A Crime of Violence

           “I’m sorry, Synoveh. He’s unmanageable this morning. I can’t run a class—will you watch him?”

She knelt to her son’s eye level, he evaded the look: “Luvin… ” In his papoose Sunrah smiled at his older brother.

Achen elaborated: “None of the kids want to sit near him, he won’t keep his hands to himself.”

Still looking for the boy’s eyes: “What is bothering you?”

Luvin looked down, around, everywhere except at Mother, muttered: “Nothing.”

“Is school boring you?”

“I’m tired of sitting and talking.”

“What do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have chores and you can’t bother me, it’s gonna be real dull with me, too.”

“I’m okay… ”

Synoveh sighed with exaggerated weariness, rose and addressed Achen: “I’ll take him. How are the other kids?”

“Fine—I left Rajin monitoring them. He’s a very serious boy.”

“How is he doing?”

“He understands about Brenda—Suthra and Taralisa are really there for him and he’s accepting them. He believes his Mom died for something good.”

“He should be proud.”

“He is.”

“I’m glad.” Another sigh, an unintended glance at Luvin, he saw an eye of disappointment. Synoveh took his hand from Achen’s. “We’ll be in the kitchen.” She led her son across the cabin circle.

Outside the cookhouse Luenda split firewood with a maul and a wedge. She was stripped to her short pull-over tunic, yellow braids tied up into a turret-like formation, leather chaps protected legs from splinters. Muscles worked smoothly, sweat ran, heavy metal tools rang and cracking logs snapped. She scarcely paused to nod greetings at mother and child going by.

Dirtiest chore at Branch House was the monthly cleaning of the huge stove and it was Synoveh’s turn. A cold breakfast morning warmed only by tea brewed on hearths in the separate cabins.

“I’m going to be busy now, Luvin. Find a seat and stay quiet, please.”

The boy took a spot in a corner.

She closed the door on Luenda’s noise, went to the rear window and opened the shutters. Undoing shoulder straps, she took Sunrah’s papoose and suspended him on a wall hook where he had a grown-up’s level view.

First task: remove accessory components, starting with the ash catcher. It rode a drawer slide, pulled from beneath the firebox, she lifted it out, set it on the stone floor, poured in a gallon of water, stirred the mix and killed cinders.

Catch a moment’s breath, then fetch the grills and drop them into a basin to soak. Towel off greasy hands.

Next task involved shoulder power. Synoveh used a short handled scraper on soot caked surfaces, she got behind the work and bore down.

An unexpected shadow crossed her space and Sunrah cried in alarm.

Turned a smudged face to see Jason in front of the baby, a finger pressed its nose. Jason’s right hand held a carving knife at his thigh.

Synoveh stood: “Stop that—you’re scaring him.”

Jason smiled and turned away from the infant: “Am I?” He raised the knife over Sunrah: “Do I scare you?”

“Don’t… ”

“Don’t what?” He slashed the air inches from the tiny face, then pointed the knife at its mother. “I’m a man with needs.” Reddened eyes, clenched grinding teeth, sweating heavily in the chill morning“ I lay in that fucking bed and you babes keep waving your boobs over my face! I’m on my feet now—come here, give it to me!”

Synoveh was frozen.

“Drop that spatula and come here!” His free hand opened the front of his trousers, the knife tip zeroed in on the baby’s face.

Silently, she walked across the room, fingers released the scraper and it fell with a clatter.

Her sooty brow displeased him. Jason scowled, picked up the hem of her smock and daubed roughly at her face. The dirt streaked.

Her reflexive hand tried to repel him. He slapped the wrist aside and backhanded her cheek. “Turn around, close the window.”

Shivering, tearful, she retreated along the wall and found the shutters with her hands. Swinging them together dimmed the room.

He had drawn a semi-erect penis: “Come back, kiss your new Master!”

Feet reluctant, heart petrified, she moved toward him.

“On your knees, show respect!” He grabbed hair, yanked her head down.

Legs failed and Synoveh fell, struggled up to knees. His organ was at face level.

“Suck it!” Jason’s hand cupped the back of her skull and pulled her in.

It poked an eye, jabbed her nose and she forced her lips open.

He rammed her three or four times, enough to work up the hard-on and get a good manly feeling. What he really wanted was her meat.

A harsh yank lifted her to feet. He put the knife in her face and she backed a step away.

Jason followed, free hand slapped her.

Synoveh’s hip bumped the table, she tried to sidle around but another cuff in the cheek knocked her onto the cutting-board surface.

He reached between her legs and heaved her all the way atop. Then Jason got up with her, towering on his knees above her body.

Grabbed her smock, pulled it up and the knife slashed, its tip slit her thigh, sliced the garment.

Artificial stimulants, natural adrenaline, the vista of blood and nakedness, eyes and whimpers of terror: Jason filled with triumphant energy, fully healed of his wound and utterly in command. He roared out excitement, slapped her again and again, each hit was a vital charge, electrified him.

Leaning over her, he dug his fingers into her vagina, clawed and tore, leered and drooled, laughed.

The door burst open and Luenda charged into the kitchen. With three huge strides she rushed to the table. A toetip turn, like a dancer, the heavy block of firewood in her hand swung and clapped Jason over the right ear.

The rapist dropped sideways and the table overturned.

Synoveh tumbled across him and rolled away, Luenda fell to her knees astride his chest and drew her hunting knife.

A look into his eyes, broken, unfocussed, unmanned. Blood oozed from his ear and his mouth lay open, slack, his breath was shallow.

Pull back knife for a good deep stab.

“Stop!” Achen’s voice thundered over Synoveh’s choked cries. “Children are watching… ” He stood in the doorway, Rajin Syneid and Ali Battaglia were at his side. Other curious people, young and old, approached.

Luenda wavered, looked again at the man beneath her, utterly helpless, maybe dying. Turned eyes across the room, found Synoveh, seated on her rump, bloodied and shivering.

Luenda: “What do you say?”

A careful breath brought up a slow, controlled voice: “No—not now. Achen is right.”

“Okay,” the hunter stood and reluctantly sheathed her weapon. “We can’t leave him here.”

“Get Marcus—carry him somewhere. Get him away from the kids.”

Luenda nodded agreement, went to Synoveh’s side with hands of comfort. Achen turned to the brewing crowd and marshaled children away as Marcus came forward.

The stonemason entered the cookhouse, the women were on their feet and checking Sunrah’s welfare. He went to his wife and foster son.

All the while forgotten Luvin sat in his corner, silently took everything in.

Chowder: “How’s Synoveh?”

Achen: “She’s in bed with Sunrah. Taralisa’s sitting with her. She wants quiet.”

“I looked at Jason, Luenda clobbered him good. I think she killed him, he hasn’t dropped yet, that’s all.”

“Where did they take him?”

“A shallow cave at the base of the basaltic ridge. Remote spot—nobody goes there. Marcus and Luenda and Jody and Hildy are digging up rocks. They’re gonna wall him in.”

“Entombed alive?” Achen shuddered: “Too grisly. If we’re going to kill him we should do it cleanly.”

“A lot of people want to speak about this. There’s a meeting tonight on the Branch House lawn, we decided. Karma and Suthra are running up and down the Vale with the news.”

Achen nodded. “Why not at the Hearth? We don’t need this discussion around the kids.”

“There are a lot of the refugees at the Hearth. Jason might have friends with them, they’re could be trouble. Some of these newcomers aren’t settling in easily.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“It’s just starting to arise. Some of them are drinking somewhere but they’re not going to Drunkard’s Den. The Village is pretty upset.”

“What kind of people did we bring into our community?”

“Beaten down folks that never learned how free people act.”

They heard the bell on the Keeper’s Cottage gate chime.

Naomi: “Excuse me… ” she rose from the conversation circle and went to the door. Her guests followed with curious eyes.

Sweaty from a run, Volmer was on the porch. He glanced at the small party assembled within, then addressed Naomi: “There’s been a problem at Branch House. Synoveh would like you to come.”

“Right now?”

“It’s kind of urgent.”

“What sort of problem?”

Volmer hesitated, spoke softly, only to her: “Synoveh was attacked, we want your counsel.”

Behind Naomi Homer was up from his seat: “What’s going on?”

Arrolon stirred too, and Patricia, Charlene remained seated.

Hermione watched with interest.

Volmer didn’t want to speak in front of a stranger: “Branch House, Hospice business. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Patricia went to the door: “Tell me.”

“One of the new guys raped Synoveh, there’s a gathering to decide how we’re gonna deal with him. We need Naomi.”

“And she’s going. I’ll take care of this crowd.”

Dispersed Homesteaders trickled in from the reaches of the Vale, the meeting waited until midnight for all to arrive. Chowder and Volmer went to the cookhouse to feed the assembling crowd and discovered the stove still half cleaned. They finished the job but dinner was delayed for over an hour. Branch House kids snacked on cookies and fruit while hungry adults paced and muttered.

The crowd’s mood was already unpleasant from the nature of their gathering and as they milled some canvassed their thoughts regarding Jason, none were kind.

Blue moon was a setting first quarter, red moon glowed full and high.

Blue and red mottled Synoveh’s swollen face, right eye wouldn’t open.

Marcus: “You don’t have to go out there. We can handle the meeting. People want to see you… ”

“I know. I just want to be alone, but that won’t happen.”

“Not tonight.”

“Where’s Luvin?”

“Asleep.”

“Good. Let’s go, then.”

Marcus offered his usual elbow to hold.

“No, I should walk on my own feet. You can take my hand.”

Side to side, they went out of their home and into the throng.

A tree had lost its life to cabin building and to clearing the sky above a picnic lawn, a wide stump remained. It stood chest height, with a short ladder and a banister it became a podium popular for outdoor classes and meetings.

Synoveh and Marcus climbed up and faced the assembly. Torches, lanterns and flashlights made spotty illumination.

They waited for a hush to settle, then Synoveh spoke first: “I’m told that people want to look at me, see what he did. Here I am, what your eyes catch is the worst of the injuries to my body… We took that man into our Home, healed him and fed him. He repays us this way. The real hurt that he did, it’s not to me, but to us… Violation of our trust and generosity carry the most bitter taste.”

Scattered voices rumbled at her, largely incoherent but the phrase ‘Kill him!’ broke through from many quarters.

Marcus held up hands, Synoveh shook her head and continued: “Don’t worry about him, he won’t hurt anybody ever again. Soon Jason will be history, we’ll make it forgotten history, not worth preserving. Let’s not dwell upon how he dies, or if he can be properly punished. That’s beyond our judgement, we only need to be rid of him.

“These months since Mel passed from us, we’ve been turmoiled and troubled. There has been a lot of violence, the crime against myself is a parcel of that, a small parcel. There are children here, in my home, that have lived with this violence every day of their lives. At the Hearth, in the Village, it is said ‘We are fortunate’, well I am fortunate, even with all of the pain.” She faced her husband, “Go back to the cabin. I want my violin.”

Marcus nodded and shouldered her with a quick hug, turned and hurried down the ladder.

“I’m going to play for you, music is the sound of a healing spirit.”

A male voice rose from a crowded shadow: “What about those other guys?”

“The other refugees? Guards like Jason was?”

Several voices answered affirmatively. The first speaker emerged into a brighter spot: Davey, laborer at the Mud Yard: “That dude Chattagong gave me a pop in the jaw yesterday when I told him you’re not supposed to go into the Hall drunk!”

More ‘Yeah!’s rattled around.

The baker Yersey Santareya added: “Somebody takes sugar and corn meal out of my kitchen. I think it’s Leon, he’s always lurking around.”

“He’s got a still somewhere,” a masculine voice shouted.

Another woman’s tongue: “One Drunkard’s Den is enough!”

Synoveh held up hands: “Wait!” voice cracked with forced volume.

Outbursts settled to low mumbles.

“Our Homestead is challenged. Unexpected violence is in our heart, it must be removed. But carefully… ”

A drum began in the crowd, double tapped at a pulse. Slowly, Luenda stepped in front of the stump, faced the crowd, tall head looked over the sea of angry faces. Her own mien was solemn, wooden, with eyes of stern shadow.

Synoveh continued: “Our pride has always been in our openness and hospitality. The Vale welcomes anyone who lives respectfully of others, for most of these newcomers that is a brand new idea. People that won’t accept this reasonable position cannot live with us. If Leon or this Chattagong persist their unacceptable behavior it is bound to escalate. Tonight we deal with Jason, tomorrow we must confront them. But I need to stress: we are a loving community, not vengeful, nor acting from hatred. Only the element that refuses to cooperate must be purged. Most of the refugees are innocents, victims of the absolute worst in cruelty. We don’t want to shame our justice by hurting them again.”

Drum beat and rumbling voices answered.

Marcus had returned while she spoke, she took her violin and bow, tuned quickly and returned to the assembly.

Utter quiet fell across the scene, Luenda noticed the silence and paused.

They anticipated sad music, angry sounds, a stark expression to release the horror, something screaming passion.

Synoveh flittered out a light joyful dance song.

Faces before her revealed shock, surprise, even humor.

She stopped: “We need happy sound. Be miserable for me another time. Being here is very tiring right now and I have to go home. Before I leave I want to see you shake away the bad things. Jump around a little, for me.” Bow whisked across the strings and the tune sang out anew, Luenda found a rhythm for it.

People danced.

Ten minutes later Synoveh lay back upon an oversized pillow wedged against her living room wall. Marcus took a stool by her knees, Naomi was at the fireplace brewing a pot of tea, Achen assisted her needlessly. Luenda remained outside, drumming. Taralisa, Suthra, Jody and Hildy were atop the stump directing a volunteer chorus within the crowd. Many people felt the late hour and sat, stretched, snoozed.

Synoveh still played, soft tones at the speed of deliberate thought that only filled the space around her.

Marcus: “How are you feeling?”

She spoke to the bridge of her instrument: “Weary… but grateful. I thought the crowd would be more agitated.”

Naomi: “You handled them beautifully, they respect you.”

“I didn’t feel beautiful. There was a huge bit of me that wanted to join the anger and just go crazy with them… I envisioned rounding up the refugees and sending them away… but where is away?”

“Nowhere… ”

“Right. And then I thought of the girl and that lovely boy—Salyanna and Mabutu. They’re living here in the extension we built… ” She pointed bow at the rear of the cabin. “Just babies and I can’t hurt them, they aren’t to blame for Jason… only Jason is blamed.”

Naomi brought tea, Achen carried the sweetroot syrup.

Synoveh put the violin down and helped herself, stirred in the condiment, Marcus took his libation strait.

Naomi: “Is Jason dead, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Marcus: “Not the last I saw. But there isn’t much left—eyes don’t see, he doesn’t talk. Chowder thinks ‘fractured skull and intercranial swelling’. Says the body might keep breathing for a surprisingly long time.”

“He’s been secured?”

“Walled up.”

The journalist took a seat on the bench, Achen hovered by the stove.

Luenda entered, helped herself to tea, sat with Naomi: “And now?”

“He’s dying, we don’t need to do anything… ”

“Uh-uh. He carries the fungus, if he dies naturally It will absorb his brain. There is an ugly, evil mind in there that we do not want Cardomon to become. He needs to die without the fungus, we need to do it—tonight. Before it is too late.”

Achen: “How can he die without the fungus?”

“If the portion inside of him dies first. I hunt by strangulation, using my crossbow wastes the meat. The fungus needs to breathe even more than we do.”

Naomi: “Alcohol kills It, too. Remember the man from the Golden Horde—Morrison? He died of alcohol toxicity, but the fungus died first. Charlene and Kaila autopsied him, they told me about it.”

“We’re not going to drink Jason to death… ”

“No! Of course not, I was only reflecting.”

“I’ll strangle him.”

“Have you ever killed a person before?”

“No. But for Jason… it will be easier than killing animals. You didn’t see him on top of your friend, hitting her. If I hadn’t heard him shout out who knows what could have happened?”

“I imagine he planned to murder Synoveh.” Naomi gave her thoughts a significant hesitation: “Are you going now?”

“He won’t live ‘til sunrise.”

“I’ll go with you, this should be witnessed.” She eyed Synoveh: “What about you?”

“I don’t need to see this… I trust Luenda will do the correct thing. I’ll stay here, Sunrah’s in my bed, I’ll borrow his peace.”

Marcus: “I’ll stay with you.”

“You don’t have to. I just want quiet.”

He nodded: “I’ll stay.”

Achen: “I think I need to see the execution, I can’t hold an intentional death as an abstract thought. I am here, planning this with you. I’ve got to be part of it.”

Luenda stood: “We should go. We’ll pass my shop and I’ll get a noose.”

A bed of dying coals kept a half-full teapot warm. Chowder sat and watched fading embers. It was a fine night and Bobol lay asleep on bare ground without any covers, he had dried leaves caught in what little hair he carried.

The spot was a darker corner of the Vale, shadowed by overhanging basaltic cliffs, woods swallowed the night on the downward side.

Footsteps rustled the duff and raised his attention. Chowder looked and saw torches approach, four of them flicking on-off between tree trunks.

He reached and shook Bobol’s nearby foot. The sleeper rose to seated and combed his scalp with thick fingers.

First in the grim parade came Luenda, both hands held torch in front of her head, eyes reflected flame, face smoldered. “Has he made any noise?”

Chowder: “Nothing.”

Achen emerged, his torch was overhead and his face in fluttering shadows. Naomi heeled close behind, held her light at her side.

Taralisa Rhine was the last to file in, as Luenda her flame was in both hands. A solemn monument she, stocky, heavy brows and cheeks over a wide jaw and a long sickle nose, an intricately woven tail length body of silky hair, brown in daylight.

It wasn’t much of a cave, more of a deeper recess in the looming cliff. Four people had used most of the day constructing a wall of large stones across the mouth, now five people pulled it apart. Bobol still nursed a broken toe and couldn’t assist the labor, he stood and held a torch, the other lights had their handles jammed into gravelly soil and backlit the scene.

Torches, fueled by waxy distillate from a tree heavy with pitch, burned low before the wall was open. Piss and shit smells confronted them as they worked, grew stronger as the hole expanded.

Black rock absorbed dim flames, only the prisoner was illuminated. He sat against a wall, eyes looked at nothing.

Luenda went to him, pulled a hand off of his knee and yanked him up.

Jason didn’t set feet under his weight, only the executioner’s grip held him erect. Naomi came to the other side and took an elbow.

A four-foot cord braided from thin leather strips was the weapon, Luenda had it doubled and draped over her shoulder. She left him in Naomi’s hands, stepped behind the man and looped the half-inch wide rope around his neck. She crossed the ends, drew the noose closed.

Not yet tight, she was as close to Jason as a lover in bed, her face looked past his left ear, Bobol, Taralisa and Achen held nearly dead torches, shadowed eyes blanked all emotion, just statues.

Luenda closed her own eyes, thought of all the animals killed and her hunter’s bloodstained hands. The fading of life from a face and the instinct to survive forcing spasms out of her victims. Suddenly this was too much responsibility to bear.

Eyes opened and looked for Naomi, just a silhouette on the other side of the head pressed against her cheek. Luenda whispered: “My will is slipping… I need help. I’ll hold him and you squeeze the noose.”

The journalist had to consider the request and gave it a moment’s silence. Then her hands replaced Luenda’s, the prisoner almost fell during the exchange. “What do I do?”

Luenda held his wrists with one hand at the middle of his back, her other fist held up the front of his pants, soggy from self-soiling. “There’s a stick in my rear pocket. Get it, tie the knot over it and when you twist the stick the noose closes tight.”

Naomi found the dowel without looking, tied a double-hitch over it. With an easy twist the windlass cinched the loop closed, cranking it was effortless.

Previously inert, Jason stiffened and jerked, his feet kicked and shuffled, hands nearly wrenched from Luenda’s grasp. A cut off snarl was the final breath to escape his lungs.

Head fell back and mouth opened, tongue protruded from black hole, a stem rising from a rotten fruit.

Bowels and bladder emptied, wastes joined the already copious heap in his trousers, fresh stench rose.

He went utterly limp and Luenda lost the grip on his front side. Jason’s knees folded beneath him, he slumped face forward.

Naomi followed the movement, never let up pressure. She sank alongside and got the crank under the weight of her shoulders. All of her strength went into turning the wood.

He wasn’t yet dead, feet continued to kick and hands clawed at his throat. Convulsions shook his entire frame, arrhythmic twitches made his head bounce from the rock floor.

The spasms ended, he was completely still. Naomi squatted and cranked a full minute longer.

Hands opened, she stood, bumped into Luenda rising. Shaken of balance, they held each other upright, making a hug over the fallen body. Luenda felt the executioner shivering, a racing pulse, her own breath was shallow and fast, both women were drenched in sweat.

It was a wide awkward step to get across his torso, Naomi was horror struck at the thought she might fall atop Jason, froze momentarily in midstride, toes of the trailing foot caught under his elbow and she would have tripped but for Luenda’s support.

Reaching the safe side, she rested on the hunter’s elbow for a deep breath. They linked arms and moved out of the cave.