Read Online The Old American by Ernest Hebert - Free Book Online Page A

performance is winning over the heathens.
    The gauntlet roughed up the young fellow, but allowed him to bow out before he actually finished, a definite strain on tradition. Now the gauntlet was giving the second runner free proceed. It will not allow a third captive through so easily. Caucus-Meteor calculates that his own slave is in for trouble.
    At the halfway point in the line, a Mohawk warrior stops Captain Warren, gives him a bear hug, and shakes his hand. Everyone laughs, even Captain Warren. He resumes his run at a slow jog, bowing with each light touch as he goes through. He’s looking down the end of the line, noting pleased looks on people’s faces, thinking perhaps that he will be given a savage woman tonight to bed with, when Caucus-Meteor steps in front of him. Captain Warren recognizes the interrogator who burned him. He catches the old American’s eyes now, full of intensity. He’s watching the eyes, so that though he discerns the motion, it doesn’t register that the interrogator is reaching for the knife he carries from a cord around his neck. He doesn’t see Caucus-Meteor turn the blade toward himself. The butt end of the knife catches Captain Warren in the mouth as he runs by.
    Caucus-Meteor knows what it’s like to be surprisingly struck so: the impact in the skull, an explosion detonated behind the eye sockets, the sound of one’s own throat crying out, crystals of maple sugar sparkling in the vision, until one can taste sweetness on the tongue. Captain Warren drops to one knee, brings his hand to his wound, feels the lacerated lip, the slick blood, the jagged mess in his mouth. A tooth falls into his cupped hand. Captain Warren takes a moment to gather his powers. Is he praying, wonders Caucus-Meteor? And then he remembers the captive’s behavior under interrogation. Probably the captain is not praying; probably he is meditating on the justification of his anger. Meanwhile, the gauntlet folks, men and women both, watch the big Englishman huffing and puffing on one knee. All sense that this is the decisive moment in his run. Caucus-Meteor thrills inside. This, he thinks, this feeling is the difference between his own kind and the animals and even the gods. It’s the reason the gods envy us; it’s the feeling inside the apprehension of mortality.
    Captain Warren shoves forward and at the same instant grabs the knife from Caucus-Meteor. The cord snaps off the back of the old American’s neck, the turban flies away revealing the bald head, and the captive raises the knife into stabbing position. Caucus-Meteor thinks: Well, finally, I’m going to die, which will simplify everything. Captain Warren never completes his follow through. In a few seconds, the weapon is wrenched from his hand, and then blows begin. What’s done to him appears to be just a beating, but in fact the mayhem is refined and systematic.
    The tormentors crack kneecaps, dislocate hips, shoulders, and wrists, chop off thumbs. After they finish, two women stop the bleeding, tend to the more serious wounds, and examine the work closely to make sure the damage has been done properly. Captain Warren will soon realize with horror he’s not going to be martyred. The tormentors have conspired to keep him alive, but permanently deny him use of his magnificent body.
    Caucus-Meteor is not seriously injured, but he feels something of the trauma of the captives, queasiness in the stomach, a slightly deranged view of his world, as if hidden fingers were pressing on his eyeballs from the inside. He returns the turban to his head. Someone inquires as to his health. It’s a moment before he recognizes St. Blein.
    â€œWhere is my prisoner?” Caucus-Meteor asks.
    â€œHe is about to begin his run.”
    â€œCounsel him well. I must rest.” Caucus-Meteor watches his commander approach the naked captive.
    St. Blein says in heavily accented English. “Now it is your turn, Nathan