Killer of Enemies

by Joseph Bruchac

  That is what my mother told me.

  But the spirits of those dogs who perished pursuing us didn’t give up. They entered the bodies of puppies born in those distant lands where we were held as captives for three generations. In Florida, in Alabama, in Oklahoma, our dogs returned to us, born again.

  And my family and I were never without dogs until we were forced to come here.

  I wipe my face with a towel, stand up and stretch. It’s quiet all around me, so early that no one else has yet risen. It’s so still that I feel half in that dream of my lost dog and half in this place. And that is not a good way to feel.

  Move your body, Lozen, I think.

  Sometimes the only thing that will get rid of dreams, clinging to me like spiderwebs across my mind, is to put my body into motion. I do fifty push-ups, then a hundred crunches. Fifty more push-ups, a hundred more crunches. Fifty. A hundred. Fifty. A hundred. I keep at it till my stomach and arm muscles are burning and the physical ache is beginning to make the deeper pain of that dream fade.

  TAH-TA-TAH THAT-TA-TAH THAT-TA-TAH!

  The morning horn. But with a difference. Not a good one. Three blasts on that trumpet means only one thing. Everyone is to go immediately to Main Yard. That usually means to view a Punishment.

  Someone is in big trouble.

  It doesn’t take long for everyone to be assembled in the Main Yard. Armed and arrayed in their four respective companies, the guards look down on us from the walls. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognize two of those wearing the red armbands. One of them, now glaring directly down at me, is Edwin. There’s a large bandage over the top of his head that covers half his face. If this were not such a grim occasion, I’d almost smile. The other man I recognizes is Big Boy. That means that at least two of those sent by Diablita Loca to eliminate me managed to get back here alive.

  On the raised platform near the northern wall, the chairs of the Ones have been placed. But they’re not there yet.

  Of course not. They always make us wait, nervously looking around to see who is here and try to figure out which of us is not here and thus the one who has been charged with some offense and about to be tried. This way we are reminded of the power they hold over us all. Plus they have the pleasure of manipulating our emotions that much longer. Four cats with hundreds of mice to bat around.

  The one thing they don’t do when we’re all brought together like this is keep us in separate little groups. We’re allowed to mill around—like sheep.

  I don’t know where my family is. But I see one familiar face. Guy’s. He’s so tall that he stands out in the crowd. Guy makes a quick sign with his hands and points with his lips and a small jerk of his chin to the right. Mom and Ana and Victor are over there. I slide through the crowd to reach them.

  Mom pulls me close to her. One of the white strands in her hair has fallen over her face. My mother’s hair was always as black as a raven’s wing until we were brought here.

  “Lozen,” she whispers in my ear. “I was afraid it was going to be you.”

  “No,” I whisper back. I reach out my hands to take the hands of Ana and Victor.

  “Lozen,” Victor says, his voice a fierce whisper. “if they did anything to you, I would kill them.”

  I look down into his face. For the first time I see Uncle Chatto in him, that look of one who would sacrifice his own life to keep his family safe.

  I shake my head at him as I squeeze his hand.

  “No,” I say softly, hoping that I’ve said that word in a way that lets him know how proud I am of him for his courage.

  Ana pulls on my other hand. “They’re coming.”

  The door has opened at the top of the steps that lead from the platform up to the entrance to the main corridor of Haven, the corridor of the thirteen doors. The Ones emerge and extend their hands towards the crowd, raise their hands just a little.

  We all know the signal. We all are supposed to applaud. The sound of nervous clapping echoes through the courtyard—even though I only pretend to do so, not bringing my palms together but just making a clapping motion. I’d rather have my hands around their supercilious necks.

  The Ones take their places. The Jester is at stage left, Diablita Loca beside him, Lady Time next, and the Dreamer furthest to the right. Their masks cover whatever expressions may be on their faces, but I have little doubt that all four of them are wearing a similar slightly bored smirk.

  They know themselves to be like the ancient gods of Olympus come down from their height to meddle in the affairs of us little mortal beings. But they also know they are not true immortals. Why else would each have four well-armed bodyguards placed behind them? Aside from fearing for their own safety, is there any real humanity left in any of them? When I look at the Ones who rule us, I feel as if I am just looking at beings as alien from the rest of us as if they came from another planet.

  I am sooooo tired of this charade. Why can’t they just leave these poor people alone?

  What? Those words that just needled their way into my head came from up on the platform. I can feel it.

  But what can I do, one against three.

  Those incongruous, unthinkable thoughts are coming from one of our rulers. The sadness and weariness in that unguarded thought are as startling to me as it would have been to have heard a praying mantis crooning a lullaby to a baby! And as I see him shaking his masked head, I know who it is.

  I don’t have time to consider what that might mean. Ana is tugging at my sleeve.

  “Lozen, look who it is.”

  No.

  But it is. The figure being shoved up the steps and pushed forward to stumble and then pause in front of the four who are judge and jury is Hussein.

  I’m hardly hearing what is being said by Templeton, the bailiff, who has stepped forward to stand, back half-turned to the crowd, as he presents the Accused to the Ones.

  Templeton is holding a short cane in his hand, sign of his office as bailiff. Like Guy, Templeton wears no colored armband to indicate his allegiance to any one of our rulers, but is dressed in a white tunic to indicate his supposed neutrality. Unlike most of us in Haven, he is well-fed enough to have a double chin. The thick black hair on his head should belong to a man half his age. It’s either a wig or an indication that in pre-Cloud days he’d been wealthy enough to have begun the bodily transformations that might have made him appear ageless. He is theirs, not ours. His voice sounds as if he has a mouth half full of oil.

  “. . . voicing sentiments meant to lead others into dissatisfaction,” Templeton is saying, waving his cane like conductors used to do with batons in the old days when there were orchestras.

  It’s all ceremony. Done to amuse the Ones and fool some of us into thinking there is some semblance of fairness in the enforcement of the rules that govern our little lives.

  Templeton turns to Hussein and pokes the cane at his chest. “What say you, sir?” His voice is full of contempt.

  Hussein straightens his shoulders. “I say that I am a gardener, sir. That is all. And sometimes I sing. My song was harmless. It was meant to please myself and . . . perhaps someone else.”

  Templeton chuckles and looks out to the crowd for approval. To our credit, the only ones who respond with laughter are the guards on the platform and on the wall. Most of the rest of us are just waiting with deadened senses for them to get on with it.

  Except for me. I am filled with such anger that I am afraid I am about to explode. It takes every ounce of self-control for me to stand still.

  Think of your family, Lozen. Think of them. Do you want them to be up there, too?

  I don’t want to see this. If I could leave, I would. But our attendance is just as strictly forced as this phony justice is enforced. Across the crowd Guy is trying to catch my eye. His hands make a small pushing motion.

  Stay back. Stay calm.

  I try to. But then Templeton moves on to the next part of the show. The act before the finale. The crowd becomes so silent I can hea
r my own breathing

  Templeton raises both hands theatrically and then addresses the crowd in his oily voice. “As all know, we are fair here in Haven. Every Accused has the right to call one person to speak on his behalf. Does the Accused have someone to speak on his behalf?”

  Just then, Hussein catches sight of me in the crowd.

  “Lozen,” he says in a soft voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Punishment

  LOZEN!” Templeton immediately shouts. “Ascend the stage!” Hussein’s mouth is open. He’s saying something but no one can hear him with all the commotion that began when my name was spoken.

  “No,” Hussein is saying. “No, no. I just saw her in the crowd. I did not mean to call her.”

  Too late.

  I can’t feel my legs as I walk forward and climb the steep stairs up to the platform. The Jester is still leaning back in a bored posture in his chair, but the other three have leaned forward. This morning has taken an interesting turn for them.

  As I move to take my place in front of the Ones, a spot indicated by a dramatic wave of Templeton’s pudgy left hand, I have to pass by Hussein. He’s shaking his head, wanting to apologize.

  I’m the one who should apologize. I already know that there is nothing I can say that will make a difference. Even if I was used to talking, what words from me could possibly spare Hussein from some awful, inevitable fate?

  Krensaw, the bald, long-armed man who is the Dispenser of Justice, has already climbed up onto the stage. He is wearing his heavy leather apron, standing near the front by the cutting table that has just been brought out by his two assistants. A heavy glistening knife is being placed on top of that table as another assistant carries out a charcoal burner in which a poker is being heated.

  “Thank you,” Hussein says to me in a quiet voice.

  Templeton steps forward and shoves his cane between us. “The Accused,” he says, “will now remain silent.”

  And so will I, most likely.

  What can I say?

  How can I say it?

  And which direction should I face right now?

  I look down from the platform. Everyone is looking at me. I know all of their faces, but right now all of those faces are a blur of different shades of brown, like the petals of a giant flower. I can’t make out any individuals, not even my family. Standing in front of this crowd of people, my legs feel weaker than when I have found myself confronted by creatures eager to tear me apart and eat me.

  Then it comes to me.

  Of course. Never have your back turned toward a monster. Four monsters to be exact. Forget about Templeton. Forget about the crowd.

  I turn to face the Ones.

  If you don’t have anything to say, don’t say anything at all. I’ve learned that from my mother, perhaps a little too well. Because now there has to be something I can say. Not that it will likely do any good. The Ones already have their minds made up and they are just playing now, playing with us all as they always do.

  But do they have their minds made up? If only I could hear people’s thoughts when I want to hear them. Not just now and then for no apparent reason. I’ve never sought other people’s thoughts before, but maybe if I concentrate . . .

  And then I feel that familiar stab in the middle of my forehead and hear in my head that same surprisingly sympathetic thought-voice I heard earlier.

  I’d be glad enough to spare the boy, if my little monster slayer here could just give me something to work with and not just stand there with her mouth open.

  I close my mouth. And as I do so I hear something else. It’s a sound that everyone else is hearing right now.

  Snick, snick, snick.

  I don’t have to look to know what that metallic rasping is coming from my left toward the front of the stage. Krensaw is sharpening the blade of his heavy knife.

  There is hope. But I have to speak. Now. I take a quick breath.

  “Sirs and madams,” I say, a little louder than I intended.

  But that’s a start. Those are the words a mere mortal is supposed to speak when addressing our rulers in public.

  I take another breath. “Thank you for allowing me to speak on behalf of the Accused.”

  The Jester raises a hand to his chin. The Dreamer actually leans forward toward me.

  Interesting! he thinks.

  That’s good. The Dreamer’s thought, and the Jester’s languid gesture tell me that I’ve caught their attentions. Lady Time and Diablita Loca, though, appear unmoved.

  My throat feels dry, as if saying another word will make me start coughing. I press my tongue against my teeth, forcing the saliva to flow. Swallow, breathe in through my nose.

  If I had my .357 right now I could end this so quickly. Four quick shots before anyone else could move.

  Oops. My eyes just narrowed when that murderous thought went through my mind. Diablita Loca, the One who is my worst enemy, has seen my facial expression change. She shifts in her seat and curls her hands into fists. I blink, as if that was what I was doing all along. I compose my face. She’s so close that can feel her aura, her lust for destruction, and it sickens me. I don’t want to hear her thoughts right now. They’d be so poisonous it might be hard for me to continue.

  No expression, Lozen. Look blank.

  I try to shut out everything from my mind aside from thinking about what to say and how to say it.

  Then the Dreamer’s unguarded thoughts touch me again.

  Is she too stupid to say anything in defense of her singer? Can’t she just say it was nothing but a song?

  A singer. Just a singer. That’s it.

  “I think,” I say, “Hussein sang because he’s a singer. He’s like a bird that sings a song, like the bird in his song. That’s all. A bird is just a bird, isn’t it? And a song about a bird is just that, right?”

  All four of them are looking straight at me now. Was what I said stupid enough to make sense? Or will they guess that my simple words were meant to be deep?

  The Dreamer leans far forward in my direction. I can see his one remaining eye glinting through the hole in his mask. It looks . . . what? Pleased? Amused? He lifts his hand theatrically and then puts one finger in front of his mouth.

  Thinking about what I said? Or is he telling me to quit while I am ahead?

  But I’m done. I don’t have it in me to say more than two final words.

  “Thank you.”

  Templeton steps forward and taps me hard on the shoulder with his cane. Not a wise thing to do. I barely control my reflex actions—which would be to rip that stupid stick from his hand and stick it up his . . .

  “Leave the stage,” Templeton intones, not realizing just how close he just came to an unpleasant end.

  I leave the stage, walking down the stairs in that same shaky state I climbed up, feeling the unreality of it all. Mom reaches a hand out and pulls me to her. I accept her hug, feeling drained. Ana and Victor have grabbed my hands.

  I don’t want to see what happens now. But I still turn to face the stage. I bite my lip as I realize that the place we’ve found ourselves in is right below Krensaw and his table. The strong smell of the burning charcoal and the hot metal of the poker make me crinkle up my nose and feel nauseous.

  What have I just done? What did I say? Have I helped at all or just made things worse for Hussein? He’s looking at me, but I can’t meet his eyes.

  “And nowwwww,” Templeton says, his voice like a drum roll, “our benevolent Ones will offer their verdicts.” He flourishes his cane and bows toward the seated four.

  The Jester is first. Without turning his head toward the crowd, he slowly extends his right hand, curls it into a fist and then draws it back. Neither thumbs up nor thumbs down. Complete neutrality. Let the others decide.

  Lady Time now. She languidly holds out her open left hand, palm down, curls back her four fingers and then ever so slowly twists her wrist so that her thumb points down. Guilty.

  The Dreamer leans
forward, his elbows on his knees. He links his hands together, presses them against his chin. Then he turns to look down in my direction, the hint of a smile visible on his lips, and floats out his right hand with a magician’s flourish. Thumbs up. Not guilty.

  There’s an audible gasp from the audience. Abstaining from a vote is one thing, but one of the Ones deliberately going against a vote already given by one of the other four is something that just never happens.

  Not that it will make that much difference. Without hesitation, Diablita Loca has raised her left hand high above her head and stabbed it downward, like an ancient bullfighter driving a sword into the neck of a bull. Thumbs way down. Guilty!

  Two to one with one abstention. But what does it mean?

  The Dreamer rises gracefully to his feet. He opens his arms, turns to his three confreres and extends his open left palm to them as he places his other hand over his heart.

  “May I,” he says, “decide the forfeit?”

  The Jester nods, as does Lady Time. Diablita Loca is seething in her chair. She’s so angry over what is happening that you could probably boil water by sticking her hand in the pot. But a show of actual discord right now is probably not something that she wants. Grudgingly, she nods.

  The Dreamer smiles and strolls over to Templeton. He leans close and says something that only the bailiff can hear. That’s not just because he’s whispering. It’s also because of the murmur susurrating through the crowd like a breeze through a pine forest.

  The bailiff raises his eyebrows and looks nervously over at the other three. They all nod back at him, even Diablita Loca, whose jaw is clenched so tightly that I wonder if she is cracking a tooth. Whatever the Dreamer has decided has their agreement, if not approval.