Gary Braunbeck - Keepers

Another voice says, “Please put him down. He’s an idiot. It’s not worth it.”

I turn my head. Carson stands nearby. His hand rests on the butt of his holstered weapon.

I release my grip on the orderly’s throat and he drops to the ground with a heavy, wet noise. He coughs, rubs his neck, then looks up at me. “I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you one of these days.”

“That’s enough,” says Carson.

“My ass,” shouts the orderly, stumbling to his feet. “I don’t see why the rest of us should have to put up with this shit- you’re the freak-lover!”

Carson glares at the orderly. Here, in this place, he is the man he might have been, strong, brave, articulate. “One more word out of you and I’ll turn him loose. There won’t be enough left of you to feed to the pigs.”

The orderly glowers for a moment, then spits on my front left hoof and begins to walk away.

Carson looks at the puddle of excrement and says: “Forgetting something, aren’t you?”

The orderly stops. For a moment it looks as if he might respond in anger, then a shadow crosses his face. In that shadow I see his wife and children, their too-thin bodies, their dirty clothes, the hunger in their eyes.

He nods his head and walks to the puddle. I offer him the cloth. Wordlessly, he takes it, covers his hands, and retrieves his device from the puddle. He leaves without saying another word or looking at me.

“Are you all right?” asks Carson.

I nod.

Carson begins walking over the rise and I follow him. Behind me the other animals, the sick ones with whom I share the building, begin their moaning anew.

We see the dance of life, rippling, flying, running by. There was a time when we were part of the dance, before the fields were plowed over and we were taken to these rooms.

I wish that I could find some pity in my heart for them, but I cannot. They are ill, their flesh tainted. They can only wait for the walk to the bloody chamber.

As I top the rise I look down and see them in the fields. They graze and sleep. Two are by the fence, one mounting the other. They rut and grumble as one plunges into the other. I look away and see Carson staring at me.

“One day,” he says to me, “Zeus looked down from Olympus and saw a mother weeping over her dead child. Not quite grasping the concept of human suffering, Zeus chose to come down to Earth as a child himself in order to find out more about it. The other gods were irritated with Zeus at this time and so played a trick on him-they turned the Earth while Zeus wasn’t looking. He landed in the middle of a desert. He wandered as a child for days, then weeks, and began to weaken from starvation. The gods had temporarily stripped him of his godly powers; he was totally human.

“So he wandered, then collapsed, unable to walk from the sores upon his feet. He crawled until he could move no more. He lay there dying. In what might have been the last moments of his life, Zeus heard a strange weeping sound. He turned his head to see an odd beast lumbering toward him. This beast was a cow who had no one to milk her. Her teats were swollen and painful. She saw this child lying there in the middle of the desert and went to him, positioning her body so that her teats were directly above his mouth. Zeus sucked hungrily, drinking his fill of her life-restoring milk.

“The gods saw this and were strangely moved, and so restored Zeus’s powers to him. He brought the cow back to Olympus with him and decreed that she and her like were to be considered sacred, and would be plentiful upon the Earth so that no child would ever again know the suffering he had to endure, and no parent the grief of having to see their children die. The cow lives on Olympus still, grazing in a field beside Zeus’s throne.”

A loud whistle breaks the still of the morning. Men wander into the fields, each carrying their own device, and begin to prod the beasts into groups, and those groups into lines. They march toward the large building with the smokestacks. The men continue shouting and prodding them until they are stuffed into the corrals. The animals cry out in confusion. Another man walks the length of the rows, tossing handfuls of hay to them. They lower their heads and eat, silently.

At the front of each corral is a large metal door. There are four in all.

A buzzing sound fills the air for a moment, followed by a deafening shriek that momentarily frightens the herds, then is replaced by the chords of soothing music.

The animals, calm again, return to their meal. I can hear the voices of the herd.

Our hearts are pounding together. There is not enough room. Is this a face I am standing on? Is my friend dead? Are we all dead already, or is death still to come? Are we real? Do we exist at all?

I envy them. Their whole purpose is fulfilled just by standing in the field all day, eating, then looking upward at the sky where no gods look down.

The door at the end of the first corral opens. From deep inside the dark place beyond comes a rumbling.

The rumbling room! they think.

One by one, they raise their heads and cry out. More hay is tossed to them but they do not look at it. All thoughts of hunger have fled. Now there is only fear and bodies pressing together, the crushing weight of one becoming that of many. The wooden rails of the corral make clattering noises as their bodies slam against them, but do not break. The rails never break. Such is the care given to the construction.

One of the beasts cries out as blood bubbles from its nostrils.

Another releases the contents of its bowels.

Yet another stomps in crimson-colored urine.

Their fear reaches out and grips my horns, pulling my head forward.

“It’s time,” says Carson, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

I march forward, my hooves sinking into the mud. I can feel my muscles rippling under my flesh. I have to remember that I am not the same as them. I must remember this. It is important.

I enter the corral gate, and follow the path that leads me to the right. I walk a separate path that parallels that of the herd. I reach the end and step up onto the platform that has been built for me.

I turn to face them.

I take a breath.

I raise my arms before them.

They stare at me in awe and wonder. This is how they worship me. How they love me. To them I am a god. Their cud-stuffed prayers are only for me.

I suffer as you do, I say to them. I have known the loneliness of dark spaces. I have tasted the fruit of betrayal. I know what it is like to stand upright as a man does.

TWO LEGS! they pray to me. IF ONLY WE HAD TWO LEGS, WE COULD LEAVE THIS PLACE OF FEAR AND FOLLOW YOU!

You will never stand on two legs, I say to them. To stand as a man stands is very hard. Two legs are very hard. Perhaps four is better, after all.

WHERE ARE WE TO GO? TELL US, SHOW US THE WAY. WE WILL FOLLOW.

I answer them with a cry of my own, one composed of equal parts field-beast and man. They throw back their heads in reply.

I turn on the platform and begin walking inside.

They follow.

The platform extends all the way across the rumbling room. I can travel its length and never touch the soil below. This platform empties onto a wooden terrace at the other end, and there I will walk down the ramp, go around the building, and enter the Corral of the Separate Path once again, then twice more after that. Until all the herd have been led into the dark, rumbling room.

Then I shall be rewarded.

I step through the doorway into the rumbling room. Behind me, the herd moves as one.

My arms still raised, I gesture for them to come. Come, my children, follow me.

They enter the rumbling room four at a time. As they step through the door, a man walks up to each of them. These men hold hammers. Hammers smash into heads. Their knees buckle, and with a cry they drop. Chains are dropped from above and secured around their legs. The room roars. The chains are pulled taut and the first four are lifted from the ground. They hang there, in great pain but not yet dead. Another roar, the walls shake, and they begin to move. It is as if they are slowly flying. As they pass by, they look at me. Their eyes are stupid with fear, and I cannot return their gaze. I am not the same as them. I am not the same as them. I am not the same as them.