by Neil Gaiman
Then the remainder of the Germans were across the field and over the trench ramifications and down into the trenches themselves. Hand-to-hand fighting began. Deel fought with his bayonet. He jabbed at a German soldier so small his shoulders failed to fill out his uniform. As the German hung on the thrust of Deel’s blade, clutched at the rifle barrel, flares blazed along the length of the trench, and in that moment Deel saw the soldier’s chin had bits of blond fuzz on it. The expression the kid wore was that of someone who had just realized this was not a glorious game after all.
And then Deel coughed.
He coughed and began to choke. He tried to lift up, but couldn’t, at first. Then he sat up and the mud dripped off him and the rain pounded him. He spat dirt from his mouth and gasped at the air. The rain washed his face clean and pushed his hair down over his forehead. He was uncertain how long he sat there in the rain, but in time, the rain stopped. His head hurt. He lifted his hand to it and came away with his fingers covered in blood. He felt again, pushing his hair aside. There was a groove across his forehead. The shot hadn’t hit him solid; it had cut a path across the front of his head. He had bled a lot, but now the bleeding had stopped. The mud in the grave had filled the wound and plugged it. The shallow grave had most likely been dug earlier in the day. It had all been planned out, but the rain was unexpected. The rain made the dirt damp, and in the dark Tom had not covered him well enough. Not deep enough. Not firm enough. And his nose was free. He could breathe. The ground was soft and it couldn’t hold him. He had merely sat up and the dirt had fallen aside.
Deel tried to pull himself out of the grave, but was too weak, so he twisted in the loose dirt and lay with his face against the ground. When he was strong enough to lift his head, the rain had passed, the clouds had sailed away, and the moon was bright.
Deel worked himself out of the grave and crawled across the ground toward the log where he and Tom had sat. His shotgun was lying behind the log where it had fallen. Tom had either forgotten the gun or didn’t care. Deel was too weak to pick it up.
Deel managed himself onto the log and sat there, his head held down, watching the ground. As he did, a snake crawled over his boots and twisted its way into the darkness of the woods. Deel reached down and picked up the shotgun. It was damp and cold. He opened it and the shells popped out. He didn’t try to find them in the dark. He lifted the barrel, poked it toward the moonlight, and looked through it. Clear. No dirt in the barrels. He didn’t try to find the two shells that had popped free. He loaded two fresh ones from his ammo bag. He took a deep breath. He picked up some damp leaves and pressed them against the wound and they stuck. He stood up. He staggered toward his house, the blood-stuck leaves decorating his forehead as if he were some kind of forest god.
IT WAS NOT LONG before the stagger became a walk. Deel broke free of the woods and onto the path that crossed the field. With the rain gone it was bright again and a light wind had begun to blow. The earth smelled rich, the way it had that night in France when it rained and the lightning flashed and the soldiers came and the damp smell of the earth blended with the biting smell of gunpowder and the odor of death.
He walked until he could see the house, dark like blight in the center of the field. The house appeared extremely small then, smaller than before; it was as if all that had ever mattered to him continued to shrink. The bitch dog came out to meet him but he ignored her. She slunk off and trotted toward the trees he had left behind.
He came to the door, and then his foot was kicking against it. The door cracked and creaked and slammed loudly backward. Then Deel was inside, walking fast. He came to the bedroom door, and it was open. He went through. The window was up and the room was full of moonlight, so brilliant he could see clearly, and what he saw was Tom and Mary Lou lying together in mid-act, and in that moment he thought of his brief time with her and how she had let him have her so as not to talk about Tom anymore. He thought about how she had given herself to protect what she had with Tom. Something moved inside Deel and he recognized it as the core of what man was. He stared at them and they saw him and froze in action. Mary Lou said, “No,” and Tom leaped up from between her legs, all the way to his feet. Naked as nature, he stood for a moment in the middle of the bed, and then plunged through the open window like a fox down a hole. Deel raised the shotgun and fired and took out part of the windowsill, but Tom was out and away. Mary Lou screamed. She threw her legs to the side of the bed and made as if to stand, but couldn’t. Her legs were too weak. She sat back down and started yelling his name. Something called from deep inside Deel, a long call, deep and dark and certain. A bloody leaf dripped off his forehead. He raised the shotgun and fired. The shot tore into her breast and knocked her sliding across the bed, pushing the back of her head against the wall beneath the window.
Deel stood looking at her. Her eyes were open, her mouth slightly parted. He watched her hair and the sheets turn dark.
He broke open the shotgun and reloaded the double barrel from his ammo sack and went to the door across the way, the door to the small room that was the boy’s. He kicked it open. When he came in, the boy, wearing his nightshirt, was crawling through the window. He shot at him, but the best he might have done was riddle the bottom of his feet with pellets. Like his father, Winston was quick through a hole.
Deel stepped briskly to the open window and looked out. The boy was crossing the moonlit field like a jackrabbit, running toward a dark stretch of woods in the direction of town. Deel climbed through the window and began to stride after the boy. And then he saw Tom. Tom was off to the right, running toward where there used to be a deep ravine and a blackberry growth. Deel went after him. He began to trot. He could imagine himself with the other soldiers crossing a field, waiting for a bullet to end it all.
Deel began to close in. Being barefoot was working against Tom. He was limping. Deel thought that Tom’s feet were most likely full of grass burrs and were wounded by stones. Tom’s moon shadow stumbled and rose, as if it were his soul trying to separate itself from its host.
The ravine and the blackberry bushes were still there. Tom came to the ravine, found a break in the vines, and went over the side of it and down. Deel came shortly after, dropped into the ravine. It was damp there and smelled fresh from the recent rain. Deel saw Tom scrambling up the other side of the ravine, into the dark rise of blackberry bushes on the far side. He strode after him, and when he came to the spot where Tom had gone, he saw Tom was hung in the berry vines. The vines had twisted around his arms and head and they held him as surely as if he were nailed there. The more Tom struggled, the harder the thorns bit and the better the vines held him. Tom twisted and rolled and soon he was facing in the direction of Deel, hanging just above him on the bank of the ravine, supported by the blackberry vines, one arm outstretched, the other pinned against his abdomen, wrapped up like a Christmas present from nature, a gift to what man and the ants liked to do best. He was breathing heavily.
Deel turned his head slightly, like a dog trying to distinguish what it sees. “You’re a bad shot.”
“Ain’t no cause to do this, Deel.”
“It’s not a matter of cause. It’s the way of man,” Deel said.
“What in hell you talkin’ about, Deel? I’m askin’ you, I’m beggin’ you, don’t kill me. She was the one talked me into it. She thought you were dead, long dead. She wanted it like it was when it was just me and her.”
Deel took a deep breath and tried to taste the air. It had tasted so clean a moment ago, but now it was bitter.
“The boy got away,” Deel said.
“Go after him, you want, but don’t kill me.”
A smile moved across Deel’s face. “Even the little ones grow up to be men.”
“You ain’t makin’ no sense, Deel. You ain’t right.”
“Ain’t none of us right,” Deel said.
Deel raised the shotgun and fired. Tom’s head went away and the body drooped in the clutch of the vines and hung over the edge
of the ravine.
THE BOY WAS QUICK, much faster than his father. Deel had covered a lot of ground in search of him, and he could read the boy’s sign in the moonlight, see where the grass was pushed down, see bare footprints in the damp dirt, but the boy had long reached the woods, and maybe the town beyond. He knew that. It didn’t matter anymore.
He moved away from the woods and back to the field until he came to Pancake Rocks. They were flat, round chunks of sandstone piled on top of one another and they looked like a huge stack of pancakes. He had forgotten all about them. He went to them and stopped and looked at the top edge of the pancake stones. It was twenty feet from ground to top. He remembered that from when he was a boy. His daddy told him, “That there is twenty feet from top to bottom. A Spartan boy could climb that and reach the top in three minutes. I can climb it and reach the top in three minutes. Let’s see what you can do.”
He had never reached the top in three minutes, though he had tried time after time. It had been important to his father for some reason, some human reason, and he had forgotten all about it until now.
Deel leaned the shotgun against the stones and slipped off his boots and took off his clothes. He tore his shirt and made a strap for the gun, and slung it over his bare shoulder and took up the ammo bag and tossed it over his other shoulder, and began to climb. He made it to the top. He didn’t know how long it had taken him, but he guessed it had been only about three minutes. He stood on top of Pancake Rocks and looked out at the night. He could see his house from there. He sat cross-legged on the rocks and stretched the shotgun over his thighs. He looked up at the sky. The stars were bright and the space between them was as deep as forever. If man could, he would tear the stars down, thought Deel.
Deel sat and wondered how late it was. The moon had moved, but not so much as to pull up the sun. Deel felt as if he had been sitting there for days. He nodded off now and then, and in the dream he was an ant, one of many ants, and he was moving toward a hole in the ground from which came smoke and sparks of fire. He marched with the ants toward the hole, and then into the hole they went, one at a time. Just before it was his turn, he saw the ants in front of him turn to black crisps in the fire, and he marched after them, hurrying for his turn, then he awoke and looked across the moonlit field.
He saw, coming from the direction of his house, a rider. The horse looked like a large dog because the rider was so big. He hadn’t seen the man in years, but he knew who he was immediately. Lobo Collins. He had been sheriff of the county when he had left for war. He watched as Lobo rode toward him. He had no thoughts about it. He just watched.
Well out of range of Deel’s shotgun, Lobo stopped and got off his horse and pulled a rifle out of the saddle boot.
“Deel,” Lobo called. “It’s Sheriff Lobo Collins.”
Lobo’s voice moved across the field loud and clear. It was as if they were sitting beside each other. The light was so good he could see Lobo’s mustache clearly, drooping over the corners of his mouth.
“Your boy come told me what happened.”
“He ain’t my boy, Lobo.”
“Everybody knowed that but you, but wasn’t no cause to do what you did. I been up to the house, and I found Tom in the ravine.”
“They’re still dead, I assume.”
“You ought not done it, but she was your wife, and he was messin’ with her, so you got some cause, and a jury might see it that way. That’s something to think about, Deel. It could work out for you.”
“He shot me,” Deel said.
“Well now, that makes it even more different. Why don’t you put down that gun, and you and me go back to town and see how we can work things out.”
“I was dead before he shot me.”
“What?” Lobo said. Lobo had dropped down on one knee. He had the Winchester across that knee and with his other hand he held the bridle of his horse.
Deel raised the shotgun and set the stock firmly against the stone, the barrel pointing skyward.
“You’re way out of range up there,” Lobo said. “That shotgun ain’t gonna reach me, but I can reach you, and I can put one in a fly’s asshole from here to the moon.”
Deel stood up. “I can’t reach you, then I reckon I got to get me a wee bit closer.”
Lobo stood up and dropped the horse’s reins. The horse didn’t move. “Now don’t be a damn fool, Deel.”
Deel slung the shotgun’s makeshift strap over his shoulder and started climbing down the back of the stones, where Lobo couldn’t see him. He came down quicker than he had gone up, and he didn’t even feel where the stones had torn his naked knees and feet.
When Deel came around the side of the stone, Lobo had moved only slightly, away from his horse, and he was standing with the Winchester held down by his side. He was watching as Deel advanced, naked and committed. Lobo said, “Ain’t no sense in this, Deel. I ain’t seen you in years, and now I’m gonna get my best look at you down the length of a Winchester. Ain’t no sense in it.”
“There ain’t no sense to nothin’,” Deel said, and walked faster, pulling the strapped shotgun off his shoulder.
Lobo backed up a little, then raised the Winchester to his shoulder, said, “Last warnin’, Deel.”
Deel didn’t stop. He pulled the shotgun stock to his hip and let it rip. The shot went wide and fell across the grass like hail, some twenty feet in front of Lobo. And then Lobo fired.
Deel thought someone had shoved him. It felt that way. That someone had walked up unseen beside him and had shoved him on the shoulder. Next thing he knew he was lying on the ground looking up at the stars. He felt pain, but not like the pain he had felt when he realized what he was.
A moment later the shotgun was pulled from his hand, and then Lobo was kneeling down next to him with the Winchester in one hand and the shotgun in the other.
“I done killed you, Deel.”
“No,” Deel said, spitting up blood. “I ain’t alive to kill.”
“I think I clipped a lung,” Lobo said, as if proud of his marksmanship. “You ought not done what you done. It’s good that boy got away. He ain’t no cause of nothin’.”
“He just ain’t had his turn.”
Deel’s chest was filling up with blood. It was as if someone had put a funnel in his mouth and poured it into him. He tried to say something more, but it wouldn’t come out. There was only a cough and some blood; it splattered warm on his chest. Lobo put the weapons down and picked up Deel’s head and laid it across one of his thighs so he wasn’t choking so much.
“You got a last words, Deel?”
“Look there,” Deel said.
Deel’s eyes had lifted to the heavens, and Lobo looked. What he saw was the night and the moon and the stars. “Look there. You see it?” Deel said. “The stars are fallin’.”
Lobo said, “Ain’t nothin’ fallin’, Deel,” but when he looked back down, Deel was gone.
Walter Mosley. JUVENAL NYX
1.
SHE NAMED ME JUVENAL NYX and made me a child of the night.
I was attending a Saturday-night meeting at Splinter-the Radical Faction Bookstore, presenting the Amalgamation of Black Student Unions’ stand on when and how we would agree to work with white radical organizations. For too long, we believed, had our systems, movements, and ultimate liberation been co-opted by white groups pretending, maybe even believing, that they were our friends and allies. But in the end we were saddled with goals outside our communities, diverted into pathways that abandoned our people’s needs and ends.
The speech went very well, and the people there, both black and white, seemed to take my words seriously. I felt that the articulation of our goals was in itself a victory, a line drawn in the quick-drying cement that had been poured into the frame of the coming revolution.
I was very young.
She approached me after the series of speakers had made their comments, pleas, pledges, and calls for solidarity. She was short and white, pale actually, wearing loose-
fitting jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. She wasn’t pretty and didn’t do much in the way of makeup. Only her eyes were arresting. They were very dark, maybe even black, with a patina of silver glowing underneath now and then.
“I like what you had to say,” she told me. “Any man must stand on his own before relying on the help of others.”
Her use of the word man made me curious. I assumed, from the way she dressed, that she’d be a feminist.
“That’s right,” I said. “The black man doesn’t need Mr. Charlie to pave the way. It’s the white man who wants our power.”
“Everyone wants your strength,” she said.
With that she looked into my eyes and touched my left wrist. Her fingers were cold.
“Will you have coffee with me?” she asked.
No, was in my throat but “Yes” came out of my mouth. “Only for just a bit,” I added awkwardly. “I have to get back to my people and report.”
“I AM FROM RUMANIA,” she told me at the café across the street from the bookstore. “My parents have died and I am alone in the world. I work sometimes doing freelance copyediting and I go to meetings at night.”
“Political meetings?” I asked, wondering at the moonlight that emanated from behind her eyes.
“No kind in particular,” she said, dismissing all content with the shrug of a shoulder. “I go to readings and lectures, art openings and the like. I just want to be around people, to belong for a while.”
“You live alone?”
“Yes. I prefer it that way. Relationships seem to lose their meaning, and after a few weeks I crave solitude again.”
