Three Shells sagafic

[jazzfish]

In case you missed it, janni is having a sagafic/sagacraft contest to celebrate the release of her new book. I took a look at it last week, and one of the prompts just kind of grabbed me.

(975 words. Prompt: "Three shells in return for my poem." Comments welcome.)

Three Shells

Since the collapse of the revolution, poetry readings have become a risky business. New works, even those not critical of the Counter-revolution, have been forbidden for some weeks now. Konstantin Kalariov and his revolutionaries had been quick to harness the power of words and images along with their rifles and grenades. Those who oppose the revolution also oppose its methods, or claim to. Perhaps they do not fully comprehend this power. More likely they lack wordsmiths of sufficient skill and gift.

Whatever their motive, the Counter-revolutionaries have banned all such forms of expression. The only stories allowed are the old ones, and the only poems the ancient sagas. Artistry and composition, according to the charter of the Counter-revolution, are incitement to riot. A live performance is no less than an act of war; those who attend such a performance are collaborators at best. More likely, audience and speaker alike would be treated as enemy combatants in an ongoing conflict.

So we had gone to no great lengths to advertise my reading, put up no signs for the Counter-revolutionaries to discover. And yet, somehow, the people heard, and whispered, and waited eagerly. Finally, late one afternoon, a crowd of several hundred gathered in the amphitheatre outside the town of Malbork. The autumn sun cast a reddish tint over the stage's columns as I took my place in the center and began to speak.
My voice rolled through my poem's cadences. I spoke of the ancient blood-feud between Niall and Hoskald, of insults avenged and injuries repaid. I never mentioned Kalariov or the Counter-revolution by name; such blatant propaganda would be crass, and far from artistic. Still, by its very nature the story echoed certain current and recent events. Hoskald's constant appeals to the Council offer clear parallels with the Counter-revolutionaries' attacks on Kalariov through the seeming legitimacy of the State. Parallels that I, unworthy poet though I am, can use to great effect in my art. From their murmuring and responses, I could see that my audience agreed.

I had just reached my depiction of Hoskald's well-deserved murder by Niall's children when the first shell was loosed. I had paused for breath, and a long shrill whistle cut through the air, followed immediately by a louder thunderclap than I have ever heard. The ground shook beneath my feet. A lazy plume of smoke billowed at the edge of the crowd, above the wounded and the dead. Cries went up from the crowd. Some fled; some froze in place; and some watched the stage, waiting.

The artillery piece held its place, its silhouette ominous against the afternoon sky. The soldiers responsible for the cannon seemed to be arguing among themselves. At least, there was no immediate scurry to reload. I brushed the dust from my sleeves and continued from the point at which I had been interrupted.

The noise and confusion quieted as I continued my tale. I spoke of the aftermath of the murder, painting Niall's children as the honorable sons of an honorable father, and Hoskald's family's plots for vengeance as far outside the bounds of the acceptable. The townsfolk, starved for entertainment and art these last weeks, hung on my every word, their passions rising.

All the old vengeance sagas come down to one of two endings. Either the lust for revenge destroys both sides, and often their households as well; or all involved learn the way of righteousness and forgiveness, and all is mended. The better sagas employ both possibilities, showing a scant handful of survivors making their peace with each other.

None of these suited my poem, or my purposes. But then, such resolution is anathema to revolution. I fully expected the Counter-revolutionaries would keep me from having to provide any such resolution. Indeed, I was counting on it.

I was not disappointed. As my verses told the rising crowd of the Hoskaldsons' scheme to torch Niall's house, with his family trapped inside, the gunnery crew fired again. The shell arced overhead and landed somewhere behind the stage. They had overcorrected, and adjusted their aim too far.

Perhaps the Counter-revolutionaries were right to decree as they did. In their own eyes, certainly, they were justified. Kalariov had attracted many followers with his tales of how the world might have been. Always those tales carried a deeper message: it might yet be that way, if only the hearer dared make it so. I and others who come after Kalariov tell different, darker, tales. But then, our situation is more dire than his ever was.

The soldiers could work quickly when they chose. A third shell followed the second before I had the opportunity to speak more than a line or two on the burning house of Niall. This one exploded at the rear of the stage, between two columns. The blast flung me to the ground. I had neither breath nor time to scream before one of the columns crashed atop me, shattering my hip.

What pain there was seemed far away. My legs would not move. I pushed myself up with my arms, to look up and out at my audience. Through the smoke, I could see those who remained-- most of them-- waited, watching, nervous and expectant.

"Three--" my voice caught. I inhaled deeply and tried again. "The Counter-revolution sends three shells in return for my poem. A simple enough thing, a creation, a performance. And they respond beyond all proportion, beyond reason, beyond custom. Are you prepared to be burned alive in your houses? Or will you strike now, while they still plot and scheme?" I had said all I was able. My arms gave out and I collapsed to the stage.

The crowd roared. Goaded into action by my words, they charged the emplaced cannon before a fourth shell could be loaded, and tore the gunners to bits.