Gone the Tides of Earth

Back in the village the crone was hosting a banquet, families had come far and wide to attend. Most people were sickly and deformed, children cried in their mother’s bosoms, malnourished, riddled with leprosy. Adults begged mercy for the young, the elderly passed away in puddles of vile and excrement. A woman, naked and scarred, fumbles her way through the middle of the deathly orgy to the foot of the crone. She is worst of all, everyone else taking pause from their own misery to pay attention hers. At the final second the poor wretch falls at the sandaled feet of the crone; the old pagan takes up a bristly water pouch, cups the defamed girl’s chin in a hand and spurts a line of water into her blistered mouth. Each forlorn disciples’ heart flutters in beats of humility at the crone’s good, decent human grace, she raises the wretched girl up from under the shoulders to lift her afoot:

‘We are one with this place, all that it holds. Humans stand above nothing. Be careful how you look at people. Looking away is not hard to do. Move forward you have. Part of the path of life is to feel misery. Do not dismay for you cannot avoid it. We could not live well without it; see it comes again. Left is yours to discover that love is greater, remains present. Ambition is fire, what is peace if not water?’

During a pause, the crone pulls the water pouch around her waist and carves the stream of liquid towards the plague of humanity. Reached by the water the lot are refreshed as it satiates thirst, dribbling down each of their foreheads, eyelids, throats. All maladies heal, and the people return to health save for the perished, who they place under blankets, shawls. Harmoniously the woman steadies, the crone wraps her in a robe and settles back into the chair; amongst the others the rejuvenated girl takes a seat affront, nestling in at her feet. The crone’s gaze shifts, her countenance becomes all that is and her voice completely encapsulating, exacting:

‘The great writer must be the one who loves life. Thou whose felt pain deepest, takes all the unkindliness of the world and still professes serenity. A serendipitous spirit caught deep within waves whose words, borne upon springtide break in winds of change. For the scribe, telling tales of immeasurable power brings them closest to The God. Thus, the wayward writer bears the true mark of the fisherman on his heart. Universe rushes in on the tide and comes swift to those who are in need. Thought is gondolas flowing through the canals of consciousness, and they are all colours. One day we will meet where only victors can - at the height of the city. Why is it do you think canines, creatures of light, at night love so much the pale gloom of mother moon?’

Later in the winter the rains were prominent, on a particular evening we were hemmed inside by the might of a fierce deluge. Within the cabin was warm, sooty, scents of smoke and ash filling our nostrils against the wood-burning heat of the stove. Mighty winds gusted strong, shrill, the fragile windows rattling in their sills, long streaks of droplets pouring down the olden glass unending. Moisture made the interior dampish, we had kept a few panes ajar to let out the fumes - wetness on the floor soaked through the wooden planks, reeking of mildew.

‘Get the rest open.’ Cian wore his jacket loosely upon the shoulders, hairy orange smatter of his bare chest glistening with sweat. ‘It’s burning brimstone in here.’ He stood from a chair at the end of our mattresses and made over to the other side of the room. At his request I turned and cracked an aged, six-paned frame, between mine and Alci’s beds that was it, he sat on the floor in a white tank-top with a tilted head slacked back in boredom. A leg outstretched its foot’s heel clipped the hardwood, in a hand before his face gleamed an amethyst gemstone. Once upon a time his mother had given it to him, the last time he saw her; every night when he slept it was aside his head on the pillow. Flapping his jacket Cian came back across the room, stripped it off and laid it over the chair.

‘Better?’ Alci asked, his focus upward on the crude gem.

‘The place is going to smoke me out. Damnit Henry, are you not boiling?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, my entire uniform was on, I perspired a little at the neck and chest underneath. ‘Indoor fires never seem to bother me too much. Maybe you ought to skip out for a rain dance.’

Alci’s head lifted, slowly rolled o’er so his eyes fell upon the Irishman. ‘Crying out loud, get a towel man! It’s not so hot in here.’ His neck craned in reverse, head depressed and sunk back into the firm quilt blanketing the bed.

‘Like hell it isn’t. No more logs on tonight.’

Boots caked with mud glinted under the light of a lantern at the threshold, an oil lamp that was the last we had which functioned. Slung on the hooks I could see the rifles by the door, their laminate stocks alit and shining with an oily lustre. Wax candles with elongated wicks burned on the tables and a few on the floor around Alcibiades. Papyrus rolls, letters and utensils were laid out on the desk in a loose format, cinnamon mints in a jar and a sizable ink basin at its head. Such it was an evening where time felt oppressive, yet it was not much too long past dinnertime. Water in the sky teemed and howls of frigid gale shot in at us, the wood of the building in groans. Westerly the nighttime horizon was embers under a bluish, cloud-capped sky, most of the daylight trapped inside the clouds having set sail, lo adrift in the smoking darkness.

‘That’s a blotchy sky,’ Cian said, stooping down to peer upward out the window, ‘there’s a storm brewing out there for sure.’

The room was dark and full of shadows. All afternoon candles had burnt out, outside was too torrential for us to seek the stores of the outpost. Even more died out through the evening, the formless black encroaching upon our triangular ring. Their lighted silhouettes cast distorted shapes, highlighted in an oily tinge scored from the confusion of ruddy luminescence, flames guttering in the winds.

‘Back home I had an older cousin, we were close when we were young,’ I said to them, sometime later on. ‘He had the ideal life; married a California girl, had a son, a beautiful husky, lived in a home somewhere between LA and SF. At the start of the occupation they returned to live with his parents, he became ill not long after. Not the hallucinations or delusions were what disturbed and drove him mad. Rather it was shadows when walking on the street, around the house or getting out of bed at night.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘When I left he was in their care.’

‘That is some good news then. That they did not abandon him.’

‘It’s an odd way to lose your mind,’ Cian added. ‘He probably thought Yanks were there every time he glimpsed his own shade.’

‘You couldn’t blame him for that after it all. You can’t imagine what it was like back then, the things that they did for supposed cause and country.’

‘I’m sure they were following orders, mate,’ he said, gesturing himself in a way that implied myself and Alci also. ‘Besides it’s crucial to understand it is easier to recognize the monster in others when we refuse to see it of ourselves.’

‘These weren’t orders,’ I said. ‘Don’t defend them, trust me.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Have you written about it?’

‘To write one’s past is to fill the pages with blood.’ I had not meant to be so blunt. We had hardly discussed the past before tonight. ‘Sometimes I’ll jot a few things. Most of the time I hate it, sometimes I love it and then hate it afterwards.’

‘You writers, man,’ Cian mused. ‘How about the times you truly love what you write, doesn’t that make it all worthwhile?’

‘A little.’

‘Isn’t the burden of a writer to endure for those brief moments, when they capture the true goodness of humanity?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Isn’t he the writer only who holds on to love through pain?’

‘Then there’s hardly ever been one. Most cling onto the bottle.’

‘Lighten up, man.’ He smiled meekly. ‘I’m just giving you a hard time.’

‘Probably the great writer is such a person that lives through many experiences and comes to understand both intense joy and pain.’ Alci chimed in from the floor, tossing the stone up before his face. ‘Although in the end he must rejoice or succumb, lest his works never truly become whole - merely pastiches of lust and indecision.’

‘A real bloody Socrates here,’ Cian jested. ‘Thanks for the input.’

‘What is it like for you when you write, Henry?’ Alci pressed on.

‘Don’t pretend like either of you haven’t read my letters in the desk.’

‘Yes, but what is it like for you - what does it all mean?’

‘It’s hard to put into words. You realize once you’ve seen enough misery, all you mean to do is some good. Yet still enjoy it just for the sake of it.’

‘That is how it is for Cian as well, when he stands under the carob tree thinking of Alethea. Lost in moments of great passion and tenderness.’

‘Piss off. That’s not all I think of.’

‘What else, soldier?’

‘Home.’ Conversation paused. ‘Do you miss it, Henry?’

‘Home?’

‘The north.’

‘If I think about it, yeah, a lot of the time.’

‘I do everyday.’ On restless nights Cian tended to field these questions, about the old days, generally he could not sway answers; today was the most I’d talked to him about how it went back home. Doubtless he was set to press the topic until he’d gotten what would satisfy, nor relent unless I quelled his fervour. For that I lacked the vitality, as always evasion attempts would fly without acknowledgement - servicemen at station were abrasive even if they themselves weren’t personally - and my heart, already cloven at the little we’d spoken, was in distress. Alci was curious too, perhaps they might as well hear it, deserved more than I’d told them previously, so should let their request.

Alci started first, ‘What was it like when they came?’

‘Quiet actually.’

‘What was the first order?’

‘They closed the border to non-personnel and summoned the Premiers of all the provinces, their MPs and senate to the House.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then the PM addressed the nation, admitted that he’d already known about the contingency-plan some time.’

‘What was it like in Smithville?’

‘Quieter at first. A few places nearby were in uproar. Home was more obedient.’

‘What had your home been like prior?’

‘Well, put it this way: if the Heir was born in Smithville then the Antichrist was from neighbouring Brock Waters.’

‘Okay, Henry.’ Alci laughed, peering up from his solo engagement. ‘You needn’t say anything more. Dear friend it is not a story you must tell.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said smiling. Cian shrugged, looked out the window. We all watched the rain for a moment. My heart warmed a bit realizing they understood. Sometimes it felt a fresh wound, still open. They saw that too despite getting curious and asking questions. I could not blame them for that either. It was only natural to desire to comprehend the beginning of a thing. The two of them were good men, finer friends and bunkmates. So I didn’t feel sore at them nor about it, people could only help wonder. Maybe had they prodded me, but it was over and I felt well.

‘Look at this,’ I said, reached into my pocket. ‘What do you think?’

‘Blimey, where’d that come from, bloke?’

Alci was slier, ‘Darn fine thing that is Henry.’

‘She gave it to me,’ I told them, an elegant diamond ring. ‘Her mother’s engagement ring. She told me to put it on her finger next time I see her.’

‘What she expects you to propose now?’ Cian blurted.

‘I already did.’

‘Congrats then, man.’

‘And I will be the best man?’

‘A Canuck and Scot tying the knot at the end of the world, in the place where West was born.’ Cian clapped, whistled and Alci joined him, byway of emulation they were trying to be sincere. ‘Hurrah mate. Good on ya.’

‘We’ll find a church on leave, ask the priest to marry us.’ I tucked the ring back into the pocket. ‘That seems the simplest way to get it done.’

‘Damn right, gee.’

Alci had quieted, he was fiddling with the amethyst. ‘Do you think marriage will be around much longer?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Well just say the proxies convinced the superpowers to get involved and there wasn’t anymore room for that sort of business all things considered.’

‘Have no fear, that’s not going to happen. States and Kingdom, along with their cronies have isolated themselves, only interest is space exploration, learning how to terraform and harvest cosmos. This is never going to be World War Three.’

‘You sure?’

‘I can promise that much.’

‘Thank you, friend,’ he said, beaming. ‘Now I can sleep soundly and seek love in my dreams of night.’

‘It’s all so damn funny. What a vile mess. We could never keep up with any of it. How’d it gets so bad we could stop asking why it hurts so much?’

‘You can only keep up with yourself. Know who you are. Find peace in it.’

‘Have you?’

‘An old lady reminded me of what I really am. The rest can only go in its own step.’

‘Glad we got our own personal shrink. Night, fellas.’

‘Night.’

‘Goodnight Cian.’

‘Are you staying up to write?’

‘I think I’ll try to sleep.’

‘Goodnight Henry.’

‘Sweet dreams Alcibiades.’

As we put out the lights and settled in the rain had slowed, a cool breeze came in wisps. Facing the threshold, I lay still, everything was become darker silhouettes. From deep within the woods howling of wolves and hooting of owls rented the night air. The change in the weather rendered the night calmer, offered a soothe of background pleasance worth tucking in to. Tonight I’d learned as much that Cian and Alci were still their own, that we certainly belonged more to each other than the militant government we were indentured to.

Timbers of the old walls and floorboards creaked under the pressure of the storm, a lullaby for us to doze. It made me stir, I thought of what we had spoken of, for an unthinkable reason I felt regret and a bit of shame that I’d not carried on, with what they’d wanted to know. Strange albeit I felt lonelier because of it, since I had not.

Almost drifted off my brain felt apt to remind me of the part I unequivocally left out. Asudden it rushed back in, part of which they knew not an anecdote. My mind washed back like eyes in the ocean, I was able to see her clearly. Certain moments this happened when pertinent thoughts had not occurred in weeks, only it ever was worse at night. Certainly I had fallen in love with Courtney, I was set to marry her. Something was there incredible worth looking forward to in that.

The wind and rain carried on through night, I fell asleep feeling a damp kiss of breeze at the back of my neck, hearing the gentle patter of water dappling wood.