Day Three

This one took a little more time! School, friends, you know how it is. Enjoy!


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He dreams.

Years ago, James awoke. He still lived in a dirty little slot that smelled of piss and blood and smoke, still had to pull rat feces out of his hair every morning, still kissed the small photograph of his sister he carried with him. Watching the sergeant move from sleeping form to sleeping form, he readied his rifle, carefully attaching the bayonet to the tip, and checked his gear, then joined the mass of men lining themselves up for the stand to. Every morning they did this, readied themselves and their weapons for killing, and waited. Today James was jostled into a knee high pool of water, which quickly soaked through his clothes and boots. Their trench ran through the remains of a forest, the ground now covered in splinters and uneven planks. When James first arrived here, some of the woods remained, and from where he stood he would have been able to see copses, clumps of tenacious life. But now there was nothing, an endless field of twisted stumps. From where he stood, he could see how men had come to these and marked them, knives etching the names of lovers or wives, curses against the enemy, exultations for the homeland, little symbols of faith and superstition, remembrances for the dead.
The rising sun alighted, like a bird, on the end of his bayonet, and then, in a magic moment, he realized it was in fact a bird, scaled feet curled around the sharp tip, the sun a thing on its back, it’s wings folded at its sides. He unconsciously angled his arms, compensating for the greater weight. It moved its head in quick bobs, its neck like a snake. James wondered where it had come from. The trees were all felled, the ground was a churning wound; there was no place to nest, to rest. It seemed so natural there, pecking at the metal it stood on, testing it, it seemed. James quietly pressed this image into his mind, standing there in the dawn over the shattered husk of earth, watching this live thing live before him. He froze it, carefully pushed into the back of his mind, so as not to exhaust its wonder, to keep it safe and unspoiled for he didn’t know what, for when he was blind, or faced with horror, or simply forgot the world in old age. He slid it slowly next to watching his baby sister try to catch the sun in water, her small fist always dipping deeply into the stream which caused the light to break into so many small pieces, until she learned to cup her hands underneath and pull upwards, a small pool in her folded palms, the light quivering upon it. And she showed it to him and then drank it, and said “The light is inside me, the sun is inside.”
And, the moment properly stored, James shook his rifle gently, and softly cooed, wanting to drive the bird away before any of the men around him made sight of it and caught it, roasted it, consumed it. It clutched tightly for a few moments, alarmed, and then, resigned, unfolded itself and spiraled away, back over the trenches, disappearing into the sky. He hoped it would be safe.
There was no raid at dawn, from either side, and James unfastened his bayonet with particular care.
The men then set about killing their most oppressive foe: time. The soldiers filtered themselves out, some assigned to manning the front, some to cleaning, some to maintaining the trenches. Unbusy men met together to talk, or smoke. Some men sit alone, reading letters sent to them, or prepare correspondences of their own, read books, try to sleep, simply stare at the sky. Some souls formed black hand gangs, readying themselves to go over the edge, for reasons only they or the generals knew. James gravitated into the periphery of a group of men loudly talking.
“It’s about the omens, gentlemen. The guts of the hare, the flight of the bird. But everything out here is dead. How are we to go on? The earth is an exploded thing, a beast so engorged with metal and hate that it has burst. There are no signs, no symbols. Inauspicious, is the term. We exist here, naked and alone, on inauspicious ground, making our own way into blackness.”
“I saw a bird.” The words are pulled from James’ throat. “This morning.”
“Alive?” The man asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name, man?”
“James.”
“Well then, James. Come sit by me for our next card game. Perhaps the bird’s luck still holds power over you.”
James went and sat, and the other introduced himself as David Kitchner.
“Irish?” He asked.
“British.” James answered. “Ulster.”
The other man nodded. “Well, British. Do you know how to play?”
James described himself as a quick study and the others began. James sat and watched everyone, able to see David’s hand, the faces of the royals, the suits on the corners. David won the hand, collecting some money and cigarettes. James was ushered into the game, while the other men laughed nervously about the good luck he had brought David. The cards were dealt again and James collected his own handful. A bottle was passed around. James studied his cards. Both suicide kings were in his hand. Suddenly, James felt a fist of fear squeeze in his heart. He thought of omens, of the bird that had visited him. As he laid his coins on the table, he felt as if small pieces of his life fell from his fingers and onto the betting pile. Something in the men. They were different. James watched the pile in the middle of them grow, and as it became plump with his life energies, the others grew greedier, lustful. They laughed loudly and clutched their cards tight. The cards in his own hand seemed like pitiful protection, poor, unfed soldiers. Desperation closed on him, held him in its jaws. He looked over his cards again, but he knew there was no way to win. He couldn’t bear to quit, throwing more and more of himself into the pile, until, drained, depleted, exhausted, he lay his cards down. It was David again who won, sweeping the pile to himself with a wide arm. The other men mumbled about “bird’s luck” and left the game, afraid of losing more. James sat with David alone.
“I guess the that’s it for today,” He said, standing. He paused, as if to contemplate the trench around him. “Thanks for the help, British. Do you smoke?” James nodded mutely. David pulled a handful of cylinders out from the pile.
“I can’t stand the things. Here.” James slowly pulled them out of his fist, one by one.
“It was nice meeting you. Take care. And come play cards anytime.” David made his way down the trench. James remained sitting, suddenly aware of the dampness of his seat. The churned landscape remained in front of him. The low rumble of artillery continued to sound. Harsh odors burned his nose. He felt as if a light had been switched back on. He felt as if he should follow the other as if he owed him… Something. James shook his head and lit one of the cigarettes. The smoke tasted like life to him.

The doctor is surprised to examine our shoulder. I may have overdone it: I tried to leave enough superficial damage that it might throw him off, but maybe my own vanity undid me. I like this body, this flesh, having all the muscles and tendons and veins working properly and beautifully, whole. And he says it’s amazing, the bullet must have just missed everything, amazing, but I don’t need further medical care and I am fit for duty. He is rubbing his head, fingers weaving in with his hair.
I am realizing that the mind is no camera, spitting out black and white landscapes, portraits. Memories are constellations of symbols, images, ideas, smells, concepts, grievances, secrets; the mind a clear night sky. I see this man, this doctor, and inside him are elements of those Peter has seen him heal, seen him save, just above his outline floats an aura of other lives. You should thank him. He did pull out that invasive, shattering bullet.
“Thank you.” The vocal cords do their work.
He looks at us strangely. He feels our shoulder again, taking it in both hands. The fingers kneading the flesh. It is painful. I communicate this with our face.
“Well, I can’t explain it,” he says, finally. “Some bullets are kinder than others, I suppose. Get out of here. I have real wounded to attend to.”
And for the first time, I am aware that yes, there are other people lying here, their bodies in various states of disrepair, damage. What must it be like, to suffer the disobedience of your own body? Commands ignored, desires irrelevant or destroyed. Such a complex mechanism, made up of thousands of interlocking parts. And not only elements of your own body! Inside this vessel, I am aware of so many stowaways, tiny tiny inside, doing so many things to keep the body moving, whole. It’s an amazing thing, isn’t it, to be a habitat. As squatters ourselves it’s strange to consider what we might be cohabitating with. Well, let’s mind the neighbors – the last thing we need to deal with is running the entire body ourselves.
The muscles have their own minds, have you noticed this? There is an innate tenseness in the limbs, always prepared to throw the body down, to hide and curl up in case the artillery gets close. The abdomen bends automatically, keeping the head always under the lip of the trench, afraid of a sniper’s bullet. Oh. That is a fear. The brain, dismantled, and us caught in the confines of its ravels. We will stay low then, and listen to the muscles. They have experience.

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