The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “You don’t mean that you’ll go through with all the ghastly obligations?”

  “Hal, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not considering my own desires. Slaf-Carch is a great man among his fellow men. He’s wealthy, he’s honest, he’s respected for what he is. His slaves are proud to have him for a master. And in this civilization every female slave who comes into womanhood is proud to bear children for her master.”

  “Betty!” The hard gasp that escaped my lips caused the ragged creatures who were sharing our cave to stir uneasily. They had been so quiet, after shaking off their soaked outer garments and settling down, that I had forgotten them.

  “S-s-sh!” said Betty. “You’ll wake our chaperons.”

  “But what you were saying, Betty—it’s outlandish. I can’t believe that a swell girl like you—”

  “I am Slaf-Carch’s property.” Again her voice was low, impassionate. “I’ve gone through weeks of mental torture to bring myself to that realization. But I’ve come to a decision—the only decision possible in these times. You mustn’t shatter it, Hal. I am subject to the Babylonian property laws. Within a few days, when Slaf-Carch calls for me, I will come.”

  “All right,” I said finally, and my words came forth bitterly. “We understand each other.”

  “I know you’ll hate me, Hal, because you haven’t begun to live in these times.”

  “I’d take a train for home this minute if I could,” I said.

  “Without any farewells, no doubt.” Betty rose to go.

  “One question, Betty.” I must have stood challengingly in her path, for her starlit eyes searched me curiously.

  “If Jipfur buys you, as I’m sure he means to do—”

  “Hal! Don’t say it!”

  “Jipfur is handsome,” I said icily. “He’s hot-tempered and he’s masterful. Personally I think he’s conceited, and I know he’s a coward. But that’s beside the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “That there’ll be more than slave customs and economic arrangements involved when Jipfur buys you.”

  Betty’s face turned away from me. She looked anxiously at the gray streak spreading across the horizon, at the velvet shadows across the broad black river.

  “If he buys me, I may obey—or I may come to this river—”

  She gave a little sigh, then tried to fling her troubled thoughts away with a toss of her braided tresses. She led the way out of the cave, dropping some comical remarks about our chaperons, the tattered rascals who lay in a snoring heap not twenty feet from where we had been sitting.

  Curiously there were three of them now, the third one being the huge deformed member of the Serpent Trio, looking no less repulsive than a week before.

  “That third fellow must have been here already,” said Betty, “only it was so dark when we entered the cave we couldn’t see him.”

  “I hope he was asleep, considering all we’ve been saying,” I said. “Or have we been talking any Babylonian?”

  “Mostly English, I think,” said

  Betty.

  We took off our sandals to wade through the mud holes along the lane. Betty was a carefree child again, chasing along beside me, laughing with glee as the mud squashed up through her toes.

  But I was weighed down with the heaviest mood of a lifetime. The torment that Betty had fought through was now mine to fight.

  Daylight was fast approaching by the time we reached the crossroads. Each of us would have to hurry to get back undiscovered. But I had to have my final say, and it wasn’t an easy job.

  “Thanks for all you’ve told me, Betty,” I said. “There’s not much I can do. But I know how you feel about Jipfur, so count on me. I’m fighting on your side, and I’ll give my right arm rather than let Slaf-Carch sell you.”

  “Hal—”

  Whatever she meant to say evidently couldn’t be said in words, for she looked up at me with serious trusting eyes, caught my shoulders with her hands, kissed me.

  For a long moment we kissed. Then we parted.

  CHAPTER IV

  At high noon two days later a parade formed in the scanty shade of the park that surrounded Jipfur’s palace.

  Kish and I were near the front of the parade, resplendent in our fancy gold and green uniforms, riding the backs of a handsome team hitched to the first chariot.

  We were merely ornaments, of course, dressed to match the gold and green harness of the horses. But we i had a right to feel important, nevertheless, because our chariot was occupied by Jipfur’s haughty sister and her two ladies-in-waiting.

  But Kish didn’t feel important. He wouldn’t have shared Jipfur’s artificial self-glorification if he’d been dressed in pure gold. He was cynical about pomp and ceremony anyway, and doubly so when instigated by Jipfur.

  “It smells like rotten figs to me,” Kish kept whispering to me on the sly. “Why should he put on all this public show for a man he tries to cheat in private?”

  Jipfur led the parade, needless to say. We lumbered into action, following him straight through the heart of the city.

  I must admit that Jipfur had the appearance of a man born to ride at the head of a parade. The pose of his somewhat pudgy head, the bearing of his slightly stocky shoulders, the proud lift of his arms as he held the reins of his horse, gave him an aspect of supreme grandeur fully as convincing as his magnificent regalia.

  His costume was a mixture of the ceremonial uniform of a devout patesi and the gleaming armor of a warrior. He wore the priest’s tall cone-shaped cap, specially ornamented with a band of carved gold. This band blended effectively with his tawny forehead, bestowing a golden quality upon his handsome thick-set face.

  “The bull moose!” I chuckled to myself. Two locks of black hair spiralled out from under his conical cap like a mountain goat’s horns. If Betty had been here I would have pointed them out as antlers.

  The crowds closed in around us as we entered the market streets. Here and there a pompous merchant shouted at a lackey to fetch his chariot or his riding horse so that he could join the procession. All manner of men joined us, from bankers to vagabonds. Before we came within sight of the king’s palace, street crowds and paraders were all rolled into the same snowball. The rumor that there would be feasting at the end of the march did nothing to lessen the parade’s popularity.

  Beyond the king’s palace Jipfur called a halt and made a speech. In the shadow of the great ziggurat he made another. And when we reached the city’s gates, by now a crowd of fully five thousand, Jipfur made the most eloquent speech of all. He appeared completely convinced of his own big-heartedness in instigating this celebration.

  “Our beloved Slaf-Carch will be the most surprised patesi in the valley when we pour in upon him to do him honors,” Jipfur shouted grandly, and the wobble of his tall cone-shaped cap kept pace with his gesturing arms. “But Slaf-Carch deserves our honors. He is a great man and a great patriot!”

  Everybody cheered, and the inevitable riff-raff made noises on all manner of cymbals and noise-beaters.

  “No one has missed Slaf-Carch more than I during his long absence. I do not refer to the fact that the care of all of his property burdened me with heavy responsibilities. I refer to that affection which every man holds for his fellow countrymen. I knew that Slaf-Carch was not dead. The gods told me so. That is why I sent out expedition after expedition to make forays among the nomads—with what result? At last, by the grace of Marduk, acting through me, his faithful servant, Slaf-Carch has been recovered.”

  Another pandemonium of noise and cheering.

  “And so, fellow men,” Jipfur concluded, “let us march on to Borbel and surprise our esteemed patesi and patriot by entering his palace singing his praises.”

  On we marched, and thousands of lusty throats among us gave out with thundering anthems whose weird and freakish melodies I took to denote abounding joy. Even the two aristocratic ladies-in-waiting who accompanied Jipfur’s sister must have been singing; the squeaking
chariot wheels couldn’t have made all the shrill sounds from that vicinity.

  Within two miles of Borbel a pair of messengers raced ahead to be sure the way was clear. They didn’t race back. As we entered Borbel and approached Slaf-Carch’s palace we still saw nothing of the messengers.

  There was a crowd of people milling among the glazed blue columns at the entrance. They must have seen us coming, but they didn’t come out to greet us.

  This was strange. We couldn’t understand it. Our hilarious spirits suffered a mysterious chill, we slackened our pace, then stopped. Jipfur commanded us to wait and he rode up to the palace entrance alone.

  For several minutes he seemed to be carrying on an earnest conversation with the group of peasants and slaves. Finally he rode back to us, and there was deep trouble in his face. He lifted his arms to silence the low murmur of voices, then addressed us in leaden tones.

  “Bow your heads. The gods be with us while I tell you the awful thing that has happened. This morning Slaf-Carch was missing. No one knew where he had gone. The palace was searched, but there was no sign that he had planned to depart.”

  Jipfur paused, mopped the perspiration from his golden forehead, took a deep breath, and continued.

  “But he has been found. Even as we were approaching this village, three of Slaf-Carch’s slaves, searching for him in the garden, came upon his body.

  Slaf-Carch has been cruelly murdered.”

  The groan that swept over the five thousand paraders was like an avalanche.

  Jipfur waited for silence, then added a few words of dismissal to the shocked holiday crowd. It was all anyone could have done under the circumstances.

  “If there is any further word concerning the cause of this ghastly deed, that word will be brought to you in Babylon. But as we all know, Slaf-Carch had no enemies. This very multitude testifies to the fact that all men paid him honor and respect. There is no more that any of you can do. Return to your homes, and when it is time for the burial rites we will gather at the Cave of Tombs. . .”

  Two days later I attended Slaf-Carch’s funeral.

  The parade of honor had been vast, but it was nothing compared to this gathering. Fully fifteen thousand people swarmed the rocky hillsides, and you could hear the low-whispered praises for the deceased all about you. Not the cheap and shoddy kind, like cheers and noise-makings of a mob stirred by a speech, but the deep-felt praises that have been earned by kindness and fair dealing.

  Kish and I stood at the service of Jipfur and his family of mourners during the ceremony. The afternoon shadows spread over us and we could see the thousands of faces gathered close around the mouth of the yellow rock cavern. I searched those faces until I spotted Betty.

  There were no signs of weeping in her strong face, but I saw that she could not bear to look at me.

  Many a patesi, including Jipfur, said words over the body. Jipfur’s egotism was somewhat tempered, for once; but I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were furtive as if casting about to gauge the dramatic effect of his stoutly uttered prayers and tributes.

  Everyone, of course, would remember the bruised and partially crushed face of Slaf-Carch. He had been stoned to death. That was all his dazed, shocked mourners knew; perhaps all they would ever know, I thought.

  After the body had been sealed in its prepared niche deep within the yellow rock cave, a signal from a patesi indicated that the ceremony was at an end. And yet for a moment the multitude waited, motionless, as if reluctant to break the spell of its own silent tribute to Slaf-Carch.

  Suddenly a voice sounded from the yellow rock cave.

  “My people, I have witnessed your grief for me on this day.”

  It was a rich, resonant baritone voice, ringing strong and clear, as if amplified by the cavern walls. It was the voice of Slaf-Carch.

  Kish’s fingers dug into my arm. He gasped.

  “What was that?”

  Everyone who heard the voice was asking the same thing. The mourners turned to each other aghast. There was no mistaking that voice.

  The throngs too far back to know what had happened began to crowd closer. What was the meaning of all this gasping, these frightened faces, this statue-like tension?

  Suddenly the voice came again.

  “My people, you have been outraged by the dastardly crime committed against me. Then let me say to you, the man who murdered me is among you.”

  My suspicions were blow-torching in Betty’s direction by this time. I glared at her. She didn’t see me. Like a few hundred others she appeared to be in a frenzy.

  Panic-stricken persons broke out of their nightmarish freezes and began scurrying away, glancing back through eyes of terror. But at this moment Betty caught the sleeve of a patesi, whispered something in his ear. He nodded eagerly, called three other men of importance into the huddle, swiftly convinced them of something.

  Immediately one of these men began to call to the turbulent crowd. “Listen to me!”

  He mounted a rock and succeeded in gesturing the restless horde to peace.

  “What we have heard was the voice of Slaf-Carch.”

  The people glanced to the cave and back to the speaker. No one thought of disagreeing.

  “Slaf-Carch is living on,” the speaker continued, “in a manner that we cannot understand. It’s the old legend—”

  There were rumblings of dissension. But once more the rich baritone voice vibrated through the walls of the yellow rock cave.

  “I have looked upon the river—many, many times. In my own way I shall continue to live among you. Go, now, and remember what I have said.”

  That was that. The speaker who had mounted the rock simply gestured toward the cave. Nothing more was needed. The people murmured with wonderment, telling each other that they had always believed that legend, but here, at last, was a living proof.

  At once they grew excited over the prospects of Slaf-Carch’s new existence. He had been murdered, but he was still living, in his own way—and he knew his murderer.

  The snap of fingers brought Kish and me to attention.

  “Return to Borbel at once,” came Jipfur’s brittle command. “Inform the palace that I shall come this evening to assume possession of all properties, including lands, slaves, and livestock.”

  CHAPTER V

  Nobody but a sap would walk around all week with a sharp tack in the heel of his shoe, prodding him at every step. But that’s practically what I did—only in my case the tack was in the heel of my brain, and the pain throbbed even when I was supposed to be sleeping.

  In other words, the steel-sharp memory of what Betty had said she’d do in case she fell to Jipfur—namely, consider throwing herself into the Euphrates—was driving me wild.

  And the worst of it was, I couldn’t do a thing about it. I was Jipfur’s slave, as never before, and do you think he kept me on the hop? With all of his new business to look after, he was loading every competent slave to the limit with new responsibilities.

  A few weeks earlier, when Slaf-Carch was still in there pitching for me, I congratulated myself that he’d made Jipfur give me a white-collar job. Now I began to envy the strong-backed lads and lassies who worked the shadufs for the irrigation streams. At least they got to rest while their buckets filled.

  I tried my best, but I couldn’t manage to break away for a jaunt to Borbel. I needed a talk with Betty worse than I needed food or drink. What’s more, I was burning up for a chance to examine the scene of Slaf-Carch’s murder—for, as Kish said, that deal had the smell of rotten figs.

  Of course Jipfur’s guards, together with the king’s law-enforcement agents, were on the job. But they failed to unearth any murderer. Rumor was that they had questioned several night prowlers, including the Three Serpents, on general principles. But their investigation came to nothing.

  One afternoon Kish stopped by to tell me he had cleared the inner palace garden for a unique occasion. Several slaves inherited from Slaf-Carch had just arrived. Jipfur would i
nterview them this evening and assign them to their places.

  “I shall be conducting the slaves to the inner garden as Jipfur calls for them,” Kish said, lifting his eyebrow significantly. “If anything of interest comes along Ml let you know.”

  My work suffered the rest of that afternoon. The only thing of importance that I accomplished was to sharpen a small iron knife.

  It was nearly sundown when Kish came scurrying past k my room to whistle a signal. I dropped my work and slipped up a narrow stairs to the inner garden balcony.

  I looked down on the luxurious scene Jipfur had chosen for his interviews. Long shadows from the evening sun painted broad stripes across the inclosed garden. The fountain under the open sky sprayed thin streams of liquid gold—which meant that somewhere under the garden promenade, where tunnels were hidden, slaves were carrying buckets of water to replenish the fountain reservoir.

  Jipfur was the picture of leisure, lying on a red brocaded lounge, his cone-shaped cap pushed well back on his broad handsome head, his pudgy fingers idly counting the tassel strings of his gold and white robe.

  He was facing the fountain in the center of the court, and I didn’t intend letting him know that I was eavesdropping from a point almost directly above him.

  Then came the dreaded but inevitable entrance. Betty was conducted into Jipfur’s presence. The patesi suavely asked her to sit down, and he dismissed Kish.

  A moment later Kish tiptoed along the balcony to join me.

  “She’s just a child,” Kish whispered.

  “Jipfur doesn’t think so,” I retorted.

  It was plain, from Jipfur’s talk, however, that he was annoyed at her for coming in braids and a simple slave-girl dress. He had expected her to be adorned in something charming for this occasion.

  Of course Jipfur didn’t guess that she had applied her skillful arts of make-up to accentuate this juvenile effect. I caught this at once; but I also saw that, in spite of her efforts, Betty was nonetheless breathtakingly beautiful.