The New Death and others Read Free

blunt, simple,
direct. He epitomized the contrast between his people and theirs in
actions as simple as eating. He could not walk the street without
any number of exotic concatenations of oils, spices and flavors
beckoning to him. He disdained them all, choosing the hearty,
simple and satisfying food of his birth.
    Even his appearance, his very clothing,
marked him as obviously local. Yet many of the foreigners wore the
same as anyone else, almost like a disguise, so that one might not
notice until they passed close. And, he thought, if a foreigner
might be mistaken for one of us...could one of us be mistaken for a
foreigner?
    It was a strange thought. Yet once thought,
it could not be un-thought. His beard, for example. What could be
less foreign than that beard? It recalled the wizards of
mythology--or, more historically, the pioneers and woodsmen who had
carved this land from the wilderness. Yet the foreigners, too,
often wore long beards. It was like one of those disturbing
pictures which was a candle-stick one moment and a pair of faces
the next. In certain lights, from certain angles, a foreign face
seemed to look out from behind his own. It was sometimes hidden and
sometimes seen, like a gang lurking in the shadows of a church.
    He shaved off his beard. There was no
question of keeping his mustache. A man with a mustache and no
beard appears sleazy, untrustworthy; an oily carpet-seller, or
something worse. A smooth, clean, wholesome face presented itself
in the mirror. A face that, metaphorically and literally, kept
nothing hidden.
    He had a vague idea that their religion
forbade cutting the hair, or cutting certain parts of it. He hardly
had long hair, not by today's standards. Yet if one was dressed for
winter, so that only a small amount of hair was visible, could a
mistake be made? He could not be sure that it would. Yet he could
not be sure that it would not. It was better to be safe than sorry.
This simple saying, he thought, had a deep wisdom. Not exotic, not
alluring--and therefore ignored by most--but good and true.
    He looked at his new haircut with
satisfaction. It gave him a certain military air. And indeed he was
taking part in a kind of war, though one where homeland and enemy
territory were not distinct, but horribly mixed. Or perhaps he
could be compared to a monk, head freshly-shaved as a sign of his
vocation. A monk, or a priest...
    Like one who wanders familiar paths,
unheeding of the way, and suddenly looks up to find themselves
lost, his thoughts led him from light to darkness. The thought of
priests reminded him of the shaven-headed priests of ancient Egypt;
tall, bald, wicked and hook-nosed. And with a shock, he realised
that he too could be described as hook-nosed. He could not believe
his eyes. He turned before the mirror, first one way and then the
other. He even raised his hands to his face and felt it, as if it
would prove to be false, as if it would come off like one of those
combinations of false nose and glasses that are sold in novelty
shops. Too blind to see the nose in front of his face. Another
commonplace saying with a profound truth.
    He went out, and returned with a new knife.
The pain was unbearable, and he had to use whiskey to numb himself,
as well as maintain his courage. At last the part in question was
removed. It did not bleed nearly as much as he had imagined.
    "There," he said. He raised a wisp of cotton
wool to the wound. But his hand did not complete the movement. It
hung in the air, as if he no longer commanded it, as he stared at
his fingers. His long, slim, covetous fingers.
     
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    The End
     
    "OK, that was a pretty scary story, but I
think I've got a better one." Rob paused to pop a roasted
marshmallow in his mouth. He stood up. In the flames of the
campfire his eyes seemed to glow, like those of a wolf in the
night.
    "Once upon a time, not so long ago, a group
of friends went out camping. There were five young men and
women...but did