To Leave The Lamp Burning

The hardest part was waiting. That’s what the old man always said. He would come every evening to the tavern, smelling of dung and mud, his clothes caked with dirt and have a couple of beers and then he’d say: It’s the hardest bit. The fighting’s not that bad. It’s the waiting. You stand there in your leather vests and your ill-fitting caps, your hands clammy and sweaty inside the leather gloves they give you and you tighten and loosen your grip on the spear constantly and laugh loudly at the worst jokes because it’s the closest thing to screaming.  And then you see the enemy across the field and you tighten your hold on your weapon again and your body stiffens. And they get closer and closer and you can see their faces now through the cloud of dust they stir and you become stiffer and heavier and the sun becomes unbearable and yet you shiver as your body grows cold. And then they blow the bugle and you lower your spear and the enemy charge. You block and you thrust and you parry and dodge and cut and stab your way through, all the while growing emptier and lighter, no longer aware of the burning sun or your clammy hands or the sweat running down your brow. And it is all madness there, you are empty and lost and it is like a madness, a disease.
We listened to him because the man was old and he had been in both wars. Then he’d have some more beers and lift up his shirt to show us the scars. He’d say: These two on the shoulder here I got at Faruin, almost lost my arm. We hid in the rocks and fell upon the bastards as the Kilayans hurled rocks and arrows and taunted them from the walls. We cut them to pieces, every single one of them, and when the Kilayans shut themselves up in the city and refused to let us in we stormed the city and killed all of them too.

And he’d get very red and unsteady and loud, spilling his drink and banging on the bar-top. We’d take him back home. On the way, he’d pull free at the park and stumble on the bench. He’d say: Fuck you whoresons. You don’t know how it is. You stand there and you wait and they come rushing at you and you cut them up for the vultures. You run around the streets setting every roof on fire, heavy sacks slung across your shoulder and you stain the cobblestone red and leave the stink lingering. And you return to your farm and you till the land and sow the seeds and your arm aches in the cold and you pray for the rain and have your hands in the dung all day. You line all the men on the street and chop their head off and you round up all the women and children in chains and then you have your hands in the fucking dung. And they look at you and they say he been in the wars. Fuck yes he been. He been in the wars and he seen vultures tear at a man that he ran a sword through and kicked to the ground. And you march through the gates and they look at you and cheer and shower you with flowers and they sing in your praise and dance and you eat the finest meat and drink all night and then rut all night and then you come back and you have your hands in the motherfucking dung.

We’d pick him up and carry him back home. We’d put him in bed and cover him up with a sheet and leave quietly with the lamp still burning. He’d say: That’s how it is. You wait and you wait and you wait and then it’s all madness.