The Flying Man Trapped in the Mobile Siege Tower
by John Riley
The Flying Man lives in a wooden cage built on top of a mobile siege tower, and is rolled from battle to battle. His job is to watch the suffering inside the walls of surrounded villages and report on the misery's progress to the king's men that gather each night around the siege tower's staked wheels. The king thinks the trapped Flying Man brings his army good fortune and seldom does a day go by that he does not stop his horse to offer the Flying Man his best wishes.
In the midst of a siege, when attacks are mounted during the day, the Flying Man lies coiled inches above the cage floor. At night, he listens to the men around the campfires sing songs of home, lonely songs that make the Flying Man happy he has his own place.
When the burning arrows that sing overhead bury themselves in the cage walls he quenches the flames with buckets of water lifted with strong ropes through a small hole in the cage floor. At night he eats freshly killed meat scorched over camp fires. The soldier who fills his supper basket, a boy too young to shave, includes a slice of hard bread with his meal and sometimes a skein of sharp wine.
The end of a siege is always the same. The villagers behind the surrounded walls begin to keen and to sob and a few days later he hears the gravediggers' shovels scrape earth and rock hour after hour. After the sieged walls come down, or the village's gates are forced open, and the massacre has ended, the army and the siege tower move on. The Flying Man loves these days of travel, when he can squint between the cage walls and watch swallows and crows and sometimes an eagle float and dip over the treetops while the men and horses steady the tower as it rolls along the dusty roads.
There is always a new battle waiting and new innocents to die but the Flying Man's heart is never divided. Once he flew wherever he wanted but now the Flying Man knows freedom is living in his cage atop the mobile siege tower. He loves his captors, the king and his soldiers that make sure he is fed and offer him gratitude for the good luck he brings. The Flying Man has long forgotten the days he lived outside his cage. Today he lives only for the sweet smell of burning flesh, the exquisite snick of a slicing blade, the taste of boiling siege oil that clings to his tongue.
In the midst of a siege, when attacks are mounted during the day, the Flying Man lies coiled inches above the cage floor. At night, he listens to the men around the campfires sing songs of home, lonely songs that make the Flying Man happy he has his own place.
When the burning arrows that sing overhead bury themselves in the cage walls he quenches the flames with buckets of water lifted with strong ropes through a small hole in the cage floor. At night he eats freshly killed meat scorched over camp fires. The soldier who fills his supper basket, a boy too young to shave, includes a slice of hard bread with his meal and sometimes a skein of sharp wine.
The end of a siege is always the same. The villagers behind the surrounded walls begin to keen and to sob and a few days later he hears the gravediggers' shovels scrape earth and rock hour after hour. After the sieged walls come down, or the village's gates are forced open, and the massacre has ended, the army and the siege tower move on. The Flying Man loves these days of travel, when he can squint between the cage walls and watch swallows and crows and sometimes an eagle float and dip over the treetops while the men and horses steady the tower as it rolls along the dusty roads.
There is always a new battle waiting and new innocents to die but the Flying Man's heart is never divided. Once he flew wherever he wanted but now the Flying Man knows freedom is living in his cage atop the mobile siege tower. He loves his captors, the king and his soldiers that make sure he is fed and offer him gratitude for the good luck he brings. The Flying Man has long forgotten the days he lived outside his cage. Today he lives only for the sweet smell of burning flesh, the exquisite snick of a slicing blade, the taste of boiling siege oil that clings to his tongue.
|
13
favs |
1346 views
20 comments |
438 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Unpublished and has been on my jump drive for a long time.
Other stories by John Riley
Tags
This story has no tags.
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
That last line. * Great writing.
Reads like a reverse of Ursula LeGuin's "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas".*
Amanda, I to thought of that story. John, love this one. It's a message and yet it's a story. One of mankind.
Spellbinding. Echoes of Calvino, to this reader- but, overall, unmistakably Riley.*
Kafka-like but with vast improvements and poem-quality compression. A marvel.
Seems like fabulous day at Fictionaut. This is terrific and nicely seasoned.*
That's some great writing, John.
Beautiful writing. That final sentence. Good stuff. *
Good John... reminiscent of Ilse Aichinger... i.e. The Bound Man
*
I can't think of anything it's reminiscent of (to me). It left me agape and trying to thing of an appropriate analogy. All that came to mind was something about there being known knowns and known unknowns, etc. And that made me nauseous. *
Thanks everyone for the nice comments. I've been a bit under the weather and have fallen behind on expressing my gratitude. I am full of it though.
Lovely prose and concept.*
Thanks, Gary
Allegory floats my boat.
Totally agree with JLD!
Thanks, Bill
Echo on Gary H's improvement over Kafka, but I'm there with about Mathew about it not making me recall anything else. In my whackadoodle mind, it reads like an extended metaphor for The Cloud or the NSA. We feed it and feed it, and it just keeps watching everything all over the place.
Excellent.*
Thanks, guys
*This is excellent and horrible and beautifully written and unutterably sad and fabulous and believable.