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Part 3: PROGRESS
People seemed to get used to my humming pretty quickly. They took it in stride now, like it was that broken part of me they could never fix. Maybe it was.
Except Vulture. He threw things at me and yelled at me to shut up. I think Vulture just liked to hate things. He sat at the table wielding his lighter like some triumphant stolen standard. Dead men’s things came to life in his hands.
‘Slaves in the fields picking cotton all day had work songs,’ I said. I was sitting on the floor next to Chief’s chair, my legs splayed out in front of me.
‘Slaves had value,’ Chief retorted. ‘If they were killed, a price had to be paid. For us, they’ll bring in another prisoner to work the next day.’
‘So we keep quiet? Hope we get through each day?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re prisoners. Our entire goal is to keep quiet and hope we get through the day.’
‘Is a day worth it without music?’ I asked. I heard Chief breathe a sigh and clap his little book closed.
‘You might not like it,’ he said, ‘but the quiet is what saves us. We don’t talk, we just work. It keeps us out of trouble, and it keeps us beneath notice.’
‘It makes them think they can control us,’ I said, standing. Everyone stared at me as I approached the table. Vulture was playing with that lighter again; I closed my fist around it, closing the lid, feeling the brief heat before it was quenched. Vulture glared at me but I held fast, meeting his gaze.
‘What do you want, Bard?’ Chief asked. So he was calling me Bard too; well it was as good a name as any, I suppose. I wrenched the lighter from Vulture’s grip and kicked the loose board in the cabinet; I tossed the lighter in and then replaced it carefully, so that nothing looked out of place.
‘I want us to admit we’re hearing a song at the bridge,’ I said. ‘I want to talk about it. I want to know what’s going on!’
Chief clutched his book in the crook of his arm and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘What is there to know?’ he asked. ‘We all hear it; we all agreed to keep our heads down and do the work.’
‘There’s two bodies in the past two days that say otherwise,’ I retorted. ‘I never agreed to your rules, Chief; and unless you’re willing to see me shot going for the bridge, we’ll discuss this now.’
‘Who says I’m not?’ Chief put his book away and stood slowly, giving everyone time to take in his size, and the blazing fire reflected in his eyes. Of the camp, only Ox was taller and broader, and his strength was matched only in his passivity; Chief had no such qualms. There was no match between us: Chief intelligent, strong, calm; versus myself, slow and wiry and stubborn.
‘Who says I wouldn’t see you dead as soon as those other two poor lads?’ he continued. ‘They were good, decent workers who heard the call of the song, same as you. But unlike them, you resisted. You didn’t make a break for the bridge. You’re still here, Bard, because your survival instincts are stronger than your idiot heart!’
‘That might be true,’ I acknowledged, ‘but don’t discount your part in it. You kept me alive the first day, Chief; you’re as responsible for my continued existence here as I am, so I think you want me to stick around.’
‘I like having someone around who enjoys my books, is that a crime?’ Chief and I began circling, the table between us.
‘I think there’s a lot you’re not telling me, Chief. I think you know something about the song at the bridge and it’s your little secret. What aren’t you telling us?’
The camp turned to stare at Chief. He continued to glare at me, eyes blazing in the shadow. He made to step towards me, as though he’d sweep the table aside and dive for me, but instead he turned and sat on his bunk near the door.
‘You keep your head down and do the work,’ he repeated darkly. ‘I don’t know anything about the song; and if you think I do, just try to find a reason I should tell you.’ With that, he lay down, facing away from us. I sighed; that was as much an admission as I was going to get from him tonight.
As one, the room turned to me expectantly.
I sat back against the wall, staring at my feet, until the command of ‘lights out!’ was called outside the shed and I retired to my own bunk. I didn’t move as I heard Vulture root around in the cabinet for his lighter.
Back to twenty-four. Rise, breakfast (Vulture’s lighter was confiscated), into the trucks. Chief’s eyes did not leave me the whole journey. As we received our shovels (Vulture got the wobbly shovel, and duly shoved it into my hands as he snatched mine) Chief marched away from me and positioned himself on the far end of the line. I would have no help from him today. Instead I was between Vulture and the Old Timer; they stared at the ground until the order was given to begin shovelling. As our shovels bit into the snow, the Old Timer leaned in close to me.
‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ he murmured. I paused in my shovelling briefly, stunned that he had spoken during work; but the rattling of a guard’s buckles against his rifle as he approached turned me back to my duty, and I focused on my patch of snow. The guard stopped, satisfied, and returned to his post.
‘How are you planning to get to the bridge?’ he asked, as I returned from dumping a mound of snow. I continued to dig through the snow, and murmured back as loud as I dared, ‘I don’t have a plan, Old Timer.’
‘No plan? That’s trouble. If you can’t contain your curiosity, you’ll be dead on the far bank before you can finish a verse.’
‘The song has a magic of its own,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe that will be enough.’
‘It hasn’t been in the past. You’ll need a song of your own to stall them.’ I paused briefly in my crouch to grab the tarp.
‘Do you know of such a song?’ I asked. Before I could move my tarp, Vulture’s hand clutched my collar and dragged me up.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll have the guards on us, and I’ve no appetite for punishment today- oof!’ That last as he was tackled into the snow by two guards. One of them dragged him over to the trucks to receive his punishment.
‘No rough-housing, prisoner!’ the other guard yelled. He turned to me; I lowered my eyes and bowed a thanks.
‘Get back to work,’ he growled, returning to the truck. I dragged the tarpaulin to the far bank, my eyes on Vulture as he was pummelled with the butt of a rifle. I would receive my punishment in turn tonight, when Vulture exacted his revenge; until then, I had work to get on with.
I knew the song would be coming; I could see the dark blue of the night turning to steel grey as the sun rose. So the Old Timer knew something too; I pondered his words as my shovel bit into the frozen snow. Words have power; in song they’re incredibly potent. A good rhythm and the right lyrics could convince anyone of anything. Was the Old Timer suggesting the power of this song could be matched?
The sun rose slowly. I continued on my track; Vulture was returned eventually, bruised and breathless, to continue his row behind our pace. He did not lay a finger on me for the rest of the work day.
The sun was nearing its climactic point; reluctantly, I decided I could not risk it today: Too many enemies made, too much new information to probe. As the sun kissed the arched of the bridge, I closed my eyes and hummed the tune.
The song came once more, the third verse striking my heart colder than the frost in the air:
The ice only grows
And the torch’s flame is quenched by the tide.
My lungs begin to burn
As I claw at the floe’s underside.
What fate could be worse
Than to live the same day for all time?
The world outside turns,
The brambles grow thick and trap me within.
I am stuck with thorns,
How much must I bleed for you?
I am stuck with thorns,
My wings are staked wide for you.
I am stuck with thorns,
The brambles grow thick and trap me within.
I remind you at this time that I could not piece together the words in my memory, though the melody stayed with me day after day. I only knew when I heard it that the singer on the other side of the bridge was experiencing a sadness so profound, so hopeless, that I could not help but empathise. I would have stepped forward then, gone straight to the bridge, guards or not – rifles or not – but the Old Timer grasped my arm and growled, ‘a song, lad! You need a song!’
A song.
I looked to my left. There was another prisoner making his way towards the bridge; he had been next to Chief, who was staring fixedly at the snow and ploughing his path diligently. As if on cue, a gunshot rang out. The late prisoner lay near the far bank, halfway between our line and the bridge. Blood carved a channel which widened over the river and was still warm enough to melt into the snow.
The sun rose. My hands were raw and blistering even with the gloves by the time we were done, the sun arcing high over the bridge. I dumped my shovel into the crate and joined the line into the truck. As I pulled myself onto the footplate, I paused to catch my breath, and my eyes lingered over the body on the far bank. Vulture squatted in front of it, going through its pockets, until a guard barked an order at him raised the butt of his rifle. Cringing, Vulture made his awkward, hopping run back to our group. The remaining twenty-three of us sat in silence on the way back, most staring at the floor. Not me though; my gaze held Chief’s levelly, as he sat at the front of the truck bed. He met my gaze and matched it, and neither of us would look away until we returned to the camp, and I was forced to break his stare to return to our lodge.