Gone the Tides of Earth

Towards the banks of the river are setups of faux gladiator pits carved out into dirt circles with imported chalklike sands. These favoured exhibitions are heralded with money-clenched fists and hurrah of both personnel and samaritans alike. Most of the sporting is kayfabe, except every so often a real money bout occurs when amateur boxers, mixed-martial artists, or trained combat specialists (blunted spears, shortswords) take the ring.

These outings typically turn barbarous, any bloodied participant emerging victorious hailed with a raucous riot of applause, and vanquished left on the verge of unconscious, battered blue and diaphragms expanding, collapsing vigorously.

‘This is a shit-show,’ concedes Alci beneath a torrent of blood-drunk jeering. ‘Let’s go elsewhere. They cheer too much for violent deeds. The tiki-torches are a nice touch.’

‘I think this is what we’re supposed to be manning.’

‘Do you give a care?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Let’s go get gelato.’

With our scoops of pistachio vis-à-vis waffle-cones we go around the yard of the subdued parlour pavilions. Sure enough, I do not recognize anyone we knew nor had expected to. There aren’t any fireworks this evening, and instead its festivities seem to operate as a modest block of pubs like in ol’ English-styled squares back home.

‘All the fuss and pageantry has moved over there this night.’

‘Damn, listen to that buzz.’

‘Yes. Their nest has exploded. For them the blood is sweet as honey.’

‘We should go over,’ I decide.

Crowds now run beside the embankment all along the river mouth, and the foot traffic shoulder to shoulder. Occasionally, Alci maintains a contact point by seizing onto my jacket at its nape. The stream of individuals does not subside until we come out unto the gladiatorial rings, where there is modest space left for the fights to take place.

Here, standing and spectating, civilians tend to grant a generous berth of proximity to those donning uniform. Thanks for that we can breathe again, the panic in myself which also is painted on Alcibiades’ face allayed faintly. Currently in the ring are two women, one haggard, brutish and the other smooth, slender, handsome. The haughtier participant fights like a bull, rushing in charges, attempting to club, though her much smaller opponent parries easily each time, employing a sort of martial-arts technique to boot.

‘This plays like a cage fighter and karate acolyte,’ I allow.

‘The big one is tired and sloppy, the small one too nimble for her.’

At its conclusion the narrow fighter catches onto the bigun’s scapula and haunch after a missed charge, then flailing backswing, tosses her down unto the Earth and places a knee atop the center of sternum with both hands poised at the ready should a mercy strike be necessary. Wrangled beast does not stir or try to continue, thus this tauromachy finishes.

‘A fine triumph for the matador.’

‘She’s the finest I’ve ever seen, indeed.’

After the win, the girl exits the ring to deafening applause and the clasp of many hands on her false-armoured back and shoulders. Her dreads are awry, brow beaded with sweat, countenance fraught with consternation, and as the seaweed of humanity fights to fall in all around their champion, she is consumed and we can see no more of her.

‘I hope that poor brute may ariseth from shavasana soon.’

‘She’s tuckered out from all that action.’

‘It is so, Henry. Like Court and yourself this past evening.’

‘Shut up, Alci.’

‘Don’t be a sore winner.’

‘Stop being a sore loser and go find that comely hospital porter.’

‘Fair point.’

‘You’re a devil.’

‘What are Satan and God if not old compatriots at a poker table?’

Smiling at this, laughing, our attentions are drawn away by a loud squabble over by pastures closest to the water. Nearby where the grasses rise higher, before rows of reeds and willows a surge of bodies sways simultaneously like torrents in a whirlpool. It is very clear the moshing is intentional, and as the initial wave comes apart, divides, many obscenities and visceral gesticulations ensue between a swath of civilians and military.

Everyone gathered around the sandpits begins backing away from this happening, separating into further caveats, thence a clearing opens swiftly of various gaps and then the only persons emerging thereafter personnel and foolhardy samaritans.

‘Hell hath broken loose. Lucifer cheated his wager.’

‘Let’s go.’

We start for the dispute at a trot, arriving to find a rugby-esque scrum with many individuals locked in, tensed up, jousting with their heads bowed. It isn’t difficult to work our way through for the middle, wherein stem wider holes from the nucleus of it.

Centric to this is a soldier holding a showgirl in headlock, whipping her about to the discontent of pleading civilians, any military on scene attempting to herd them out.

‘We are not cattle,’ shouts one man, his accent almost guttural.

‘Whore, filthy slut!’ rebuts the defiant corporal, tightening grip.

Indubitably, I realize the victim is the dark-skinned jiu-jitsu girl from the sandpits. When I catch a glimpse of her face it is red as strawberry and fast purpling, a grape ready to explode at whim of the inebriate soldier’s violence. Also, keen to note is that some personnel have joined in our cause, raging on the side of the riled commonfolk.

Just before us, amidst a group trying to pierce through the phalanx is the driver who had collected us from the mountains. He too notices us then, face full of malice and jowls, teeth and eyes fixed into the visceral aggression of an animal upon predation.

‘The dirty bastard tried to requisition this young woman like a piece of property they take from us, and dubs it a symposium rite,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you not help?’

We fling ourselves forward beside the fellow and with increased strength our lot manages to push through unto the nexus. As we bull past the whole stalemate breaks loose and then fighting becomes intensified, you know not who you strike but try to ascertain they are military before landing a blow. Then come the gunshots, at first nothing shifts, although in procession everybody cowers, eventually prostrating aground once flashes burst in unison, as with the firing of cannonballs in consecutive gunwales.

Our vive la ranks falls silent, still yet the authorities utter commands in ferocious, gravelly voices, then fervently patting down our limp bodies. In short order coarse fingers seize onto my skull and drag me by scalp to the edge of riverbed, where they keep me upright in kneeling position, and policefully force hands unto the back of head.

‘See, very bad,’ speaks a defeated voice aside. ‘First Army no good. I tell you.’

It the was the car driver who, among several others, has been detained and mirrored by the water in the exact manner as myself. In the foreground, staked in the ungrazed pastureland a male civilian is slouched facedown in what the yogic call child’s-pose, somehow emulating a disobedient toddler throwing fit to garner parents’ cooperation.

‘He is dead - got shot,’ explains the driver. ‘Might have been an accident.’

Back in the crowds, the girl that had been assaulted is nowhere to be seen nor the foolish corporal who committed the offence. Personnel continually circuit amongst the quelled uprisers, kicking at bootheels, the smoking handguns still out at the ready.

A soldier comes into our midst with face twisted in perversion, starts slitting stitching of shoulder seams and tearing sleeves off the issued jackets worn. Then we were a lot of former, dishonoured military men, in sleeveless jackets, waiting to be shot.

‘I didn’t ever care very much for the look of vests,’ japes the old driver, and I see the growing fear of death on his face, quiver of potential tears to come.

The man who cut our sleeves makes his way back up the queue, crouches, staring with discerning hatred like he’s picked me out to be foreign. So, I meet his gaze with nothing particular to be conveyed, though should die not granting lease for satisfaction.

‘Now, look at me. Over here at me,’ commands the driver - his bravery catching fresh wind. ‘Leave this good young man be. He is no traitor. Get out of sight, please.’

The soldier brandishes a leering grin, lifts his pistol, and drags it along the cleft of my skull below side of temple to the Adam’s-apple, jabbing the aperture into it.

‘I am sorry,’ the old man whispered, as if anticipating my imminent death. ‘These cold men - they are all of them so asleep I’m surprised their eyes open at all.’

I allowed mine own to close but no sooner did than someone hollered my name - undoubtedly Alcibiades - and then the bodies were moving, rising from the Earth and a new moshpit clashing and the wills resurgent and tempers fuming, against all odds.

The aged driver leaps to his feet and takes off in the direction of hills past the chaos. Not conceding to let reaction time play out, I grab ahold the detainer’s gun, aim it below and begin feeding punches at point blank into his cranium. Following suit the others marked for execution take to arms, and together from both sides our coup begins pressing inward, double-enveloping the beleaguered band of operatives, and then sirens blaring.

The lockup comes apart, sways backwards and I go reverse somersault into the river. Its channels are rushing, current much faster than appeared from the field and at lowtide too difficult to grasp onto anything. Loads other splashes resound as a plethora of people tumble into the cold channels, correspondingly rushed off into the dark.

Auditory vestiges, echoes of fight, fury, carry on for many kilometres.