Of course, he explained all his rules to those members of the tribe who were gifted enough to listen to his drum. Within a few weeks he had organized and formalized his message so systematically that all his prescriptions were recorded in tom-tom fashion by the methods-hungry members of his tribe. Now, for the first time the tribe had a system for the beating of drums, laws for the patterns of the drums, models for the style of the drums, and even precedents for interpreting the drums. No longer did a member of the tribe need rely on his human recources and experiences when he tampered with his tomtom he could use a rulebook. The prescribed, regulated beats made the ears of the learned of the tribe feel even better, for they recognized the form and the function of the repeated patterns of the drums. They were still secure. But the common men, trying to seek familiar pleasure in the natural, creative purpose of their drums, began to feel uncomfortable. They were now insecure. Oh the common men were understood but they didn't understand what the scholars understood about the thoughts of the thinking man as he tried to further explain why and how the drums were and always would be understood. But soon, grammar was born into the tribe. Until his death the thinking man was admired for his explanation of the drums; he was well thought of for thinking of these thoughts. Following precisely the formal pattern of the drums, his colleagues taught others what the drums were all about. Gradually, more and more members of the tribe began to play only the prescribed patterns on their drums. Of course, each novice in turn was eager to let others know that he too knew; so like a medicine man with a new bag, he would beat his messages out, carefully paying heed to the laws now learned about the system and the grammar of the drums. Such men became the masters. They were pleased. Those who could do nothing more than appreciate the original beauty of the tom-toms or understand the practical value of the drums were thought to be incapable of mastering the new methodology. Such men became the ungifted. They were frustrated. Whenever one of these slow-learners (for so they were called by the masters) attempted to tap a message with his tom-tom, he became very uncomfortable, for he now considered himself inferior. From then on, the common man felt natural only when he beat his private drum among his closest friends. Because he hid his louder drum and because he allowed the learned to make the public beat, the common man gave up his public voice. Whenever he tried to regain his former respect in the tom-tom world, he was maliciously accused of dangling a drumstick or splitting a tum-ta-tum. It wasn't long until the masters established a new Standards and Practices Committee, which prescribed the precise form for all human messages created for public communication. But underground, in the lives and language of the publicly frustrated, the natural beat went on, just the way it always had. Of course, the SAP committee ignored such unprincipled tom-toms unless one of the unlearned attempted to tom-tom in public. Whenever that happened, all the members of the SAP would beat furiously, but formally, on their drums, condemning the uneducated man for not following the authorized prescriptions set down by the SAP Handbook and Guide to Better Tom-Toms. The masters continued to indulge in the habits of the system by setting up societies and associations for the purification and proliferation of their standards. The learners, meanwhile, continued to be frustrated by the unnaturalness of the system's rules they could not resolve the conflict between the natural tom-tom skills learned in their homes and the imposed drumming demanded by their masters. Of course, as older generations of the tribe died out, the memory of the day when everyone was understood and valued for what he was as a man rather than a tomtom beater became fainter, fading as a distant drum. The scholars of each new generation were fascinated by the system. Eagerly accepting the SAP Handbook as their authority, they criticized their elders for favoring their ancient and unlearned ways. Finally then, everyone in the tribe publicly acclaimed the systematized pattern for the drums; the grammar was accepted, even by those unlearned who never quite comprehended it. Grammatical was good, ungrammatical was bad prescribed language became a cultural necessity. This language game dominated the tom-toms of man for nearly three centuries. As each new generation was indoctrinated by the theory of the system and the mechanics of the grammar, each complied to the authority in spirit, if not in practice. The culture elevated and emulated those masters who could practice the rules and play the games advocated by the authority. The same culture, however, disparaged or ignored those who were unskilled in the rules; they were even condemned if they refused to publicly praise those rules they could not use themselves. And so for centuries, natural man bent and realigned his tom-toms in a gallant effort to conform. 34 ORDEAL ORDEAL ORDEAL ORDEAL ORDEAL ORDEAL By PEGGY SEWARD David shuffled across the carpeted floor with both hands jammed deep into his pockets. His round, pink face puckered into a frown as he surveyed first a pile of magazines on a low table and then an abstract painting hanging crookedly on the wall. He turned and began walking, following the swirling pattern of the carpet until he stood beside the chair in which his mother was sitting. "I got something for you, Mama." Absently she reached out her hand and David took a wad of gum out of his mouth and planted it in her palm. She brought eyebrows together briefly, then dropped the gum into the waste basket along side of the chair. David was aware that the room smelled like an opened box of band-aids, and even more aware of the sickly churning in his stomach. His mother reached out and tucked his shirt into his pants, then hiked them up an inch or two. David looked up at her, his turquoise eyes pleading. She brushed the straying blond hair out of his eyes with her hand and smiled. David liked her smile, it was a nice smile that crinkled up the corners of her eyes, but he didn't feel like smiling back. Instead, he frowned, and was just about to say something when he saw the tall woman in the white uniform. His stomach leaped. "David Morris this way please." The uniformed woman glanced briefly at David then turned and began walking into the next room. David's mother stood up. "Ready?" Her eyes were anxious, but she kept smiling. David's heart leapfrogged painfully and his mouth felt like cotton. "Mama, I don't want to go." It was barely a whisper. His mother knelt down beside him and took both of his hands in hers. "David, you have to. It's only a blood test. Your father and I have already explained it to you. They'll just poke your finger and take a little blood. It's nothing for a brave boy like you. Why you'll be five years old in only two months. Aren't you going to show Daddy what a big boy you are?" David looked over at his father. He was holding a magazine loosely in his large square hands, and he seemed to be frowning a little. His thick dark eyebrows made him look even more awesome. "You be a good boy now, and then we'll go get an ice cream cone." The voice was deep but mellow. David swallowed once and turned back to his mother. She took his hand and held it a little too tightly. They walked slowly to the door, where the nurse was waiting. "Mrs. Morris, will you wait out here please?" David felt the panic engulf him. It was like diving into a pool of cold water. He turned frantically to grasp for his mother's hand, but the nurse already had hold of his arm. He watched his mother's back move away with a feeling of emptiness. He wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but he couldn't. He was being led right into the den of these antiseptic ghosts with their orthopedic shoes, and he was alone. There were others in the room and they all looked at him with their faces frozen into crooked smiles. David caught a glimpse of faded brown tile, tubes, and microscopes before the woman led him into a smaller room. This room was bare except for a bed and a few mysterious machines that stood against the faded green walls. David shivered and looked toward the door. The woman lifted him up and sat him down on the bed. The sterile covering on the bed crackled beneath him. An iodine-like smell stung his nostrils. The woman smiled down at him. She had brown hair that curled around her face, and sad puppy eyes, but David hated her. She called to someone and another of the white women came to the door. They talked softly, and the second woman nodded her head. David watched them very carefully; at least they weren't going to take him by surprise. He thought that maybe he should say a prayer, but "Now I lay me down to sleep," didn't seem exactly proper. Another woman appeared and all three descended on him. David didn't know exactly what was going to happen next, but he felt that this was not the usual procedure. Then he saw the needle and his spine stiffened. It was the most horrible weapon he had ever seen. The tube must have been as big around as his arm, and the needle part was at least four inches long. The breath went out of David's body and refused to come back. He 35