|
In the Year of Our Lord Have Mercy 1967
by Edward J. Santella
The smells were delicious. There was something
meat-fishy with peas and lots of salt, and a dark, rich liquid, hot,
and somehow both bitter and sweet.
The scent it recognized though, the scent it had
followed to find its prey, was blood. Not the prey’s blood, but the
scent of the blood of those the prey had killed.
It raised its hand and with a finger touched a leaf
that blocked its view. The hand and fingers were bones. No tendon, no
muscle, no flesh. No veins, arteries or capillaries. Merely bones
wrapped in shrunken, translucent skin. It wore feathers on its skull
and clavicles, a cloth around its middle.
It moved the leaf and saw.
Crawford felt the shakes coming on, rising from deep
places filled with an acrid fluid flowing and percolating inside him,
pulling at him with a gravity greater than the earth. Oceans lay inside
him. Lit with the tiniest flame, the fluid erupted like a volcano.
Whenever as much as a wave moved across its surface, the shakes claimed
him.
Hurriedly, he finished the can of rations and poured
one more cup of coffee, adding sugar, powdered creamer and whiskey. He
didn’t have time. The shakes struck sooner than expected. No time to
put the campfire out.
He’d walked the forest for days. When he was a kid,
his father had driven him along this road to the cabin by the lake,
moving at highway speeds. Each time a bump caused the wheels to lift
free of the ground, the two of them would yell out a whoop. His father
had died suddenly while Crawford was away in the war. The older man had
always kept the cabin well stocked with food and alcohol. He thought he
would be safe there. At least, everyone would be safe from him.
Crawford had been screwed up since the day he came
home from the war, long enough ago that his mom and girl had all but
given up on him. The VA shrink told him to pull himself together and
act like a man. Only the police thought they knew what to do with him.
Twenty minutes of the shakes left him exhausted and
asleep.
When he next opened his eyes, the sun had
disappeared and the fire flamed higher.
He rolled and crawled to his pack, opened a pill
bottle, tossed three in his mouth and poured a few gulps of whiskey
after them.
Only then did he recognize another sensation. He was
being watched.
He didn’t look for the watcher; he looked for his
rifle, found it and began a dash for it. He stopped. The most curious
figure stood a few feet from the gun.
“Jesus.” The fire burned between them. Crawford kept
blinking, hoping something was wrong with his vision. He saw a
short, emaciated skin-covered skeleton wearing feathers and carrying a
bow. Even rubbing his eyes with a fist didn’t make the thing disappear.
“What the hell? You a zombie or something?”
It answered, its voice thin and wheezy. “I am
the Baykok. I have killed more warriors than any warrior in the world.
I am immortal. I am here to kill you.”
Crawford thought this terribly funny and sad.
“Really? You should check the more recent record books. You an Indian?”
“Chippawa.”
“How’d you get to be the Baykok?”
“I was the greatest of warriors. My people wanted to
kill me. They captured me, but before they cut my throat, the medicine
man said he would make me immortal if I would kill all the warriors
returning home from war. I agreed. I am the Baykok.”
Crawford thought he couldn’t have heard right. He
told the Baykok to repeat what he’d said. It did.
“Jesus. I thought the VA was bad.”
“I will kill you now.” The Baykok reached back, as
if drawing an arrow. It pulled back the bow string.
“Wait a sec. You forgot your arrow.”
“It is invisible.”
“You’re going to kill me with an invisible arrow?”
“It is poisoned. It will make you sleep.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had trouble sleeping. What do you
do while I’m asleep?”
“I eat your liver.”
Crawford smiled a bit, then a bit more, then began
laughing.
“You die because you have no liver.”
“Look, a real warrior would have to fight me. Bring
me my gun.”
“I am immortal.”
“Right. But let me get one shot off so I feel I did
my part being a warrior.”
The Baykok bent, picked up the rifle, and hesitated.
“Come on.” Crawford was thinking hand-to-hand battle
with the short skeleton.
It walked slowly around the fire and stopped a few
feet from Crawford. It held out the rifle.
But Crawford’s mind had been working as the Baykok
approached. He’d discovered something important. He felt a sudden calm.
“I have to thank you.”
The Baykok continued to hold the gun for Crawford to
take. “Why?”
“Because your people couldn’t deal with warriors
returning from war any better than we do now. You showed me I’m not the
problem. It’s war. War fucks people up.”
The ocean inside turned to water. Crawford broke out
sobbing.
The Baykok shoved the rifle at him. “Stop crying.
Here, take this. Shoot at me, then I will kill you.
Crawford looked though his tears. He knocked the
weapon away and grabbed the Baykok. He hugged him, squeezed him, held
him like a baby.
The Baykok screamed. Crawford’s tears burned into
the Baykok’s skin and bones, setting them on fire. His tears kept
coming from the ocean inside him.
In the morning, Crawford buried the Baykok’s ashes.
He hummed a sad tune while he marked the grave with flowers from the
forest.
THE END
© 2014 Edward J. Santella
Bio: Mr. Santella
recently self-published an sf novel, The Gravity of Light, which is
available on Amazon. His webpage is
http://www.edwardjsantella.com/
In his own words, "I am semi-retired human who formerly worked as a
lawyer, now using most of my 'free' time writing. Camus said that
anyone wanting to be a philosopher should write fiction. I'd add that
sf & fantasy are the most appropriate types of fiction. "
E-mail: Edward J. Santella
Comment on this
story in the Aphelion
Forum
Return to Aphelion's
Index page.
Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum
Return to Aphelion's Index page.
|
