ested in them.
Then whatever she had in the basket moved.
That surprised the hell out of me. I had assumed she was carrying laundry to wash or something like that. The notion that there
was something living within the basket was extremely strange. I
could not fathom what manner of creature she had in the basket, nor what she could possibly want to do with it on the river. I
remained exactly where I was, unmoving, so that I could see how
the next moments played out.
Perhaps it was a small group of kittens. That would not have
surprised me. There were many people who had little to no patience
with cats and would not hesitate to dispose of an unwanted brood.
But it did not seem likely since a basket full of kittens would have
been mewing piteously, seeking their mother even as the basket
holder prepared to drown them.
Instead a wholly different sound was emitted from the basket.
The small, faint whimper of a child.
“I’m sorry, my son,” she whispered. “This is the only way.” I could not believe what I was witnessing. A woman was clearly
preparing to drown her infant.
Understand that it is not my personality to especially give a
damn about the fates of others. My entire priority is geared around
my own survival, and in my several decades of life, I have become
quite adroit at it.
But my own appalling childhood had left me with at least
some degree of sensitivity to the plight of youngsters. I suppose
that is inevitable when one grows up as the lame son of a tavern
whore, conceived in a stormy night of rape courtesy of a group of
knights. Pathetic sight that I was, I was endlessly tormented by
other, healthier youths of far less violent parentage. So to this day I remained sensitive to the plight of youngsters who were faced with all manner of bullying. I take pride in saying that on any number of occasions in my adulthood I had not hesitated to thoroughly pummel obnoxious ten year olds who I caught in the act of harass
ing younger children. The little bastards had it coming. What I was witnessing now, however, transcended all of the
previous instances. Here was a mother who was clearly preparing
to murder a helpless infant. Within seconds she would doubtless
tip over the basket and send the baby splashing into the water. And
unless the child was half fish, capable of immediately learning how
to swim, its remaining life could be measured in seconds. Instantly I reared up out of the water, tossing aside any endeavors to mask my presence. She saw me and her eyes widened in
surprise, and she fell backwards into a sitting position on the bank. “How dare you?” I bellowed at her. “Have you no shame? No
pity? Have you no internal sense of motherhood at all? How could
you do such a thing?”
Frantically she put a finger to her lips and attempted to quiet
me. “Please, stop!” she whispered desperately. “The Rama Lama’s
guards are just around the bend!”
I had no clue who “Rama Lama” was, nor did I care. My furious attention was entirely on the young woman. “Perhaps you don’t
want your child. In that case, do the decent thing and find another
mother for him! To just toss him in the river as if he were some
minor piece of refuse! May your soul burn in hell for what you were
about to do!”
As I spoke, I splashed my way out of the river, grabbing my staff
to bring myself fully upright. I stood there in my sodden undergarment, making no attempt to curtail my rage despite her urgent
gesturing that I should silence myself. “I have no idea if you pray to
any gods, but if so, I suggest you plead for His or Their forgiveness
immediately!”
She was continuing to gesture to me to silence myself, and then
she looked to the side and her eyes widened in horror. Seconds later,
two large guards approached her. They were bare chested and bare legged, wearing armored kilts and towering helmets that would have obscured the vision of anyone foolish enough to be standing behind them. Both of them were carrying lengthy, curved swords and they were scowling at the young woman. “What is going on here?” demanded the slightly taller of them, although with their high helmets, it was difficult to get any real idea of how tall the
men were.
Seeing them as authorities, I pointed at the woman and declared
stridently, “She was going to drown that infant!”
“No, I wasn’t!” she said desperately. “I was…I was just going to
bathe him!”
“Then why did you apologize to him? Why did you tell him
“I…I…” She was stammering. She had no answer. What
answer could she possibly have, save to admit her determination
to drown her child. My suspicion was that she had had the infant
in secret and was hoping to terminate the child before someone,
such as her father, found out about his daughter’s history of slattern
behavior and pregnancy.
She was clutching the basket and child to her breast, and her
legs were trembling. She was clearly terrified of the guards, as well
she should be. I was hardly familiar with Rogyptian law, but I
doubted that it was especially sympathetic to homicidal mothers. “Wait a minute,” said the taller guard. His hand speared forward and clasped around the eight pointed star. “She wears the
Morgan Trace. She’s a Shew. And this is your first born, isn’t it.” Reflexively she began to nod, but then she immediately shook
her head. “No. No, he’s my third. And…and the first was already
attended to. So there’s no need for—”
“I don’t believe you,” said the guard and then, to my astonishment, he slapped his beefy hand forward and knocked the basket
and child out of the mother’s hands. The child let out a startled cry
for the first time.
I did not quite understand what was happening. “Wait…hold
on just one—” I began to say.
And he slew the child.
I could not believe it. One moment the child was wailing piteously, and the next the guard brought the sword swinging down and around and cleaved the basket in half. There was no question that the child was dead. There was an awful “splutch” sound and
an abrupt termination of the infant’s cries.
Understand that in my life I have witnessed any number of
instances of man’s brutality to his fellow man. But never in all my
years had I seen something as utterly cold blooded as this. The
guard had not hesitated. He had slain a helpless infant as casually
as if he were cutting a piece of lumber.
The mother slumped to the ground, sobbing piteously.
The other guard stood near her, brandishing his sword, and for
a moment I thought he was going to end the girl’s life as well.
Indeed, he seemed to be considering it. Instead he shoved his sword
through his belt, and then drove his foot forward with considerable
strength. It caught the girl in the gut, and she gasped and fell over,
her arms doubled over her stomach. She was caught in between her
reactions, partly sobbing, partly trying to breathe.
“You are lucky we don’t just kill you right here,” said the taller
guard.
I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab my bastard sword that
was lying a short distance away and leap to the attack. I saw my
self
charging into battle against them, swinging my weapon with gusto.
I saw their heads leaping off their shoulders, or perhaps their chests
being hacked open and their internal organs spilling into the river. Naturally I did not move an inch. Instead I simply stood there
and watched as the guard kicked the girl a second time, presumably just to be a barbarian. She gasped once more but otherwise did
not make a sound.
The taller guard turned his attention back to me. “You are a
stranger in these parts, yes?” I managed a nod but said nothing
else. What could I say to such a heartless monster? Upon confirmation of my status, he produced a small white ball. “You have
performed a service to the law of the Rama Lama. Accept this
token of his gratitude. It is very valuable.”
He tossed the ball to me and I caught it with my free hand. I
turned it over, not understanding what I was staring at. It was constructed of some manner of light wood. My confusion must have
been quite evident, because the guard who had tossed it to me said,
“I have given you a wish.”
“A wish?” I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. “Present that to the Rama Lama, our leader, and ask for something. If it is within his power…and just about everything is…then
he will provide it for you.”
“That is very generous,” I said tonelessly. My attention was no
longer on the coin, but upon the sobbing girl. Horrifically, she was
clutching the basket to her bosom. The bottom of the basket was
thick with red. I was astounded that a child that small could have
that much blood in him.
“Enjoy your stay in Rogypt,” he said, and then nodded to his
companion. The other guard was still staring at the sobbing young
woman, and then he turned from her and strode away. The other
guard followed him. Moments later it was just the girl and me. Long seconds ticked away and I could think of nothing to say
to her. I suddenly realized that I was sitting. The strength had gone
out of even my strong leg and I was seated on the edge of the shore. Finally she seemed to pull herself together enough to stare at
me silently. Searching for words, I finally said, “I…I didn’t understand what you were…I don’t—”
“Kill me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“You have a sword,” and she nodded toward my hand and a
half sword. “You would not have such a weapon unless you were
capable of using it. Kill me. I beg you. My child is dead and I have
no wish to live.”
“But…I thought you were going to kill him…”
“Of course not, you fool.” She said the words without rancor, as
if her anger had been burned out of her. As if my name was simply
“you fool” and she was addressing me in that manner. Which, I supposed, made a certain degree of sense. “Down there,” and she nodded toward the bend in the river, “the sister of the Rama Lama is bathing with her handmaidens. I was going to put my son adrift down the river to her. She was going to find him and I am sure she would have fallen in love with him. Then I would have volunteered my services as a wet nurse. I had it all worked out. And then you
showed up. Idiot.”
“I…I don’t understand. Why did you need to float your baby
down the river? I mean, obviously you loved him, despite all evidence to the contrary. So why…?”
She stared at me, confused. “Don’t you know anything about
anything? We are Shews. We are slaves. All our men and boys are.
And the Rama declared that he wanted all first born sons killed.” “But why?”
For the first time, she sounded genuinely sarcastic. “Apologies.
I was unable to attend the meeting where the Rama put forward
the thinking behind his decision.”
She finally managed to get to her feet. Her legs were wobbling
and I thought she was going to pass out. The front of her clothing
was now thick with blood, but she did not seem to pay any attention to it. It was as if she had mentally departed the real world and
instead had deposited herself into some other, alternate realm. She
clutched the basket with the bisected corpse to her chest. “What
will my husband say?” she asked in a whisper. “Perhaps he will
kill me. Perhaps he will lay my body alongside that of my infant.
Yes. Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea. I hope he does that. I
hope…”
She turned away and I called after her, “What is your name?”
I had no idea why I was asking. It was as if I wanted to form some
manner of bond with her. As if being responsible for the slaughter
of her son wasn’t enough.
“Rebeka,” she said.
Then she walked away. She continued to mutter to herself, but
I could not make out the words she was speaking.
I tried to envision how her husband would react. Indeed, it seemed to me that perhaps the wisest course of action would be for her to head in the completely opposite direction of wherever he was
going to be, but then I discarded the notion.
I next tried to figure out what I could have done differently.
Unfortunately nothing really came to mind. The fact was that I
thought I was doing the right thing. I had no clue that she was
intending to launch her infant on some ill-conceived boating expedition. I thought that my outcry of warning would benefit the
child, not instead result in his demise. There was simply no way
that I could have anticipated the lethal turn in which my actions
would result.
Yet I blamed myself nevertheless.
In retrospect, as I sit here at my writing desk now, much
advanced in age but still maintaining my wits, at least, I find myself
wondering at what time in my existence matters had changed that
I cared about the child at all. There was certainly a time when I
would have said nothing at all. I would simply have floated in the
water and watched her do whatever she wanted to her son. My
reasoning would have been that it was none of my affair. Instead I
had apparently reached a point in my life where I felt the need to
intervene when I was seeing a wrong done to someone that was in
no position to defend himself. In short, I had tried to be a hero. And look where it had gotten me. Gotten him.
I dressed quickly, the wetness on my body attended to
promptly by the sun beating down upon me. Then I just stood
there for a time, leaning on my staff, looking at the city behind
me. When I had first arrived, it seemed someplace rife with
potential. Now I wanted nothing more save to put it to my back
as quickly as possible.
The alternative, unfortunately, was the desert. I was not
attracted to a sea of blistering sand and yet more sun, but I did not
see any sort of choice.
So with that decision made, I drew on my cloak to provide me
some degree of shelter from the heat and started walking, without
the faintest idea of where I was going.
In retrospect, it was quite possibly one of the most stupid things
I have ever done. I had a small amount of water in a pouch that
dangled from around my neck, but even with the most sparing
consumption, it would only last me several days at the most. I was
very likely heading off to my death.
Why?
At the time, I ha
d no idea. I gave it little consideration. All I
knew was that I wanted to be somewhere else than where I was. With the separation of time, however, and the chance to reflect
upon it, I have come to a belated conclusion:
I was tired of living.
I had been doing so for something akin to forty years. That was
forty years longer than I was supposed to survive if one considers
the pathetic, wretched and deformed thing that had slithered from
my mother’s nethers all those decades ago. The man who owned
the tavern in which my mother worked was all for exposing me to
the elements, and my mother—damn her—prevented him from
doing so.
It was thirty years longer than I had expected I would live when
I was aged ten and was constantly harassed and tormented by the
village’s youths. It was twenty years longer than I had thought I
would make it when King Runcible arrested me for the killable
crime of refusing to wed his daughter, with whom I had already
slept. What else was I supposed to do considering our relationship,
I have no idea, but marriage was simply not a possibility. Not that
I could explain that to the king, of course. And if I had not been
released from prison by an unexpected aide and allowed to flee,
that is indeed where my life would have ended.
I had spent the next twenty years wandering aimlessly, having a series of adventures. I had been possessed; I had slaughtered
thousands (all without intending to do so). All those lives lost and
I had continued to walk the world, steeped in my endless misery
and self-loathing.
And yet I must think that it was the slaughter of the infant
that finally sealed it all for me. I had tried to do the right thing and instead the result once more was death. It was the proverbial straw that had broken the spine of the equally proverbial camel. What point, I must have wondered, was there in living anymore? When even an attempt to save an innocent life resulted in the termination
of that life, certainly continuing to exist simply held no purpose. I could have, of course, simply thrown myself upon my sword
and put an end to it. But the fact was that I remained, as always, a
coward. They say that suicide is the coward’s way out; I disagree.
Finding a means of jamming my sword through my chest was