Mjolnir

A story of an uncle passing a wisdom no longer applicable, of times when the unexplained ran amok.

“When I was young we lived in a farm out on the outskirts of town. We rented the land from a Spaniard. He was a very good landlord, and often left us to our own devices, without interference, as long as we paid his rent on time. However, he had one very strange condition contingent upon our growing on his land. You see, nephew, Don Rodrigo�"as he was wont to be called�"had a bull and we had to keep and care for it. Many of us figured their relationship not of this earth. Many nights, when my rambunctiousness coupled with a childhood need to mess around our land late at night would rouse me from bed, I would wander the farm at night and see them, nephew. I would stand still and analyze this man, this powerful man, speaking to this beast. He would spend hours sitting beside his bull and, as if addressing an old friend, ask for advice. The bull would lower its head as if intently listening and remain still and silent, but never quite stoic. I quickly grew to believe that the bull was the source of his success, for no man would be as competent in so many things as Rodrigo was. “

“Let me tell you nephew I was engrossed with this mysterious relationship. My imagination would run wild with thoughts of this magical animal living in such proximity. I fancied its making celestial; its horns were, to me, wondrous harbingers of myth, lore, and the fantastical. I would dream of being beckoned by it, so that it may address my wishes, or find myself riding it to a land unattainable otherwise. Yes sir, this bull became both the cause and subject of many fantastical dreams and nightmares.” My uncle grew silent, and his face, tout. He leaned back in his chair and contemplated. His features marked in bronze by our Caribbean sun, he looked like a god discerning the consequence of his own creation; the thoughts seemed to tug at his very soul and after a deep breath he spoke thusly, “Like a typical specimen of the human condition my wonder at the prowess and mysterious nature of this beast was precarious, easily transmutable to either love or hate. And it did. You see, Don Rodrigo was a Trujillista right after the constitutional revolution. In these days asserting that one was such a thing was tantamount to writing one’s own death sentence, but it just so happened that Don Rodrigo was also of the older generation. This generation was one of men who regularly experienced and caused death, and, fittingly, Don Rodrigo carried his old rifle with him everywhere. So, as quickly as he was with gaining enemies he was even quicker at putting them down and was infamous for doing so. You have to remember that in those days killing people was not that big a deal. It was like the wild west in the United States, where you gringos are from, nephew.” He laughed at me a bit mockingly; I knew he liked reminding that regardless of how hard I tried to own the Dominican heritage of my parents I was born elsewhere, and that was what I was; “One day, a misinformed youth�"whose hunger overtook his mind�"came to our lands. Someone has mistakenly advised him that Don Rodrigo lived with us. He was both aware of Don Rodrigo’s affiliations and reputation, so he barged into our tranquility with a propitious thump of his boots as he dismounted his emaciated horse and a thunderous statement: he would bring death to all the damned souls on this property for believing in and housing a man that holds close ties with a regime that had taken two of his brothers, his mother, and his cousin. Every time I think of this boy I cannot help but think of how some of us run our course in this world and never learn that washing one’s hands with blood does not clean them. Hmm. Anyways, my father quickly ascertained the boy’s intent and ordered my mother and I to run to the back of the house and, lacking any real sort of weaponry, grabbed for his machete and rosary. He stepped outside and my mother went limp, the fearing having gripped her soul tightly against worldly ties, but I remember so alive. I wanted to see. I had to see. So I escaped my mother’s fragile grasp over me and ran to the front porch. My father had rushed to meet the youth and they stood facing one another. The young man appeared weary, a type of weariness akin to what I imagine Prometheus felt after conceding that, everyday for the rest of his immortal life, he would have something continually taken from him. I am old, and I do distinctly recall the youth crying for the blood of those who would repeat the past, naming my father among them. He readied his rifle amidst his own shouts my father grew tout. He quickly yelled, ‘tend to your mother!’ without taking his eyes off the youth even for a second; that was the first time I ever knew fear and its symptoms. I wanted to run as I saw the man ready his rifle. I wanted to wish him away, to intercept the bullet, but instead I closed my eyes. In that deep blackness instilled my own cowardice I heard a loud, visceral thump, a cry of agony, and heavy breathing. I opened my eyes to a sight too fantastical to have been a conjuration of my limited, young mind. Dear nephew, would you believe me if I told you that I opened my eyes to see the bull towering over the youth it had just finished skewering? Because this is true. Not only that, but I tell you the bull looked victorious in his glory; and then he looked towards my father. My father was not a fearful man, nephew, for he had invested all his fear in God long before my birth, during the revolution when men died almost as regularly as they did randomly, but this man of few fears dropped his machete and crawled backward both in fear and awe. Suddenly, the bull began circling my father as my father held out his hand, waving for me to run inside. The bull grew tense and, as he readied his body to lung, a voice gathered his attention. It was Don Rodrigo, nephew. At the sound of his voice the bull stood in full attention. The youth, barely living, was tended to by my father and Don Rodrigo tended to his bull.” I asked my uncle what Don Rodrigo had shouted, “he said, ‘Archimedes, este ya es el mundo de los cobardes.”

“See, nephew, this story has a purpose, for after this event my life turned into a sort of shadow cast by the influence of Don Rodrigo and his bull. My father was in his debt and, as the Don prepared his political ambitions, he was sought out to come under Don Rodrigo’s services more and more. I moved to tending the land… and the bull. And this story is about the bull, nephew. The beast had grown violent, and, as Don Rodrigo’s visits became scant, he had also grown feral. The bull would refuse to eat and kick up dirt, making holes that I had to close up. He would often break through his pen and run amok our sugarcane fields like how I imagine the mighty hammer mjolnir goes through the resistance of its master’s foes. When the campaign cars would pass by he would bellow in agony and anger, as if siphoning all evil. My days were consumed by the ravings of this damned bull. This great beast, this once mythical, beast became a common nuisance in my life. Since Don Rodrigo had long forgotten him�"no longer entertaining their nightly counsels�"I had resolved to rend this nuisance from my life. “

“One night, I feigned sleep and lay in bed with my boots on. When I was certain that I was the only creature astir in the night, I crawled out of bed and made my way to the bull. His bellowing and constant agitation had infiltrated my thoughts and my mind. I heard his damned bellowing while working the fields, during my showers, as went to church, in my prayers in place of God, this demon of bovine origins haunted the life I once called mine made, by extension, his. Understand dear nephew, please understand. I could not function and so, shirtless and with the would-be-killer-youth’s long forgotten rifle I made my way to the beast, so eager was I to end my daily torment! I stepped outside, slipped, and arose a sullied being of vengeance. The earlier rains had made the fertile Caribbean soil mud and I had bathed in it. The soil was made so soft as to cave under my weight. I reached the bullpen,” My uncle rose, acting out the motions and emotions of his story, “there he was. I reached the bullpen and there he stood, his eyes gazing right at me, dispelling my resolve, but I gripped the youth’s rifle tighter and envisioned a courage I could emulate, but feared I did not possess. As I prepared to jump into the pen, the bull charged towards me; his horns aimed, surely, at my heart! I jumped out of the way and managed to dodge the horns as he broke through the poorly made wooden pen, but I did not dodge his bulk. He hit me hard and the impact was like the wrath of the thunder god himself. I was lunged and, beside myself, I had dropped the rifle, nephew. I was not courageous. I looked up at this bull and saw the rage of every misaligned revolutionary, a bloodlust without purpose protracted over times by lies and inattention. I shook, nephew, I shook! The door to hell blasts cold nephew, and I was near it! The bull tensed up again and bellowed a great bellow as he galloped towards me. I searched frantically for the rifle in the mud, my eyes never taking their gaze off the demon of horns and soot. It was fear that led me, and it was fear that drove me to grab the rifle, c**k it, and, with no time to aim, shoot the damn thing. The bull was upon me. I pressed the trigger. A bang, and it was over. The bull fell to the side, far from me. My chest was showered in mud and blood as the beast took a moment to fall, but had stopped and allowed the wound to bleed all over me. In my haste I could not aim, but Atropos guided my bullet true, straight through the bull’s throat. I stood over him and his eyes engorged with anger.  He could not bellow, but snorted ferociously as if consciously fighting his inevitable death. He attempted to stand, but the ground gave underfoot and he fell. This happened several times over what seemed like forever. At the time the irony was lost on me for I had killed the bull with the rifle that was meant to eliminate those who would repeat the past.”

“Nephew, I am more careful now. Perhaps I should have done like Don Rodrigo and asked the animal for its wisdom. Yet, fear drove me, and the thought of being deemed unworthy of mythical wisdom frightened me deeply, nephew. We buried him after we had ripped any usable meat, organ, appendage, horn, and layer of skin off of him, much to Don Rodrigo’s indifference. We kept the land and Don Rodrigo went on to become mayor. Later on, I heard he died, shot in the stomach by a young man who kept counsel with a mound of bones on our lands. My mother frequently called him insane, but I knew better. He had been touched by something truly of this Earth.”

 

 

            

Author's Note

Constructive criticism. Anything, even an insult, is welcome if backed by some sort of reasoning.