Bowmaster

Hedwig de Leon

 

In this game I am the Bowman.

Perched on my castle tower, armed

with a bow and arrow I shoot invaders—

horsemen, monsters spitting fire, ice and arrows,

an axe-wielding 50-foot fellow. With every kill

I earn 12 pieces gold, not mere silver.

 

War is big business.

 

With enough gold I summon townspeople to join me—

as archers, horsemen, foot soldiers. I can summon

comets, lightning, firestorms, glaciers. I am powerful;

Gold makes me so.

 

Sometimes I end up shooting my own men; it is difficult—

Shooting an enemy locked in swordfight with your soldier.

It feels awful, to see blood splatter and my comrade fall,

Fall because of my arrow. Oh, I have the power to heal, too. But,

they die, anyway.

 

And then the true miracle happens: the bodies and blood vanish.

Just like that. No burials. No sweepers. No cremation.

Without a trace.

 

Elsewhere, in the real world, a war rages. In the Middle East

 

Sweepers earn an extra $8 (a fortune!) for picking up scraps—

of people or what used to be, stray fingers, bits of flesh—

And hosing blood off the streets; all the details

Emergency workers leave behind. War is big

Business, even for street sweepers.

 

There are no miracles; miracles don’t happen there.

 

The dead have names, they are real; they don’t go away

without a trace. In their wake waft the stench of war, soundless

shrieks in the night, the stubborn stains of curdled blood

that only a tsunami of tears can wash.

 

 

 

January, 2008