Bituminous

David Gastil

9/28/2011

rights.

Bituminous

“Shave him,” they say. They do. I am. Rough razors on my chest. My back. My scalp. Hoarse, angry, terrified, I shout.

“The king will...” Fist in my gut. Slap in my face. Hiss in my ear.

“The king! You hear that lads? The king, he says. The king is in merry old England eating chocolates and fucking whores. But us, we're right here.”

I wait for help. I wait for justice. None comes. None but theirs. It's no longer safe in the village square.

“Bring the pitch.” The cauldron is brought – wrought black iron flecked with tar. The contents seethe.

Like a fox at bay, I snarl, bare my teeth, struggle in vain. A fist hits my temple. My vision boils. My arms are wrenched wide. I'm brought to my knees. I start to cry. The cauldron's raised high. I close my eyes and scream. Then the pain.

Hot tar flows down my neck. My back. My chest. It burns all it touches and sticks. It floods my britches. Pools in my boots. The traitors are gone. The square is gone. The village. The colony. The King, Earth, and God. Only the pain remains. Savage and pure. Bright and brutal.

I hear them bring the feathers. I hear them jeer. It is the joy of the vicious. The mirth of the cruel. The Devil is laughing, like a king at his fool.

I am surely a sight. Beaten. Burned. Plumed in white.

The brutes parade me like a wretched freak. The villagers stare or glare or throw stones. No love for the taxman. The king's man to the bones.

I was their neighbor, their fellow, their friend.

They dump me in the woods – kick me a few times for good measure. Then, bored, they seek out fresh pleasure. The tar cools on my skin. The scars remain. As does the pain. 

Eventually my brother comes. He and his wife hoist me up. Bring me home. They scrub me raw with soap and brush. I scream. Once. Twice. Many times. My body is racked with long sobs. Finally I see a mirror. My skin is a map of Hell. Gray-black tar still stains much of my body, but can no longer mask the hideous burns. A blue-green-purple patchwork of bruises covers my face and torso. Elsewhere I am red and puffy like a ripe tomato. My feet got the worst of it. My boots trapped the tar.

The next day, Tuesday, my brother brings a doctor from Boston. He treats my burns. Sets a cracked rib. Amputates two toes. They give me whiskey for the pain. I drink half the bottle in two long swigs. Why shouldn't my insides get a chance to burn? My brother drinks with me. We talk about growing up. Life on the farm. Our parents. How we miss them. Nothing about politics. Or what happened to me. Nothing that would show our shame.

Wednesday I am sober. I remember my duty. My brother tells me my home has been looted. I'm not surprised. Just one more injustice. One more grievance to air. My brother loans me clothes. I want to go out, but am too weak.

Thursday it rains. I sit outside in the downpour. I try to wash the stains from my skin. My brother's wife finds me there, swaying gently as I shiver and gasp. She brings me in. Puts me to bed. She holds me there for a long time. Like a mother cradling a sick child. For the first time I call her sister.

Friday I have a fever. I stay in bed all day. My family brings me thin onion soup and hot cider.

Saturday a rock crashes through the window. They tell me it is not the first. I thought they'd leave my brother alone.

Sunday my fever breaks and I am well enough to accompany my family to church. The young preacher speaks of Christ's power to heal and forgive. Of the folly of revenge. What Christ said when the crowd raised their stones. Cold eyes watch me from the pews. I'm grateful to leave the meetinghouse.

Monday I hire a carriage with my brother's money and ride to Boston. The governor's mansion is picketed by crowds. They block my entrance, shouting taunts and hoisting doomed effigies. Before I can retreat to my carriage, someone recognizes me. Strong hands grab the taxman.

“So what will you be?” they ask. “The king's lackey or a true son of liberty?”

I remember what I said last time. What it cost me. What it must have cost my family. “The King of England can no longer rule this land.” They believe me, of course. It's the truth.