The Duff Man
Nov 14, 2005, 07:28 PM
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
It never stops. It gets in my head. My temples throb, the sound echos through the streets. It is joined by wails of despair, high pitched screams and cries, and the occasional crash as a weakened building or section of wall finally succumbs to the bombardment. It is a macabre symphony, but we are powerless to stop it. And so we wait….
Fear grips the city. We are no match for their might. We are builders. We are farmers. We are not warriors. But now is the time for war. Mansu Musa has sent a representative to talk to Homer, to barter for peace. But the Incans are not a peaceful civilization. History has taught us that their empire was built at the end of a bloody sword. The Romans have fallen. The Germans have fallen. They have captured Gao and Awdaghost. We are next….If we could reach Queen Marge or Princess Lisa their compassionate voices could sway Homer’s hand, but it may be too late. The light of hope is fading in Timbuktu.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Are the catapults still booming? It is hard to tell sometimes. I sit and wait and wonder if they are still firing. Or have my senses deceived me and I am only hearing the throbbing reverberating in my head. A look at the faces of my comrades gives me my answer.
I used to be a farmer. I worked the fields. My crops came to Timbuktu to feed the people. They sent me luxuries and gold in return. It was a good life, a quiet life. There was no booming, no despair, no fear. My goal was to establish my farm so I could take a wife and raise a family. These things seem like dreams now. I have not seen my farm in months, the Incans have overrun it, I do not know if I will ever see it again. Now my crops feed their warriors. It was a good dream, but dreams fade to reality.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
My fellow farmers and I fled to the city. We pleaded to Mansu Musa. Where were our troops? How could we not have been prepared for this day? We should have been prepared. The scriptures told us that their ancestors killed our ancestors a millenia ago. They told that the cities of Djienne, Walata and Niani once belonged to the Malinese empire, but that they were ripped from us. It was a bloody conflict, but it was so long ago. Since then we had been at peace, our nations traded, and things were good. We knew that the Inca were a violent nation, but we were content to allow them to battle the Germans. Rather than rise against their oppression we did nothing. Now the Germans are dead, and we are next.
We have asked the Americans and the Indians for their aid, but they have ignored our pleas. They are scared. They are afraid to invoke the wrath of Bart the Destroyer, most cruel and vengeful of the Incan Generals. Do they not see that when we are vanquished the Inca will turn on them? I can’t blame their ignorance, for we shared it. We ignored Frederick’s pleas when General Bart was at the gates of Berlin. It may be that Incans at the gates of Washington will make Roosevelt feel differently but by that time our once proud nation will be nothing but a memory.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The Incan host marched swiftly. Their knights moved into our land. It was all we could do to make it back to the city. I can see them camped beyond our walls. The sun gleams off their armor. Their ranks seem endless. There are so many. I do not know if I will have the courage to stand my ground when they come.
We have discovered a new technology, a weapon called a musket. We hastily line up in the square, the barest of instructions are given. Point. Aim. Shoot. Reload. The weapon feels foreign in my hands. It is not a plow, it is not a hoe, these things I know. The hunters among us have some experience in this matter, but even to them the action is awkward. I can see the Incans have muskets. I can see them march beyond our walls. They are not inexperienced. They are not farmers. They are warriors. They know how to fight, and they know how to win. I do not want to die.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
I see the faces of my comrades. I see despair, I see fear. I see no hope. One is too young. He was a fisherman before the siege began. The days were spent on the bay, with the wind in his face and the world before him. Now we sit huddled against a wall. It is a cold wet night. His hands grip his musket, he looks so white he could be a ghost. I know he is not, for no ghost would bear this torment. A ghost would flee this place, but no relief for us, our earthly shell prevents such escape.
He talks of deserting, and there are many that listen. The Inca are not barbarians. When the war is over, life will return to normal. We will farm, we will fish, we will live. What care does a simple farmer have for the colour of the flag flying overhead? There are fights among the ranks, the true soldiers among us claiming this the talk of cowards. When daybreak comes, the fisherman is not at his post.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Timbuktu was a beautiful city once. Perched on Do’Urdun Bay, at the mouth of the Wulfgar River to the East and the Catta-brie River to the West it was an ideal spot to build an empire. In 620 AD the Pyramids were built, and the city became a cultural beacon, shining brightly with glory. In 1565 we completed the Taj Mahal, and it was a Golden Age for our civilization. My father worked on the palace. I can remember him returning home every night with dirt, and sweat and sometimes blood on his face, but I also remember his pride in the work, and the celebration that ensued when the work was completed. Little did we know that as we celebrated in the capital, the Incan host was marching on Gao to our East and Awdaghost to our West.
Yes, there was glory once for our nation, but that was the past. The future for the Malinese is dark. The Taj Mahal outside the city is in the hands of the Inca now, it serves as base camp for their commanders. The thought sickens my stomach and I am glad my father is not alive to see it.
There is talk that Mansu Musa will flee the city. Moving up the coast to our last stronghold of Kumbi Saleli he hopes to establish an alliance with the nearby Americans and Indians before we are overrun. Shouts ring out from beyond the wall, followed quickly by the shrill cries of a horn and the unmistakable sounds of battle. I race for a view, in time to see a small contingent of horse archers beyond the Catta-brie River, punching a hole through the ranks of knights.
The ping of their arrows against shields and armor is distinct even from this distance. Some find their mark, but far too many are turned away. The responding sword strikes of the knights is less audible, but much more devastating. I try not to think about the fact that I can’t hear the blows because they are finding flesh. The cries of the fallen deny such innocence. There is no place for innocence in times of war.
Despite the carnage I see a small ring of riders break through, and I know that Mansu Musa is amongst them. The Malinese will not face their end in Timbuktu, no horse that the Inca possess will catch him and their forces are concentrated around the city. Cheers ring out from the battlement, but they are short lived as the last of our archers fall to the crush of steel around them.
BOOM. BOOM.
The booming stops. I thought this was what I wanted, but the ominous silence is far more terrifying than I thought possible. The eerie quiet drags on for what seems like hours and is at last broken by cries of “TAKE COVER” from the battlement, a split second before a shrill howling noise reaches my ears. Before I have time to ponder the source a fiery missile torches the sky overhead, slamming into the Grand Theatre, which had been commandeered as a barracks for our newly trained troops. The blazing ball strikes the Theatre with devastating effect, and the once beautiful building which had served to entertain our people for centuries is half reduced to rubble. Some of our troops were still stationed inside, and I know that for these souls the battle is already over. I have never seen such a missile, terror grips my heart as I imagine what dark beast the Inca command that can summon such a thing from it’s belly.
Confusion and fear run rampant, but our commanders work quickly up and down our ranks to quell it. It is no beast of terror, but a man-made missile full of flaming gunpowder that the Inca have hurled. Soon enough more balls of death fill the sky, raining down upon the city, surgically targeting the known locations where our troops are stationed. Before a single arrow is shot, or sword blow is struck, the Inca have dealt us a hefty blow. The damage is not dealt without cost. The catapults had to move in close range of the city to fire such missiles, else the gunpowder would explode prior to reaching its target. Our archers along the walls respond with their own flaming darts. Though far less devastating, they still serve to set ablaze the seige engines. Soon they will fire no more, the bombardment of Timbuktu will be over.
We can take no cheer from this small victory, for it has come at such horrible cost. Smoke and soot fill the air, along with shouts from commanders to organize their troops. I listen for my commander’s orders, but the sound is drowned by the shrill cry of yet another missile. Before I can react, strong hands pull me behind the half-fallen stone wall of a nearby house. Although part of the wall collapses on top of me, I am luckily sheltered from the brunt of it, and it provides some protection from the blast. When I am able to regain my senses I look for the face of my savior. From beneath the rubble I see the face of the young fisherman peering out at me. His eyes stare ahead blankly, although he saved my life, he was unable to save himself. Things might be dark, but there is courage in Timbuktu yet. I close his eyes and mutter a prayer to the Father and Son, praying for him to find a place where the wind blows free and the fish are plentiful.
Through the din the sound of trumpets blare, then above that, the pounding of hooves. With the noise of battle around me I should not be able to hear them, but it is unmistakable. They charge, and there are so many….
In the confusion I have lost my musket. I see the young fisherman’s musket nearby, he’ll not be needing it, but the freedom of Timbuktu depends on me so I clasp it tightly and run toward my post. Others follow, and despite the devastation our unit is mostly accounted for. We will be among the first to face them. The enemy is almost in range now, the thundering of their charge is deafening.
I do not know how it is possible, but in that instant before engagement my eyes locked on a charging knight. He was an imposing figure, cloaked head to toe in glistening steel, riding high atop a muscular white steed. An orange tunic draped his frame, the standard of the Inca, the enemy that I had come to hate these past weeks. Somehow my eyes locked on his through the slits in his helmet, and what I saw shocked me. These were not the eyes of a warrior. He was young, as young as the fisherman, and he was afraid. Despite his fear he charged on, and I could imagine his knuckles were bone white clenching his sword high. He did not want to die..and yet he charged. I did not want to die..and yet I raised my musket and held my post. Sometimes in war, the decision of whether to live or die is made by Kings sitting comfortably on their throne, and not by those who are needed to carry out the bloodletting.
The cry went out that they were in range, and the air was filled with the smoke from our muskets. All across their ranks, knights fell, never to step foot into the city of Timbuktu. But the charge continued there were just too many…We had time to reload and fire again, then they were upon us…
It would be a day that was long remembered. Poets and artists would write of this day, and men would pass on the stories of glorious victory to their sons. Yes there was courage left in Timbuktu. But after the war is over the victor will write the history…
It never stops. It gets in my head. My temples throb, the sound echos through the streets. It is joined by wails of despair, high pitched screams and cries, and the occasional crash as a weakened building or section of wall finally succumbs to the bombardment. It is a macabre symphony, but we are powerless to stop it. And so we wait….
Fear grips the city. We are no match for their might. We are builders. We are farmers. We are not warriors. But now is the time for war. Mansu Musa has sent a representative to talk to Homer, to barter for peace. But the Incans are not a peaceful civilization. History has taught us that their empire was built at the end of a bloody sword. The Romans have fallen. The Germans have fallen. They have captured Gao and Awdaghost. We are next….If we could reach Queen Marge or Princess Lisa their compassionate voices could sway Homer’s hand, but it may be too late. The light of hope is fading in Timbuktu.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Are the catapults still booming? It is hard to tell sometimes. I sit and wait and wonder if they are still firing. Or have my senses deceived me and I am only hearing the throbbing reverberating in my head. A look at the faces of my comrades gives me my answer.
I used to be a farmer. I worked the fields. My crops came to Timbuktu to feed the people. They sent me luxuries and gold in return. It was a good life, a quiet life. There was no booming, no despair, no fear. My goal was to establish my farm so I could take a wife and raise a family. These things seem like dreams now. I have not seen my farm in months, the Incans have overrun it, I do not know if I will ever see it again. Now my crops feed their warriors. It was a good dream, but dreams fade to reality.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
My fellow farmers and I fled to the city. We pleaded to Mansu Musa. Where were our troops? How could we not have been prepared for this day? We should have been prepared. The scriptures told us that their ancestors killed our ancestors a millenia ago. They told that the cities of Djienne, Walata and Niani once belonged to the Malinese empire, but that they were ripped from us. It was a bloody conflict, but it was so long ago. Since then we had been at peace, our nations traded, and things were good. We knew that the Inca were a violent nation, but we were content to allow them to battle the Germans. Rather than rise against their oppression we did nothing. Now the Germans are dead, and we are next.
We have asked the Americans and the Indians for their aid, but they have ignored our pleas. They are scared. They are afraid to invoke the wrath of Bart the Destroyer, most cruel and vengeful of the Incan Generals. Do they not see that when we are vanquished the Inca will turn on them? I can’t blame their ignorance, for we shared it. We ignored Frederick’s pleas when General Bart was at the gates of Berlin. It may be that Incans at the gates of Washington will make Roosevelt feel differently but by that time our once proud nation will be nothing but a memory.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The Incan host marched swiftly. Their knights moved into our land. It was all we could do to make it back to the city. I can see them camped beyond our walls. The sun gleams off their armor. Their ranks seem endless. There are so many. I do not know if I will have the courage to stand my ground when they come.
We have discovered a new technology, a weapon called a musket. We hastily line up in the square, the barest of instructions are given. Point. Aim. Shoot. Reload. The weapon feels foreign in my hands. It is not a plow, it is not a hoe, these things I know. The hunters among us have some experience in this matter, but even to them the action is awkward. I can see the Incans have muskets. I can see them march beyond our walls. They are not inexperienced. They are not farmers. They are warriors. They know how to fight, and they know how to win. I do not want to die.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
I see the faces of my comrades. I see despair, I see fear. I see no hope. One is too young. He was a fisherman before the siege began. The days were spent on the bay, with the wind in his face and the world before him. Now we sit huddled against a wall. It is a cold wet night. His hands grip his musket, he looks so white he could be a ghost. I know he is not, for no ghost would bear this torment. A ghost would flee this place, but no relief for us, our earthly shell prevents such escape.
He talks of deserting, and there are many that listen. The Inca are not barbarians. When the war is over, life will return to normal. We will farm, we will fish, we will live. What care does a simple farmer have for the colour of the flag flying overhead? There are fights among the ranks, the true soldiers among us claiming this the talk of cowards. When daybreak comes, the fisherman is not at his post.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Timbuktu was a beautiful city once. Perched on Do’Urdun Bay, at the mouth of the Wulfgar River to the East and the Catta-brie River to the West it was an ideal spot to build an empire. In 620 AD the Pyramids were built, and the city became a cultural beacon, shining brightly with glory. In 1565 we completed the Taj Mahal, and it was a Golden Age for our civilization. My father worked on the palace. I can remember him returning home every night with dirt, and sweat and sometimes blood on his face, but I also remember his pride in the work, and the celebration that ensued when the work was completed. Little did we know that as we celebrated in the capital, the Incan host was marching on Gao to our East and Awdaghost to our West.
Yes, there was glory once for our nation, but that was the past. The future for the Malinese is dark. The Taj Mahal outside the city is in the hands of the Inca now, it serves as base camp for their commanders. The thought sickens my stomach and I am glad my father is not alive to see it.
There is talk that Mansu Musa will flee the city. Moving up the coast to our last stronghold of Kumbi Saleli he hopes to establish an alliance with the nearby Americans and Indians before we are overrun. Shouts ring out from beyond the wall, followed quickly by the shrill cries of a horn and the unmistakable sounds of battle. I race for a view, in time to see a small contingent of horse archers beyond the Catta-brie River, punching a hole through the ranks of knights.
The ping of their arrows against shields and armor is distinct even from this distance. Some find their mark, but far too many are turned away. The responding sword strikes of the knights is less audible, but much more devastating. I try not to think about the fact that I can’t hear the blows because they are finding flesh. The cries of the fallen deny such innocence. There is no place for innocence in times of war.
Despite the carnage I see a small ring of riders break through, and I know that Mansu Musa is amongst them. The Malinese will not face their end in Timbuktu, no horse that the Inca possess will catch him and their forces are concentrated around the city. Cheers ring out from the battlement, but they are short lived as the last of our archers fall to the crush of steel around them.
BOOM. BOOM.
The booming stops. I thought this was what I wanted, but the ominous silence is far more terrifying than I thought possible. The eerie quiet drags on for what seems like hours and is at last broken by cries of “TAKE COVER” from the battlement, a split second before a shrill howling noise reaches my ears. Before I have time to ponder the source a fiery missile torches the sky overhead, slamming into the Grand Theatre, which had been commandeered as a barracks for our newly trained troops. The blazing ball strikes the Theatre with devastating effect, and the once beautiful building which had served to entertain our people for centuries is half reduced to rubble. Some of our troops were still stationed inside, and I know that for these souls the battle is already over. I have never seen such a missile, terror grips my heart as I imagine what dark beast the Inca command that can summon such a thing from it’s belly.
Confusion and fear run rampant, but our commanders work quickly up and down our ranks to quell it. It is no beast of terror, but a man-made missile full of flaming gunpowder that the Inca have hurled. Soon enough more balls of death fill the sky, raining down upon the city, surgically targeting the known locations where our troops are stationed. Before a single arrow is shot, or sword blow is struck, the Inca have dealt us a hefty blow. The damage is not dealt without cost. The catapults had to move in close range of the city to fire such missiles, else the gunpowder would explode prior to reaching its target. Our archers along the walls respond with their own flaming darts. Though far less devastating, they still serve to set ablaze the seige engines. Soon they will fire no more, the bombardment of Timbuktu will be over.
We can take no cheer from this small victory, for it has come at such horrible cost. Smoke and soot fill the air, along with shouts from commanders to organize their troops. I listen for my commander’s orders, but the sound is drowned by the shrill cry of yet another missile. Before I can react, strong hands pull me behind the half-fallen stone wall of a nearby house. Although part of the wall collapses on top of me, I am luckily sheltered from the brunt of it, and it provides some protection from the blast. When I am able to regain my senses I look for the face of my savior. From beneath the rubble I see the face of the young fisherman peering out at me. His eyes stare ahead blankly, although he saved my life, he was unable to save himself. Things might be dark, but there is courage in Timbuktu yet. I close his eyes and mutter a prayer to the Father and Son, praying for him to find a place where the wind blows free and the fish are plentiful.
Through the din the sound of trumpets blare, then above that, the pounding of hooves. With the noise of battle around me I should not be able to hear them, but it is unmistakable. They charge, and there are so many….
In the confusion I have lost my musket. I see the young fisherman’s musket nearby, he’ll not be needing it, but the freedom of Timbuktu depends on me so I clasp it tightly and run toward my post. Others follow, and despite the devastation our unit is mostly accounted for. We will be among the first to face them. The enemy is almost in range now, the thundering of their charge is deafening.
I do not know how it is possible, but in that instant before engagement my eyes locked on a charging knight. He was an imposing figure, cloaked head to toe in glistening steel, riding high atop a muscular white steed. An orange tunic draped his frame, the standard of the Inca, the enemy that I had come to hate these past weeks. Somehow my eyes locked on his through the slits in his helmet, and what I saw shocked me. These were not the eyes of a warrior. He was young, as young as the fisherman, and he was afraid. Despite his fear he charged on, and I could imagine his knuckles were bone white clenching his sword high. He did not want to die..and yet he charged. I did not want to die..and yet I raised my musket and held my post. Sometimes in war, the decision of whether to live or die is made by Kings sitting comfortably on their throne, and not by those who are needed to carry out the bloodletting.
The cry went out that they were in range, and the air was filled with the smoke from our muskets. All across their ranks, knights fell, never to step foot into the city of Timbuktu. But the charge continued there were just too many…We had time to reload and fire again, then they were upon us…
It would be a day that was long remembered. Poets and artists would write of this day, and men would pass on the stories of glorious victory to their sons. Yes there was courage left in Timbuktu. But after the war is over the victor will write the history…