Life and death in the desert

I shared a pleasant lunch with a friend today. He brought chicken, and I brought rice. I'd just gotten off pulling all the old wire out of the new Secret Lair, and replacing it with the ruinously expensive Romex I bought in town yesterday. Since I had so much, I made some improvements I'd wanted before but didn't feel like pulling all that old, stiff 10-gauge wire to do. So all was well; I lost a morning's work, but ended up with better than before. Not that I have a way to power it at present. But still, I was feeling pretty good about the day.

The conversation took a strange turn. A fellow had made a strange, rude jest some time ago, and I had answered not at all in jest that, if his jest were true, my response would be violent and destructive. My friend, with whom I was sharing lunch, had been present at the jest. He raised the subject - or maybe I did, I don't remember - and he spoke of ropes and trees. I said no, that wasn't my style. If it came to personal violence, I'd cut his throat in the middle of the night. I'm too old and lame for confrontations, if I can avoid them.

Not that it would ever come to personal violence. The 'violence and destruction' I spoke of wasn't against the jester himself, or even his property. But it's a long, personal story and probably irrelevant. It's just that I won't be betrayed or cheated with impunity.

Now, none of that is really good blog fodder, and I wouldn't mention it except I was spending this afternoon reading some Kipling and came upon something that reminded me of the conversation. It's curious how different sorts of people can interact, and never really understand one another at all. Sometimes that failure to communicate can get you killed. When in doubt in the desert, it's always best to be polite.

Hadramauti

By Rudyard Kipling

Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason?
What are his measures and balances? Which is his season
For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move him
When he arises to smite us? I do not love him.
He invites the derision of strangers—he enters all places.
Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces
He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless.
Certainly Allah created him forty-fold shameless!

So it is not in the Desert. One came to me weeping—
The Avenger of Blood on his track—I took him in keeping.
Demanding not whom he had slain, I refreshed him, I fed him
As he were even a brother. But Eblis had bred him.

He was the son of an ape, ill at ease in his clothing.
He talked with his head, hands and feet. I endured him with loathing.
Whatever his spirit conceived his countenance showed it
As a frog shows in a mud-puddle. Yet I abode it!

I fingered my beard and was dumb, in silence confronting him.
His soul was too shallow for silence, e'en with Death hunting him.
I said: "'Tis his weariness speaks," but, when he had rested,
He chirped in my face like some sparrow, and, presently, jested!

Wherefore slew I that stranger? He brought me dishonour.
I saddled my mare, Bijli, I set him upon her.
I gave him rice and goat's flesh. He bared me to laughter.
When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after,
Taking my sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him.
Under the stars he mocked me—therefore I killed him!