JUMBLE

JUMBLE, by Mary Soon Lee, art by Gary McCluskey

Twilight.

Two men on the snow.

Tsung’s thoughts jumbled,

snow below him, above him,

branches thickened by white.

King Xau bent over him,

blood trickling from the king’s shoulder.

Red blood, white snow

as Tsung drifted in and out,

the king’s hands on his stomach–

pressure, no pain–

the king trying to hold together

what could not hold.

Little sign left of the boy

that king had been,

the boy Tsung had been given charge of,

seven years ago–

un-muscled, unassuming,

easy to underestimate.

As Tsung had done.

“Leong!” Xau’s hands on him,

the king shouting. “Leong! Help!”

But Leong not there,

none of the other guards there–

Tsung’s fault–

Sun sinking, setting,

now the colors gone

except the red trickling

from the king’s shoulder.

Hard to breathe,

to shape a word.

“Xau?”

“Don’t try to speak,” said Xau.

“Leong will come–“

“Xau. Leave me.”

“No.” Flat.

“I’m dying. Leong can’t help.”

Each word a battle.

“Xau, bind up your shoulder. Go.”

“No.”

Both of them silent, then the king:

“We will not leave you to die alone.”

A puny boy, Xau,

not a natural warrior.

Unlike his father, his eldest brother.

But Xau had acquitted himself well today.

Had fought as Tsung had taught him.

Efficient, effective.

Two of them against seven.

The boy. A boy no longer. The king.

Twilight.

Tsung tried to sort out time:

he’d told the other guards

to set up camp,

had walked into the forest

with the king–

stupid, no backup, Tsung’s fault.

A mile? Two miles?

before he’d told the king

he’d be stepping down as captain.

How far? How far did they walk?

Cold now.

The press of the king’s hands.

Seven men who fought like soldiers,

pale-skinned Innish men.

Maybe brigands who’d crossed the border.

Clear that the seven hadn’t guessed who Xau was.

Mere bad luck to run into them.

No, not bad luck, Tsung’s fault,

because he’d ordered the other guards

to stay behind,

had wanted (stupidly) to speak

to the king alone.

Darker,

twilight fading,

and, at the last, pain after all.

As if the sword

were in his belly still. Twisting.

Tsung turned his head,

out of breath,

sucked in air.

A dark puddle under him.

“Leong!” Xau’s hands pushing, hurting

–why was the king hurting him?–

the king shouting, “Leong! Here! Help!”

Tsung shaped a word.

No breath in him to sound it.

The pain hard to bear,

hard to keep his eyes open.

He looked at Xau, his king,

his king whom he loved.

No breath to tell him so.

“Tsung.” Xau’s voice very gentle.

“You were a better father to us–“

The king stopped, restarted.

“A better father to me

than my father ever was.

Tsung? I love you.”

Tsung closed his eyes for a moment.

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Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but has lived in Pittsburgh for over twenty years. She writes both fiction and poetry, and has won the Rhysling Award and the Elgin Award. Her work has appeared in Analog, Asimov’s, F&SF, Fireside, and Strange Horizons. Of late, she’s strayed from science fiction to science poetry, and her book Elemental Haiku (containing haiku for each element of the periodic table) was published by Ten Speed Press in October 2019.

Gary McCluskey has been a professional artist for more than 15 years. He’s done book covers for every genre imaginable (such as the memoir of a coma survivor’s trip through the afterlife), as well artwork for comic books, children’s books and RPG games. Recently he completed 5 ebook covers for Roger Zelazny’s Amber series and several interior illustrations for a new hardcover version of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ ‘The Oakdale Affair’. He’s currently working on a comic book about a vampire-shark.