Historia, Part XVII

Wars were not common in Nostalgia. In fact, weapons themselves were not common. Of course, knives were not considered weapon, but tools. Same for axes, cleavers, machetes, and clubs. So far as anyone in Nostalgia knew, there was no one around to make war with, and even if there was, what was the point. There were so few people in the world these days that killing more of them made no sense.

The elders could recall only one war. Truth be told, it wasn’t even a war. It was barely half a battle. The King’s Valley had spilled out toward Nostalgia and the elders, who were obviously younger at the time, had raised a defense against them, and just as the inhabitants of the King’s Valley had drawn near, as the first arrow had been loosed from the bow of one of their archers (it pierced Timey’s granpappy in the shoulder), a cloud of dust rose up and the inhabitants of the King’s Valley were suddenly gone.

Clifford had heard the story only once, from Timey’s granpappy about two months before he’d died. Timey had already set his own death watch though, ‘cause his granmammy had died nearly fifteen years earlier. Clifford was only seven when Timey’s granpappy had told the story, and somehow he could remember it all.

But now, crouched down beneath a fallen tree of some kind, (we know of it as a palm tree, but the Historians for some reason called them finger trees) Clifford suddenly understood the horror of war. He had yet to be seen by the soldiers of Historia, who stood a mere ten feet away. Clifford had to get past them to reach the pyramid.

As he watched the soldiers level their guns to fire at the unseen enemy, Clifford saw young men fall dead, gaping holes in their head or chest, blood pouring onto the street. He hadn’t signed up for this. He crawled further on, hoping that he could get far enough behind the front line the Historians had set up to cross the street and make his way toward the pyramid.

It struck him as he crawled under an exposed pipeline that he would likely need a gun. He watched as two Historian soldiers emotionlessly carried the body of a fallen comrade to a heap far behind the line. He shadowed the two as best he could. The dead soldier still had a handgun in his hip holster, and if the battle was pressing enough, as Clifford hoped it was, the two body-bearers would forget the sidearm and provide Clifford with the weapon he needed.

The two men casually tossed the body onto the pile and turned back for the front line. Clifford watched them carefully. He was so out of place that it wouldn’t take much to spot him. The men disappeared into a cloud of smoke. Clifford could only wonder how long they’d be gone. He had to make his move. He strode with purpose toward the heap, un-holstered the man’s gun, and kept walking, ducking into an alleyway across the street. Once inside the alley he fumbled with the clip for just a second before opening it to see what kind of ammunition he would have. Thanks be to the gods, it was full.

He crouched down and, for a moment, studied his surroundings. The alley was dark, well protected from the afternoon sunlight that was beating down just outside. From the direction he had come he could hear gunshots and screaming. He looked up, trying to gage the height of the two buildings, and he saw another body fly across the sky. Either the enemy or the Historians were catapulting either their own or their prisoners at the other side. Judging from the direction the body had flown Clifford surmised that it was the enemy doing the body-flinging.

He started to move down the alley, pushing his way through a pile of garbage when a flailing hand smacked him hard on the side of the head, “Stop it!” The owner of the hand shouted.

Clifford stumbled against the opposite wall. He looked over to see a very scared looking Jaime Conner crouched in the fetal position and rocking violently.

“Jaime!” Clifford said, “Jaime. It’s me. Clifford.”

The post-boy stopped rocking for a moment, and then realization dawned on his face, “Clifford. You’re alive! How’d you get through the town to this point?”

Clifford shrugged, “Dumb luck, I think.” He looked ahead, further down the alley, and over to the next street, “I think the pyramid is just ahead. I have to get there.”

Jaime drew back in horror, “Oh no. Nobody gets to the pyramid. No one. Especially with a war on. We’ll be fighting the Mongols for a while. You’ll not get within a hundred feet of the pyramid without getting shot. Unless Father Time summons you.”

Clifford lowered his gaze and a muttered curse escaped his lips. That couldn’t be it. Not after all this time. Not after so many miles. Not after all he’d lost. All he’d seen.

Clifford stood up. Jaime tried to pull him back down, “Don’t stand, they’ll see you and shoot you.”

Clifford walked back toward the street. He was going home. He was defeated. Clifford walked with his head lowered, staring at the ground. Jaime got up and moved after him, crouched low. He tackled Clifford from behind, just moments before Clifford would’ve reached the street.

“Clifford, the Historian army doesn’t take well to outsiders finding their way past the front line. I know, I served for over two years. Worst time of my life. Mongols, the warriors of King’s Valley, the V-yet-cong. I fought them all. That’s why I was hiding. Don’t you see, the war is too much.”

Clifford rolled over, “Jaime. I came here with one purpose. Reach the pyramid. My goal is out of reach now. I have nothing left but to go home. Home to a town you say is deserted.”

Jaime stood up, blocking the exit of the alley, the sound of gunshots and screams still echoing behind him, “I’m not gonna let you leave while they’re fight...”

Clifford looked up and saw a small hole in the front of Jaime’s shirt. A trickle of blood came out, and then a little more. Jaime dropped to his knees, the result of which splattered blood on Clifford’s face. He caught Jaime and the two men fell backward into the garbage pile.

“He’s over here!” Clifford heard shouted. He kept an eye open in the darkness and saw the two body-bearers running toward them, “I swear, Freddie, I just shot him. Lousy deserter.”

They reached the place where Jaime and Clifford lay. Clifford couldn’t tell if Jaime was dead or not, but he did his best to play dead himself. He quietly pushed the stolen gun further under the pile of garbage, which suddenly stank.

The lead body-bearer looked back at his cohort Freddie, “There! Told you I nailed the bastard.”

Clifford kept as still as possible as the men lifted Jaime’s body off his. Freddie gasped, “Look Ted! There’s another one. Looks like your bullet got him too, though. He ain’t movin’.”

Ted nodded, “Yeah. Let’s take this piece o’ trash and toss him and we’ll come back for this other ‘un.”

They walked off, carrying Jaime Conner, post-boy from Historia, and Clifford mentally checked off another name that had fallen in his search for Historia. He waited until they were out of sight before grabbing the gun and sprinting like never before for the end of the alley.

He quickly checked the street and found that it was empty, but not quiet. The gunshot echoes carried far in Historia. He bolted diagonally across the street and down another alley. Fred and Ted would surely be after him once they realized that he hadn’t been dead and they could probably track him very easily.

He stopped and ducked between a garbage can and the steps of another building for cover. For ten minutes he watched the alley he’d run from. No one ever came out. The gunshots continued on the other street, and the screams of dying soldiers rose almost as loudly.

Clifford dropped from his crouch and just sat against the stone steps of the building. He cried for a moment. It was his fault that Jaime Conner had died. No one else to blame for it.

Clifford just sat there. The sky above was starting to turn dusky-dark. The first thought across his mind had to do with the fact that it had been a bright, sunny afternoon only minutes before and he wondered what the Historians were up to, but then he realized that he was in Historia, and they were fighting a war.

He drew his legs in closer, curling up into a ball. As he did a light burst on from the pole just a few feet away from him. Clifford, of course, had no concept of a streetlight, and just as easily assumed that this devilish brightness was the soul of Jaime Conner come to haunt him until he died.

Clifford rocked to the side and lay still. He wasn’t sleepy, or even really tired, but after what had just happened, he needed rest. As he lay there, a parade of cats went by. Clifford bolted up. Riding atop the head of the lead cat was a mouse in full battle dress.