When The Lion Wakes - H. C. Turk (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt) 📗

When The Lion Wakes

by

H. C. Turk

He did not know how to hide the grenade so his sister would not see it. Concealing a hand grenade in his pants did not seem rational, so Alex clipped it to his belt in back, and donned a jacket. Despite the occasion, he had not selected his embroidered coat, but a workday jacket. Fine clothing would draw questions inside his home, and draw fire outside.

As he left his room, he felt that he was sagging. Though small, the grenade was heavy, like a fist-sized rock. As boys, Alex and his friends had tossed rocks at cans and goats, and at one another. Now they threw bombs.

Yes, something from behind was pulling him down.

Entering the parlor, Alex thought he might readily escape, for only Grand was present. Seated at the desk, she filled out some form with a ball-point pen. As she pressed the pen down, a light at the far end glowed. The light was worthless, illuminating nothing. As Alex approached, Grand raised her free hand in greeting without looking up. He blew her a kiss while stepping to the entry door.

“I’m on my way to the Founding Day Ceremony,” he said, but not loudly. A sound stopped him, a hard strike. At first, he thought a mortar had hit their house, and was aghast that the Nationalists had violated the safe zone. But the walls and floor were not quavering. The ceiling had not collapsed. This misconstrued emotion ended in a moment, followed by a human sound, and Alex understood that his mother had smacked a spatula against the counter top in exasperation. He could not see her apron, though he smelled frying vegetables.

“Our people will be expected to leave this day,” she called out from the kitchen. “Does your behavior have to be as foolish as your thinking?”

From along the corridor, through an open door, inside a room that Alex seldom saw, came a laugh identical to Alex’s. His parents spoke from opposite ends of the house.

“Let him be a free man instead of a citizen under siege,” said his father. “I learned years ago not to argue with his righteousness.”

Alex had stopped three paces from the entry. Three paces to escape. He did not want to be rude to his parents in their home, despite defying them in society.

“Would you eat first?” his mother asked.

Alex imagined the contents of his stomach spewing out at the climax, spraying the audience. How shameful to soil his friends when he wanted to cleanse them of the war.

“I’ll get something on the way.”

He looked at the last apple in a bowl on the table near Grand. Before the war, his people had treasured apples. The fruit were no more common now, but other food was scarce. The apple and hand grenade were the same size. Thinking of eating that hideous object against his back made him nauseated. He wasn’t hungry.

As Alex turned to the door, his sister rushed in front of him, apple in hand, holding it up like a gift. She was twelve, with long, uncontrollable hair. She had never thrown rocks at goats. When Alena reached for a rock, she found an apple.

“Please, Alex, I want to go. Willem is going to show us how to end the war.”

Grand’s ball-point pen stopped glowing.

“A hundred years ago, you would have been prince.”

Alex stepped past Alena, ignoring her, as their mother left the kitchen. He could not see her behind him, like the past ignored. One only had to look in order to learn. Alex reached for the handle.

“How can he end the war?” his mother scoffed. “Prince Willem has no authority in the government.”

“He wields the authority of history,” her husband called out, “and history is the greatest educator. Unfortunately, people are the worst pupils.”

Alex wondered of the slight change in his father’s voice, his vantage. He had stood, or turned. Perhaps he was dressing.

When Alena reached to him from the side, Alex harshly pressed her hand away. In a flash, the sight of her touching the weapon struck him. Offended, Alena retreated as her mother spoke.

“Surely, Daughter, you shall not attend. You shall not follow that route.”

“You know something we don’t,” Alena cried out from the room’s center. “You always do. I bet the invaders are going to be there, and you’ll be the only one to see them.”

“The foreigners won’t be there,” came their father’s voice, “but one of us should be. The true prince.”

Another change of voice came from behind. Alena was running off in dismay. The words over her shoulder seemed so far away.

“I might be there anyway!”

As Alex opened the door, Grand had the final words. She spoke generously, blessing her grandson with a common phrase.

“Don’t tie yourself to the lion.”

Alex had to press the door open with the wrong hand. Stepping through, he found that he held the apple.

* * *

He walked through a neighborhood of brick apartment buildings and townhouses. The remnants of the outlawed monarchy lived in a fine home, though in some respects it was empty. Each family owned an autocar, though few people traveled on business via airplane. The children he passed played pertinent war games. That boy standing in a garbage can accepted an urbane demeanor as his friends smacked his tin ineffectually. Though Alex crawled along walls like a rodent, one of these war gamers noticed him.

“Alex it is! He’s on his way to the ceremony!”

“They’ll end the war today, and we can go to the rest of the city again.”

As though ashamed of his goal, Alex rapidly continued past. Ahead, he heard distinctive cracks, but the gunfire was light this day. This holiday.

Approaching the checkpoint, a wooden gate with wire fit for livestock, Alex looked beyond the two militiamen, viewing the greater city. Along the modern street of asphalt, he saw a bus with two flat tires, settled to the rims, parked before shops and apartments exactly like those he had left behind, except for the occupants. Nothing distinguished them but that original war, and the current.

“Alex?”

He knew the two men waiting at the gate. They all lived in the safe zone, the wrong side of the city.

Alex knew the men, but little of their rifles.

“Alex?” asked the younger man. “Are you sure you want to attend?’

The older man scoffed. He was of a different generation.

“They’ll be looking for the false prince. Don’t you have enough sense to disguise yourself?”

“No, I don’t have sense enough to hide the truth,” Alex replied, then turned to the younger guard.

“Have others left?”

“Quite a few, but many left last night.”

“I should have done that. But then my parents would have worried more than usual. Did anyone drive?”

The older man scoffed again.

“The Nationalists are waiting for Mossbacks in cars. Do you want a hand grenade up your ass?”

“No,” Alex blanched, “I certainly don’t.”

“Then you might consider staying,” the older man complained. “Even going out for food is dangerous, and you want to join a ceremony on the losing side.”

“We won’t be eating in the afterlife.”

Looking past the gate again, Alex saw not one person moving, no bicycle, moped, autocar, tank. From along the block, he heard muffled laughing, or crying.

“We are not the losers,” the younger man calmly stated, “just because we accept the Nationalists’ foolish name.”

“Of course we are losers,” the older man growled. “They beat us hundreds of years ago, yet we stayed in their country. When the lion killed the first prince, we all should have died with him. Being losers, we accepted defeat instead of death.”

He shook his head viciously at Alex.

“You foolishly risk your life for this ceremony, but what will you do for the war?”

“What will you do for the peace?” Alex said, hoping his eyelid wasn’t twitching.

As Alex began pressing through the gate, the small burden on his back smacked against the older man’s butt stock. The younger man opened the gate ahead of Alex, then followed.

“Where are you going?” the older man demanded.

“I’m doing something for my neighbor. I’m doing something for the peace.”

They began moving rapidly along the narrow walkway between buildings and street, Alex in the lead, rushed. They passed small cars parked neatly, a moped with no wheels, and a steaming manhole cover. From an upper story room, the sound of a violin screeched out like an insane animal. This musician had much to learn, or had forgotten everything.

Though he saw no refuse near, Alex smelled something putrid, like rancid fruit. He was holding it.

Removed sounds from across the city came to him as vague suggestions. A racing engine? A crumbling building? A marching army? Passing a machine shop where oil leaked beneath the roll-up door, Alex noticed a changed sound. That of his passage. He now moved alone. Turning, he saw the young militiaman lying against a truck tire, contorted and grimacing.

Alex ran near, virtually on his knees. Feeling a whisk, he saw a hole in his jacket. More holes appeared in the brick to his side, puffs of clay dust erupting away from tiny craters. The militiaman gritted his teeth, emitting hissing breath like a leak. Twisted on his side, he grasped himself as though holding something in.

“In here, in here!”

Scarcely looking to the doorway where a person waved, Alex grabbed the militiaman’s shoulders and began pulling him. The wounded man’s heels scraped a path in the dust, two shaky lines uncertain of their goal. As he grunted and strained to move the uncooperative body, Alex felt the top of the grenade press against his back, nudging him, annoying him.

He collapsed to his rear inside a mortar building with bulging burlap sacks against the walls. Several men of different ages, their backs all bent as though they led the lives of pack mules, gathered around the visitors. They poked and pressed efficiently, seeking damage in the groaning man.

“That’s not too bad.”

“Stop the bleeding. Use something already stained.”

“Yes. I’m sick of blood even on my underwear.”

“Wait a minute. These are Mossbacks.”

“Hey, Mossback, do you have cash? You can pay for your own doctor.”

“The other isn’t hurt, just frightened.”

One man turned away, speaking as he reached for a heavy, empty sack.

“Oh, they’re special. The invaders won’t negotiate with the government, only their ancestors, the losers in the first war.”

The other men began prodding Alex with stiff fingers, not seeking damage, but sensitivity.

“We took your land to make our nation, Mossback, and we’ll keep it.”

“That won’t be hard. Mossbacks are born losers, and the superior invaders are too noble to enter the war. But you need their help, Mossback.”

The sack man began beating down against Alex with his flexible weapon. Though not deadly, the assault was vicious in its disregard, and Alex considered those quiet bullets as they cut holes in brick.

He slipped through the door without retaliating. Most wars should not