by James Bird
The Rhythm of the Stone
That night, Michael dreamt of a foreign field, vast and dusty, lined by exotic trees dancing in shimmering heat waves. Tens of thousands of shirtless brown men toiling on a rocky field with trenches and mounds like a massive archeological dig. They wore baggy flowing pants, thick white headbands, their sweaty skin gleaming under the high intense sun in a cloudless sky. Many were slinging large-handled hammers, breaking harsh jagged white stones. Many still were pushing over-burdened wheelbarrows or hauling stones in double baskets with sticks bending to the break point over their shoulders. Large teams of men pulled huge rollers to flatten the lumpy oatmeal colored ground. A smaller group was spreading sand and pounding with heavy tamps to make crude single-lane roads for carts and wheelbarrows. The scene looked as if it were a medieval battlefield with the many silk banners rippling in a constant breeze and a smattering of wide stripped tents black and white. These tents provided food, water, and shelter. A patchy cloud of gray-yellow dust rose steadily upwards and away. Michael stood on a hill, transfixed, looking down on the busy field. He connected to the urgent work on the rocks. The men were singing while they swung their hammers. Next to him stood a high-ranking officer who resembled Genghis Khan in modern military garb. He stood tall and erect, looking out over the filed. Michael recognized the man but he could not remember from where.
“Generalissimo,” Michael asks, “what do the men sing?”
In a low pedantic voice the man said, “The workers sing of freedom, of making large stones into smaller stones, of building a great and holy place, of honest work in their beautiful country. The men sing of making love to their wives, and of cool wine to drink. They sing of a giant bird that will come to free them from the tortures of their enemy. They sing of truly free men, who own nothing at all, who owe to no man. The men sing of conquest over evil and the holy places. Is this not what all men should sing my friend?” The man who resembled Genghis Khan said this without turning to face Michael.
Michael looked down, he had something in his hand, a rolled up map, a rifle, he could not make it out because it changed from one to another. He wanted to give it to the man who looked like Genghis Khan. Michael seemed to be struggling against a force, a strong wind or someone pulling against his shirt. The sand began to sink under his booted feet. Then suddenly a cloud eclipsed the sun, the air chilled and the breeze ceased. All the tens of thousands of singing men stopped and stood straight up and in unison turned, facing Michael. Their faces blank. A small flock of back birds flew against the darkened sky. The General slapped himself to attention, right-faced sharply on his heels toward Michael, starring straight through him, as if he were not there. Michael struggled with the object in his hands.
Michael awoke with a start, confused, disoriented from the foggy images; sweat perspired around his neck and chest. He showered, dressed, and on the way out, for the hundredth time in a month, saluted himself in the hallway mirror. He picked up Little T at his house. The boys drove to the Recruitment office in Denver, signed all the papers and took the pledge. They would ship out in a few months to Paris Island, South Carolina. Days ticked by, the familiar became cherished and above contempt.
