|
(Later, I decide his name is not Pierson Mc Anderson, at all, but rather, Andreas Saint Masculinity) _____________________________ Meanwhile, I am being buried alive, 'playing dead' so as not to give myself away. I am lying, eyes closed and arms crossed on my chest, in a shallow sandy grave at the centre of a dome-like cave, some metres around. The entrance, a low, ragged archway, frames a bright patch of intense daylight. Several impressive individuals, ancient warrior types, wearing metal breastplates, their thick muddy hair adorned with long, curved feathers and small hollow ornaments of beaten metal, tied in with tatters of coloured fabric, silently oversee the interment. A thin, ropy man, of lower caste, shovels black, silty, sand over my legs and torso. Another 'white man', like myself, his shirt stripped away and wrists bound in front, awaits a similar fate. Around the walls, leaning in the powdery sand, firebrands of wrapped vines dipped in tree-sap and pitchblende throw a dismal, smoky light onto the ceiling. My prospects are not good. But, I dare not open my eyes - if they discover me alive, honour will require, no doubt, some worse fate befall me. But then, something happens. There is ...a change in the orderly motions of the digger, as he scoops up another load of sand and delivers it unexpectedly to the side of my head, lingering for a moment (as though overcome by dust) to insert a precisely placed cough. The shovel blade cuts deeper, seeking clay. He is trying to help me! ...heaping the moister earth to form ...a cavity - a small, breathable pocket of air -that, later, I might dig my way free, collapsing the layers of compacted soil above. An elaborate scene condenses, beyond the limits of sight, of the digger, weaving a deception of considerable expertise. Somewhere, between the practiced nonchalance of his profession, and the expectation of his masters, that he will be less than efficient, the important work of building my escape route goes on, undetected. The next clod lands atop the last, shielding my face from the onlookers, who must by now fancy that I am in the process of being turned under. Earth trickles over my face - I move my arm, just slightly, to protect my eyes, and mouth. "His hand moved...!" "Chop it off...!!" "At the count of four, kill both of them!..." [Meaning, the digger, as well] On 'four', I open my eyes. The iron tip of a spear is swinging down towards me, and a scuffle breaks out in the cramped confines of the cave. I launch out, snatching at the glint of a knife handle, dangling from its leather thong. Inside their reach, the threat from spear-point evaporates, but my shoulder comes up hard against breastplate, with a jarring impact that sends us both to the wall, toppling firebrands in all directions. My hand closes on the knife, turning it into his thigh, just enough to put him off the idea of standing up, and I scramble from the cave, into blinding sunlight. The digger and the other man were both killed. Fortunately, they can be revived, later. One of us has remained alive - a living 'imprint' of the event ...to work back from. Otherwise, we would all three have been lost, forever. _____________________________ Still waiting for news - I stumble onto part of the tribe that lives along the river. ("...have they seen guy with a beard?...") Perhaps, I decide, it is I, who am actually Andreas Saint Masculinity... For a while, I am absorbed into the day to day life of the tribe. I have learnt to cook. At nights, they erect huge, elaborate platforms constructed from vines, which they swing between. Someone finally shows up, after searching for days - they appear, crashing from the jungle like a desperate apparition. [loop to P. Mc Anderson] _____________________________ Then, onwards - slowly losing ground to the 'warriors'. I jump over a sandy cliff edge ...too late? Hugging the wall of sand, a few metres down - not sure ...did they see me? I'm too near the top ...if they look over... Must drop ...further down. Sure enough, faces peer over. They point, spotting me, as I scramble, sliding, to the bottom, bringing a scree of sand and pebbles along behind me. _____________________________ Lying in a ditch, trying to dig myself under. [loop to Buried Alive] There is nowhere else to hide, except beneath the soft, yielding sand - cool and inviting. Now, scooping armloads of silt out of the way, in the faint meander of a dry creek bed - as the peaceful, windless heat disintegrates into panic - I fantasize about the 'perfect hole in the ground'... ...Of ...a refuge, equipped with a flat, wooden cover, cleverly heaped with sand, and rocks, and sticks, so that, on pulling it shut from the inside, the pile would spill across the top, camouflaging it completely. Really, that's what I need. Probably won't do much good here, though. Sounds more like a weekend project.
|