Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll

by Todd Robinson

  Arnfithr lay on his belly, staring into the distance.

  I cast the blankets aside and crept towards him. I lay down. Although the ground warmed my stomach, my heart grew cold as I watched our band of rope-threaded Jerusalem-farers being led away like beasts of the field. The Damascenes were heading into the desert. Away from Lebanon. Away from Damascus.

  I said, “What shall we do?”

  “I am at a loss,” Arnfithr said. “We cannot fight them. Unarmed. Two against nine.” He turned his head slightly. “How is your leg?”

  “Of no matter.” I gazed into the distance. “We will shadow them,” I said. “And strike at nightfall.”

  “You have a plan?” He reached out and touched my shoulder. I clamped my hand over his.

  They traveled on foot, upright. We were not so lucky.

  We kept low to the ground, often crawling on our stomachs over the rocky terrain, always keeping our enemies in sight. Two toothless predators stalking fat prey. Their smells drifted towards us, stirring our nostrils, sweetening our mouths.

  They had slept. We had little time to do so. Full of anger and outrage, our minds were alert but our muscles ached with the strain of hugging the ground. The heat beat down on our heads, on our necks.

  I had told Arnfithr I had a plan. I had lied. Could I outwit our foe? Could we play a shrewd trick to disarm them, conquer them, rescue Einar, Tholfir, and Ofram?

  Weaponless, we would be slaughtered. We had to win back our weapons. Or steal those of the Damascenes.

  Slithering over a dry scum of sand, I set my mind to the task of finding a way to free our men and escape.

  Easier to free myself from the mouth of a serpent, I thought. But then an idea came to me and I thanked God.

  The Damascenes stopped for the night at a village of no more than a dozen dwellings. The villagers chattered angrily at the soldiers’ arrival. We understood not a word they said. Perhaps they did not want these city soldiers eating their meager food stocks. Perhaps they did not want the soldiers near their women. Perhaps they did not want those pale-skinned captives in their village. They’d heard that Norsemen were crazy. They fought like demons, ripped their enemies apart, and ate their souls.

  Whatever the villagers’ pleas, the soldiers ignored them. An old man fumed. A soldier batted him aside and knocked him over. Another villager strode forward, shouting. He pointed to where the old man scrabbled in the dust, then folded his arms and barred the entrance to his pitiful house. Without warning, the Damascene leader struck him a heavy blow with his new axe. I hoped he was pleased with the result. The man clutched his stomach, surprise in his widening eyes. He fell forward, hands never moving from his belly, and bled furiously.

  The Damascene yelled something at the villagers. They grabbed what they could and fled. After a while the man on the ground stopped jerking and the soldiers dragged his body away.

  Arnfithr and I lay still and waited for dark. When it fell, it was as if nature had thrown a dark, wet sheet over us.

  My body was chilled. Only my leg had heat in it.

  We waited, the darkness pressing in on us.

  They had lit a fire. Two guards sat by it, warming their hands, jabbering. Behind them, our brothers lay roped together. Silent.

  I unfolded my plan to Arnfithr.

  He switched his gaze to my leg. “There can be no doubt as to who will play which part.”

  I nodded, then took a gasping breath to fetter my unsettled mind. “Twice,” I said.

  The first punch knocked me on my arse. I shook my head but stayed dazed. I put my hand to my nose. Blood dripped from the left nostril.

  Arnfithr held out his hands, meekly.

  “It’s necessary,” I said, rising to my feet. “Another,” I said. I closed my eyes. The second blow knocked me down again. I lay where I fell.

  Arnfithr bent over me and began tearing my clothes.

  I powdered my cheeks and lips with dust. I hoped I looked the part—bleeding, dirt-masked, limping on my scalded leg. As I lurched towards the village, I croaked: “Help.” No break in the Damascene guards’ prattle. A little louder. “Help.”

  One of them looked up. He stood, one hand seeking his sword, the other lighting a torch from the fire.

  I staggered forward a few more steps.

  The guard spoke to his companion. After a moment he crept towards me, sword drawn.

  I crumpled, fell at his feet.

  He kicked my ankle. I groaned. He kicked me in the ribs. I groaned again. “Piss-drinker,” I said, knowing my tongue was a thick muddle to his ears.

  His dark eyebrows arched.

  I placed my hands palms up in front of me to show I was unarmed. I pointed to my face. Blood still seeped from my nose. I showed him my leg, where I’d earlier shed the cloth to bare the blistered skin beneath.

  I opened my mouth. Made drinking signs with my hand. “Understand, you son of a dark-haired whore?”

  He steered the torch closer, bending over to study the beaten and burned Viking, peering closely to sift the truth from what he saw: this curious savage, isolated from the rest of his men, had walked into the hands of his enemy rather than die of thirst.

  At least that’s what I hoped he was thinking.

  Abruptly, he stepped aside and backed off to the campfire. The plan had been to kill him swiftly and silently while Arnfithr rid us of the other guard. But the moment had passed. I dragged myself to my knees and scanned the village.

  Arnfithr was nowhere in sight. Our men were awake. They knew we would come for them, of course. And they knew not to make a sound.

  Out of sight, I stood up and bolted, my feet thudding like gentle heartbeats on the softer ground. Fifty paces away, I stopped and watched the guard lead his companion to where I had lain. As they neared the place, I saw Anrfithr flit behind our brothers.

  I prayed for his success.

  My target was the hut where the Damascene leader slept. In the dim moonlight, a dark trail snaked from the doorway where the corpse had been dragged away.

  A cloth draped the entrance. I pulled it aside. Bright lights flashed as my eyes tried to pierce the darkness. Silence pounded in my ears. I stood still and listened.

  Snoring from my right. Gentle, swinelike grunts. Like a woman’s snores. I shuffled towards the sound. Closer. Still closer.

  My foot touched something solid. I stopped. My skin prickled. My mouth dried. My stomach filled with heavy stones. I crouched. He had not awoken. The Damascene leader’s snores still rattled in his throat where he lay on the floor. My hand slowly moved towards the sound. I touched hair that felt like silk. At once, my left hand darted towards his neck and my fingers clenched around his throat.

  The snoring stopped.

  My right hand joined its fellow and I squeezed.

  Awake now, the Damascene grabbed my wrists. My fingers tightened around his throat, and I pressed down from my shoulders.

  By the time I heard the sound behind me it was too late to react. The blow struck me across the cheek. A second blow struck my nose. I fell off the Damascene and rolled across the floor. I was on my feet, my nose bleeding again. It was too painful to dab the gore away. I thought I might choke. I shook my head vigorously and spat.

  My stupidity shamed me. How had I not reckoned there might be a brace of them in the room? I saw only the leader entering the abode, but a companion, a bodyguard, a lover perhaps, had sneaked in unobserved.

  I didn’t know which one I had tried to strangle. But he was still alive. The sound of his coughing now filled the room.

  The moment the other spoke, his words intended for his fallen companion, I sprang forward. I knew I risked death. He would be armed. But better to risk death than face the fate that awaited me should I linger in an unwarriorlike fog of doubt.

  The heel of my hand struck bone. A second blow shunted him to the side, clearing a path ahead of me.

  I plunged through the doorway and looked up.

  The moonlit glints of the laughing
Damascenes’ weapons were silver flashes of lightning.

  They hair-dragged me towards my brothers. I readied myself for the bleak sag of Arnfithr’s jowls, the wretched faces of my three other men. All knew they were about to die in this godforsaken land. I ground my teeth against the Damascene’s kicks of encouragement.

  But maybe Arnfithr had succeeded. Maybe at least that side of the plan had worked. Yes, he had freed our companions and they had escaped into the darkness! And now they awaited their chance to free me! Hope clung to me like rotting flesh on a skeleton.

  Not for long.

  Arnfithr had managed to loosen the ropes around the wrists of Tholfir and Ofram. Einar remained tied. Arnfithr was unbound, his head bowed, closely guarded by three Damascenes.

  The Damascene leader stood in front of me. His dark eyes sparkled in the firelight. I spat blood in his face. His eyes narrowed. He wiped the red-frothed spit off his cheek and showed me his axe. My axe. He’d plucked out the jewels. Was he offering it to me? I thought not. I looked at him again and he struck me on the shoulder with the helve of the axe. And again. As if he was knocking a stake into the ground. I fell to my knees. The third time I was ready for him.

  I caught the axe handle as it swung down and ripped it out of his grasp. Before he had time to tumble to my intent, I planted the blade in his skull. I tugged it out and sent it crashing down again.

  Around me, the Damascenes looked at each other. Leaderless, they didn’t know what to do. Surprise turned to outrage. Outrage battled with fear. Fear yielded to stupor. They stood as still as trees.

  Not so Arnfithr. Two of his guards lay on the ground. The third gargled, a knife hilt-sunk in his throat. Tholfir, silent despite the tears in his eyes, untied Einar’s bonds. Ofram picked up a sword that had belonged to one of Arnfithr’s victims and stood beside me.

  Arnfithr started to yell. He roared like a berserker. I joined him. Ofram took up the call. Einar joined us. Then Tholfir. Together, the noise we made caused the ground beneath our feet to tremble.

  Still yelling, I plunged my axe into the Damascene leader’s chest. The blade tore into his body. I chopped at him as if I were splitting a log.

  The remaining Damascenes backed off.

  My men kept up their crazy noise.

  The Damascenes kept their distance.

  Their leader’s chest was spoiled red, the mess a pack of dogs would wreak. I stuck my hand inside and grabbed his heart. I ripped it out and held it high.

  Our chorus was the roar of an angry God. I placed the bleeding flesh to my lips and bit into it. My mouth filled with warm blood. I passed the heart to Ofram.

  Suddenly there was silence. A single Damascene soldier had stepped forward, his right hand shaking as he held out his sword.

  “Brave man,” Arnfithr said.

  Ofram dropped the leader’s heart and wiped his hand on the ground. He darted towards the advancing Damascene and slew him with a single blow to the neck. “Dead man,” he said. He picked up the fallen man’s sword and gave it to Tholfir.

  Tholfir looked at me.

  “It’s okay,” I told him.

  “What now?” Einar asked.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

  We bunched together and backed away from the Damascenes. When we could no longer see them, we turned and ran, heading for the safety of the Lebanese Mountains.

  Had the Damascenes chased us, they might have beaten us down and crushed us before long. They had food and water. We were hungry and thirsty. But they chose to let us go. Now and again Tholfir let out a cry and pointed at a glimmer in the distance. But each time, it was only his fear-fevered fancy.

  When we reached the mountains, we prayed, quietly, each asking his own favor of the Lord. On my knees, salt tang still on my lips, I whispered, “Give me strength to forget.”

  And God answered, “What is past is dead.”

  Outside the flint-carved walls of Orkahaugr the wind still howled. Tholfir stirred, legs kicking like a dreaming dog where he lay curled at my feet.

  Arnfithr finished his latest scratchings on the wall. “You must say something, Hardaxe,” he told me. “For those who are yet to come to this place.”

  I gazed at him. “Write only this,” I said. “Haermund Hardaxe was here.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

  We All Come from Splattertown

  Hugh Lessig

  I am surfing the edge of a Friday night drunk as Angelo arrives. He comes to the end of the bar, hooks the rail with a steeled toe.

  He whispers, “You want to play some paintball tomorrow?”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  My stare slides away. You never look directly at Angelo because he’ll take it the wrong way, even with me.

  He gets a beer, takes a swig. When he says nothing else, I add the rest of it.

  “You want to bring Benny too? He’ll get pissed if we don’t call him.”

  A smile crawls up one side of Angelo’s face. The cobra tattoo on his neck uncoils in rhythm.

  “We can call him, if you insist. He loves his paintball. But he’s not you. You taught me everything I know, brother.”

  We tap fists. Angelo takes a backseat to few men, but he defers to me on paintball issues. It’s funny how that works. I am not big or strong. I don’t shave my head or have angry tattoos scrolling across my back that speak of white power. I don’t wear black boots with red laces. But I can move through the woods and pick my targets. I am a calm shot with a paintball gun. I can plan strategy. I see things happening ahead of me.

  Angelo thinks this makes me some kind of warrior. He thinks I’ll come out and shoot jigaboos with him when the United States breaks out in a race war. Except I don’t call them jigaboos, I don’t hang out with his comrades, and I don’t give a flying fuck about his race war. I just like nailing people sometimes. Yeah, I pretend it’s killing, and I talk about it when the beers start going down—about how I could really kill people. But it’s just talk. Angelo and I became friends in grade school and we’ve woofed on shit since then. The thread of our friendship has stretched thin through these strange and empty years.

  He asks, “What is it you study again?”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times. You don’t need to bust me about it.”

  “I’m not busting you. Do you like it?”

  “It’s interesting.”

  Angelo laughs. “It could some in handy sometime, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Handy how?”

  He claps me on the shoulder, throws down a five. “You call Benny, and then call me. We all go up together.”

  He leaves without another word. The conversation rewinds in my head. Something sinks in my gut and leaves a terrible hole.

  Two months ago, I enrolled in Carbon County Community College to study mortuary science.

  I want to be a funeral director.

  Why would that come in handy?

  Benny wants to drive, so the three of us pile into his Jeep and head up to Splattertown, which is on a mountain five miles outside town. The coal was played out there years ago, and this guy from Jersey bought the land for a song and dance. He put up some pallets and plywood towers, and he configured battlefields with names like Maze City and Killer’s Kanyon. It costs thirty bucks to play half a day.

  Benny is hard-wired today. He is a skinny kid with a caved-in chest who barely comes up to my nipples, but he acts like he’s ten feet tall, thanks mostly to the video games he plays.

  “You guys are in for trouble. I’m playing point this time.”

  He swings the wheel as he talks. The Jeep veers onto the shoulder, and then returns to the road. The three of us went to high school together, and for a moment we are invincible and the road is clear and no one lurks in the mirrors.

  “Whatever you want,” I say.

  I’m in the backseat and Angelo rides shotgun. He stares at nothing in particular, or at something the rest of us can’t see.

  T
here isn’t much to paintball, really. You get a gun with a CO2 cartridge that shoots little plastic balls filled with fluorescent paint. You rent the guns, the ammo, helmets, goggles, and gloves, pretty much everything you need. I have my own gear, but Benny and Angelo still get theirs by the hour.

  You play in a group, and the three of us are teamed with a bunch of high school kids from Aliquippa. They have rental gear from top to bottom. We board a couple of Hummers for the drive into the woods. The high school kids are giggling like six-year-olds, and I’m thinking I’ll have to lead this group.

  The first game is Capture the Flag—eleven on twelve, the three of us playing together—and we win easily. Most people try to skirt around the edge of the battlefield and get caught in bad angles. I lead a group up the middle and get the flag, which is just a piece of red cloth attached to a barrier.

  The last game we play is Run and Chase. We pick one kid from the group to take off through the woods, and the rest of us go after him. The Aliquippa kids had someone singled out—some little dude who played football and could run like the wind—and we spend a good thirty minutes chasing him through the trees. Then the referee blows his whistle, a signal that everyone should stop. I figure the game is over, that someone finally nailed the kid. Instead, we find the referee frantically punching numbers into his cell phone and standing over Benny, who is face-down on the ground with the hilt of a knife protruding from the back of his head.

  The state police separate us for questioning, and I pretty much tell the truth.

  I was involved in the game. Everyone ran around trying to find this one kid. I didn’t see Benny. The helmets cover everyone’s face and the rental gear all looks the same. Benny is your basic skinny kid. He could have been next to me and I might not have known it.