As
far as police brutality goes this small riot, ancillary to a group of
unionized Santa Clauses being replaced by some temporary foreign
workers, was run of the mill. A few tear gas canisters whistled into
the crowd and tanks came from all four directions blocking off all
escape and gasping coughing folk were herded into backs of covered
trucks girded by mightily armed soldiers who spoke not a word.
George took a seat on the floor and as his wits slowly returned he
took out his compass and watched as the needle spun from east to
south to west and then back to south as he sat facing the rear amidst
groans and cries of those with a few broken body parts. The food was
good as they all settled into a field of military tents with guards
posted unsparingly to keep the vagrants out. The referral process
was unhurried as over the next several days everyone was stripped and
hosed down and checked over for life threatening diseases. George
was declared fit and given a neat grey uniform and a little bag
containing his wallet and compass and dirty cloths. They all settled
into a good routine of sleep and meals and exercise in the big field,
and in the evenings the whole camp would join in song, the favourite
being “Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya.”
George
was almost saddened when a kind judge told him he was free to go, but
he decided to make the best of it as the guards made him give back
his grey uniform and he put on his dirty clothes and hoody. Out into
the countryside he trudged, compass in hand. He headed south, that
being the only road available. The only vehicles on the road seemed
to be soldiers and guards in trucks going back and forth to the big
city and they kept throwing things at him like oranges and old junk
food which he was sort glad about because he was getting hungry after
walking since before noon. But when he got hit with a beer can which
sloshed all over his hoody he started hiding in the ditch whenever he
heard a truck approach. As evening deepened a lake shore with no far
off horizon other than blue water flirted with the roads sojourn, and
George took to walking on the sandy beach. He found a ravine with
wild raspberries and blue berries and some rhubarb and with that and
a delightful salad of young dandelion leaves his tummy was full and
he settled down in a sheltered overhang for the night. He slept like
a log.
He
awoke in the morning to the cheerful caw of a crow who was rather
intrigued by this human sleeping under his favourite tree. George
missed his throne. It had been the only seat in the bachelor pad
which his worker had found for him after he became aware in the
hospital. They'd found him a bed but it was no good for sitting on
because the front edge sank to the floor with any weight. He'd spent
many long hours seated on his throne, figuring out what had happened
to him and what this world was all about. His worker had gotten him
his bank card but he'd quit going into his bank because they always
wanted id and all he had was his health card which they said wasn't
good enough. His card with the magic number which he had to get just
right worked really good for buying his groceries every few days
anyway. That crow really was annoyed.
The
lake shore was home to many fine things. George found a salvageable
little pail with a handle which he straightened and washed out in the
lake. It was soon overflowing with blue berries and choke cherries
which seemed to thrive in the bush which often approached the lake.
As he headed south, George checked his compass to make sure, the sun
had a strength today which was almost uncomfortable and he was so
proud when he found an old straw hat with most of the brim still in
place. That kept the heat off his ears. While resting under a tree
near an old shed which may have been a cabin before it sagged in the
undergrowth, he spied a little motley orange creature with half an
ear missing. It was watching him intently. As George continued on
his way he became aware that it was following him, always at a good
distance, but always somewhere in sight if he looked hard.
By
evening George's pockets were bulging with neat stuff. He'd found
two Bic lighters, one that still worked after he cleaned and dried
it, and a jack knife with the blade rusted open, and even an old
blanket which had hung itself up in a tree and which he tied over his
shoulder to make a big pouch. He really needed a usable backpack,
but that would be asking for a miracle. As night approached he came
to a barrier of rock and brush which jutted way out into the water so
he found a path well used by animals with longer legs than his for
jumping over the dead falls, but he managed to work his way around
through the bush and came out on the other side with barely a
scratch.
As he settled down for the night on some grass between two
boulders his little orange buddy emerged from the shadows and set a
dead rabbit at his feet. And it sat there and looked at him. Well,
George not wanting to be a snob, and acting on some knowledge buried
in his forgotten past, sharpened up his rusty blade on a smooth rock
and had that rabbit skinned and gutted in two minutes flat. His
buddy Mottles was pigging out on the innards. They had a little fire
going in no time and with the meat skewed on a green branch the smell
was delectable. With full tummies they settled down for the night on
their new blanket and Mottles curled up beside his feet.
(To
be continued)
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