A TIME FOR WAR
By John Mabry | 1980
Author of "Nanook Goes to Catalina"
He was long of hair, which was the color of the sun at dusk, and would have been quite tall by our standards. But he would not know, for he had no one to compare himself with. He was only a boy, and knew of no name for himself, for there was no one to call him. However, there were some bones in a corner of the ruins that he had made home, and he supposed that they had something to do with his existence, but he could not be sure. He lived with the jungle, and was a part of it. If he climbed the cliff beside which most of the ruins lay, he could see most of the dense forest. If he looked to the left, he could see the endless ocean of silver, and to the right, he saw the great stone monoliths, which, fallen, formed roughly the shape of his hands: long, bony and with six thin fingers.
It was during a long summer that the boy decided to go traveling. He did not wish to, but he had little choice: lightning had struck and the once lush forest had burnt into dust. The sky had smoked until the rains came, and quenched the insatiable desire for green, good ground, and the fire was out. Still it smoldered quietly, but as far as the boy was concerned, it was out, and, food now gone, he must travel.
Taking upon his head, a gourd bowl, and under his arm a gray ragged blanket with an aged unintelligible message, nearly faded from the fabric: "Australian Army 1987." When he was bored, the boy would often copy the letters onto stones and his clothing. With juices. He did not travel alone, for, often far ahead of him on the path, or sometimes beside him, or in his arms, was the cat. It was not his cat, for they had been each other's for as many summers as the boy could count on one hand. They walked without stopping, and, as they reached the hand-shaped ruins, the sun was high above them. At this point, the boy picked up the cat and carried him, for the cat had no eyes, no lids, no sockets, just a large skull which bore few breaks, and a tawny skin that stretched tightly over the gently molded head.
The sun had risen four times on his journey, when, for the first time in his life (that he could remember) he saw people like himself. He crouched behind the brush, clutched the cat tightly to his chest, and shook with fright. For a long time no one approached him, and eventually his fear ebbed. Now, more interested than frightened, he watched the strange creatures, the likes of which he had only seen in a still tidepool. He couldn't count the number of the men. They were both black and white. Their hands bore any number of fingers, and their foreheads various amounts of eyes. They seemed intent upon a single project for which the boy could see no purpose. The men were swarming, throwing themselves against a huge stone obelisk, a dark and foreboding finger whose tip touched the sky. It would have been a simple task except for the fact that two parties of the men were pushing for opposing directions. Finally, one of the groups succeeded, and the monolith fell heavily, killing and wounding most of the men on the other side.
The boy was outraged-he felt an intense desire to rush upon the men and kill them the way he had kangaroo mice and koala. His mind-simple though it was-told him that it would do no good, he would not kill many before they killed him. But his thoughts did not deter him. Quickly scampering to his feet, he stormed upon them, taking his bowl in his hand and swinging it wildly, bearing it down upon the head of a nearby victor. Four eyes closed, glazing, and dropped with their over-sized head. Others turned as the body hit the brush, and, though surprised, attacked the lone avenger. The boy blinked, started to walk away, slowly, his anger escaped, confusion reeling in his brain over what he had done. He started to weep and only caught a short glimpse of the green, growing forest, before the only images he saw were the puzzled doubts that unsympathetically haunted his thoughts and dreams.
The black sky seemed to illuminate the night only by being a lighter sort of darkness. Flames leapt nearby, and the boy rolled over. The scene he beheld was another which he did not at first understand. Many women were kneeling over the bodies of those slain that day by the obelisk. Amidst their weeping, many in fits of rage forcefully struck the fallen obelisk with other stones, breaking it into rubble. All the women bowed in humility, their status dying with their husbands, and prayed to whatever merciful power remained. The boy picked up his bowl. It was broken. He threw it down and examined his wounds. His lips were swollen, and his legs and arms were bruised. He lunged to get to his feet and limped into the forest. He then lumbered back to the flames-closer this time, and lay back down on the warm moist dust that covered most of the land.
When the boy awoke, the sun had barely risen, and yet, the morning was strangely bright. Bright, and warm. Too warm, he thought. He sat up suddenly, facing a roar of flames. Sometime during the early morning hours, a wind had risen and had blown the dying embers into a glorious resurrection. The boy remembered fire, and what it could do. He knew how to make it, and its uses. He also knew the effect it had on green plants. It made them black, ugly and unfit to eat. It killed and destroyed when it did not cook or warm.
The boy knew the decision that he had to make. He faced the flames, and challenged them. It had happened to him once; it would not happen again. He was sure. His long fingers dug into the dust. He scooped and threw, but it left no mark, let alone scars on the inferno. The cat mewed, and as he glanced, he saw the blanket, his one true possession. He brushed the cat aside gently and clutched at the blanket. Thought whirred. To give up. To give up my warmth, my security and health. To save plants-plants that had no feeling? Not like a kangaroo or cat. But then he thought of the people, and the strange woman shapes he had seen. This was their food. To give up, to sacrifice.
He made an instant decision-with an agility and swiftness he had scarcely believed that he had, he beat out, and smothered the flames, chasing them, grabbing, holding, strangling the life from them. Finally, in a moment of triumph he beat out the last struggling spark. Then, taking his smoldering blanket in his scorched and blackened hands, he saw the holes and the mutilation done to it, the one thing truly his. The letters, even, were gone. His massive fingers tore at it, and rent innumerable times, through it to the ground. Snatching up the cat, he ran into the forest, his eyes being washed of the smoke by a barrage of tears. And the forest, unknowing to whom it was indebted, displayed its ignorance in silence.
He woke sharply to the sound of a great bellowing. The ground, beginning to shake, becomes unsteady beneath his feet. Seeing the river beside which he had camped, this being the third week of his vagrancy, he dove into its, hoping for the protection of the water's relative stability within its banks. Just as his head broke above the water, the nature of the dilemma was realized, for into his clearing broke the feet of something which the boy could not fathom. The feet were bird's. The knee of the fowl was fully as high as the boy's shoulder. He felt safe in the water, but sensed something amiss-the cat! It, being exhausted from its travels, lay sleeping soundly in a pile of brush. The great bird stopped, obvious to the boy, that it had spied a morsel. Instantly he made a decision: lunging from the stream, he cried, "MOW!" after the cat's own call, and the cat, jumping to its name (and the boy's sharp kick) sprang from the area of immediate danger. Boy and feline raced across the miles of brush, a great bird, having taken flight, close behind, and becoming closer. But agility and the ability to move quickly was on the side of the runners. A marathon for life, cat and man. The cat, suddenly losing direction, skirted a hillock and began to double back. Picking up his blind friend by the tail, the boy hardly noticed the surprised squawk either from the cat, in anger, or the bird, in surprise as dinner and dessert completely disappeared without trace.
"CHET! AN ABORIGINE!!" Three shots rang out within the tent. A massively tall figure plummeted to the dust. A cat hissed and ran to the fallen figure and challenged the student holding the smoking revolver.
"Good God, Sid! What have you done? He's white!!" The professor rushed to the side of the collapsed form on the ground. The cat flew at him, but his arm caught him in mid-air, and the cat was knocked into a corner, dazed.
"Don't just stand there, Sidney, get the dissection bag!" Sidney stood immobile, glancing first from the professor then back to the fallen figure. "Sid?"
"Oh. Yeah." He rushed into the liquid ink of night
seeking the instruments.
The wind, subtle, blew the tent gently from side to side. The
boy was still, trying to comprehend what had happened. The cat,
feeling his motion, rose from his feet, and snuggled under his
chin.
"'Bout time you got up, mate!" The professor strode into the tent and knelt on the floor beside the cot on which the boy lay. "Now, let's see those bandages" The professor reached to feel the wound. As his hand neared the injured shoulder, the boy became fully aware of the pain. He drew back, and cringed. The professor, seeing his fear, reached instead for the boy's head, and felt it, gently, speaking soft words to soothe him. Then, with the other hand, the professor lifted the bandages from the shoulder, and, satisfied, replaced them just as gently. "You're doing just fine, Malcolm. Just fine."
The boy, sensing that the gray man was addressing him, pondered at the name.
"How's Malcolm?" Sidney burst in, with lunch. The boy instantly placed the face and began to scream.
"Sid-get out!" Sidney raced out of the tent. "Take off the bloody pistol and come in, slowly!" The professor grasped the six-fingered hand on his side of the bed. He grasped it harder as Sid's head entered the tent's flap.
"Hi, Malcolm. I'm Sidney"
As Sidney approached, the boy's free hand reached for the bowl that Sidney had brought in moments before. So slow and cunningly executed were his movements, that they were imperceptible by his acquaintances. His hand felt the weight, good, and the handle, good! A handle much like his own bowl, and a forceful weapon. His muscles contracted and stood ready, just for the right moment.
"and I want to be your friend. I'm shamefully sorry about what happened, but you see, we've been attacked before. Please do forgive me. Here, shake-" As the student's hand stretched forth, the boy's arm was set in motion. The bowl, in an arc, came over the boy's body and hit Sidney squarely on the top of the head.
The boy was puzzled as the professor began to roar. He was laughing. Laughing! And so was the student. The blow had done nothing to him, except to cover him from forehead to shoulder in baked beans and bacon. The dish's weight was not the bowl, but the contents. The bowl was of light plastic; the knowledge of such was not anything that the boy had ever experienced. But his puzzled look gave way to a smile, because laughter, as the boy soon found, is infectious. He shook the student's hand, and patted the student's head, in a sign of forgiveness, as he did the cat's. The student's smile wryed, and he understood.
The boy pointed at the student. "Sidney."
"Chet! He's got it! He's learning!"
And so his education began.
As the years passed the boy, as boys will, became a man. Doctors called his height and extra digit a fluke, some strange inconsistency hidden deep within the human DNA. The cat was also accounted for in this manner, though he had died several years ago.
The boy was called Malcolm by his "rescuers," just because it was the first name to come to the good professor. Later, his last name had been found. Eleven years prior to his discovery, Dr. and Mrs. Sobol had been missing, after six years among the aborigines. So, Malcolm Sobol had accepted this. But still, in the darkest of night, memories and fears creep through windows from the wilderness, he remembers too well. Something is wrong with the conclusion, but what he did not know. Nor did he have time. For Cloncurry's busiest attorney had no desire to go scraping around the great Australian dust. And if he had, what did he expect to find? But his sense of childhood longing for the brush had prompted him to build, or rather, have built, a house, in the brush, in an area sparsely settled and long since abandoned by aborigines.
It was on this day, fifteen years after his discovery, that he was going to have his first look at the house. He said it was to be built as a wedding present for his fiancee, but his anxiety about his past was his real reason. It was both the professor, Chester Torr, and now, an archaeologist himself, Sidney Clavett, who first confronted him with these ulterior motives. And he had admitted to them.
The helicopter landed with a swirl of dust, and the sight of the great house inspired the guests with awe. Malcolm jumped out first, nearly having to bend over double to escape the copter's blades. He then turned to assist the two associates out of the cab. Together they ran off the pad, and were greeted by a small man clinging tightly to a gray cloak.
"This way, Mr. Sobol. You're just in time to see the erection of the pillars in the garden. That's the last to be done. You can move in anytime."
"Thank you, Bert. We'll be staying tonight. Prepare three rooms."
"Yessir, Mr. Sobol."
Now clear of the landing pad, Bert pointed the way to the garden. The three friends were laughing as they walked over a small hill to the garden. A man in a yellow hat walked up and faced Malcolm.
"Mr. Sobol? I'm John Stravner, the contractor."
Malcolm Sobol extended his hand in a friendly gesture. John Stravner, smiling, took the hand, and the smile faded as his hand shifted uncomfortably in the odd, six-fingered grip. "Nice to meet you, John, " said Malcolm, expecting the reaction. " Now, let's see those pillars."
"Sure," said the contractor. Chet and Sidney laughed quietly among themselves, for they had seen this many times. Besides, they were supposed to laugh a little. It was their vacation, too. They had expected to do so some hunting and just loafing in general. The reunion had been grand thus far, and they had every reason to believe that it would get even better.
But their laughter ceased when they saw Malcolm. His face was ashen, his mouth wide, staring. He tore his eyes away and faced the pair. "I don't know."
"Malcolm?"
"What's wrong?"
He pointed. Chet moved around him lithely, his aged body no less agile for the time he had seen. Sidney, fully thirty-five, and pudging slightly, followed. Their eyes beheld six pillars, strewn about the ground, their points coming together at one end. One pillar, slightly offset, gave the appearance of a hand, a six-fingered, very large and long hand.
"I don't see what you're so upset about, Malcolm."
"I can't explain, Sid. I don't know-can't remember!"
"Don't get frustrated, Malc," commented Chet. "It's just a symbol of your difference, your six fingers. Your conscious mind has learned to accept this, but subconsciously it plagues you. You've just let your control slip."
"But I didn't"
"No not you, Malc, Chet means your psyche. Come on, lay down, rest a bit. Let's eat! How's that? After all, you invited us here to rest, not solve Freudian cryptograms!"
Malcolm shook his head. "Tell the contractor not to erect those pillars. They are not to be touched. Understood?"
"Sure, Malcolm. I'll tell 'em," and Sidney walked off, shaking his head.
It was late, very late, when the bell rang in the front hall. Malcolm rose, quickly, unable to sleep anyway because of the day's events, and its mysteries. Bert was coming into the lobby just as he was.
"I'll get that, Mister Sobol."
"Don't you think that I'm just a little bit curious about who is at my door at three A.M.?!"
"Begging your pardon, sir, it is late."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Bert. Yes, get the door." And with that Malcolm Sobol sat down upon an overstuffed loveseat at the far end of the lobby. His weariness just now affecting him, he watched half-interestedly as Bert opened the great oaken door. An immediately sneeze greeted them.
A young couple fell in the door. The man, slightly older than the woman, was gripping her firmly yet good-naturedly about the shoulders. Both were sopping wet. Malcolm, starting to snap out of his grogginess, just then realizing that it was raining.
"Uh-hullo!" said the man loudly. Malcolm sat up quickly.
"Hullo. I'm Malcolm Sobol."
"Supa'! We'll be working for you, then. My name's Alwyn Wood, this 'ere's mi' wife, Tracy. She's ne'er been outback before. Seems she caught cold. Stinking weather. Got stuck in mud 'bout six miles back. Walked the whole way. Must say we's awfully tired. Cat's all wet, too." He drew from his pocket a very wet tabby, who scratched, and bit, until replaced in the pocket. The wife sneezed again.
Malcolm rose, and took the gray blanket from off of the woman's shoulders. "Bert, show them their rooms, and help them fix them. Get Mrs. Wood a hot tub immediately, and some dry clothes. Don't worry, Alwyn, we'll send a crew out for your auto in the morning. Just rest well tonight."
"Yes sir. You're too kind, sir. You should see how hard it's rainin' out there. Y'know, I'd be willin' to wager-"
"Good night, Mr. Wood."
"Yes. Good night."
Malcolm smiled as he walked down the long hallway. Mrs. Wood sneezed violently. Angel is going to like them, he thought, remembering his future wife (who thought he was on a business trip to Queensland) fondly, as much as she talked! He turned the gray blanket over a couple of times. And then, stopped suddenly. Frozen, there in the hall, Mr. Malcolm Sobol began to piece everything, and the conclusion terrified him, for the very stuff of his nightmares, the bogies and demons which plagued his mind since he was found, was verified. Stamped on the gray blanket were the letters: "Australian Army 1987."
The Prime Minister dropped his head into his hands and sighed deeply. It was not a sigh of relief, but instead, one of deep loathing and dread. He listened closely for the first time to the mob outside his door. The weight of his decision lay heavily upon him. His brooding was momentarily interrupted by a loud shout of "Save Our Children!" and was more permanently interrupted by a guard poking his head into the door. "Mr. Sobol?"
"Yes."
"A Mister Clavett to see you, sir."
"Send him in." The Prime Minster sat up more squarely, an unconscious attempt to disguise his ever-more-rapidly disappearing figure. His hands went to his graying hair in an attempt to straighten it.
The door opened again and with it, a lady pushed in front of his guest and screamed, "You sent our husbands to die! Now are you gonna kill us and our children!!!???" Cries of "SAVE A REMNANT OF HUMANITY" were heard as the woman was dragged away, and the visitor was ushered in.
"Sidney, am I glad to see you!"
"You know that I am more than happy to see you, Malcolm."
"Sit, please, I've got something to discuss with you."
Sidney paced slowly, looking for a suitable resting place for his mood, and finally lit on an old-fashioned recliner. "So," he remarked slowly, "This is where it all happens: the decisions, the pages for history books-"
"The sweating"
"Aye, the bad with the good. Y'know, it's been a long time since we've gone outback, huntin'."
"Yes, and I'm afraid we'll never go again."
"I was afraid o' that. So your goyna' do it, eh? Push the button, give the order?"
"It's in the alliance. We have to-" He was interrupted by a call on the monitor.
"Col. Hyatt here, Mr. Sobol. We are no longer receiving any alliance transmissions."
"Japan?"
"The last to go, 'bout fifty second ago, sir. We are awaiting your instructions."
"Engage missiles, Colonel. Await my order to fire. Indefinite standby."
"Understood, sir. Oh, and sir."
"Yes, Colonel?"
"God be with you, sir." And the screen blinked out.
"Some decision, Malcolm. You know that anything you say over that thing is being reported simultaneously all over Australia. There are women praying and men remembered and children crying because they don't understand what everybody else is crying for. All they know is that they want to live, and they're all being told that they will never see another Christmas, or another Easter, or see another birthday, because other people a long way away are going to kill them, and they're not even mad at anybody. Retaliate on behalf of the alliance, and you kill us all. My God, what a price for honor. Do you realize that we may be the only place on earth not affected by the radiation? It all drops off in the Antarctic, and the only people even alive are those "down under"! They're dead, Malcolm, think of it, DEAD. The great grim reaper in the form of uranium, come to claim the souls of President Henries and The Peace Corps (how ironic, man!) and the entire graduating class of 2027!! And the only ones escaping it are some quiet Australians and a handful of Soviets six-hundred feet underground pushing buttons and giving orders. And only two people left to make the decision, you, and their leader. They'd love to drag us off the cliff with them, if we give them reason to."
"I didn't ask you here to lecture me, Professor Clavett, but to advise me. And I have a confession to make."
"Oh?" said Sidney, raising his brow.
"Dr. and Mrs. Sobol are not my real parents."
"Doesn't surprise me. It was a wild guess as it was."
"Wild. But I know who my parents are."
"How? You never knew them. They wouldn't be alive now, anyway."
"They are alive, and they are ten years young than me."
"You're talking nonsense, man."
"My father is Alwyn Wood-"
"Your butler?"
"I've known since the first night I saw them."
"I really am disappointed, Malcolm. This job has proven to be too much for you-you're cracking! Maybe you should have been something simple. You would've been a heckuva pianist. You could've done Ives' First Piano Concerto with one hand!"
"I'm not cracking, Sidney. But it breaks me up that my closest confidant can't accept what I'm saying to him."
"Malcolm, how can I? I don't understand-"
"Would it help it I started from the beginning?"
"What has this got to do with whether or not you blow up Australia?"
"Trust me, Sidney!"
"Alright," the archaeologist said, shifting in his seat, "If it'll help."
"I was born about five years from now, and lived most of my life by the ocean. There's not any ocean where I was born now, but there will be. Or might be. I grew up among ruins, not knowing anything or anyone else except animals and the seasons. And bones, probably of my parents. You know my cat, and his condition. Not far from the ruins were the pillars, six, great stone pillars-
"Like at your house! Malcolm, you're not serious! You are a mutant, the outcome of a possible holocaust! You're a mutant!"
"I'm not a monster, though, I'm a human being!! I figure that I must have walked through some conflicting polar patterns that shot me back through time-"
"And would account for other mutated beasts we've found intermittently! Does Angel know?"
"Of course not, how could I have told her this?"
"Wait a minute, though, Malcolm. If you don't give the order to fire, holocaust will never come, for now at least, and you-"
"Would probably not exist, as I have anyway."
"I'm glad I'm not in your little six-toed feet. It's your existence versus that of all of Australia. It's either you, or them, Malcolm. No! You or us."
"Yes."
"I can't decide for you, Malcolm. But it's time."
"Yes, it's time. It is time, time."
Malcolm Sobol rose from his seat stiffly, and slowly walked towards the communication panel. Indecision and personal agony etched his face. He closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. Tears welled, and Sidney, rising, placed an aging hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Malcolm Sobol to Colonel Hyatt."
"Colonel Hyatt here, sir."
The moments before he spoke were eons of agony, until, resolving to speak, the Prime Minister said slowly, "Disengage missiles, permanently. There will be no attack." And he began to sob, clinging to Sidney, it seemed, for life.
The Prime Minister was disturbed from his train of thought by a call on the monitor. "Mr. Lennon?"
"Yes, Colonel Hyatt, isn't it?"
"Yessir, Mr. Lennon. We are no longer receiving any alliance transmission."
"Not even Japan?"
"Sorry, sir. The last to go, 'bout fifty seconds ago, sir. We are awaiting your instructions."
"Why wait, Colonel. We've got a job to do! Avenge the alliance! Engage the missiles, Colonel. Let's blow their bloody socks off!!"