Historia, Part IX

The fact that he hadn’t heard an explosion since leaving Carnacabidos didn’t cross Clifford’s mind until an explosion went off about five hundred feet to his left. He was nearly to the high rock wall that marked the western end of the King’s Valley. (It also never crossed his mind that he had followed the river then entire way and had yet to come across any of the buildings he’d seen upon entering the Valley. He would remember this one afternoon sitting on a park bench in Historia, facing a thirty foot section of railroad track that was in the middle of a grassy field, unconnected to any other track.)

He rushed for the wall and found cover under it as another explosion went off near where he’d been standing moments before. Schrodinger scampered out of the bundle, “Was that more explosions?”

Clifford glanced sideways at the mouse, “I thought you said that humans couldn’t blow stuff up anymore?”

The mouse looked to be in deep thought for a brief moment, “Well, obviously I was wrong.”

Clifford waited for the explosions to stop, and then began looking for a way to climb the rock wall. He found what looked like rough-hewn steps leading in a haphazard way up the cliff face and a bit on an angle. The climb didn’t take as long as Clifford had figured it would, and he credited that to the Historians, whatever the crap they were doing.

At the top he found himself confronted by four men carrying guns. At least, Clifford thought they were guns. He’d seen pictures at the University of guns from different time periods, but these were either older or newer, Clifford couldn’t tell which.

“Stop! Who are you?”

Clifford looked at the man who spoke. His uniform differed a bit from the others. (I forgot to mention, they’re all in uniforms. We would instantly recognize them as the ragtag uniforms of soldiers in General Washington’s Continental Army, but Clifford didn’t know what the Continental Army was, or who General Washington was.)

“I’m Clifford Jenkins, and I’m going to Historia. Who are you?”

The man drew himself up into a regality that Clifford knew he did not possess, but was merely able to replicate by imitation, “I am Brigadier General Israel Putnam. I am tasked with war.”

Clifford pulled himself the rest of the way up off the stairs, hands raised to show he was not a threat. He took a quick inventory of his situation. It was suddenly night, when three feet below him it was bright as mid-afternoon. He looked at the tired-looking, rugged soldiers of Putnam’s camp. “And who are you at war with?”

Putnam looked indignant, “That Valley, obviously.”

“Well, I’d say you’re winning. The sand won’t put up much of a fight.”

A tiny voice sounded in Clifford’s ear, and he realized that Schrodinger was once again on his shoulder, “Um, Clifford, look behind you.”

Clifford turned and saw that the Valley below was lined with encampments. The soldier below wielded clubs, spears and swords, and were dressed in simple skirts and what looked like elaborate headdresses.

“Oh,” Clifford muttered, “That’s who you’re fighting.” He maintained his gaze at the valley, but spoke only loud enough for Schrodinger to hear him, “How did we not see any of that?”

The mouse replied, “I wish I could tell you.”

As Clifford turned around, he heard Brigadier General Putnam begin to bellow orders, “Alright boys! Load up another IckBem, let’s give those sandies what they deserve!”

Clifford watched as a cylinder was loaded onto a catapult. Along the side, in bright blue letters, was written ICBM. The catapult released and flung the cylinder far out into the Valley. When it struck the ground a plume of dust and sand shot up, but nothing else happened.

“Crap!” Putnam screamed, “Another dud.”

Then the explosion hit. The IckBem went off with terrifying brightness. Bodies flew into the air and sand went in all directions. Clifford even noticed the Evergreen tree he’d been sitting under earlier eating the turkey fly off into the night.

Schrodinger spoke, “I think we need to leave, Clifford. This is not a place we need to be.”

“I agree.”

Putnam spun on his heels, “You agree with who, Jenkins? Don’t think you’re leaving. You’re not a sandie, that means you fight with us.”

Clifford shook his head, “Oh, no! I’m not a sandie, but I’m not one of you either. I’m from Nostalgia, on the eastern side of the King’s Valley, unaffiliated with any but their own.”

Putnam picked up a gun and shoved it into Clifford’s hands, “I’d like to believe you, Jenkins, I really would. But we can’t let those sandies get out of the Valley.”

Clifford deftly avoided the gun, “But they can just leave out of the Eastern side, can’t they?”

Brigadier General Israel Putnam paused for a moment, “By golly, you’re right. We’ll need to form an expeditionary force to go to the east side and give those sandies the whuppin’ they deserve.”

Clifford blinked, “What did they do to deserve such a beating?”

The General laughed, “You don’t know? They walk funny, son. They walk funny.”

Clifford turned and walked away. The General’s face turned bright red, “Hey! No one walks away from Brigadier General Israel Putnam! No one!”

Clifford offered a genteel wave, which further incensed the General.

Putnam screamed, “I’ll see you again, Jenkins!”

Clifford kept walking, “And when you do I’ll be the one with the talking mouse.”

Putnam turned back to his battle, “Talking mouse? Gall-dang, that is one stupid boy.”