James Beau Seigneur Christ Clone 1 In His Image

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gagged. For that matter, he had not truly seen anyone. The men who held him
captive wore masks every time they came into the room and they almost never
spoke to him. He had not seen anything outside the locked door of his room,
but he perceived that he was in an old apartment building. The ropes on his
feet were tied manacle-style with about twelve inches between his ankles so
that he could take small steps.
To prevent him from untying himself an act which would have resulted in
severe punishment the ropes that held his hands provided no slack at all. He
was, however, able to hold his food bowl and take care of most of the
necessary toilet activities. Personal hygiene was impossible, and he was only
allowed to bathe every other week or so. He took some consolation in the fact
that things could be worse. His captors had not tortured him since early in
his captivity. All of the cigarette burns had healed by now. Only the most
serious ones left noticeable scars.
At first his captors seemed to enjoy threatening him with knives and razors.
They were not all just threats, however. At one point, one of the men had gone
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to elaborate lengths for sadistic satisfaction. He began by tying Decker so
that he could not move and then told him he was going to cut off his ears for
trophies. If Decker moved at all, the man said in broken English, he would
slit his throat instead. Starting at the top-most point of Decker's left ear
the man made a deep, bloody gash, then pulled the blade away, laughing
uncontrollably at the pain in Decker's eyes as he gritted his teeth, trying
not to flinch. When the man left the room and closed the door, he was still
laughing under his mask. Decker was left tied in that position overnight. With
some effort he managed to shift his weight, roll onto his stomach, and turn
his head so that he could lay it on the floor with the weight resting against
his partially severed ear. The pressure was agonizing but necessary to stop
the bleeding.
Despite his fear and pain throughout the ordeal, Decker had found it amazingly
easy to not cry out. His surprise and curiosity at this fact was an extremely
propitious distraction from the pain. Lying there, he remembered a short poem
he had read years before by Nguyen Chi Thien that explained his silence under
torture. Nguyen, a prisoner of the Communist Vietnamese for twenty-
seven years, had written a
When in the Woods and Meeting Wild Beasts 91
volume of poetry about his life called Flowers From Hell. The particular poem
Decker recalled was:
I just keep silent when they torture me, though crazed with pain as they apply
the steel.
Tell children tales of heroic fortitude
I just keep silent thinking to myself:
"When in the woods and meeting with wild beasts, who ever cries out begging
for their grace?"26
Several hours later Decker woke to find that the pool of blood had dried,
gluing his ear to the floor. As he tried to pull free he felt the scab begin
to tear. He knew he couldn't just lie there. If he didn't move himself, his
captors would, and they would not be gentle about it. For the next three hours
Decker let spittle run from his mouth, down his cheek to the floor to soften
the dried blood while he carefully worked his ear loose. Still, some fresh
blood was added to the pool.
Now Decker's biggest problems were boredom and depression brought on by the
feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, and anger. Decker had read about an
American P.O.W. in Vietnam who handled the boredom and kept his sanity by
playing a round of golf every day in his mind, but
Decker had never had time for sports. For the last twenty-three years it
seemed that all he had done was write and read.
For a while, he tried to recall every article that he had ever written. Then
he hit on the idea of rereading novels from his memory. When he couldn't
remember how the story line went, he'd make it up. Somewhere along the way,
like Nguyen Chi Thien, Decker began to compose poetry. Silently he'd
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20...Trilogy%20(3)/01%20-%20In%20His%
20Image.txt (50 of 213) [12/24/2004 11:46:52 PM]
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/BeauSeigneur,...e%20Christ%
20Clone%20Trilogy%20(3)/01%20-%20In%20His%20Image.txt recite each line of the
poem over and over in order to be sure to remember it. Mostly he made up poems
to Elizabeth.
Moments lost, I thought would last; Promises broken that cannot mend; Dreams
of days from a wasted past; Days of dreams that never end.
16 Nguyen Chi Thien, "I Just Keep Silent When They Torture Me," in Flowers
From Hell (Southeast
Asia Studies, Yale University, 1984), p. 105.
92 In His Image
Nights and days form endless blur. Walls of drab and colors gray, Pain and
loss I scarce endure, While dirty rags upon me lay.
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I've wasted such time that was not mine to take, Leaving sweet words unsaid,
precious one. Now walk I on waves of a limitless lake of unfallen tears for
things left undone.
There are many things a man can think about when left alone for so long, and
it seemed to Decker that he had thought about them all. Usually he thought
about home and Elizabeth and his two daughters. He had missed so many things
because he had always put his job first. And now, because of his job, he might
never see them again. So many chances and opportunities lost.
As he lay on his mat in the room, illumined only by the light which came
through the cracks in the boarded-up window, it suddenly seemed strange to
him, almost funny in some pitiful way, that he had always called his wife
Elizabeth and never Liz or Lizzy or Beth. It wasn't that she was somehow too
proper to be called by a nickname. It just seemed that they had never had
enough time together to become that informal.
Chapter 9
Dream a Little Dream of Me
Two years, three months later Lebanon
"Mr. Hawthorne."
"Mr. Hawthorne."
"Wake up, Mr. Hawthorne, it's time to go."
Decker opened his eyes and looked around the room. As he twisted his body and
shifted his weight to sit up, the ropes that bound his hands and feet slipped
off like oversized gloves and shoes.
"It's time to go, Mr. Hawthorne," the voice of a young boy said again.
Decker rubbed his eyes and looked toward the voice. There in the open doorway
of his room stood
Christopher Goodman. Now 14 years old, he had grown remarkably since Decker
last saw him.
"Christopher?" Decker asked, puzzled at this obviously unexpected turn of
events.
"Yes, Mr. Hawthorne," Christopher answered.
"What are you doing here!?" Decker asked in confused disbelief. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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