This one was inspired by a conversation about “Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan”, and was written in something like four hours ten days later. My point, during the conversation, was that the underlying theme of the film was aging and facing death, and that Kirk’s wistfulness in the final scene was the result of his awareness that Spock had died well, a warrior’s death, while it seemed all too likely that he himself would die in bed. My respondent was, of cource, horrified…
Uncle Hyena
Valedictory
“Well?” the old man rasped. “What have you found?”
The healer was frowning; he shrugged. “It is the cancer. The lumps that you can feel are only the least part of it from what you’ve told me. The pains that you feel… imply that it is throughout your body.”
“And?”
“The pain will grow worse; it will cripple you; you will die.”
“How long?”
Again the healer shrugged. “Months. You, perhaps, are stubborn enough to live to see the new year. But I would advise you not to be stubborn. You have no need to further demonstrate your ability to endure pain, and stubbornness in this matter would serve no other purpose. You are faced with a fight you cannot win.”
The old man chuckled. “It is my nature to fight, regardless. And I have been in battles I expected to lose before– such knowledge is irrelevant.”
“It is also your nature to ignore all advice, regardless of its quality.”
“Indeed.” And the old man laughed.
_____
“Don’t look so glum,” the old man said. “You’re going to greet the spring with a title, after all.”
“How can you make jokes?” his son replied.
“It is my nature. I assure you, I take no pleasure in the thought of finally meeting Death as an invalid in bed– but it seems that I have no choice in the matter, and I will not mourn my own passing.”
“It is an outrage! That you, of all people, should die in bed like an old woman. It is wrong!”
The old man smiled. “All these years I have expected to die in battle. But I have always been a little too good, or a little too lucky, or not quite foolhardy enough. And now, when I would relish the chance to be foolhardy, we are at peace. And next year will be too late. He has quite a sense of humor, has Death.”
“And no sense of honor. I would gladly challenge him for visiting this indignity on our house.”
The old man seated himself and looked at his son thoughtfully, then shook his head. “It is not your place to issue such a challenge; it is my place to speak, both for myself and my house. But I would be honored if you would act as my champion.”
“What?”
“I hereby challenge Death to single combat for the indignity which he has visited on myself and my household, and I name my son and heir as my champion.”
“And you expect Death to name a champion?”
“I do.”
“And in the unlikely event that Death does provide a champion, you are actually going to allow someone else to fight your battle for you?”
“You misunderstand. I cannot fight on my own behalf– for I am Death’s champion.”
The son sat down suddenly, his mouth agape. “A duel between us? This is madness!”
“Is it? If you win, you will have spoiled Death’s jest. And if you lose, Death will have us both. I think the stakes are acceptable.”
“To the death, then?”
“How else? I do not think that Death’s champion could either ask or grant quarter.”
“I do not think I could kill you.”
“Then you will have failed me and our house– and I really do not intend to give you a choice.”
The son smiled briefly. “As you will, Sire. When and how?”
“Shall we make an occasion of it? A proper festival? We must at least have a farewell banquet. Noon, two weeks from today– bare blades
and bare backs.”
“As your second, I offer these terms to Death.”
“And as Death’s second, I accept them.”
_____
The banquet was held, and was remarkably cheerful. The morning of the following day was another matter entirely; the knowledge that a close friend would be dead at noon preyed on the mind of every guest. Most agreed with the logic of the duel; all were glad that they were not in the place of either participant.
Noon came, and the combatants took their places. The challenge, the acceptance, and the terms were repeated for all to hear; the duel began.
The old man had been a master in his prime; even a year previously he had been beyond the measure of all but the very best. He was far from that now. But his mind was sharp, and his reflexes had not yet failed him; he lacked both the strength and the stamina for a powerful offense, but he was still quite capable of defending himself.
The son had difficulty making himself try to kill his father. He knew that he was the better warrior; he knew that he should have been in complete control of the combat– but he had no heart for it. He wished that it could simply be over.
They disengaged briefly. The old man said quietly, “You do your house no honor, Champion,” and attacked. The son was caught off guard and was forced to block with his pommel; two of his left hand fingers fell to the sand. He stepped back, feinted, smashed the old man’s guard out of the way, and sank his sword deep
into the old man’s side.
The old man knelt, then settled to a sitting position. He clenched his hand around his sword hilt and looked up at his son.
“Will you yield?” the son asked.
“In the name of Death, I yield,” the old man replied. “I am well and fairly killed.” And he released the hilt of his sword.
The son planted his own sword in the sand and knelt beside his father; he took the old man’s hand. “From the day of my birth,” he said, “I have loved you.”
“And from the same day, I, you– and never more than this moment.” They embraced, and the old man died.
And when my days are over,
Let me die with sword in hand;
Let me see my life’s blood flowing
Into battle trodden sand.
Let me see my deathblow falling;
Let me feel it as it lands–
And my life’s last friend
Will be the man
Who kills me
With his hands.
Paul Haynie
March, 1984