Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

Cairo is a bunch of old, clapboard houses surrounded by a wooden fence. All the windows have bars on them and the doors are all reinforced with steel. It looks like a place that’s been under siege for about a decade, which, I guess, maybe it has. Lining the road as we walk through are more than two dozen men and women, all holding guns. None of them look very welcoming. They all stare at Eric in open hatred. One old man, mostly bald and toothless, leans out and squirts out a thin line of spit in front of us.

Once again I’m grateful for Randy. There’s no way we would have gotten this far into town without him. I watch him up ahead, smiling at the people who hate us. He’s got a talent, all right. He doesn’t seem to be bothered at all by them. He looks at them all like they were the best of friends. As for myself, I seem to feel every gun pointed my way, and it makes me nervous as hell to think of how any one of these people could shoot Eric down right now and no one would blame them. I don’t have very many warm feelings for these people. All I care about is getting Eric somewhere safe as fast as I can. I look around for the Good Prince, but I don’t see anyone.

Randy leads us to an old church, with its little block of a steeple topped by a brass cross. Once the church must have been bright yellow, but now it’s faded and chipped. The windows are all completely barred with steel. The double doors in front are also made of steel, inexpertly welded, patchworked together from whatever they could scavenge. Above the door is a strange wooden bear, seemingly carved with a chainsaw from a single block of wood, and painted deep black, except its eyes which are disturbingly white. Under the bear and just over the double steel doors, GOOD PRINCE BILLYis written in garish, bright pink letters.

There’s a man waiting for us outside the church. He’s dressed like many of the others, in faded and ripped blue jeans with a worn plaid shirt. He’s got a long beard and cradles a shotgun in his folded arms. His thin face studies us as we approach.

“This is Jim,” Randy whispers over to us. “He’s been in charge of the Mustangs for a while now.”

“Where’s the Good Prince?” I ask Randy nervously. “I don’t like this.”

“Me either,” agrees Pest.

Jim chimes in before Randy can answer. “Let me see Eric,” he says.

Feeling nervous, I step ahead and give Eric a little tug forward. Eric shambles forward toward the church. I put out my hand and stop him at the base of the steps. Jim looks down at us for a second and then comes down the steps to look closer. He eyes me for a second.

“He bite?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Jim comes forward and studies Eric up close. Then he steps back and looks him up and down. “Shit,” he says. “Hey there, amigo.” Jim smiles weakly and pats Eric on the shoulder. He turns toward me. “He came through here a long while back. He was just a kid then.” He looks at Eric again. “It was a memorable day.” His eyes seem to drift off and then he turns away and strides up the steps. He turns back and waves us forward. “Billy will want to see him.”

It’s hard to get Eric up the steps. I never thought of it, but Eric has never had to use steps before. He keeps stumbling and tripping. He falls over a couple times. The crowd that we’ve attracted seems to find this funny. They laugh every time Eric stumbles or falls trying to get up the steps. It makes me burn with anger, but I smile at them like I’m in on the joke too. I’d rather have them laughing at Eric than shooting him. After Eric falls hard enough to draw a black wound on his cheek, and the crowd roars with laughter, Pest and I decide just to drag him up the steps. He’s lost so much weight, it’s easy to do. Feeling ashamed and humiliated and enraged by the laughter of the crowd, I quickly lead Eric into the church. I could’ve kissed Pest from gratitude when he shut the church doors behind us. In the silence of the church, I take out Eric’s drooly towel and wipe the black blood from his face.

“Sons a bitches,” I say under my breath as I clean him.

“Unh,” Eric agrees. Black bile drips from his mouth and stretches down nearly to his knees before it breaks off and lands wetly on the church’s wooden floor. I wipe his mouth and then put the drooly towel back in the pocket of his shirt.

The inside of the church is empty except for a table near the back. Behind the table, I can see a door. On the opposite wall, there’s steel where there must have been a large window. The steel is painted to look like a stained glass window, but instead of any kind of religious imagery, the painting is a silhouette of a horse, but done in many colors, like a painting of a mosaic. The church is full of dust, and I have the feeling that no one uses it anymore. Sitting at the table is Good Prince Billy. With visible, shaking effort, she pushes herself up from the table using a cane, and then hobbles slowly toward us.

She’s older than I thought she’d be. Her hair is silver white and thin on her head, and her eyes are clouded so badly, I wonder how much she can see. Her face is wrinkled as a prune and in one of her hands, she clutches a cane that she leans on heavily. She’s wearing a worn and faded floral shirt and a pair of overalls so old, they’re almost the same color as her hair. She smells like the forest on a hot, dry day, all pine needles and dust. The Good Prince peers over me at Eric, but I don’t know how much she sees.

“Is that Eric?” she says in a dry, tired-sounding voice.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Well, I can smell him,” The Good Prince answers, wrinkling her noise. She turns her sightless gaze toward me and clears her throat. “You’re Birdie, aren’t you?”

The sound of my true name coming from a stranger’s voice is disconcerting. I feel uncomfortable, but I have to say something. “How’d you know my name?” I ask her.

The Good Prince smiles at me. “You live as long as me and you hear things other people don’t hear.” To my surprise, she reaches out a hand and takes Eric’s arm. “I can hear him in you. Plain as day for those that know how to listen.” She pulls Eric forward.

“Unh,” Eric responds and starts walking forward. Instinctively, I put out a hand and stop him.

The Good Prince turns her head just slightly toward me. “It’s okay, honey,” she says. “I’m going to help him best I know how.”

I take my hand away from Eric’s chest and feel a little ashamed. “Thank you,” I say.

The Good Prince laughs then, dryly, and ends up gently coughing. “Well, don’t thank me yet,” she says. “You won’t like what’s about to happen, I can tell you that.” She gently pulls Eric forward again. “First thing we got to do is get Eric cleaned up.” She leads him forward toward the back of the church, and when I don’t immediately follow, The Good Prince turns her head toward me. “You too, honey,” she says. “This is something you got to do.”

I look toward Pest who smiles weakly at me. The smile says “So glad not to be you” plain as day. He nods toward the back of the church where the Good Prince is disappearing through a door with Eric. I feel uncertain. Then I turn before I can think about it too much more and follow the Good Prince and Eric through the door and down into the dark basement.

The basement is divided into three jail cells. Facing the cells is a short hallway with a wooden table in the corner, against the wall. Near the table, there’s a cast iron wood stove burning hotly so the basement is dry, almost hot. The basement is lit by two kerosene lamps, one inside one of the jail cells, and another sitting on the table next to a plastic jug and an aluminum mug. There’s something underneath the table too, but I can’t see what it is. Two chairs are set at the table. In the jail cell, I see a large tin bucket and a mop. Gently, the Good Prince leads Eric into the jail cell with the lamp inside. He walks to the corner and presses his face into the cement. Leaning on her cane, the Good Prince hobbles out and, with great effort, sits at one of the two chairs next to the table. She takes a deep breath and then taps the other chair with her cane.