Wulfsyarn: A Mosaic by Phillip Mann Page B

was like a cork on a stream. I had no control over my life. And it was while I was in prison that I began to understand the darkness that had grown inside me.
    I had strangled and had liked doing it. The strength in the arms, the stiffness of the body, the thrill of full commitment. You see, the killing had caressed that same secret area in me that had been so quickened by lovemaking. And yet how different. My innocence was gone. I felt that everything I touched became dirty. The leaves that should have been green were black.
    But it wasn’t just the killing . As a former’s lad I was used to killing. I used to lie in wait for and flay the sand snakes when they tried to steal the vegetables from underground. You could always tell when one was there. You’d see the vegetable, a lettuce say, in the family plot and it’d be moving, rocking, like a float on the sea. Then you’d see the lips of the sand snake, like a band of blue rubber, come up from underneath and grip the body of the plant with its gritty little teeth. That’s when you’d strike. There was a kind of fork called a snaketine with sharp barbed prongs. You’d jab this underground, well below the Ups, and then hang on. Sometimes I’ve seen a snake drag the entire tine fork under. Most times you’d just hold on and let the snake convulse under the ground and then, when it had tired itself out, you’d drag it out and slit it open. One of my first inventions was to link a tine fork up to the farm generator and that cut the snaking time by half. Give them a charge and then drag them out like a stocking filled with sand and slit them.
    No, it wasn’t just the killing . It was the killing of a man. Was he better or worse than me? No. He was me. I was, am, him. All men and women became my family.
    I wanted their forgiveness. But there in the prison there was no forgiveness. I slept with my crime. I lived with my crime. There was no forgiveness.
    No, that’s not quite true. There was some forgiveness. There was some gentleness. Kindness came like . .. There was a warder who took a liking to me. At first I noticed little things. A nod of recognition. An extra ration of toilet paper. An extra potato. A book without the last page tom out. Then the man who shared my cell was moved out without warning and sent to another wing. That suited me. I wanted solitude. But then three days later my warder friend came to visit me. We had to whisper. He wanted to know my story, wanted to help me to see the prison psychiatrist or monk, whichever would help, wanted to help me pull myself together. He wanted me.
    I saw it coming. Even now, so many years later, I wonder whether he knew what was driving him. Came one night I talked about myself in whispers and even as I spoke I felt him kiss me. And in the next moment I kissed him and held him as though holding and kissing him would somehow cleanse me. And he whispered something strange to me. He said, “You have a fire in you. Warm me.”
    We made love then and many times later. Quietly and intensely. Whenever we could. And I knew he had forgiven me and trusted me for he stood holding my iron bunk with his strong back toward me and his neck bare and I ran my fingers over it.
    Then one day he came to me and he said, “Do you love me or am I just what’s available?” The question caught me off guard. It seemed irrelevant. I had no answer. And then he said, “You who have so much must never be cruel to those that love you. But you are cruel and cold.” I did not understand what he meant. “Your case has been reviewed,” he said finally. “The wife has given more evidence in your favor. You have been given your freedom.” He paused and looked at me and then continued, “You will be leaving tomorrow. I shall be staying here. Who has been most in prison? You have all the heat a man can want, but you are a cold-hearted bastard.”
    And I did leave prison the next day. He did not come to say goodbye and I did not go looking for