Chapter 1 – The Last Day Begins

– The last day of the Iron War –

 

The rain fell upon their heads heavily as they crawled forward through the muck and foliage towards their goal. It had been three days now of travel, three days since they had set out on this, this most important of missions. They had spent most of it on their bellies, crawling below the dense branches and plant life that had grown up high above their heads. But now they were nearing the end of the trek, and the end of their war.

 

A droplet of water fell from the clouds, beginning its earthbound journey, striking a leaf as it hit the forest canopy and spiting into multiple droplets. One of these droplets found it’s way, unsullied, through the thickness of the forest’s rooftop and right onto the nose of Katarina Swift. She shivered and drew her hood further over her head. As if things weren’t cold enough as it was, now they were being rained on. She was far too young to be on a quest like this, it should have been out of the question that she was even considered for the task. Anyone in their right minds would have denied the hasty request of the young girl. But then again, there were no cooler heads to prevail in the meetings of the King’s War Council.

 

They had been at war with the neighbouring countries that made up the continent of Illum for nearly two years now and enough bodies had been cut down that at the end of the war, houses and walls could be rebuilt with the corpses. Swift found herself shuddering at the grim, sick thought that has just crossed her mind. For God’s sake woman. How could you think such a thing. Shut up, it’s bad enough having to crawl through all this filth, I don’t need your judgement making it worse. Her self argument ended when at the head of the party, a noise was heard. It sounded as through someone was standing up, was it? Could it be? Yes. The sigh of relief that was moving it’s way down the line of crawlers confirmed to Swift that they were coming out of the thick forest and into somewhere that they could stand up.

 

She felt the eagerness sweep through her as she pulled herself forward after those in front of her. She was drawing closer to the end, she was glad of the impending change, even casting a glance back towards the blackness that they had just squeezed through. She could barely make out the indentations that they had made whilst travelling, chest bound, through the forest. Even during the day, the light barely penetrated the darkness of the forest floor. Sick of the reminder, she returned her gaze forward. There were two people in front of her, once they were up, she could get up. Closer, closer. Almost there. She thought about the first thing she should do when she was standing, stretch her legs, or her back maybe? Wipe her body down, clean off the mud as she could? She had kept a change of clothes in her backpack, nestled away with their provisions. She could tough out wilderness survival, but it didn’t mean she had to always be filthy.

 

 

By the time she had decided on what she would be doing once she was up, the man in front of her was pulling himself from the day and a half long thicket of low hanging forest. Swift gladly stuck out her hands, letting the air, unrestricted in the open space, wash over them. She gripped tightly into the soft ground with her nails and pulled. You can get out and change as soon as you’re up. Make it quick though. I was planning on that. Did you think I was going to fix my hair and nails whilst I was at it? 

 

As Swift got herself to her feet and patted herself down, ridding herself of as much mud as she could, a whistling sound caught her attention. It was a soft sound, but it carried, and caught the attention of those nearby, including her. She looked up to see the leader of the party. No less than the King himself, meeting them with a steady gaze. He made a waving motion to indicate that there would be no break. And with that, he turned on his heels and led the march onwards. Swift hung her head low, pulled her hood off her head, flicking her short, filth coloured hair as she did. And followed onwards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Shut up and stay down”

 

The orders were passed down in a silent hasty flurry as the group moved into a crouch as they left the shelter and the cover of the forest. They still had an open plain ahead of them, which they had to cross before the morning light broke the clouds, and revealed them to their enemies. Swift scanned their surroundings, trying to spot the danger they were hiding from. Behind them, the forest, thick and confusing, easy to get lost in. To their left, open plains, brownish grass stretching out and rolling over itself in the quiet darkness. To the right, the danger. Sentries posted atop the small cliff that shot from the ground and had grown up in a sheer horizontal wall of rock. In the light of day, the party of soldiers and their king would have been  visible for miles around. Their desperate mission over before it had even truly begun. But here in the night, they had cover. And even now as they moved, they moved in perfect silence, placing their steps carefully and lightly, making as little noise as possible. It had been no wonder why the King had chosen the Wardens as his vanguard for this mission. Their lack of protective armour and stealth training allowed them to move in perfect silence, invisible in the dark. Even the King himself had stripped off his royal battle armour in favour of the tough leather worn by the Wardens.

 

And yet to Swift, as she kept up with the party, bringing up the rear, the King’s choice in comrades seemed flawed. And the flaw, was with her. She looked up, fixing her eyes on the man at the head of the party. It was Master Harren, the Master in command of the Wardens of the West. He had been her mentor ever since she had joined their ranks five years prior. He had raised his hand and waved it towards the cliff face, he then bunched his fist and splayed it outwards, facing his palm towards the rocks. The Wardens understood the signal and moved in silence towards the rocks. They hugged towards the side of the rocks and began to move against them. Swift understood the need for this, if they lost the covers of darkness, or if the sentries had been sending soldiers out on patrol, it would be harder to spot the party against the flat of the rock, than it would the party in the open.

 

See Swift. You understand. Why do you doubt yourself still?

 

Swift heard her inside voice, the voice she spent more than half of her spare time arguing with, even as she kept her pace along the wall. The party was accelerating. She looked to her right, the sun was rising.

 

I know the signals, I know how to follow them. It doesn’t mean I know if I’m ready for this.

 

I don’t think you have a choice. This mission could end the war. They need you. They need Calm Swift. Not Panicked Swift, not Self Doubting Swift. They need War Swift.

 

Well perhaps I don’t want to be in a war any more.

 

 

That was the end of their conversation. Swift silenced her thoughts and pressed onwards with the ever increasing pace of the group. She focused instead on what she had been taught, slowing her breathing, keeping her eyes on the party leader and on the ground ahead of her. She had to be aware of her footing, not standing on any leafs or tripping on stones. She placed her feet in the way she had been taught, on the tip, never lowering the heel. Use as little of the foot as possible.

 

The pace was increasing still, the party now moving at a quick jog but she still didn’t understand why. There must be something she had forgotten. She tried to cast her mind back, to the mission briefing, they were staring at the maps. She was meant to study them just like everyone else. She remembered the path away from the Capital City. Using horses to speed their way around the advancing enemy soldiers. Then into the forest, crawling through every kind of rot and plant life. Then they were meant to cross the plains, go around the mountain and assault the outpost, where the leaders of their enemies were planned to meet. But they were still hours from the outpost, so why were they running? What was the haste?

 

In her deep thought, she had not noticed the party had halted, causing her to nearly trip over her own feet as she skidded to a halt. Silently berating herself she looked ahead of the party, where the King and Lord Harren were removing their backpacks. Swift had been curious about those. They were all to carry provisions in their packs to be shared around the camp. But never once had the King or Lord Harren opened up their own packs. Swift had wondered if they had sequestered their own stock of rations, hidden away in the night from their men. But she had crushed the thought before it had time to grow. She refused to believe such a horrid thought.

 

Her fealty was rewarded by the sight of the King and Harren removing rope and hooks from their bags, which they began passing along the line. As they did, Lord Harren began to speak. He had a soft voice, warm and comforting. It had often lulled Swift into a state of restfulness during their lessons. A state that he had had to wake from many times. She had often thought that her teacher should have been a minstrel or a glee man, rather than join the army.

 

“My apologies for the, confusing circumstances. But we have been betrayed.”

 

There was a soft murmur down the line. Lord Harren allowed it to continue and then as he began to speak again, it died down respectfully.

 

“There are those in the King’s court that have been consumed by fear, the fear of death and enslavement. Fear of the army that even now, crushes our homes under foot as they march on our Capital City. And with that fear, comes disloyalty.”

 

Swift tried to interpret the tone of his voice. She felt divided, was Harren condeming or condoning?

 

“And so we fed the lie of our plan. We will attack the outpost as planned. And we believe that all the Kings of the Iron Collition will be present at this outpost. They will not want to miss the chance to bring down the leaders of their opposition. But we will not attack through the front as we had devised.”

 

Swift began to understand. She cast her mind back to the maps, she realised their location. She put together the plan.

 

“We will scale these walls and climb up the mountain instead. The outpost is built up against it, but if they are prepared for our plan, they will be defending the front. We will come up from the back, raining arrows on them from the mountains with our archers and sticking them right up their arse with our swords. Before they realise what has happened, their Kings will be dead. And this Iron Collition will be broken.”

 

Another murmur rose up from this, but this time it held high hopes at victory. The Wardens were legendary warriors, but even they had felt concerned at the possibility of a frontal assault on such a fortified encampment. A rear attack was far more suited to them. Even Swift began to feel at ease; tying the rope to the hook and readying it in her hand. She looked to her side and waited for the call. The line watched towards Lord Harren and he nodded. Their arms moved as one. The hooks defying gravity as they ascended up, up, up and over the edge of the cliff. They latched against the rocks and held steady. Swift braced her left foot against the wall, and began to climb.

 

 

 

 

• Three months after The Iron War –

 

 

She had to admit it, this hall could echo. Even she, a woman trained for years in the art of silence and stealth, could not move across this blasted hall in silence. It made sense of course. No assassin could surprise the royal family or their guards in such a noisy castle.

 

Ah. Speaking of guards. She levelled her eyes with the guards standing before the great doorway that led into the throne room. They met her stern glare and side stepped in unison, barring the door entirely.

 

“Ma’am, please remove your hood.”

 

Swift remained silent. That wasn’t happening. Why did they insist on going through this every single time. They knew who she was. The guard took a step towards her, his hand stretching out to grab her hood. It got nowhere near.

 

With her left hand she gripped his armoured wrist tightly and with her right hand she launched two fingers at a blinding speed, directly into the guard’s unarmoured eyes. He dropped to his knees with the sharp contact. He gripped his face and let out a womanly howl. Swift looked up from him to his comrade, who was drawing his weapon. Swift took a quick step towards him, she placed her hand roughly over the hand that was still drawing the sword. She pushed down, the sword slipping from his grasp and falling back into it’s scabbard. She brought up her left hand and gripped his throat, a knife of her own coming up and sitting itself comfortably below his neck.

 

Swift regarded the soldier with curiosity. Was he waiting for her to deliver a wise crack? Some sort of threat?

 

“You need to shave.” She returned her knife below her black cloak and released the guard before entering the great hall of the Kingdom’s ruler.

 

She was a familiar sight to the Queen of course. After the war, Swift had begun covering herself with black clothing, a cloak and a hood. Some had named her the Black Spectre, and Swift had allowed the name to grow. The Queen had questioned her why she had not quelled the name on hearing it uttered. Swift had given her a dark smile, but otherwise gave no response. The Warden reached the foot of the two thrones and knelt. The Queen rose up and stepped down towards her oldest friend.

 

“You can stand up now Swift.”

 

Swift rose, or rather, the slim mass of blackness enveloped person, rose from the ground. The Queen had often watched Swift move with envy. She seemed to glide across the floor, so silent and graceful.

 

Swift remained silent and waited for the Queen to begin speaking. As always.

 

“Katarina, you really can’t carry on like this.”

 

“Is there anything you want from me my lady?”

 

The Queen halted and growled with her inside voice before turning and walking from Swift.

 

“You need to stop hiding yourself from the world Katarina. What happened three months ago wasn’t your fault.”

 

Swift, as always, remained silent. They had had this conversation every day of every week since the war had ended. And every single time, the Queen had tried to coax Swift out of her silent, self inflicted, torment. And every single time Swift responded with;

 

“Will that be all your Majesty?”

 

Polite, to the point. And yet The Queen could hear the venom in the voice of her friend. Defeated, she let go of her voice and gestured at the door.

 

“Nothing Swift. You may leave.”

 

The black shape turned and glided from the room and through the doors. The Queen returned to her throne and fell onto it, with less grace than she had shown in all her years. She massaged her temples, already trying to nurse the headache that was beginning to grow.

 

She stared up at the portrait of her father. It had been a mere three months since his death. Since the greatest Lords and fighters had followed him into the land of their enemies to end the war. She remembered her final goodbye to him, his powerful embrace and his hearty greetings to his new companions.

 

“There she goes Father.” Queen Lilith remarked as she shifted her view out of the window to the courtyard where her friend was walking.

 

“Katarina Swift. The woman who ended the war. The Last Warden of the West.”

Kings of the road

A black cloak and hood cast over his head, shielding his skin from the harsh afternoon sun. Sharp blue eyes scanned the massive cobblestone road ahead as his great chestnut horse bore him onwards. He was nearing the end of his journey, and yet he had to make it many more times before his time would be done. Up and down the King’s road the knight would travel, protecting those that strode across it’s vast expanse. He was nearing the end of his tenth year of service on the King’s road. And to mark the occasion, he would follow the tradition of all his predecessors.

 

He passed on a friendly nod to travelers coming along the far side of the road and continued on. The thoughts in his mind were of the roses, the field of roses planted by every knight once a year for their service upon the road.

 

No one was ever certain about the magic of the roses. Because when planted, these roses would never wilt, nor would they fade from this world. The harshest of winters could not mar the red vibrancy of the Knight’s flowers.

 

Finally the knight had arrived. One more hill had led him to an open expanse beyond the road, which shone red under the sun with the many roses that were spread before the knight. He dismounted and took from a pouch, once single seed. He dug a small hole near his roses and placed the tenth seed, gently and with great pride, into the shallow nest of soil.

 

His work done, he returned to his horse.

 

 

 

A black cloak and hood, covering a heavily bearded face. In the moonlight the knight watches over thirty roses, his roses. The winter had come early that year, and yet the snow failed to rise above the sea of red in the Knight’s Rose garden. The red against the white gave him hope. Every single rose represented a year served by a Knight of the King’s Road. And this rose, his final rose, was the rose that signalled his leave of duty. His thirty years of service was at an end and he was prepared to return home.

 

But as he mounted his horse, his ears picked up the sound of a cry. Fear had been called and the cry had risen up. He wheeled his horse towards the sound and sped off into the distance.

 

And in the moonlight, he caught glimpse of a crowd, bandits. An old man cowered at their feet, begging for mercy and weeping openly. The knight charged in, sounding his call and raising his sword. With a flourish the bright blade cut down his foes, laying them low beneath his justice. He dismounts with practiced ease and moves in to help the old man.

 

BETRAYAL

 

The man offers his thanks with a sharp blade, embeded deeply in the knight’s neck. The armed man falls to his knees, his head rolling forwards, his entire body sagging. Another man approches, the knight can see his feet. One foot is raised, and pressed against the Knight’s shoulder. The old knight is shoved to the ground and in the air he can see faces. The old man weeping once more, crying out his applogies and the bandits throwing a young girl towards him. They embrace.

 

The knight allowed himself a small smile at the irony. His death served as his last life saving act on the earth. And with the peaceful thought passing through his mind, the knight’s soul slipped the bonds of his body. The legend dying in the cold snow, his red blood seeping into the white ground.

 

 

A black cloak and a hood cast down, revealing a bare face and a merry smile. The knight trots through into the dawn, his first rose planted. It had not been a quiet year for the young man. His days spent with chasing down the murderers of his predecessor. And although the bandits still lurked in the black of the wilderness, the road was safe.

 

 

The road will always remain safe.

 

They are there.

 

In the light and the dark.

 

Times change but they do not.

 

They will always be there.

 

Kings of the road.

The Critic

“We feed off of depression. Do we crave the desire to belong, or are we simply trying to feel what others feel?”

James looked up at his teacher, she had been speaking for about half an hour, rambling, letting boring words slide from her lips like money from a gambler’s pockets. But at this sentence he looked up and raised an eyebrow, there were a few cries of outrage, and many hazy looks of ignorance as the more incompetent students went straight back to sleep. James let the boys argue it out with the teacher, formulating his own opinions but mostly thinking of his classmates as idiots. Eventually the conversation reached truly repetitive proportions so he simply stated, loud and clear enough for everyone to hear him.

“You’re arguing a moot point; please stop circling so we can go back to the lesson”

There was a laugh from the back of the class, a boy who didn’t think much of James’ choice of words, but when James challenged him with a death stare, the boy backed down, but only for a second, before his mate, a small boy with the IQ of a rusty spanner, chirped up in a badly done French accent, “James Vermont”

The class burst out laughing as if what he had said was funny, or even remotely logical. But it wasn’t so James simply laid his head on the table and went to sleep as chaos erupted around the class and the teacher began screaming at the boys to “shut up and sit down!” but they had no control, another boy ran up and slapped James on the back shouting “Facebook!” Even though his laptop was in his bag and under his desk, this was met by another howl of laughter, and James once again wished he could leave and be home schooled. It wasn’t that he was at a bad school, but he was in a class with idiots.

“Idiots that get higher marks than you”

The voice in his head liked to remind him, and piss him off from time to time.

“Thank you for close captioning my pain”

James spoke these words out aloud, a bad, no scratch that, horrendous, Idea, because the boy behind him shouted out in the “French” (note inverted commas) accent, “Close Captioning” and when this was greeted with laughed he repeated the phrase in a British accent, almost as god awful as the French one. “Close captioning!”

“The greatest mystery of life” James said to himself, “is why stupid people don’t have breeding rights removed.

“No” said the voice in his head.

James gathered his bags and left the class.

“They should have living rights removed”

“Isn’t that a little too far?”

The voice in his head laughed.

“Well I suppose so”

James turned to see the boys acting like monkeys and shouting “PENIS” at the tops of their voices.

“Maybe not, too far”

“I swear” James said to me as we joined up not long after that, “the guys in my class are really depriving villages of their idiots.”

The Meadows of Heaven

Far from heaven is the town where I live, I love, I sleep, I drink. Yes, much drinking is to be found here. But it is not uncommon for evil to take place. I walk, or rather I skulk into the bar, trying not to be seen, feeling inadequate, not wanting to do something stupid, or embarrassing, not wanting to draw attention to myself. All I wanted to do was remove the pain, damn writers block.

I sit at my normal seat, drinking my troubles away, feeling the cold liquid in my hand, not sure if I should drink it at first; I sit nervously, sloshing it around, thinking, and dreaming.

Meadows of heaven, the scene flashes through my mind, the piano plays, and a soft scale repeated quickly, with life, the green hills rolls over and the green grass comes into full view, I can smell it. The violins come in, slowly drawing the bow across the strings, the sound build up in a creshendo while a voice hums in the background. The glass falls form my hands as I cast it aside. My eyes greeted by the scene in front of me. The fullness of life, I could grasp it, I could taste the meadows of heaven. The music stops, everything halts, and for two whole minutes there is silence, until I can here in the background, the waves, rolling over each other with their own majesty, the wind softly rustling the grass with soft omnipotence. The voice, humming not five minutes ago returns, the piano plays its cords, tonic triads, and the violins return with it, the drums rolling over, the waves growing louder, the winds and grass mixing with it to form serenity, as the sounds of the instruments mash together, held by guitars and drums, into one glorious song.

I turn my head and see my home, Joburg, Jozi, so many other names, and I turned to the grassy fields, the waves, and the peace.

Meadows of heaven?

The streets of pain?

I turned my back on the grasslands and the sea, on the sky and the winds, pacing steadily to my home, the streets of pain filled only by people who reach for heaven. I have touched heaven; I have touched a far green country.

I cast my mind back to the Lord of the Rings, after following the story for days, weeks, as time had stretched onwards, the story had to be finished, and as I walked home I remembered the last line of the final book

And the ship sailed on, to a far green country, under a swift sunrise

A place to find peace, where hope is no longer needed, when e are at rest, where we can sleep.

I let something escape from my lips, a laugh, that had been building up inside me for the last few minutes.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

The sound of glass shattering on the floor brought me out of my day dream, the patrons of the bar looked at me, from over their whores and their drinks. In a sudden change of mind I shook my head in disgust, striding out of the bar with my head held high.

I will grow the Meadows of Heaven in the streets of Pain.

The Bleak House

Bleak house

“34 35 36 37 38 39”

“This will be your last home James”

That’s was they told me when I arrived here. This bleak house, yes I suppose you could say it is a house. Nicer than my old place, well, it was a hole filled with poison ivy and thorns but at least it was warm. But this place, it has actual walls. No windows though, that would have been nice but…

“30 um no… 40 41 42 43 44”

I have been here for… a period of time. “45 46 47” Yes yes, I’m not quite sure of the duration of the time period but it does exist. Hahaha. Oh that’s funny aaaah. As my nephew would say… lol.

What a term… lol… it means laugh out loud…hmm an interesting thought. Most people do laugh out loud, I mean a chuckle could be a lol but people treat it as such a big thing. But I suppose people do that. You know, they shout at you for littering then you stop littering but then they beat you for stealing. So you stop stealing. Then they throw you in prison for hurting someone who you saw stealing. The you can say to your jailor. “Well it’s not my fault we I stole you people beat me.”

Then you get out of prison and you don’t hurt anyone. And you don’t litter and you don’t steal. But no, our society is “perfect” and needs to control everyone. And so what do they do. They watch you and then if you do something else. Something you have never tried before. Then they throw you into a new hole and tell you to start counting.

“45 46 47 48 49 50 51”

And that’s what I do. But the thing is…

“52 53… um ahh… 1 2 3 4”

I can’t get past 53.

I was always good with words. I could read and I could speak. I couldn’t write, no. they told me that gift of writing wasn’t for me. They said that words are holy and that if I was allowed to make them myself it would be… what word did he use? Bad…

HA! Bad. BAD! I find it quite scintillating that his vocabulary was so impressively…bad. Ahaha a better word might be depraved. Yes his vocabulary is depraved.

But I am unbearably digressive. I must wish you, oh great listener whoever you are, bear with me… … … … … … listen to the silence. It can tell us so much… … the world is changing but remains the same… if justice is the advantage of the stronger, then can morality be the advantage of the weaker? And if so then left to those in-between is the job of recording the confrontation of justice and morality. After that we CAN A NICE CUP OF TEA AND ENJOY LIFE DAMMIT!

“5 6 7 8 9” You know. I’m probably going to hell for killing that man. Ah what hel-. How about what the prison. Cause that hell, but on the other hand I don’t have to deal with the idiots and the arrogant and the wealthy in here. And most importantly I don’t have to deal with my sanity. After however long it is that I have been confined in this damned box I realised that in order to truly understand life and why we do what we do, we need to shed our sanity. Because, it is the human mind which inhibits itself from doing what is necessary.

And here I am. The only person to understand life itself and the next time I see people will be after crossing a mile of green stone to my VIP taxi to hell.

At least hell is warm.

“10 11 12 13 14 15”

Time Flies

Time is ticking, on and on and on, it is ceaseless, it never ends, you can never really run out of time. Not until the last second is gone.

James sat in the exam hall, he felt so alone, so desperate. He could do nothing but think, he thought and thought words and idea swirling through his head. Bright flashes of utter genius, there for a second and then gone. They were like lighting, scorching his mind with a white hot fire, and then leaving without a trace, the only thing he could remember of them was the ringing in his ears. This is how is mind worked, dull and boring, but for a flash of inspiration that could arrive, and leave, but the ringing in his ears was all he needed, a reminder of this flash, which set his mind ablaze.

But this had nothing to do with his exam; no flash of brilliance could get him past the dreaded maths paper. He had studied all night of course, and the night before that, and long ago, he had once considered to open the book. So, he could understand why he didn’t understand the work. And the whole night of studying was a slight exaggeration, as he had also spent a large amount of that time dreaming that he was working. But that counts, at least, he was sure it did. And when he woke up, he had considered getting out of bed to study, and as his parents tell him whenever he cooks a meal for them, “It’s the thought that counts”

So now, that he had not really studied, and was sitting at his desk, staring at the blank paper, he began to write a story instead. He didn’t have the slightest clue about what was going on so he thought he should write a story instead. Do something to pass the time.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He found himself saying it out loud.

“Tick, tick, tick”

He repeated the word, but he was losing track of the rhythm of the clock, and he was soon building momentum, faster and faster where his words, they flowed into one.

“Tickticktickticktickticktickticktick”

“Mr Vermont”

The voice of the exams invigilator cut through the air like a rusty dagger, no, that’s too common a metaphor, James busied himself on thinking of a more unique expression while the invigilator lectured him on the way he was to behave during exams. He was not to talk loudly; he was not to distract the others.

“Excuse me ma’am but you are also talking loudly, and you’re distracting me”

She gave him a look of utter horror as he interrupted her. She grabbed his test and tore it into pieces, stating he would be receiving a 0, and they would be writing to his parents. He walked slowly out the exam hall and felt eyes on him, boys who had heard the commotion and had turned to him. One boy even whispered to him.

“You’re brave, for a dumbass”

James simply nodded and began to whistle loudly as he left. The teacher glared daggers into his head as he strode off, she had clearly given up with him, but he was also no longer her problem. He had 0 for a very important exam.

And of course this only hit him once he had left the hall and was out in the light. He got a 0, zero, zilch, nadda, a hole in the ground, where his body would be laid.

And all he could say was,

“I wonder if I will be held responsible for this”

The man who sees

An old man sat outside a shop. Looking at him one would think him an ordinary street side beggar. A man without prospects, whose primary interest, was to survive, earn enough money to buy his next meal. But on further inspection, one would notice his clothes, neat, each tear expertly woven together, he, in his own way, was the most sophisticated hobo anyone has ever seen.

He never says anything, he just stares ahead at the space in front of him, his aged face is rather hairy, the only skin you can see really is his eyes, his beard has grown, as has his hair, and unlike his clothes he has left it untouched, letting the mud, and filth accumulate in it. His eyes are calm, they are an ocean of flat peace filled waters, where the sun shines brightly, but the night comes swiftly, ushering a change, his eyes go cold and dark, and when finally the day returns, it returns sluggishly, lazily crawling out of the hole, not unlike the one that the man crawled out of that morning.

And even when the sea was calm, there was still something disturbing in it, and it created unease in the viewer, it forced you to look away, and scan the rest of his face, wherein a maelstrom of scars where revealed. And hell was proved real, in the treatment of the old man. His life was a constant war against the world. And he was clearly loosing.

Of his actions there were none. He stared straight ahead, his steady cold warm gaze burning holes in the rocky black tar road. Next to him, sat a tin can. It was clean, polished, yet another thing the man took pride in. it was such a contradiction to the dirty overused coins that lay in it. Passers-by would have them at the ready when they were leaving the shops. And in the ritualistic fashion that people show so much pride in, they release the coins from their grip, and gave not a second thought to the copper mud brown coins that clashed with the cold, clean, tin. The waste of the higher class, lying down, on the rest.

Better than us all

One day, I was privileged to witness, the store manager left his sacred grove, the place of his only real accomplishment. He was more than a well fed man, he was simply massive, supporting a red piggy sweat drenched face that oozed desperation for power. The man moved sluggishly to the old man, his every step a minor earthquake. His breathing was jagged and heavy; this was most likely the most exercise the man had done in his life. He stops by the old man and spoke in his deep yet hysterically wheezy voice.

“Sir you cannot sit here”

The old man did not even acknowledge him.

The store manager decided he would try one more time, stomps in front of the old man and speaks loudly this time. And still there is nothing, the fat man bends over and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, shaking him. The old man turns his head slowly to the manager. He tilts his head slightly, and then slowly, calmly, yet gracefully raises his hands, and lets them slide across and through the air in a series of motions, non sensical at first, until I understand, almost slapping myself for not realising it sooner. His movements are so graceful, majestic, a story is told in his hands, with each flick of the wrist, each twirl of the finger. I was transfixed. As was the store manager.

“I will. Leave you alone then”

The store manager returned guiltily to his store, and the old man lowered his hands and returned to his still, emotionless existence.

His eyes were unseeing, his ears were unhearing, his tongue was stilled and his leg was gone. All he had, was his tin, and yet, I swear I saw a smile touch the old man’s lips

The Guide

We sat huddled around the fire, the night had enveloped the landscape, the brown grass could no longer be seen, and our campsite, friendly and inviting during the day, had been transformed into a place of mystery, where shadows sucked the power from you, and the omnipotent majesty of darkness controlled our every thought, fear and action as we huddled together around the fire for warmth.

 

I looked at the faces of my comrades, all school boys, all completely unused to the natural power held by the shadow cast bush led, they were trying not to look afraid, to not feel completely terrified.

 

James was trying to tell a story, to keep our minds off the fear that the night watch would bring as it drew nearer and nearer. None of us had done a night watch before, and when we were informed that our patrol route would take us into the shadows, we sat even closer to the fire, trying to suck up as much warmth as possible, and trying not to let the others know, that we were afraid.

 

But there was one person not affected by this. He sat close to the fire and barked an order at the cooking pot. I blinked my eyes once or twice, for it seemed as though the fires grew in size and heat. The water in the pot began to bubble and boil as if, in fear of the man, it made itself hotter.

 

But I was not completely surprised, if I had been the lot I would have done what he said as well, for our guide was fearsome man. Standing 7 feet tall, strong and broad shoulder with a beard that would make Chuck Norris blush. The Mosquitoes kept their distance from the man, for so deadly was he, with the large Lange at his side, that he could slice them in half with one smooth sift swipe.

 

I allowed my eyes to gaze at his right leg; there was a large scar, from where a rhino put its horn through it. They say he pulled it out, outran the rhino and gave himself stitches.

 

My gaze shifted higher, to his arm, a tattoo swirled from his shoulder to his elbow, it told the story of a kudu grazing in the grass, when a lion saw and began to chase it, terrifying the kudu. They say he gave himself the tattoo.

 

Finally I looked at his face, his features were softened and calm, but a maelstrom of scars and wounds were engraved in the skin around his left eye. High he lost in a fight with a leopard. They say the leopard looked worse.

 

He looked at me, and James words were sifting through our ears, I shared a grin with the battled scared guide, who, despite what his fearsome looks would suggest, had a high pitched laugh that could shatter glass.

 

 

At his Feet

 

When I was a child, my life was built upon daily rituals, I would wake up, whisper my Te Deum, brush my teeth, get dressed, and everything a good little boy would do. This is how I was raised, do the right thing, find a religion and stick with it, choose the correct moral philosophy, but I am not here to argue or discuss these things. I am here to tell you a story about my father.

You see, there was another tradition, more clichéd than a rose on Valentine’s Day, was that every morning, while sipping his coffee from a mug, my father would sit in the kitchen, at his table with the rest of the family, and our dog would run outside and fetch him the morning newspaper. He would come trotting in, sometimes he would be wet, for he went out for that paper be it rain or snow, and lay it at my father’s feet. And he would not simply drop it and leave; he would lay it gently down, and sit at my father’s side while he read the paper.

My earliest memory is of that bundle of papers lying on the dusty black tiles of our kitchen floor. We were never big on housekeeping and the kitchen floor was always dusty. Except, that one spot, where the newspaper was laid every single day. It was like clockwork. Somehow, the dog knew, what time he had to fetch the paper, and if we were not at the table in time for him to arrive, as we once were, he would howl and bark, as if stricken by a heart wrenching pain, as if it was an unforgivable betrayal of his loyalty.

For dogs are the most loyal of all. The only living things that will ever value you more than itself, it will take all the abuse you can throw at it and it will still get up, crawl to you and licks you with love and respect, as if to say.

“I love you, you can raise your hand again and again and I will still love you. Because I am dog”

With all these thoughts thrust on our heads, we were never once late for our dog again, and he continued to lay the paper at my father’s feet.

But one day he was to howl again, for I, and my mother and my sister, sat around the table in the morning alone, and when the dog came in with the paper and my father was not there, he refused to lay the paper down, but began to search the house, and when he could find no evidence of his master, he returned to the kitchen with a look of defeat on his face that could drive one to tears, he sat at the foot of my father’s chair and lay his head upon the seat, the newspaper still clenched in his jaw. Even as we had laid flowers on his grave, at the end of the previous day.

The days began to pass, and every day, the dog would do the same thing, he would lay the newspapers at the foot of my father’s chair, I tried to sit there once, in an effort to comfort the dog, but I was met with a sharp pain as he laid the paper down and sunk his canine teeth into my leg, not violently, but a warning, this chair was not for me.

And then one day, the papers stopped coming, our dog would go out every day, be it rain or snow, and he would come back, having been out for much longer than usual, but with no newspaper. We could not understand but we did not ask, we simply tried our best to move on with our lies, struggling through each day. And as each day passed the dust gathered onto my father’s chair. My mother, tried to clean it, in his memory, but the dog would let no one near, it was not her chair, was the message displayed in his growl, and bared teeth. And so dust continued to gather on the chair, and soon dust gathered on the spot were the newspaper had once been laid. Not long after, you could no longer see the rectangular imprint, left by the newspapers.

And still our dog would go out every morning, and like clockwork he would return after much time gone without a newspaper. In fact it was only when I went to visit my father’s grave that I understood. For there, at the foot of his grave, were thirty two bundles of newspaper, laid once more at his feet. By his dog.