The Savage Boy

36



THEY WORKED IN the small bay. They were tall and brown skinned like the Chinese of Auburn.

The day had turned cold and gray.

For a long time the Boy stood with Horse, watching them from the dusty road. In time they became aware of him and began to gesture to one another regarding him. Still, they continued to work with their long rakes, sweeping beneath the cold dark water of the bay. Out in the deep water beyond, whitecaps were beginning to form.

I thought I might find the Army here, Sergeant.

His voice had gone now. It had left him in the fog of the bridge over the marsh.

No, it was before that. It was when he saw the open graves and the bones within.

Maybe the knowledge of what happened to I Corps finally killed you, Sergeant. Killed you in a way death could not. Killed the mission you left me to finish.

In time they came in from the water, rolling down their pant legs and donning leather-skinned long jackets trimmed with sheep’s wool. A man, older than most, but not the oldest he’d seen, waded out through the tall grass to the road and climbed the embankment to where the Boy sat atop Horse.

Standing in front of the Boy, he said something in Chinese.

He repeated it.

The Boy shook his head.

The man was weathered like the sides of their clapboard shacks.

The Weathered Man stared off toward the bay for a long time. His face was tight and brown, his cheeks red like apples. He watched the dry brown and gray shacks of their farm.

He is wondering what to do with me, thought the Boy.

The Weathered Man turned and walked down the embankment, and as an afterthought waved his hand at the Boy, as if he should come along with him.

There was a fire pit outside a long weathered barn that reached out into the gray waters of the bay. The rakes were stacked neatly against the side of the old building.

The Weathered Man drove a stake into the ground for Horse and returned shortly with hay. He laid it down in front of Horse and reached up to caress the long nose, muttering softly in Chinese once more.

He pointed toward a worn long table near the water’s edge and the fire for the Boy to sit at.

A giant blackened grill was placed over the fire and then piles of green wet seaweed atop the grill. Salty, white smoke rose up in billows. The rest of the people worked at cleaning small, flat stones they’d brought in wide baskets up from the waters of the bay.

Rough clay plates and cups were set out. There was fresh hot bread and a stone crock of creamy butter, another of red sauce, and another of a pungent dark liquid that smelled of fish and salt.

The wind rose up off the bay in breezy gusts. The Boy’s left side was stiff, and he massaged what he could to work life back into the thin muscles of that side.

More of the Chinese appeared, coming from inland, setting down rakes and hoes to go down to the bay and wash their hands in the stinging cold water.

More round loaves of crusty bread were set out, as the flat stones that had been brought up from the bay went onto the grill.

They eat stones? thought the Boy, who had seen many different people eat many strange things.

The Weathered Man watched the fire dully, his eyes far away as he stood over the grill with a short rake, moving the stones about.

Shortly, the stones came off the grill and were thrown onto the long flat table. More stones were laid upon the grill and the Chinese sat down, each grabbing at a stone and prying off a hidden lid. Then they raised their stones to their mouths and slurped. They threw the stones into a basket and each of them reached for the next stone, this time adding either the red sauce or the dark liquid smelling of fish and salt, or even the creamy butter, and in some cases a bit of one or the other, and for a few, all three.

The Weathered Man sat down on the bench next to the Boy and looked at him and then the stones. The Weathered Man took one, cracked the lid and slurped, watching the Boy.

The Boy reached out and took one. He peeled back the lid with difficulty, as his withered hand was required to hold the stone. Inside he found the oyster, gray and steaming, swimming in liquid. He ate it, feeling it slide into his mouth and then explode in warm saltiness as he chewed its meat. He looked into the shell where the oyster had once been and found a pearl-colored base swirling white and gray.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his short and very hard life.

They ate more oysters and bread. A few talked. The Boy tried the red sauce. It burned slowly and made him sweat at even the few drops he’d added to the oyster using a knife-shaped tool kept in the stone crock.

It’s too hot, he thought of the sauce.

Afterward, as the heat faded, he liked the taste it left in his mouth. It reminded him of the wild peppers they’d found in the South along the salty marshes of the State of Louisiana.

He tried the dark liquid. It had a salty, deep, satisfying flavor that was almost overripe. But when combined with the yellow butter and the heat of the cooked oyster, it was like eating a good cut of meat taken from a fresh kill, tender and young.

Of their talk he understood nothing. In time, the looks that had been cast his way ceased, as if they had assigned him a place in their world—as if he had always been there and would remain there.

The last batch of oysters was laid out and finished with almost the same zeal as the first.

Two women wearing gray clothes and bright headscarves, their faces tanned and apple cheeked, struggled together with a flat-iron-gray tub brought out from one of the clapboard shacks. The Boy heard a sound like the tinkling of bells, light and musical, as though whatever things were in the tub tapped back and forth against each other.

The tub was set down and the rest of the Chinese gathered around it, taking up bottles of every shape and size and twisting off the caps that sealed them. The bottles made a small popping hiss. They drank from the bottles, few the same color: some green, some brown, a few blues or almost clear. In the clear ones the Boy could see a pale yellow liquid, foaming near the top.

The bottles were from Before, but they had been filled with something from Now.

Later he would think of that sentence.

Especially the part about something from now.

As if there had ever been such a thing.

The villagers drank in long pulls, then expelled a breathy “Ahhh.” There was much burping.

The Weathered Man, weathered like the clapboard shacks of the village, returned to the table, said something seemingly final in Chinese and handed a green bottle to the Boy.

The Boy took the bottle. He looked inside and could only see a few bubbles. He looked at the cap, which seemed pressed as if stamped onto the bottle. He looked at the Weathered Man.

The Weathered Man took the bottle and with a twist brought the cap off and handed it back to the Boy as foam rose out its top. The Weathered Man drank from his bottle, watching the Boy, telling him with his eyes that the Boy should do the same.

The Boy closed his eyes and drank. Foam and suds raced up into his nose. But the drink was cold, ice cold. It tasted of the fields.

When he opened his eyes the Weathered Man was smiling at him, as if saying “See,” and then, “What do you think?” all at once.

A warm flush rose up in the Boy.

And he was not so cold.

And he was not so alone.

“Pee gee oh,” said the Weathered Man, holding the bottle up.

“Pee gee oh,” said the Boy, and drank again. The Weathered Man smiled and drank.

They each considered the bay, watching the whitecaps roll and disappear across its waters. There was still daylight now as winter faded and spring appeared.

The days were growing again, thought the Boy.

He drank and looked at the little village by the bay. It was a collection of weathered clapboard buildings and steep roofs, growing out of the tall green grass among the curvy stunted trees whose limbs gathered in bunches like hats. All around him the Chinese talked seriously or laughed or whispered. Some played games with rectangles of stone.

He thought of their apple cheeks, bright red from the cold water and the wind.

He thought of their oysters hidden each day beneath the waters.

They were kind.

They were a village of kind people.

If he could mark things on the map he would spell this as The Village of Kind People Who Will Give You Food.

And Pee-Gee-Oh.

Whatever that was.

It was good.

He took the last drink from the bottle, feeling warm and fuzzy. He considered the hills to the east, on the other side of the bay, the lands there broken and bent, mired in destruction and overrun by the swollen rivers he’d crossed.

He thought of MacRaven and Dunn and all the tribes.

Those people, those Chinese, were like these.

And now they were dead.

He went to his saddlebag and took out his sack of charcoal. He looked around.

I need a place to draw. But the charcoal won’t show on the sides of their shacks.

He found a patch of concrete back toward the road. Weeds and grass grew up through the broken spaces.

He made a small fire.

He drew the courthouse first.

He saw the Chinese watching him from afar, standing around their tables, enjoying the last of their Pee Gee Oh.

He drew the dome of the courthouse, sketching the part of the dome that had been sheared off by the giant crossbow bolt.

He could hear the singing twang as it launched.

He drew the streets as he remembered them, mainly the intersection where he’d seen the bodies riddled with arrows.

He heard the villagers muttering over him as he worked on all fours drawing the fire and the smoke and the carnage.

He heard them and forgot them all at once.

He drew the ramparts, the pine logs burning like the breath of evil monsters, as the tribes, feathered and in war paint, crawled over the spiked tops. He drew Escondido firing into something unseen.

He drew smoke.

He drew falling arrows.

He drew fire.

He drew the woman lying in the street, staring at the sky.

He could not draw the crying of the baby or all the other screams he seemed to remember now.

He stood back.

He could feel the weight of the Chinese watching him. He could hear their breath escaping through their open mouths.

Someone dropped a bottle and it exploded with a crash.

No one said a word.

There was one more thing.

He stooped to the drawing once more. His side was not stiff. He didn’t feel anything here by the bay. He was there at the outpost, on that golden morning just after dawn.

The smell of burning pine.

The screams and bullets and smoke appearing in the windows of the old courthouse.

He was on the median of grass astride the great highway.

MacRaven told him: “I’ll conquer the world.”

MacRaven, his wolf’s face smiling like a child’s, his eyes shining. MacRaven, in armor, staring out at the Chinese.

The Boy stood, letting the last of the charcoal fall from his numb fingers.

And someone began to cry.