Spring

 

Grains and Flowers

By Jimmie von Tungeln

 Something stirred in the damp cell, a breeze perhaps. The man drew his blanket tighter and turned toward the small window. Through it he saw the moon as a small cloud scuttled across its surface. Holding the blanket around him, he rose from the stone ledge that was his bed and stood on aching legs. “Nearly morning.” he said to no one.

            He walked to the window and placed his head close to the wooden bars. There, the fresh scent of the winter breeze replaced the cold, dead smell of the cell. He saw the feathered helmet of the guard to his left and spoke in a soft voice. “Soon.”

            The guard did not move, but the man saw him stiffen. “I do think the flowers are beautiful,” the man said. “What a shame.”

            “No talking,” the guard said.

            “Oh,” the man said. “Shall I be punished?”

            The guard turned his head in one direction, then the other. “You should be proud,” he said. “You have lived a blessed life.”

            “Of course,” the man said. “The best, most powerful, and strongest among a throng of pigmies.”

            “Do not blaspheme,” the guard said.

            “I won’t. The flowers do bring joy to both the weak and the strong.”

            “But,” the guard said. “You are not flowers.”

            “No,” the man said. “I am grain, the sustainer of life.” He looked past the guard to where a serape hung, its surface laced with dried grain stalks. Next to it hung a small chain containing wooden replicas of local flowers painted in gaudy imitation of real ones.

            A soft sound floated across the open field between the cell and the mound that was beginning to take shape on the pre-dawn horizon.

            “It begins,” the man said.

            As if being triggered by his announcement, a light appeared from the woods to the right of the ramp, then another, and another. Then there was a line of torches moving first to, then up the ramp of the mound. The uneven steps of the bearers gave the lights a sparkling effect, like the sun shining on the scales of a moving serpent. Both men watched in silence.

            Then the man spoke. “They will sleep well tonight.”

            “Silence,” the guard said. “We each do our part.”

            Something in the cell moved behind the man and he turned. A small girl, her age two smiles before womanhood arose from the other bed and moved into the pale light provided by the watching moon. She wore a woolen dress, decorated with painted flowers. Her hair was braided like the tips of cornstalks, two black strands tied together in back. She wore a necklace of silver trinkets, each in the shape of a flower. Smaller replicas dangled from each wrist. She walked in leather moccasins. They, like her dress, were covered with painted replicas of flowers.

            The girl walked to where the man stood and looked at him. She smiled the smile of a harlot and began to dance. Swirling across the room, she spread her arms in rhythm to the stamping of her feet. The beauty of her joyous face made the man’s heart ache as if a knife of ice had pierced it.

            “She believes,” he said.

            “More than believes,” the guard said. “She knows.”

            “She thinks she does,” the man said as the girl swept by him, her hands grazing his shoulder. “Do they ever stop believing?”

            “Hardly ever.”

            “How do they do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Load such belief into a heart.”

            “They begin to build faith at the mother’s breast,” the guard said. “Faith is a powerful force if directed properly.”

            “But sometimes it weakens?”

            “Sometimes,” the guard said. “As they are placed in view of the crowd, the evil serpent Jemsnella places the sin of doubt in their eyes.” He turned for the first time. “But you know of doubt and of battles and of the warrior’s creed. One must not carry doubt into danger.”

            “Great warriors do not carry doubt into danger,” the man said. “But they often carry doubt away from danger.”

            “Do not blaspheme. You should be proud that the flowers will bloom.”

            “And that the grain will grow,” the man said as the girl danced by again, the trinkets on her necklace and bracelets making a sound like the words "shin-ing, shin-ing.” She grinned lasciviously as she passed. “So say the gods,” the man said.

            “Do not question the ways of the gods,” the guard said.

            “I do not question the ways of the gods,” the man said. “But sometimes I wish they could find ways to build faith that are less ….” He stopped as the guard turned around and looked into the cell. The girl finished her dance with a grand and graceful bow.

            “Less what?” the guard said.

            “Cruel.”