scott macleod
GOGGLTHA
The Censurion had a sudden urge to get up and put the prisoners under the stream of water until they were numb. But he knew that even that would not help.
Having led the prisoners out of legitimate nineteenth century political or military experience, the Censurion took a whip from the hands of a legionary standing by the government and continued to give high quite accurate gentle swings that struck the prisoners across the shoulders.
The Censurion’s was slight, almost negligent, after foreign adventures, but the bound men collapsed instantly as though expertise in arms was unnecessary.
The colour fled from the arcade into the garden, the plinth of a bronze statue clouded into the air as lightly as an empty sack on rubber wheels.
The exhausted Doctor muttered in a sleepy voice but without malice: Wird Mofas auch mit Bundesaussenminister Dafuer seien offene Gespraeche.
All right, then . . . but you'll pay for it ... I warned you, but if you want to lift the fallen men, set them on their feet and replace their spectacles, grasping whatever came to hand, do you understand I must hit them again?
The Doctor gasped for air, his face and his eyes started running down hill. With only his left hand he answered wearily in broken, nasal Aramaic: Oh yes, put them by themselves and with someone to watch them, strike suddenly and with such force that they slither and fall on the muddy soil as they hurry to reach the main road; what interests me most now is overstimulation of the motor nerves and speech centres. Anything else is just on its way back to Jerusalem. And with that, he closed his eyes.
The Censurion was furrowing the black sky. Brandishing his stolen knife, leaping over the slippery rocks, he pushed off down the corridor, gave his instructions and then the Doctor shuddered again as the doors closed after him.
Moving fast, now scarcely visible in a veil of water, the rain-soaked prisoners were already opened without a sound, rolling on their helmets as they went. Beyond them stretched a corridor lit by a row of blue night-bulbs.
A pair of white Doctors out of white doors. Sleeping Vanya was lifted on to a couch in the corridor.
After this the Censurion gestured to the Doctor and turned to walk down the hill with the delighted soldiers buckling. It was now twilight and lightning.
The troops and the hooded men, repeated at the other two gallows.
Doctor, asked the Censurion in a whisper, is he really ill? Is he really the only man left on the hill in the smoking cauldron?
Dead, replied the doctor. A mist has covered Jerusalem.
You don't say was drowned in thunder.
Don't beat me.
I understand you: caught halfway down the hill. Stand to attention.
The Doctor staggered helplessly, his colour returned, he gulped and answered hoarsely: what's the matter with us? At times wind, water and fire. A few minutes of shaken turbulent streams, then death the downpour, the rain falling catching them up as we run.
Then?
The Censurion had a sudden urge to get up and put the prisoners under the stream of water until they were numb. But he knew that even that would not help.
Having led the prisoners out of legitimate nineteenth century political or military experience, the Censurion took a whip from the hands of a legionary standing by the government and continued to give high quite accurate gentle swings that struck the prisoners across the shoulders.
The Censurion’s was slight, almost negligent, after foreign adventures, but the bound men collapsed instantly as though expertise in arms was unnecessary.
The colour fled from the arcade into the garden, the plinth of a bronze statue clouded into the air as lightly as an empty sack on rubber wheels.
The exhausted Doctor muttered in a sleepy voice but without malice: Wird Mofas auch mit Bundesaussenminister Dafuer seien offene Gespraeche.
All right, then . . . but you'll pay for it ... I warned you, but if you want to lift the fallen men, set them on their feet and replace their spectacles, grasping whatever came to hand, do you understand I must hit them again?
The Doctor gasped for air, his face and his eyes started running down hill. With only his left hand he answered wearily in broken, nasal Aramaic: Oh yes, put them by themselves and with someone to watch them, strike suddenly and with such force that they slither and fall on the muddy soil as they hurry to reach the main road; what interests me most now is overstimulation of the motor nerves and speech centres. Anything else is just on its way back to Jerusalem. And with that, he closed his eyes.
The Censurion was furrowing the black sky. Brandishing his stolen knife, leaping over the slippery rocks, he pushed off down the corridor, gave his instructions and then the Doctor shuddered again as the doors closed after him.
Moving fast, now scarcely visible in a veil of water, the rain-soaked prisoners were already opened without a sound, rolling on their helmets as they went. Beyond them stretched a corridor lit by a row of blue night-bulbs.
A pair of white Doctors out of white doors. Sleeping Vanya was lifted on to a couch in the corridor.
After this the Censurion gestured to the Doctor and turned to walk down the hill with the delighted soldiers buckling. It was now twilight and lightning.
The troops and the hooded men, repeated at the other two gallows.
Doctor, asked the Censurion in a whisper, is he really ill? Is he really the only man left on the hill in the smoking cauldron?
Dead, replied the doctor. A mist has covered Jerusalem.
You don't say was drowned in thunder.
Don't beat me.
I understand you: caught halfway down the hill. Stand to attention.
The Doctor staggered helplessly, his colour returned, he gulped and answered hoarsely: what's the matter with us? At times wind, water and fire. A few minutes of shaken turbulent streams, then death the downpour, the rain falling catching them up as we run.
Then?
posted by jim leftwich at 10:06 PM
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