Somebody has to kill the killers.
Lake was commenting today (via text) on my darkness of late. He used the term “downward spiral.” Which I reminded him applies more directly to our nation and culture. I also reminded him of this Kipling story, about a born killer who has to follow his enemy down the hole no matter how dark it gets.
Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again. She headed straight for the long grass by the thorn-bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard Darzee still singing his foolish little song of triumph. But Darzee’s wife was wiser. She flew off her nest as Nagaina came along, and flapped her wings about Nagaina’s head. If Darzee had helped they might have turned her; but Nagaina only lowered her hood and went on. Still, the instant’s delay brough Rikki-tikki up to her, and as she plunged into the rat-hole where she and Nag used to live, his little white teeth were clenched on her tail, and he went down with her — and very few mongooses, however wise and old they may be, care to follow a cobra into its hole. It was dark in the hole; and Rikki-tikki never knew when it might open out and give Nagaina room to turn and strike at him. He held on savagely, and struck out his feet to act as brakes on the dark slope of the hot, moist earth.
Then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, and Darzee said: “It is all over with Rikki-tikki! We must sing his death song. Valiant Rikki-tikki is dead! For Nagaina will surely kill him underground.”
So he sang a very mournful song that he made up on the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most touching part the grass quivered again, and Rikki-tikki, covered with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking his whiskers. Darzee stopped with a little shout. Rikki-tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed. “It is all over,” he said. “The widow will never come out again.” And the red ants that live between the grass stems heard him, and began to troop down one after another to see if he had spoken the truth.
I’ve been thinking about a post on this topic for a while now. I am no victim of my times. I was raised and trained expressly to do what I do. My father reared me as a cultural warrior. It’s not his fault that building a human mongoose has unintended consequences.
I hunt and kill cobras. What I do. I’m not nice or cute or useful for anything else. I don’t even change the net population of cobras.
But people who live in fear of cobras can take heart in knowing there’s such a thing as a mongoose.
My teeth are sunk in the tail of a poisonous culture that can kill our nation. I won’t let go.
I’ve spent years feeling guilty because I thought I’d disappointed my father. I’m finally realizing that I didn’t, couldn’t. He doesn’t approve all the choices I’ve made, but he knows that I never ever let go. Even more than he. And he knows the price that exacts.
Why I’m feeling as if it’s possible, conceivable, to imagine a state of peace. I was built to play this particular part in the end game of America. I’m pretty sure he’ll forgive the sins that helped turn me into the resistance weapon I’ve become.
Booooring. You don’t have to be a rodent to kill snakes. Hell, I’m damn near as quick as The Boss. They call me Rikki Tikki Izzi.
uh, Izzie has never scratched me. She leads a four-cat household in mouse kills. This absolutely crazed, wild-ass Bengal has never scratched me. I’m a mongoose. I was raised for this. Watch Hitman. I have a barcode on my head.
And like the birds and the family in the story, I realize that we, that I am happy for two things: that a mongoose like you is in our house and ruthlessly pursues cobras; and that we don’t have to go into the hole.
Reading that story again and thinking about your role in my life was a drink of cold water on this hot day. Killing cobras comes naturally to Rikki-tikki, but he has to be fully ready and on his game. He anticipates some events and reacts with a quickness to the unexpected. He appreciates the praise he deserves with both pride and nonchalance. Yes, he sounds familiar.
Read the whole thing here if you haven’t read it recently (or ever!).
Some real footage of the struggle.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdg9gkmWsEA&sns=em
One of my favorite stories, from the first time I heard it.
Rikki-tikki could also enjoy being petted, though.
Speaking of: I bet I could make that gorgeous cat purr. What a beautiful creature.
She doesn’t purr. Hadn’t even realized it until your comment. She talks. A lot. But she doesn’t purr. She starts fights she can’t win with toms twice her size. She flings her body recklessly into situations where she might just fall on her ass and, oops, she falls on her ass. Funny thing — she weighs just seven pounds but she’s the closest thing to Raebert (uh, a hundredweight plus) in a household of seven animals. Fearless, mysterious, smart, beautiful, clumsy, and a pure wonder to live with. But if you’d like to make her purr, be our honored guest. As you would be anyway.
A clumsy cat that doesn’t purr? How remarkable…
My wife has a ridiculously clumsy cat which also somehow happens to be an excellent hunter. Not sure how he pulls it off. He’s also quite stupid, and forgets how to use the cat door about every fourth time he wants to go out. (I say it’s my wife’s cat because ever since my huge samurai cat died, I haven’t really had another cat.)
BTW, Kipling knew cats as well as mongooses.
There are sheep and there are wolves; thank god we also have sheepdogs. Some of your military types out there will understand this. But mongoose works perfectly well for me. We’ve talked about Kipling before, he has always been near the top of my list — and I fully understand the implications and what it reveals. I’m good. One of my favorites is Hymn Before Action (even with all the irony). We are in the final battle, old friend. I salute you.
For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone.
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.
Final battle. Dead right, my friend.
Those were the “ironic” lines, yes. But I could do without them, would rather focus on the deadly resolve. Or does that change it all? I don’t think so. More later I hope.
I wish the irony didn’t change it all. But it does. We’ll be to blame if we don’t save the day AND if we do. Kipling had a sense of that possibility. Why it’s the darkest battle.
I love Kipling. He and Robert Service are probably my two favorite poets (there’s another Robert who’s good too — can’t recall his name right now). I’m sure that makes me a Neanderthal or a troglodyte or something along those lines. Don’t care.
Interesting historical tidbit: Kipling went to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and as a result two towns were named after him. Kipling is a ghost town today, but Rudyard is still a going concern.
Guy: don’t tell anyone about the Robert Service part. Promise me.