A Song of ReturnJim O'Loughlin
3500 words We know we have arrived when a village emerges out of the forest. It is surrounded by a modest adobe wall topped with sharpened wooden logs. These defenses are more ceremonial than practical. They could not ward off an actual attack, but they effectively establish how this village feels about outsiders such as ourselves. So, even though our presence has been requested (in fact, pleaded for) by this Tostamite village, and though there have been no wars in this territory since the treaty between the realms of Tostam and Urellyne, we honor the custom, and we sing our song of arrival to announce our approach. The sixteen voices singing the song of arrival echo throughout the forest bordering the vast farmlands of Tostam. Though we have been traveling these lands for days, we are still struck by their contrast with the starker, windswept shores of our home in Urellyne, and we cannot help but be awed by all that grows in these fertile lands. When our song carries forth, the villagers appear from all sides. They seem surprised by our approach, but they neither run from us nor attack us, which is a relief. We have had too many encounters where fear or violence has been the first response. Perhaps now that we Urellyneans have become more common in this territory, its inhabitants are becoming more accepting. Or maybe it is just that the harvest has come, so they have greater need of us. Then, just as our song of arrival concludes, a tomato, hurled from behind the trees, hits the lower right of us in the back of the head. We all turn in the direction from which the object appeared, but there is nothing to see and only the sound of laughter. We can ignore a tomato. It is the least of our concerns. At the wall of the village, we see the main gate. The gate is unguarded and does not even have a portcullis that would allow it to be closed. This makes the sharpened logs on the wall all the more ridiculous. But we say nothing as the eyes of the villagers peer at us. The village is crowded with more people than it seems able to contain, but we know that farmers and their families have temporarily abandoned their fields and gathered here for protection from the nutrient rains. We pass through the gate and come to a halt at the tax collector’s station, where a portly man in worn woolen clothing stands next to the tax box. The upper left of us opens a coin purse to pay the price of entry, but the portly man holds up his hands in what we recognize is a symbol for stopping. “Hold up,” the man says. He has the odd accent of this region so that those two words almost rhyme. He also has a tear-shaped scar on his cheek, a familiar mark on Tostamites who did not find shelter quickly enough when the nutrient rains began to fall. “I’m going to have to have you fill out some papers. How many pivot-knees you got in this group?” We bristle at being addressed in this manner but ignore the slur against the ability of our metallic knees to bend in all directions. We answer in unison, “We are sixteen!” “Oh, for godssake, I don’t need to hear from the whole chorus.” He points to the upper left of us. “You. Come with me. The rest of you stay here.” We hesitate. We do not choose to separate ourself, but this request is not unusual. Tostamites often ask which is our “leader” and then are irritated to hear that we are our leader. The upper left of us follows the man into the nearest structure, an adobe hut with thatched straw on top of the pounded tin roof. It is another silly affectation of these people. The straw will not last through the frost. We make note of that observation before bracing ourself to feel the loss of our upper left. We reorient, rotating from the four-by-four formation into three lines of five. It is not as ideal, but it maintains symmetry. With balance re-achieved, we are able to relax a little and survey the village into which we have entered. We ring out a call of “hu-at!” and raise the center of us above our shoulders so as to have a better view of our surroundings. It is unsettling to see such disorder, with people and livestock in every direction and ragged children playing in the dirt. But our cry, or perhaps the raised position of the center of us, is disturbing to the villagers. Several rush into the courtyard. Children are pulled aside, and men brandishing farm equipment repurposed for defense suddenly appear. We lower the center of us to the ground, not wishing to create more of a disturbance. Our actions have inadvertently shown us even more about these people than we could have seen otherwise. We now know that the village does not have armaments that could truly threaten us, but it is unclear if the villagers are also aware of that. The tax collector emerges from the hut with the upper left of us. Again, on beat, we rotate out of the three-by-five formation and return to four even lines of four. Villagers begin to congregate, blocking our return path through the village gate. The tax collector turns to the approaching crowd. “Now don’t you all get yourselves excited. It’s not like you’ve never seen their kind before. They’re here for the harvest, and they paid their fee. Unless you’re going to be a’reaping poisoned crops yourself, get out of their way so that they can get to work. Look at that sky. It can’t be more than a week before the frost comes. We need them, and you all know that.” The words of the tax collector are met by grumbling, but the villagers know what he has said is true. So do we. The reddish pale of the fall sky has faded, and the looming grey in its place foretells the coming frost. There is much work to be done, and it must be completed quickly. The villagers need our labor now as much as we needed theirs when this year’s crop was planted. Reluctantly, the villagers step aside, and we march out of the village in formation. The villagers are silent, and the only sound is the metallic clank of our feet on the rutted road leading toward the fields. *** The lore of both Tostam and Urellyne recognize that at one time we were the same people. However, eons ago, we Urellyneans took to the seas. Eventually, our bodies adapted to the needs of the water, and our limbs evolved into fins. But when the seas emptied of life, we returned to the shore. We developed the technology to craft metallic limbs to allow us to move quickly on the land, which incidentally now protects us from the effects of the nutrient rains. For a time, both the plains of Tostam and the shores of Urellyne were fertile, and the seasons had a predictable pattern. Food was plentiful for all. But it was difficult to be nostalgic about those times, which were marked by great strife and brutal warfare. People who did not have to worry about feeding themselves could afford the luxury of conquest, and the tales of that era tell of one battle after another. But after the world had changed again, the realms of Tostam and Urellyne had come to depend upon one another. The nutrient rains that had once been evenly spread throughout both lands now come only to Urellyne at the end of the growing season, and they fall in such concentration that crops grow exponentially. However, in its unprocessed form, the harvest can not be touched by human skin, and Tostamites found themselves no longer able to reap the crops they grew. In desperation, they turned to the Urellyneans for help and found us equally in peril. Separate, we were doomed, but together we could grow, harvest, and process the food to feed both lands. This is why we Urellyneans venture from our seaside home and the barren fields along the oceans to the inland prairies of Tostam. We have no choice but to go elsewhere to feed our people, and the Tostamites have no option but to allow us to harvest their crops. Neither realm likes this arrangement, but it has allowed both our peoples to survive, if not to thrive. It is an arrangement of necessity and something less than an alliance. We know that the Tostamites consider us less than human, and we find their individualism sadly terrifying. *** Once we approach the wheat fields, we find scythes awaiting us. Though we know what to expect, it still surprises us to see wheat stalks towering over our heads. We know that they have grown from seed in mere weeks since the rains have come. We also know that the nutrient rains have rendered the wheat stalks toxic as they stand in the field. Only when harvested and processed can they be eaten. Still, the half of the harvest we will take from these fields will be the difference between survival and starvation. We pick up the scythes with our metal hands and move to the edge of the field. Though our limbs will not be affected by the crops, the rest of our bodies are not entirely immune to the poisons on the surface of the plants. Harvesting requires careful coordination and a choreography of strikes and backswings to avoid direct contact with the plants. But we have trained for this, and we know ourself. With an inhale, we begin our song of reaping with a metrical rhythm that ensures we stay in sync. We work the fields with precision, carving shaft from stalk. We pivot back and forth, side to side, taking advantage of our metallic knees’ ability to bend in all directions. We know the speed of our reaping far exceeds what the Tostamites are capable of, and our song that echoes across the acres also sings our pride. Soon, the fields are blanketed with the effects of our efforts. A few of the braver villagers venture to the edges of the fields. They are covered from head to toe in thick leather and wear fabric masks across their faces. If they came into direct contact with the tainted wheat, it would be fatal to them. But the desire to watch us work and to hear our songs of labor must be greater than their fear. Though tired, we increase our pace and sing with greater vigor, wishing the villagers to witness our skill. When the wheat has been shorn, we pick up different implements, tools not unlike those that villagers had threatened us with earlier today. We gather the wheat into the large carts that have been placed on the edges of the fields. We move quickly, and the rhythm of our song changes, for while our muscles ache from exertion, the action of the loading differs from that of the reaping. Through the peak of the sun’s heat and into the early evening, we labor. As the sun begins to set on the western horizon, we shift our attention to the carts and take the yokes onto our shoulders. Mustering our remaining strength, our song now becomes a dirge, and we cry out as we strain to bring the overflowing carts to the processing facility. By moonlight, we unload the wheat, placing it into the giant vats where the toxins will be leached from the stalks, bathing the harvest in pure spring water gathered from before the falling of the nutrient rains. As the last of the wheat is submerged, our songs end. Soon, the wheat will be edible, and we will take our share and venture home. But, for now, we must rest. Z The next day, we are exhausted, sore, and drained of energy. We lay on straw beds in a large barn temporarily absent of livestock. Our formation is disregarded, our voice is sore, and our clothes filthy with the exertion of the previous day. When an inner or outer of us takes a shift to watch over the wheat, we are too tired to feel the loss. But in time, we break our fast. We bathe and dress in clean livery. We wipe the dirt and grime from our metallic limbs. It is the work of a day to rest. There are no songs to sing. The day after that, we rise early and return to the village, five lines of three, and our energy has returned to us so that we feel the absence of the guard we leave with the wheat. Again, we sing to announce our arrival and feel the eyes of the villagers upon us as we pass through the gate. Again, the tax collector greets us and asks to speak to the upper left of us. The upper left of us retires to the tax collector’s hut. We readjust our formation, two lines of seven in an arc, and we stand alert. “Ain’t you gonna sing no more?” comes a voice from behind us. We turn to see a child, barely old enough to be left unaccompanied, who has quietly snuck up to us, though we thought we had been watching from all directions. We step back from the direction of the child, reorienting our formation to maximize the space between us and the child, “Well, ain’t’cha?” the child asks, moving closer. The child has long, uncombed hair and a smile that conveys pleasure or perhaps mischief. It is hard to tell with Tostamites. We try again to keep a distance from the child, but in doing so, we edge closer to the villagers who have gathered in the courtyard. Our formation of 14 is spread into a widening arc, barely in symmetry. “The time of song is over,” we announce. “We must return to our land now.” “Don’t’cha have a going away song?” We do. But the song of return is a song we sing for ourselves, not for Tostamites. Of course, the child means no harm, and the child’s openness and curiosity are at odds with the brimming hostility from the villagers. The child, we realize, does not fear or despise us. So, we open our mouths and sing the song for children. It is a song we sing at the upper end of our vocal range, and it is in a register so high that Tostamite adults cannot hear it. To them, it looks like we are miming the act of singing. Only children, with their innocent ears unaffected by the ravages of time, can appreciate this music. The child claps in joy. The adults look on with befuddlement. We end the song when the upper left of us returns with the tax collector, who shooes away the child and directs us all into the hut. The hut was not designed for fifteen, and our formation is in disarray. The hut smells of human sweat and animal dung. “Listen up,” the tax collector says, “I’m just telling you all what I told this one.” He gestures toward the upper left of us. “We’ve got no carriage for you.” We explode in anger. The contract was painstakingly clear. Along with our share of the harvest, we were to be given a carriage and team large enough to allow us to return to Urellyne with our share of the harvest before the frosts come. We argue, we yell, but the tax collector is unmoved. He informs us that we will receive two of the carts that we had used to transport wheat between the fields and the processing facility, carts that will not allow a team to be yoked to them, carts that were not designed to travel the distance between Tostam and Urellyne. This is a cruel betrayal. It will slow our return time and make for much more difficult travel. It is not even clear if we will be able to make it to Urellyne before the hard frosts arrive. We strenuously object, but the tax collector merely shrugs. The village does not even possess a large carriage, he says, even though they are required to have one by contract. The carts are all that are available, he repeats. We can, of course, bring a case to court, but by then the wheat will be ruined, and what will we have gained? There is no alternative, though we argue more and even threaten. But nothing we say changes the situation. We need the wheat, and we do not have time to delay. Bitterly, the upper left of us snatches the receipt out of the tax collector’s hand, and we re-enter the courtyard. Our anger must be apparent because the villagers part to give us clear passage out of the village. We march in silence through the forest and back toward the fields. *** When we reach the processing facility, the carts are already loaded with the treated wheat that is now safe for human consumption. The guard rejoins us and we reorient ourself into four lines of four. The guard has witnessed the loading of the carts and is aware of the betrayal. We share our disbelief and ire. That said, we notice that the carts are overflowing. It has been a good harvest, we understand, though we are being sorely mistreated for our role in it. We insist on reweighing the carts, and we check to make sure that the wheat has been fully loaded. It has. Even the carts are in good condition, sturdy and well-balanced. Perhaps the Tostamites feel some shame for their deception. We do not waste time. We position two groups of six, each taking on the yoke with a watch in the fore and rear of our caravan. With a shout of “hu-at!” the carts slowly roll out, and we begin the long journey home. It is as difficult as we had feared. The overloaded carts move slowly. Despite the succor we take from our songs of travel, we often rotate positions in hopes of distributing the labor. Yet, we still stop to rest more frequently than we wish. Fortunately, the cooling temperatures make for easier travel, and there are no Tostamites on the road to harass us, huddled as they are in their villages to wait out the coming frosts. We make steady progress. As the sun begins to set, we feel some hope that we will outpace the hard frost if we can maintain this difficult pace. When we stop for the night, the rear watch of us reaches into the stores of wheat to extract enough to cook dinner, and pulls out not wheat but a Tostamite child, the same Tostamite child from the village who had requested a song! How could this have happened? We had inspected the carts thoroughly. They had been checked just before our departure. What is the child doing here? “I just wanna hear another song,” it says. The child hears nothing but our rage. This is more than an inconvenience. The Tostamites are sure to think we have taken the child as an act of revenge for their deceitfulness. But we cannot turn back now, for doing so would ensure that our harvest would not make it to Urellyne. But taking the child with us is also out of the question. Even if we knew what to do with a Tostamite child, could there be anything sadder than a child apart from its people? As Urellyneans, the very thought is an anathema. But what are we to do? As we deliberate, the child clutches onto the metallic leg of the rear watch of us. We know what has to happen. The rear watch of us picks up the child. The rear watch—I—tell the child it must be returned to its home. We—I—pick up the child while singing a song of return, not knowing if I will ever be among the We again. Carrying the child,—I—depart without glancing backward at Us. The child joins in on the second singing of the chorus of the song of return, off-tune and out of key, and then the child begins adding new lyrics. The new song, our song, echoes throughout the forest as the night approaches. The child does not seem concerned, which is only a sign of how little it understands. It will be a long journey to return to the village, and the days to follow will be even more difficult. That I know. |
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