SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.17: The Couple

CULTURE

Was I one of black or white?
I dared self not to know,
for knowing might make me outside,
to all who come and go

should talk I loud, and beat my chest,
of pigment in my skin,
and hair curled wild, tracing close
to head where it begins?

how much of you belongs in me,
how much belongs in you?
are we meant to be people free,
or mirrors, one and two?

A small pride I do try to feel,
of knowing from where I hail,
but also shame abounds for me
at culture that I fail

the customs dear, I knew naught of,
nor people who abided,
nor struggle long and arduous,
that strengthened where they strided

if blood doth make the man, then I,
was surely of the world,
but in all corners, far and wide,
I felt like colors swirled

The proud ones hail from hegemony,
from life lived until death,
from tears and blood shed needlessly,
and then put back to rest

from babes in cribs that wail for days,
from pantries stocked with home,
from friends hurt by the differences
'tween others and their own

and I was mere imposter,
to their world and worlds within
a faint and dim facsimile
of my past origins.

* * *

The Ranger's words bothered me. I thought of men like my father, or my uncle, and imagined them wielding axes and defending their lives... then The Eagle, and The Knight, who valued honor in their combat. But I also remembered The Killer, how he gleed in defiance at blood, eyes wide to death's great threat, teeth gleaming. Were warriors doomed to become a plague all their own? Could their sickness be cured? Or was it worse than The Black Plague itself? I had ample time to think, but I wanted breakfast, so I got out of bed and went to the kitchen.
Sitting at the long table of several chairs was The Ranger, having tea and a loaf of bread to dip in it. A whole loaf to herself! Made sense, I figured, how's else she supposed to stay so big? Next to her was an empty chair, with a steaming cup of tea, and when she saw me she patted the seat for me to take. So I sat down, and when I did, a large, dark-skinned man with no shirt walked in, holding a plate of boiled chicken and fried eggs. He was lean and jacked up like 'is wife, muscles and veins bulgin', abs like a washboard. His head and face were shaved, his folded, bright eyes calmly pleased to meet me, his brighter smile gapped between his two front teeth. He reminded me of the mule from the play, and I realized he made a better fit for it than I did – The Author was right, perhaps, in labelling me more cat-like. What surprised me about him was how unlike The Prince, or I, he was – African too, yet still a kind unknown to me.
"Heeellooo," he cheered, and leaned on the table with only his fist. "You must be the stray! I'm The Lumberjack, my wife MUST have mentioned me? Oh, but call me Jack, for short, please." He laughed at his own joke very gently.
I blushed. The Jack was sweet as butter, if that made sense; he was unexpectedly delightful, and made you feel right at home. His accent was neutral, but snappy. I couldn't place it. I reached across the table to shake his hand, and he looked at it like I'd spat in my palm. He shook it anyway, and I pulled it back again.
"I'm The Reaper," I said. "Grim Reaper, sometimes."
His eyes glinted, and he made a wry smile. "Okay, sure, no name. How 'bout I call you 'Grim'?"
I blinked. "Do I have to have a name to stay here?"
He squinted, cocked his head, and looked to his wife. "I guess... not? 'Reaper' it is, then. Nice to meet you." He paused. "And just so you know, we don't reach over the table here – no elbows, either."
I was annoyed at the lecture, but he was still smiling, so I assumed my transgression was minor. "No problem," I responded.
"Good, good stuff," he chuckled. "You can make yourself somethin' real quick if you like, use the kitchen as you please – but DO wash your dishes, aight?"
I stood up to do so, but first asked, "Where are you from, Jack?"
He froze. His wife nodded to him, but he didn't move.
She took the cue. "He's from the Congo, south of Moor's land. And his mother was from further yet, but he's not sure exactly."
He cracked a nervous smile, and started forking his eggs to pop the yolks. He picked one up whole and slid it into his mouth to chew, yellow dripping on the plate and just barely between his lips without meeting his chest – which a tinge in my gut told me I wanted to see. I ignored it.
"That's interesting!" I broke the silence. "I'm from Egypt, Ireland, and other places. But I've been to Morocco, and a bit more on the way. Do you like it here? In Scotland?"
He grimaced. "Well, to be honest, no. I love the land, don't get me wrong-"
The Ranger chimed in, "He LOVES the land."
He swayed, and took the break to bite into some chicken. Its fibrous, white strings looked like hair, almost, but fleshy as he slurped them up. He spoke up again, "You sure you wanna hear about this?"
I shrugged.
He cleared his throat, and took a handkerchief from the pocket of his cotton pants, and wiped off the oil from his lips. "I can spend all day outside," he started, "but I can't stand some of the people here. Most of 'em are kind, I see that-"
"They can be SO nice," The Ranger added.
The Jack continued, "But they're TRYING to be nice, instead of ACTUALLY BEING nice. Every time I'm in town, I feel like some kinda pariah or somethin' – errybody's always lookin' at me, tellin' me I'm a moor when I'm not-"
The Ranger's face flushed, and I remembered her calling him one yesterday.
I covered for her. "You're Congonian?"
"Congonese, thank you very much. But, that's innocent, I don't mind that mistake. It's more like when I have to say, like," he set up to pantomime speaking to an elderly woman, " 'Ma'am, I can see you ain't never met one like me before, but I ain't no prophet for the rest of us, nor the king, or the got-damned pope! I don't know SHIT that the rest o' y'all don't, aight?!' I mean, jeez, let a guy alone for a bit, let 'em buy his damn hammer n' nails in peace! Sheesh."
The Ranger made a 'tch', and sipped her tea. "People can be very insensitive."
"AND, AND!!" he started ranting, "THERE AIN'T no DUMBER SACKS of SHIT than those F-" He stopped himself, and raised a hand. "Pardon my words, FREAKING SOLDIERS. They're the most cruel, hurtful people I've EVER met, and nobody made me feel worse to be here than them. And I didn't ask to be out here, aight? I was on a boat, I was in chains, and I got free by the skill of my god-damned fingers, pickin' the lock and shit while the whip was crackin'. Fuck. When I got here, they called me 'The Runaway'." He pounded his fork on the table, and nodded at me to show we were on the same side of this. "I EARNED my life, as The Lumberjack of this here town. Errybody else left, I stayed, I carried logs for days and nights on end – back-breakin' labor, all for me an' my wife, all for the town, ain't for nobody else."
The Ranger nodded, "Exactly, exactly. No slavers here, thank you," and sipped her tea again. She'd finished her bread already.
"That's why we out here, far from axes that cut bodies – my axes only cut wood, and sometimes the occasional predator, if it thinks I'm lunch. But I always let it run away! I ain't no killer, nuh-uh."
My stomach growled, and I realized it'd been two days since I'd eaten. Not knowing how to excuse myself, I waited for him to finish his sermon, nodded, and walked away. He didn't seem to need my direct attention to keep going.
"Nah," he continued, "I HOPE they come back, so I can send 'em all PACKIN'. They need wood? They can get it they-selves, barbarian asses. Don't MESS with The Jack, no sir!"
I gritted a smile and looked for some fruit. There was a basket of apples in the cupboard – I'd heard from The Author that Scotland had only got orchards a couple centuries ago, so my timing was spot-on. I wondered if The Jack really meant what he said, and if he'd repeat it to their faces. 'Not every Scot soldier is an honorless bastard,' I thought, having known a few brave hearts from The Knight's troop that made mine awe in respect. They were kilted with bagpipes on their shoulders, most days, and they loved singing songs of their victories to come, and those of the past won by their ancestors. But it seemed, here, that honor had not found a way to spread like the apple – some things needed more than simple roads to be moved abroad.