Pieces.

(Perhaps from a Puzzle.)

(Part One)

by Michael Owen Reeve

 

I

 

 

 

The intermingling grasses of the veldt dance in the warm breeze as if enthralled in celebration, back lit by the waning light of an afternoon sun.  Today is special.  After a long draught, the thirst is finally quenched with the blood of a dove.  A lone crow ruthlessly picks at the dying dove's carcass. It stands on the dove's broken wing, pinning it down with its crude, reptilian feet. The crow openly rejoices at the dove's misery, savoring the hot blood and the tinge of death together as any other connoisseur would enjoy wine and fine perfume. The smart crow had arrived to the carnage first and it had even beaten the flies that normally invaded such a prize. The crow swallows a succulent morsel, smiling in its own way to the dove's shrieks of pain. "You shouldn't have been so impetuous," cajoles the crow. "Thought you could soar with eagles, did you? Apparently old Thoragil didn't agree, eh?"

 

     The dove, caught in its death throes, convulses and chirps insane curses at the crow, blood welling from its other, severed wing. The crow obligingly steps aside, croaking in its hideous language, "Fly, stupid Dove. Fly away. To your worms and play that you so love."

 

 

     The dove stands on its rickety feet and makes a last, feeble attempt to regain flight.  Blood sprays from the stump of its missing left wing.  At last, the dove chirps once more and dies of exhaustion and its wounds. Its beak plunges into the dirt and snaps. The crow saunters over to the little bird's lifeless vessel, cawing in its crow-laughter as it pecks out an eye and swallows it whole.

 

II

 

 

In an abbey in the far east of the charted world, before all maps had been drawn, there lived a small contingent of monks. These were old men who had no other place to live. They were not the sort of men who would be welcome and easily wore out their welcome not very long after they had first arrived in a new place. Now, if you will listen, I believe you can hear these unwelcome monks returning home.

 

 

“Scourges upon scourges.” The other four continue walking, then look back to see that the fifth of their company had slipped in the mud and fallen to his back. He was a very tall and heavy man dressed in what had been a gaudy costume of expensive clothing. He carried no weapon upon his person, but possessed such strength that had he wanted to, he could kill a man (or even a bear) with his barehands alone.

 

His four comrades stared at him and suffled their feet, waiting to see if he’d ask for assistance. It wasn’t wise to offer unsolicited help to this fellow. He was a proud, insufferable man. “Tinli, would you mind?” he asked, holding his hand up.

 

Tinli, the smallest of the four cautiously walked back to where the large man lay upon the floor. He said not a word.

 

“Would you mind holding the bottle?” asked the large man. Tinli took the bottle and stepped back a pace. The large man stood and brushed himself off. He checked himself quickly for bruises and satisfied that he had taken a little tumble without sustaining much harm to his person, snatched the bottle back. There was only the slightest bit of liquid left in it, but he had carried it for a thousand miles. Perhaps the first dozen of those miles it had been full.

 

Tinli lowered his eyes to his feet as if he’d been caught stealing the bottle. The large man snatched at his wrist, turned the palm upward, and dropped a coin into it, then closed the hand. Tinli put the tip into his pocket and made sure to wait until the large man was no longer looking before rubbing his wrist.

 

“Well, I do hope that the gods weap. Now look at me, Tirskon Varg, once a good monk and then a merchant, and now an intinerant beggar. Look where I have been placed. Look at the misfortune that is upon me.”

“Varg, if I knew who could be blamed for your being with us, I would promise that person would die a horrible and excruciatingly painful death. At mine own hands,” commented a slight figure wearing a black robe. This one was covered in a curly, matted hair and had a medium-length beard.

 

“Now, it is doubly amusing to hear a rich man speak of the gods and to have a sister speak of murder,” commented an elderly man wearing a white cloak. He smiled for a few minutes, but then decided it prudent to stop smiling since no one else seemed to find his joke amusing. “Forgive me Varg. I hadn’t meant to contradict your claims of poverty.” A hiss came from the black-robed thing. “Forgive me also for the transgression. Did not mean to imply you weren’t a brother.”

 

“Uloin, this is probably one of the few moments in all the time that we have been acquainted with each other that I feel I would regret killing you,” Varg growled. “Any man who the witch despises must be useful.” The witch in question ignores this last comment.

 

“A wonderful time for firsts,” agreed Uloin. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Varg nodded gravely at him.

 

“To what shall I bless with my final swallow?” asked Varg, holding the bottle up by the neck. “Well, besides the chance of finding another bottle?”

 

“That would be a wish,” commented the fourth person who had been quiet this whole time until now. This one was covered in a curly, matted hair and had a medium-length beard.

 

“It would be so easy to forget that you were a woman, Manke. It wouldn’t take much effort in fact.”

 

“Insulting me is the simple part, Tirsk. Backing up those words, however. Well, you might find yourself in for quite a lot more effort than you usually would put into anything else. Do not bless me with your poison. Do not curse me without either.”

 

Uloin stood between them, raised his hands, then thought better of touching either person. So he lowered them back down to his sides. “Have any of us put any thought into the meaning of our strange predicament? What is it that the amulets we wear signify? Or why it is we carry such odd objects?”

 

“It is the burden of Habakkuk,” put in the last member of the party to speak. His was the heaviest pack among the group and he also wore a harness on his shoulders and dragged a cart full of wares as well. Tinli took up the rear and endeavoured to push on the rear of the cart but not to help for he was too hard small to lend much assistance. Yet he felt safer having something between himself and the others.

 

“Do shut up, Yosef,” interrupted Tirsk. “You are hardly Habook-material.” He drank the last few drops from his bottle and then tossed it negligently behind his back. The others ducked their heads to prevent being hit by and it and it flew completely over Tinli’s head and shattered at his heels. He didn’t complain, though.

 

Uloin took his hat from his head and worried it between his hands for a moment. Many times he regretted being the peace-keeper in the group. “I don’t feel he means himself. I think he had meant the amulets we wear are said burden.”

 

Manke scoffed. “We don’t even know who this fellow is. Surely if we did, we could return the burden of them to him. I for one am tired of speaking in tongues. People don’t like being accused of showing off their ‘iniquity’ and ‘perverseness.’ Not very good way to start a pleasant conversation among people you hadn’t met before.”

 

“Aye. And nearly everyone is put off by us saying ‘destruction and violence and strife and contention are riseth up before me.’” Tinli piped up. Then he scratched his chin for a moment. “Aren’t those all the related to the same thing? The strife & contention are basically ways of describing a fight and the other two are the usual results of such rows.”

 

“You’re quite right, Tinli,” Uloin raised his head to smile, but lowered it again when Tirsk growled at him. “Sadly we’ve been accused of starting those arguements. ‘Hey, you’re lying! Nobody was fighting anyone until you showed up. So the strife starts AFTER you arrive and not before.”

 

Manke laughed. Tirsk growled at her, too. “Sorry, this beard keeps tickling my nose.” Tirsk grunted his disbelief. Well, lucky for us, sometimes they’ll look outside their gates to the next town over and decide to blame them instead of us.”

 

“Oh, how long shall I cry, and thou wilt not hear? I cry out unto thee of violence, and thou wilt not save,” put in Yosef. Manke glanced at him. “Metaphorically speaking.” Manke raised her eyebrow. “I wasn’t saying you were crying, dear.”  

 

“Don’t wonder marvellously if I will not believe everything you told me.” Manke smiled sardonically.

 

“I’m not sure if we are or are not justice.” Tinli bumped his knee on the cart, leaned down to rub it with his hands, then bumped his head on the cart as he leaned. He cursed.

 

Uloin: “What do you mean?”

 

“Perhaps ‘the law is slacked,’ yet we couldn’t be because ‘justice doth never go forth.’ That can’t be true of us because we’re always traveling. Yet if we are righteous, then wickedness surely does compass all about us. But then again, if we are justice, I don’t like the idea of us going forth ‘pererted’ because that seems to mean we’re tainted by the evil around us and our goodness is diluted.”

 

“Right you are. And, really what nation isn’t ‘bitter and hasty’? Each and everyone is just raring to ‘march through’ and... devour the bread of the world? I’m not sure about that part, but certainly they wish to ‘to possess dwelling-places that are not theirs.’”

 

Manke scoffed again. “All you men are alike. You all set your faces forward, are ‘terrible and dreadful.’ Even though you kid yourselves into believing your ‘dignity proceeeds’ from being ‘more fierce than the evening wolves,’ you forget that you once were toothless babes who wouldn’t survive without the love of your mothers to defend you from the brutality of the world.

“Sure you men find your pride in your swords which you won’t let the women carry; if she isn’t allowed to carry a sword, then he would never have to suffer the blow to his dignity of finding out that she might actually be better at swordsmanship than he, should she be given the chance to do so. Sure, speak of your swords. But without a woman’s womb or breasts, those are useless as you yourselves are.” 

 

“Speak for yourself. You bloody women need us men, too,” groused Tirsk.

 

“Um, maybe she meant both were needed and niether one is more important?” Tirsk and Manke both gave angry looks at Tinli for saying this. “Perhaps not.”

 

“Besides, what fool would collect sand as he journeyed in the desert? I don’t mean to say having it accumulate on your person, but to have actually to put some in your sack on purpose as you travel so you’ll have more sand than the other travelers who would come before or after you. Why would you be collecting sand in the desert? Because likely someone would tell you it could be made into diamonds or gold. Who’d believe such a thing and do such a thing? A man.”

 

Tirsk roared. “Come off it, woman! Now don’t you start telling us that that is how the dunes are formed! I will not hear such foolishness!”

 

III

 

          An old man came wandering into a small village that resided along a river. Bent with exhaustion, he finally lay down to rest. The people whispered in astonishment at seeing him because he was deathly pale and stank of death. Fearful that he be a beggar with a curse of bad luck about him, they kept shunned him for one entire day. Finally, a young woman came near enough to drop a bowl of water & a small loaf of bread at his side before running back into her home. Her father threw her from his home and she was stoned. The old man had not stirred to drink or to eat.

 

By the middle of the second day, the people believed he had died. It was then decided that a small contingent of guards should be sent to recover the body and drag it off into the wilderness. As the men lays hands on his ankle to a rope attached to a horse, the old man stirred. Yelping, the guards ran back a dozen paces and huddled together to discuss a new plan of action. One of their number, the youngest & lowest ranking of them, was sent to speak to the old man and ask what he wanted.

 

Young: “Old man, who are you and where have you come from to bring evil to our home?”

 

Old:  “I am a son of David & a King of Jerusalem,” the old man replied.

 

Young: “I have not heard of either man or place you mention. As for yourself, you look like no king I have heard of.”

 

Old: “Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.” The old man laughed weakly. “No one remembers the past nor will there be anyone in the future to remember.”

 

Young: “It is said that ‘there is no new thing under the sun.’ Men will work and prosper or they will not work and perish. As it has always been.”

 

Old: “And thus what has been is that which shall be. That which has been done is that which shall be done among those that come after.”

 

Young: “Such is the way of the world.”

 

Old: “It is not the world’s way. Men must make up their own ways.”

 

Young: “Tell me, what you have done besides be a beggar who brings ill news to those you burden with your presence?”

 

Old:  “I am a king of a land you have not heard. It is the old story: I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me.” 

 

Young: “I assure you we have little use for vanity for her, but I must insist you wash and  make yourself clean. You look & smell of evil.  Leave and keep your filth about you or stay and wash.”

 

Old: “What is it you do besides wash here?”

 

Young: “Each man works as needed by the community. Yet we have no work for one so old as you. Truthfully, we are disappointed you hadn’t just died.”

 

 

Old:  “I applied my heart to seek and to search out wisdom concerning all that is done under heaven, I have gotten me great wisdom above all that were before me in Jerusalem.”

 

Young: “Again, I know not of this Jerusalem. I swear to my ears your words are ones of madness. You say you applied your heart and let your body grow weak.”

 

Old: “So my search to know wisdom, is madness and folly to you?”

 

Young: “You are only conjurer of lies and deceits. You stand here telling me stories even as other men struggle beneath the son to do honest work in earnest.”

 

Old: “What profit hath man if the only purpose for his life is to labor under the sun?”

 

Young: “You see? That is why your children have cast you out. It is you who have betrayed them by not aiding in their works and making a burden of yourself.”

 

Old: “All is vanity. You build your castles with sand and then the wind blows them away, so you are always striving to build again with sand before the wind destroys your efforts again. To beat it, you must build with stone.”

 

IV

 

 

          The two men nodded to each other and stood, bowing, as they accepted congratulations from the gathered audience. They shook hands and the older man lost interest in what the younger man was saying to him as he managed to catch the eye of a young woman smiling at him.

 

She wasn't her. This girl was older than the one he'd known before. She was taller, fuller in the breast, rounder in the hip. Amy had only twelve or fourteen, a girl just growing into her body. This other one was a woman already, nineteen or twenty summers had she known, and her smile was of such cheerfulness that he doubted she had ever seen a single winter in all her years. The first girl was older and taller than he, but this other, while her arms and legs seemed quite long and supple, her waist slender, and her breasts quite large, he actually seemed the older and taller one. But how could he be? Last he remembered he himself had been ten or eleven and he should be twelve or thirteen at most; not the man of twenty or twenty-one he now seemed to be. How could that be?

 

He might of lost track of a year or two in his journies (three at most), but not six or eight. That was unfathomable. And… there was the matter of his beard and hair to contend with. And his eyes. While his hair as youngster had always been white, it was now a darker color. In fact, it seemed more than content with changing its hue from red to brown to blond to dark gray seemingly of its own will. It never once was white as it should and certainly never black. Thinking this, he brought his left hand up and scratched thoughtfully at the beard that now grew there.

 

His beard seemed to be content with a color somewhat between blond or brown. His hair being longer and having grown a beard were somewhat surprising, even if he couldn’t make up their minds which color they wanted to be. But what really got to him was how poorly his eyesight had gotten. To such a degree that he now wore a pair of spectacles like his grandfather wore when he was a child.

 

          The younger man glanced to see where the older fellow was looking, then bade farewell as he suddenly thought of somewhere else he had to be. Now that he was alone, she stepped within the circle where the plays were performed each afternoon. “That was quite wonderful, grandfather,” she commented.

 

          The old fellow frowned. “I’m not much older than twenty, if you must know. My name is ‘Thesus,’ not grandfather.” She smiled indulginly. “Might I ask your name?”

 

          “Amber,” she breathed. She seemed to be glowing with pride but whether from having such a name or because he’d been kind enough to wish to know it he cannot be certain.

 

          “We are well-met, Amber,” Thesus says, holding his hand forward to be shaken.

 

          “We certainly are,” she replies. She bows at the waist, clasps his hand in both of hers, and maneuvers it to grasp her breast. He gasps and takes his hand away from her. She cringes, embarassed for her forwardness, and clasps her hands above her stomach. Her head hangs shamefully as she stands erect. “My apologies, Lord.” She takes a deep breath, then slowly exhales it.

 

          “No harm has been done. I had forgotten that hand-shaking is all but unheard of in this region.” He patted the top of her head and she raised her eyes to his, smiling.

 

          “Oh, my Lord.” She laughs fetichingly. “Such welcomes are for the men to practice amongst themselves. Women and children smile to each other. As for a man greeting a woman? She allows him to place his hands wherever he wishes to.”

 

          He says nothing to this. She smiles at his silence and he joins her in laughter.

 

 

V

 

As she walked home later that night, a stern young man emerged and began walking beside her. “Who are you to speak to such an unseemly personage such as he?” It is the young man from the play.

 

“I am your sister,” she remarked lightly. “As if you should forget. Tis a fact you often remind me so. Is he unseemly because he is an actor, then?”

 

“You are a young woman and he is nearly the age of your own grand-sire,” her brother’s words were chilled as if from a frost. “As if you hadn’t been aware.”

 

“With that tone, you sound as if you had seen more winters than he. He may look aged, but he speaks more gaily than thee.” She stopped for a moment to look at him closely. When he stopped as well, she resumed walking. He reached out and grabbed her arm in his hand, pulling her around to face him again. He stared piercingly into her eyes.

 

He then let her go. “You don’t love him? You don’t hate me for hectoring you?” She shrugs. “Sister, sister, sister! Must you always be so uncooperative? You’ll never have much presence as an actress if you don’t learn to be more emotive.” He shook his head, sighing.

 

“I find him amusing, tis all. His lechery towards me is really quite welcoming.” 

 

“Amusing in this one particulair incidence?” He looks at her, completely flabbergasted. “Forgive my surprise, but you aren’t usually flattered...”

 

“He asked me my name,” she says as if the implication was obvious. “He didn’t attempt to have his way with me the moment he saw me. Most men focus solely upon using me to satisfy their own urges and consider introductions to be a hinderance. I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to have a man on top of me and not knowing the man’s name...”

 

“I certainly would rather not here you describe such a thing in detail!”

 

“... knowing that he doesn’t even know my name,” she continues as if he hadn’t interrupted. “Knowing that he identifies me to his friends with such unflattering nicknames.”

 

“But you don’t know the names of such men, either, now do you?”

 

“I do. The women tell each other the names of the men we are with. We collectively know all the names of the men and watch what each man’s tastes are so we may warn each other.”

 

“And you believe this man to be different because he told you his name and he wanted to know yours?”

 

She stops and glares at him defiantly. “I don’t know your name, brother.”

 

Chastened, he lowers his head. “Okay, I concede your point. You aren’t actually my sister.” Sighs. “Forgive a eunuch for being unaware of how such games between men and women are played.”

 

“Oh, don’t be so sad now, you wonderful lad,” she holds his hand consolingly.

 

“If you hadn’t said ‘now,’ the cuplet would have been perfect,” he smiles half-heartedly.

 

“We don’t have to perfect, sweets,” she pats the back of the hand she’s holding. “We just have to breathe and accept that we are not as terribly imperfect as the others.”

 

“I wonder,” he asks. “Now should we exchange names?”

 

“It wouldn’t be fair because you haven’t got one of your own.”

 

“Oh, that is correct.”