socks and shirts, darn, wash the dishes. Pull down hay for Penny. Sleep in the sweet-smelling shed. Be his little helping-elf. Or anything he wants me to be. I even thought: When can I start?
But here, I’ve already started—shoveling out the stables. “Sweetheart, could you kindly go….” And I was even stroked a bit before I go there.
Here… even here… what they need is a scullery maid. I’m to sleep in the stables. It’s not at all the same as it would have been if I’d been set to clean Penny’s stall and sleep with her and clean his shack up, up there under the piñons.
How to get out of it? The stallion must know. If I could get him to take the bit—I’d bloody up his mouth if I had to—to make him go back to that hill where the entrance to all this might be.
Maybe
might be.
Or if I could wake up and it would all have been a dream (it looks like a dream and feels like a dream) and I would be there, my cheek still on his foot. If that happened, I’d not kiss, as I did, I’d bite.
Or if I could go into his stall and bite his foot
now
and be instantly transported back to his shack. (I do creep in to try that and he heehaws as if he was a mule.)
Or what if I could put out his eye? But which one! That’s important. If the wrong one, then I might be here forever.
And all this after I gave him water from my tank. It isn’t as if water grows on trees around here—back there I mean.
If I ever do get back, I’ll have to end up hugging the warm rock bellies like I used to. I’ll have to make do with whatever slithers by. But I don’t care anymore. I’ll wave at crow or snake or sweet gray fox….
Those townspeople were right. Jack Blackthorn! I should have known all this (as they did) from his name and his off-kilter eye and from those bushy eyebrows.
BOYS
W E NEED A NEW batch of boys. Boys are so foolhardy, impetuous, reckless, rash. They’ll lead the way into smoke and fire and battle. I’ve seen one of my own sons, aged twelve, standing at the top of the cliff shouting, daring the enemy. You’ll never win a medal for being too reasonable.
We steal boys from anywhere. We don’t care if they come from our side or theirs. They’ll forget soon enough which side they used to be on, if they ever knew. After all, what does a seven-year-old know? Tell them this flag of ours is the best and most beautiful, and that we’re the best and smartest, and they believe it. They like uniforms. They like fancy hats with feathers. They like to get medals. They like flags and drums and war cries.
Their first big test is getting to their beds. You have to climb straight up to the barracks. At the top you have to cross a hanging bridge. They’ve heard rumors about it. They know they’ll have to go home to mother if they don’t do it. They all do it.
You should see the look on their faces when we steal them. It’s what they’ve always wanted. They’ve seen our fires along the hills. They’ve seen us marching back and forth across our flat places. When the wind is right, they’ve heard the horns that signal our getting up and going to bed and they’ve gotten up and gone to bed with our sounds or those of our enemies across the valley.
In the beginning they’re a little bit homesick (you can hear them smothering their crying the first few nights) but most have anticipated their capture and look forward to it. They love to belong to us instead of to the mothers.
If we’d let them go home they’d strut about in their uniforms and the stripes of their rank. I know because I remember when I first had my uniform. I was wishing my mother and my big sister could see me. When I was taken, I fought, but just to show my courage. I was happy to be stolen—happy to belong, at long last, to the men.
Once a year in summer we go down to the mothers and copulate in order to make more warriors. We can’t ever be completely sure which of the boys is ours and we always say that’s a good thing, for then
But here, I’ve already started—shoveling out the stables. “Sweetheart, could you kindly go….” And I was even stroked a bit before I go there.
Here… even here… what they need is a scullery maid. I’m to sleep in the stables. It’s not at all the same as it would have been if I’d been set to clean Penny’s stall and sleep with her and clean his shack up, up there under the piñons.
How to get out of it? The stallion must know. If I could get him to take the bit—I’d bloody up his mouth if I had to—to make him go back to that hill where the entrance to all this might be.
Maybe
might be.
Or if I could wake up and it would all have been a dream (it looks like a dream and feels like a dream) and I would be there, my cheek still on his foot. If that happened, I’d not kiss, as I did, I’d bite.
Or if I could go into his stall and bite his foot
now
and be instantly transported back to his shack. (I do creep in to try that and he heehaws as if he was a mule.)
Or what if I could put out his eye? But which one! That’s important. If the wrong one, then I might be here forever.
And all this after I gave him water from my tank. It isn’t as if water grows on trees around here—back there I mean.
If I ever do get back, I’ll have to end up hugging the warm rock bellies like I used to. I’ll have to make do with whatever slithers by. But I don’t care anymore. I’ll wave at crow or snake or sweet gray fox….
Those townspeople were right. Jack Blackthorn! I should have known all this (as they did) from his name and his off-kilter eye and from those bushy eyebrows.
BOYS
W E NEED A NEW batch of boys. Boys are so foolhardy, impetuous, reckless, rash. They’ll lead the way into smoke and fire and battle. I’ve seen one of my own sons, aged twelve, standing at the top of the cliff shouting, daring the enemy. You’ll never win a medal for being too reasonable.
We steal boys from anywhere. We don’t care if they come from our side or theirs. They’ll forget soon enough which side they used to be on, if they ever knew. After all, what does a seven-year-old know? Tell them this flag of ours is the best and most beautiful, and that we’re the best and smartest, and they believe it. They like uniforms. They like fancy hats with feathers. They like to get medals. They like flags and drums and war cries.
Their first big test is getting to their beds. You have to climb straight up to the barracks. At the top you have to cross a hanging bridge. They’ve heard rumors about it. They know they’ll have to go home to mother if they don’t do it. They all do it.
You should see the look on their faces when we steal them. It’s what they’ve always wanted. They’ve seen our fires along the hills. They’ve seen us marching back and forth across our flat places. When the wind is right, they’ve heard the horns that signal our getting up and going to bed and they’ve gotten up and gone to bed with our sounds or those of our enemies across the valley.
In the beginning they’re a little bit homesick (you can hear them smothering their crying the first few nights) but most have anticipated their capture and look forward to it. They love to belong to us instead of to the mothers.
If we’d let them go home they’d strut about in their uniforms and the stripes of their rank. I know because I remember when I first had my uniform. I was wishing my mother and my big sister could see me. When I was taken, I fought, but just to show my courage. I was happy to be stolen—happy to belong, at long last, to the men.
Once a year in summer we go down to the mothers and copulate in order to make more warriors. We can’t ever be completely sure which of the boys is ours and we always say that’s a good thing, for then
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