Thom Brennan - Incense And Rain
July 18th, 1794
Early morning
…
— Good morning, Ezekiel.
— Good morning, Fratley. Have you seen my daughter?
— If I could see her…
— Oh, sorry.
— Don't be sorry. It happens. Besides, this ain't no time for jokes.
— Of course.
— So, Zack… how's our client doing?
— She seems fine.
— Fine?
— Yes. After what happened, I mean. I suppose you should meet her.
— I agree.
At court, I briefly spoke to Ezekiel as we walked in a large corridor. There is plenty of space here. More so inside the defendant lobby, whose doors were opened and I could feel the wind hitting my face, and my ears being hit by silence. No sobs at all, or any cursing, nothing but silence.
A week ago, Margaret Guthrie could walk. She can still speak, after all she has been through. All it took was a night, and weren't for a soldier deafened by her screech, more than those legs would be taken. Now, secluded by a wheelchair, unable to go upstairs without help, the children who ran away to the arms of their aunt… What did she do to deserve this? I ask, but it ain't my task to accuse. 'No, I'm here to defend my client', I told myself. The verdict comes next, but never that I heard her heartbeat in a strange way. Sure, I can't only follow what a heart tells in order to tell if someone is guilty or innocent, but with everyone I worked with, they were all victims.
It was the second handicapped I met today, but this one wasn't born with a deficiency. Neither was I. In a way, Margaret and I were born in a world of meaningless violence. She reported a week ago that a figure took her to an alley and right away, cut her feet. Only now she seems to speak instead of whimper. Only now that I'm able to hear her true voice, as before I heard the voice of millions.
She spoke to me, and said that she had done nothing wrong. I said that whoever did this had no reason, but that doesn't mean there was an intention. Nothing of value was stolen, except for her legs. Funny how some things matter when they are lost, or gone forever… Tears do not, because they always come back, unlike for what or for the one you cried to. And that's all I know about Margaret, so I know what I should do.
As a lawyer, I'll defend her, but that won't be enough. Besides, I have another client. They say a lawyer sees himself in his clients, but I see nothing since they took my vision from me. A time later, the trial was over, my client won, but it wasn't Margaret. I don't even remember her name, only that she's a mother, a dedicated one. When I think about a mother, I either think about mine, or April. She works sewing old dresses and their holes, and doesn't get rewarded as much as I do, but at least, she likes what she does. As for me, I also sew holes that happen to be made again into someone else.
Then I met this Freya Crescent I've been hearing about on the same day. I easily pictured her out, and like Hrist said, she's tall. I don't know if her hair is really white, but if I can picture it, that's fine for me. Well, not everything only in mind is fine, you know. Margaret can picture legs whenever she wants, but she knows that will never be able to walk again.
On the same day my sight was lost, I lost my legs too. But they are still here, together with me, not only in body, but in mind. However, not so many can learn the Dragoon to be able to do this kind of miracle to happen. And not everyone is willing to go through what you have been through all these years. Not even I want to remember, but those were years of my life, a life I still have.
A new life for Freya, then, perhaps the one she always had been wishing for, given her mother was a Dragoon too. 'Oh, Margaret… Yes, I am here for you, but I can't be at two places in the same fraction of time', I could have said but I had no time to do it. That's one of the disadvantages of being a Dragoon Knight… few in numbers, large in cult. Whenever I say to someone I don't know that I'm a lawyer, some think I am bad, mean, like those jokes, but as a Dragoon, which everyone knows, they respect me.
Had I been a real Dragoon Knight, I would find for myself whoever did such cruelty to Margaret. Don't worry. The monster who did this to you will be brought to justice. Had I a spear in my hands… Well, speaking of it, That's one of the reasons I hold my cane. It doesn't have a face, but I know it's real.
…
Hours later…
Alright. Want a javelin, Crescent? Chop this cherry tree down with your bare hands.
That's what Sir Fratley said. And so I obey.
I wonder if my ancestors had to pass through these tests. This is if I can call this by 'test'. Whatever, I hit the cherry tree at its trunk, once again. My arms hurt. Water falls on me each time I hit that same trunk. Hard like a stone. Upon a ceiling, rain falls, and whenever water hits its surface, the sound of drums hitting and hitting can be heard. There are no drums, or any symphony, just noise. Better than silence, or the humdrum of thoughts.
BAM!
I hear no sound when I hit my fist against the trunk, and I do not want to hear any of my bones. Well, Sir Fratley can hear well, and since he said nothing since then… he isn't watching me, though. But if I leave, even for an instant, he will notice. Its ears are his eyes, and my fists and legs… they are the same. A bit wounded, mere scratches. I saw worse, at mother's back. The first time I did, if I can remember, or at least feel the sensation that stood, is that mom went to the butcher, and he sliced her back.
Welcome to the real world. The world of pain. As long as you feel pain, or something below your skin, it means you are alive. Why should I be alive? Because I can. Sometimes, to live is a privilege, while in others, you just do it. Right now, I am living to become a Dragoon Knight. Funny, mom never taught me this, as much as Sir Fratley never taught this to anyone. He's just testing me. My strength, which I never overstrained over mom's sight.
Pant…
She didn't want me to become a Dragoon, never showed any clear signs. She just wanted me to live, and so do I. Live strong, and who's stronger than a Dragoon Knight? Maybe… Ugh… mom, if you are watching me… please, give strength. I… urgh… this… this is taking a lot. Had I a hammer, or an axe, but I have never learnt how to hold a spear with a tip in hands. You forbid me from doing it, mom. And with reason.
Pant… Pant… pant pant…
I know, I know. Mom ain't here, neither father. Pant. I like to imagine that they are upon the clouds, or somewhere above, watching me. Imagination is where my strength resides, but I can't imagine my fists changing shape, making it all easy. Is that what you want to teach me, Sir Fratley?… Pant, pant… does my panting mean something for your ears? Are you able to listen to my thoughts? I had been in doubt since then. Perhaps… pant… pant pant… it's just my imagination.
— Uh, Sir Fratley? – I didn't know what to say. Other than pant pant pant… I just said his name, in order for him to listen to something else… pant pant…
— Don't stop now, Crescent. – He said back. I only stared at the tree, knowing Sir Fratley can't stare back.
— I won't. – This Sir Fratley knows so many things, so I thought… – You know, I have been wondering to myself…
— Why? Is it any relevant?
— I mean… when you fell down out of the window, without breaking a bone…
— Oh, that? I'll teach you how to do this, Freya. But first, you'll need a spear.
— Why?
— A Dragoon can't be a Dragoon without a spear, javelin, call it whatever you want… but know it ain't an ordinary weapon.
— I know, but… — …pant… pant… pant… Pause for breathing. Yes? I'll try. – Sir Fratley… can't I just let someone else make it for me? I have money.
— And what else do you have? – He asked. I stood quiet. Except for a few 'pants' coming out, I have silence, and wounded fists. – Freya… this tree is someone else. She is there to offer you its wood.
_/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/\/\_
— Really? Is that your justification? – I admit that I am a bit pissed. He knows it too, because for what reason would his ears rise like that? Oh, they're already risen. – Trees do not exist to offer wood to anyone.
— Unless you force something to happen, it never happens.
— Well, excuse me… but why should my javelin have a wooden tip? – I asked. It's hard to tell how Sir Fratley reacts, since the hat he wears, together with its hair, covers a lot of its face. Sometimes, more like always, his eyes are closed. They have no use, however, but sure they would to tell me he is like me. Well, he knows me by heart, but that doesn't mean much for someone who doesn't.
— Freya, you already know that you can't can't be a Dragoon without a javelin, and that a javelin can't be a javelin without a wooden tip, and this tree can't be a tree without a trunk.
— And I can't hold a javelin without hands. – As much as he can't see me. At least, feel the wave of both on its face, which I don't have time or indecency to do.
— You do not need hands to hold on to anger, but fists to release it… – So I turned back to the tree, and punched it again. It's the only thing I'm allowed to punch. The more I do, the faster the outcome will be. – Freya… a Dragoon must avoid anger. Right now, you are punching a tree because I told you so, but not everything can be solved by bare fists or by the tip of a spear. A Dragoon, most of all, have a mind. The power of the mind surpasses the whole of the body it commands. Feelings, emotions… we are unable to not feel them. But to be overcome as a whole may be dangerous to yours and our image.
— Okay then. – I said, giving a tone of someone ignoring words completely. Sure, I heard a bit there and here, but will I be able to remember these things? Mom rarely faced any Dragoons, but scars appeared on her back one by another. – Sir Fratley…
— Yes?
— Uh… I wonder why… Well, this may be a bit informal, but why do you not wear a Knight's clothes? – I said, without knowing that I would be ignored, or if this had any relevance. Well, I took Sir Fratley's hat out the office after he fell out the window, so…
— Why do you ask for it? – He said, after I heard drops of rain hit the surface of something, making the sound of drums without rhythm. – I suppose you are wrapping me on your finger's tip - he said. What I really want is to wrap my tail on its neck. A bit of me does, in unquiet slumber, where it should be put for now, and forever.
— No, that's not it. I… I don't know. Looks odd. – As if nothing in Sir Fratley isn't odd for you… – Well, is it any useful for you to wear less garments?
— Sure, Crescent. It makes me quick, but speed ain't everything. I am defenseless, the javelin I hold is heavy, and had it not been for the Dragoon, I would be just blind and by myself. Satisfied?
— Not yet. – That's a question without a clear answer, but I gave one anyway. – Funny how you have two holes in your hat…
— Funny? – He asked, as if he didn't know there were two holes in there, even knowing there were. I don't bother about the holes, except they're familiar… And rather silly. – I can understand asking for broken bones, but this… Why, Crescent? Your helmet has two holes too. You're a Dragoon as much as I do.
— Well, I do wear a helmet, after all.
— What do you mean? – Other than doing time…
— I mean, what are these holes worth if you can't see through them? – As if I could see through my own helmet visor as well…
— I could, as a child… – When Sir Fratley said those words, I stopped punching the tree. My hands are numb, but I don't care. Not as much as I should.
— So, this hat… – I wonder for a moment why I'm asking about that hat, taken out of its head, but then I remember I can't ask for a new pair of hands.
— I wore a green cap like any other boy of my age. So did you, I presume.
— Yeah, sure. Though, sometimes I also wore one of mom's helmets. To this day, this one ain't rusty.
— Only iron helmets rust. Yours is made of copper.
— How do you know?
— Just a guess. Anyway… why did you stop? – So he asked. Maybe I talked about the holes on his hat, or whatever came first in my mind, only so I could be granted a pause. Well, I'll try another approach..
— Geez… Can't you give a pause to me, Sir Fratley? Please. – I would complete the sentence by saying 'with a cherry on its top', but that would be dumb even for a child.
— It depends. Let's see. – I already can see my work, but Sir Fratley needs to approach the touch and feel the dents I have left so far. I could say that the tree was bleeding, but it ain't the case here. – Fine. As it seems, you have dug the cork tissue, exposed a bit of phloem, and it's still, in a way of saying, 'miles away' from reaching the fibers of xylem. Alright, a pause then.
— Whew! – I don't know how to express relief in the same way as my lungs do.
— Okay, back to training. – Now!? I mean… I just took a breath.
— What? I only took a breath. – I said, but Sir Fratley ignored me. – I'm thirsty.
— Raise your head then. – This time, Fratley didn't ignore me, but I would prefer he did. – Nothing in heaven is compared to the dirt of this world.
— You said a pause, Sir Fratley.
— I didn't tell you how much time, Crescent. – I swear, if that prick is laughing inside…
— That's so unfair of you.
— The world is unfair. – Then I had no reply. Had I one, this would go nowhere. And I want to be somewhere, after all.
— Know what else is unfair? This helmet. – I said, before I punched the tree, and water drops fell on me, a pause… rinse and repeat. – I wear it, but it doesn't fit my head. Used to, when I was a kid.
