She stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and stared. Two men in their twenties or thirties were wrestling – no, outright fighting – on a large cement block at the edge of the sidewalk. They gasped and gave hoarse cries, clenching each other’s clothes and pinching any available skin, grunting when the blows landed. Several times the two men rolled dangerously close to the edge of the block and the road beyond, buzzing with cars that flashed past with hardly a glance for the angry men.
She gasped and covered her mouth when the blond man punched the other’s nose so hard that it bled. She stood poised, a small island in the tide of pedestrians, wondering whether she should try to stop them. No, she would only get hurt herself, and she lacked the strength to force them apart. She wished that she had accepted her fiancé’s offer of an escort, but it was too late now. She winced as the older man landed a blow that made the other groan in pain. Why were the other pedestrians walking along so calmly, with scarcely a second look for the two fighters?
Coming quickly to a decision, she tugged at the sleeve of a passing man who seemed to be in less of a hurry than the rest.
“Excuse me sir, but do you think you could stop them?”
He stopped and looked down at her.
“Stop whom?”
She gestured impatiently at the two bruised and battered men, who were still fighting single-mindedly.
“Them. It’s horrible the way they’re fighting like that.”
The man shook his head slowly.
“Miss, I don’t see anyone.”
She stared at him.
“What?”
“I don’t see anyone. There’s no one there. . .” He began to drift away, and she caught his arm desperately.
“But, sir, they’re right there, on that block! Right there, don’t you see them?”
He paused and looked again, then turned a curious glance on her.
“Miss. . .”
“Please, stop them. They’ll hurt each other.” She didn’t know why it was so important to her that the men be stopped. It was just that no one else seemed to care at all.
“Miss, there’s no one there. Only the old statue that’s been there for years.”
“I tell you, they’ll hurt. . .”
The men were gone.
On the same cement block, where seconds before two living beings had squirmed and gasped there was only the cold grey of a statue. Two statues, actually, their limbs intertwined as they strove to strike one another in a desperate fight to the death.
She realized her mouth was open and closed it.
“Sorry, miss. . .” The man gently disentangled himself from her trembling hand and moved away, caught up instantly in the brisk mass of strangers. She ducked her way through the crowd to sit on the edge of the block. Looking at the two statues, she tried to see the two men again, but they were motionless. She brushed her fingers over the block, wondering if she’d gone crazy.
“There’s an old legend behind that statue.”
She looked up to see an old woman perched on the opposite corner of the block.
“It was there when this city was just a little town. Most people have forgotten about the tale, and what’s worse – they don’t care anymore.”
The woman gave her a wrinkled smile.
“You’re not the first to have . . . seen something, my dear.”
She started forward.
“You mean – it’s real? That is, it’s not just my imagination?”
The old woman just smiled.
“This statue has been sitting here since I was a little girl. No one cares about it, no one cares for it. I don’t suppose . . . if you have the time . . .”
She ducked her head to hear over the noise of the passers-by.
“You might help care for it.” One gnarled finger tapped the block next to her, and the old woman was gone.
She stood and bent over the place the old woman had tapped. There was a worn plaque there, lying flat on the block, exposed to the elements. She brushed away the dead leaves and pine needles that covered it and saw that moss had been busy growing in every available crack and crevice of the plaque. Running one finger over each letter, she noticed that they were in various stages of care. The first few had once been carefully cleaned, but moss was beginning to grow in them again. The ones in the middle were free from growth but had been rained and snowed on for long enough that they were tarnished. Only the second to last letter was clean, untarnished and free from moss. Carefully, she picked out the moss from the final letter and rubbed away the dirt, ending several minutes later with a shiny, clean groove. Satisfied, she stood back and admired her handiwork. Every letter of the two words on the plaque was visible: THE FIGHTERS. She looked one last time at the first letter, almost full of moss; then suddenly smiled and stepped into the crowd once more. When the time was right, someone else would clean it.