Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

Eric the worm.

Eric thought of Birdie, somewhere alone up above. He thought about Lucia and her grief and hoped she would find a way to conquer it, to be strong for Birdie. He thought of ways of escaping.

He imagined he pulled the steel rebar from its sheath of concrete. Like Arthur and Excalibur. He imagined he held the steel like a sword, and advanced with stealth back up through the passageway. He broke through a door. When the guards turned to him, he crushed their skulls with the rebar, grunting with the effort, and listening to the crunch of their shattered bones with careless exultation. Holding the steel in his hand, which dripped a trail of blood and gore, he entered the church where the green-eyed man held Lucia and Birdie among a crowd. Into the crowd he waded, his steel bar flashing. He fought his way to them, blood arcing from his swinging steel. The dying moaned about his feet, but he did not care. He took Birdie in his arms, Lucia by the hand, and led them from that place, back into the green forests, lit by the hot sun.

But it was fantasy. He was no King Arthur. He was Eric the worm. The rebar was solid in its cement home. The steel cuffs were tight against his wrist. He could not move. When he could hold it no longer, he had to piss in his pants. The warmth of it sickened him with grief and shame. He tried not to cry in the sensitive silence, but tears came anyway.

The fantasies stopped.

All he could think of was water.

All the different kinds of water. Rain water. River water. Water in lakes and water in ponds. Dew caught in the grass. Water that collects in your hair when you walk through a fog. The cold water of melted frost. Water in puddles, on roads, dripping from roofs. Loud water rushing down a waterfall. Silent water, still and contemplative as a monk. The first glass of water of the day and the one you have at night. The water that waits for you in a glass. Water in an aluminum canteen and water from a plastic jug. Boiled water. Fresh rain water. Frothing water and pouring water. Blue water, green water, water the color of sand, and water as dark as night. The gold water of the reflected sun and the pale water of the moon. The turquoise water of curling waves cresting, with their white hats. The gray water of storms and the brown water of floods.

Clear water.

He could think of nothing else, even when the thinking became something worse than desire. When the pain began.

Alone in the darkness, dying of thirst, Eric felt himself begin to shrivel. His body seemed slow, his blood moved through him like mud. His mouth burned and his tongue felt like a dry dead thing in his mouth, except for the pain.

When he had first come to the Cave, he had tried to speak to the prisoners. “Hello?” he had asked the darkness. “Is there anyone there?” There was no reply, maybe a whimper or two in the darkness, the other worms, wriggling on the floor. He had thought then that they were too afraid to speak, but now he understood.

It hurt. His tongue was so swollen and dry, he could not imagine speaking with it anymore. It hurt to swallow. Speech was impossible.

A blazing yellow light appeared. And then the raucous sound of their captors. They emerged from the light like burning angels. Their movements seemed effortless, weightless, blessed. What a miracle it was to be whole. Before he could accustom his eyes to their presence, they grabbed him up and dragged him out.

“Fucking stinks in here,” one of the guards said to the prisoners as they left, as if it were their fault.

They dragged Eric up the passage. He stumbled, trying to follow. It was astonishing to him how weak he was. It was not like in the movies where the prisoners managed to keep their dignity despite all their inhuman treatment. In reality, it was easy to break someone.

They carried him through a room and dumped him down in front of a desk where he groaned and coughed through a dry throat. Using what little strength he had, blinking in the blinding light, Eric struggled to stand. When he did, he saw the green-eyed man sitting behind the desk, studying him cooly. There was no sympathy there. If anything, the man was casually amused.

He saw Lucia first. She was in a corner, looking at him, her face bruised and her lip split. One of her eyes was swollen shut. Beside her was Birdie, staring at him with quiet anguish. He knew they had been told not to utter a word. Eric turned away. He didn’t want them to see him like this.

“My name is Daniel Sullivan,” spoke the man with green eyes, “and I’m going to give you two ways to die. I want you to choose.”

Eric didn’t move as Daniel Sullivan spoke. He fought hard not to tremble. Not in front of Lucia and Birdie.

While Sullivan explained his choices, Eric concentrated on his green eyes and the little crescent shaped white scar on his forehead.

It was difficult to listen to him.

There was a glass of water on the table, full and glistening.

“Well, Eric,” said Daniel Sullivan, “this is how it is.” He picked up a pen and twirled it in his hand. “I’ve talked with these two lovely ladies, and I know the whole story. I understand your position with Carl Doyle. I also know that you are not responsible for the deaths of my fellows.

“But that doesn’t matter much to me, Eric. I know it’s going to be hard for you to understand, maybe impossible, but I’m going to explain to you once why you have to die. It’s up to you to decide the manner of that death. That’s the best I can do for you.”

Lucia made a hissing sound, but when Daniel Sullivan turned his head toward her slightly, she shrank into the corner.

“Carl Doyle is a menace, but he’s dangerous. After what beautiful Lucia told me, I’m not sure we could take him without suffering grievous losses. We’ve had enough of that. I won’t put my people at risk. Yet this leaves me with a quandary, Eric. Because my people need justice. Justice binds us together, you see. Without justice, we’re only a gang. With justice, we’re a people, a culture, a civilization. We are brothers and sisters. People are the bones of a society. Justice is the muscle, the cartilage, the flesh.”

Daniel Sullivan revolved in his chair, picked up his pen, twirled it in his fingers, and then silently studied him for a second.

“This leaves me with the question, what is justice? Have you thought of that? What is it? Is it knowing right and wrong? Or is it simple, animal revenge? I thought about this for a long time. And it came to me finally. We’re just human beings, we don’t know right and wrong. Only God Almighty can know that. Revenge is unsatisfying and leads to reprisal, enmity, feud, war. I understood it finally, one night, while I was at prayer at the feet of Our Lord.

“Justice is sacrifice. We need people to die for what we believe. We need them to make the ultimate sacrifice. Their blood gives life meaning. Their final exhalation breathes life into a society, Eric. That is the lesson of Our Lord, the son of God. Sacrifice is the root of justice. We ask these people who have done us wrong to sacrifice themselves for the good of us all. Everything else is mere machinery toward that end.”

Daniel Sullivan let his pen drop. His chair squeaked as he leaned toward Eric. His eyes were terrible upon him.

“It doesn’t matter if you are guilty or if you are not. What matters is the sacrifice. When my people see you die, they will come together. Be it in grief or rage, be it in agreement or disagreement, it won’t matter. Your death will bind us as one, make us a stronger people. That is why you have to die, Eric, for the good of us all. You must die.”