Ecologist v. Economist

It wasn't the rationalization given by the Drill Instructor that brightened the Ecologist's mood, but the fact that the Drill Sergeant sought to rationalize - regardless of his oversimplified and (to the mind of the Ecologist) laughable reasoning. It brightened his mood because it seemed to prove a long-held belief proposed by his academic colleague, the Philosopher (Continental): namely, that all actions (including his) are necessarily unconscious biological reactions to stimuli, and not open to choice, regardless of the feeling that we are subject to chose, itself an illusion.

Thus, at the time, the Ecologist felt more detached from matters of good and evil.

Except now, post-duel, he doesn't; he feels tremendous guilt and grief on looking at the splayed body of the Drill Sergeant beneath him, and the schnauzer nuzzling the Drill Sergeant's hand, as if to coax a pat.

This is rotten, he says.

The Grave Digger buries the body and begins straightening the tumult he caused to Stetson's cabin. The schnauzer, after the burial, sits on the Drill Sergeant's grave. Then, later, joins the Grave Digger. After cleaning the cabin and righting the furniture, the Grave Digger takes residence.

The next day when the Ecologist and Economist meet they, knowing each other in passing from their time at the university, discuss the one thing that happily separates them from unfortunate aspects of reality: their fields of study.

I wrote a paper, says the Ecologist, on the natural reforestation of abandoned farmland and its effect on large mammal populations. It took place in this region. With almost unrestricted private funding we hired a team of townies to act as porters. They carried the observational equipment, the kits used to build electronic monitoring stations throughout the woodlands. We came under attack twice, each time losing a few dozen porters - but more tragically, the wife of my good friend, the group's Ethnologist. But the data we collected - before the stations were found and taken down - showed what I'd expected: an exponential increase in the population. Deer, fox, wolves, bears - in profusion.

As luck would have it, the Economist also did research in the area as a student:

It was just a simple market study, but it played on some historic curiosities: the origin of current day intra-tribal trading amongst anarcho-primitive forest communalists. All communities are intrinsically - often religiously - shy to trade with other communities, especially of different socialist ideological bents (Noyesians, for example, would rather die than exchange with New Harmonists), and of course the ritual patterns of warfare and revenge killings, but they will under certain material conditions. Usually if both parties' receive a mutual, favorably interpreted omen, and if the necessities of each are high enough, and if armed raiding is strategically inadvisable. Some tribes are different than others, of course: some never trade; some have, over years, ritualized the event, leading to regular market gatherings reminiscent of the standard extra-tribal rendezvous, held in different mountain glades each summer season. But these are usually among the more southern tribes, near the coal mining regions. We documented three communities over two years, all in the hills and forests to the east. Facinating people, in a way, however morally reprehensible.

The Ecologist agrees.

Imagine living without order, part of a pack. Regardless of whether I agree with them or not, it's not difficult to see why colleagues started the petition to reclassify the communalists as a particular sub-human species. They way they act, they might as well be studied as animals.

My last lecture, in fact, touched on that topic exacly: I used them as an example of a culture without a stable division of labor.

The Ecologist is about to extol the freedom he and the Economist have to chose their own paths - when he suddenly remembers the Drill Sergeant's act of rationalization. He's thrown into an unexpected spat of doubt.

Drill Sergeant v. Ecologist

The Drill Sergeant doesn't bury the body of the forest dweller, but lays him beside the Dyer. As he walks to the cabin in search of a shovel he sees a haggard figure in the far distance, walking through the corn field east from the road. Only his head's exposed. His face barely peeks from beneath a frayed straw hat.

Still wary from the previous encounter, he pulls a pistol from under his belt. The schnauzer starts barking. Yet the man walks on, pushing through the rows of burnt, water-starved, neck-high corn. The Drill Sergeant steps behind the south wall of the cabin, partly hiding from sight.

Finally the man steps from the corn. The Drill Sergeant turns the corner, pistol aimed at the man's chest. The dog stops barking.

I'm no enemy, says the man. He slowly reaches up and takes off his hat. It's the Grave Digger. A bandage runs over his left eye. He looks at the Drill Sergeant, then the dog.

After explaining who his is and his function - and proving it by naming the location of the shovel, left laying behind tall weeds against the east wall of the cabin - the Drill Sergeant lowers his gun. The dog lays in the shade of the cabin, panting from the oppressive, windless heat.

How many duels you won?

The Drill Sergeant answers. Two. The Grave Digger nods. He looks down at the dog with dispassionate eyes. He looks over at the cabin, torn asunder, looted. It's then that the Drill Sergeant smells the atmosphere of stale liquor and cheap cigar around the man. He stiffens.

Where were you the last two days? he asks curtly. It's summer. Bodies rot as fast as they drop.

The Grave Digger shakes his head. The Drill Sergeant narrows his eyes, licks his parched lips.

I shot a forest dweller -- a nativist lurking at the perimeter.

This is the first news that perks the Grave Digger's interest, that snaps him from his torpor. He asks to be taken to see the body. He almost forgets to take the shovel.

When they reach the body the Grave Digger lowers himself slowly, with cautious movement from the still-painful wounds and bruises, onto one knee, scattering a swarm of flies. He looks at the face. He looks at the tattoos on the cheekbones, the crude ouroboros on the man's arm.

They were all masked when they took us, animal masks. They took us to the village, with a dog. I don't remember. We were knocked out. Not longhouses but timber with gabled roofs. Children playing. Women. They took him away. Separated us. Then they washed me head to foot. I was terrified. I struggled. You've heard the stories, you understand.

The Grave Digger stops. He pauses, then stands.

I don't recognize him, he says. I saw too many, or not enough.

We need to call a Forest Ranger, says the Drill Sergeant. We'll go together.

The Grave Digger shakes his head. They're a joke. And what's more, no one knows the patterns of jurisdiction up here. A professional Assessor couldn't draw lines between the stakes. Less than any other part of the wilderness.

We'll go anyway.

The Grave Digger looks the Drill Sergeant in the eye. You're not leaving the grounds, he says. You duel.

The Drill Sergeant thinks better of objecting. He walks back to the oak. The Grave Digger takes to burying the dead. Notably, he drags the forest dweller north to the red rock, where the earlier sacrificial boy was buried.

The day turns to night, and night to morning.

The Ecologist, a young, awkward man in khakis and a gold shirt, arrives alert yet quietly distressed, like a patient calling on a dentist for a tooth that can't be short of needing pulled.

You don't look proud to be here, son, the Drill Sergeant barks.

The Ecologist explains the loss of others at the university. And his studies. Then, as if only then waking to the Drill Sergeant's statement, asks what he should feel proud of.

This is an institution, states the Drill Instructor. The validity of it is obvious. It doesn't matter if you or I have ever heard of it. The importance of some things are so great as to never be known. Yet that doesn't dissuade good men from doing their duty. From duty comes a sense of pride. Good men are proud of the duty they do to strengthen the whole.

This speech causes the Ecologist's mood to brighten significantly. He accepts the duel with enthusiasm.