woodburning stove 3 of 3

*      *      *

alone
       he was very good behind enemy lines


 

                                                 laying flat on his belly he looked over to the opposite ridge

every damn one in his party was firing their rifles  almost to a man using their rifle slings to stablise their aim

they were no Deerhunters

he had to trouble himself to stay his hand from returning fire

laying there they struck him as men would hunt differently or not at all if their prey shot back

under the bursts and melee it occurred to him how were they fixed to say whose elk it was if they killed it 

four men they had expended at least thirty rounds  

he supposed hed hear their rationale when he returned to camp that evening

after the gunfire played out they disappeared from atop the ridge

he didnt heard their boots picking their way down into the swale to climb again and retrieve the elk a sick yellow light stirred inside the oven like a dispossessed firefly a moth drawn into the dull light entering it any animal within hearings reach was spooked  

he wasnt shellshocked like some who returned something was there  furtive  undecided  shy  he was sure he didnt mince words seek euphemisms call something other than what it was to make them more palatable or not carrying violence or water as lies do

No  not shellshocked   but kin to the shellshocked or warriors those left with no place now among the innocent and untested who were desperate to work their way forward advance try and excise the taloned demons that found purchase on their frayed spun systems  systems intentionally and terribly corrupted

the French beat ass they understood the futility of Empire in Indochina

but the United States isolated by thousands of miles of seawater shining seas full of itself wouldnt take a lesson from the French

it had to learn bitter futility all on its own 
on the backs of boys whose lives up to the draft were made up of summer jobs earning a drivers license then a high school diploma while all the while trying to make a girl     

he hotwired himself and fortunately was able to stand to one side while others tried in vain to intimidate or groom  then bitched their shellshockedness 

he knew Tecumsehs bray and had hardwired it into his system before the United States had their shot at him     

he committed himself to it

no halfway 

halfwayd get you killed   

he saw the smoke and mist that rose up out of dead mens skulls saw in those shimmering veils thin tapestries the deads rambunctious childhoods saw the insides of their dark huts and brown families squatting on grass mats eating from carved bowls smoking pipes fireflies in the night saw  no  he witnessed their rites initiations their lust rutting on the jungles green littered floor  

he actually saw some who were old enough to vow love take a wife have a child or children

now all were dead 

their bodies left to rot in a humid jungle


he learned understood it wasnt a mortals place to bring anothers death

only if threatened existentially

  

he never sought it
it was put on him and put on him he wasnt rolling over like a helpless dog

he defined himself

his definition insulated him

and defined he wouldnt want to cross himself or have to face himself down

                                                             the unnecessary ugliness had a shelf life

something was there the spotted mica it being manufactured in Germany the stove really attracted him

he nodded off laying in bed a book collapsed on his chest its leaves spread spine proud a warm honey storyteller seducer he was halfasleep halfexpecting it to nuzzle his chest begin to wiggle slip like loose coils and curls of fragrant hair down to his belly his hand taking its spine clutching it pushing it down down encouraging it then at his hips at his hips where it gently fingered his cock with hunreds of patience teasing pages hungering him then eager but not too eager and sensual very sensual warm and moist engulfing his length taking him between its folds its spine firm riding him deliberately rocking side to side then rising up coming down then slowly up sliding slipping down and rising again . . . .
it lay tented on his chest 

over its long cherished spine that pointed like a finger  he looked  

he looked where it pointed

something was there where he laid he could see into the stoves face there was a yellow amber marbling and moulding

awake  he set the book aside on the mattress absently turned down the blanket and sheet burying the book got out of bed held his hand up he looked to the wall where the bed was against it and saw he could scarcely make it out his hands shadow he wiggled his fingers a forlorn goodbye and recognised their faint shadows animated by his random choreography

it threw enough substance  enough light

the stove was cold

ashes were in a pail beside it

he wouldnt stoke it for a couple more hours

stoked with shavings and kindling and flint and steel or matches

he entertained himself throwing sawdust over the growing fire and watched it spark like fairy dust immolate and disappear up the black throat of the flue

he walked across the room now never taking his eyes from its sinuous marbling and oily movement

he squatted

haltingly he expectantly placed his hand on the stove fearing heat or hot despite knowing it was black and cold and dead

t was cold inside a gob of highlighted plastic amber shone painting his naked chest with fluctuating hues and random patterns nonsensical

he squatted deeper

he peered as it were face-to-face into the mica

inside was dandelionyellow then it striated with bolts quivering blackness veined purple its surface burnt like stone captured in a lava flow then crumbling translucent once more                     

then somewhere inside it
                            movement
                                              deliberate   distinct   movement                                                                              

his hand still atop the stove
undirected it sought its corner and held it
he felt something electric emanate vibrate he felt source as if his fingers were underwater gently tugged by the current of a creek in the creek outside the house
it palpating his fingers brushing the palm of his hand                                            

the movement inside the stove began assembling 
disparate bits gobs of mercury remembering itself 
coalescing 
          the assembly moved forward moved towards the mica  his face

he was spellbound  expectant unexpectant

his knees groaned maybe urging him back  away

his hand luxuriated in the fine sensation the semblance of slow moving creek water the rose and auburn the thrills of bright yellow plumes raucous abstract touched the mica inside

then a small childs hand appeared

distinct

first fingertips then fingers
                        then a firm flatplaced palm

bringing his free hand up from where he cradled it on his thigh at his knee he held it up to the mica touched it opposite the childs hand hiding the childs hand behind his

then flickering butforafewseconds a boys face appeared over his hand opened his eyes troubling away a deep sleep  the child didnt want to open his eyes he blinked provocatively fluttered his lashes
his eyes yawned

then the boy closed his eyes and what he saw in the mica subsided

it churned in twisting coloured skeins curls

tumbling marbling 

then dull and duller the failing light gone black   extinguished

he lived out away from people nurturing and protecting his introvert

he kept away those who might stomp his toes inadvertently                                                   

he kept them at bay for their own safety


                                   all things seem to possess undying memories
niggling  they return

returning when they can

one could surmise they return like silent forgotten viruses

1555,  Saturday,  21  5. 16
1051,  Twosday,  24 5. 16