What Hides within the Beast

I have been a prisoner to the promise that the truth, no matter how deeply buried, will always, eventually, be revealed. And I have waited within that childish idea. Holding it close like a pillow. Sobbing into its soft fabric as it reassuringly dried my eyes and let me look upon a new day - to sustain; to lay down roots in new ground. My garden is bountiful now. The tomatoes red and ripe, and I am no stranger to the bedfellow I call appreciation. For one who has not fostered a relationship with appreciation will find no joy in this world. Joy is the toy that was snatched from our young feeble hands and our adult lives then became a desperate search to retrieve it, and yet, it is almost always found by our feet. My garden is bountiful. The leaves on my lettuces are unharmed, uneaten, and only I shall devour them. Joy springs from the ground. The seeds that I planted held a truth within them. They had knowledge. That knowledge, buried in the darkness of dirt, found its way to the surface to reveal itself and show to the world what it truly is. We are all, each of us, seeds in this way. I appreciate seeds and I nourish them. I appreciate the birds. I appreciate the trees. I appreciate the seasons changing and I observe how time is changing me. The lion's jaws are but a distant memory, as is the bated breath, and the crowd's thunderous applause.

I turn the soil to prevent the weeds from wreaking havoc upon my fertile land. My fingernails are black. I appreciate that. The dirt stops me from biting them, for I once was a prisoner to that particular weakness too. One as infantile as the fairy tale notion that the truth must find a way to the surface. Alas, I cannot rid myself of this belief, to do so would buck me from my saddle and into a despair I have so diligently traversed around. The canyon below will not be my fate. I have a garden to attend to, and besides, I can be at peace until time itself puts right the wrongs of the past; then and only then will the truth become my horns, and, like my nails, black they will become. Not with dirt, but with the ashes of their deceit. I am therefore the peaceful prisoner to an honest ending. One in which the facts surely must come together and those that have wronged me will be revealed to all. I have waited for time to fulfill its promise. I have waited for that promise like a child and I have become a boy in this garden, appreciating the smaller things; finding simple joy. My garden is bountiful and beautiful and I have grown a great deal, but I am yet to harvest the promise of truth - the ending I deserve. I have waited patiently. Perhaps I must be patient still. Yet patience is for gardeners, and the truth is, I am no gardener. I am Pedro Martiano and I am the maker of beasts.

I hear my name for the first time in twelve years as the shutters close in unison down Leotard Street; pretty houses pretending to be asleep. The occupants hidden in the darkness of their little homes. The stench of ignorance is as potent as the fuel that drips from the orifices' of my steed. I am no stranger to this place, but no welcome do I receive. No feast will be held in honor of my return and the curtains to The Round will not be opened willingly. And what she says confirms this.

"You should not have come here Martiano."

A voice as familiar to me as the storms that come every third passing. The gaudy lights that loop their way about the streets flicker to life. Night has come and as the slow shadows lean in I begin to feel at home. I crave only now the cradle of the spotlight. Like the rays of one of the suns upon my plants it will nourish me back to my former self; I will feel the warm and steady glow of retribution.

"This is where I belong." I say at long last.

"That right has been lost to you." and her words burn as she steps forward, fire poi swinging in a tight figure of eight above her head, the flames dancing in the unblinking eyes of my beast. "You belong buried along with your abominations. You should know that the story of your death brought comfort to the children. Is your dishonor not enough to hold you beneath the dirt?"

One metal hoof grinds steadily against the stones and rocks beneath me, turning it to dust and I smooth my hand against the spot between the two horns, bending towards its head; breathing with the hiss of the pistons I sigh.

"I have no quarrel with you Cassandra. I wish only to -"

"No Quarrel?" Her voice shakes and her grip on the poi tightens; they swing faster in a blur of fury. "No quarrel sir?! Martiano, you will find that I have far more than a quarrel to settle with my sister's killer!"

From along the edges of the houses they crept, swung, and tip-toed until they were there at both sides, but just out of sight. They cascaded from above like summersaulting dominos, caped in black and white - the nimble ones. Armed with lightning rods they struck. I carve a circle with my bull's horns into empty air as my attackers backflip in all directions. Gas escapes like caged rage from the nostrils of my machine. I try a desperate charge toward The Round but before I am once again reunited with my arena the lights go out. The hair upon my head singed. My face hits the ground and the fire poi finally stops spinning.

It was twenty-five miles to the township by foot. Seventeen of them a journey through treacherous forest and a web of deep ravines. My body may not be as agile as it once was when I chose the path through it to my self-imposed exile, but my memories still serve me well. I dug up what I had buried twelve years ago on the outskirts of the biodome and I was reunited with the old bull. I tweaked its innards and banged out the dents in its armored skin. I sharpened its horns and polished them till they gleamed. I refueled its engine. I would reclaim my rightful place as ringmaster of The Round and I would entertain. My name would be in lights once more. My name clean and cleared of any wrong doing. Ah... The unconscious mind. It is like a garden. As I am dragged by my old troupe down the dusty streets I used to parade I am safe inside the sanctity of my mind; the garden where memories and dreams are sown and sewn together in true glory. I recall the dream we had. The dream to host the most exquisite show of all the sectors. The tourist cruisers in their masses would float down like pollen and the reward they would bestow upon our township would be bountiful. That dream was coming true and I was becoming a star. High I hung. Beyond the heights of the trapeze, beyond the high wires, and further still. Only in her death did I fall. Only in some cruel trickery of their jealous machinations was I framed for her death, but I will reveal the truth.

I awaken in The Round. The stands empty and lifeless. No cheers come from a vacant audience. I see the broken horns beside me. The feet of my consorts surround my body and I stifle the pain that wishes to be released from my mouth.

"Bring out his lion." I hear Cassandra snap.

The gears grind inside what is left of its carcass, but its paws claw against the ground, dragging itself towards me. It lurches into the spotlight. Finally I am returned to that spotlight and finally will I have my moment in court.

"I am not the reason for her death. This beast will do me no harm, just as it would have done no harm to her."

"Lies!" She screams it and the lion roars. It opens its mouth and I oblige. I will make my point and I will close the doors on this once and for all. I place my head inside and I finally see through her eyes. Mechanisms in the darkness of a throat. The grease clinging to the two rows of razor sharp teeth. The agonizing sound of the engine echoing from the depths of it bowels. And now. Now I know her truth. She who had existed there in the bowels of my grand designs as I bowed to a cheering audience. Now I see that no scheme was hatched by those off stage. Even if they were smuggling jealousy beneath their adoration it was never enough to burst the seams of their costumes. No. It was her. My love in joyless servitude to the performance that I had cultivated - and it was me alone who harvested the fruit of recognition. My love I called a tinkerer. My love who I called my dearest assistant. My love who had worked side by side to create those beasts that I would ride. My love who had built our act, but knew not pride, and that I had confined to a role in which she would hide her beautiful face inside the mouth of the monster we had made. Night after night I would be the star and she the seedling in the dirt waiting for her moment of truth. She waited and waited to be revealed as the genius that she was. But I am no gardener and I never nourished her soil. She built those beasts, she built the dream, and she would wait no longer to be seen. The release catch in the jaws of a lion was all that she needed to close the curtains on what had become my show - to sever head from neck. And her life a payment of sacrifice to reveal to me the truth. It was not the lion that had devoured her, but me. I am prisoner to the lies I have clung to and the lies I so innocently wish to believe. Like my garden they hid the rot. My ripe tomatoes tasted of ash and the leaves of my lettuce remain forever uneaten; forever poisoned. I trigger the release catch and the jaws fall with the force of twelve years. As my head rolls out and hits the ground I see my dirty feet. For the first time in a long time my malnourished body is revealed to me and it is the last thing I see. I appreciate the truth. For one who has no appreciation will find no joy in this world or the next. I appreciate you, my love, for I finally see that I had made a beast of me.