Every Boy Should Have a Man (9 page)

They faced off behind the food wagon, everyone in attendance anticipating a great battle. But Yellow Fellow was too slow, too sluggish that day; she fearless and quick. In a flurry of noise and dust, it was over.

To all watching, the battle was hard fought and hard won, though brief. To the boss’s thinking it could have been harder and longer, but he happily collected his winnings from the gamblers who had wagered on the wrong side. With a wide grin, he relieved Yellow Fellow’s oaf of his burden of coin.

Then, since his pockets were heavy with silver, he extended the respite between periods of labor and demanded of the musical man a song. Yellow Fellow arose and cleared his throat. Red Man got with her whispering stones and her coal rocks of differing size to join him as companion in music.

And Yellow Fellow was a great singer of word songs.

He sang the Word Song of Elber-So-Wadle and the Village of Mans.

And the bard did sing:

In days of old, Elber-So-Wadle was betrayed and banished into the wilderness by the treacherous Ti-So-Wadle.

In the wilderness, the great lord Elber-So-Wadle did wander forty days without food and finally did collapse on the ground.

On the ground did he collapse.

He awoke in a bed too short for his legs.

When up-he-got to investigate, his head he-did-bump on a ceiling too low.

He bumped his head on a ceiling too low.

The room was furnished so small he thought he had been made to rest in the room of a child.

Then down-he-bent so as not his head-to-bump upon entering the grand room of the house.

He saw therein a couch, two chairs, and a hearth, again befitting a small child.

Elber-So-Wadle scratched his head in wonder.

“Perhaps I am still dreaming,” to himself said he.

“Still dreaming am I perhaps,” he said.

Then down-he-bent and out-he-went and found himself in surroundings familiar:

Trees, bush, farmyard, barn;

Hoss, bovin, chicken, little chickees.

But the farmer, his wife, and their children were all mans!

Farmer, wife, children were mans!

The great warrior Elber-So-Wadle did near faint at the sight.

The man man farmer said to him, “Ti-So-Wadle has betrayed you and wishes you dead;

“But this is your rescue from the great creator who knows that you are just and good;

“And you shall lead his people in right-eous-ness.

“In righteousness shall you lead them.”

“But who are you?” the great Elber-So-Wadle asked.

“I am Zack, the man man farmer, and this is the Vill-age of Mans.”

“Welcome, great lord Elber-So-Wadle, to the Vill-age of Mans!”

“The Vill-age of Mans welcomes you!”

And here the bard did end his song.

The applause was great from both oaf and man. In admiration, the female man touched the man man’s cheek lightly. Then the companions in music, Yellow Fellow and Red Man, bowed and said their final goodbyes.

When the bell tolled the end of respite, all went back to the mines and resumed their labor.

* * *

At the end of day when they bore him away, she followed as far as they would allow. From the basket where he awaited his fate,Yellow Fellow saw her and the boss heard him say: “I thank you.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For the gift of song.”

“Oh, that.” She looked around first, searching for those who might overhear. Then she whispered, “And I thank you for my victory, sweet one.”

Just as I thought
, said the boss, who had often observed their sneaking off together.

He ordered her to leave, and she tightened her face to hold back the tears and she left.

Now we shall see
, the boss said.

When they were finished with him, the boss hid some scraps of man flesh in the flesh of a bovin, and bid her come eat. She preferred, as did most mans who were not feral, a diet of vegetables and grain. In the mines, however, mans were made to eat whatever was put before them, despite their stomach’s revulsion to it.

She took a bite of what she believed was a slice of bovin, but her stomach reacted to it with a different type of revulsion. She said to the boss: “It does not taste the same as it did before.”

He burst into laughter. The female man lifted her eyes from her bowl and spied atop the table of the oafs, the well-cooked arms and legs of her great opponent. Her stomach heaved and surrendered all that was in it.

The boss and his companions around the table shook with laughter at the new champion chucking up the flesh of the old.

The boss was first among poets and he led them in song: “Great lord Red Man, oh mighty Red Man.”

The others chanted, “Wel-come to the Village of the Oafs! The Vill-age of Oafs welcomes you!”

* * *

And the bard did sing: “Out here in this blackness, this loneliness, this place of barrenness, horror, and stone, the bitter tears of Red Man began to flow.”

Someone touched her shoulder. It was her companion in music, Yellow Fellow!

They embraced, and the boss heard the man man say: “It was a joke they played on you, sweet one. Wipe your tears away. Oh, but I’m glad to be alive.”

“You’re glad to be alive?” The female man did not wipe her tears away, but continued to weep.

The boss came to her and petted her head. “Red Man, Red Man, why do you weep? It was only done in fun.”

She winced at his touch and he pulled his hand away, fearing her teeth which were bared.

“He is just glad to be alive,” she said, pointing sadly to the table, “but there is still a well-cooked man on your plate. Why can Yellow Fellow not understand this? How can he be so selfish?”

Her tears continued to flow.

“Out here in this blackness, this loneliness, this place of barrenness,
selfishness,
and stone, the bitter tears of Red Man continued to flow.”

And here the bard did end his song.

6

The Bridge

The sun still rested in its dark bed when the boss was awoken by a jangling as of much metal. He quickly opened his eyes, for he thought someone might be troubling his silver. At the entrance to his tent stood a wide oaf in a scarlet tunic of brass.

He announced, “Today, you shall not go to the mines, but to war.”

“Huh?”

The boss still had much sleep in his eyes. He wanted to roll over on his cot, but in the face of this visitor with the sword at his side there was only seriousness. The boss, accustomed to being the one who barked the orders, was reminded of his manners.

“What am I to do?” he implored with all due politeness.

“Gather your oafs
and
your mans,” the soldier said, and then he explained to him what and why.

Afterward the boss ran into the tent of his red-haired female man and shook her awake. She looked around. “It is still dark.”

“Early-morning darkness is the best time for war, it seems.”

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What is war?”

“War is like a battle in the fight yard, a battle with all of your companions against all of the other’s companions, but with blades that chop and much more blood.”

She nodded as though she had understanding. “And we chop them in order to gain collective victory. I have heard many oafs talk of this war thing,” she said. “But don’t people fall in war?”

“Yes. Yes,” he said, and he thought,
Oh great creator! but she is a clever little man.

He continued: “And if your companion is to fall, then you are to chop whoever did fell him. In other words, if I am to fall, you must set upon whoever felled me, you understand?”

She said, “Oh, so now I am your companion?”

“Yes!” he insisted. “Are we not companions?”

She hesitated. “I guess.”

The memory of the trick played on her with Yellow Fellow was still fresh in her mind. The look on her face asked a question.

“What is it, little man?”

“When you fall, what am I to do then?”

He corrected, “
If
I fall, and hopefully that will not happen, but if it does . . . well, I guess you are to join with other mans whose oafs have fallen and set upon whoever it is that is setting upon them.”

She frowned. “All this setting upon and setting upon, what does it really mean?”

He bumbled through poetic, grandiloquent, rambling answers that he could see from her expression she found less than convincing, but as he talked the confusion on her face disappeared and a kind of respectful boredom settled in.

Obediently, she went into each tent of mans, roused them, and they all came out, whereupon they lined up in order to be told what the oafs required of them so early in the morning.

Was the food wagon again to be delayed? Were they all to be eaten? What a grand meal that would be, for every tent had been emptied and every man assembled.

And is that snow on the ground? But it is not even the season. Wait! That’s not snow, though it shines as white. It is the gleam of blades reflecting the light of the moon, blades so unlike the dull gray tools used in the mines. Blades for labor, no doubt. But labor of what kind?

And just what is this thing called
war
that Red Man told us about when she roused us from our needful slumber?

They waited quietly as they had been trained by the cudgel and the lash to do.

* * *

“War,” said the wide oaf in the jangling tunic, “is where you’re going today, because the army said why not use talking mans as soldiers? Why not use them to fill the gaps where soldiers who are dead used to be? They can take orders. They can hold a sword.”

That made sense to the boss, and he nudged his female man, who was standing at his elbow. “Isn’t that true?”

“Yes. We can certainly take orders,” she said.

It took a few minutes of blows to the head and kicks to the gut, but the wide oaf finally taught them to stand at attention. Other oafs passed through the columns of mans and draped over each small body a tunic of brass, which clattered and tinkled musically when the man moved about in it. There was wonder in the eyes of the mans as they looked at the symbol on the breastplate.

The boss draped a tunic over his female man, and she said, “What is this black star?”

The boss silenced her with a finger. “Shhh. Listen to him.”

“That,” the wide oaf announced to all, “is your standard. Your standard is how you know what side you’re on. In war, you can’t go in there and chop just
anybody
. The goal of war is to go in there and chop anybody not wearing your standard. Now look at that standard. Anybody not wearing that standard, you chop him, and be he oaf or be he man, you chop him good.”

Each man looked at the standard. It was a black eight-pointed star on a scarlet background.

The boss looked down at his female man, and she said, “I like the part about chopping oafs, boss. Don’t you?”

He smiled back uncertainly. The usual weariness in her eyes was replaced by a twinkle that could be taken for playfulness, or malice. He could not decide which.

Another oaf said to the wide one, “It’s time.”

The wide oaf commanded, “Hurry now! Grab a sword as you pass. Chop anybody not wearing your standard. The enemy is poor, he is savage, and he is polluting the earth with his foul presence. They want what we’ve got, and we’re not going to give it to them, and that’s why we must win this war. Nobody wants to live in a world where the poor don’t know their place. All praise be to the great leader! Now bow your heads!”

The oafs bowed their heads.

“Oh great creator, protect us as we do your will. And if we fall in battle, remember us evermore in your kingdom to come!”

“Verily in your name!” the others said as one.

“Verily in your name!” the wide oaf said. “Now move out! Fight for freedom! Fight for your side!”

The boss was first among poets, and he whispered to his female man: “A slayer of the innocent and the merciful of heart, is war. Stay close to me and you shall live. Ah, war. When this is over, there are more battles to be won in the fight yard. There is more silver to be taken from the careless and the unwary.”

Then the mighty host of mans and oafs hoisted the standard of the black eight-pointed star and lumbered off to war, their scarlet tunics of brass singing.

And the female man came to know what war was, if war was shivering in the cold dark morning as she followed the standard for two hours up a steep mountain trail.

If war was metal projectiles pinging and popping all around her like angry applause.

If war was fire sprouting like bright red flowers too hot for fingers to pick.

They came to a broad, wooden bridge and made it halfway across. Over the noise of battle, there rose the pounding of drums, the pealing of trumpets, and a battle cry like a great screeching fowl, as tunics of black swarmed down the mountain. The enemy!

War had become bursting shells, foul smells, and bodies pressing against bodies, each side thrusting with sword and bullying with battle axe to establish a position of dominance on the bridge. The bodies were packed in tight and were heavy. The bridge, weighted to its limit, swayed. They pressed against each other, metal clanging against metal, each side pushing forward with javelin, battle hammer, pick-stick, and bludgeon to drive the other back or knock the other off the bridge.

As the bridge swayed, the female man’s side was pushed back and back and back. She struggled to hold her position as well as keep her balance. The strain was too much. Twisted slantwise, she was still falling. She would tumble into the murky water. And her side was still being pushed back. Back.

Just as she felt herself going over the edge, her feet met solid ground again. But it was muddy ground, and slippery. She swung her blade and lost her footing. The blade was whacked from her hand. She reached down to retrieve it and could not believe her eyes. Where was the earth? Where was the earth? The fertile earth had been turned to crimson mud.