Land of Nod

© E. V. Olievich, 2024

ISBN 978-5-0064-4634-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Fathers

Wake me up in the dead of night and ask me what I hate the most, and I’ll say ‘em Alienos. I hate ‘em Alienos. Ain’t rightly know what to do to keep the warehouse from bein’ robbed. Goddamn brownskins. Good stuff, that’s an 1897 Bates. And a good price too; ol’ man Barry sold it to me for only 30 dollars! In the City, it would’ve been 50. It’s expensive, but what can I do? How else can I deal with these scoundrels? It’s a fine gun. 16-gauge. “Slam-fire,” that’s what they call it now. Practical, durable, reliable gun; you can sit all day long, and the little one won’t let you down at the right moment. I’ll definitely tote it with me next time I go huntin’. Yeah. What we gonna do? What do we do ’bout these savages? How do we fight ‘em? The humble Caldwell pistol ain’t no defense ‘gainst a nighttime attack by these hawks. My Pop said that as a teenager, he never left the house without a gun, so often there were skirmishes between Alienos and Abenlanders. Yeah… When did I first hear the word “Alieno”? Uh, probably in my early teens. There was this kid at school called Joseph, not a pure Alieno, but a half-breed, mother from Misceos tribe. We used to get all tense when he showed up at school. Strange kid. He was a reserved person himself, hardly socialized with anyone. Was he a bad guy? I ain’t know. But he certainly wasn’t no good guy. Never got into no fights at school. Never even fought over a girl. Strange type.

I recollect the first time I visited the City, I was plumb surprised that many Alienos were dressed just like us, and some folks even saw ‘em as human. But not my Pop. My Pop always told me, “Look here, these are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Your Pop-pop died ‘cause of bastards like ‘em. Remember, an Alieno will always stab you in the back as soon as they get the chance.” How right he was, my Pop, bless his soul. When I was older, I saw an Alieno in our town saloon, dressed in a shirt-jacket, britches, and silver jewelry. He spoke our lingo well, and it struck me. I stared at him, and the longer I looked, the more I thought: Is he a real Firenzican? The fools in the Capital teach our young’uns that he is. But my eyes tell me different. These folks got a different skin color. These folks got a different language. These folks got a different soul. Mean, rotten. What kind of soul can they have if they got the gall to speak out against the Firenzican authorities? How many of ‘em have spoken out against army units? A lot of our boys have died in the line of duty. How many have attacked county sheriffs? We got a whole cemetery of sheriffs who died at the hands of those bastards. Sometimes five or six in a year! And ‘em fools up north are always tryin’ to tame these brownskins. They’re killin’ ‘em, and they ain’t all kind. We built Prayin’ towns for ‘em, our preachers told ‘em ’bout Jesus Christ, taught ‘em to read and write. Told ‘em ’bout culture. And how did ‘em bastards repay us? Killin’ our preachers, burnin’ churches. My God… They say they’re defendin’ their nomadic rights and ain’t want to see white barbarians on sacred lands. But what the hell are Alienos nomads? They ain’t nomads. Nomads work, herd cattle, and these idlers just drink mare’s milk and eat rotten grass. They’re more like parasites. They used to eat what nature gave ‘em. Now they feed on what Firenzicans produce. And they’re infringin’ on our women, too. Last year, two brownskins attacked poor Emily. Beasts. Beasts. Beasts. I remember the look on poor Jeffrey’s face. How much pain and despair that ol’ man felt as his daughter lay in the hospital, beaten and shamed. What’s the bottom line on our justice system? What did the lawyer say? What did that asshole say? What nonsense?

“Dear Jurors, I would like to draw attention to a number of circumstances that prompted my clients to commit this undoubtedly horrible crime. It must be recognized, distinguished jurors, that the lives of these young people are no less horrible. A poor family, forced to limit ‘emselves in everythin’ to feed and raise their children. The inability to get a good education. Are they to blame for bein’ born into such conditions? Let’s be honest, honorable jurors, our Firenzican society is to blame. For a long time, we’ve been indifferent to folks of color, to hardships and sorrows. Today we’re reapin’ what we sowed from that behavior. Two of the defendants were recently laid off due to cuts at the factory. These boys had their futures stolen… What does a man do when his future’s stolen? A man goes to the extreme. These boys went to the extreme. Do I say, my dear jurors, that I’m tryin’ to acquit the two defendants? Not at all. I’m just tryin’ to get y’all to look at the whole story. I hope for your discretion, gentlemen…”

And then there’s the parents of these bastards: “our boys… our boys… they’re great guys, believe us. They’re just a little confused… Terribly confused… We want to apologize to the girl’s parents…” The way they looked at Jeffrey – not a shadow of embarrassment, not a drop of shame. So what? Those fools on the jury believed the lawyer and the parents’ stories. They pardoned the sons of bitches. They went along with public opinion, gave these scumbags just five years in prison. Five years in prison for abusin’ a young girl… The old man was strong enough not to shoot the scumbags and their parents on the way outta the courthouse. How can you believe in justice after that? In the law? That it’ll help the common man? We gotta defend ourselves, ‘cause nobody cares ’bout farmers who work for the good of their country. They’re tryin’ to squander our benefits.

Last week some men robbed Teddy Wilson, the blacksmith. Stole tools and horseshoes. Poor Teddy’s heart couldn’t take it, and he died the next day… A wife and five young’uns. Two of ‘em are almost grown enough to take over their daddy’s business. Not the way ol’ Teddy woulda wanted to pass on his trade, that’s for sure. Sheriff Ferguson ain’t got no doubt the atrocity was committed by youngsters from the nearby Musco tribe. Who else would need horseshoes in such quantity? Farmers, farmers will definitely be next. Horses will make it easier to steal crops from farmers. I done warned ol’ Gordon, Stevenson, and Wood. We should definitely expect visitors. Maybe even tonight. Yeah, they won’t be puttin’ it off too long. I ain’t gonna be caught with my pants down.

All right, I should grab a bite to eat ‘fore the night watch. And drink some coffee. Otherwise, it’s gonna make me drowsy. Make beans. Now, where’d I put the pot? Oh, beans. I love beans. Yeah, ain’tt forget to stir ‘em. Slowly, just like my Pop taught me. Yes… Oh, Pop, you should see what our dear Firenzica has become. Ain’t the country you loved. It’s a pity you didn’t catch your grandchildren and granddaughters… Damn war, yes… So, can I check the beans already? It’s hot! You gotta be careful what you eat. Mmm. Delicious, as always. You eat a little bit of it and you’re full. Thank you, God, for givin’ us these small pleasures of life. That you give us a chance to take a break and move on with our lives. Our fathers and grandfathers ate beans too when they was explorin’ these wonderful lands. Eh… I remember how we went out to the pasture with son Ike last year. We spent the whole day in the field, decided not to go home, and made a small camp right in the pasture. Ike was real set on spendin’ the night in the field. And I wanted to remember my childhood. We built a fire, cooked beans, and ate ‘em with great pleasure. I remember that day there was such an incredible sunset. How long can you watch a sunset? Eh, how nice it would be if the sunset lasted forever. Forever breathin’ in that fragrance from the field. Forever watchin’ the sun go down. Just so it never sets. After all these years, I can’t help bein’ happy ’bout the sunset. I remember Ike liked that sunset a lot back then, too. He told me ’bout our trip to the field many times. Ike. My poor Ike. How long? Three years now, I reckon, he’s been havin’ these seizures. Yeah, that’s right, three years. Oh, my God. How agonizin’ly long and yet how quickly time has flown by. What to do ’bout poor Ike? City doctors didn’t help, maybe the smart heads in the Capital will. But when and on what to go? It’s a long way. And we can’t leave the mill and the factory now. Nancy can’t do it alone. Maybe in the winter. Yeah, if he don’t get better, we’ll go with him. Poor boy, what’s he in for? How did we sin with Nancy to give him these seizures in his twelfth year? But we gotta try, we gotta find a cure. There’s a reason those nitwit doctors go to university and we Firenzican farmers pay taxes? Not so they can sit in theaters and restaurants? Someone has to help poor Ike. We didn’t do nothin’ wrong to have God take him away from us. Yeah…

Look, it ain’t even late, and there ain’t no one on the street. It’s like everythin’ dead. No wonder, though. Tomorrow’s the last day of the harvest; everyone has to get up early. “Cept those lousy, lazy Alienos. They ain’t have to work tomorrow, the lazy bums. My coffee’s gettin’ cold. I’m daydreamin’. But that’s all right, I’ll drink it cold. It’s still good. It’s refreshin’. Okay. Cigarettes? Did I brin’ cigarettes? Yeah, there’s a pack in my right pocket. After coffee, you can have a smoke. Good tobacco ol’ Morrison sold me. I’ll have to remember to buy some more next week. Well, I reckon the clock struck. Yes, that’s right, it’s three o’clock. Now I gotta keep our eyes peeled; those damn brownskins could show up at any moment. Yeah… It’s gonna be a rough night, rough… I gotta walk around a little bit to stay awake. It’d be a hoot if I fall asleep and those bastards rob my warehouse! No, they won’t get away with it that easy.

Wait a minute. What’s that noise at the end of the street? Was it somethin’ I heard? No, it ain’t. It’s like someone’s sneakin’ around. Where’s my 1897? Right here, dear. The important thin’ is to stay outta the streetlight. One casual move and the bastards’ll shoot me. Another rustle. How many of ‘em are there? Looks like just one. Could it be a lone thief? No way. No, as if there’s only one. They’ve lost their conscience. They think they’re immortal. They think they can single-handedly rob honest Firenzicans. It’s comin’. Hell, yeah, he’s comin’. Sneakin’ along the wall of the house at the end of the street, you son of a bitch. What, you didn’t make it till 3 a.m., so you came early? Son of a bitch. Maybe I oughta try to scare him off. Let’s see what he does. Why ain’t I scare him? Especially if he’s alone. Or should I wait? No, I could try to scare him off.

“Stop! Who’s comin’? Say your name!” He ain’t talkin’. He ain’t movin’. It’s like I hear rustlin’ again, only more muffled.

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