Beirut
01-08-2004, 15:53
The value
The sun is above me. All is above me. For I am on the ground with a sword through my belly. The pain is very great and the end is near but not near enough. I pray for death and no one listens. I am the food of rats and insects and destined to be eaten alive. But for some reason all I can think of are the silver coins I could earn if I sold this lovely sword sticking out of my body.
The man who put it there knew not my name nor my station in life. Only that I was not as he and that his sword, however cherished by him, was better left inside of me than carried in his hands. Perhaps in the haste and wastefulness of battle he lost the inclination to retrieve it. Perhaps there was another sword sticking in someone else that bore a more polished hilt, or a keener edge, and he would exchange this for that. In either case, this sword that pins me to the ground like a fish on a stick is worth a half a year’s wages to a common man such as me.
A wave of torment rips away my thoughts, leaving them scattered about the field aside the rest of the bodies. I clench my teeth and suffer the terrible burden of steel and flesh combining. The heat, the cold, the air, the ground, the pain, conspire to steal my mind and leave me but a shadow of what I am. Or what I was. For what I am now is nothing but a fish on a stick with a desire for profit. If I remove the sword I will bleed out my life. If it stays in me, I am little more than breath wasted. This insult upon my injury doubles my pain.
I twice tried to remove the sword. But the blade is of great length and I cannot reach the pommel. Twice I cut my hands on its fine edge while grasping it to push it upwards. But what a fine edge it has. This metal is the finest I have seen and the edge could take the beard from my face in a smooth stroke. The man who left it in me did not leave it for a finer sword because there could be no finer sword. No, the man who left this sword left it because he had to, not because he wanted to. If I can remove it and leave the field, I’ll wager he would pay a handsome sum to have it back. Be he dead, perhaps his estate would pay.
The sun croses the sky above me. All is still above me because I am still a living example of a maiden’s pin cushion. But while her pins are placed by gentle and perfumed fingers into the softness of bundled fabric, this bloody sword, bloody with my blood, was thrust into me with reckless abandon and left there to kill me as slowly as the clouds drift in the sky. Goodness, look at the engraving on the handle. I didn’t notice it until this moment. That is the work of the art’s master. This is not a mere gentlemen’s sword, but the sword of a high officer. Two years wages would not purchase this fine weapon for a man of my comportment. Perhaps the officer has another and that’s why he left it. I cannot imagine having such money as to have two of these fine weapons. Yes, he will pay handsomly to retrieve it - if I can get it out of me, and me off the ground.
The sun is gone now and I remain a fish on a stick. Out of water, out of breath and near the end of my heart’s labours. My hands are shreds from attempting to push the sword out of me. My fingers bleed what little blood I have left, spent in vain and glorious pursuit of the riches that this fine gilt edged sword could have brought me. What a terrible waste. If I had the worth of this sword in life my lot would have been grand indeed. But now I meet my end with a lifetime worth of savings pierced through my belly.
I die now. But first, with this stone, I will carve my name into the steel of the blade and let it be known to the next man who yields this sword, that for a brief shinning moment, I owned this great weapon and some day will collect the debt he owes me for its purchase.
The sun is above me. All is above me. For I am on the ground with a sword through my belly. The pain is very great and the end is near but not near enough. I pray for death and no one listens. I am the food of rats and insects and destined to be eaten alive. But for some reason all I can think of are the silver coins I could earn if I sold this lovely sword sticking out of my body.
The man who put it there knew not my name nor my station in life. Only that I was not as he and that his sword, however cherished by him, was better left inside of me than carried in his hands. Perhaps in the haste and wastefulness of battle he lost the inclination to retrieve it. Perhaps there was another sword sticking in someone else that bore a more polished hilt, or a keener edge, and he would exchange this for that. In either case, this sword that pins me to the ground like a fish on a stick is worth a half a year’s wages to a common man such as me.
A wave of torment rips away my thoughts, leaving them scattered about the field aside the rest of the bodies. I clench my teeth and suffer the terrible burden of steel and flesh combining. The heat, the cold, the air, the ground, the pain, conspire to steal my mind and leave me but a shadow of what I am. Or what I was. For what I am now is nothing but a fish on a stick with a desire for profit. If I remove the sword I will bleed out my life. If it stays in me, I am little more than breath wasted. This insult upon my injury doubles my pain.
I twice tried to remove the sword. But the blade is of great length and I cannot reach the pommel. Twice I cut my hands on its fine edge while grasping it to push it upwards. But what a fine edge it has. This metal is the finest I have seen and the edge could take the beard from my face in a smooth stroke. The man who left it in me did not leave it for a finer sword because there could be no finer sword. No, the man who left this sword left it because he had to, not because he wanted to. If I can remove it and leave the field, I’ll wager he would pay a handsome sum to have it back. Be he dead, perhaps his estate would pay.
The sun croses the sky above me. All is still above me because I am still a living example of a maiden’s pin cushion. But while her pins are placed by gentle and perfumed fingers into the softness of bundled fabric, this bloody sword, bloody with my blood, was thrust into me with reckless abandon and left there to kill me as slowly as the clouds drift in the sky. Goodness, look at the engraving on the handle. I didn’t notice it until this moment. That is the work of the art’s master. This is not a mere gentlemen’s sword, but the sword of a high officer. Two years wages would not purchase this fine weapon for a man of my comportment. Perhaps the officer has another and that’s why he left it. I cannot imagine having such money as to have two of these fine weapons. Yes, he will pay handsomly to retrieve it - if I can get it out of me, and me off the ground.
The sun is gone now and I remain a fish on a stick. Out of water, out of breath and near the end of my heart’s labours. My hands are shreds from attempting to push the sword out of me. My fingers bleed what little blood I have left, spent in vain and glorious pursuit of the riches that this fine gilt edged sword could have brought me. What a terrible waste. If I had the worth of this sword in life my lot would have been grand indeed. But now I meet my end with a lifetime worth of savings pierced through my belly.
I die now. But first, with this stone, I will carve my name into the steel of the blade and let it be known to the next man who yields this sword, that for a brief shinning moment, I owned this great weapon and some day will collect the debt he owes me for its purchase.