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Shadows of Dusty Rain
It may not have been as they deeply wished, not as they had once revered...
In the afternoon, soldiers appeared from the north and entered town. They dragged what was left of a body behind one of the trucks and dumped it near the fountain in the plaza. The ground scattered its dust.
The Captain climbed down. He spun slow in the plaza. As he turned, he rested his dark scrutiny on each resident who stood silent, each with a singular ghost on their face.
The trucks idled diesel fumes. The desert met the heavy sky. Soldiers walked from townface to townface, inspected each person for lines of defiance in their gaze. They placed one woman in a truck, and drove off. The air rumbled, then faded.
One young soldier stayed behind, a boy with one arm. He carried no pistol, no rifle. He wore no hat.
From a window, Jackson watched the plaza. When the truckdust went back to its streetbed, he stepped out. The young soldier’s face stood vacant.
Why are you here? asked Jackson.
We won the war, said the young soldier, a boy with one arm, cut off from companions and amputated from completeness.
No. Why are you here? Alone?
The boy inhaled deeply, paused, pushed out a hot lungful of desert air. Melcher, he said.
What do you know of him? asked Jackson. Thomas Melcher was a fighter who had disappeared several days earlier. Word had spread through the towns.
He was my father.
Jackson stood silent for a moment, then pointed to the mess the soldiers had dumped by the fountain. Is that him? he asked.
Young Melcher nodded and looked around at the townfaces that bearded and sunbrown and furrowed stared back. I’m worthless now, he said.
First a traitor, and now a sacrifice, said Jackson.
The townfaces tightened their circle, one step, two. Their boots raised small clouds of dust.
Jackson raised his palm to the crowd. They stopped. How did you lose your arm? he asked.
Young Melcher clenched his teeth, put his fist to his mouth. Not lost, he said. Taken.
The sun sighed a burning breeze. A large bird descended to the body by the fountain. Another.
Are you going to fight? asked Jackson.
The boy Melcher lowered his fist, but kept it tight. Would there be a point? he said.
No, said Jackson. We are many.
The townface tightened its circle again.
Melcher looked around. Will it help? he asked.
What?
When you kill me, will it help you forget?
No, said Jackson. Dust still blows over our graves.
True. All carried headstones in their hearts. Kindness had bled itself dry into the earth.
It could have helped, said a townface that came closer, separated itself from the crowd, and became the face of a young woman with a scar on her cheek. It could have helped, she said, if we hadn’t lost so much.
The townfaces muttered as one and tapered into silence. For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then, by the fountain, the birds ripped the stillness open.
Young Melcher exhaled his few years. Yours too was taken, he said.
Jackson nodded. Something they had in common with the boy.
Yet it wasn’t enough. Whether theft was loss or whether loss swept into a town in dusty trucks didn’t much matter to Jackson nor to the townfaces. What mattered stood as delegate before them with one arm that dangled and another that rested somewhere in a wheelbarrow of limbs.
It may not have been as they deeply wished, not as they had once revered, but at times expediency and ease rose from mere shadows of dusty rain. And, as they had all observed, each on their own private calendar of sorrow, at times justice simply stood outside the tightening circle of condemnation, and let justification have its very own festal day.
— — —
Dear Reader, thanks for reading Dynamic Creed. I hope you enjoyed this piece. If you did, please hit like, and leave a comment. Help spread the word.
Yea! My book is ready. I’ll send a separate email soon. I’ll also venture over into Notes land, a place I don’t go often, and see if I can muster some marketing mojo.
Meanwhile, for those who want to know now, here’s a link. It’s beautiful, inside and out.
More details to follow. Many thanks for your support!
All the best
Victor David
And now for some archive action:
Nice study on the futility of retribution. It seems so dystopian, yet we know scenes like this have played out time and again. And it will play out again, because we are, well, human.
Wow, Victor! This is so powerful and searing. One of your best pieces I've read so far!