‘Well, Hamboon Bokulla and his gang are all implying that you like to have all kinds of warrior fun without any of the responsibility.’
‘Barfing is a responsibility?’
‘In this case,’ said Took, ‘yes.’
‘Well, okay,’ I said.
‘Okay,’ said Took. ‘No breakfast tomorrow, and you’ll be sorry if you eat a big supper tonight.’
We walked a little farther.
‘Next thing you know,’ I said, ‘everybody’ll be wanting me to get my dong whacked.’
‘Well,’ said Took, ‘there’s been some talk….’
‘Count me out.’
We went to Sun Man and told him what the note from the traders said.
We were all sitting in a big circle saying prayers. My mind was in neutral. Somehow I’d gotten seated between Moe and Dreaming Killer. They were really into it, rocking, chanting. Sun Man, over at the top of the circle, was off in some other world, he was praying so hard and fast.
They were mostly thanking the Woodpecker and the harvest, and then two priests brought out this big boiling vat of something. It looked like crude oil and smelled like hot aniline dye. They dipped in three big bowls, holding two, and gave one to Sun Man. He stood up with the bowl.
‘Great Woodpecker,’ he said. ‘Great Harvest Woman. With this drink we cleanse ourselves of impurities, and our mind of bad thoughts. We will all think of a great harvest. Let no one here be unworthy. Let anyone with unclean thoughts about the crops be struck dead as he takes his drink. Great Harvest Woman, Great Woodpecker, hear us!’
Then he drank two great big swallows.
They passed the other two bowls around, each man taking a drink, their faces screwed up in disgust and agony as their throats worked.
Took had told me it was considered polite to sit in the circle at least until the bowls made it all the way around, no matter what your stomach and guts did. I was halfway around the ring, so wouldn’t have it as bad as those next to Sun Man. Took had already drunk his, and was stolidly saying something to his neighbors.
Hamboon Bokulla, the Dreaming Killer, swallowed his, some of the oil black drops, like thin tar, spilling onto the tattoos on his shoulders.
He put the bowl down and reached his hand toward his leather pouch.
Moe said something to me, joking about one of the priests, who was definitely in distress.
Dreaming Killer touched the bowl to my arm. I turned, took it from his hands. He watched me disinterestedly.
I held my breath, brought the bowl with its inklike brew to my lips, took a chug.
It was like ink and oil and lighter fluid. I wanted to gag but swallowed anyway. My throat and mouth, thank god, went numb like I’d swallowed novocaine. Anything was better than tasting it.
Then everybody was getting up from the circle and coming toward me. That wasn’t right.
I was standing up. The bowl turned over and over, then bounced high from the ground, a long slow black line behind it in the air. The world was turning sideways and so was I, slowly. The world was faces then chests then legs then the dirt. I felt my arms hit a long time after my head.
They turned me over. I saw the blue sky turning gray at the edges.
‘You see,’ said Dreaming Killer, slowly, each word forming in my brain, ‘he was evil. He would have killed the harvest.’ Dreaming Killer was above me, finger pointing down.
‘No,’ said Took. Dreaming Killer swam away, Took paddled into view, grayer and smaller, then my view swam away.
There was crying. There were hands touching me.
There were hands touching me. There was crying. I could say nothing. I could see nothing. I could not breathe.
I smelled cedar. I tried to move. There was wailing. I couldn’t move. The first basketfuls of dirt were poured.
No I said.
Dirt came down.
No I said.
Dirt came down.
Dirt came down.
I heard fire. I heard running. I heard screams. I heard nothing.
THE BOX XIII
DA FORM 11400 Z 13 Apr 2003
Comp: 147TOE: 148
Pres duty
56
KIA
49
KLD
8
MIA
30
MLD
1 for: S. Spaulding
Wounded, hosp.Col, Inf.
3 Commanding
Totaclass="underline" 147by: Atwater, Willey
CPT, Armor
Adjutant
DA FORM 12206 Z 15 Apr 2003
Comp: 147TOE: 148
Pres duty
49
KIA
61
KLD
8
MIA
13
MLD
2
Wounded, hosp.For: Robert Putnam
11 Major, AGC
AWOLCommanding
1 by: M. Smith
Totaclass="underline" 147CWO1
asst adj.
Bessie XI
‘That’s all we know,’ said Jameson to Captain Thompson.
Thompson was tall, thin, with a small clipped mustache. He wore his dress uniform, and his issue raincoat dripped onto the sorting tent ground cover.
‘The Navy and the Department of the Treasury searches have all been just like ours,’ he said. ‘A few of the names match, but everything else is wrong, the ranks, dates of birth. May I see the things now?’
‘Certainly,’ said Jameson. He opened the oiled rag on the table. ‘Use these tongs. Here’s the magnifying glass.’
It was quiet in the tent except for the constant spatter of rain on the tent roof.
‘Do you know what these are?’ asked Thompson.
‘Pieces of metal with names on them.’
‘No, I mean, the tags themselves. Dog tags. They’re like the ones the French and British used in the Great War. There’s a move afoot to get us to adopt them in times of war. They wore them around their necks. When a body is found, the finder is supposed to put the tags between the incisors of the dead person, and to wedge them in with their rifle butts.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Bessie.
‘Some bodies lie on the battlefields for months, or years. You’d know that metal wedged in the teeth would be about the last thing to disappear. Where are the inscriptions?’
‘Hold them at a slant. They’re pretty well obliterated by rust.’
‘Got it. Your eyes are a lot better than mine. You got the seventy-five inscriptions off these?’
‘There are eighty-two of the tags,’ said Bessie.
Thompson read: Putnam, Robert NMI RAO 431–31–1616 DOB 06–01–73 Catholic.
‘No middle initial. Officer rank. The numbers aren’t right. They’re not ours. We use seven digits. The dates of birth are what’s really throwing us. Most of these were from the ’seventies and ’eighties. We’ve never used identification tags like these. I went through all the personnel orders on the train, all the way back, trying to find anywhere or anytime these could have been issued. Nothing, nowhere. And of course the latter parts of the century before last are out of the question.’
‘So you can’t explain it any better than we can?’
‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for. How exactly were these found?’
Jameson sighed. ‘Bessie’ll take you down there in a few minutes, as soon as we find you some high rubber boots. Kincaid’s still down there with Perch and the photographers.