my fists on the table and said loudly, "What IS that horrible smell."
I glared at the pair of men. "It can’t be the bums. The bums smell like flowers compared to this. It must be YOU."
I stood dizzily from my seat, the bench scraping behind my knees.
"I need some fresh air."
I shoved my way between the two glaring men, who stood for a moment stunned before puffing up their bravado and stomping after me into the street.
"Oy!" one shouted at me. I stopped and turned to face them. Their daggers were in their hands, but their eyes were on the sword tucked lazily at my hip.
"Careful kiddies," I goaded. "Those are big boy toys."
The first man snarled and lunged, right leg forward, blade forward in his right hand. Slow and sloppy. He is overextended.
I caught his hand from underneath with my right hand, my left hand steadying my sword. With my right foot, I quickly stomped on his forward knee, which crunched and bent entirely the wrong way. As he fell screaming, I twisted his wrist and yanked, and the weight of his body ripped his elbow out of place. I kicked the dagger away from his sprawled, wailing form.
The second man hesitated, and stepped cautiously forward, his eyes locked on my sword hand. He feigned a lunge but kept his distance, as though he feared the sudden swipe of my much longer blade.
There is no intent behind his strike. He is too afraid.
I let go of my scabbard and held my hands palms out close to my chest. Instantly, his eyes left my sword, and he leapt into a real attack, intending to drive the blade through my sternum.
So slow. Compared to a swinging katana, these men move like feathers fall.
I let my loose hand swing out and pop like a whip on the back of his attacking hand. The explosive force stungs my fingernails. I would have bruised fingertips that week. The dagger sprang free of his agonized hand, and with ferocious quickness I drew my blade and cast it down upon the nape of his neck, stopping at the skin.
The first man was struggling to his good leg, agony, tears and mud smeared across his face.
"I think its time for you to run away," I said, not moving my sword from his neck.
Carefully, cowering, the second man shrank away from my blade and gathered his companion. Together, they hobbled bent and three legged toward the heart of the city.
A small filthy crowd had gathered, murmuring. The daggers had been snatched quickly—they might be traded for coin. I walked back into the shop, parting the crowd without any pushing.
Roji looked stricken, but said nothing.
"Do you have any bandages?" I asked.
"Y...yes," he stammered. "Were you stabbed?"
"No, they’re for you. Put them on your head. Say I robbed you."
Roji ahhhed in sudden understanding, and tapped the side of his nose knowingly.
"Now could I please," I said, collapsing onto a bench, "have some food?"
Friday, July 24, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Golfing
The golf cart rustled boom through the wet night over mist heavy leaves of grass and soil, thick and solid, sodden deep.
My brother hung his leg out of the bulky frame of spot welded steel and beige plastic, a heavy driving wood across his lap, and a beer-piss brown bottle frothing mildly in his fist.
I was driving, eyes locked to the darkness, a twist in my gut chasing our path before us. My brother laughed for both of us. I strained my senses into the night.
The rattle of the rust-caked spring suspension screeched like a bat in the dark, and I could feel in my ears the undulations of the land; a stand of skinny trees to our right, a small building, probably restrooms, some way on our left, and a dip, a soft sudden dip directly in front of us.
For a moment, we flew, and my hands on the wheel were blind to the ground. For a moment, the game was still on, my brother howling our triumph, leaning from our careening vessel like a sailor hiking out beneath too strong a wind. Wheels spun helpless beneath us. Sand trap. Deep embankment and a wall of earth. Our nose would bury in the wet grit, scrape a trench that would bury our momentum. Sand trap. Graveyard.
No time to brace. No time to bail. Only a moment.
The golf cart went from 20 to parked in a spray of sand and a shriek of bending metal. My death-grip slipped and my chest slammed and my ribs bent against the unyielding steering wheel. My brother was gone, but I could hear him laughing in the dark.
--
Hail! to the Star of the Morning,
Bane of the stars of night,
Who failed to capture all glory,
Who fell from the peak of their flight.
--
On my back, the stars peak through gossamer. My brother laughs still, and dew soaks my clothes.
My brother hung his leg out of the bulky frame of spot welded steel and beige plastic, a heavy driving wood across his lap, and a beer-piss brown bottle frothing mildly in his fist.
I was driving, eyes locked to the darkness, a twist in my gut chasing our path before us. My brother laughed for both of us. I strained my senses into the night.
The rattle of the rust-caked spring suspension screeched like a bat in the dark, and I could feel in my ears the undulations of the land; a stand of skinny trees to our right, a small building, probably restrooms, some way on our left, and a dip, a soft sudden dip directly in front of us.
For a moment, we flew, and my hands on the wheel were blind to the ground. For a moment, the game was still on, my brother howling our triumph, leaning from our careening vessel like a sailor hiking out beneath too strong a wind. Wheels spun helpless beneath us. Sand trap. Deep embankment and a wall of earth. Our nose would bury in the wet grit, scrape a trench that would bury our momentum. Sand trap. Graveyard.
No time to brace. No time to bail. Only a moment.
The golf cart went from 20 to parked in a spray of sand and a shriek of bending metal. My death-grip slipped and my chest slammed and my ribs bent against the unyielding steering wheel. My brother was gone, but I could hear him laughing in the dark.
--
Hail! to the Star of the Morning,
Bane of the stars of night,
Who failed to capture all glory,
Who fell from the peak of their flight.
--
On my back, the stars peak through gossamer. My brother laughs still, and dew soaks my clothes.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hunger and Regret
--This follows "A Battle in the Dark"
My hands shake, and I pretend to myself that it is because of the rough ground beneath the wagon wheels. I tremble, and blame the frosty cold of the young morning. Everything is gray and flat in this light. Flat and gray, or shades of gray. Shades, dead or sleeping.
I can still smell them on me--the heavy rust and copper stink of the blood they sprayed. My hands shake, and I shake the reins and hurry on the tired mule.
The bodies I left behind would be gray in this light; flat and gray and lifeless in the chilled predawn. But as the day passes, the warm glow of the sun will show with violent vibrancy the drained pallor and the terror, the sadness, the agony frozen into those blind eyes. The life-giving glow of the day will bloat the tangled corpses and warm the pools of coagulated gore into buzzing puddles of flies and stench.
Bears, wild dogs, wolves will make meals of their torn bodies. My stomach is sick. I pretend it is hunger pain. It might be, for I brought little food, but I know that I could not yet eat. Behind me, the wagon driver groans and stirs. Up ahead, his village peers at us through leaves and branches.
As I approach the small huddle of buildings, made from rough hewn timber, the tremble in my hands and chest subsides. Nobody sees me shaken by the brutality of my hand. Nobody has seen me sickened by the death I dole.
The smell of wood-smoke greets me, and a bird sings. Color has begun to seep into the steely world.
"Crossroad village."
His voice bespeaks his injury. He would sleep many more hours before he felt well.
"Which house is yours?"
My voice is soft to match the sodden silence of the dewy morning. The soft soil sinks beneath the silent hooves of the mule. Only our jingle and rattle announce our coming.
"The one with the gate."
I know immediately which he means. It is the only place surrounded by a wall, man high, and made of local boulders. Within the wall, I can see carefully manicured maple trees thick with silken leaves. Beyond sits the house, with a second story, walls painted white, and three wagons in front. Compared to the small, simple design of the other houses along the dirt road it is grand. The gate is made of iron and painted black, and on one side hangs a brass bell, slightly smaller than a human head.
I scowl. I am prejudiced against walls in general; they are ostentatious displays of wealth and power. As though they could even slow me. Bah. And the bell suggests that I should ask permission to pass, when there is no man yet who has stopped me from going where I please. I sit stubbornly in my seat, considering just leaving the wagon and the wounded man to be found at the gate. I could probably carry him on my back, over the wall, and into a clean bed without being noticed. That would show them all the good their gate does.
My stomach rumbles, and continues to rumble until the rumble turns into a squeal that refuses to be ignored. I only have an apple left to eat. Suddenly, exertion for the sake of principle seems patently foolish, while ingratiating myself with the apparent town mayor could lead to a quality meal. And maybe a bath. And a clean bed. So, with my stomach rumbling, and my body aching and stinking worse than before, I concede to the gate.
But not the bell. I pick up the leaden musket shot that had been rolling about under the wagon seat. It is as thick as a knuckle, pitted and heavy. It feels good in my fingers. With a quick whipping motion, I snap my arm at the bell. My fingers make an audible pop, followed immediately by the sudden wailing hum of the bell, which quivers and swings. It is about five paces away, and I left a dent in it.
The ring resounds and sustains, deafening in the morning quiet. When its warble falls silent, the hamlet is astir. Heads peek out of doors as pots clank and plates clatter and a baby begins wailing.
Within the gate, a large man runs awkwardly, with his arms stiff at his sides, making his shoulders wobble and his head bounce and turn. He wears a sword on his belt and a stare of fierce confusion on his face. His mouth hangs open. The corners of his mouth are crusted with spittle.
"IT’S KENTO’S WAGON," he shouts. His lips and tongue seem too unwieldy for him. "BUT NO KENTO. WHO ARE YOU?"
Before I can answer to explain, he spins about and runs, arms fixed, back toward the house. I sigh. I hope someone lets me in soon. Kento needs attention, and I’m about to get mean-hungry.
My hands shake, and I pretend to myself that it is because of the rough ground beneath the wagon wheels. I tremble, and blame the frosty cold of the young morning. Everything is gray and flat in this light. Flat and gray, or shades of gray. Shades, dead or sleeping.
I can still smell them on me--the heavy rust and copper stink of the blood they sprayed. My hands shake, and I shake the reins and hurry on the tired mule.
The bodies I left behind would be gray in this light; flat and gray and lifeless in the chilled predawn. But as the day passes, the warm glow of the sun will show with violent vibrancy the drained pallor and the terror, the sadness, the agony frozen into those blind eyes. The life-giving glow of the day will bloat the tangled corpses and warm the pools of coagulated gore into buzzing puddles of flies and stench.
Bears, wild dogs, wolves will make meals of their torn bodies. My stomach is sick. I pretend it is hunger pain. It might be, for I brought little food, but I know that I could not yet eat. Behind me, the wagon driver groans and stirs. Up ahead, his village peers at us through leaves and branches.
As I approach the small huddle of buildings, made from rough hewn timber, the tremble in my hands and chest subsides. Nobody sees me shaken by the brutality of my hand. Nobody has seen me sickened by the death I dole.
The smell of wood-smoke greets me, and a bird sings. Color has begun to seep into the steely world.
"Crossroad village."
His voice bespeaks his injury. He would sleep many more hours before he felt well.
"Which house is yours?"
My voice is soft to match the sodden silence of the dewy morning. The soft soil sinks beneath the silent hooves of the mule. Only our jingle and rattle announce our coming.
"The one with the gate."
I know immediately which he means. It is the only place surrounded by a wall, man high, and made of local boulders. Within the wall, I can see carefully manicured maple trees thick with silken leaves. Beyond sits the house, with a second story, walls painted white, and three wagons in front. Compared to the small, simple design of the other houses along the dirt road it is grand. The gate is made of iron and painted black, and on one side hangs a brass bell, slightly smaller than a human head.
I scowl. I am prejudiced against walls in general; they are ostentatious displays of wealth and power. As though they could even slow me. Bah. And the bell suggests that I should ask permission to pass, when there is no man yet who has stopped me from going where I please. I sit stubbornly in my seat, considering just leaving the wagon and the wounded man to be found at the gate. I could probably carry him on my back, over the wall, and into a clean bed without being noticed. That would show them all the good their gate does.
My stomach rumbles, and continues to rumble until the rumble turns into a squeal that refuses to be ignored. I only have an apple left to eat. Suddenly, exertion for the sake of principle seems patently foolish, while ingratiating myself with the apparent town mayor could lead to a quality meal. And maybe a bath. And a clean bed. So, with my stomach rumbling, and my body aching and stinking worse than before, I concede to the gate.
But not the bell. I pick up the leaden musket shot that had been rolling about under the wagon seat. It is as thick as a knuckle, pitted and heavy. It feels good in my fingers. With a quick whipping motion, I snap my arm at the bell. My fingers make an audible pop, followed immediately by the sudden wailing hum of the bell, which quivers and swings. It is about five paces away, and I left a dent in it.
The ring resounds and sustains, deafening in the morning quiet. When its warble falls silent, the hamlet is astir. Heads peek out of doors as pots clank and plates clatter and a baby begins wailing.
Within the gate, a large man runs awkwardly, with his arms stiff at his sides, making his shoulders wobble and his head bounce and turn. He wears a sword on his belt and a stare of fierce confusion on his face. His mouth hangs open. The corners of his mouth are crusted with spittle.
"IT’S KENTO’S WAGON," he shouts. His lips and tongue seem too unwieldy for him. "BUT NO KENTO. WHO ARE YOU?"
Before I can answer to explain, he spins about and runs, arms fixed, back toward the house. I sigh. I hope someone lets me in soon. Kento needs attention, and I’m about to get mean-hungry.
Friday, February 27, 2009
A Battle in the Dark
--This follows "Shadows in the Dark"
I hold my breath and will my muscles into stone. Ten paces. I could sprint that distance in a small few heartbeats, and have my blade through his bones in a single feline spring. He only has one shot, but at ten paces I’d have to trust to luck and the gunman’s ineptitude to keep the heavy lead ball out of my blood. Ten paces. I could fling my dagger that distance and hit him easily, but the whipping motion required for straight flight would draw his muzzle. No good arcing the knife gently, with all these branches between here and there.
I’d rather not kill this man. His threat against me is only an act of self preservation, as are my plans to nullify him. For a moment, I am more troubled that my immediate impulse had been to kill. I could call out to him now, and show through my tone that I mean no harm. This course requires me to trust his judgment, which is not something I am keen to do, but I’d rather not kill this man.
I take a breath and a moment to choose my words and my tone. I tighten my throat to call out like an embarrassed neighbor.
A laugh barks off to my right, accompanied by nervous chuckles. Four men, most likely novice bandits, had waited just off the road and let the wagon pass. Now they shamble out of the brush onto the road. They are shades of gray and shadow in the dark, but I can see them, hear the swagger in the leader’s step and the shuffle of the three skulking behind. I can smell their unwashed bodies and steamed turnips on their breath.
"Take it easy, little lady," the first bandit says.
"She’s a pretty lady," chimes in another. The rest guffaw dutifully and continue to close the distance.
The gunman stands solid, and he twists his voice to sound vicious, but I can hear his throat tremble.
"Which one of you wants a musket ball in your chest?"
He locks the hammer back with an emphatic click. All four bandits pause.
They’ve moved close enough to the wagon that the lantern that I can see them clearly. The leader appears to be better fed than the other three, and better armed. He holds a drawn katana it his hands; I can see the chips in the edge and the crust of blood dried to the dull metal. His mongrel cohort sport a pair of long knives and a heavy tree branch with a long nail jabbing wickedly from the end.
With a sneer, the leader continues his approach, and his pack follows closely.
"You don’t want to do that, Miss. You can only kill one of us." He glances at the scythe. "Maybe two. But we’ll kill you and take what we want. You might as well leave your cart and run home."
This talk is pointless. I have been in enough scuffles to know that this bluster means bloodshed is inevitable. I would pull the trigger without another word.
The hammer snaps, and for a moment, I hear only the sounds of the forest. Somewhere, frogs sing next to a brook that whispers lullabies. For a flash, everything is illuminated, and I can’t help noticing the vibrant green of the water-thick leaves.
I leap into a sprint, my body tilted forward, low to the ground, with my left hand gripping my scabbard.
The explosion slams the gunman backward and spews a jet of blue smoke that swallows the attackers. The rumble rolls and echoes off nearby hills, and within the lingering cloud, a body groans and tumbles to the dirt. The remaining three stand flat-footed, and dazzled, blinking and coughing. The leader stands, and does not cough.
The gunman is still staggering for his stance when I reach the clump of bandits. Compared to the fury of the musket, my footfalls were silent, and I remain unnoticed even as my sword flies free and flashes sideways at the nearest man. I catch him in the neck and slide the deadly top third of the blade into his flesh. I feel the tip nick his spine as I pull the steel free of the gurgling body. He does not scream, only bubbles and spews hot blood all over the path.
In front of me, the leader is striding toward the gunman, who has his scythe in a knuckle-whitening grip. The remaining lackey turns and begins to see me, no doubt noticing the fresh corpse, or the lack of companions. He begins to see me, but my sword unzips his ribs along the back with a powerful downward sweep, slicing a clean diagonal through his spine. I miss the heart, but catch a piece of both lungs, which suck air like a toothless man slurping soup. He tumbles forward, landing his face into the road at the feet of his leader.
The final bandit is mid-swing when that body hits the dirt. The jagged edge of his weapon whistles down upon the head of the cart driver. He swings the thing like a club, with no shearing action that gives the katana its elegant efficiency. The strike goes home, despite the poor technique, and bounces a heavy blow against the wagoneer’s skull. The driver goes down, bright red blood tinting his hair, but I know the blade didn’t get through the skull. The fortunate man would have a headache, a scar, and a bald patch, but he would also survive this fight. For now, though, he is on the ground, unconscious, leaving the last bandit to me.
He turns and faces me, and I square off. I let him make the first move: he raises the ruined sword above his head in a huge wind up. I could gut him before he swings, but there is the chance that he finishes the heavy handed swing before he manages to die. The blade whistles down. His arm muscles are bulged. He seems to move so slow. I side step the strike easily, and he swings clear to the ground with his entire body curled behind the blow. When he strikes the dirt, his body is hunched with his head lurched forward. He clearly doesn’t know what to do next. I clear the confusion by stepping my weight into a neat stab through his eyeball. Metal scrapes bone as his skull guides my strike into his brain, and his feet jerk from beneath him as I free my weapon of his falling body. The corpse is still twitching as I wipe the gore from my sword.
I take a moment more to listen. The man who was shot is still alive, groaning. He will die. It could take days, and I am in no mood for mercy killing. Other than that, I sense no danger, so I scoop the limp wagon driver up and load him with his goods in the back. With some careful maneuvering, I manage to get the cart turned around. Where he came from is far nearer than where he is going, and his wound will certainly become infected if it is not cleaned quickly. And so I become the cart driver, clopping through the dark.
I hold my breath and will my muscles into stone. Ten paces. I could sprint that distance in a small few heartbeats, and have my blade through his bones in a single feline spring. He only has one shot, but at ten paces I’d have to trust to luck and the gunman’s ineptitude to keep the heavy lead ball out of my blood. Ten paces. I could fling my dagger that distance and hit him easily, but the whipping motion required for straight flight would draw his muzzle. No good arcing the knife gently, with all these branches between here and there.
I’d rather not kill this man. His threat against me is only an act of self preservation, as are my plans to nullify him. For a moment, I am more troubled that my immediate impulse had been to kill. I could call out to him now, and show through my tone that I mean no harm. This course requires me to trust his judgment, which is not something I am keen to do, but I’d rather not kill this man.
I take a breath and a moment to choose my words and my tone. I tighten my throat to call out like an embarrassed neighbor.
A laugh barks off to my right, accompanied by nervous chuckles. Four men, most likely novice bandits, had waited just off the road and let the wagon pass. Now they shamble out of the brush onto the road. They are shades of gray and shadow in the dark, but I can see them, hear the swagger in the leader’s step and the shuffle of the three skulking behind. I can smell their unwashed bodies and steamed turnips on their breath.
"Take it easy, little lady," the first bandit says.
"She’s a pretty lady," chimes in another. The rest guffaw dutifully and continue to close the distance.
The gunman stands solid, and he twists his voice to sound vicious, but I can hear his throat tremble.
"Which one of you wants a musket ball in your chest?"
He locks the hammer back with an emphatic click. All four bandits pause.
They’ve moved close enough to the wagon that the lantern that I can see them clearly. The leader appears to be better fed than the other three, and better armed. He holds a drawn katana it his hands; I can see the chips in the edge and the crust of blood dried to the dull metal. His mongrel cohort sport a pair of long knives and a heavy tree branch with a long nail jabbing wickedly from the end.
With a sneer, the leader continues his approach, and his pack follows closely.
"You don’t want to do that, Miss. You can only kill one of us." He glances at the scythe. "Maybe two. But we’ll kill you and take what we want. You might as well leave your cart and run home."
This talk is pointless. I have been in enough scuffles to know that this bluster means bloodshed is inevitable. I would pull the trigger without another word.
The hammer snaps, and for a moment, I hear only the sounds of the forest. Somewhere, frogs sing next to a brook that whispers lullabies. For a flash, everything is illuminated, and I can’t help noticing the vibrant green of the water-thick leaves.
I leap into a sprint, my body tilted forward, low to the ground, with my left hand gripping my scabbard.
The explosion slams the gunman backward and spews a jet of blue smoke that swallows the attackers. The rumble rolls and echoes off nearby hills, and within the lingering cloud, a body groans and tumbles to the dirt. The remaining three stand flat-footed, and dazzled, blinking and coughing. The leader stands, and does not cough.
The gunman is still staggering for his stance when I reach the clump of bandits. Compared to the fury of the musket, my footfalls were silent, and I remain unnoticed even as my sword flies free and flashes sideways at the nearest man. I catch him in the neck and slide the deadly top third of the blade into his flesh. I feel the tip nick his spine as I pull the steel free of the gurgling body. He does not scream, only bubbles and spews hot blood all over the path.
In front of me, the leader is striding toward the gunman, who has his scythe in a knuckle-whitening grip. The remaining lackey turns and begins to see me, no doubt noticing the fresh corpse, or the lack of companions. He begins to see me, but my sword unzips his ribs along the back with a powerful downward sweep, slicing a clean diagonal through his spine. I miss the heart, but catch a piece of both lungs, which suck air like a toothless man slurping soup. He tumbles forward, landing his face into the road at the feet of his leader.
The final bandit is mid-swing when that body hits the dirt. The jagged edge of his weapon whistles down upon the head of the cart driver. He swings the thing like a club, with no shearing action that gives the katana its elegant efficiency. The strike goes home, despite the poor technique, and bounces a heavy blow against the wagoneer’s skull. The driver goes down, bright red blood tinting his hair, but I know the blade didn’t get through the skull. The fortunate man would have a headache, a scar, and a bald patch, but he would also survive this fight. For now, though, he is on the ground, unconscious, leaving the last bandit to me.
He turns and faces me, and I square off. I let him make the first move: he raises the ruined sword above his head in a huge wind up. I could gut him before he swings, but there is the chance that he finishes the heavy handed swing before he manages to die. The blade whistles down. His arm muscles are bulged. He seems to move so slow. I side step the strike easily, and he swings clear to the ground with his entire body curled behind the blow. When he strikes the dirt, his body is hunched with his head lurched forward. He clearly doesn’t know what to do next. I clear the confusion by stepping my weight into a neat stab through his eyeball. Metal scrapes bone as his skull guides my strike into his brain, and his feet jerk from beneath him as I free my weapon of his falling body. The corpse is still twitching as I wipe the gore from my sword.
I take a moment more to listen. The man who was shot is still alive, groaning. He will die. It could take days, and I am in no mood for mercy killing. Other than that, I sense no danger, so I scoop the limp wagon driver up and load him with his goods in the back. With some careful maneuvering, I manage to get the cart turned around. Where he came from is far nearer than where he is going, and his wound will certainly become infected if it is not cleaned quickly. And so I become the cart driver, clopping through the dark.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Shadows in the Dark
In the dark, smells heighten, and sound is heightened so that every loud heartbeat might be the sound of a predator’s footfall. Wolves or wild dogs, bears, and bandits might rove these woods. I hear a rustle so faint that it might be the noise of my own thoughts, but I freeze and listen, eyes closed in the dark. A breeze stirs leaves and carries the smell of distant rain-wet dirt and breathing trees. The murmur like furtive voices hidden in the distant dark might be the sound of air in my throat. I have never been attacked by an animal, but I find myself pondering the grim; a black beast in black night could have teeth in me before I draw and swing my blade. My hand rests on the tight leather wrap of my katana handle, fingering the ray skin nervously.
The soft dirt trail before me is more of a footpath than it is a road, where here and there boulders had been rolled aside, and occasional trees hewn to stumps to make way for the very occasional single-mule wagon.
I smell it before I see the smoky glow of the tallow-candle lantern. I hear the clomp of rough-shodden hooves, the creak of wood rubbing wood, rattling and jostling as the axels spin and whine. When my eyes make out the shape of the mule’s long face, I can already smell the hay and barn-animal musk. Without my lantern, I am a shadow, and in the dark, every shadow is a threat. I could stand in the path and try to convince the wagon driver that I mean no harm, but that could lead to a few long, tense moments. No telling who carries a musket these days, and a man foolish enough to drive a wagon in the dark is probably too foolish to discern foe from passer-by. It would be safest to hide, and let them pass. That will be easy on this moonless night. I pass from the trail into the thick dark, ten paces over a soft loam of decayed leaves, where I crouch close to the earth. I wrap my woolen cloak tight about me and throw the broad hood over my head. With no distinguishable human characteristics, I look like a stump, or a blur in a cautious man’s vision.
I am still, breathing slowly so my nostrils make no hiss or whistle. The damp soil fills my nose with its thick richness. Nearby, an apple tree grows, for I can smell the smooth fruitfulness of its boughs and the sickly sweet rot of unclaimed windfalls. On the trail, the wagon clatters past. The lantern illuminates the driver’s face, and I can see that his eyes are bulged out against the dark, his hand taut and wiry with fear as he grips the reigns. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears as though he expects a blow to the head at any moment. With a breath I wish him good fortune and a safe journey, too soft for him to hear me, almost too soft to hear myself, and yet he jerked the mule to a stop, the wagon jolting behind him. The night is silent now except for the nervous stamping of the animal and the harsh breathing of the driver. I hear him catch his breath and hold it, probing the darkness with panic-sharpened ears. If he can hear a whisper from ten paces, over the constant racket of the rolling wagon, then he is no country bumpkin, and he would hear me breathing in the silence. Perhaps I should have hailed him openly on the road; if he finds me now, armed and hidden, I will be treated no better than a bandit.
In a sudden flurry of motion, the driver leaps to the ground, grabbing a long bulky rifle from beneath his seat, and lighting the rope-fuse in the lantern. The gunpowder hisses softly in his hands, and the smoke stings my nose. At his side hangs a scythe, glinting wickedly in the dim light. His stance is solid, his face menacing and intent. Suddenly he bellows.
"Come fight, cowards!"
The soft dirt trail before me is more of a footpath than it is a road, where here and there boulders had been rolled aside, and occasional trees hewn to stumps to make way for the very occasional single-mule wagon.
I smell it before I see the smoky glow of the tallow-candle lantern. I hear the clomp of rough-shodden hooves, the creak of wood rubbing wood, rattling and jostling as the axels spin and whine. When my eyes make out the shape of the mule’s long face, I can already smell the hay and barn-animal musk. Without my lantern, I am a shadow, and in the dark, every shadow is a threat. I could stand in the path and try to convince the wagon driver that I mean no harm, but that could lead to a few long, tense moments. No telling who carries a musket these days, and a man foolish enough to drive a wagon in the dark is probably too foolish to discern foe from passer-by. It would be safest to hide, and let them pass. That will be easy on this moonless night. I pass from the trail into the thick dark, ten paces over a soft loam of decayed leaves, where I crouch close to the earth. I wrap my woolen cloak tight about me and throw the broad hood over my head. With no distinguishable human characteristics, I look like a stump, or a blur in a cautious man’s vision.
I am still, breathing slowly so my nostrils make no hiss or whistle. The damp soil fills my nose with its thick richness. Nearby, an apple tree grows, for I can smell the smooth fruitfulness of its boughs and the sickly sweet rot of unclaimed windfalls. On the trail, the wagon clatters past. The lantern illuminates the driver’s face, and I can see that his eyes are bulged out against the dark, his hand taut and wiry with fear as he grips the reigns. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears as though he expects a blow to the head at any moment. With a breath I wish him good fortune and a safe journey, too soft for him to hear me, almost too soft to hear myself, and yet he jerked the mule to a stop, the wagon jolting behind him. The night is silent now except for the nervous stamping of the animal and the harsh breathing of the driver. I hear him catch his breath and hold it, probing the darkness with panic-sharpened ears. If he can hear a whisper from ten paces, over the constant racket of the rolling wagon, then he is no country bumpkin, and he would hear me breathing in the silence. Perhaps I should have hailed him openly on the road; if he finds me now, armed and hidden, I will be treated no better than a bandit.
In a sudden flurry of motion, the driver leaps to the ground, grabbing a long bulky rifle from beneath his seat, and lighting the rope-fuse in the lantern. The gunpowder hisses softly in his hands, and the smoke stings my nose. At his side hangs a scythe, glinting wickedly in the dim light. His stance is solid, his face menacing and intent. Suddenly he bellows.
"Come fight, cowards!"
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
No Bomb Needed
The morning sun soaked into the steely sky and reached out across the land, pushing through fences, sneaking between perfect pickets and neighborly slats. It fell over shingled rooftops, and brick chimneys threw shadows too long for them, like children playing as businessmen. The warmth and glow slid out and the land grew warmer by creeping degrees. The warmth coaxed life from the sleeping world, and a mocking bird, stiff with sleep, coughed notes that shook the silence. The warm ground roused the still air which breathed past windows and doors and chased brittle autumn sycamore leaves clattering down the black pavement.
Laura Wolfe stood barefoot on the front steps of her home, facing east as morning slanted over rooftops. She laced her fingers behind her head so the warmth fell across her soft inner arms, her armpits, her topmost ribs. Her smooth black hair caught the light and threw a lustrous blaze, a glowing mantle about her shoulders. She sighed, and her eyes were closed.
In days past, she might have been self conscious of the way she looked the way the creamy sundress slipped and let the side of her breast relish the morning light, or the way the breezy fabric enunciated every contour of her firm golden body and betrayed the secret shape of her thighs. But she stood unabashed in her sun dress, stretching her spine to the sky. It was her morning dress, the habit of the last priestess of Helios, and she was beautiful and glorious in the glow of the new day. Her skin prickled beneath the bold caress of the sun so her nipples stood and she let out a throaty sigh.
Around her, the streets were empty, and the houses were empty with windows like empty staring eyes. Only one other home still breathed, only one lawn kept its thick wet green, with an old cress-green Mercedes glossy with love and car wax sitting in the driveway. It was Pete and Ethel’s house, but Ethel was dead and Pete was old with a dog that limped.
The other houses stood in rows but they were empty like snail shells hollowed by the scorching sun. Inside, there was only silence.
Laura stood where she stood every morning, watching Pete’s sprinkler snick and shudder, stubbornly fighting back the native southern Californian desert. She’d watched as the first houses emptied, cheap particleboard furniture thrown bitterly with the dark-wood heirloom bureau inside the dented truck, rented by the day. ‘For Sale’ signs had gone up like dandelions in the lawns, and for months the signs creaked in the morning breeze until their shiny red letters faded beneath the bleaching sun and the grass and the dandelions died beneath them. No new people moved in.
Laura Wolfe stood barefoot on the front steps of her home, facing east as morning slanted over rooftops. She laced her fingers behind her head so the warmth fell across her soft inner arms, her armpits, her topmost ribs. Her smooth black hair caught the light and threw a lustrous blaze, a glowing mantle about her shoulders. She sighed, and her eyes were closed.
In days past, she might have been self conscious of the way she looked the way the creamy sundress slipped and let the side of her breast relish the morning light, or the way the breezy fabric enunciated every contour of her firm golden body and betrayed the secret shape of her thighs. But she stood unabashed in her sun dress, stretching her spine to the sky. It was her morning dress, the habit of the last priestess of Helios, and she was beautiful and glorious in the glow of the new day. Her skin prickled beneath the bold caress of the sun so her nipples stood and she let out a throaty sigh.
Around her, the streets were empty, and the houses were empty with windows like empty staring eyes. Only one other home still breathed, only one lawn kept its thick wet green, with an old cress-green Mercedes glossy with love and car wax sitting in the driveway. It was Pete and Ethel’s house, but Ethel was dead and Pete was old with a dog that limped.
The other houses stood in rows but they were empty like snail shells hollowed by the scorching sun. Inside, there was only silence.
Laura stood where she stood every morning, watching Pete’s sprinkler snick and shudder, stubbornly fighting back the native southern Californian desert. She’d watched as the first houses emptied, cheap particleboard furniture thrown bitterly with the dark-wood heirloom bureau inside the dented truck, rented by the day. ‘For Sale’ signs had gone up like dandelions in the lawns, and for months the signs creaked in the morning breeze until their shiny red letters faded beneath the bleaching sun and the grass and the dandelions died beneath them. No new people moved in.
Friday, January 09, 2009
The University Experience
(Jin Started It)
The squeaks and rumbles of the beaten yellow mop bucket whispered echoes down the long empty hallway as Ronald moved, foot by foot, along the tiled floor. Were it daytime, he knew the soft taps of the wooden handle and the muffled clatter of an old industrial mop would have drowned in the constant murmuring chatter of a thousand students, pens on paper, rustling restlessly to escape to the open air. Ronald preferred to work in the chilled silence of darkness, alone but for his tools and his echoes.
Had he really been mopping the university halls for four years? Ever since his money had run out. He grimaced and wondered what he’d be doing at that moment if he’d been able to finish his education. Building bridges, probably--they’d been his passion since he started losing baby teeth, and he had a good head for practical math. As a child, he’d built a bailey bridge out of popsicle sticks and super glue that supported two hundred times its own weight. But that didn’t matter. Only Pine-Sol and the thousands of square feet of university tile mattered. He spat a bitter curse that resounded through the hall like an angry dog’s bark. His parents were too wealthy--by far too wealthy--for him to qualify for financial aid or reasonable loans. Of course there were dubious companies willing to lend him the tens of thousands necessary to complete three more years of schooling, but they were nearly as exorbitant as mafia loan sharks, and probably as dangerous.
His parents. A snarl nestled itself in his throat and his mop slapped violently from wall to wall and slopped murky water from the old yellow bucket. Ronald’s father’s father had made his millions by cornering the rye market in 1930, three years before the passage of the 21st amendment and the repeal of prohibition. Although rye whiskey never regained its former popularity, it still maintained a lucrative portion of the liquor market, and old Ronald Parish II had an iron grip on its main ingredient.
Ronald’s mother’s father had invented the urinal cake.
Both parents were spoiled trust fund kids, grown old enough to have children and a farce of a family. Ronald was convinced that his conception was either an accident, or the result of a whim, like buying a puppy. His childhood was one of opulent neglect. He’d never wanted for a thing, and his allowance as an adolescent was close to a teacher’s salary, but that was all he got from his family. Many new parents say that having a child is completely life changing. Parents begin living for their children. That was never true for Ronald.
By the time he reached college age, he was bitterly aware of his lot in life, and ached for independence. He would be an engineer, and design bridges. But mother wanted a doctor, and father wanted a lawyer. Both wanted a well trained pet, obedient and delightful. He’d told them as much. They said he was shouting. Ronald didn’t remember shouting, but he did remember the way his father said "We’re setting you free," when what he really meant was "We’re cutting you off." Ronald remembered slamming the door.
He coughed a pungent curse down the corridor, and his malice resonated like a cello in a concert hall. The echo that returned was fearful and distorted. It didn’t even sound like his voice.
It wasn’t until a distant door slammed that Ronald realized that it might not be his voice. He propped the mop against the wall and walked toward the sound, stepping lightly, head cocked, listening. Finding the proper door based on hallway echoes would not be easy.
Another cry, this one filled with pain and panic--he was going the right way, but knew by the sound that he wasn’t close. He began to trot as quickly as he could without filling the building with the sound of his own steps. None of the rooms before him were lit. Maybe... The offices! Ronald ran. More than once, he’d considered ambushing a professor in his own office, but never seriously. By the sound of it, tonight someone was very serious.
Ronald fumbled for his cell phone, knowing that the steel and concrete structure rendered this a useless gesture. He was right--no reception. No police. He was getting closer. He could hear a voice rumbling with anger, and a weeping, gurgling agony, and the sickening slap of violence upon flesh. No police. No help.
Maybe.
Without slowing his pace, he pulled the handle of a fire alarm, and it crunched downward and the glass broke like bone beneath the lever. The hallways squawked in outrage, a piercing horn that shook the eardrums. His run was a sprint; silence was no longer necessary or possible.
There! Light oozed from beneath the door that he knew would be locked. He tried anyway before fishing the master key from his pocket. He raked the lock tumblers into position and the barrel snicked in place, but the doorknob would not open. There was probably a chair propped against the handle, like in the movies. He pulled the handle upward--an obvious solution to a problem he’d never actually had to face. It turned only a few degrees in that direction, but the slight give was enough to encourage the panting custodian. With sudden violence, he threw all his weight upon the aluminum handle. On the other side, something popped and tore, and the door came open. Duct tape, it turned out, had held the handle against the door.
More duct tape held a man to his office chair. His broken face and torn lips had dribbled blood and slobber down the front of his periwinkle dress shirt. His head was slumped forward, and he didn’t move. The alarm fell silent.
"Oh my God," Ronald breathed. A cool breeze and the sound of sirens clattered through the blinds of an open window.
The squeaks and rumbles of the beaten yellow mop bucket whispered echoes down the long empty hallway as Ronald moved, foot by foot, along the tiled floor. Were it daytime, he knew the soft taps of the wooden handle and the muffled clatter of an old industrial mop would have drowned in the constant murmuring chatter of a thousand students, pens on paper, rustling restlessly to escape to the open air. Ronald preferred to work in the chilled silence of darkness, alone but for his tools and his echoes.
Had he really been mopping the university halls for four years? Ever since his money had run out. He grimaced and wondered what he’d be doing at that moment if he’d been able to finish his education. Building bridges, probably--they’d been his passion since he started losing baby teeth, and he had a good head for practical math. As a child, he’d built a bailey bridge out of popsicle sticks and super glue that supported two hundred times its own weight. But that didn’t matter. Only Pine-Sol and the thousands of square feet of university tile mattered. He spat a bitter curse that resounded through the hall like an angry dog’s bark. His parents were too wealthy--by far too wealthy--for him to qualify for financial aid or reasonable loans. Of course there were dubious companies willing to lend him the tens of thousands necessary to complete three more years of schooling, but they were nearly as exorbitant as mafia loan sharks, and probably as dangerous.
His parents. A snarl nestled itself in his throat and his mop slapped violently from wall to wall and slopped murky water from the old yellow bucket. Ronald’s father’s father had made his millions by cornering the rye market in 1930, three years before the passage of the 21st amendment and the repeal of prohibition. Although rye whiskey never regained its former popularity, it still maintained a lucrative portion of the liquor market, and old Ronald Parish II had an iron grip on its main ingredient.
Ronald’s mother’s father had invented the urinal cake.
Both parents were spoiled trust fund kids, grown old enough to have children and a farce of a family. Ronald was convinced that his conception was either an accident, or the result of a whim, like buying a puppy. His childhood was one of opulent neglect. He’d never wanted for a thing, and his allowance as an adolescent was close to a teacher’s salary, but that was all he got from his family. Many new parents say that having a child is completely life changing. Parents begin living for their children. That was never true for Ronald.
By the time he reached college age, he was bitterly aware of his lot in life, and ached for independence. He would be an engineer, and design bridges. But mother wanted a doctor, and father wanted a lawyer. Both wanted a well trained pet, obedient and delightful. He’d told them as much. They said he was shouting. Ronald didn’t remember shouting, but he did remember the way his father said "We’re setting you free," when what he really meant was "We’re cutting you off." Ronald remembered slamming the door.
He coughed a pungent curse down the corridor, and his malice resonated like a cello in a concert hall. The echo that returned was fearful and distorted. It didn’t even sound like his voice.
It wasn’t until a distant door slammed that Ronald realized that it might not be his voice. He propped the mop against the wall and walked toward the sound, stepping lightly, head cocked, listening. Finding the proper door based on hallway echoes would not be easy.
Another cry, this one filled with pain and panic--he was going the right way, but knew by the sound that he wasn’t close. He began to trot as quickly as he could without filling the building with the sound of his own steps. None of the rooms before him were lit. Maybe... The offices! Ronald ran. More than once, he’d considered ambushing a professor in his own office, but never seriously. By the sound of it, tonight someone was very serious.
Ronald fumbled for his cell phone, knowing that the steel and concrete structure rendered this a useless gesture. He was right--no reception. No police. He was getting closer. He could hear a voice rumbling with anger, and a weeping, gurgling agony, and the sickening slap of violence upon flesh. No police. No help.
Maybe.
Without slowing his pace, he pulled the handle of a fire alarm, and it crunched downward and the glass broke like bone beneath the lever. The hallways squawked in outrage, a piercing horn that shook the eardrums. His run was a sprint; silence was no longer necessary or possible.
There! Light oozed from beneath the door that he knew would be locked. He tried anyway before fishing the master key from his pocket. He raked the lock tumblers into position and the barrel snicked in place, but the doorknob would not open. There was probably a chair propped against the handle, like in the movies. He pulled the handle upward--an obvious solution to a problem he’d never actually had to face. It turned only a few degrees in that direction, but the slight give was enough to encourage the panting custodian. With sudden violence, he threw all his weight upon the aluminum handle. On the other side, something popped and tore, and the door came open. Duct tape, it turned out, had held the handle against the door.
More duct tape held a man to his office chair. His broken face and torn lips had dribbled blood and slobber down the front of his periwinkle dress shirt. His head was slumped forward, and he didn’t move. The alarm fell silent.
"Oh my God," Ronald breathed. A cool breeze and the sound of sirens clattered through the blinds of an open window.
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