Carol Emshwiller - Boys

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2024-11-23 0 0 25.51KB 12 页 5.9玖币

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Boys

A short story

by Carol Emshwiller

We need a new batch of boys. Boys are so foolhardy, impetuous, reckless, rash. They'll lead the

way into smoke and fire and battle. I've seen one of my own sons, aged twelve, standing at the top of the

cliff shouting, daring the enemy. You'll never win a medal for being too reasonable.

We steal boys from anywhere. We don't care if they come from our side or theirs. They'll forget soon

enough, which side they used to be on, if they ever knew. After all, what does a seven-year-old know?

Tell them this flag of ours is the best and most beautiful, and that we're the best and smartest, and they

believe it. They like uniforms. They like fancy hats with feathers. They like to get medals. They like flags

and drums and war cries.

Their first big test is getting to their beds. You have to climb straight up to the barracks. At the top

you have to cross a hanging bridge. They've heard rumors about it. They know they'll have to go home to

mother if they don't do it. They all do it.

You should see the look on their faces when we steal them. It's what they've always wanted. They've

seen our fires along the hills. They've seen us marching back and forth across our flat places. When the

wind is right, they've heard the horns that signal our getting up and going to bed and they've gotten up and

gone to bed with our sounds or those of our enemies across the valley.

In the beginning they're a little bit homesick (you can hear them smothering their crying the first few

nights) but most have anticipated their capture and look forward to it. They love to belong to us instead

of to the mothers.

If we'd let them go home they'd strut about in their uniforms and the stripes of their rank. I know

because I remember when I first had my uniform. I was wishing my mother and my big sister could see

me. When I was taken, I fought, but just to show my courage. I was happy to be stolen—happy to

belong, at long last, to the men.

· · · · ·

Once a year in summer we go down to the mothers and copulate in order to make more warriors. We

can't ever be completely sure which of the boys is ours and we always say that's a good thing, for then

they're all ours and we care about them equally, as we should. We're not supposed to have family

groups. It gets in the way of combat. But every now and then, it's clear who the father is. I know two of

my sons. I'm sure they know that I, the colonel, am their father. I think that's why they try so hard. I

know them as mine because I'm a small, ugly man. I know many must wonder how someone like me got

to be a colonel.

(We not only steal boys from either side but we copulate with either side. When I go down to the

villages, I always look for Una.)

"TO DIE FOR YOUR TRIBE IS TO LIVE FOREVER." That's written over our headquarters

entrance. Under it, NEVER FORGET. We know we mustn't forget but we suspect maybe we have.

Some of us feel that the real reasons for the battles have been lost. No doubt but that there's hate, so we

and they commit more atrocities in the name of the old ones, but how it all began is lost to us.

We've not only forgotten the reasons for the conflict, but we've also forgotten our own mothers.

Inside our barracks, the walls are covered with mother jokes and mother pictures. Mother bodies are

soft and tempting. "Pillows," we call them. "Nipples" and "pillows." And we insult each other by calling

ourselves the same.

· · · · ·

The valley floor is full of women's villages. One every fifteen miles or so. On each side are mountains.

The enemy's, at the far side, are called The Purples. Our mountains are called The Snows. The weather

is worse in our mountains than in theirs. We're proud of that. We sometimes call ourselves The

Hailstones or The Lightnings. We think the hailstones harden us up. The enemy doesn't have as many

caves over on their side. We always tell the boys they were lucky to be stolen by us and not those

others.

· · · · ·

When I was first taken, our mothers came up to the caves to get us back. That often happens. Some had

weapons. Laughable weapons. My own mother was there, in the front of course. She probably

organized the whole thing, her face, red and twisted with resolve. She came straight at me. I was afraid of

her. We boys fled to the back of the barracks and our squad leader stood in front of us. Other men

covered the doorway. It didn't take long for the mothers to retreat. None were hurt. We try never to do

them any harm. We need them for the next crop of boys.

Several days later my mother came again by herself—sneaked up by moonlight. Found me by the

light of the night lamp. She leaned over my sleeping mat and breathed on my face. At first I didn't know

who it was. Then I felt breasts against my chest and I saw the glint of a hummingbird pin I recognized.

She kissed me. I was petrified. (Had I been a little older I'd have known how to choke and kick to the

throat. I might have killed her before I realized it was my mother.) What if she took me from my squad?

Took away my uniform? (By then I had a red and blue jacket with gold buttons. I had already learned to

shoot. Something I'd always wanted to do. I was the first of my group to get a sharpshooters medal.

They said I was a natural. I was trying hard to make up for my small size.)

The night my mother came she lifted me in her arms. There, against her breasts, I thought of all the

pillow jokes. I yelled. My comrades, though no older than I and only a little larger, came to my aid. They

picked up whatever weapon was handy, mostly their boots. (Thank goodness we had not received our

daggers yet.) My mother wouldn't hit out at the boys. She let them batter at her. I wanted her to hit back,

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Carol Emshwiller - Boys

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