The Mao-Rie

By chant and stomp, shout and sweat, and by the ancient rites—women dancing naked; priests yelling shrilly; fungus and poppy, drink and leaf weakening the walls of if and might—they summoned him.

From the rough land he came, walking. A dark loa riding a pale horse, his skin an ivory irony, he walked, caduceus in hand. Mao-Rie. He would hear their chants and read their sigils. And he would judge.

“No blood for oil,” rose the ululation. Indeed. The sacrifice of blood brought fertility, and bountiful crops. Sometimes, it could call the rains. The rite for oil was salt.

Pointing fingers tapped the shroud of flesh he wore. “No war, man, no war.” But, War was. The Mao-Rie knew him, inalterable truth. “It’s evil, man, pure evil. Innocents will die.” The man’s pneuma was corrupted by substances.

“The just and the unjust, the shriven and the damned, all these shall share the grave,” replied the Mao-Rie. A simple truth, of war, of peace, of all of life.

“Right, man. It’s illegal.”

“Laws govern the sovereign?” Conflict in the very bones of the words.

“The U.N. opposes it.”

“These youen rule your people? You pay them fealty?”

“The whole word hates us, man. We’re going to destabilize the region, maybe even make them go to war with each other. We’re arrogant and selfish. Man, we deserve to die. Like, we’re trying to build an empire.”

The Mao-Rie let his right eye widen, seeking context; his left, squinted, seeking perspective. Weight upon the scales. “You have not chanted previously, why now?”

“This is war, man. War!”

Did they fear the word without cognizance of the reality? “Many other regions your people have defeated. Why have these not been added if your leaders seek empire?”

“They wouldn’t let us, man. They wouldn’t let us.”

“Leave me.” The Mao-Rie knew irritation. The man’s protestations were like the wailing of an infant, immune to reason, silenced only when the excrement was removed. “No matter how often you repeat it, you shall not make it true. Man, neither you nor me.”

“We’re not all like him.”

The Mao-Rie turned and bowed. “Respect and honor, traveling nigre.” It was the Gauls who named the other’s people thusly, in reference to their skin.

“Ignore him. He recites what they tell him. It’s simple, really. Violence solves nothing. It just leads to more violence. We kill them, they kill us, everybody loses.”

“Are we so near the end of time? The dead walk upon the earth?”

“No. What are you talking about?”

“The dead do not strike back. Violence is a tool, perhaps you misapply it. Were your people not freed by the application of this tool?”

“Look, it’s a metaphor, an allusion.”

The Mao-Rie heard ‘illusion’ and set his mind to find their priests, those who brought these revelers together. For it was a revel, the very young and the very old drunk on substance and fatuity. The warriors and producers were, of necessity, elsewhere.

He found the priests at a table, selling Mein Kampf, dealing dope. “This congregation here is yours?”

“Oh, comrade, we merely let them speak the truth. The mind of every man here is his own.”

Weight upon the scales. “You lead, feed, and provoke them; they echo with your words. Are they not complicit?”

“No. Again, I must say no. You cannot presume to judge them by their leaders, words, and deeds. Do not hold us to account; we support the troops and oppose the war.”

How strange to wish for glorious failure—the Mao-Rie wondered at these words.

“Here me speak!” A priestess rose among them. “I can act and entertain. I have pretended to be something else until I have lost myself. I am become a channel, lending credibility to ideologies which have none.

“The god who was one of us is fallen. The man who rules you now cannot be trusted to use force.

“In his mind, words have meaning, unparsed and constant. His ideals mean more than my comfort. He cares not for the worship of others. He is the husband and lover of but one woman. In the dozens of attacks over the years, no one I know has been killed; he leads us to war without provocation. We are only free when are in submission yet he does not bow to the yoke of those who rule other nations. After only two years of arguing with the youen, a mere twelve years after the enemy has violated the armacist, he rushes hell-bent to war. Surely, this man is not sane!”

Weight upon the scales. The Mao-Rie turned to leave.

“It’s, like, complicated. Too complicated for me to understand. Do as I’m told.” A youth whispered at the Mao-Rie’s side. “A quagmire. Other nations are more urgent, more dangerous. It’s expensive; I guess money is more important than people.”

“Speak truth, man-child. I tire of lies.”

“It’s, like, ah mister…it’s…man, I’m really scared!”

The Mao-Rie nodded, tapped him with the staff.

“I find against Death!” There was silence all about the Mao-Rie. The chanters were gone. The youth still cowered beside him. The Mao-Rie looked down, smiled to him. “Truth. It is acceptable to be afraid.”

An Eye ran toward them—the unflexing eye which neither widened nor squinted, the camera eye of media, out of context, out of perspective.

“What have I seen?” asked the Eye and waited. That was its power, to compel response.

“I am the Mao-Rie, the scale, the serpent, the judge. I am the footman of the horseman, the scout of War. I have heard their cries and I have weighed them.

“I shall summon forth my master. I will unleash War to bring an end to the reign of Death.”

The Eye persisted. “But the peace protesters, where have they gone?”

“Peace? They made no case for peace. They rallied here for Tyranny, to let tyrants rule unchecked, to proclaim themselves tyrant over all who would disagree.

“I have sent them to their dream. To a place of tyrants, ruled by the tyranny of mobs, tyrants over themselves, and wishing their evil upon the world.

“I have sent them to France.”