Pyramid Schemes, Page 2

  ested in them.

  Then whatever she had in the basket moved.

  That surprised the hell out of me. I had assumed she was carrying laundry to wash or something like that. The notion that there

  was something living within the basket was extremely strange. I

  could not fathom what manner of creature she had in the basket, nor what she could possibly want to do with it on the river. I

  remained exactly where I was, unmoving, so that I could see how

  the next moments played out.

  Perhaps it was a small group of kittens. That would not have

  surprised me. There were many people who had little to no patience

  with cats and would not hesitate to dispose of an unwanted brood.

  But it did not seem likely since a basket full of kittens would have

  been mewing piteously, seeking their mother even as the basket

  holder prepared to drown them.

  Instead a wholly different sound was emitted from the basket.

  The small, faint whimper of a child.

  “I’m sorry, my son,” she whispered. “This is the only way.” I could not believe what I was witnessing. A woman was clearly

  preparing to drown her infant.

  Understand that it is not my personality to especially give a

  damn about the fates of others. My entire priority is geared around

  my own survival, and in my several decades of life, I have become

  quite adroit at it.

  But my own appalling childhood had left me with at least

  some degree of sensitivity to the plight of youngsters. I suppose

  that is inevitable when one grows up as the lame son of a tavern

  whore, conceived in a stormy night of rape courtesy of a group of

  knights. Pathetic sight that I was, I was endlessly tormented by

  other, healthier youths of far less violent parentage. So to this day I remained sensitive to the plight of youngsters who were faced with all manner of bullying. I take pride in saying that on any number of occasions in my adulthood I had not hesitated to thoroughly pummel obnoxious ten year olds who I caught in the act of harass

  ing younger children. The little bastards had it coming. What I was witnessing now, however, transcended all of the

  previous instances. Here was a mother who was clearly preparing

  to murder a helpless infant. Within seconds she would doubtless

  tip over the basket and send the baby splashing into the water. And

  unless the child was half fish, capable of immediately learning how

  to swim, its remaining life could be measured in seconds. Instantly I reared up out of the water, tossing aside any endeavors to mask my presence. She saw me and her eyes widened in

  surprise, and she fell backwards into a sitting position on the bank. “How dare you?” I bellowed at her. “Have you no shame? No

  pity? Have you no internal sense of motherhood at all? How could

  you do such a thing?”

  Frantically she put a finger to her lips and attempted to quiet

  me. “Please, stop!” she whispered desperately. “The Rama Lama’s

  guards are just around the bend!”

  I had no clue who “Rama Lama” was, nor did I care. My furious attention was entirely on the young woman. “Perhaps you don’t

  want your child. In that case, do the decent thing and find another

  mother for him! To just toss him in the river as if he were some

  minor piece of refuse! May your soul burn in hell for what you were

  about to do!”

  As I spoke, I splashed my way out of the river, grabbing my staff

  to bring myself fully upright. I stood there in my sodden undergarment, making no attempt to curtail my rage despite her urgent

  gesturing that I should silence myself. “I have no idea if you pray to

  any gods, but if so, I suggest you plead for His or Their forgiveness

  immediately!”

  She was continuing to gesture to me to silence myself, and then

  she looked to the side and her eyes widened in horror. Seconds later,

  two large guards approached her. They were bare chested and bare legged, wearing armored kilts and towering helmets that would have obscured the vision of anyone foolish enough to be standing behind them. Both of them were carrying lengthy, curved swords and they were scowling at the young woman. “What is going on here?” demanded the slightly taller of them, although with their high helmets, it was difficult to get any real idea of how tall the

  men were.

  Seeing them as authorities, I pointed at the woman and declared

  stridently, “She was going to drown that infant!”

  “No, I wasn’t!” she said desperately. “I was…I was just going to

  bathe him!”

  “Then why did you apologize to him? Why did you tell him

  that this was the only way?”

  “I…I…” She was stammering. She had no answer. What

  answer could she possibly have, save to admit her determination

  to drown her child. My suspicion was that she had had the infant

  in secret and was hoping to terminate the child before someone,

  such as her father, found out about his daughter’s history of slattern

  behavior and pregnancy.

  She was clutching the basket and child to her breast, and her

  legs were trembling. She was clearly terrified of the guards, as well

  she should be. I was hardly familiar with Rogyptian law, but I

  doubted that it was especially sympathetic to homicidal mothers. “Wait a minute,” said the taller guard. His hand speared forward and clasped around the eight pointed star. “She wears the

  Morgan Trace. She’s a Shew. And this is your first born, isn’t it.” Reflexively she began to nod, but then she immediately shook

  her head. “No. No, he’s my third. And…and the first was already

  attended to. So there’s no need for—”

  “I don’t believe you,” said the guard and then, to my astonishment, he slapped his beefy hand forward and knocked the basket

  and child out of the mother’s hands. The child let out a startled cry

  for the first time.

  I did not quite understand what was happening. “Wait…hold

  on just one—” I began to say.

  And he slew the child.

  I could not believe it. One moment the child was wailing piteously, and the next the guard brought the sword swinging down and around and cleaved the basket in half. There was no question that the child was dead. There was an awful “splutch” sound and

  an abrupt termination of the infant’s cries.

  Understand that in my life I have witnessed any number of

  instances of man’s brutality to his fellow man. But never in all my

  years had I seen something as utterly cold blooded as this. The

  guard had not hesitated. He had slain a helpless infant as casually

  as if he were cutting a piece of lumber.

  The mother slumped to the ground, sobbing piteously.

  The other guard stood near her, brandishing his sword, and for

  a moment I thought he was going to end the girl’s life as well.

  Indeed, he seemed to be considering it. Instead he shoved his sword

  through his belt, and then drove his foot forward with considerable

  strength. It caught the girl in the gut, and she gasped and fell over,

  her arms doubled over her stomach. She was caught in between her

  reactions, partly sobbing, partly trying to breathe.

  “You are lucky we don’t just kill you right here,” said the taller

  guard.

  I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab my bastard sword that

  was lying a short distance away and leap to the attack. I saw my
self

  charging into battle against them, swinging my weapon with gusto.

  I saw their heads leaping off their shoulders, or perhaps their chests

  being hacked open and their internal organs spilling into the river. Naturally I did not move an inch. Instead I simply stood there

  and watched as the guard kicked the girl a second time, presumably just to be a barbarian. She gasped once more but otherwise did

  not make a sound.

  The taller guard turned his attention back to me. “You are a

  stranger in these parts, yes?” I managed a nod but said nothing

  else. What could I say to such a heartless monster? Upon confirmation of my status, he produced a small white ball. “You have

  performed a service to the law of the Rama Lama. Accept this

  token of his gratitude. It is very valuable.”

  He tossed the ball to me and I caught it with my free hand. I

  turned it over, not understanding what I was staring at. It was constructed of some manner of light wood. My confusion must have

  been quite evident, because the guard who had tossed it to me said,

  “I have given you a wish.”

  “A wish?” I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. “Present that to the Rama Lama, our leader, and ask for something. If it is within his power…and just about everything is…then

  he will provide it for you.”

  “That is very generous,” I said tonelessly. My attention was no

  longer on the coin, but upon the sobbing girl. Horrifically, she was

  clutching the basket to her bosom. The bottom of the basket was

  thick with red. I was astounded that a child that small could have

  that much blood in him.

  “Enjoy your stay in Rogypt,” he said, and then nodded to his

  companion. The other guard was still staring at the sobbing young

  woman, and then he turned from her and strode away. The other

  guard followed him. Moments later it was just the girl and me. Long seconds ticked away and I could think of nothing to say

  to her. I suddenly realized that I was sitting. The strength had gone

  out of even my strong leg and I was seated on the edge of the shore. Finally she seemed to pull herself together enough to stare at

  me silently. Searching for words, I finally said, “I…I didn’t understand what you were…I don’t—”

  “Kill me,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “You have a sword,” and she nodded toward my hand and a

  half sword. “You would not have such a weapon unless you were

  capable of using it. Kill me. I beg you. My child is dead and I have

  no wish to live.”

  “But…I thought you were going to kill him…”

  “Of course not, you fool.” She said the words without rancor, as

  if her anger had been burned out of her. As if my name was simply

  “you fool” and she was addressing me in that manner. Which, I supposed, made a certain degree of sense. “Down there,” and she nodded toward the bend in the river, “the sister of the Rama Lama is bathing with her handmaidens. I was going to put my son adrift down the river to her. She was going to find him and I am sure she would have fallen in love with him. Then I would have volunteered my services as a wet nurse. I had it all worked out. And then you

  showed up. Idiot.”

  “I…I don’t understand. Why did you need to float your baby

  down the river? I mean, obviously you loved him, despite all evidence to the contrary. So why…?”

  She stared at me, confused. “Don’t you know anything about

  anything? We are Shews. We are slaves. All our men and boys are.

  And the Rama declared that he wanted all first born sons killed.” “But why?”

  For the first time, she sounded genuinely sarcastic. “Apologies.

  I was unable to attend the meeting where the Rama put forward

  the thinking behind his decision.”

  She finally managed to get to her feet. Her legs were wobbling

  and I thought she was going to pass out. The front of her clothing

  was now thick with blood, but she did not seem to pay any attention to it. It was as if she had mentally departed the real world and

  instead had deposited herself into some other, alternate realm. She

  clutched the basket with the bisected corpse to her chest. “What

  will my husband say?” she asked in a whisper. “Perhaps he will

  kill me. Perhaps he will lay my body alongside that of my infant.

  Yes. Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea. I hope he does that. I

  hope…”

  She turned away and I called after her, “What is your name?”

  I had no idea why I was asking. It was as if I wanted to form some

  manner of bond with her. As if being responsible for the slaughter

  of her son wasn’t enough.

  “Rebeka,” she said.

  Then she walked away. She continued to mutter to herself, but

  I could not make out the words she was speaking.

  I tried to envision how her husband would react. Indeed, it seemed to me that perhaps the wisest course of action would be for her to head in the completely opposite direction of wherever he was

  going to be, but then I discarded the notion.

  I next tried to figure out what I could have done differently.

  Unfortunately nothing really came to mind. The fact was that I

  thought I was doing the right thing. I had no clue that she was

  intending to launch her infant on some ill-conceived boating expedition. I thought that my outcry of warning would benefit the

  child, not instead result in his demise. There was simply no way

  that I could have anticipated the lethal turn in which my actions

  would result.

  Yet I blamed myself nevertheless.

  In retrospect, as I sit here at my writing desk now, much

  advanced in age but still maintaining my wits, at least, I find myself

  wondering at what time in my existence matters had changed that

  I cared about the child at all. There was certainly a time when I

  would have said nothing at all. I would simply have floated in the

  water and watched her do whatever she wanted to her son. My

  reasoning would have been that it was none of my affair. Instead I

  had apparently reached a point in my life where I felt the need to

  intervene when I was seeing a wrong done to someone that was in

  no position to defend himself. In short, I had tried to be a hero. And look where it had gotten me. Gotten him.

  I dressed quickly, the wetness on my body attended to

  promptly by the sun beating down upon me. Then I just stood

  there for a time, leaning on my staff, looking at the city behind

  me. When I had first arrived, it seemed someplace rife with

  potential. Now I wanted nothing more save to put it to my back

  as quickly as possible.

  The alternative, unfortunately, was the desert. I was not

  attracted to a sea of blistering sand and yet more sun, but I did not

  see any sort of choice.

  So with that decision made, I drew on my cloak to provide me

  some degree of shelter from the heat and started walking, without

  the faintest idea of where I was going.

  In retrospect, it was quite possibly one of the most stupid things

  I have ever done. I had a small amount of water in a pouch that

  dangled from around my neck, but even with the most sparing

  consumption, it would only last me several days at the most. I was

  very likely heading off to my death.

  Why?

  At the time, I ha
d no idea. I gave it little consideration. All I

  knew was that I wanted to be somewhere else than where I was. With the separation of time, however, and the chance to reflect

  upon it, I have come to a belated conclusion:

  I was tired of living.

  I had been doing so for something akin to forty years. That was

  forty years longer than I was supposed to survive if one considers

  the pathetic, wretched and deformed thing that had slithered from

  my mother’s nethers all those decades ago. The man who owned

  the tavern in which my mother worked was all for exposing me to

  the elements, and my mother—damn her—prevented him from

  doing so.

  It was thirty years longer than I had expected I would live when

  I was aged ten and was constantly harassed and tormented by the

  village’s youths. It was twenty years longer than I had thought I

  would make it when King Runcible arrested me for the killable

  crime of refusing to wed his daughter, with whom I had already

  slept. What else was I supposed to do considering our relationship,

  I have no idea, but marriage was simply not a possibility. Not that

  I could explain that to the king, of course. And if I had not been

  released from prison by an unexpected aide and allowed to flee,

  that is indeed where my life would have ended.

  I had spent the next twenty years wandering aimlessly, having a series of adventures. I had been possessed; I had slaughtered

  thousands (all without intending to do so). All those lives lost and

  I had continued to walk the world, steeped in my endless misery

  and self-loathing.

  And yet I must think that it was the slaughter of the infant

  that finally sealed it all for me. I had tried to do the right thing and instead the result once more was death. It was the proverbial straw that had broken the spine of the equally proverbial camel. What point, I must have wondered, was there in living anymore? When even an attempt to save an innocent life resulted in the termination

  of that life, certainly continuing to exist simply held no purpose. I could have, of course, simply thrown myself upon my sword

  and put an end to it. But the fact was that I remained, as always, a

  coward. They say that suicide is the coward’s way out; I disagree.

  Finding a means of jamming my sword through my chest was