Dec 19 2008
Imperialism, Book One: Chapter Two (continued)
It had been three weeks since Yolen’s death, and those weeks had been full of work. Little more of interest had happened in Johnny’s life, but his arms were sore, as well as his back, from constantly toiling. The issue of falsifying the Corn Tax, controversial as it was, was not brought up again, and a strange, uneasy silence formed between Johnny and his father. Their only conversation concerned either food or work. Though they both tried to hide their dispute from Johnny’s mother, she inevitably noticed the heaviness of the air between them, and her eyes became sad. Johnny no longer looked into her deep, blue eyes, afraid to see what he might find.
It was while he just finishing planting a row of peas that his sister came sprinting across the field. Her little form flying surprisingly fast, her feet upturned the soil, de-stroying the seeds he had just planted. Trying to keep his anger in check, Johnny walked towards her.
“Arielle! I spent all day planting those. I’ve told you to be careful before,” ad-monished Johnny.
As he approached her, however, he saw that her face was stained with tears and blood. Her nose appeared to be broken, and her right cheek seemed strangely indented. Sickly fear gripping Johnny, he asked her what was wrong. Unable to reply, Arielle ges-tured soundlessly towards the beach, leaning over her knees in sudden exhaustion. Johnny put his arm around her, and his words of comfort to her were really aimed at him-self.
As he helped her walk over to their house, Johnny chanced a look at the horizon, where, to his astonishment, he saw a line of blue coming steadily closer. Squinting, he was able to make out distinct figures, all carrying swords. There were at least fifty sol-diers, and more seemed to be streaming out of a massive vessel that lay on the beach.
After the initial shock had dissipated somewhat, Johnny felt an odd decisiveness, as if he had been ready for this moment for a long while. Steely determination shot through his limbs, and he hurried Arielle into their run-down house, laying her in a large armchair. He was not worried about her nose being broken; that would not kill her. However, he needed to stop the flow of blood before she fainted. Quickly tilting her head back, he placed a wet cloth right under her nostrils. Faintly, she murmured something incoherent, her bloodstained lips parting just enough to allow that infinitesimal quantity of air to escape.
“What was that?” asked Johnny, leaning his head closer to her.
“They…said…they said they wanted to kill you…Johnny,” she whispered, chok-ing slightly on the blood and tears dropping into her mouth.
“Kill me?”
“Yes…and all the…the people like you,” Arielle’s voice began to grow stronger now, and she sat up slightly. “They said they wanted to get rid of commoners like us who try to oppose the government, Johnny.”
“Who said this?”
“A man. He was short and pale, I don’t know his name.”
“It’s fine, Arielle, just try to rest.”
Arielle nodded and lay back once again. Johnny stood there for a few more sec-onds, savoring this time, knowing deep inside that this was the last moment in his life that would be even reminiscent of peace. He stared at his sister’s face, at the walls of the house, at his mother, lying sick in her bed. Johnny wanted desperately to go to her, to weep in front of her, to tell her all his worries, and he might have done so, had she not been asleep. Gazing sadly at her still form, he waited for a few more seconds. When he felt that standing there any longer would cause him to change his mind, he started abruptly towards his father’s room. Pushing open the broken door, he ignored the clothes strewn across the floor, the dirty cabinet in the corner that had once been clean. Instead, he walked towards the bed. Underneath the mattress was a short, strong-looking sword. Grasping its smooth handle, he pulled it out from under the bed and used his shirt to pol-ish off some of the dust that had collected on the blade. Johnny gave it an experimental swing. He liked the sound of it whistling through the air, the power he commanded as he held it in his hand.
