Terrible Swift Sword
by
David Pascal
Part Two: 'Broken' (chapters 13-15)
(Note: Part Two is long, so I�m posting it on the FFML day by day in
smaller sections. Interested readers who would like to read or download
the whole of Part Two can find it at the SMJ Fanfiction Page at
http://www.geocities.com/~davidpascal/smj and get the whole piece there
� and really ought to, since it�s much more readably formatted.
Technically, none of the characters appearing in the original Saber
Marionette J series appear in TSS, though a few are referred to. Nor
(offhand) do I think there are any spoilers.
Saber Marionette J is owned and copyrighted by AnimeVillage.com * Satoru
Akahori * Hiroshi Negishi * Tsukasa Kotobuki * Kadokawa Shoten * Bandai
Visual * Sotsu Agency * TV Tokyo.)
Comments should be directed to: davidpascal@juno.com.)
13
�Hi, monkey,� said Belt. �Get some sleep? Nice and rested? Hey --
guess what? We�re going to talk. I�m going to ask you some questions.
You�re going to tell me what I want to know. And if you don�t, I�ll tear
off your ears and eat them.� She licked her lips slowly. �Yummy yummy
yummy,� she whispered.
McCabe looked Belt straight in the eyes and said nothing.
�Why�d you shoot my Billy in the head?�
She shook McCabe�s head by the ears. With exaggerated gentleness.
�Huh? Huh, cowboy?�
�You tell me,� mumbled McCabe.
�To take us down, right? Me and Fall and Gel. You thought we�d go crack
apart and go down if Billy died. But why? Why�d you want to take us
down? You know,� she said, shaking his head by the ears with the same
cat-and-mouse gentleness, �we get very upset when someone kills the guy
we lo -- .� A bleak expression crossed her features. �The guy we
imprint on. We get very upset. Oh, we�d have burnt out in two minutes
flat, sure; but you�d have gone right down with us. Hard. Why? What�s
so important to a human that it�d throw its life away?�
�You want conversation? Talk to baby sister. I got nothing to say.�
Belt, amused, looked over at Fall. � �Baby sister�. I like that. He�s
not very cooperative, is he -- baby sister?� She squeezed McCabe�s ears
very very slightly. McCabe bit down the scream of pain in his throat.
�You�re not doing this alone. Who�re your friends? Who are you working
for?� said Belt.
�Who my friends are is none of your damned business,� said McCabe.
Belt chuckled, richly, deeply. �You�re about to die in a really ugly
way, cowboy,� said Belt.
�I know it,� said McCabe. A defiant look lit his cool brown eyes. �Do
your worst, bitch,� he added, quietly and evenly.
�You ain�t seen my worst, monkey,� said Belt, grinning.
�I been tortured before.�
�Me too.�
�And now you�re on the other side.�
�Yeah. How about that?�
�Reckon that�s the side where a piece of shit belongs.�
�You sure you don�t want to talk to me, cowboy? There�s other things I
can rip off besides your ears.� Belt grinned. She leaned closer. �Come
on, cowboy,� she whispered. �Tell momma.�
McCabe spit in her face.
Belt stared into his eyes. Her grin slowly evaporated. She tossed her
head back and screamed at the top of her lungs and rammed her head
straight into McCabe�s.
With exquitely gauged softness. The tap was still enough to make
McCabe�s head snap back instantly. He�d have fallen back to the floor of
the buckboard and lain there, if Belt hadn�t held him by his ears. She
let go of his ears. He plopped back onto the blanket across the
buckboard.
Belt stood up and rubbed the spit off her face with the back of her hand.
She looked down at McCabe. She emitted a lilting, almost girlish laugh,
and stood over him grinning, with her hands in her longcoat�s pockets.
�Is he dead?� said Fall.
�If I wanted him dead, you wouldn�t need to ask,� said Belt. She
crossed her arms, and shook her head. �You know something -- baby
sister?� said Belt. �I was in that exact same situation once. And I did
the exact same thing, too.� She looked at McCabe, lying there. �That
was brave. I didn�t know humans could be brave...I thought the only
things they could do is fuck and kill.� She looked at Fall. �This one
must be a freak.�
�You didn�t find out anything, though,� said Fall.
Belt threw her head back and laughed. The re-change was really starting
to get to her. She glowed with beauty and power. She laughed and kept
laughing. �Yeah, that�s right. I didn�t learn a damned thing, did I,
baby sister? Not a damned thing. We�re back at square fucking one,
standing here waiting to get blown away.�
She jumped into the air, executing a perfect Olympic flip, and landed
flat on her feet next to Fall. She put her arm around her. �C�mon, baby
sister. Let�s do the town.�
�Billy told us to stay here,� said Fall.
�Billy said take care of McCabe,� said Belt. �I took care of him.�
�What about Gel?�
Belt looked over with real envy. She snorted. �Nothing in this lousy
town will take her out. Ever.�
�I don�t know��
�C�mon, baby. You�re two weeks old, aren�t you?�
�Two weeks old today,� said Fall, quietly.
�Don�t you want to see all the amazing things outside that door? All the
fun? Besides � Billy�s out there, right, not in here. Maybe we�ll see
him. Maybe he�s in trouble � maybe he needs us!�
Fall looked up, but said nothing. Belt turned her around and held Fall�s
face in hands. �Listen, baby sister. You�ve got to understand how
things are for a marionette � for experimentals. We�re nothing. We�re
disposable. You and I are going to die, real soon. Maybe tomorrow,
maybe today. You understand?� said Belt. �I don�t know about you, but
me? I may die tomorrow, but I�m going to live today. I�m gonna live
this day as hard as I can. You understand?�
Fall�s head trembled between Belt�s strong fingers like a white bird.
Her eyes glistened.
�Come on. It�ll be fun. Let�s go,� said Belt. She clapped Fall on the
shoulder, and pulled a cowboy hat out of the back of the backboard and
settled it gently on Fall�s head. Then she led her to the livery stable
door with her hand around Fall�s waist. She looked at the lock. She
hated locks. She reached out crushed it into a grey dough ball in her
hand, and pushed the door open.
The two androids walked out into the bustle of Jacksonville. Fall looked
back and reached out quickly and twisted the iron lock hoops on each side
of the outer door together like shoelaces. Then she paused, and twisted
them again, so that they looked like a valentine human heart.
She looked at Belt. �It�s for Billy,� she explained.
Belt laughed; she threw her head back and laughed. �Come on, baby
sister,� she said, putting her arm around Fall�shoulder. �Let�s go kick
some human ass!�
14
Twenty-five years earlier, when Ahab Pierce was thirty years old, Mr. Bob
Bly, the first Executive Director of the IRS � the Internal and Regional
Security division of New Texas� special intelligence services -- was
sitting at a conference table dealing with the next to last business item
of the day. Arrests of several dissidents had already been ordered, two
kidnappings had been given the go-ahead, and after a week of torture had
proved futile, the �accidental death� of a former Congressman was being
carefully crafted. The next item, the disposition of one particular
prisoner, was now being debated. A foreigner. Three high government
officials in gray suits and black ties, two thin, one fat, sat at the
table, the two thin ones arguing quite heatedly.
�We need the man!�
�Baloney. He�s obviously a foreign agent � a plant. He�s here to feed
us false information, or pick our brains and run. That�s all.�
�Run? Maybe security in your department is that flimsy, Ogilvy, but ours
isn�t. The only way this man will ever leave New Texas is if his body
washes out to sea.� He turned to the thick-faced broad-lipped man
smoking the cigar at the head of the table. �I guarantee it, Mr. Bly.�
�It�s not worth the risk, Reeves!� said Ogilvy.
�Pierce needs the man! He�s been bitching for the past ten years about
the low quality of the assistants he has. He�s hit a roadblock in saber
research, and this man, and only this man, can help him. And us!�
�He�s a plant! He�ll rip off what information he can, cut, and run.�
�Fine. If he does, we find him, we kill him, that�s that. Till then,
let�s try him out. That�s all I�m saying -- let�s just try him out! If
it doesn�t work, if he�s no help � fine, he�s meat, he�s history.�
Mr. Bly removed the cigar from his thick lips and gazed with tired eyes
at the man who had just spoken. He was sleepy. Political repression was
time-consuming and boring. He wished he were out on the golf course.
�Reeves, you guarantee he can�t get out of that place. Or get any
information out.�
�Out of the Enclosure? Hell, sir, even Pierce can�t get out of there!
Once we stick someone there, they�re there forever. I�d bet my life on
it.�
Mr. Bly nodded. �You just have. Permission granted.� He yawned. �Next
item?�
A week later, Ahab Pierce picked up an STM electron-microscope and threw
it into the computer monitor he�d been pacing around. It hit the flat
side with a clang and bounded off. Nothing exploded. Pierce wanted it
to explode. He wanted everything to explode, the Enclosure, the desert,
the whole damned world.
�What the hell are you looking at?� he shouted at the two cringing
laboratory assistants. �Get out of here � get out of here and let me
think!�
They scattered like rain-splattered puppies, and Pierce stalked around
the lab thinking, and swearing to himself, and slapping items off the
tables. How? How could he code enough memory into small enough a space?
How could he make Gel think and feel? He knew it was possible
theoretically. He just didn�t have the damned tools! �New Texas� � bah.
Barring what was salvaged from the Mesapotamia�s escape pod, the whole
of Terratooan technology had barely crawled to level of the nineteenth
century. There were barely six copper mines in all of New Texas. Barely
three factories manufacturing computers � and most of those were reserved
were for clods in Washington who wanted to play something called �Donkey
Kong 7�. Nearly a sixth of the insides of the Mesapotamia�s pod was
right here in this room. He�d spent over a decade, memorized every inch,
read every journal, pored over each file, extrapolated miles beyond what
he�s read, knew what he had to do. But he simply, physically, couldn�t
do it. Pierce was like a man stranded on a desert island alone with a
broken radio, knowing exactly how to repair it, knowing how to build one
a hundred times better and more powerful, yet lacking the manufacturing
capacity to produce the simple one-cent transistor needed to make the
whole thing go.
And yet Faust had done it. Pierce had seen it in that marionette�s face.
How? How?
�Sir!� said a voice, loud, clear, stupid -- obviously military.
�Get the hell out of here and leave me alone,� said Pierce, not even
bothering to look up.
�We need your signature to release the prisoner to your custody, sir.�
�What?� Pierce turned. There was a soldier with a clipboard, and two
armed guards standing around either side of a tall but stooped, gaunt man
with a shaven head, standing in nondescript grey clothing that Pierce
somehow instinctively knew was prison garb. �What are you talking
about?� said Pierce.
�The new assistant, sir. You remember the brief sent from Washington
last month, don�t you?�
Pierce�s brow wrinkled. He remembered -- something about a �competent
scientist in Pierce�s field� being available � as though there were any,
other than Pierce himself! He�d tossed it aside. What few
near-�scientists� Texas actually had had protested some new idiot
directive of Joy�s and most of them were now in prisons or labor camps.
Joy was sending them back to work, he supposed, trying to squeeze
scientific discoveries out of them again. So what, thought Pierce. No
one in New Texas had even an inkling of the things he was tackling. He
walked over to the corporal holding the clipboard and snapped his fingers
for the soldier�s ink pen, debating whether to send the new lab fodder to
the section trying to develop land mines or the important one, the one
trying to develop Instant Coffee, when the prisoner looked up at him.
And spoke.
�Wilhelm Ahab Pierce! Ja?�
Pierce looked at the man. And saw the man looking back at him � in awe.
The expression Pierce was used to getting was not awe. Fear, sometimes.
Fury, resentment. No man had looked at him like this since � since old
Lightner had died. �I�m Pierce. What of it?�
The man reached out and grabbed Pierce�s hand � actually touched him! �
and began shaking it vigorously. �An honor, Herr Pierce, sir, a great
honor. You are held in such respect in our country�s elite scientific
circles. Your theoretical paper on neural nano-electronics � historic!
Unmoeglichkeit!�
Pierce tried to pull his hand away, and noticed something about the hand
of the man holding it. There were no fingernails on it. Not any more.
He looked at the man closely for the first time. His face was almost
comically ugly. His large ears stuck out like handles on a stein of
beer, and his big nose was broken. He smelled horrendous, and the skin
around his face was loose and slack, as though he�d lost a hundred pounds
overnight. He had to have lost weight, Pierce noticed. Though taller
than Pierce, this prisoner was skeletal, barely ninety pounds, a
tottering scarecrow. Pierce so rarely noticed anything about the people
working under him, that noticing all the surface quirks of this one had
pushed away the overwhelming fact that suddenly came to Pierce like the
glow of dawn. �You�re German,� said Pierce. �You�re from Gartlant.�
The man stood at a sort of attention, and nodded, both proudly and sadly.
�Ja. Ich bin Deutsch.� He looked at the soldiers on either side of
himself. �I have the pride to be a citizen of New Texas now.� He forced
a smile.
Pierce scrawled his signature over the corporal�s clipboard and dismissed
him instantly and forever with a wave. He looked at the scrawny German.
�You,� he said to one of his �bodyguards�. �It�s lunch. I want food.
Lots of it. Steak. Potatoes. Milk. Plates of it. Now.� He turned
back to the German. �And paper. And pencils.�
The guard hesitated. �We�re supposed to be watch -- .�
�Now!� shouted Pierce.
15
Billy and the Reverend walked down the footpath to the Cemetery at Ginger
Field. It was a short walk, and a beautiful one, with the long green
grasses waving across the slopes. Ginger Field was not the Jacksonville
Cemetery proper, where business and property owners and the like were
buried. Ginger Field was for orphans and beggars and gamblers who�d got
themselves gut-shot over cards. Pell went there once a day, and prayed
to the Saints for them all. Especially for Billy, he said.
Billy didn�t believe Pell when he said that in the Church. Or rather,
part of himself refused to believe it, and part of himself did believe
it, however ridiculous or impossible it might be, and the two parts
couldn�t exist together in the same head, so they burst out, in loud
panicky remarks. Pell stood it calmly, and then led Billy to a polished
brass plate by the pulpit and showed him his own reflection. And the
face that looked back at Billy was not his own face. Billy then called
Reverend Pell a liar outright, and a fool who didn�t know what he was
talking about, who was playing some sort of parlor trick, and � and � and
Billy just seemed about to go to pieces when the Reverend Pell coolly
informed him that it was his habit to stop by Ginger Field daily and pray
over the departed, the late Billy Truman in particular. If the young
visitor to his church would care to come along, he would be more than
happy for the company. Yes, Billy had said, defiantly. He�d believe it
when he saw the grave with his own two eyes. The Reverend nodded, and
now the two of them were strolling across the rise through the long grass
together, the Reverend loping along with long deep easy strides, and
Billy limping beside, his fists clenched unconsciously, his head quietly
shaking no, his aching leg trying to keep up.
The resting place at Ginger Field was beyond the first rise out back of
the Home, and atop the second. A white picket fence about a foot high
put there by the boys ringed a circle of around a hundred graves marked
by wooden crosses and flat tombstones. The short white fence gave the
top the second rise a look like a pearly medieval crown. People would
often come up Sundays from services below to visit, but the Reverend Pell
made it a point to come up daily. Here were boys he�d found in the
street who�d been beaten to death or misused or died of illnesses and had
no one to remember or mourn over them. He tried to mention them in his
prayers particularly. Some of the boys� pets were buried here too, in a
special little section, . Even some marionettes were buried here,
separately. Townspeople had flat out forbidden such foolishness at the
proper cemetery. But others argued that many owners of marionettes
grieved too. The Jacksonville Cemetery might not take such, but Pell had
felt that since Christ Jesus counted every tear, He surely would not
begrudge any mourner a place where they might fall. So Pell made a
place, and here they came.
And Billy ran ahead of Pell, stepping over the fence, almost tripping,
then running among the gravestones, looking, staring. �Well? You said
there�d be a grave. Didn�t you? Where is it?� He stalked from grave to
grave. �Where? Show me! Wh -- .�
He stopped, his mouth open. In front of him was a six-foot stretch of
brown earth over a newly covered grave. Tiny blades of bright green
grass were beginning to bud from the fresh laid earth. At the head of
the grave was a flat grey stone slab with a simple cross carved into it.
Beneath it were cut the words �William Tecumsah Truman. 2435 � 2451� and
a line from Ecclesiastes. �Though He slay me, yet shall I trust in Him.�
Billy fell on his knees before it, staring.
�The Murphy boys, Jeb and Thaddeus, found him way outside town along the
Creek,� said Reverend Pell. �He was all cut to bits, Billy was. All cut
to bits. The Murphy boys got the Sheriff and he came and got me.
Sheriff reckoned some hired guns passing through got good and drunk and
-- ,� Pell pressed his lips together and shook his head, � � and wanted
to have some fun. It�s happened to boys before. We found all we could
of him and laid him in the buckboard. Services were just this Monday.�
�It ain�t possible!� said Billy. �It can�t be!�
�I laid his body in the casket myself, young man,� said Pell, quietly.
�Brushed his hair back. Crossed his hands over his chest. It was him�it
was my Billy.�
Billy placed his hands down on the grave and stood over it on all fours.
�It can�t be. It can�t be! How can I be dead? How can I be dead, and
standing over my own dead self? Lord Jesus, how can I not be me? I
remember everything � my Poppa, the Home, feeding the kids, working the
land, reading the Good Book, sleeping in my own bed.� He broke into
tears. They hung from his cheeks. He shook his head. �I ain�t dead. I
ain�t a thing! I�m me! I�m me, me, me!�
The Reverend Pell had been looking at Billy Truman�s gravestone with a
sad expression. He allowed his features to stiffen, and gave the boy
weeping below him a tough look.
�I don�t know who you are, son,� he said, �but you sure ain�t Billy
Truman, and that�s a fact.�
�Who says I ain�t?�
�I known Billy for nearly ten years,� he said, looking back at the
gravestone, �and a finer boy never walked this earth. Respectful, kind,
hard-working. Bright as a star. You should have seen him figure numbers
when he was doing the books, or remembering sayings from the Bible. He
was more of a father to these boys here than me, sometimes, feeding �em,
teaching �em, playing baseball, thinking up ways to raise money in town.
The Home wasn�t barely a barn back of a livery stable in town when Billy
joined us.�
�I remember�� said Billy.
�He was my pride and joy,� said Pell. His voice almost broke. �We gave
him some food and a bed, and he did all any boy could to pay us back. He
gave back many times over. He did a lot. But,� said Pell, his voice
rising angrily, �there was one thing Billy Truman never did. He never
sat on his butt crying and whining and going �me me me� like some spoiled
brat!�
�Why shouldn�t I?�I got troubles�Lord Jesus, I don�t even know who I am!�
�Who cares who you are?� shouted Pell. �Whoever you are, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself, standing in front of Jesus� cross and whining about
your troubles like a self-centered little baby. �Me me me�! Like your
little problems are the most important things in the world. Are you
hanging dead on a cross, boy? No, you�re live and healthy with two
strong arms and clothing on your back. Are you thankful to a merciful
God for it? No! You piss and moan on your knees like a hound dog. What
kind of way to act is that for a man? Are you a Christian?�
�I am,� said Billy.
�Do you love the Lord?�
�I do.�
�Then act like it! Trust him!�
Pell knelt down on one knee and reached out and put his huge hand on
Billy�s shoulder. �Son � I know you got problems, I can see that. I
know it must look like they�re so big that they blot out the sun, and
everything seems pitch black dark. It ain�t that. It ain�t never like
that. Not if you got faith in the Lord. Not if you know in your heart
that at the bottom of everything stands something strong and good, so
strong that one day it�s going to wipe out all that�s bad, and so good
that it�s going to wipe away every tear. Everything will be made right.
Christ himself came to us � Our Lord -- and promised us he�d make things
right.�
�But � but things ain�t right, Reverend.� He put his hand against the
side of his head and could feel the bullet hole�s sharp metallic edge.
He pressed his palm against it hard, and sobbed. �They ain�t right.�
Pell noticed the gesture. He looked down. �You know, son -- I preached
to so many men after the War, in the street, in hospitals. Soldiers, the
wounded. They�d seen hard days�more�n a couple were tetched in the
head��
Billy laughed. �My head is more than a �mite tetched�, Reverend.�
�Shucks, I don�t care if your head is filled with pinwheels and penny
whistles. It comes down to this: do you believe in something or in
nothing? In hope, or fear? In God�s love, or abandonment? In life or
in death?�
�I�don�t know anymore��
Pell frowned. �Well, boy, you only got one life, just like a poor man at
a roulette wheel�s only got one nickel. You can put it on red or you can
put it on black. It�s one or the other. Me, I put my nickel on the red
blood of Christ Jesus. I gamble on the Lord. I seen goodness and beauty
and loving kindness in this world, and I don�t believe it popped up clean
out of nowhere. Sunlight don�t fall on a man unless somewhere there�s a
sun, and a river don�t run unless it empties into a sea. Where there�s
justice, there�s a Judge, and where there�s children, somewhere there�s a
Father. I look at man and I see the hand of the Lord. A man�s soul and
God � they stand or fall together. I believe in me and I believe in Him,
and I�m betting my nickel on us both.�
�But�I don�t even know if I have a soul -- .�
Pell was dumbfounded. �What kind of talk is that? Everybody�s got a
soul!�
�Do rocks and stones? Do machines? Do andys?�
�Shucks, boy, if you didn�t have a soul, how�d you even be able to moan
about it? Why would God not hand out a soul to you? He ain�t hoarding
�em up in His basement. Everything�s in God�s hands. Even rocks and
stones. Even machines is in God�s hands. I don�t know if marionettes
got souls, but if one came up to me and said, �Reverend Pell, give me a
soul,� and I had an one jingling in my pocket, I�d give it one right
there on the spot. Why wouldn�t I? I don�t rightly figure God�s
stingier than me. And you figure He ain�t gonna give one to you?�
�You ain�t God.�
�Well, that ain�t news to me, boy. But if a rough loud-mouthed old ox
like Nimrod Pell is willing to hand out a soul to someone asking, what
makes you think a true and stalwart friend like Jesus won�t? You ain�t
got a soul? What kind of foolishness is that? You know right from
wrong?�
�I think so.�
�You been baptized?�
�I have.�
�You love the Lord?�
�I do.�
�You believe the Lord is good?�
�I do.�
�What more you want, boy? A printed certificate from the Archangel
Gabriel?� Pell shook his head, and then simply laughed. �Son, the only
thing wrong with your head is that you ain�t got no sense in it. Jesus
died on the Cross for us all. He accepted everyone who called on His
name. Everyone! Haven�t you read the Good Book? Don�t you know Him? A
loving God might test you, and He might chasten you. But do you really
think He�d abandon you?�
Billy blinked and was motionless for a moment. He blinked again, and
then he raised his head, and sat back on his heels. �No,� he said,
almost surprised. �No, I don�t.� The idea pierced his misery like an
arrow. �Jesus would never abandon anyone. Not anyone.� To Billy that
was the plain and simple truth.
�Well, do you think He�d be pleased and proud to see you sitting there
weepin� and moanin� over your poor little self when there�s God�s work to
be done?�
�No,� said Billy. His cheeks flushed, ashamed. �No, I don�t think He
would.�
�The Lord�s word is a simple word. It ain�t �self-pity�. It�s love.
Love and compassion. Helping and caring for others. That�s the compass
God give us to steer by.� Pell bent down and put his hand on Billy�s
shoulder, and looked at him with his huge face. �Son, it�s � it�s all so
simple. You want to see if a thing works, you go out and try it. You
want to see if the Christian life will do for you, you go out and live
it. I live it, and I tell you, son, it works right fine. Love and faith
feels good and is good, and hate and distrust feels bad and is bad. It�s
that simple. Stop thinking about yourself. Start thinking about others.
Do that and you�ll be right as rain. I know you think you got problems
-- shoot, maybe you do. But think about it � ain�t there folks worse off
than you? You know anyone frightened or alone? Anyone who needs you,
who looks to you for help?�
Billy thought of Fall, shaking in the back of the buckboard, and Belt
raging, and Gel�s charred body, and McCabe�s leg, bloodied like Billy�s
had been.
�And I ran and turned my back on them all,� he said, half to himself. He
shook his head in self-disgust. �God forgive me, I ain�t worth two
cents!�
�He does forgive you,� said Pell. �Provided you stop kicking yourself in
your lazy self-centered fanny, and get down to doing His work.�
�I will,� said Billy. He stood up, suddenly inspired and fierce. �By
God, I will! Only��
�Only?�
Billy looked at the palms of his hands.
��I still don�t know who I am.�
Pell stood up as well and bent over and brushed the soil from his pants
knee. �You�re a friend and servant of The Lord. That�s who you are.
Compared to that, whether you sign your name �Leroy� or �Billy Bob� ain�t
no big deal. Jesus knows you; He don�t need to see your ID. If gettin�
one�s a big deal to you � well then, if it don�t conflict with the Lord�s
work, go and find out. That�s my advice. But see to your brothers�
needs first. �Love the Lord and Love One Another.� Them�s Jesus� words,
and God�s command. If you love others, they come first. And if you
don�t care a hoot for anybody but yourself � well, then you definitely
ain�t Billy Truman. -- Is what I�m saying make sense?�
Billy looked at Pell, and Pell clapped Billy on the arm again and smiled
at him. Then Pell looked at the gravestone. A sadness flickered over
his eyes. But his smile remained. He made the sign of the cross over
the stone and over his forehead, and Billy�s, and clapped Billy on the
shoulder again. �well, I got stuff to do. But I want to know something.
You need a place to sleep tonight, son, or a meal? You come on over to
the Home. The door�s always open, and you�re welcome inside.�
The Reverend Pell straightened up and stretched. �These old bones,� he
said, smiling, rubbing his back. He winked and turned and walked away
down the rise. Half way down he stopped and turned. �By the way,� he
called back. �If you or your friends feel like it, we�re having a fried
chicken jamboree to raise money for the boys this very afternoon. Fiddle
player coming up from town. Frisbee contest too. Cotton candy, popcorn,
maybe some kite flying. Come on over and see!� He waved a hand, and
strolled off through the grass.
Billy watched him go. Then he turned and stood there looking at his
gravestone. William Tecumsah Truman 2435 - 2451. He looked at his
hands. He closed them and opened them. Inside, moving them, were steel
rods and gears, wires and switches. I�m a machine, he thought. But then
he thought also of Pell�s words � �Even machines is in God�s hands.�
He looked down at his hands. Then he looked up at the sky.
*