BAWA'S LAW

Chapter 4-2

For a moment the father was absolutely dazed, looking at his son with incomprehension. It was an affront on his authority, an unacceptable deviation that needed to be righted.

 His roughened palm had come down sharply and he had slapped Chris across his pale cheeks, the sound abrasive and explosive, and it left great welts on the tender skin of the boy instantly.

The blow flung the boy down hard on his back, but he bounced back up almost immediately and faced his bully of a father.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Ted Bawa grated down at his son in a terrible whisper.

That was when the battle lines were drawn.

The little boy watched his father with latent fury.

Chris did not snivel or make a sound, although the tears dripped down his face. Ted looked down at that tiny face, taking particular notice of the tiny balled fists, noting the fire blazing out of the innocent steel-grey eyes, a look which would in later years strike sudden trepidation into the hearts of many a foe.

Ted looked at the lips of Chris, lips he had contemptuously discarded as too feminine when the boy was growing up, which were now bloodless, pressed together so tightly that they appeared to be a single white line, jawbones grinding against each other so terribly that he could actually hear the cracking effects in the boy’s jaws…and Ted Bawa knew then, by a sudden revelation that struck into his very core, that this was a beginning, that by some terrible fate this scene would be repeated, maybe not once, or twice, but as many times as it would take for one of them to give up, to fall.

 For one terrible moment, he thought the boy was going to fly at him, and Ted stiffened his hands, ready to beat Chris savagely to instil fear in the boy.

Here was a rogue, a rebel, an untamed spirit that, if not curbed, would defy the very foundation of law and discipline Ted had painstakingly planted, nurtured and reaped.

“Chrissy, Chrissy!” the mother whispered with fear, getting up from the ground and trying to hold the boy.

The tears stopped flowing down the kid’s face.

“You okay, Mama?” Little Chris asked.

“I’m fine, Chrissy, I’m very fine!” his mother whispered tremulously.

The boy nodded once and turned away from her embrace. He did not look at his father again as he walked away.

 Ted, a good judge of a man’s character, was inwardly shocked by the fact that the boy had wept silently, and that he had rejected the comforting arms of his mother; that spoke volumes, and hinted at the kind of cold spirit the little boy had.

Ted felt strongly that such insubordination needed to be corrected, and he had had a strong compulsion to call the boy back and teach that vital lesson but, somehow, looking at the tensed shoulders of the boy, he knew that the raw spirit in that boy would not bow to his father’s wishes, and he probably would have to whip the hide off the boy’s back before a victory could be claimed.

However, dishing out that kind of beating to a toddler would not be tolerated by decent folks, at least not in Little Rock; there was so much a man could be permitted to do, even a man like Ted Bawa, Little Rock’s founder.

Later, boy, Ted thought grimly as he turned away, later you will learn the meaning of respect for authority, and believe you me, I’m gonna purge your soul of that vile spirit!

 The mother looked helplessly at her little son and allowed him to walk away. She too felt that it was not the time to show affection. She knew, by some strange intuition, that Chris would have rejected any form of sympathy at that particular time.

Francine also knew that for as long as she lived that son of hers would be the sweetest and most cherished treasure hidden deep in her bosom…because no one had ever dared stand up for her all through the years of abuse from her husband, except that little soul, Chris Bawa.

She knew that a day would come when that boy would make her dry her tears for the last time. With a little sigh, she also headed for the house.

The other men remained, their faces reflecting the horror and shock at what the little boy had done. On the faces of the cowboys were clear signs of shocked admiration. 

“Hell shades, you ever saw anything like that, Roy?” one cowboy asked with a sheepish chuckle.

 “That little hellfire faced that old tiger true and square,” another said, shaking his head in awe. “I tell you this, boys, that younger has the balls of iron. You mark my words, the devil himself will flee from the face of Chris Bawa one day.”

The two older brothers, Jamie and Ato, exchanged hard looks.

They had seen the looks of the cowboys, and they had heard the admiration in their voices. Over the years they had wanted so much to offer a token of resistance to their father. However, they had all been shut down. They had been totally trampled upon by a father who felt he had no equal.

And they had accepted it with a resigned air.

The sight of their father either verbally or physically abusing their mother had become a part of a normal way of living…until their little brother stood up and reacted in a way outside the norm by biting their father’s calf.

 They had seen the shock and incomprehension on their father’s face, and his fleeting look of dismay. Worst, they had seen the look of raw love on their mother’s face as she looked at their young brother.

Jealousy flared suddenly and unbidden, burning through their hearts like an unrestrained prairie fire…and with that brief exchange of looks, they also shared something which they knew no one present saw: deep hatred for their little brother Chris who, with just a single act of defiance, had suddenly stolen all the respect they had tried to wrest from the other cowboys.

They knew the story would make the rounds around the town. It made them hate their little brother to the core of their hearts!

As the little crowd dispersed, one man stayed in the background and took everything in with narrowed and thoughtful eyes.

He was an elderly man called Uncle Chad who had drifted into Little Rock a couple of years previously.

 He was almost sixty-four, but still as straight as a reef, and as skinny as a desert rat. His hair was long and grey, his eyebrows and eyelashes a similar overgrowth. His huge saddle-bar moustache almost hid his thin lips.

The horse he was riding had collapsed with fatigue when he first rode into the house of Ted Bawa.

And he himself had passed out, and remained out for almost a day, due to total fatigue.

He had been admitted into the Circle T ranch to recuperate. When he gained strength, he had one day found his way into the kitchen.  By the time Mrs Bawa came from town to cook, the whole air had been filled with the mouth-watering aroma of the dinner Uncle Chad had conjured up.

It had tasted as delicious as it smelled.

Ted Bawa, who had been on the lookout for a cook, had employed Uncle Chad immediately.

Uncle Chad’s fame had spread.

The Circle T food was known to be the best on the range.

It also helped, remotely, to give the cowboys of the Circle T ranch a sort of status.

No one had pried into Uncle Chad’s past when he was employed.

 Frankly, no one wanted to know. He was just another drifter who had found a place to lay his hat. He never wore a gun. In fact, he seemed to have a particular dislike for guns.

He had been known countless times to walk away from fights. Even though he was much liked and respected both on the ranch and in the town of Little Rock, he was considered a coward of sorts.

That afternoon he was among the spectators who witnessed the showdown between big father Ted and little son Chris.

He was also the only one who had seen the intense hatred in the eyes of the two older brothers. For two years he had watched the mistress of the house being manhandled like a piece of imperfect furniture. But no one had ever seen the steel look in Uncle Chad’s eyes each time he had witnessed Ted Bawa assaulting his wife.

 He had felt so sorry for Mrs Francine Bawa for a long time, but he had not wanted to interfere in the domestic affairs of his employer.

No one had ever dared interrupt, really, except that seven-year-old firebrand of a son called Chris Bawa!

That afternoon Uncle Chad run the thumb and middle finger of his left hand thoughtfully down the outline of his saddle-bar moustache, his eyes on the retreating back of the little boy.

No one saw him sauntering casually down the yard after little Chris Bawa.

He found the boy lying on his side on the soft grass behind the house.

 Uncle Chad began to speak, but then he checked himself when he saw what the boy was doing; Chris had two little wood pieces in his hands. Near him was a column of red ants. Obviously, the ants had captured a juicy earthworm and were dragging it to their underground tunnel.

The little boy had lifted the worm from the column of ants with his little splices of wood. Of course, a few strong ants were still clinging tenaciously to the squirming worm. They were obviously furious at the intervention of Chris Bawa no doubt!

Uncle Chad watched silently as the boy used his wood pieces to pull the ants from the worm. He noticed that the boy was methodical, first placing a slice on the head of an ant to hold it steady and then gently pulling it away with the other slice held as an anchor against the body of the worm.

The boy’s face was suffused with grim determination and concentration, his tongue poking out of his lips. His face screwed up, faint perspiration on his brow, the dried tears leaving white vertical lines on his face.

Chad waited patiently until all the ants had been dragged from the tortured worm. The boy then pulled the grass out of the ground until he had uncovered a soft patch of earth, and then he gently lifted the worm and placed it on the soft earth.

The worm was weak from its harrowing experience, but it began to burrow into the earth, and shortly afterwards only a small part of its tail was sticking out.

 Little Chris Bawa then turned over on his back, laced his fingers beneath his head, and smiled warmly at Uncle Chad.

Over the years they had grown very close, and they loved each other dearly, though the old man tried hard to keep most of his feelings bottled up, especially when the two of them were around other people.

“You feeling happy, lad?”

Chris’ face clouded for an instant.

“Yep, a little,” he said after a while.

“I see you saved that little wormy,” Uncle Chad said, and his voice was not gentle. “Are you aware that in saving it, you denied the ants their food?”

“Perhaps,” the boy answered. “But they were kinda mean to that little worm. Just like Pop was mean to my Ma. It ain’t right. It ain’t right no way.”

 There was a long silence between them, and then the old man sighed.

“Life, laddie, is full of privileges and responsibilities, you know,” he said quietly. “Life is war. Well, that’s true enough, but what they don’t teach a fella is how to go fight that kinda war.”

The boy frowned a little and regarded the old man with those eyes which, even then at that very tender age, had the power of steel in them.

“I don’t understand, Uncle Chad,” Chris said finally. “Are you speaking straight, or you’re telling me one of those parable things?”

Again the man sighed, broke off a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth.

“I like you, Chris,” he said quietly, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

 He was quiet for a long time, and then his eyes swept over the land, the green stretch of virgin grass, the peaks of the fold mountains in the horizon. “Always had a dream, you know, about settling down and raising my own family. Well, I learnt early that life is no respecter of man, yes. The world is filled with mean people. People who wanna trod on you all the time, and drag you in the mud, and make sure that they disrespect you. Life is unfair, laddie, and you better be prepared for it.”

The boy sat up slowly, his eyes never leaving the lined face of his mentor.

He said nothing.

“I’m old, laddie,” Uncle Chad went on. “I’m just one of them old lonely men. I ain’t got no family, and no one will miss me much when I’m gone. I’ve seen the spirit in you, my boy. It is the untamed spirit of a true warrior.”

 Uncle Chad reached out and put a hand on young Chris Bawa’s shoulder.

“The spirit in you can never be broken. I can teach you things, Chris. In life, people will do mean things to you. They can come at you with guns, or knives or ropes, and they can even tie you up and throw you in a river. They can blindfold you and come at you with clubs.”

The old man paused, and his eyes were steel lights that dug into the young boy, impaling him so that Chris’ concentration didn’t waver.

“People can beat you up to pulp…but in all circumstances you got to be able to meet them and make them respect you. If they shoot fast, you shoot faster. They hit hard, you hit harder. That’s the only language life understands, laddie, the only damn language out here.”

The boy looked into the horizon for a long time, and then he reached out and touched the hardened hand of the man.

 “I still don’t understand, Uncle Chad,” Chris said quietly. “I figure you want to teach me how to be a man with all that parable talking. Well, I’ll like that really bad, I guess. I don’t want to be yellow like Jamie and Ato.”

Suddenly the man leaned forward, his hands shooting out to grip the upper arms of the boy tightly, causing Chris to moan with half pain and half surprise.

“Are you really ready, laddie?” Uncle Chad asked in a fierce whisper. “Privileges and responsibilities, you remember that, boy. I’m going to teach you how to kill your body so that it can withstand pain. I’m going to teach you how to shoot faster than any gunslinger. I’ll teach you how to fight with your bare hands, how to build all your power in your damn brain.”

He pushed Chris Bawa back so that the boy fell, and then he stood up and loomed over the boy, his face harsh and cruel.

 “Me teaching you how to be a man is a privilege to you, son. Now, you must also reciprocate by your responsibility! Do you understand?”

“My responsibility?” the little boy asked, striving not to sound confused and scared because this was an Uncle Chad he had never seen before. Certainly, this cruel-looking man standing over him couldn’t be the kind-hearted gentleman who knew how to cook so well.

“Your responsibility is to make sure that no one, no living soul apart from me and you, know of what we do. Can you do that? Can you damn well do that, boy?” Uncle Chad spoke harshly.

Chris did not flinch.

He got to his feet and stared solidly at the old gentleman.

“I won’t tell no soul, Uncle Chad,” he whispered. “That is my responsibility!”

 They stared hard into each other’s eyes for a moment more, and then the man nodded and wiped his brow with an unsteady hand.

Slowly, without another word, he turned and went back the way he had come.

That was how it started.