Incident At Monticello Read online

‘I Struck’

  The sun, without us noticing had slid from its nested tree-top perch to a place that warmed us with the hottest of the day. The stifling light of July was broken only by the creeping shade of a passing cloud. My memory had made permanent this day, this date. The Sea of Tranquility floated the Eagle exactly a year ago today.

  Swiping the back of my hand across my glossed and dirty forehead, my head streaked with a thin dark paste. Becky (Lisa Zambrano) laughed, pointed, and said; “You look like an Indian Tom.” Huck (Will Kengla) turned to me and silhouetted Becky’s laugh.

  Today being not different from many, the three of us had been living lives read. Our adventure began mid-morning at Upper Lake Mohawk. My red leaky flat bottom boat was chained and resting on the shallow bottom. Left unattended for two days, this was always its resting place. Our played River-boat needed to be pulled ashore, flipped, and made ready for our crossing to the Island. This was easily done by three undeniable explorers.

  Our duties were unofficially assigned. Becky manned the two quart Eight O’clock Coffee can. The can had been pushed and stepped into a half circle. With this perfect tool, she was the First Mate of Bailing. Huck was Ensign of Left Oar. Becky silently scorned at his apparent out-ranking. It was just the way it was to Huck and I. A girl could not out-rank a boy. Tom, me, of course was the vessel’s Captain. My wheel on the bridge, was right oar.

  Huck and I rowed with rhythm and fortitude. It was a game of strength; which of us could pull the boat off of its centered path. Huck being two years older and significantly larger, I struggled to keep pace. Once our path showed that I could not keep up, Huck eased his pulling. Unsaid so, he had won the game. The game that I would win one day. As we first played, and then went on, Becky steadily returned the intruding lake back unto its self.

  Keeping a good pace we approached the opposite shore and the Island that rose from the water within 100 yards of the shore. The shore banked steep and high. Different days, many, we had ventured to scale this calling forbade-ness. It was jungle thick like. The ground was spongy with the discard of centuries. The dirt of the ground was hidden deep. Only the damp, once living, held our feet up. We all knew the threat of a Quicksand doom.

  Tree roots rose and dipped back into the ground. Bushes and smaller living green, some with thorns, made passage a maze that could only painfully be cheated. Vines twisted along themselves and draped endlessly at shoulder level. Pines and Hard-woods, dead and alive, slapped their hands at us; further demanding a labyrinth honored.

  This part of the lake was mostly without people. It was dotted by only two houses that stood where the marsh and an eased slope would allow. This recognized solitude of the Island made it perfect adventuring for young explorers. This same relative recluse-ness also made it an inviting place for teenagers.

  The Island was not large. Perhaps the size of a football field. It was also shaped that way. It ran long and narrow. It was mostly sand; dirt and sand. Thin bushes and sapling trees that would not survive more than two seasons, were the Island’s only permanent occupants. But during the warmer times, we and others like us, held this spot during the day. The night was often lit with the campfires of those older. Huge; the Island, like the lake, was huge in our over active imagination. Over active, the only kind we had. Is that not the indulgence of what a child is? Is that not how it should be?

  Captain Tom yelled; “Ramming speed!” Our pace double-timed. Becky braced for the collision that would never come. With a gentle sand forced slowing, our craft slid smoothly onto the Island. Securing our vessel our Island quest began. It wasn’t that we were searching for one thing in particular, but it was indeed always a venture.

  All of our Island visits differed in our activates, but most included checking out the spent fire, inspecting bottles for notes from the shipwrecked, chasing frogs, occasionally finding and inspecting strange white translucent balloons, and trying to spear fish with pointed sticks. The fish didn’t have a worry. And of course an Island visit always included running and splashing at water’s edge.

  Not finding any treasured balloons, and recognizing our always present urge to do something else, we decided that our time on the Island was at end. Re-taking our assigned stations we sailed back to port. I chained the boat and left it to slowly again find the bottom. We headed off for the something else. Stopping first at the Beachcomber, we purchased three for a dime strips of sugar dotted paper.

  We passed through Our Lady of the Lake parking lot, cut through Reverend George Brown Elementary, and headed across the athletic field of Pope John the XXIII High School. We were migratory. None of us knew we were, but we always wandered on. Understanding without considering, we knew our final destination was going to be The Swamp.

  Climbing the hill that back-dropped the diamond’s infield, Becky was the first to sit. She disappeared into the tall thick grass that the spring rains and the summer shine had teamed to sprout. Huck followed, and I again. We three now lay comfortably on our backs. The thick and tall green cushioned and hid us. The sun had passed just enough west as to allow our eyes to gaze upward without restriction. It was only our rustling sounds that provided comforting awareness of each other’s where-abouts. The long thick and near brittle blades of grass protected us. They were also always offering to slice open an un-cautious finger.

  We’d entered a hovel that was too vast to even consider. A place that was not ours. It was the domain of the leaping grasshoppers, the hovering dragon flies, and the rhythmic crickets. Rare, and only found by accident, was the proud Praying Mantis. None were found this day. Such a stumbling upon always gathered many of the neighborhood’s young investigators.

  As simple as it is, perhaps its simple-ness makes it so, these moments that have long since fled from my life, were the most peaceful of my young life. Nothing, something, never interrupts me here. Now, amongst my far ventured age, this understanding brings about a missing. Perhaps there is only one moment awaiting me that will ever again bring such peacefulness.

  Still inhabiting a bug’s world I pick a giant Cumulous and watch it inch across the light blue Jersey sky. Staying with it, watching it phase from a running rabbit with ears flowing backwards, to a pointed spear that gently morphs into a rounded dull anything. Blue filled holes slowly collapse upon themselves. Other holes of blue open. Their fibers stretching, tearing, and discarding the puff; cotton balls gently push away. Whatever I found it to be, it became whatever I left it to be.

  It is unspoiled that youth is wasted on the young. These youthful moments of still-photography in motion are the solace born of purest simple. My ability to, this senseless act of doing so near nothing, was long ago taken away from me. Stolen by the adult curse of need not do nothing. The need of not to do simple. Child-ness; an art long lost. Why do we cast off these never to return moments? But I digress. (See… right there! I understand that I’ve rambled. I understand that it is no longer productive for you the reader. Thus I feel the need to apologize for simple.)

  Did they not know when they put this fence up last year that we would not be able to get onto the ball fields? They, whomever they are, why would they do this? These fields that were the setting for endless seasonal sport and youthful nonsense. These were our fields. Why would they fence us out? Us, all of Sagamore Trail, all of the kids that were a short walk away, we did not understand. Why would they do this? We, did not like they.

  Moving on again, we slipped through one of the four holes that we had tunneled under the fence. These strategically placed openings were dug at our favorite entry and exit locations. Like ever dutiful woodchucks, we cared for and cleared these holes as soon as they, someone, dirt’d in our tunnels. They, someone, were ghosts behaving badly in the black hours that ghosts behave badly in. They were never witnessed doing their Tom-foolery.

  Will, arms extended and waving for balance, was the first to pass over the c
reek. Decided by the wisest, the older kids, this was the creek that created The Swamp. Because we were told this, it was true. But still we needed to know more. Every so often Lewis and Clark would set off exploring for the source of this creek. As in Meriwether and William’s quest, we also failed. However, like them, we also discovered so much more.

  Lisa followed Will and I across our bridge; a giant tree that had been intentionally felled by the Mohawk Indians. This we were also told. As the entire day was, a game was associated with The Swamp. The Swamp, though no one would admit it, was a scary kid place. However, it was also a magical kid place. It held tadpoles that would eventually hop and give you warts. It was common to see deer, fox, skunks, and many other curious critters. However, there were also leeches and snakes. Occasionally a kid not from the neighborhood would tell of seeing a giant alligator. I’d never seen one. Oh yeah… there was also the possibility of being taken and eaten by the New Jersey Swamp Devil. I had never seen him either. But the old man that lived at the dead-end of Sagamore trail had

  The Swamp Devil was always sneaking just one snapped twig away. But the Taker of Children, is not where my biggest fear never rests. For me, the creature that only evil incarnate would have placed on earth, crawled constant on my attentiveness. The hiding, lurking, surprising, slimy snake. All the serpentine belly travelers are the scourge of the earth. True in New Jersey, truer in The Swamp, the Cottonmouths and Water Moccasins are those that are viper’d and supposedly threaten the greatest harm. However, I know of a boy who is no longer here. I was told this; he was stalked, surprised, and scared by a Gardner snake. Instantly his heart stopped. Snakes, all snakes, hide waiting, hiding and waiting for me. I know it, you know it.

  The main body of The Swamp, the flooded area, is several hundred yards long and wide by half. Its length runs north to south. Today and always, the game runs towards the South.

  Mostly, the depth of the dark brown leech infested water was around one foot. It was deeper in some spots. Which is where the snakes are. It was shallower in others. Which is where the snakes are. The bottom beneath the water was jet black mud that had been created by decaying dinosaurs. This sludge mired to the center of the earth. Willy told me so.

  Standing on the edge, the last of the ground that was firm enough to support my Redball Jets, I stared ahead planning my path. Planning was everything. Lisa was to my right; Will to her’s. As I was, my two competitors were planning their path as well. This was the beginning of the game. A game that all the kids knew could bring death. It never had, but it was always out there. Minor cuts and bruises were not uncommon. I did know of a broken ankle and a dislocated finger. Unless these game injuries had happened to you, they were kid minor.

  For a rookie looking out at the swamp for the first time, it appeared to be nothing more than flooded woods. To veterans, us, The Swamp was so much more. Dark and always so, even when the sun was bright everywhere, The Swamp’s colors where always dusted with gray. Under a translucent umbrella. This was to hide the Swamp Devil. And no doubt the snakes.

  The dark that shouldn’t have been was left only in our thoughts. It was never spoken of. It was our not wanting to understand its creepiness that left it forever unmentioned. Rolling a rock to see what was on the underside, the rock that was The Swamp we left untouched.

  Scattered throughout in an irregular speckling, the dark water pushed up tiny islands. Many more than we knew, but surely it was in the millions. Islands small and irregular. Most held planted a small tree. These tree’s roots lifted clear of the water and mated into a platform that foundation’d the island. Roots that were covered and packed with a soil that was not recognized by us. This soil, or whatever it was, was covered with a deep green moss-like something. Spongy, the islands would ooze water when stepped upon. The trees were mostly dead. Only broken and often sharp branches extended from the tree. What we didn’t know as ferns, lazily draped them. Scarecrows that had outlasted the autumn and held only the remnants of tattered clothing.

  The game was simple in its concept and challenging in its execution. When Will yelled Bonsai, the race to the other side was on. The oldest of any group was the starter. The first one to reach the Skunkweed patch on the solid side was the winner. That is the only rule; simple. There had in the past been protests. But none in the history of Swamp Hopping had ever held up. First one to break open the Skunkweed was the day’s Swamp Hopping champion.

  This rule is the only simple involved in Swamp Hopping. The ultimate goal was a clean winning run. Clean never meaning clean, but dry. It had occasionally been done by each of us, but not often. Getting to the weed patch quickest was winning. Quickest was jumping and sticking the island. Two, three, four, leap combinations. Long leaps with tree grabbing and spinning to stop momentum. Quick direction changes. All were basic Swamp Hopping fundamentals. Honed and not fundamental, was path planning. This was a skill mastered only by the elite. Planning often determined the winner. It was easy enough to choose your first dozen or so islands, but mid-run decision making was success or failure. Continual motion while surveying was success. Stopping to survey meant probable failure. Our Swamp Hopping elders coined the phrase; “He who hesitates is lost.”

  “Bonsai!” Will screamed. I was off with a quick triple combination. Never touching heal to islands it was surgical in precision. Next a long jump, a tree spin, a small left, a double tap forward, right, double forward, left, left, and a long jump onto an island without a tree for a spin. Having to jump hard right next, I had to stop. Both feet landed hard and dug deep into the absorbing disk. My knees bent and locked. My arms flailed like windmills. Bending hard at the waist I fought momentum. Inertia’s finger heavy between my shoulders gently pushed me towards a wet place that I didn’t want to go. Straining hard momentum was stopped. It wasn’t. It was. It wasn’t! My right Redball twitched a lift. I stopped it. It stopped. It did. It didn’t. The point of no return passed. My right foot twitched again and didn’t un-twitch. Off to my right heard a small splash. A longer and louder one quickly followed. I knew what had happened and who it had happened to. My sneaker sock and foot slapped hard onto the water and disappeared eight inches down. Black dinosaur remains rolled to the surface circling outward

  “Snakes!” I yelled with not one in sight. Now… as much as I was afraid of snakes, I was more afraid of going home with only one shoe. If that happened, it would be again.

  Being a veteran of island hopping and experienced in my current situation, I knew a quick jerk of my foot would leave my right foot with only a soiled sock. Easy, easy, the toe of my shoe fanned the muck left to right. Slight at first, gradually making a larger and larger Snow Angel in the mud that was trying to vacuum away my Jet. History had taught me that a gentle heal-toe foot rocking would prevent a long bad-anticipation trip home to an angered mother. Feeling for attached canvas, I carefully and wishfully pulled upward a toe raised foot. A sound of sucking followed by a popping release loosed my foot. A black liquid cloud surrounded my foot to the surface. Clearing the surface there was only black. Dipping back and swirling, I raised it again to the island. “Yes!” I yelled with jubilation as red peaked through the black. I dip-swirled, dip-swirled, and dip-swirled. The wanting to cling mud melted into the murky water. It should be without saying that I did this only after first scanning for stalking snakes.

  My moment passed and I looked in the direction of the double splash. What I saw was expected. Lisa stood in disbelief upon one of the larger islands. The once light red hair on the top of her head was soaked darker. Beaded water ran down her face dripping from a dimpled chin. Likewise, the entire front of her down to the soles of her feet was wet. From knees to feet and elbows to fingertips, mud painted. Looking to me with sadness that we all at least once had shared, dejection leaked wet from a sullen face. Lisa’s fingers were rigid, her arms were forced down and away
from her waist. Her eyes dropped to her feet. “I lost my shoes.” She said this with scared sadness. Blowing water from her lips she bent to the water. Rinsing her arms she began to cry. A scared little girl coughed two quick crying breaths and determinedly halted her outcry.

  Feeling bad for her and not knowing what to say, Willy caught my eye. He was still on a clean run and nearly 15 yards ahead. Turning left, south, a path was planned and I was off. Hopping, leaping and spinning, I looked at Will who had increased his lead. If he did not miss-step he would win. More importantly, I would lose. So I continued on a steady but careful path. I was not conceding the victory quite yet. In one last effort to distract and slow him, I yelled; “I’m catching you Huck.” He did not distract or slow. He did briefly laugh. Seconds and then a minute passed. I tried a second last effort to distract and slow; “Will! Will! The Swamp Devil is right behind you.” He quick stepped a three island tap tap tap and leapt to a tree’d island. He executed a standard spin. In doing so he saw it to be a lie.

  I gained only yards as he quickly planned and started again with words very fitting; “You’re a jerk Danny.” Laughing at his fitting and completing a quick 10 island run, I was only 9 yards behind. But his lead seemed safe as he only had about 20 yards to go.

  Still I tried one last last last… well, you know. “Will-”

  “Shut up Danny I’m not falling for it.”

  “No Will I don’t see Lisa!” Will double strode and stopped. He turned looking back.

  “Lisa!” he yelled. The Swamp yielded nothing. He yelled louder; “Lisa! Lisa are you okay? Are you coming?” I was still moving south and I was listening.

  There was a brief pause and then I heard a distant reply. “Yeah I’m coming.” Again a brief pause. “I’m alright.” She didn’t sound self-convinced.

  Realizing that I had pulled even with Will, I stopped and looked to him. He looked towards her and then back to me. We both looked towards her. With typical Swamp Hopping noises she closed distance and then broke through into view. I broke towards the finish. “You’re cheating Danny,” Will said as he singled doubled and leapt. I was in the lead now with just yards to go. I could hear Lisa talking to us and Will yelling at me. “Cheater! You’re a cheater Danny!” No mistakes Danny and you got it. Left, double small, south again, two easy ones and one giant leap to semi firm ground. I bolted with just five yards to the Skunkweed. Running full out; one step, two steps, three, my left foot was pulled back with a jerk that hurt my toe and strained my hip. From my waist up to my face, I slammed into the damp softened soil. Soil entered my mouth as I slid for several feet. With my feet up over my back, I seemed unable to move. Not seemingly, I was unable to breath. Sucking to replenish the air that had been hard forced out brought pain. In that instant, I was dying. Seconds passed and I was still alive. The pain and fright was easing as I rolled to my back. A foul burning smell filled my nose. It was a loser’s essence of Skunkweed.

  Slowly sitting, slower turning, and quickly spitting, I saw Will standing in the weeds. He stood proud with his arms folded and held high to his chest.

  Lisa sounded coming up behind me; “What happened to you Danny?” Still sitting and breathing better, I turned to search the path of my result.

  “A tree root,” I said. I turned back to Will.

  He was in his glory; dancing and singing. “Oh yeah! You tried to cheat. You tried to cheat. But cheaters never prosper.” He repeated this twice more. I had to take it. It was simple. Well, at least a snake didn’t get me.

  Lisa jittery, stood looking at me with unease. Wiping the water that remained on her forehead, she was uncomfortable and forced a smile that reflected this. Her playfulness had long since melted away by the fire that would be trouble at home. Wishing for a mystical saving, she looked to her feet to see if the Good Fairies of The Swamp had gifted her with a new pair. My knowing of her certain punishment, I tried to hide from my face. My mind’s face hid little. What she was feeling I had also felt. But I knew what she was feeling was a deeper darkness. The difference I didn’t know, but there was one. My home was not the same; not the same as hers. How it wasn’t I didn’t understand. But both Will and I understood. Lisa was guarded of her home life. She rarely spoke of her home, her parents, or her older brother. All I knew was that she would disappear for weeks at a time. She would be disappearing now for sure.

  Her home, no, mine was a home, here’s was a house. She never called it home. Her house was not where she wanted to go, but she had to. I guess she figured it might as well be now. Shoeless, muddied and wet, she went there. “I gotta go. I probably won’t see you for a while.” Selfishly this made me mad. I worried so about her when she was not with us.

  Willy and I held different places in Lisa’s life. Spiritual strength and organization is what she sought from me. Strength, strength and physical protection, is what she sought from Will. If a ten year old has one, Willy was her boyfriend. I was… well I’m not sure what I was. I only knew that she looked to me for something. Perhaps it was comfort.

  Willy, who was still standing in the patch of Skunkweed that was burning my nose and squeezing my temples, raised his left hand and pointed. His palm had lost skin and was bleeding. A common spin-move injury; a badge of victory. He said; “Lisa go to the old man’s house and wash off the mud.” She glanced in the direction of the house and then back to me. Her look was asking.

  “Go ahead. It will be okay Lisa. The old man won’t mind.” I said this placing my hand on her shoulder and gently turning her.

  “Use the hose it will be alright,” Willy added. Without hesitating or saying a word, she headed off. Watching her shoeless feet carefully pick her way across the leaf coated floor, I wondered if she would use his hose. Lisa was not real comfortable with the old man that lived at the dead-end of Sagamore Trail.

  We watched as Lisa melted beyond a row of Pines. “Come on Will.” I started running south. Leaving The Swamp for another day.

  “Where are we going Danny?”

  “Come on Huck.”

  Wandering, we traveled ten football fields south and covered three times that in ground. Flora was picked and flicked. Fauna was startled. We kicked things. We scared off a deer and a fox. A skunk that was not in a playful mood scared us off. This wasn’t our first skunk rodeo. Like a deer that had suddenly caught a scent, Willy halted abrupt. He strained his neck and started scanning the woods. “Where are we Tom?” I realized we were in a new place. Someplace I had never been before. I, we, had never gone this far before. Looking to the sky I found the sun.

  Knowing it was well into the afternoon, I pointed in the direction that the sun was leaning. “That is west,” I proudly proclaimed. “So to go back we have to go north.” Again proud, I pointed north.

  “Let’s turn back Danny.” Off I ran again in the same direction we’d been heading.

  “Come on Huck just a little further.”

  “Alright Tom but just a little further.” For reassurance of his words I listened and heard his running behind.

  My running slowed as I was looking and listening. This was all new and I wanted to take all of it in. The woods had gotten very thick with young and old trees alike. Huge and probably millions of years old were some. Zeus suddenly dropped his shield that had been holding back the brightness of the sun. The shaded ground that had presented only a mix of brown, popped a synthesis of colors. Colors both softest and brightest. Greens, yellows, and reds; all blended within a summer’s presentation.

  The only one that could, had reached down and plucked all weeds from this spot. A near perfect circle of crabgrass that was everything wooden, had been pulled. But one intentional tree had been left behind. One of distinction that was holding court centered in this meadow’d clearing.

  Holding on the edge, the distant edge would have been reachable with a well thrown rock. The complet
e brightness that was soft to my eyes held me awed. Will held motionless a step back and off my left shoulder. Wondering if I should, I eased forward. Gently, my steps were careful not to harm the lives of this oasis. Not wanting to alarm it, I approached the tree slow and steady. The hunting skills that I had just begun to learn, asked me if I was downwind of it.

  Young profiling; it was between eight and one hundred feet tall. The sun had bleached it into a white with just a hint of its original brown. Black, its deep grain ran the length. Resting just feet away, as if gently placed there, was its upper portion. The placed was three times in length. Only rounded nubs remained where branches once had. The downed portion looked to have been ripped from its base by a winded force. Although it was certainly the same tree at one time, it was not white. Dark, near black, it shined from decades of waxing. Heavy, it was cemented to the ground. A solid rock of wood. My thoughts flashed to the black table-tops of Science Lab.

  Willy finished his approach to the standing white and reached to it. Almost hesitantly, he placed his palm on the trunk and slid his fingers in an arched feeling. “Danny it’s really hard. It feels like stone. Like marble or something.” Having to see for myself I did. Will was right, to me it felt like glazed bone.

  “What?” I asked of him, turning to him.

  Shrugging, Will replied; “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” I knocked on it; thump, thump, thump. The sound was that of a base drum. It was booming and not that of a thick tree.

  “What did you say?” again I asked.

  “Danny I’m not saying anything!” My look to him was a child’s warning.

  “Stop messing with me Willy.” His face was blank and his lips were apart slight.

  Still with doubt, I watched Will’s mouth while circling the tree. “Whoa! Willy look!” Will jumped with apprehension, joined me and dropped to his knees at my side

  “Indians!” he said looking up to me. Knocking him over with young exuberance I dropped to my knees and poked head-first into the hole.

  Beginning a foot from the base of the tree, there was a hole big enough for two of me or one large man. The opening was definitely man-made; still displaying chops and gouges from a Tomahawk. With my left hand I grabbed Will’s right shoulder.

  Confirming, I declared; “Indians! The Mohawks it had to be.” Willy leapt to his feet and danced a circle around the tree.

  Lifting his knees high, leaning far back and then farther forward, patting his palm to his mouth, he Indian’d. “Aay aay aay aay, oh oh oh oh, aay aay aay aay.” Willy danced as I investigated. My hands holding the bottom of the opening, I put my head back in and looked upward.

  “It’s hollow Will all the way. I can see all the way to the sky.” Between the muffling of the tree and Will’s hollering, I didn’t think he heard me.

  Up over and in, my shoe water-squished as it landed on the cement like inside. The other joining its mate, I rose into a slow careful stand. My little mind told me I was the first non-Indian ever inside this hollow tree. I whooped a momentous yelp.

  There was a lot of room for a ten year old; plenty of room for a man of almost any size. Looking at the inner walls, it did not look like the Mohawks had hollowed it. There were no gouges or slices of a Tomahawk. The walls were smooth and even. Nature had done the hollowing. I was disappointed; no Indians.

  “Will there are steps in here.” I felt Will’s head brush my leg as I counted five wooden boards nailed to the wall. They were aligned and heading to the clouds. They looked like two-by-fours, but a bit odd. All five varied slightly in size and shape. Each one was nailed with six nails. The heads of the nails were all broken off flush. For a kid, they were spaced pretty far between.

  “I’m going up Huck.” The second board, which would be my first hand hold, was just out of reach. Jumping, my hand slapped and then slipped from the board. Again jumping, slapping, and this time grasping. My left hand settled firmly next to the right. Pulling myself up I gained a foot hold. Testing the steps I pulled and bounced. They were cemented. Nary a twitch. As if a branch, the boards were the tree. Each was cold boned.

  Will’s eyes thoughts and words followed me upward. “Wow this is cool Danny.” He must have then withdrawn from below as the words I now heard were barely audible. Continuing my strained climb; step three, step four, one to go. The tree’s broken top edge was my last rounded handhold. Pulling and pushing I broke into the flooded light of the sky. So it should have been. My face tingled with a chill and not expected summer warmth. My eyes were fooled; neither dark nor bright triggered sight. Blindness was replaced with only sight of my mind’s eye.

  Melted shadows in a fog that had no color floated with a singleness. Shapes were trying to define themselves. Glints of silver flashed and were gone. The shapes defined were men. Glints, now more than flashes, were bayonets, hatchets, and flintlocks. In hand to hand combat, the Red were slaughtering the Undistinguished.

  The massacre at a distance was suddenly wiped away by a face that was filled with terror of finality. Painting the picture in my mind was a man’s face that I understood to be seconds from not being. It was a young face that was bearded and haired by dirty blackness. His sun browned skin was made still deeper by sweat dampened soil. A deep gash ran from the middle of his forehead, across a closed left eye, and trailed down an exposed cheek-bone. From it blood flowed without end.

  This man, soon to be guided by his soul, searched for mine. His eyes pierced, his words fell into a bottomless Well of this time’s indifference. Over the slowness that would be a lifetime, his words slowly surfaced. They would float calm in a basin of my acknowledgement. Years to follow, time to ponder, words I would struggle to place in any known space.

  Triggered by this sudden face of terror, my left had released with a flying backwards elbow. It hit a hardness that sent electricity flowing to fingertips. With unstoppable momentum my back followed. Instantly I understood that my remaining handhold was no more. This touched me with the face’s terror.

  Starting my sliding fall I slapped at any handhold. My fingers bounced from each grasp. Banging hard upward off of a step my left foot tossed my hips upward. I waved air one more time. My head struck.