The Lost Man

The missionary took respite from considering his interlocked fingers and chanced a glance across the table. Those sunken orbital eyes had been expecting his gaze and when they finally met, a shiver ran down his spine. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and forged on:

"What I am attempting to do," he said slowly, "is understand. We'll start simply. When did you learn English?"

"I cannot remember." replied the Native. 

The missionary sighed. "How did you learn it? That is to say, who taught you?"

"I do not remember." replied the Native. 

The missionary stood up abruptly and began to pace the room, as was his custom when he was dispirited. The tent was white or yellowing, and quite cramped. Its' only occupants save the two men and their chairs were an aged and spindly table,  a pewter jug filled with what looked like milk and a stack of heavy-looking books in the corner. The day was stiflingly hot and though no wind stirred, the tent flaps would flit back and forth, giving entry to nettlesome insects. The day was long and not half over, and the missionary was tired. 

"I'm your friend, you know. I'm here for you. You can call me Birch if you like. It's what my friends call me." Said the missionary to the canvas wall.

"Birch." Said the Native. 

"And I'll call you…" he prompted.

"Nothing." Replied the Native.

"Why nothing? Weren't you named?" queried the Missionary Birch, restraining a second sigh.  

"Why do they call you Birch?" asked the Native, placing his skeletal arms across the table and extending one fingertip to the jug.

The missionary waved his question aside impatiently. "You have an unusual amount of influence around here, despite your status." He turned back to the Native. "We can help each other. I can fix you, and your fellows too," he gestured toward the exit, "if you'd cooperate with us."

The Native continued to stare and the missionary became impatient. "Because," he said quickly, "when I was a young man I was considered bookish to a fault. While the other men were being lively, pursuing and waxing competitive, I elected to sit against a specific birch tree with a volume. A great tall one with persistent yellow leaves. They joked of my love with the tree. They called me birch."

The Native smiled. "These were friends?"

"Beside the point," he replied. "Now that you know something about me, you can tell me something about you. Where do you live?"

"Nowhere." Said the Native.

"Why not? Who owns you?"

"My owner is dead. He died this morning." was the reply.

"And you were preparing to leave? Is that why you made that ruckus in the middle of camp?" 

"It is the rite of the dead to be brought into the middle of the community so all can look upon him and ease his spirit into the next life."

"And then you let the birds have him?" The missionary lifted his hand and dragged the back of it across his forehead. 

The Native laughed. "No."

Birch made his way slowly back to his chair, but elected to hover behind it rather than sit back down. He produced a glass from under his robes, filled it to the brim with the white liquid of the jug and placed it on the middle of the table. In such a position it was impossible to tell who it was meant for. The Native didn't look at it.

"Well," said Birch, changing tact, "Now you're free. You will come to know God and enter the Kingdom of Heaven when you die. Wouldn't you like that? For your kinsmen?"

The Native smiled and his lips cracked in doing so. "My owner did not dictate my god. He was after all, a slave as well."

"You mean a slave to your heathen gods. A disciple of whoever your priestess used to tell you was lord." Birch said.

"No," the Native persisted. "His owner would dictate his gods and as my master, he would then dictate mine. All were in turn led by the Priestess."

Birch was confused. In what he believed to be a sensible and pacifying tone he said, "By 'owner',  you are referring to the late priestess?"

"No. His master was a wealthy merchant who lives in the inner-city. He owns many slaves. I believe I am now his property and must go to him where he lives."

"You are a slave's slave?" Birch asked.

The Native looked at his hands, rested them in the same fashion as the missionary had, then gently folded them in his lap. "It is not so cruel here. It is unusual to you but we are content. Some are rewarded, they retain servants of their own."

"And what do you get?"

"To live."

"You don't know any better," Birch said dismissively. "But you'll be made to understand, you'll see that a man needs more. You were accustomed to your bonds, you learned to love them. You don't know there is more out there. We're here to help. I'm here to help. Don't you want it?"

"That is the first intelligent question you have asked so far." The Native cast an amused glance upon the milk glass. "I am happy."

The missionary was irritated. "No you're not." He snapped. "In time you will be saved. Right now you're a lost man."

The Native looked around. "Who is?"