Arrowheads
in My Flesh!

This chapter is told by Liberty O’man in the first person, since at this stage of the “dream” she started identifying with the incidents, started seeing the dream as her very own personal story.

I won the questionable honor of...Re-Education

I reached the age of 12½, time for my Coming-of-Age Ceremony.  All these years my parents had to silently swallow the shame of raising a deformed, abnormal child. In the ceremony, in which I festively announced that I have chosen the name Liberty, the elderly men of my tribe went bananas. Their old wives whined and mourned and threw wilted flowers at me. Obvious display of contempt, in complete contrast to the nice flowers given to the good boys and girls...

And my parents wanted to bury themselves from shame.

Less than a month after the ceremony, it was decided that I should be “re-educated” when they realized that all hope was lost to “educate” me in the normal way. The tribe’s committee decided to send me there, to the Zone, in a meeting of decision makers whose decisions are known beforehand. Council of Wise Men they call it. Yea right.

I received notice of the decision right away; I made up my mind to bugger off no matter what. My parents indifferent, distant, choking on their shame. From my old friend Arbell I got a sharp tanners knife and hid it in my sandal, under my long dress.

Why knife you ask? Tell you why: (a) to fight, (b) to try and forcefully pluck the freaking gland out of my body.  [According to all the books I managed to read thus far, this is considered medically impossible. You can’t pluck it like you can’t pluck any other organ intimately connected to the nerve system without causing a total collapse of body systems. Also, due to security mechanisms put in place for such cases, it cannot be surgically removed even under strictly sterile conditions. That’s because by time you’re done with the surgery, the merciless pulses would have caused such irreversible damage across the body, that would kill you or otherwise turn you into a veggie. Additionally, the surgeon himself would be found out and sent to re-education Stage B, without a trial, in accordance with Emergency Regulation 1.1 of Imperial Year 666.]

The crucial evening has arrived. The setting of the Small Sun has just begun, its pale light painting the Psychographs pyramids behind us in strong orange, as those have now started to hide the Sun. The unlucky bunch selected for re-education have gathered like a herd of sheep by the Moon Gate.

Before taking me and the others out into the open, where we would be collected by the small Gaysh-Luffen-1 craft, we go through a scanning lineup. The lineup is done right by the gate, on the inside. From inside the pyramid a large prying crowd has gathered to watch the odd scene.

This time there are fewer people in the crowd. On the “roof” of the pyramid a rare rock concert is about to begin and many youngsters are climbing the inner staircases toward the roof.

The big man scanning our lineup stops right in front of me and looks down straight into my eyes with a flaming gaze, his expression of total non-sympathy.

He sees right through me. Sees the hidden knife!!!

I gather that he’s discovered it. And then when he orders me: “Take out the kni---”

And…TFU!!! ---I don’t let him finish the sentence and spit right BETWEEN his eyes. In my childhood I practiced the boyish sport of spitting, especially when I wandered alone at nights near the Moon Gate. In fact I’m also the double-spit champ, so I could have hit him with a double, one spit per eye, simultaneously. Nevertheless, the single, focus spit, one between the eyes, is much more contemptuous and says something like: “Your authority is crap under my sandals!”

The scanner’s face is all fire and brimstone, nearly bursting from anger. The insult is worse than an arrow through his heart. He would have torn me to shreds, but can’t do it with everybody watching. “Besides,” he thinks, “The stupid fool is doomed anyway – she ain’t coming back alive with such character.”

He lifts the edge of my dress, an unthinkable deed on any other day, and tries to take my knife away by force.

I fight back, try kicking him and then I try to grab back the knife off his hand. The chance is slim but I ain’t givin’ up, no way. I cut my left hand while trying to pull the knife already held in his muscular hand. None of the attendees even dreams of giving me a helping hand and I’m closing the deep cut with my right hand, by extreme force, trying hard not to faint from pain and effort.

One dizzy moment came and I almost fell over a skinny long-faced boy who stood by me and wept like a baby. When my senses came back I realized I was being pushed from behind. They’re sending us into the open. The small spacecraft hasn’t arrived yet. I notice a little bright light approaching from the west, which is probably it.

The bunch marches forward like sheep to slaughter. Where do I fly now? Right now any direction is as good as any other, as long as I can get away. I take in all the air my lungs can hold, choose a direction and start running. Straight forward into the open desert.

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Rather predictable whistles cut through the evening sky. I need not and want not look behind, I know the score. At about half way up the pyramid, levels 6-7 or so, they have narrow shooting windows, through which the archers are sending their sharp arrows, aimed at my back. They proudly trained for me, proudly sharpened their arrows for me. Yea, some pride…

Only they woke up too late, I caught them off guard.

0000000000

The whistling sounds ceased. I continue my running, holding tight onto my wounded hand. Every second is crucial, every step of distance gives me a better chance to disappear into the dark of night.

Now the archers are waiting until the Gaysh-Luffen-1 has gathered the complete bunch of obedient dummies. It will take like 5 blinks [minutes] to get everybody on board; they had twenty some guys today, of all colors and ages.

I got my five blinks and got further away. However, the archers walked out of the Moon Gate as soon as the craft took off. They spread around and started shooting their arrows in any direction they thought suspicious. The area is quite dark by now so they’ll count on quantity rather than focus.

Indeed, one arrow hits my left thigh. The arrow fell sideways and the wound is superficial. It hurts but I keep on running and running.

A moment later, a fusillade of whistles gets me by surprise. Somebody got closer, or guessed my location, or something. My back gets whacked by some seven to ten arrows, that should have turned me into a rolling meatball. Luckily I have prepared a barrier: from the old leather maker who loves me and risks for me, I took two layers of real thin, but very dense leather, the kind used to make machine drive belts; I used it to vest the upper back side of my dress. Nearly ten small holes in my back – paralyzing pains for any man I know – will not stop me. The forward running and the target in front of my eyes (to get away as far as possible) keep me alive. And in motion. The pain will have to wait.

“ALL ATTENTION OUTWARDS!”  I yell at myself without a voice. Under my feet I can hear the thumping of my sandals on the desert soil. In the background I can hear the concert on the roof of our pyramid (I don’t like calling it Broken Pyramid; It ain’t dignified calling your home 'broken'). This evening some four thousand youngsters and grownups gathered to listen to ethnic rock music.

The powerful singer Margalit passes the distance and brings to my ears the song Walls Of Clay [click to listen, totally worth it].

Walls of Clay closing on you
Little sis how doomed are you
Walls of Clay n' times of drought
Little sis careful you are not.

Rejected sheep, shame of the herd
You’re insane, not right in the head
Not surrendering, crazy you will stay
What do you know about Walls of Clay.

  Thorny eyes now follow you
Arrow heads about to catch you
One like you can burn our lives
So weep the tribe’s old wives.

  Little sister save your soul
Walls of Clay ain’t gonna fall
Not surrendering, crazy you will stay
What do you know about Walls of Clay.

(Lyrics: Rachel Shapiro)

In the rehearsal hall, down in Level 4, the classical orchestra is organizing for their weekly practice. All in all twenty five musicians, skinny of muscle and nerdy of dress, neat of hairdo. Jo-Seph complains to the old Maestro: “Oh my goodness what a dreadful noise, these youngsters with their rock music.” The Maestro looks at him, saying nothing. Lo-Retta is still holding on to her violin case, passes a sour face between Jo-Seph and the Maestro, saying: “I don’t know… eh, this evening…”

“Everybody take your seats please,” grumbles the old Maestro behind his white mustache.

Losing speed, I’m still running, wounded and aching but still surviving. I run almost without stopping, calculating my next steps, so as to make it through the challenge and also to take my mind away from my pains.

At this stage the uncontrolled convulsions started. My leg muscles go into spasms, causing me to fall to the ground from time to time, or get my legs hit hard by rocks. I’ve read about it in the “ancient” books. In the next stage the convulsions will become stronger and reach such levels of pain that a human being cannot withstand (??there such a thing??), so they said. What’s for certain, it will eventually bring about the collapse of body control systems. At this final stage, even if you disconnected the gland – it has already wrecked havoc and destruction throughout the body. Nobody has been observed to survive this stage in clinical experiments. And they weren’t experimenting on lab rats but on human volunteers: tough prisoners, pregnant women, more.

And I, not fully here and now, send my hand to the knife. THIS IS THE MOMENT! This is my last chance in this lifetime to plunk out this foreign gland off my neck. At least destroy its famous back-of-the-neck connection, like I’ve read at the library. I’ll be happy with a single second of life without a gland, a short moment before death. One second of very relative and very brief freedom, but such a second that none of my younger friends has ever experienced…

The old Maestro is standing today before a somewhat exhausted, dispersed orchestra. His own thoughts wander between home, the rock concert on the roof (damn!) and the good ole’ days. Lo-Retta, first violin, keeps dropping the violin bow and stops everybody else from starting to play. She’s only trying to fix those round glasses dangling on the edge of her nose. Jo-Seph is tense on the cello like a toreador before bullfight. Classikovski the drummer is dozing/sneezing/chasing flies, all the while hitting the drums totally out of sequence. “Call me Silly Nilly if these confused amateurs ever spit out proper music today,” thinks the Maestro.

The knife is not in my sandal! My shaking hand only feels the many thorns stuck in my foot and sandal. Got no time now to reminisce old times. The goal I have set for myself is standing before my eyes and I, crying and warped of mental and bodily pains, covered with mud of blood and dust, will reach it no matter what!

I pick up a sharp stone, hold it very tightly in my right hand and use it to strongly hit the gland area, behind my nape. My body is electrified by pain, sent like a tsunami or lightning bolt spreading from the gland area to the rest of my body. To soften the pain I SCREAM with all the energy left in me. The gland itself not harmed, the hit was only nearby.

The old Maestro gets angry with all of today’s mess: “Cannot work with you guys like that!” --- At which moment Lo-Retta gets up and defies him: “It’s true that we’re confused and unprofessional – but it seems to me that you need all these mishaps – or else you’d totally fall asleep here.”

I hit again, another shock wave. Another scream. This time I feel that loss of control is a small step ahead. My body is shaking all over, contracts and lets go without any order or visible direction. My hand shakes like crazy, to say it gently, desperately holding on to the stone. I think I have a chance for one last blow. But where do I get the strength? And how do I hit right ON THE GLAND and tear it to smithereens exactly on its weakest spot? I have no clue.

I turn my questions to God. She answers me instantly, totally zero delay: “YOU CAN DO IT SWEETHEART! THERE ARE REALLY NO WALLS OF CLAY BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR GOALS!!!   JUST DO IT!”

Here I slipped another little “But how?” and immediately after that, there was no “answer” from God – but instead, I became one with her. You see, it’s not like she’s there and I’m over here and she answers my questions from over there. But I am HER, you see, I AM the one who’s driving myself to exist in infinity mode. Suddenly all the troubles I have ever had dwarfed to zilch, all the aches of yesteryear and today became the miniature noise of a stupid microbe choir.

I was infinite, I knew exactly what I wanted to do and that I was gonna do it without any stops in my way. I grabbed the stone mighty strong, contracted the muscles of my right arm like it was Schwarzenegger’s arm when he’s real angry. Direct the stone’s line of motion? Without seeing and measuring angles and all of that? No, instead of this whole complication I drove it with the perfect, clean thought that it’s gonna hit right where it should, even if a spot I never knew before.

I pulled the hand to me with all my might and speed.

In the corner of my eye I saw the stone diving quickly toward my neck. In a flash of thought I realized that we’ve been fooled all along!!! That the soft spot of the gland was its upper-right connection toward the front of the neck, not the nape connection!

The stone hit my neck with a powerful blast and smashed the gland to a squashed wreck. A shockwave exploded toward my head, my hands and the whole of my body. The word pain cannot tell you what I felt at that moment. Just… a feeling of crushing explosion from the inside out, accompanied by an enormous heat wave and very fast paced trembling all over.

Nothing like this has ever happened to the old Maestro. An entire orchestra went off track all at once! Each and every instrument lost its tune simultaneously! Lo-Retta pulled a muscle and her violin was thrown forward a couple paces. She jumped instinctively in a futile attempt to keep it from hitting the floor, and on her way she made Jo-Seph fall down as well. Jo-Seph fell with his knee hitting hard into the back of the cello.

“LOOK WHAT YOU DONE!! You ruined the best cello in the pyramid!!” yelled Jo-Seph as he was pulling his cello, its back cracked and dented. The hall was full of scattered music notes and stunned, confused faces. The old Maestro grabbed his white hair in his hands, turned his back to the orchestra and went off stage. “Maybe this is the time for a cup of tea,” he thought and walked away with small steps.

Suddenly I felt nothing. I was cold. Lots of dark red blood was dripping from me. A giant hand warmed me for a moment and then let go. Cool night air was flowing over me, cooling me and the dripping blood. The desert turned and twirled in slow motion, turning and twirling. The cold penetrated me but the word pain lost its meaning.

Suddenly I realized that it wasn’t the desert but it was ME twirling in the night air, that I was the blood-covered STONE.

 “Where is my body?” I wondered.

The twirling stopped at once, and only a soft whistle was heard in the quiet of night, a pulsing whistle getting further away. There was a body there, slowly dropping onto the desert ground.

My body made a slight thumping sound when it hit the ground. Broken rocks were laying everywhere and the body rested on some of them. Not really rested, because its muscles were distorted and spasming. The pace was uneven and the motions odd, almost interesting. The spasms continued to warp the body for a long while and slowly dwindled down. A lot of blood flowed out of the neck and was dripping onto the ground. Some of it started to clot on the neck.

Suddenly I felt it, felt the body, and it hurt mighty bad. There were weak motions, dying away, that I did not create. There were electric currents that passed from head to toe and back, cutting me like knives. I felt totally distorted, out of control and miserable, rotting away, finished.

And then came the blackout. Black.

The old Maestro fell asleep on a small folding table, a cup of tea in his hand.

Copyrights © 2001-2013
Ozzie Freedom
www.1freedom.com

Walls of Clay lyrics
Copyrights © Rachel Shapiro