by Joshua Cohen
After rimming the valley thrice, circumambulations conducting him down and up hills, a goy rare to these parts arrives at the hill further to wait amongst these revengers revenant in their eminent labcoats and lawrobes, others legitimizing in the uniforms of the police, fire, and military, finally takes a seat on an outcrop, down next to a mensch who’s palming a pipe.
Waiting for anyone special?
The schmuck who knocked up my daughter, that’s who, the mensch says, and the moment he gets smart, takes one step out from the group…
And what’s your spiel? asks a mensch sharpening a butcher’s cleaver with the thick of his thumb.
I’m out for a mensch who, Gelt’s thinking…He killed my father—let’s leave it at that.
Gelt’s arrived. That, ear to the ground, is the word: having heard about these Refuges lately cropping up, not as much blossoming as rotting away from a wither, an invocation of Scripture, its manifestation on the map, organic but foreign—he’s flown in from Mormondom via Wyoming to investigate. How exactly he found out Ben here’s a mite misty, unscholared: intuition smokesignaled, or arrived upon the wings of an eagle, following the sand, the trample of shrubs. Whatever the source, the intelligence that is hope indicates his quarry’s below, must be, and so every rise of the sun he rims the valley again to the opposite hill, the mound topped with that large leaning oak, to ensconce himself at its summit in privacy from his fellows waiting, sitting, standing, more often than not up in the tree, hidden amid the dense naked wood. It’s Scripturally illegal, not to mention otherwise inadvisable, insane, for him to venture into the Refuge: officially, there’s no admittance; he’s not running from any rap, hasn’t left a passionately unsanctioned assassination deep in his past—and while he can attempt to pass himself off, obfuscate you know the darkening drill with all the militant prowess he mightn’t possess, they’ll know, they’ll beat it out of him, he’s sure as the night. Also, the Garden’s issued orders to respect the new Law of the land, derech eretz: wait it out’s the idea, and we’ll have Him; it’s inevitable, intended…like how am I expected to work, Gelt thinks, for an organization so goddamned mystical, when times get troubled by facts. Ask the birds, most of which are flown or dead, icy wings. How, he’s patient is how, full of schemes to subvert, pass the time, the gestatory pneumonia if it’s not already onelunged to pleurisy: flying any pigeons he succeeds in branchcapturing, netting in leaf, claycolored ill squabblers sent out high over the wallpeople, carrying his notes folded then tied with the midribs of leaves to the tips of their talons; the vein of the texts offering lavish rewards for turning Him over, Gelt makes the sums up out of thin air, windy figures. Then, when they palm and pawn the pigeons on the inside for food or eat them, Gelt still without sin throws over rocks, again with his notices attached just with sloppier scrawl: stars shot without heed across night as if to effect an impertinent sky; he tosses in strained arching lobs.
Gelt standing out on the westernmost rise of the arrhythmic atrium of the heartland it is, the beating bursting organ of the valley below, hurling his finds over walls of shrieking freakpeople, shirkers and droppers, back-sliders knocked out cold on the freeze, sinners and even, if rare, the goodly Godless, too, beatitudinally crazy they are, wild with love, even if only of themselves—stones strung with scraps of shirt unwound he writes on in blood, which is his, too, then sitting to wait, lying in wait, up in a bare bough and peering over the encampment, stretching his arms out to hurl as if in a benediction or blessing foretold: the stones he throws hit people, people with memories, egos and aches, knock out more eyes and teeth to be traded for favors inside; the notes attached are brought to Ben to read but He can’t really make them out, the smudge or His incapacity to believe the worst, His inability to take a hint, or perceive a threat, and most of the others except the elders here have forgotten how to make sense of words at all, have allowed themselves to go rusty.
WANTED ALIVE
A Refugee Among Refugees
Purse Offered Weight of Suspect in Gold
Significant
Description Fat Glasses Robe Unpleasant Odor
Answers to Name of Israelien
Top of Western Slope
You Know the One I’m Talking
With the Tree
Reward Upon Receipt of Above
Purse Includes Purchase of Apprehenders Silence
[Signed] F Gelt
Unethical, declares an elder, the never made good son of a patent attorney who’d done, the son, two years in juvie before hitting the road as a trucker, and a singer in search of a band or a song…illegal, is how another of them whose mother still writes, sends cards and carepackages never received she just retired six months out of the judicature, weighs in: while not in violation of the letter of the Law per se, apparently, an action like this most definitely violates its spirit, and as such any persons or information obtained in this manner would not be acceptable to, nor admissible in…this is going too far, says yet another of them just tuning in (male, female, both, any gender’s lost in its hair nappy down to the knees); even my ex’s father never resorted to this—says the son of a mayor and medic, inlaw to a certifiably cruel public accountant—and that goy, he’s a schmuck-and-a-half.
Sensing the futility of his enterprises both flying and lobbing, Gelt ties himself off to the trunk of the oak, waisted with woolen rope he purposes in unwinding his trousers; with its ripping assurance, giving him slack every footing, he sidles slow down the hill down its slope to just outside the grasp of the wall, passing his message to outsiders in gestural hoots, people passing the word to each other in shouts, in screams amongst, whispering in a massing roar the information onto the interior, related from the periphery deep into the pulsating middle, toward the flaring thorn in the heart of its heart that is Him: some try to grab Gelt despite his caution, their care not to be pulled themselves out, to become exposed, to pass him on in, warming flesh; others push their ways inside to find Ben, to prod Him hot to the edge, to betray, and connive, to give Him over to the wilderness, the season of open territory left for dead and in recompense, Gelt—attempting to arrange His handingover and in doing so further deserving their settlement herein…but thank a God not many here in this Refuge believe—in that the elders, Fathers, selfappointed, the oldest being the most religiously averse, don’t approve: such specific action would violate the ideal of Refuge, the entire concept of a city such as this, its rules interpreting regulations anciently set out in the book of Numbers, within the sunstilling book of Joshua, too, providing for these cities laidout as sanctuaries, sites of Refuge once delineated upon the plains of Moab, at the Jordan at Jericho transplanted, relocated to this desert these lesser, designated asylums for the menschlayer, the unintentional murderer, you’re killing your mother—the beady lustcrazed, trippydip outcast, the misfit, the degenerate gone to dreck then sent away; a halfway house halfway home, in which to sit in, to lie in, to protest by presence alone their own guilt…to stay until their deaths, in one interpretation, or, in another, until the death of the reigning High Priest, whoever he is nowadays; a voluntary prison this valley, a penitentiary metropolis of the unrepentant, and willfull—refugees from retributive death who’ll probably never leave, who’ll probably die here, fleeing angry fathers-inlaw, brothers-inlaw, and the like overacheiving, both the pursued and pursuing arriving to live together in the harmony that is the knowledge of their mortality impending, of everyone’s end: salvation, like if hell was truly heaven, and no one could tell the difference between.
And you’re Him, aren’t you? asks an elder, a Refuge father, meaning one of us and also, not quite.
Explain yourself—why here?
Summering in refuge, Ben says, same as anyone else.
As if to say, don’t think I think I’m better than any of you—it’s just my glasses, they do that to people.
You don’t understand, another elder says, you’re Him, you have to be, the High Priest, that’s who, you can’t deny it…and when you di
e, we’re all finally out of here. Free at last, praise whatever provision almighty. Can’t wait. Yet another adds, we’ll admit failure, give up and go home. We’ll relent and assimilate, try out a new life—get haircuts and shoeshines, jive straight & narrow, the briefcase that comes with the bedroom set, that sort of thing.
A bummer, let’s book, we’ve had enough!
But I’m no Priest, Ben’s saying, not a Levite, and not even an Israel, just an Israelien…a ghost haunting boo, a bargain dybbuk, or basement beheymah—probably no one at all.
Forget me, forgive…I had a veil, but it got lost in the shuffle.
But even if all that’s for real, you’re still the one after the Priest, the only next-in-line—the nearest thing we’ll ever have’s what I’m saying; we don’t get much priestly material in these here parts, can you dig?
He means what, my own grave.
Here’s how it’s going to happen…this a palepocked, needlelimbed mensch who’d asserted himself as a leader, an oldtimer with the scars and scarlike tattoos to prove, he’s hollering hoarse and wavery. Quiet already, everyone howling sh and hush up, farout like spaced winds their whisper, here’s how it’s going to work. You pardon us, all of us, and in return we’ll get you out, too: we’ll smuggle you out, as one of our regular nightly dead (there are a handful of these, how should we put it—the first elder adds, the one with the burly beard and the halflensed sunglasses and the whites at every knuckle of his last left pinkiefinger that once rung the insides of his rings that were gold—disease prevention measures, we’re allowed…though the Law’s damnably vague on it all); an offer you’d be at a loss to refuse: we’ll pall you out on the night of the new moon, you with me, pitch dark, right under that Gelt’s little sniveling schnozz.
What? I should pardon you, that’s what you want, that’s ridiculous.
That’s the deal, what’s that the kids are saying…tateleh: absolve us of everything, all sins and omissions, everything ever acted upon, ever willed, dreamt up, and even the thought. Are we doing business or what? I’d shake on it except I’ve lost fingers that way—what are you waiting for, a miracle, the hand of whose God? I could smack you, I should. Futz that, what’s yours is mine…why shouldn’t we kill you? I’d like to know. Best get yourself up and pardon away.
You mean you want me to pardon you now? Ben asks like who ever heard.
And they answer him you busy, schmuck, got something better to do, a prior engagement?
And so, standing in any proximate center of this loose and ever loosening circle, Ben’s awkward, with exasperation in the roll of His eyes, them with their own valleys to worry—who could take any of this seriously?—the burning sky, the weather of His head cynical, sarcastic with regard to the ironic, opposing fronts meeting only to flower the winter, to bloom it swollen with blood. He goes and waves His hands wildly, much like Hanna would do before guttering from between the flames of her lips the blessing over the candles for Friday; moans a snatch of glossolalia, a bit of showbiz shtick, stuff He’d pickedup on the circuit, crowdpleasers from the earliest days of the Tour. There in the middle of the throng, in the center fast becoming its clearing, the core of this disparate sphere, He kicks with His foot in the sand as if toeing a word, heeling out whichever line of His hastily effaced, kickedover, recovered with dust unto dust to mud, frozen mud—and soon this ritual, whatever it is, whatever He thinks He’s doing ridiculous, disperses a hole in the whole: people shrink from Him, they cower, step back, and huddle, braid, become knotted—then, they all flee. His gestures, giving and gravidly stupid, part their ways; dirtied limbs fly in every direction…it’s crowded even for a melee, maleficently black and hissing—as they refugee again, this once all at once, through the desert without passage, this desert of every passage, every option of open, through the air’s massed exit exploding their sphere, this seethingly tangling, beardbrambly tumble with Ben deep in the middle sent through it, through this shuffling, scrambling of feet shod, unshod, and spidery blue clumsy cold without nails; this wet web of flesh stepping, tripping, then falling and trampling, leaving the dead behind saprogenically still; a massively tumultuous pushpulling up slip up the icelick opposite the oak (in that surge no way Gelt can spot Him, draw a bead, take Him out), up that other hill then over, overtaking the surly waiters patient for vengeance, overwhelming them in a furious, animal tide…a stampede of shoeless feet then legs without feet, tromping stumps, up and over the hill then down down and down further, as they tip into the valley next, its fall, the buffalo cliff.
Amid this late exodus, Ben’s glasses are flung from His face. The overtimes reinforced strap that grannied them held snaps in the jostle, the specs go flying out into the departing crowd, are lost amid the flux of beads, bandanas, suedefringing strangle…Him falling hands and knees to find them, how He can’t by touch alone, more attempt less determination what with this gush of hair, heat, the blur of His disbelief ’s blinking, is trodden on and then, if not a grace granted, then don’t ask how: He manages to find of them a single lens, one round lens from His righteye, His left. He rises shocked, lost in His find to hold it aloft to the sun, the glass—is then as a concave wave pulled back into the momentum of escape, is pushed into pushing, again into a spectacular pulling, His effort at keepingup spurting sparks from His thighs one’s chapped the other’s chaffing to immolate what obstacles ahead, the people, the shrubs and trees that smoke and will, just as well, be consumed. The gauntletrun, deathmarched weak left for dead, how they manage even in their last breaths to laugh at Him now, on the ground, doubledover fetally in their last fleeing life, holding the ache of their sides, which have been split then the blood binding spilled. What’s so funny, doesn’t know, maybe it’s a fat mensch in a rush, like the majority (leaders, followers, stragglers and taggersalong) heading east, if vaguely…about to lunge up and over the far hill, the modest mountain of the latter Law, and there to its summit, murdering underfoot—and maybe only in order to latterly deserve His dwell amid the Refuge He’s just exploded. Ben crests the hill, and beholds in the valley below a drastic emptiness, the hollow given hole between the fallings, constant, as if the earth’s gone agape to swallow them down—these refugees He’s stepping down on from the summit as lightly as possible, which isn’t very, though as if apologetic, nimblynamby leaving in their faces a slippery wisp, heeled dimples, a shoeprint’s dolloped swirl. Him to avert the earth’s gorge and its endless depth only by making His way over the bodies of those crashing down, shrieking, then unheard, unseen, His weight to crack their bones that skein the surface as if winding trails of limb, the chattering teeth of boulders, and a glimpse of rivered tongue, lain flat below and cold; using such casualties as human bridges, collapsing them on His way to mount the summit next, the cliffward hill distant, that mounding one over larger and greater, a mountain even, then beyond the rage of its peak—the westernmost rise of the Rockies. With one lens held to one eye, the other arm thrust out for upright, to fumblingly use dumb heads downed as steppingstones, paths of skull across air to spring from as the bodies under His stride—open mouths that snag, silence—slip their deep and slow sink through the sky, deathrolls entwined, goners givingout their last scattered breaths that storm through the night into clouds.
As it is written, at least here: He knows but does not really know, hears but does not listen, He sees but does not really see…His eyes are open but to them, the world has been shut.
Moon gives way to sun through the window, its sill stooped from having to shoulder the feedbag heft of the light: illumination scattering across the planks of the floor then the filthy wallow of throwrug and then His form, His face; withdrawing from sleep, there’s a waft, the slight smell of brunch cooking, then burning, and then the sensation, it’s pain, a sizzling sprung from His forehead, fire focused through the lens left atop His sleep, beaming to concentrate morn upon a worrisome furrow—Ben beats His head out of wrinkles, snuffs His hair, then fingers the smoldering mark.
Goddamnit, to be awak
e to such hurt!
Ben holds the lens up to whichever eye’s imperfections it wasn’t made to perfect—blindly guess which He holds it up in the air to His eyes, which squint to see through it…emptiness. A wall, a loin of log. He groans, takes the glass off and away. Without it, there’s the hock of a chimney and furnace, coldbellied, gray. An eye as if rendered to lard. And then, the blur of its veins, which are cracks; the roof ’s leaking, too, that’s the wet on His head. There’s a scar in the pitch, plipdrip the sound. A balm, so cooling.
He forages for the glass again, rinds it into His lids. Through the scratches and dirt, the snoutings of knuckles and thumbprints gathered throughout the untold glut of His sleep…a foursquare logcabin, His shadow like blood clot along its slats barked toward the ceiling. Furniture and fence hacked into kindling, piled in stacks in the corner against the foot of the bed where He lies.
Ben tries to sit up, falls back. With the glass off, all’s fuzzy again, unfocused, bright—how the comforter of the bed’s white tucking toward pink, and the pillow under Him, too, but the sheets staining the mattress darker, they’re mudflecked, covered with streaks of pests exploded, crushed between antic fingers. With the glass off, the chair’s upholstery has come unholstered, a cheap recliner its seat and back slashed, degeneratively red—the curtains of the window, though, they seem to be only His lashes. With the glass on again, He can espy the webbed patterns of doilies draped, lace, a shatter without glass. Then, He holds to the other eye, to take sight of the shelves across the room, empty, undusted, sagging: what’re only spare troughs and farrowingcrates shelved for the mending; their books must’ve already been burned. Must be smoke. A sty. He raises His other hand to remove the lens but can’t, finds His wrist bolted, chained ostentatiously to the knob of the door. Sitting up, He has bruises upon His arms and legs, a prodigious spoil nipples each breast.
