The Cause

by Roderick Vincent

  “I’ll fight him too,” Uriah followed.

  Then others stepped forward. And others after them. I stood my ground. Seee marched up to me angrily and challenged me. “You’re not afraid are you, Corvus?” Without letting me answer, he tapped my chest with a finger and said, “I doubt it. Yet, I wonder if it is still the notion of fair-play in you that causes such pathetic hesitation?” His tone had filled with weariness and disappointment.

  “No,” I said. “You’ve not given us enough evidence to condemn this man. He might be a spy in your eyes, but he isn’t yet in mine. We don’t even know his name.”

  “Knowing his name will not change anything,” Seee said, the little smile returning to his lips. “Do you hear, everyone? Isse Corvus is a man of the law, principled. He demands evidence, a fair trial, a judge and jury and a wooden gavel. Where were these things a month ago when you were starving to death?” He drifted away from me toward the center of The Pit where everyone could be addressed. A light breeze rustled the leaves on the trees from the perimeter and blanketed the place in a moment of calm.

  “But Isse is right,” Seee said finally. The men glanced at him quizzically, baffled by his words. I was shocked into disbelief. “Tyranny is the product of lawlessness. We can see this so easily in the world we live in today.” Seee paced around, back through the throng of men. “Echelon and Turbulence and other surveillance strategies shitting on the Constitution and targeting the citizenry. Yet, here is a man who talks of justice with the truncheon in his palm, who has personally been ordered to club the middleclass, beat them with batons, teargas and pepper spray them. You’ve hogtied them in cuffs, thrown them in paddy wagons, and taken them to the station to book them for disturbing the peace. Isn’t that so?”

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say, as there was no defense. He had trapped me. He spoke the truth and everyone knew it.

  “Perhaps Isse Corvus thought those arrested were fringers or another mad breed of protester. But then at the station, he took identification from some of those rioters and looked at the addresses of those whom he’d just beaten, and it strikes him that these agitators are from the good neighborhoods. His heart palpitates because the guy he’s just bloodied is an unemployed architect, or programmer, or engineer. Not some hippie living in a squat yelling, Give peace a chance. So then he questions the law, and perhaps those that make them. You certainly have the right to question me, and this I expect from an intelligent man. We are not brainless Army grunts here, are we? Hierarchy, however, must be respected, or we have anarchy. This man has been unanimously convicted by the seniors of this camp—myself, Kumo, Merrill and Des. But you’ve also forgotten that you’re here to learn how to once again live as animal, where the laws of Nature are much simpler.”

  He moved back to his original position in front of me, but spoke loud enough so all could hear. “Isse Corvus, do you want to eat, or be eaten?” He stood glaring up at me, his chin tight.

  “Eat,” I said.

  He blinked, nodded, as if deeply pleased. “So if I say to you to take faith in me—trust me—would your position waver?”

  “No.”

  “And is your belief so strong that you would be willing to step in the ring in this man’s place instead of trusting me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know this man.”

  Murmuring broke out through the line. Eyes whirled over to the man hiding behind the thick, black beard in search of a familiar face. “It’s Joe Downs,” Grus shouted out. “One of those who went missing when we got here.” The tongueless man’s eyes lit up with the words.

  “A spy nonetheless,” Seee said.

  The men seemed to waver. Grumblings grew louder. Only sixteen of the original twenty-eight remained. We had taken off from Norfolk with thirty-two men. Many had left or had been killed. But a wave of realization that perhaps the other three were here swept through the men like a blaze.

  “Where are the others?” Geddy Drake fired out.

  “Being held a few miles from here,” Seee said, killing any drama that was added by the question.

  “But you lied to us,” Split blurted out, a wounded expression escaping in his tone. “Kumo said they never arrived.”

  “That was true at the time it was asked,” Kumo said. “They arrived later, on a separate flight. Dumped here by The Company to be questioned.”

  “But you knew they were being held,” Conroy said.

  “I knew nothing about them until they arrived,” Kumo said.

  “All of what Kumo says is true,” Des said. “But it is equally pointless to speak of such trivialities. The point is these men are spies. We do not convict innocent men. We have electronic evidence of conversations coming from The Farm and locations off site. The evidence is irrefutable.”

  “So justice is handled here then?” I asked, becoming angry.

  “On equal footing, yes,” Seee said.

  “Is he a man spying on our Homeland, or a man spying on you?” I asked.

  “They are one and the same!” he fired back.

  Seee leapt into The Pit, landing and then rolling into a summersault. He stood, brushed the sand off his clothes, scowled pugnaciously at us, and then yelled out so all could hear. “Let it be no secret that I fight for the United States of America and the ideals with which the forefathers founded her upon! The fight for liberty is just beginning, and I will not turn my head away in fear! For any who would be bold enough to challenge me in support of the status quo, I stand here waiting for you!”

  No one flinched. Uriah stepped forward and gazed down into The Pit. “Perhaps, Sifu, your intentions are still unclear.” He gazed over at me. A little smirk crossed over his face. “A man who seeks his reflection in a spring must not disturb the water.”

  “You are right, Uriah,” Seee said.

  A pall surrounded the circle of men as Seee knelt down on his haunches and grabbed a handful of the ochre dirt from the bottom of the Laddered Pit. “Take this dirt on the ground,” Seee said, letting it run slowly through his fingers. “Millions of years went into grinding down some huge boulder into this fine dust. The same erosion is going on in our country. Over the years, it’s happened slowly, but now it’s picking up momentum. You can smell the miasma of anxiety now when you’re out on the streets. You’ve seen glimpses of what’s going on every night on the TV. We are living in dangerous times. Citizens are waking up disenchanted with what they see. Now that most firearms are banned, people are still arming themselves illegally because when they breathe, their lungs fill with the air of deceit. The fortitude of a peaceful march no longer has aim as nothing can be changed. The people are figuring out the vote no long matters, and it’s themselves who are holding the bag for banking bailouts and funny-money solutions. They’re wising up to who lurks in the shadows of Congressional halls and who the real power players in America are. They’re growing weary of their freedoms being mangled—of being bullied, jailed, arrested without cause, interrogated, suspected, watched. They’re tired of hearing their personal data is being sniffed by the NSA and then used against them. They’re tired of the nefarious media mongers preaching pandemic fear. But what they really see is the jaws of the totalitarian apparatus biting down on them, chomping their bones into the grit of poverty. So what can they do? Demonstrate? Protest? Riot? Now they’re labeled anarchists, looters, hoodlums, and even terrorists. The shell is cracking and underneath the soft coating is we-the-people, enemy of the State. Suddenly, those in government are calling the people the enemy, but they are the ones who are the cause of the palpitating, fibrillating heartbeat—the murmur, the arrhythmia of our Homeland.”

  He stood up again, raising his fist in the air. “What is the true sound of the march of time? Is it the boots that march loudest, or simply those that trod a fresh path that others will follow? Just as no great change can occur without catalyst, no rebirth can start without death.”

  He then asked the Sons for their words
, and Merrill spoke up. “You have been chosen for The Abattoir with great care. All of you have somehow been touched in one way or another by what is happening. Those who did not fit the profile were never accepted. Those we were unsure about were encouraged to leave after the first few days. The process is not perfect. But we will tell you all, we seek brothers here, not enemies, and you must stand up and fight for us or admit you are against us.”

  “So if I ask you again,” Seee said, speaking up to all of us. “Will you fight for us?”

  “YES!” was the resounding answer from the chorus of men above.

  “Then who will accept this challenge?”

  Many hands flew up in the air, even my own. The Sons scanned the circle, gazing into the eyes of each, making a judgment right then and there. My guess was that most had sided with Seee before they even got here. They had been profiled, as Merrill admitted. But what about me? Why was I still alive? Surely they knew what I had come here to do?

  Not one in the circle failed volunteering to throw his life into The Pit. And why wouldn’t they? It was blood they had come for, and I was no different. The warrior in each of us had awakened, and now just cause demanded a bloody conclusion.

  Seee chose Atlas to step forward, eyeing me as if I had lost my chance, as if I was a lost cause. Atlas was the same build as Tongueless Downs—medium height and pit-bullish—a fair fight in terms of size.

  They chose their weapons from the rack quickly—Tongueless Downs took a gladius sword and Roman shield. Atlas, sword and spear and a Saxon shield. They put on armor, shoulder plates, and helmets made of gilded steel. One way or the other, it was going to be over soon. Days of training with heavier wooden weapons and wicker shields were over. Time called out armatura, and instead of stopping, it steamed straight forward.

  Chapter 14

  “War is life multiplied by some number that no one has ever heard of.”

  -Sebastian Junger

  Reaction. Forces always occur in pairs. The interaction of two objects. Every force on one object accompanied by reaction on another of equal magnitude. Opposing direction.

  This is what physics teaches us with the Newtonian law of motion.

  Strange how a blade swings, coming at you like a sweep of light. A flash of it through the air, fleeting and brisk, swishing with the same suddenness as sun glint through windy trees. The stream of steel lasts an instant or a millennium. Never seen in slow motion. Because there is—

  Reaction.

  Atlas steps backward planting a foot, letting the cold streak of steel crash against his shield. A jostling of movements. He jabs with the spear grunting, but it meets shield in a metallic scraping crash. He pushes Tongueless Downs back with his shield, but it’s met with heavy resistance. The Pit is electric—amperes of attraction and repulsion, sand hoofed and scattered, bodies torqued in lunge and push. Time swift. Breath trapped in throats, suspended inside heaving lungs as if an exhale might change the outcome.

  There is hard truth in steel. When it strikes, sometimes the body delays for a micromoment, as if it is unsure of Reaction. But later it will catch up and drain you. Atlas doesn’t realize he’s wounded. A short jab caught him in the side. If it wasn’t for our gasps, he might not ever have known. When he sees the blood, he doesn’t seem fazed by it. He quickly throws away the spear and unsheathes his sword.

  Two worlds become loosely coupled, shadows of each lurking in The Pit waiting for an immutable ending. Action relentless in its drive forward. It pushes with impatience toward inevitability. Every breath perhaps the last. Seconds compress. Time shrinks to a pinpoint.

  They clash once more, dirt flying. Grains of it shooting so high, they catch me in the eyes. Sounds of struggle, a primal cloud around them. War screams from Atlas full of rage and anger. Tongueless Downs shrieking rebel yells. The noise itself is its own combat. Bodies undulate in a rippling flow, jarred and knotted together, then thrown apart. The death dance. One man real, the other a phantom. What’s happening is beyond control, larger than all of us and ramming down a road to a laddered destination. Hysteria of an outcome pulses in the vibrating air—it’s there stamped into everyone’s eyes. A demand for a bloody conclusion. Hearts thumping in chests waiting for the critical, decisive error. For a while, it seems Atlas has the upper hand even with the wound. He’s powerful and in a frenzy—dangerous energy. The two of them face each other in swinging chainmail and glittering armor, as if they’ve slipped down a dimension into another historical world, transcending time into battles redolent of sweaty gladiators in marbled coliseums.

  Atlas’s wound opens up, ripping wide like a crowning baby. The skin furls away, a hint of a flayed intestine peeks out, the man unraveling before our eyes.

  Exhaustion in Atlas’s eyes. The hard truth about to reveal itself.

  Tongueless Downs notices the fatigue. Everyone senses the change, as if it is a scent in the air easily smelled. We are engulfed in the swell of this anachronistic battle. We are glutinous and base, unable to push the magnetism of the primordial back inside.

  The shape of destiny forms. Carved out like one of Kumo’s sticks. The real man dims, and the phantom pushes in. Only one way it can end. Atlas’s shield falls to his knees after he takes another stab in the same side. He falls to his knees, and the strain in his eyes to get back up is like a plea to every man who can see. Save me. Brave Atlas has succumbed. The sword is still in his hand, resting at an oblong angle, but strength has drained from him, and only will is left to lift it. Tongueless Downs takes no liberty with time. He steps forward and with searing scorn pushes the sword deep into Atlas, pitiless, spitting in his face after it’s done. Fully adapted to the new world, he is the victor, raising his arms. The phantom edges away, up the unseen ladder. We watch wordless with wounded egos, a disappointment in the result because it was not our man that won.

  Most angry is Seee, an engine of roar who leaps into The Pit and bends over the limp body of Atlas. Seee closes the dead man’s eyes softly with his fingertips. To all, the anguish in his face reflects who he thinks was the best among us. Then Tongueless Downs comes after Seee, observing he is turned around and defenseless. But Seee slithers away, anticipating the move, offering his back as an antagonization. He rolls to Atlas’s shield and comes up in a crouch with it overhead to meet the downward swing of the shiny blade. The cling of metal sounds. Seee stands and twists, maneuvers to the sword in the sand. Downs lunges at Seee with the blade but catches only the heart of a metal shield. Seee swipes Atlas’s sword lying in the sand, and then they are on equal footing.

  Seee offers Tongueless Downs fifteen minutes of rest, water, and food if he wants it. He offers Downs release if he wins—tells every man to obey his command. Then, he offers the man revenge. He pulls a bloody cloth from his pocket, loosens it, and throws it to the man’s feet. A lump of flesh falls out of the cloth, flat and cylindrical, and Seee says, “You might need it back if you’ve something to say.”

  Downs pounces in an overhand attack. But Seee’s shield is like a disk from the sun, bright and shiny twisting and turning in angular momentum. He blocks the plunging sword, deflects it, then turns the shield laterally, smashing into Downs’ helmet. The blow stings Downs and blood spills from his nose. Blinded, he lunges wildly with a stab, keeping his shield tight. Seee anticipates the move, sidesteps it, and swoops under the overcommitted Downs, razor steps racing past him, the glimmering shield guarding from above. Only afterward we see the gash. The men stare open-mouthed at the open wound bleeding on the upper leg. The strike quick as a snake, the red-tipped tongue of the sword a flashing glint from the shell of the shield.

  “I do not wish to let the moment linger,” Seee announces. “This man has had enough, and has fought bravely against a man who himself was as brave as they come.” Downs turns, breath heated, lungs pumping. He throws off his helmet and glowers at Seee, screaming an obscenity everyone can understand, even without a tongue. A sad look appears in Seee’s eyes. “I only wish you were among us, but wi
th regret you are not.”

  Downs charged, and it would be his last act of heroism. Seee maneuvered skillfully away from the man rampaging toward him with sword slashing. Reversing the run, he charged with a flurry that showed us the meaning of attack. His blade swept downward and tore into Downs’s shoulder not stopping till it had slashed through his heart. Within a second, Downs was dying in the Laddered Pit, ascending the same rungs as Atlas. That night, he would not receive the same honors as our fallen comrade. His head would be nailed on a spike in the middle of The Abattoir for all to see.

  At the burning altar of Atlas, Kumo announced two more invitations to join the ranks of The Minutemen—Split and Geddy Drake. They accepted, knowing that in the morning they would have the next battles in the Laddered Pit against two more who hadn’t arrived. The ledger of the missing would be balanced against the two new men accepted into The Minutemen. For those remaining, le esprit de corps was alive and well. Wishes of joining The Minutemen no longer weighed against ideas of being a traitor to country. Everyone had decided Seee was right. The word traitor applied only to those who didn’t agree. Certainly, I was suspect, and I knew that destiny would follow me into The Pit to live and die as either patriot or traitor.

  Chapter 15

  “Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”

  -Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  On the morning of January 7, 2023, Split would emerge victorious from the Laddered Pit against Zach Dionne, thrusting a spear through his heart after a long three minutes of tide-turning battle. Dionne, a loner throughout his time at The Farm, was not mourned. His head was rammed on a spike next to that of Tongueless Downs in what became known as Traitor Row, the same area of the clearing where Bunker’s head had once been displayed. The following day, it would be Geddy Drake pitted against the last missing plebe, John Hammond. Drake had been the victor but was dragged out of The Pit with an arm badly slashed, ribs broken, and a leg gashed and bleeding profusely. He had been taken away quickly to the Tree House, a red trail of blood flowing in the sand of The Pit while Merrill and Des put him on a gurney and lifted him out. He hadn’t been seen since, and most thought he was dead.