WHO AM I

I walk the fields of red
my hood covers my head
friends live in my shadow
and shadows of the dead

some sleeping in their beds
while others tip their caps
the sleepers still are dreaming
the tippers still are tapped

below us they remain
their souls at one with Earth
borrowed wisdom reigns
and prosperous is mirth

I scarce control my words
when others bate their breath
I know this is my weakness
I hope it's not my death

if kindness is a virtue
then I've got virtue in spades
but shovels can lose quickly all
that looses from their blades

if not done something with
the material is useless
what good is virtue's bounty if
the garden's soil is fruitless?

I shudder to see bloodied
the hands of fellow men
but menacing they can be
when they dip their hands again

if blood doth drip from crown
to feet in ruby splotch
who'll utter any single word
when all we do is watch?

if he staggers backwards,
his conquest is defeated,
and if he lets breath fly like birds,
his life force is depleted.

* * *

Questions are marked by sickles because they cut loose any truth that hangs in the air. I was in the back of yet another carriage, this time driven by a jockey whose aggression towards the world's people came from the same green patch as I did.
He was in the middle of telling me about his life. "Plague was early that year, but too late to kill me damn wife. Ain't that just some shit, eh?!" he jeered, and cackled to 'imself.
I nodded along, disgusted but without alternatives.
"You from Fogborn, then?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered, "just left about a half a year ago."
He made a strange, wheezing chortle, like he was choking on seaweed. He beat the wind with his fist in anger. "Fuckin' boggies, though, your nasty lot took over, din't they? I left five years back, every time I return there's more of your crummy like."
I sat in silence, my stomach tight. I was coming down with something – not the plague, but something.
He raised his voice. "DIN'T THEY, BOGGY?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, not really. I didn't see anyone my age who was dark when I left."
"Are you saying I'm WRONG?"
I blinked. My gut growled, telling me what I was afraid to hear: I needed food. I'd have to pay for more of his from the cargo boxes, and he didn't seem to be in a charitable mood. I rasped back, "I'm saying I didn't see what you saw. You're probably right, though."
He was quiet, then he beamed with a laugh. "That's cuz I'm more observant than you, the dark folk. Smarter. Nicer, too. It's just my superior blood, runs better. So's my eyes, they're better too-"
At that exact moment, a stone the size of a fist flung out from nowhere and hit him in the back of his head with a THWOK.
He jolted to writhe in pain. "What the fuck didja do that for, you fuckin' bogmoor?" Through his tight black hood, I could see blood run down to his sweater. Seemed the same as mine, for whatever that was worth. He cried, "Just get the fuck out, I'm not sorry for what I said. This only fuckin' proves ya deserve every word."
I protested, "But I didn't do anything. Someone else threw that."
"Are you a liar, or are you just DAMN DEAF? GET OUT!!"
Shaking, I crawled out of his carriage, grabbed my scythe, and watched him groan for a minute, rubbing his scalp. "I'm out," I told him.
"I BLOODY KNOW THAT, YA FUCKIN' SKAG," he snapped. "I'm just TAKIN' a bit, CHRIST. Cen barely see straight, ya fuckin' wallop me from behind like a right arshole, you. S'why I don't like your kind, all violent, and daft, and all..."
He shook his head, and whipped the reigns to start the horses again.
I stood, holding my gut, face warm not just from the hot sun, but from within. I was tingly inside, my blood like little pine needles in my veins. My hip bones were sore. I guessed it was some kind of flu. I looked around – I was in a grassy savannah, just outside of a large Moroccan city where my last boat-ride had docked. In the distance, I could see gazelles galloping and field mice hopping between bushes (which was new to me entirely). I felt a sudden flush as my body adjusted to standing up, and it felt like I needed three things: food, shelter, and someone to hold. My breath was fire in my throat as I began to walk down the long, sandy road on which I'd just been abandoned. Then, I looked back, and realized the city was closer. I turned around, and that's when I saw her, peeking out from behind a hill. An African girl, darker than I was, with black hair in puffy curls. She disappeared for a moment, and peeked out again from a different spot. I noticed her light, yellow robes, which were the same color as the ground. Camouflage. She must be a Huntress, I thought. Feeling the sun beating down on me, I started walking again. That's when another rock, a bit smaller this time, bounced off my helm, which was curved around the top and back of my head to let my face breathe. I looked back at the hill, and saw nobody.
I grew frustrated, and shouted, "Just come out and fight me face to face, why don't you?"
There was no answer.
As I walked, I found myself losing all my water to sweat, which made my cotton clothes stick to me like wrappings. I went off the road to a bushy spot for cover, and stripped. I put my shirt rolled up in a pocket, and strung my boots to my belt at the back to feel the sand between my toes. I kept my pants rolled up using a trick The Knight had shown me once, where you fold them upwards twice and tie them with cord. In the bright light, I saw my pale belly, round from inaction. Finally, I put my cloak back on, as protection from the sun.
"You're going to lose him," said a voice behind me.
I turned around, and it was The Huntress. Up close, she was cute as a kitten, around my age, and striped like a tiger in red and white paint. Gold bangles rested on her ankles and wrists, gold bands sat loosely around her neck, and bones strung on twisted leather cord dangled just below them all, except on her feet.
"Lose who?" I asked. As I waited for her answer, in only a second, I was suddenly aware of her big, brown eyes and thick lips, and her small, broad nose. Her face was round, but her cheeks were bony – same with her short, curved and slinky body, with jutting hip bones and carved-looking joints. I felt my face turn red.
She didn't smile to see me flustered. Her eyes lidded, an' she grabbed me by the collar. "Run with me. We can catch that jockey, but you have to be fast."
I started jogging alongside her, but I was already low on breath and straining to carry all the weight on me. She was already way ahead of me when she looked behind her, shook her head, and trotted back to me.
"Wait for me, keep walking straight. I'll catch him. Watch these for me." She took a bow from her back and a quill-bag from her hips, handed them to me, and took off, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Still on her back was a peculiar staff.
I kept walking, put the bow on my other shoulder from the scythe, and put the quill-bag on my hips. It was full of sharpened sticks, thin but heavy.

A while later, I saw the carriage coming back my way, moving quick. Eventually, The Huntress caught up to me, and pulled back the reigns to stop the horse.
I was shocked. "How'd you get this?"
She said, "I killed the jockey. Get in."
I climbed into the back, but climbed off again holding a carrot and a wetskin.
"You can eat later," she hissed, "Let's go!"
"It's for her," I said.
"For who?"
I walked around to the horse, and held up the carrot in my palm. The horse probed at it with its leathery lips, and took it in its teeth to crunch. Then, it let me pour some water into its mouth. I pet its head as it drank. I took a swig of it myself, and got back into the carriage, taking a carrot to eat as well. With that, we were good to go. The Huntress whipped the reigns, and the horse started walking.
About ten ticks later by sun's flight, I saw her handiwork: the jockey, laying still on the side of the road – head bashed into red jelly. Buzzards were feasting on it, and a medium-sized bobcat was hanging out nearby, waiting for a chance to scare them off.
I asked, "Why'd you kill him, anyway? He wasn't harming anyone."
She sighed, and with one hand, took out of its sheath the 'staff'. It was actually a club made from bone with a light-colored stone bonded into its crescent-shaped cavity by more leather. It was spotted black and red, same as her clothes in some places, but looked like it had been scraped off in the sand. "I used this."
"No, uh... I asked 'why', not 'how'," I clarified.
"Oh!" She laughed. "I heard how he was talking to you. No one should speak if their mouth is full of poison. Better to spit it out, or swallow."
"Is that supposed to be a double-entendre?" I narrowed my eyes.
She glanced back at me. "No, it's a proverb, stupid."
I blinked. We didn't seem to understand each other very well. I asked, "So earlier, that rock that hit his head..."
"I was trying to kill him," she replied.
"His skull was too thick for that. Would've worked on me, though," I teased.
"You weren't the one driving. Anyway, we shouldn't speak ill of the dead."
I shut my mouth.
A moment later, she said quietly, "His skull was very thick, though. Took me a long time to get it open."
Mildly horrified, I laughed, and so did she.