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Jung and Sue (Prologue omitted)
Private Jung thought, “stupid sergeants” and then muttered, “Stupid Officers.”
His stoic partner in misery, Private Mulvaney, grunted in sympathy, “Aye.”
“Well, the king pays us by the day; night soon.” Mulvaney nodded. “But—blast it—I was supposed to start my leave today!”
The two were standing at the wall of the officer’s mess, ready to go forward with a jug of wine to refill as needed. The officers, at their tables set in a horseshoe, were happy, pleasantly buzzed, halfway through their evening. Their dinning room allowed them as much floor space as the mess room of all the troops combined, and was much more fancy. Such was the natural way of the world, in this kingdom, on this planet, generations after the Crash.
“Everybody knows, that Sergeant Skoder doesn’t seem to like me.” (Aye) I was supposed to be at a flophouse by now, with nothing to do but drink.” Mulvaney grimaced in sympathy. What Jung didn’t say was that he intended to spend his mornings, or more, not-so-tired, making sketches and drawings.
“Oi! What’s this?” ‘This’ was a scullery girl, complete with dark blue apron, being brought out by a young Lieutenant, resplendent in his formal mess braid, to stand in front of the horseshoe. Jung thought, “Oi! I remember her!” Was she to sing? No, to recite. And she launched in into a lengthy poem about about a young officer, homesick, prostrate after battle, and the maiden who waits. The girl seemed tall for her age, about ten years old, long legged, hair cheaply cut, and she seemed to Jung to be vulnerable, holding fast to her apron so that her hands wouldn’t fidget. The officers were still, listening, and Jung moved forward to fill glasses. When he could glance at her she looked reposed, but he knew her knuckles were white. The officers would sharply tap the table to say “thank you” to Jung when he poured.
Back at the wall, it was Mulvaney who spoke first, “Nice kid,” and Jung who grunted. …When the poem ended, one of the officers had to tell the child to hold up her apron, and to walk into the horse shoe, so the men, most of them childless, could toss coins into her apron.
It was the custom for the officers to retire to the billiard room, there to socialize across ranks, in small groups, along with a few notable civilians, present by invitation. As the evening drew on, officers would migrate into smaller rooms and alcoves. It was a civilian who ended up alone at a tiny table in an anteroom to the kitchen. Sitting at the same table was the girl. As Jung was passing through, his duties over for the night, the girl threw Jung a frightened glance, saying, “Excuse me.”
Jung tarried. “Hello.”
“This man just sat down here, I think he’s sick.”
“Let’s see what we can do. I won’t turn a sick man away.” Sue looked relieved, still frightened. Jung leaned forward with his fists on the little table, saying, “Mister, how are you doing?” Silence. Looking at Sue Jung said, “See the red eyes? That could be—wait.” Jung took a half step to peer at the man’s hands. “His fingers are twitching. Ya, he’s either using an expensive rare drug, or—something else.”
“You can tell?”
“Ya, the local witch doctors used it, on the frontier. Hey! Can you hear me?” The eyes seemed to glimmer, the brow furrowed as if trying to talk. To Sue, Jung said, “You can go, if you like. I’ve got this.”
Sue tightened her mouth. “No, not if you might need help.”
“I might, for this drug—“
“Hur! Harg!” The man seemed to be gathering himself. “I’ve been poisoned!”
(to be continued)
… …
Gentle reader: The good news is that Jung and Sue won’t be blamed for the poisoning. The bad news is that something far worse is in store for them.
…
…
Sean Crawford
in a room with a view
of the garbage shed
September 2021
Blog Notes: “Essay” is from the French for “attempt” Here’s my first attempt at posting fiction.
