by James Bird
Generalissimo
In room 228, Michael lay quietly in the bed staring at the tiled ceiling, running his eyes along the silver strips between sections. There was a drip tube in his right arm just below the crook in his elbow. Cool oxygen flowed through a breathing tube. He became numb and very weak and somehow relieved. His father was gone, the Sheriff’s deputy and the doctor finished probing and prodding his mind and body and left. Finally, the nurse after making some adjustments returned to where ever nurses hover off in the background.
Michael was unaware of the time of day, or of the day for that matter and he did not care. He listened to the whir and clicks of little machines, and sensed the presence of another lying just beyond the drawn curtain. He did not care about that either. Shadows danced and flickered from the wall-mounted television. A slight wave of nausea swept through him. He was afraid to shut his eyes, those ghastly images those mangled cars, torn bodies. That he… He just could not bring himself to accept it. Finally, the contents of the drip tube did its work. Michael felt as though he was slowly sinking through a mud bog, his arms and legs gradually waving through the thick syrupy current. Each breath seemed to draw him deeper down, his body expanding as if it were being pumped full of air. His skin stretched tight and numb. The bed began shrinking. Deeper, darker, deadened until… Michael dreamt.
Michael was back at the field with the exotic dancing olive trees and thousands of working men. There were more now than before and Michael was among them. Banners and tent flaps rippling in the quick breeze. This time he was down in the field as one of the workers, raising a large-handled hammer high over his head bringing it down hard against the jagged white stone. His billowy pants speckled with bits of rock and sweat. There were new things Michael did not see when he was with Generalissimo the last time. In the dusty distance, he could make out a magnificent palace with golden spires jutting spectacularly up towards the sky framed by dark, cloud capped mountains off in the distance. There was a wide and thick river flowing heavily on the far side of the trees, its waters cold, dark and churning. Large ivory white crane-like birds strutted about with bright orange beaks and long graceful backward bent legs. Red Mullet jumped and swirled near the bank under overhanging branches. Young women were calling to the Red Mullet to caress and feed them. Women in flowing silk scarves, large almond eyes and wavy brown hair brought water to the singing workers.
The General was on the hill looking down at the army of holy place builders. He was looking at no one in particular, standing there, arms behind him and slowly surveying the action. He held a large rolled up paper in his clasped hands.
Michael tried to sing along with the others but it was foreign and he had trouble. At first, his rhythm was off as Michael was either too fast or too slow swinging his big hammer while trying to keep up with the others. The song was difficult so Michael hummed the melody occasionally singing a word he hoped was right. The large stones wobbled and shifted when Michael tried to break them. Many times, he would miss and his hammer would glance of the big stone and Michael would lose track of the music. Occasionally hit his foot or ankle but he did not cry out fearing he would be seen as week. He would have to stop and start over. His hands were becoming raw and began to bleed. He looked around and marveled at the ease in which the others would swing their hammers in perfect rhythm, each blow breaking the stone into smaller pieces. Their song flowing in strong clear voices as easily as talking to an old neighbor. The perfect choreography between hammer slingers, basket bears and wheelbarrow pushers. The tampers meting out the perfect beat. He could see that the workers were people from many different places and they all shouted their names and where they lived proudly, enthusiastically. Michael picked up his hammer; counted the beat to time his stoke, and tried again, and again his hammer skipped off the rock face and thumped on the ground.
The General looked down at Michael. “My friend.” His voice, monotone and steady, cutting through the din, seemed to zero straight in to Michael and no one else. His eyes, intense, black, drawing, lonely.
“Yes Generalissimo.” Michael, drawn into the General's intensity, unable to turn away, unable to blink, mesmerized by the hypnotic gaze, looked up against the sun.
“You must find the rhythm of the stone and learn the words of the song. Your thirst is great and your will is strong. You will learn, for you are no different than the others.”
“I will try Generalissimo.”
The General now unrolling the paper in front of him said without looking up, “Follow the others. They will teach you the song of freedom. Once you learn the song my friend, the stone will be soft and your hammer light and true.”
Michael lifted his hammer and began singing to the rhythm of the stone.
