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Judgement

Paul Galarraga

    The night was alight with bonfires. The long flames seemed to make the nearby willows glow.
    In the little clearing in the bayou the men assembled, some sober, some indifferent. All were silent. They covered their faces with white hoods so that only their hate filled eyes showed in the fire light.
    The fire cracked in the cool October night and the flickering shadows made the faces of the unmasked ones look like death’s heads. Many had just come home from the killing fields of Iwo Jima or Berlin. They were grim, bitter men and they were full of hate.
    “Call out the accused.” The speaker wore the red hood of a grand wizard. He stood apart from the others and the tone of his voice showed a solemn reverence for the horrid ceremony.
    A black man was led in. He walked by himself, his hands bound tightly behind his back. He had the air of a king or one who is used to command and respect. He stepped bravely to the grand wizard, showing no hesitation, as an equal.
    The men who were leading him spoke. “Kneel before the Grand Wizard!”
    He stood.
    “C’mon nigger! Get on your knees.”
    The black man refused.
    “Beat him! Beat him!” Yelled the men. “Show the nigger who’s boss!”
    The mob was working itself into a rage. Their hatred seethed in the cool night air. The Grand Wizard pointed in front of him and the men went into action.
    The black man braced himself as they were on him in seconds, pummeling him, kicking him on the mouth and groin. One of the men cut a piece of green bamboo and began to cane him. The smell of sweat, blood and anger mixed as a flurry of bodies splayed out on the moist Louisiana grass.
    The Grand Wizard put up his hands like some nightmare Moses and the mob parted. The men were now tightening the ropes on their black prisoner.
    “Why are you here?” The Grand Wizard seemed to be looking through the black man as he spoke. The whole scene had a dreamy quality to it, as if the men were entranced by their hate. As if they might wake up at any moment and see themselves as monsters. But the crowd was transfixed, caught up in the moment, a slave to their own black emotions.
    “I am a visitor,” the black man answered, “I am here on a mission of discovery.”
    The mob looked on. They didn’t understand his answer. Their brains reeled with the ceremony, with the power.
    Their leader spoke again. “Why are you in Five Corners?”
    The Grand Wizard leaned towards the bound man, anger gleaming in his eyes. “Who sent you?”
    “Friends,” said the black man.
    “Friends?” The Grand Wizard stood back, “what are you talking about? Who the hell are you boy? FBI? Louisiana D.A.’s Office? Who?” The black man clearly unnerved the Grand Wizard.
    “Who?” The Grand Wizard accented his final pleading question with a right hook to the bound man’s face. The mob was incensed anew. The shouting began. “Hang him!”
    “Burn him!”
    “Crucify him!”
    The Grand Wizard ordered the cross laid out. The men became grim with their job. Not a sound could be heard as they bent to the task of unloading the cross. When it was laid out in the grass, some whistle Dixie as loud as they could to break the tension. Some just drank a lot of beer and tried as hard as they could not to think about what they were about to do. The cross was over twelve feet long and was wrapped in rags dipped in pig’s fat. It gave off a fetid odor like the smell of corruption.
    “Bind him to the cross,” the Grand Wizard commanded.
    The black man began to struggle violently. He managed to throw one of the men holding him over ten feet. His strength was incredible. It took nearly twenty men to hold him down, even with only one arm free. They finally tied him to the cross. Some poured kerosene on him, some of the others stuffed straw into his pants and the tattered remnants of his shirt.
    “Raise him.”
    The commands of the Grand Wizard could hardly be heard over the grunts and curses of the men.
    The cross was raised and one of the hooded ones used a kitchen match to set the man on fire.
    The mob stood back. Many having been shocked from their stupor began to blubber and wondered if they were damned.
    The flames erupted and the black man who might have been a king opened his mouth to scream and breathed fire. His cries were never heard, they were consumed with his flesh.
    The men stood in terrified awe. Many emptied their flasks and bottles of hooch as they stared in horror at what they had done.
    The black man’s lips parted again, they were curling back as the skin on his face shrank and blackened to the color of coal tar. His teeth were the palest white they had ever seen, like fine bone china. His eyelids burned away to reveal blazing eyes that stared into the grim crowd. Many men began to vomit, others ran from the unholy scene, into the bayou, afraid for their souls.
    The Grand Wizard was left alone with the corpse. He watched the fire lick the bones and blacken the skin like some angry demon lover. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t move. His anger held him to the sight. Even in death the black man was defiant, regal and black.
    The flames waned into embers and the body of the burned man settled into a glowing caricature of Christ, right down to the look of agony as the body looked to the heavens for salvation.
    The Grand Wizard left to get stinking drunk.

* * *

    The diner was just up the road from where the black man lay burning, but no one in Claire’s Lunch Room had seen the flames yet. The air was full of smoke and the smell of sweat as the porters came in from the rail yards. These were hard men who worked for the railroad. They flooded in every night for their beer and talk before dinner. They lived the same lives as their fathers and were set in their ways. To them the diner was a holdout, a sanctuary of their disappearing town. The conversation was lively and some had already finished their beer when the little bell over the door rang.
    A small asian man walked into the diner.
    He sat down at the counter and ordered some hot tea. The silence in Claire’s could be felt, not just heard. The men stared in disbelief. The children stared, eyes wide.
    Roy Felder lifted his bulk from the last counter stool, put down his can of Schlitz and walked up behind the asian.
    The waitress saw and turned around and wrote on her order book pretending that she was very busy and wishing that she were somewhere else.
    “Why are you here?” Roy Felder asked.
    “I am here for some tea.” Said the asian with a friendly smile. He wore a conservative outfit of brown pants and a kaki shirt buttoned to the neck. He was not very old, but his hair was as white as cotton and he has just a trace of a mustache. He put out his hand in friendship. “My name is Wong and I am new here.”
    Roy Felder looked at the man’s hand as if it had a dead fish in it. He began to turn red and the crowd in Claire’s could see that he was about to hit the little man.
    “Can’t you see the WHITES ONLY sign on the door Mister?” Roy Felder said turning a brighter shade of cooked lobster red.
    One of the young men from the last booth came over and touched Roy’s shoulder.
    “It ain’t worth it. You know that ever since that little joke in the gas station, the Sheriff has just been looking for an excuse to throw you in the hole.”
    The color returned to Roy Felder’s face. He continued to stare at Wong.
    “Listen here Chinaman,” the young man spoke, “if I was you I’d leave.”
    The young man’s words confused Wong somewhat, but a smile soon returned to his face.
    “But you are not me.” Wong said with a friendly smile as if he had just been spoken to by a child.
     A balding man in a nearby booth spoke up without looking up from his reuben sandwich. “He was trying to tell you to get the hell out of here.”
    “We don’t want you around here,” someone said in another booth.
    “Go home you Jap!” From another table.
    Roy Felder’s fury was reaching a fever pitch.
    “Go back to China you commie!” From the back.
    “I still have not had my tea.” Said Wong turning his back on the hateful men.
    This was the last straw for Roy.
    He grabbed Wong by the seat of his pants and pulled him right off the barstool. When the stunned Asian hit the ground he was grabbed up from all sides by a group of angry men. They took his arms, legs and the seat of his pants and made for the door. The cook ran out from behind the counter and held the front door open while they tossed the man out.
    Wong landed on the front steps unable to understand what was happening. He was looking into the faces of what appeared to be normal people, wondering how they could do this to another being.
    Roy Felder stepped outside and gave Wong a terrible kick to the ribs that sent him sprawling right off the front steps and left him on the sidewalk. The crowd in the diner was cheering.
    Wong lay in a puddle of water and blood. He was in pain and still confused about what had just happened to him.

* * *

    An old man ambled over from across the street. He had a hook nose and a white beard. He was dressed in black and wore the yarmulke of an orthodox Jew. He came to the Asian’s side and called to him. “Are you well?”
    “Yes Samuel. There is no permanent damage.”
    Samuel helped Wong to his feet and they walked off together.
    “I take it you were not served,” Samuel said leading Wong down an alleyway. “You should have heeded the ‘whites only’ sign on the door. These people are very hateful.”
    They came out the other side of the alleyway and walked down to a small motel.
    “I know, but I had to be sure,” Wong said, “I do not share as negative an opinion of these people as you do and I want my vote to be accurate.”
    “These thoughts will get you killed,” Samuel said, “you must take all threats seriously.”
    They went into the ‘Hotel Parisian’ and climbed the shabby staircase. The motel was a showplace until the depression hit. Now it was just old.
    “We must find Kurt and the Commander and file our report,” Samuel said knocking on the door, “time is of the essence.”.
    “Who is it?” came a muffled voice from inside.
    “It is us Kurt, Samuel and Wong.”
    The door opened and Kurt rushed them in.
    “Where you followed?” Kurt asked while carefully parting the curtains and peeking out.
    “No, I was careful.” Samuel said.
    “What are you two being so careful about?” Wong asked, still nursing his wounds. “The people in that diner were just reacting to one ignorant drunk.”
    “Haven’t you noticed?” Samuel asked.
    “Noticed what? That they don’t want asians in their restaurants?” Wong was sitting on the bed looking in his suitcase.
    “What happened to you?” Kurt asked, noticing the bruise on Wong’s face.
    “I was assaulted in a restaurant,” Wong said trying to be calm and not let the words take on any importance they did not deserve.
    Kurt smoothed his blonde hair and again surreptitiously looked out the window. “The locals are hostile, that should be obvious to you since you were assaulted and while we are here, we are in danger.”
    “Kurt you can’t be serious—”
    “No? I was questioned in the church building about weather or not I was German. When I didn’t answer to their satisfaction I had to run for my life.”
    Wong looked at the ground trying to think of something to say.
    “We must find the Commander,” Samuel said standing up.
    “Yes, you’re right,” Kurt said, “we should get him, file our report and get the hell out of here.”
    Samuel opened his suitcase and removed a small blue box about the size of a cigarette pack.
    Wong pulled a small green cone from his bag and held it next to his ribs. An eerie light emanated from it and Wong winced in pain as the beam repaired his ribs.
    Samuel looked at the blue cube and then placed it in his pocket.
    “I know where the commander is,” Samuel said, “and Kurt, don’t forget to bring it.”
    “I wont.”
    They headed out for the bayou.

* * *

    They arrived at the edge of a mossy swamp and Wong was the first to see.
    “There he is.”
    A blackened hand stuck out from the brackish water as if pleading to be found. The three men waded out and began to dig out the macabre figure. They used their hands to wipe away slime from the leering corpse.
    “By the creator!” Wong said.
    “He was killed by the locals,” Kurt said in a somber, defeated voice.
    “Why do you say that?” Samuel asked while trying to control his abject revulsion.
    Kurt held up the remnants of the rope that bound the black man to the cross.
    “It seems he was attached to that wooden pole and set on fire.”
    “Yes when the fire burned through the wood the whole sinister contraption collapsed into the bayou. Someone left him burning,” Samuel said, looking at the sky as if to ask for guidance.
    “It’s a cross.” Kurt said.
    “What is that? Wong asked.
    “A religious symbol.” Kurt said holding the commander in his arms. “This killing was somehow a show of devotion to their god.” Kurt had no tear ducts, so he could not cry, but was showing his sorrow.
    He began the death song.
    They walked in procession to a clearing and Kurt put down the commander’s body with great respect. He ended the death song and drew a small red cylinder from his pocket. He pointed the cylinder at the sky and it began to glow. It projected a bright stream of light into the night sky.
    After a few moments it was over. The cylinder was again stilled and the men waited.

* * *

    The night seemed to get darker and even in the bayou the insects kept their distance and the always noisy frogs were silent, as if waiting for something miraculous.
    From the vault of the sky came a crisp blue light, touching down in front of them. The beam shone like a radiant sun and from the nebulous light stepped out an amazing being. He was dressed in bands of gold from head to foot and his skin was a shimmering surface, like looking at a diamond in the full moon. His eyes were large and so dark that they reflected light. Samuel stepped forward and was the first to speak.
    “Praetor we are ready to report.”
    The being stepped up to them and noticed the charred form of the commander. “What has happened to your leader?” His voice was like a symphony.
    “He was killed...” Wong said, almost hesitating before speaking aloud his next words, “by the people of this planet.”
    “Why? Did he seek a quarrel with them?” the Praetor’s voice was barely controlled in his perplexity.
    “No sire. He was killed because the people of this world are ignorant,” Kurt said with no regrets, “they still wallow in the primitive emotions of racism, hate and fear of the unknown.”
    The Praetor looked at the fire in Kurt’s eyes and then at the Commander’s horrid form. “Do you all agree to his assessment of this planets inhabitants?”
    There was a brief pause as the travelers assessed the ways of this planet and the way they were treated as strangers.
    “Yes Sire, we concur with the assessment.”
    “Very well then, I shall pass judgement on this planet.”
    The Praetor extended his arm and made a fist.
    “On the judgement to trust the earth with the biological technology to destroy disease and prolong life for millennia,” his fist made a thumbs down gesture.
    “On the judgement to allow the people of this planet to travel unmolested beyond their own satellite,” another thumbs down gesture.
    “On the judgement to warn the people of this planet about the accumulation of toxins in their atmosphere that will eventually destroy their immune system and shorten their lifespan,” the last thumbs down gesture.
    “So it has been said, so it will be said, so it will be done, by the order of the Praetors of the Cosmos.”
    He raised his arms and an eerie blue glow enveloped the four other men. They now stood revealed as their true selves. Beings representatives of four different planetary races. The commander’s body was a light green color and his ten, spider-like limbs were placed on his chest as if in a gesture of sleeping. He was wrapped in the golden cloak of the Praetor and the one who used the name Samuel carried him on his tree-like shoulders.
    “This day has been terrible indeed,” Kurt said.
    “Yes,” Wong said, “but more so for the Earth. They know not what they have lost today; lost to hate.”
    The strange beings followed the Praetor into the blue shimmering light as it vanished into the night sky, to disappear among the stars. To spread the word of the celestial quarantine. To warn all other civilized worlds of the evils of the third planet and of the madness of the earth men.

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