Before I press on with this next chapter, I have to say something to two people: First, SilverKnight: Sankra is NOT the girl from the fields. Put the knife down. It's okay, honey. Breathe. Just breathe. :D Secondly, I want to say hello to a new reviewer, Star Eevee, who wrote in with some very kind words. First of all, I'm very pleased to make the acquaintance of another friendly soul (in a long string of friendly souls) who enjoys Samurai Jack stuff. I'm very flattered that you think Sankra was a character on the show, but she's actually an original creation who made her "debut," I guess you could call it, in a fic I wrote called "The Village at the End of the Earth." I think I began this story by recommending a reading of that one first. I think. My memory is pretty bad.
You made a telling statement about the lack of detail, which I would like to address. The style of writing that I employ, particularly when writing Jack stuff, is meant to be sparse and generally free of everything but the most vibrant, relevant language. Obviously, I'm an amateur at this. I won't succeed every time, or even most of the time. But the reason I attempt to tell a story in this way is because it is (hopefully) the verbal equivalent of the striking art on the show. I have also been influenced by the haiku, a type of poetry which I'm sure you know aims to delight in the moment and not clutter up the event with too many words.
Another aspect of the style I'm using is the inherent power of space, of things not stated. I know I'm writing for a group of very smart people, and I respect all of you too much to give you something easy. I firmly believe that all of you can infer a world if given a few well-chosen phrases. Of course if those "well-chosen" phrases stink, then by all means say something. LOL
Cheers, all! Here's more. By the way, this chapter is GORY. Heads up.
8. The Dead of Orzwitha
"It all began about two years ago," Ari said, gathering her blanket around her. "There was this tiny kingdom in the Central Bluffs that had never bowed to Aku, or at least slipped under his radar for a long time. The king had two children: a son, Eog, and a daughter, Culipsis. Culipsis felt she should be the heir to the throne, but the king was stubborn and old fashioned, and when he died…"
"The kingdom went to the son," Unt-Ork finished. She knew this story, but Ari told it better than anybody.
"That's what started it," Ari continued. "People from the Bluffs told me that Culipsis was really angry at her father's decision. Now they say…" The cat-woman lowered her voice to a near whisper. "They say Culipsis wanted the throne so badly that she made a deal with Aku to get it."
Jack's eyes flashed before he could compose himself. The lamplight flickered.
"But of course that's probably donkey turd," she continued in normal voice, "Because no one's ever made a deal with Aku and lived."
"Indeed." Jack pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "And do you know any more?"
"Well, I did hear some garbage about blood-red clouds floating around the Bluffs for three days, but the one thing I do know is that Prince Eog was murdered."
"What?"
Ari nodded soberly. "A maid found him stabbed to death in the palace kitchen. Everybody loved Eog. The whole damn kingdom went crazy looking for the killer, who was never found, by the way, although thirty innocent farmers got hanged. And suddenly Princess Culipsis came forth as the King's heir. She was going to 'end the madness,' or so she said. She crowned herself Queen, took her army, and went off to create the Gunzai Empire. And now her kingdom stretches from the Wild Forest in the North, to the Swamps of the South, from the White Mountains in the West, to the Ends of the Earth in the East. It's not the biggest chunk of ground – we're only about 200 villages – but it must be the bloodiest. There are uprisings all the time."
"So many people have died," Unt-Ork added sadly. "And more will die tomorrow."
"I know," Jack agreed. "Is there anything I can do?"
Ari gave him a sad smile. "You're already doing it, honey. You're bringing us hope. Now get out of here and get some sleep."
The next day dawned bright and cold. Jack felt an icy wind on his cheek and he blearily opened his eyes. The sun was just coming up. He was disoriented. The mattress was too hard. The blanket was too thin. And someone was shoving him.
"Hey shake a leg, man, we gotta go!" It was some soldier he did not know, with straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes.
"Huh? Wha – oof!"
Jack was unceremoniously dumped out of bed and his face met the dirty stone floor. From beyond his field of view heard, "Chop chop!" and felt a clap on his shoulder. Groaning, he pushed himself up, straightened out his long underwear and threw on his winter armor.
The kitchen was crowded. Bakers were busy preparing food. Metalsmiths were setting out weapons. Soldiers were swarming like ants, grabbing hot buns from the oven with one hand and spears with the other. Jack joined the fray.
Yazzi Digger ran into the kitchen and hollered, "Move it! Now!"
The soldiers scattered out into the courtyard. Jack stuffed a bread roll in his mouth, grabbed a spear, and set off at the tail end of the line. He ran right by Yazzi.
Apparently she'd forgotten about the incident last night. She slapped his ass and grinned at him. He scowled at her.
A huge, armored soldier shouted, "Into the truck! Let's go!"
And Jack went. An enormous cart, nearly full of soldiers and pulled by ten huge alien horses, was waiting in the courtyard of the fortress. Jack was the last man in. The hatch went up at the back, sealing him in with the rest. Nobody spoke to him and he didn't dare ask any questions for fear of blowing his cover.
He knew they were going to "re-engage a village" today. With any luck that meant they would try to talk some sense into the villagers, or maybe just look threatening and try to frighten them into joining the Empire – peacefully.
But Jack never had any luck.
The cart lurched through the snow for an hour, cleared several rises, and then finally stopped at the edge of a very small valley. The soldiers got out, glum and silent. They turned as one to face the valley, and that strange red glow came back into their eyes. Jack raised an eyebrow. Then he looked down.
What he saw was a canvas of white, dotted with dark smudges that used to be houses. There was once a bustling town here. But now it was just a smoldering circle of burnt out buildings, its streets covered in snow, next to a frozen silver snake, which Jack realized was a river. Orzwithians were milling about despondently in torn clothes. The six yellow eyes set in each purple, alien face were drooped and heavy with loss.
Jack had seen this kind of broken look before, in Edo. He clenched his fists.
Yazzi Digger arrived on horseback and galloped to the front of the troop. She pulled the reins hard and her horse, in full battle armor with a braided mane, reared up with a snort.
"People of Orzwitha!" she bellowed over her noisy animal. "This is your final order to submit to the will of the Gunzai Empire! If you do not, you have two choices! You may abandon this land, or you may die here!"
Jack was horrified. A huge flock of screaming six-eyed purple people – men with axes, mothers with children, lovers hand in hand – began to run for the snowy rise at the opposite end of the town. Yazzi watched the loud retreat with a satisfied grin … until of course, her eyes came to rest on one unmoving citizen. It was a young man.
He set his face, glared at his fellow townsfolk and yelled, "Stop! All of you!"
Most of them halted, and pretty quickly. Apparently he had some clout in the village.
"In case none of you noticed, we have nowhere to go!"
His words stung with truth. The burnt-out village was quite lonely – there looked to be no shelter for miles.
"Well, I'm not signing a treaty with that she-dog!" a woman shrieked as the child in her arms began to cry. "The Empire killed my husband yesterday!"
Yazzi's smile had disappeared. "An unfortunate accident," she boomed. "If you sign the treaty, I will make sure all of you are … compensated for your losses."
The villagers hardly looked convinced.
"This is wrong!" a woman yelled. "You'll do here like you do everywhere – hand the women over as slaves to your soldiers, reward your underlings by giving them our homes, and work the rest of us to death like machines! If we leave, we will starve! If we fight, we will die! And if we submit…" She spluttered in shock and outrage. "It isn't fair!"
"Who said life is fair?" Yazzi hollered back. "Now, decide! I'm getting tired of this!"
"I don't want to be a slave!" someone screamed.
"Make your damn choice!" Yazzi roared.
A silence fell over the crowd. The entire group was still for the longest time, staring at Yazzi and the troops.
The only warning the Gunzai soldiers got was a whirring noise. A massive stone hurtled through the air and struck Yazzi's war horse square in the face. The animal collapsed in a dead heap underneath her, knocking her to the ground. She picked herself up and stood slowly, her eyes blazing. Apparently she had her answer.
There was a roar like Jack had never heard as the men of the village surged up the valley walls, en masse, holding pitchforks and axes and bellowing war cries. The women and children ran in the opposite direction and hid.
"Attack!" Yazzi screeched.
And the soldiers, save Jack, came to life. He was utterly at a loss. The other members of the troop ran down the valley walls towards the approaching villagers, yelling and slicing with their swords, attempting to hack everyone to pieces. He ran down with them, his eyes darting frantically, his breathing labored. This attack had to stop. But he couldn't openly start killing members of his own platoon – that would be too obvious.
He decided to avoid the battle and try to get the women and children to safety. As the fighting raged on the valley slopes, Jack hurried off. The screams of death got further and further away.
He trotted along, slipping in the powdery snow, and ran into the smoking ruins of the town to search for survivors. He peered around gutted houses and turned up boards until he finally found a family hiding behind what used to be the post office. It was a woman, holding two small children in her arms. The children hid their faces in her dirty blouse and she stared up at him in abject terror.
"Shh," he said. "I will help you escape. Is there somewhere safe you can go?"
The woman looked stunned, but shook it off. "Well, if we can make it beyond that ridge and survive the two days in the bush, there is a road that will take us to Elsinor."
"Then go."
"Soldier, your Empire burned most of our grain. We have nothing. We would never survive the journey."
"There is none left?"
"Well, yes, but it's all the way at the other end of town, in a barn. We'd never make it!"
Jack ignored her protests and searched around her in the ruins. Finally he found something good – six big woven sacks.
"Gather your children, and your neighbors, and everyone else you can find, right here. I will come back."
"Are you insane?" They both cringed at the loud clanging of swords and the swish of arrows. One landed with a dull thud in the snow not three feet from where they were huddled. "You'd never make it, soldier!"
Jack looked her square in the eyes. "I disagree. Gather everyone right here."
And he left. He slowly made his way across the ruined town, keeping one eye on the raging battle. Yazzi Digger was at the front lines, her mouth stained with civilian blood, screaming and slashing with her broadsword. She was busy.
Jack sprinted across the open space of the square and ran into the barn. Before him was a big bin, half full of grain. He jumped into it, filled the six sacks in a hurry, hefted up his now enormous burden, and faced the town square again.
The battle was still going on, although there were considerably fewer moving bodies on both sides. He forced himself not to think about it. His way was clear. The cold air burned in his lungs as he huffed back across the square and met up with a large crowd of women with their children, all hidden behind the schoolhouse – the biggest building still standing.
He passed out the grain sacks, pointed to the ridge beyond the town, and said, "Go."
"Thank you, soldier," the first woman said.
Everybody scattered up over the rise like the hounds of hell were after them. Jack kept an eye on the battle. The women were rushing along silently, holding kids or grain sacks or clothing. He watched with satisfaction as almost all of them disappeared over the rise.
There was just one old woman left, an exhausted thing of about eighty, with six droopy eyes and pale purple skin. She was practically crawling up the bank.
Jack stayed on his guard, scanning the land in front of him. The shout behind him made him jump.
"Where are the women!"
Jack whirled around on the soldier who had appeared out of nowhere. He played dumb. "They must have escaped!" he yelled. "I do not know what happened!"
"Yeah, well, we're whuppin' butt minus you back on that hill, so you better haul it!"
"As you wish," Jack replied, and made to move.
But with a quick glance, he saw that the elderly woman was still inching up the rise, now in plain sight. She didn't seem to give a damn if she was seen or not.
She was quickly spotted.
"Hey!" the soldier yelled. He ran for the old woman. Jack followed with a heavy heart.
The old woman had stopped moving. She was just eyeing the soldier with hatred. He ignored this and marched over to her. Grabbing her roughly, he dragged her back down the slope. She rolled to a stop at his feet.
"Your ass is grass, Wrinkles," he snarled, yanking her to her feet. Then he threw her at Jack. "Hold 'er still!"
Jack caught her. It was rather like trying to catch a big sack of potatoes. He fumbled but finally helped the old woman stand up. She smelled faintly of lilac and dried herbs and was shaking in his grip. Jack steadied his strong arm around her shoulder. The soldier drew his spear.
"Where are the others?" he growled, his eyes glowing with that mad red light.
"Go to hell," the old woman replied, and spat in his face.
Jack almost smiled at this display. Almost.
"Ladies first!" the soldier yelled.
He made to strike, but Jack was too fast. In one smooth motion he lunged forward, grabbed the soldier's spear, and ripped it out of his hand while letting go of the old woman. She backed away.
Jack broke the spear over his knee, and gripped a broken half in each hand. He glared in defiance. The soldier roared in indignation and ran at him. His hands occupied, Jack lashed out with his feet. The side kick hit the charging soldier in the chest with such force that both heard the crunch of breaking ribs. His opponent toppled to the ground on his side, arms flopping up. There was an un-armored spot under his pit. Jack pounced on him, held his arm up and stabbed him there, fiercely and quickly and deep.
The soldier died fast and Jack didn't give the corpse a second glance. He stood up and looked at the old woman, his heaving breath hanging in the frosty air.
"Run. Now."
She did. He watched her disappear over the rise and trotted off to rejoin the battle on the hill, but he was too late to even draw his weapon. Things were calming down. Most of the yelling was over. A small band of men was ready to surrender. It was pointless to fight anymore; so many of their comrades were dead.
Jack just stood still in the snow and looked at the mess that had been Orzwitha. The snowy ground beneath him was a ghastly rainbow of pink and red, green, brown, and a little yellow. The dead were strewn everywhere. Jack dropped to his knees and put his head down. He hadn't been witness to something like this in a long time. Time slowed to a crawl. All the noises he heard grew low and quiet as body after body was picked up and dragged away by soldiers. Fortunately, no one asked him to help.
He looked around, hearing his heart thud heavily in his chest. A gray film fell over his eyes. A soldier was striking a fallen Orzwithian with his spear. The spear flew down through invisible molasses and planted itself deep in the still living body. The splattering sound of metal against heart rolled through Jack like thunder. The death groan was a rumble. Jack had to shake his head to clear it. This time the world was merciful. It snapped back into rhythm.
The soldiers were dragging bodies (armored and civilian alike) into a huge pile by the frozen lake. The process was quiet and sickeningly organized. Yazzi wandered by nursing a wound on her arm, and checked the progress.
"Such a stupid people," she said. "Never knew when to just give up."
Her words barely registered. Jack was too busy staring at the pile in shock. The man who had woken him that morning was being carried over. He was relatively uninjured and might have even been alive, had his head still been on his shoulders. Instead it rested neatly on his belly. He was set down gently on a small mound of bodies, but not solidly. His head rolled off his body, bounced through the snow like a poorly played baseball and came to rest two feet away, his bloodied nose acting as a brake. Jack swallowed a sudden painful lump in this throat and dragged his eyes from the sight. But they landed on nothing better.
One red-eyed trooper paraded by, dragging a corpse by its legs. It was the leader of the resistance of Orzwitha, bumping along the ground with three of his six eyes open, his limp arms flopping about, his purple head bobbing gently from side to side. Someone's spear was sticking out of his chest like a flagpole.
It was impossible to tell how long this went on. But the pile grew bigger until it seemed to Jack an oka no kisei – a mound of death. The air suddenly stank. A few soldiers were shuffling along with big cans, pouring a foul-smelling, oily substance on the corpses.
Someone lit a match.
Jack turned away.
The remainder of Troop 50 made their way back to the cart, leading their prisoners ahead of them. Slowly, the few uninjured and living soldiers clambered on. Jack was again the last to find his seat. The soldiers were battle-worn and tired and no one spoke to him. He was glad for this. He sat down with a grunt and put his face in his hands.
For the entire ride home, he did not look up. He just buried himself as deeply into his mind as he could and thought. He thought about the crazy purple man who had stood up for his people. He thought about the soldier who had been kind to him. He thought about the man he killed who would not be buried or even burned, but left to rot.
Tradition was everything to Jack in this strange world, but praying for one man was inefficient. He would wait until he was alone and pray for the souls of all the dead at once.
TBC