"SHORT STORIES"
by Greg Farnum




MANDIARGUE'S GREAT THEATER
SKIRMISH





"MANDIARGUE'S GREAT THEATER"

In the silence of the long  afternoon, the boy picked up the
dusty book, opened it and read...  Many years  ago,  at  the
conclusion  of  the  season, the Great Khan ordered that the
triumphs of that season be preserved for posterity, and that
a display be created  which  would let future centuries know
the high standard which the drama of his age  had  attained.
As  a  consequence, the actors and actresses were strangled,
then disemboweled and mummified and stuffed inside their wax
effigies.
  
Now these coldly elegant  personages perform in their static
way for several weeks each year.  Eventually,  however,  the
roof  above  the  stage collapsed and for some reason it has
never been repaired.  The season, of course, extends through
the fall to early winter,  so  when  the curtain goes up the
audience is, likely as not, greeted with  a  blast  of  cold
air,  or,  on  evenings  when wind and rain join together, a
cold mist or  spray  that  intermittently  advances from the
stage like the patrols  or  probing  attacks  of  a  forward
thrusting  army.   Most  dramatic  are those evenings at the
tail end of the  season  when  the  troupe presents the most
famous works in its repertoire and flecks of snow drift from
the stage outward, flying, hovering, then alighting  on  the
heads  and  coats of the audience.  The audience, of course,
all wear coats --  heavy  coats  late in the season, lighter
coats in the early weeks.  As the play proceeds  they  begin
to  fidget,  or hug and pat themselves to keep warm, but few
leave before the end.

There has been some talk that  the seasons are not what they
used to be, that the overall quality of the performances has
declined.  Some  of  these  critics  point  to  the  curious
reluctance  of  the  Masters  to  renovate  or  replace  the
costumes, the backdrops, and the props.  Wind, rain and snow
have  taken  their toll on all of these.  Though the Masters
are assiduous  in  assisting  the  players  to  their proper
places before the curtain goes up  --  they  never  fail  to
guide the performers to the exact spot which long experience
has  determined  to best mime or approximate the full action
of that particular play --  they ignore the merely technical
or non-human aspects of  the  performance.   One  school  of
thought,  by  turns  viewed  as  bafflingly  avant  garde or
hopelessly reactionary, commends  this  state  of affairs; a
contending school condemns  it;  most  take  no  notice  and
express   few  opinions  on  the  subject  apart  from  some
scattershot and  partially  formed  preferences  for colored
spotlights,  recorded  music,  more   attractively   printed
programs,   popcorn,   and   perhaps  drinks  served  during
intermission on the English model.

None of these things  have  come  to  pass,  for the mass of
people have preferences without passion, and anyway a  whole
new  set  of traditions has arisen to rectify these supposed
defects.   For  instance,  an  amazing  profusion  of street
vendors are to  be  found  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Great
Theater,  and  the  illicit  consumption  of  alcohol during
performances  has  evolved  its  own  peculiar  etiquette, a
supple  code  which  changes  as  to  drink  and  means   of
consumption (flask, plastic bag, straw extending from hidden
bottle)  according  to  the play being performed.  Of course
these responses and customs  have  evolved slowly; the plays
themselves evolve more slowly still...

He heard his mother calling and looked up from the  book  to
see  the  long shadows slanting across the yard.  Above them
the pale moon,  balanced  on  the  lip  of  the horizon, was
putting an early end to the day.  He put the book  down  and
walked  toward  the  attic door, brushing the old clothes on
their hooks and hangers as he went.
 


"SKIRMISH"

He could hear the old woman  talking in the next house while
he ate a bowl of soup and shared a bottle of beer  with  the
corporal.  He'd been with the corporal for two weeks now.

Two  days  ago he had seen his first action.  They were with
some local men...just sitting...when  about ten of the enemy
came walking down the road.  They opened up,  then  got  out
before  the enemy could return any effective fire.  They got
one.  At least that's  what  everybody  said.  He didn't see
it, but the corporal and some of  the  local  men  said  the
first few shots brought the enemy's point man down.  He went
down  grabbing  his  leg,  they  said,  and crawled into the
bushes.  The fact that  shots  had  been exchanged -- a real
fight -- made him feel like  a  legendary  warrior  of  old.
Sort of.

The corporal was pretty casual about the whole thing, having
survived  a  lot of fights.  That made him feel better, more
confident,  knowing  the   corporal   had  never  even  been
seriously wounded.  A little better.  A lot of the men  with
the corporal hadn't made it.

He'd  just  borrowed  a  cigarette  when the rumbling became
audible.

"APCs," said the corporal.  "They  come by here two or three
times a week about this time.  Don't worry, they never stop.
The bastards are  afraid  to  stop."  He  did  some  serious
smoking  in  the  darkening  room as the sound of the tracks
grew louder.  And  then  they  stopped.   That quiet was the
loudest sound he'd ever heard.  For  a  moment.   Until  the
whole  sky  broke  loose.   The  tracks' .30 caliber and .50
caliber machine guns opened up in concert.  He threw himself
into  one  of  the   shelters...the  holes...in  the  floor.
Plaster and dirt rained on his face and through closed  eyes
he  seemed  to  see the small house being ripped apart.  The
sound of breaking glass  and pottery...louder, almost -- and
more frightening -- than the sound of the guns.  A whiff  of
smoke.   Something  was  on  fire.   He  prayed  they'd stop
shooting and come  and  take  him  prisoner.  Even if they'd
just ease up a bit he could get out of the hole and  try  to
surrender.

And then it was over.  They'd stopped.  He laid in the hole,
his eyes shut tight, waiting for them to come and get him.

Nobody  came.   He  could  hear  them,  but nobody came.  He
opened his eyes,  raised  himself,  and  looked around.  The
corporal looked like he'd been dead for a week.   The  smoke
was  coming  from  the  next  house over.  Across the field,
distant laughter.

His rifle was lying on the  floor,  the stock chewed up by a
bullet, but otherwise OK.   He  crawled  out  of  the  hole,
grabbed his rifle, and made his way across the floor towards
the back door.  A thought struck him.  He turned and crawled
back  to  the  corporal.   Careful not to touch the body, he
went through the dead man's  pockets.  He stopped again when
he reached the back gate.   It  had  been  knocked  down  by
bullets.   He  lay  there on the damp dirt of the back yard,
staring up  at  the  space  where  the  gate  had  been, the
splintered gate  post  flickering  in  the  light  from  the
burning  house.   Behind him, the still cheerful voices, and
an occasional random shot.

He got up  and  walked  through  the  gate, across the small
garden, and into the forest.   After  a  couple  minutes  he
stopped.   He  could  no  longer  hear  voices or see fires.
Leaning his rifle  against  a  tree  he searched through his
pockets.  He found the corporal's lighter and a nearly  full
pack  of  cigarettes.   He lit one, picked up the rifle, and
walked on.