Orionby Larry Dean Hamilton
—Let's just hope
that nothing like this
ever comes to
pass...The Independent Gay Writer
“You?” Mikhail asked, feeling the weight of Rye’s body droop against his own. Rye made no response. “You, Rye,” Mikhail insisted. “Are you okay?” Rye gave something of a shrug, avoiding the question. “You didn’t eat again today, did you?” Mikhail continued. “Water? Did you get water?” Rye felt it a great burden to speak. “Okay, Mikki, I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not okay. Of course you’re not—none of us are. Water, Rye, you’ve got to get water.” It was of no use Mikhail asking again about food. They’d had none, for at least two days, maybe three now. “Come on, Orion is resting. I found water—small puddles, not far. We can crawl—look, I know the way. Follow me.”
The ground was damp and littered with the limp bodies of fallen leaves that made almost no rustle as the two bodies of Mikhail and Rye slipped across them, in somewhat a crouching crawl. They lay on their bellies and sucked brackish water from small indentations in the earth. The water was acidic from the fallen leaves and all but unpalatable, but the liquid was essential. How unseemly, Rye thought, to be reduced to slithering on our bellies in search of a few drops of rain. For what? To keep us going, maybe another day? How indecent, to be drinking like wild animals, a pair of frightened deer ready to bolt at the least sound. Yet, Rye said nothing of his thoughts. The flattened body of Mikhail beside him, the two of them sharing from a single puddle, suddenly struck Rye as being a profound comment on their relationship.
“It’s good, the water, Mikhail. It’s very good. Thank you.” Mikhail looked into Rye’s face with an expression of satisfaction. “Mikhail,” Rye added, “I probably haven’t told you, haven’t said the words, I mean. I love you.” Mikhail nodded his head.”Sure. Come on. Let’s get back.”
Orion lay whimpering. Rye seated himself on the ground, legs spread wide, stretched flat before him. He touched Orion gently on the shoulder. “Come on, Baby. Come over here.” Rye was attentive as Orion rolled his body into a seated position, sitting between Rye’s waiting, open legs. Rye folded his arms around Orion’s midsection and pulled the boy’s body into him, closely. He smoothed his face against Orion’s hair, allowing his lips to plant small kisses on the crown of Orion’s head. It was not a bright night. Still, enough moonlight filtered through tree limbs over¬head to wash the two in shadowy light.
Mikhail settled himself on the ground nearby, in the same location he had recently left. He watched as Rye haphazardly fondled Orion’s hair and head with his face and lips. Rye, in combat fatigues and heavy boots, looked so very much the soldier; his outstretched legs, long and lean, appeared muscular and strong in the way they formed a protective space for Orion. Some small pretext of safety is better than being alone, Mikhail thought, grateful that Rye and Orion had rescued him from the street. Seeing the two of them together, sharing a simple, quiet moment of intimacy, brought a tear to Mikhail’s eye. He could not avoid thoughts of someone very dear to him, thoughts of a distant place seeming now at such a distant time; thoughts he fought to keep away but thoughts he knew he could never outrun. He settled back, eyes closed, and allowed the past to reawaken—perhaps he may sleep.
“Cold?” Rye asked. “No, not anymore. Not now, with you,” Orion answered. “Ry-Ry, how much further?” Rye rested his chin on Orion’s head. “Not much. Two miles maybe.” Orion was pensive a moment. “When can we go? Why can’t we go now?” Rye touched the top of Orion’s head with his lips. “Baby, soon. We have to wait. It’s too dangerous until we get the signal. They’ll let us know, the friendlies on the other side, they know the border.” Rye tightened his arms around Orion’s midriff to give a slight squeeze. “It’s okay, Baby.”
Rye disliked himself for those words; it isn’t, he knew, alright. Yet, he refused to allow even a hint of doubt to escape, especially to Orion. “We will make it, Ry-Ry, we’ll make it okay, won’t we?” Rye forced a chuckle. “Of course we will, you bet your sweet ass we’ll make it, Baby. I haven’t come this far to stop now. You’d better be ready—I expect you to be light as air on your twinkle toes!” Orion threw back his head, against Rye’s throat. “I will, Ry-Ry! I’m going to leap across the border! I can jump a mile high! Oh, I do want to make it, Ry-Ry—all the way!”
Orion’s body felt good to Rye, pressing against his own. He savored a slight taste of salti¬ness about Orion’s hair and smelled a scent of sweet muskiness about his body, the odor of male sweat. Neither of them, including Mikhail, had bathed or washed for some weeks now—Rye could not remember the day. These were the only clothes they’d known since before that time, since before—Rye tightened his jaw, forcing the remainder of that thought away. Orion’s long, dark hair, silky and shining, with a smell of sweat about his neck and ears, reminded Rye of the night he first saw Orion, dancing in swirling light at Boyz-in-Exile; the night they met, the night he took Orion with him home and slept with him, holding him folded in his arms, cradling Orion’s naked body to his. It seemed to Rye such a very, very long time ago.
“Sleeping, Ry-Ry?” Orion whispered. “No, Baby, just dreaming,” Rye murmured. “I also was dreaming earlier, Ry-Ry. Tell me your dream?” Orion cocked his head to one side, but Rye could not quite reach his lips to Orion’s. “You, Baby, dancing, the night we met.” Orion lowered his head. “I won’t dance anymore, Ry-Ry. I don’t want to dance again.” There was a chill to his voice. “Ssh, Baby, you’re just tired tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be....” Orion cut him off sharply. “...tomorrow! What if tomorrow never comes? There may be no tomorrow! Ry-Ry, I’m so frightened. Once, I was afraid of losing you. Now, I’m frightened, for both of us; frightened we won’t make it...something will happen...I’m scared, Ry-Ry!”
Rye felt a blade of cold steel had been thrust into his heart. He squeezed Orion’s body tightly to him. “Don’t say such things, Orion! We can’t give up, neither of us. We’re gonna make it, Orion, all the way. I’m holding strong for you, Baby, and you gotta be strong for me, too—you just gotta be, Baby!” Orion folded his arms over those of Rye, holding across his belly. “I’ll never love anyone else, Ry-Ry, no one but you. I’ll never love again, Ry-Ry, if ever anything would happen to you—I could never again feel safe, not with anyone else.”
“It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay. I’m here, Baby.” Orion clutched Rye’s fingers. “Ry-Ry, the night we met, you took me home. I stayed with you. You didn’t rush, remember? You were patient—you waited a long time, even after we began living together, remember? I was afraid—did you know I was afraid? I wanted you, Ry-Ry, like you wanted me. I wasn’t ready just then, not till later. It wasn’t easy for you—thank you, Ry-Ry. For waiting.”
“Ssh, Baby. Sleep, now.” Rye held Orion’s body cradled in his arms, held tightly against his own body within the safety of his outstretched legs, rocking him in a gentle motion. Rye had a feeling of calm, in spite of their present desperate situation. His thoughts roamed. “Does God love me, Mother?” Of course he does, Rye. “And Jesus, too?” Certainly, Sweetheart. “Will Jesus watch over me, Mother?” Always, Rye. Jesus will never desert you. He will be ever at your side and in your heart, for as long as you keep him there, for as long as you keep in your heart the love he has given. Mother, is Jesus here with us now, Rye heard his thoughts aloud. We have his love in our hearts, me and Orion. What can have gone so wrong? Mother, pray for us!
Rye could not remember how long they had been running, hiding, eating from garbage cans—whatever they could find. He was uncertain exactly of the day, or even of the hour this night. The border is near, he was certain. They had escaped detection from several patrols and had stumbled onto corpses left to rot, the remains of many who came before them in unfortunate and unsuccessful attempt to escape the tyranny. A sickly sweet smell hung everywhere in the air, assailing the nostrils. It held nothing to the horror of flesh burning alive. They could do nothing from their place of hiding except watch helplessly as four youths—boys who looked to be in their mid teens—were captured by one of the border patrols. The boys were tortured and abused, then stripped of their clothing and tied together at their wrists in a circle facing inward. Their bodies were doused with flammable liquid and torched repeatedly with a flamethrower. The first blast hurled the boys inward into a tight hug. Rye held one hand clamped tightly to Orion’s mouth, and, with his other, he held Orion’s body in a viselike grip. He seized the collar of Orion’s shirt in his teeth to keep from crying out. Mikhail squeezed his body in a bear-like hug to the two of them. The sound, the smell, the horror—yes, Rye understood the feeling expressed by Orion, that of never wanting to love again, of never feeling safe in the arms of another. What they together witnessed could not be shared with another, and neither could another who had not witnessed give consolation. Shared grief is a deeply shared bond.
Rye thought of a day some few years earlier when he sat on a bench in an eerily quiet room. Several other males waited in silence, seated on an identical bench along the wall opposite. A stern, middle-aged woman dressed in a rigid suit, more a uniform, sat in a booth separated by a sliding glass partition. She had a countenance of stone, from time to time sliding open the glass partition to glare in silence into the room. After he had been there some long while, Rye heard the entry door open and he saw a boy who could have been no more than fourteen years of age enter timidly. The boy was hesitant. He crept across the room to the bench and sat beside Rye. The boy held in his hand a folded paper, anxiously working it between his fingers. “Do put that into your pocket and stop fidgeting with it,” Rye scolded. The boy, quite timid and shy, was nervous and frightened. “Give me that thing,” Rye demanded, seizing the paper from the boy’s hand. “But I must have this,” the boy pleaded. “Suppose they ask for it!” Rye folded the paper into a neat rectangle and shoved it into the pocket of the boy’s shirt, giving the pocket a few good pats to settle it in. “If they want it, they will surely ask,” Rye said quietly. “Don’t offer anything!”
“Why is it so quiet in here? Are we allowed to talk?” the boy asked. Rye shrugged. “Can we not talk?” the boy asked again. “Please speak to me, say something—I’m terrified!” Rye leaned toward the boy. “I guess it’s okay. No one said not to.” The boy seemed a little more at ease. “Have you been here long?” Rye nodded. “How long, an hour?” Rye nodded. “More than an hour, two hours?” Rye nodded. “Which is it, one hour or two hours?” Rye leaned toward the boy again. “More than one hour but not as much as two,” he said flatly. “I’d like it if you were nicer to me,” the boy told Rye. “Why must you be so mean?” Rye suddenly looked at the boy and saw his lower lip twitch. “Look, I didn’t intend to come off that way,” Rye apologized. “The thing is, I’m nervous, too. A little scared as well. I don’t want to be here either.”
“What are we doing here?” the boy questioned. “Did you get a paper, saying you must report?” Rye nodded. “Isn’t this some church group, the Interfaith Council?” Rye shook his head. “Not exactly. They are the ones doing it. This is an Information Center. I think all they want is information, but don’t tell them anything—whatever they ask, don’t tell them.” The boy became agitated. “What kind of information? I don’t know anything. What will they ask?” Rye shrugged. “Who knows. Just don’t volunteer anything. They haven’t got any proof—unless you’ve been informed on. That’s a different matter.” The boy clutched the edge of the bench. “Informed on? Proof of what? I haven’t done anything!” Rye repeated, “I said before, just keep quiet.”
The boy was silent for a time. Then he asked, “Do they have a boy’s room here? I need to go.” Rye didn’t know. “You’ll have to ask at the window. Tap on the glass.” The boy did as Rye advised. The glass partition slid partway open and a stoic face glared at him. “The boy’s room, which way is the boy’s room?” he asked. The woman did not reply. She pointed a menacing finger toward the bench, shaking it three times for emphasis, and then closed the partition. The boy returned to his seat beside Rye, sitting silently. Presently he said, “I don’t know your name. I’ll tell you mine, if you like. I’ve just wet myself.” Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, but they did not roll onto his cheeks. Rye suddenly felt very ashamed. He felt a coldness in his heart as he remembered his Mother’s words, keep in your heart the love he has given.
Already it had started, the systematic stripping away of identity and worth, the eroding of self-respect and esteem, the diminishing of human characteristic. We are forced to become the other. Unlike us, the other is different, because the other is not one of us. The other can be degraded and destroyed, because it is not us; because it is the other.
Information Center, Registration Center, Reporting Center, Rehabilitation Center, Relocation Center—Rye wondered what may have become of the boy. He seemed so very, very innocent and vulnerable. Rye thought again of the night he met Orion, how he chanced to ask for a dance and then, with Orion, danced the night away, captivated and enthralled. How many, many nights he danced with Orion. How many, many nights he slept with Orion, content to have Orion’s body cuddled against him, as now he held him still. Orion was that boy in an eerily quiet room, not as young but as timid and as anxious, and every bit as innocent and vulnerable. It was this about Orion, Rye recognized, that he sought to protect—waiting patiently, as Orion phrased it, “until I was ready.” It was for Rye no sacrifice, just a simple word—one word that tonight was difficult for him to speak. Rye recalled Orion’s night, “Ry-Ry, make love to me.” Tonight should also be Orion’s night. Rye held back his tears. He was aware of Orion’s relaxed body sleeping safely in his arms. “Tonight, Baby, this I can still give you...tonight,” he whispered.
Rye’s outstretched legs on the damp earth were beginning to grow stiff. He slipped from Orion and eased the boy’s body onto the ground. Orion did not stir. Rye longed to stand upright, but suddenly Mikhail called to him in a loud whisper. “Rye! Get down!” Rye knew he must not expose himself. “My legs ache.” Mikhail adjusted himself on the ground. “Come over here, Rye. Come with me. I can rub your legs.” Rye crawled to Mikhail and made a motion to embrace him. “No!” Mikhail stopped him. “You do not hug Mikhail. Rye hugs everyone, but no one hugs Rye. Mikhail will hug Rye.” He squeezed Rye’s body closely to him and held him for some while. Neither of them spoke. Mikhail felt Rye’s body slump against his own, felt Rye’s body collapse against him. “Now, see,” Mikhail offered, “Rye also needs holding.”
“Here, Rye,” Mikhail said, “place your legs across mine and I will rub for you, to bring back circulation.” Mikhail began massaging Rye’s stiff legs. “You are very good to Orion. You care much for him, this is easy to see.” Rye was pensive. “I do, Mikki. I do...love seems so hard a word tonight!” Mikhail did not look up from Rye’s legs. “It is what we have, Rye. It is who we are. We must not let it go. Or, we should be in danger to become like them, the ones who pursue us into this darkness, into this terrible place.”
“What is to become of us when it’s over?” Rye posed. “What will we become, Mikki?” Mikhail continued kneading the muscles of Rye’s legs. “The friendlies, first they will meet us with dry blankets, and with warm food and hot drink. And with many, many hugs. We will go with them into a place that is safe, with a blazing fire to heat our backside. Then, when it is all over, we will have many laughs....” Rye stopped Mikhail. “Don’t pretend with me, Mikki. You owe me that much. How can we ever find laughter again? When it’s over...? When it’s over, it’s over. Maybe, somehow, we can just keep going.”
Mikhail was attentive to the muscles of Rye’s legs. “It must be over, Rye, for you and for Orion. The two of you will go on together—I will wish it! You must forget the past, we have no history. Tomorrow can be as we make it. You, with Orion—I will wish it, Rye!” Rye’s mood eased. “Mikki, I don’t even know your name.” Mikhail looked into Rye’s face. “I am only Mikhail, Rye. I have no other name, as you and Orion. We burned our names and our identity, do you so soon forget? Burned, in the fires of our demonstration. We must not now turn back.”
“Mikki, they will be there for us, the friendlies?” Mikhail was quick to answer. “Don’t do this, Rye! Don’t allow yourself to have such doubt! Why have we come this far if we do not have trust? Yes, of course they will be there. They will give us the signal. Then, we must go. At the strip along the border, the clearing, once we reach the clearing, we must not turn back—you have told this to Orion? He must be very clear, Rye—this is important! The strip is the most dangerous part.” A scene tried to play through Rye’s mind, but he could not control it. “We’ve been over it, Mikki, many times. Orion will follow, at my side.”
“Ah, good,” Mikhail was satisfied. “And your legs, I am feeling them warmer. The blood flows.” Mikhail continued massaging Rye’s legs. His hands and fingers worked effortlessly. “I, too, had someone who cared for me. Once, Rye, before I escaped to come here for freedom. We had no freedom. We had to fight in the streets, fight everyday. I do not wish any longer to fight. Ivanovitch—he cared for me, Rye, as you care for Orion—Ivanovitch fought very hard. He wanted to make things happen, to make a change for better life. He was called a troublemaker. He wrote articles and made posters, slipping past the guards to hang them wherever he could. But they found us anyway, the death squads. They dragged us into the street and forced me to watch. They beat Ivanovitch senseless and then they shot him to death—in front of me. I was put into prison. They called it reformatory—I was younger. But it’s all the same, the camps, no matter what name they use. The guards were very mean. They beat us daily. They rammed their bully sticks against our bottoms, hard. It was very painful. The worst was slamming their stick upward between our legs, against our genitals. Sometimes we passed out. The swelling would last for days. It was almost impossible to stand—too painful to walk. The other boys became animals. They would do whatever they wished—no one stopped them. No one cared. I only could think of Ivanovitch. I let them do to me, whatever they wanted. I no longer cared what they did to me. I pretended to like them, but I liked no one. I began to hate them for what they did. I thought of what Ivanovitch told me, when we can no longer love, we no longer have a cause to fight for.”
Mikhail’s fingers were still. He looked into the face of Rye, and Rye saw tears in Mikki’s eyes. “I no longer believe I can love another, Rye, as you love Orion, and Orion, you. I have seen too much, and too much has been taken from me through what has been done to me. I do not wish any longer for more fighting.”
Rye withdrew his legs from atop those of Mikhail and rolled his body in such a way that he buried his face in Mikhail’s lap and encircled Mikhail’s lower body with his arms. “Mikki, I love you and Orion loves you. Please stay with us.” Mikhail felt a slight shudder of Rye’s body and he heard a muffled, quiet sound from Rye’s throat. Presently, sobs subsided in sleep.
The night deepened. A wispy fog crept among the trees. Clabbered clouds covered a crumbling moon. In the still, crisp air, a sound came from the Canadian woods. Who-who-who, who-who-who, who-who-who. It was repeated. Who-who-who, who-who-who, who-who-who. Mikhail gripped Rye at the shoulder. They looked into one another’s eyes, a startled look. This is what they have awaited, what they have come so far to hear. Yet, there is about it a sense of dread and terror they have not anticipated. Orion was suddenly awakened with a hand clamped to his mouth. “Baby, this is it. We must go—now! Remember what I told you. Stay close and don’t look back. Once we get to the clearing, we must keep going—don’t turn back!”
Three figures slipped through the fog, one at a slight distance from the other two. There was no visibility. They seemed lost in a silver haze. Suddenly, the cover of woods ended abruptly at the clearing, a strip of open ground maybe two hundred yards in width on either side of the border. They could see into it, but not through it, not beyond. Here, the fog was more dense. It seemed to go on forever, without end. Who-who-who, who-who-who, who-who-who. Who-who-who, who-who-who, who-who-who.
“Go, Baby!”
Two figures hurtled into the fog, unable to see the third a short distance away. Rye’s heart was pounding heavily within his breast. He glanced to his left to be certain Orion was with him. Rye could dimly make out, somewhere in the fog-shrouded distance before him, a small pinpoint of light. He had to make a sudden swerve to avoid colliding with a concrete pylon, United States-Canada International Border. Rye was across the border; he had made it; still, he must cross the clearing on the Canadian side. He could hear muffled voices ahead of him, urging him on.
Suddenly, the field was illuminated in bright light, and electronic voices killed the silence. Rye turned to look behind him, for Orion. A series of explosions ripped the night. Rye saw Orion leap into the air, his arms widespread above his head and his legs, widespread below him. “Don’t leap! Orion, don’t leap!” Rye shouted. In the night, in the fog, caught in the glare of light, Orion’s body seemed to float, drift upward; hang momentarily, suspended in a silver haze; descend, in a slow-motion dance, to earth; looking to Rye as though it were a gigantic rag-boy X.
“Orion!”
Rye heard voices before him, clearly calling to him. “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon!” He heard another voice, somewhere in the clearing. “Rye! Don’t do it! Don’t turn back! Rye!” He heard another series of explosions, and he saw, propelled into the night sky, another gigantic rag-boy X.
“C’mon! C’mon! C’mon!” There was of a sudden much confusion.
Rye was hardly aware of his own body. He could not have described what next occurred. He was only aware of kneeling at the body of Orion; aware of lifting Orion’s head from the damp earth; aware of Orion, Orion’s gaze into his eyes.
“Ry-Ry...? Did I make it...? Ry-Ry...?”
“You made it, Baby, you made it—all the way.”
The friendlies in the Canadian woods at first were touched by the courage of an American man, who bravely threw his own body as a shield, to cover the body of the one he loved. From a distance, through the darkness and through the fog, they could not see clearly. When we can no longer love, we no longer have a cause to fight for. Rye did not hear the sound from an explosion that sent a slug of raw metal tearing through his brain.
At a great distance, in extended emergency session, the Security Council put a resolution to the vote, a measure introduced by a world coalition, led by Canada, France, Germany, and Austria, among other European nations, and supported by African and Mideast nations, among other world powers; a resolution calling for immediate end of the American Holy War, and immediate cessation of America’s War on Gays. Already, a lead entry of elitist forces were in place on American soil. In undisclosed locations, under the most strict of security, coalition forces were being amassed, preparing for a full-scale invasion.
— Larry Dean Hamilton Copyright © 2004 Larry Dean Hamilton. All rights reserved.