The Custodian

As I stare blankly to the wall ahead of me I ponder ‘what am I doing here?’

What is it with dead end jobs and shithole towns that just make you stare into nothingness and ask ‘what am I doing here?’ as if there was any real importance on what you were doing nowhere. Furthermore if you had any importance why would you be working at a dead end job that triggers this question? Maybe you really are important just stuck in a measly town cleaning up the piss, shit, cum, and blood that people have left on the bathroom floor of some mall; maybe you’re not supposed to be what your job entitles.

“Jay, staring at the wall won’t get the floors scrubbed.” Ah, the infinite wisdom of an aging irrelevant. I wonder if he ever thought of anything more than mopping bathroom floors. Always has his head to the floor slowly stroking the mop back and forth and then step back away from the cleaned surfaced then repeating the procedure until the floor reaches it’s end at an entrance. There is the possibility that this man thought of using a sponge mop, or even an electric buffer, or when he feels extra special he’d use a wet-vac. Other than that, there isn’t much to discuss about him.

But there is much more to this custodian than this boy knows, or could even think of. He is a kind man, a humble man. His heart is filled with kindness unbound.

When this man was young, he was a fighter pilot; he believed in his country, he believed in the lies that brought him to war. He was told to bring freedom to a foreign land, across the seas, across the mountains, and across the globe encompassing. He sweeps the floors as he would have swept bombs on homes of mothers, fathers, and children; he would destroy all who was in the way, the homeless, and those who once had homes. He did not truly see the destruction he had caused he did not see the faces of those who felt his indiscretion. He was content with what he had done; it was easy to him. When his flight was done he would celebrate with his pals, his men, his brothers at arms. He flew and when he flew he left an ocean of tears and blood. He once destroyed a market in one swoop, not only did he kill the shopkeepers, and their customers but he also starved several villages, and those who lived out of cities. He did not see their emaciation, he did not see their woe; he was content. If he had known, if he had seen what he had done, he would crumble and he would topple as a mountain gives way to the weight of gravity.

When he flew, he imagined himself as an angel, and his bombs, and the destruction he caused, were his message of change, they were his message of freedom. He was doing this for their well being, to make their lives better, to give those hope when they had none; he was an angel from his land. True, he did not see these particular events for what they really were, but he did see some of the atrocities he caused from above. As an Arch Angel casts down to smite the wicked, and cruel, he sends his bombs, there was a miniscule demon that fired brimstone, and flame to clip his wings. He jettisons his vessel and floats calmly to the ground, as his vessel crashes in a fiery blaze and obliterates a school. He lands hard, but he is left unscathed, he removes his straps and prepares for the eventual onslaught to come. With a sword of flame, and heart filled with evangelical might he waits boldly. He is just, he is right, and he will fight for the honor of freedom, and high order than himself. His wings may be clipped but he is still the hand of a higher order. All the while he watches as a building is set ablaze by his wreckage. Children scream and cry, wailing and running scattered across his view, except for one lone child.

This child was fair, and unscathed, innocent, and lost. He meets the child’s gaze, they lock, and the world became silent. The Custodian was unmoving, entranced, and finally the veil of illusion falls away from his eyes. His wings were nonexistent, his sword of flame extinguished, into a cold hard steel barrel, and his evangelical fervor, quelled, yet left an eerie feeling in place.  He stares crazed at the child, ‘What have I done?’ a thought left in his mind as a mantra. The cruel realization of his actions swept through every fiber of his being, not to leave a spot unchecked, and unclean. His illusion that made up his reality shattered with a single glimpse of the consequences of his actions. Still fixated on the Child’s eyes, which was left unscathed; untouched by his destruction he watched the light burn in his eyes. The light was bright, and blinding, it was as if life poured all its energies into this Child’s eyes; life and soul gazed back at the Custodian. It was as if the Child were an angel, fallen into Hell, fire, and rubble charred black were his background. It was an ironic sight to have an angel, as this Child was, surrounded by death, flame, and despair, a disposition unmatched in the eyes of the Custodian. Then there was a blast. He remembers every detail as it is set in his mind constantly playing through even to this day. The blast seemed to be slow, a wall of flame and smoke that slithered, and engulfed the unmoving Child. The Custodian stared, unblinking, shocked and calm, he could do nothing more. He saw, in those split seconds that felt like hours, the Child’s flesh burn, and strip away, his clothes set aflame, and his eyes melt; yet still filled with the blinding light of life. His eyes gave off a light that pierced through the smoke and flame, it was there even after the extreme heat melted his eyes, after his flesh stripped clean to his bones, and after his bones fell into dust; the light remained, and the Custodian was left unclean. He comes out of his trance and ducks for cover, the previous silence now broken, and became a cacophony of unpleasant sounds. Shots fired and screamed, and bombs fell and wailed, then blasts heave and the ground quivers. Stone, rubble, and hot metal shards fell as sleet and hail. The charred remains of structures pelted his pilot’s coat, and shards of metal sleet burned and scathed through his flesh and clothes. Bullets scream above his head; he could do nothing but wail. He covers his head with his hands, his face flushed red, and eyes pop out as if they were trying to escape to find better shelter, but in the battlefield there is no where safe to hide. So he waits, curled into a ball sobbing as a sick child, with no way to cure, or alleviate the pain. He waits for his own death, but it does not come.

When the bullets stop screaming, and the bombs stop wailing, and the ground stop shaking the Custodian lay still and then sleep overcomes him. He awakens to find himself still on the spot where he lay. Bruised, bloodied, and scorched he stands and seeks the spot in which the Child stood. He spots the remains almost instantly. There is nothing left but black ashes and bone fragments. He walks slowly across the rubble, silent and uncanny. He bends over to collect a bone, it was brittle and it crumbles to black dust. He removes his helmet and sweeps the ashes into it. To this day he does not know why he did such a thing, but it is the first thing to cross his mind whenever he touches a broom. With the Child’s ashes in his helmet, and not one speck of dust left on the ground, he wanders off to where he thinks his base camp is. It takes him six days to arrive to his base. With no food, or water he wanders lost, not knowing for certain if his destination was truly ahead of him. Still holding the ashes in his helm, he dared not spill a grain of dust he dared not part with it. Through those six days and nights in the hot desert sun, and the cruel cold desert moon, his mind was leaving him.

He had his first hallucination on the second day, during the mid-day sun. The ashes spoke to him. “Where are you taking me?”  It first came as a slow whisper. He ignored it. Then it came again, not as slow and a little louder, but still not loud enough for him to take notice. He told himself the heat was getting him, and that the wind was getting into ears. Fatigued, and walking, bruised, bloodied, and parched he carried on. When night came he found shelter under an over hanging rock. He set himself up for rest, and he slept an uneasy sleep. He was awoken by a voice in the middle of the night, and he finally heard it loud and clear “Where are you taking me?”

He quickly answered, “Who’s that? Who’s talking? Where are you, come out so I can see you!”

“I am here.” The voice was near but there was no one to be seen, was he dreaming? Was he going insane? But if he were going crazy he would not have asked that question; the crazy do not know they are crazy.

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“Well, ‘here’ is relative. As is everywhere, but in this case where ever ‘here’ is, is where you placed me.” A chill runs down the Custodians back. The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He turns slowly, cold sweat beads down his face. He looks to his helmet, the ashes of the Child spoke to him. He cannot comprehend this, even during his clearest of moments he would not have been able to understand how the black ashes of the dead could speak. Even as fear overwhelms his entire being, he still remains calm.

He asks the ashes, “How are you speaking to me?”

“I do not know, but the fact that you can understand me and that I can understand you is strange in itself. I never knew your language, and I’m guess you have not learned mine but save for a few words.” The ashes respond eloquently, calmly, and the sound so peaceful the Custodian pays no mind to the fact that he’s having a conversation with a pile of ashes. “So… are you going to answer me? I would really like to know where you’re taking me.”

“Oh, right, we’re heading towards my base. I need to report to my superiors. They may think I have died in action, or at least have gone missing. I need to let them know I’m fine… At least let them know I’m alive.”

“Okay…” there was sometime that passed before either of them spoke a word, but the Custodian stayed awake despite feeling exhausted. He was glad that he had some form of company, someone to talk to. It brought him a slight glow of life, a skip to his step, and his wounds and his fatigue did not bother him so much anymore. This was the distraction he needed. With a slight smile across the Custodian’s face he sat till dawn approached, and stood as the Sun rose off to the horizon, and he stood with the Child’s ashes in his arms. They stood and watched the desert sunrise. As they stood, the ashes spoke to him once again, “ I would really like to see the ocean. Can you take me there? You can leave me there, and spread me along the beach.” The Custodian agreed and continued on their trek to the base. He was still lost, and he was not so sure that his base was in the direction he was walking, but he still pressed on.

On the third day, the Custodian became accustomed to conversing with the ashes. He told the ashes about his childhood, about living by the beach back home. About fishing in the lake with his father, about water skiing with his friends. He went on about his time play, fishing, and hunting on the waters of his home. He even spoke of the different beaches there are, he went on about the sandy white beaches, the coarser brown beaches, and the rocky black beaches, and all of the different things one can do on each one. The Child’s ashes would every once in awhile give words of excitement, and would continuously probe for more stories about the Custodian’s life by the water. The Custodian didn’t mind going on about his life. He found it soothing, a calming distraction. But all of this talk of water reminded him of his thirst.

On the fourth day, he got up before the Sunrise, held the ashes, and welcomed the day. He did this with great effort, his muscles strained, and his legs cramped, and his feet blistered yet he still stood with the ashes. He must find water, but he does not know where to look. He asked the ashes, “Where can I find water?”

The ashes respond, ”Place me down, and bleed into me, and I will promise you water.”

The Custodian does what the ashes ask, unquestioningly. He removes his service knife and cut his hand and leaves a few drops of blood into the ashes. A spring appears into his sight almost instantly, and he drinks, he drinks his fill. He drinks too much too fast, and it makes him sick. He grabs the ashes and he walks on, hurt, and ill. He does not speak to the ashes for the rest of the day; it would be best if he conserved energy.

On the fifth day, he rose again before the sun rose, still weak, and his muscles strained, his lips blacken and dried from the desert heat. He watched the sunrise again, half asleep and holding the ashes. He wandered on towards his destination. Later he asked the ashes, “Didn’t I have some water yesterday? I should be fine, I shouldn’t be this thirsty.”

“The water you drank was an illusion, as was the cut you made on your hand. I’m sorry, but you were hallucinating.” The ashes spoke a matter of fact, with such calm, and soothing sound that the Custodian did not mind. He should have been angered, frustrated, but he was calm. He was tired, he was thirsty, and he was hungry. With no plant in sight known to be edible, and no animals to be seen, no insects under rocks, he went on starving. He had the hot desert sun beat down on his head, with nothing to cover the rays. He began to see things. He thought he had passed by his father watering their lawn at one point, there was another time he swore he saw the lake in which he used to fish. He saw a motorboat rocking on the edge of a sand dune. He felt his mind slipping, and he felt his life draining. He collapsed to his knees hold the ashes, then the ashes spoke.

“You have to take me to the ocean, you promised.” With those words of encouragement, he groggily got up, and walked on with a horrid gate. Each step was pain, each movement was excruciating, but he had to get to a beach, he had to go on. He had to make amends, for his sins, beyond all costs.

On the sixth day, the Custodian, rose and sat with the ashes to watch the sunrise, he can barely sit up. He waits for his strength to return a bit before he wanders towards his destination. He can only think of the atrocities he must have caused. The pain and misery his bombs have made, and the death and destruction that his fellow angels have brought to the unsuspecting people below. With black lips caked, and sheared skin baked he arrived thirst unquenched, and with hunger panged. He arrived and collapsed into himself still holding his helmet, and cried tears of blood. When without water for long enough a man will cry tears of blood, if that man can no longer hold back his sorrow, and frustration. Bruised, broken, and dehydrated, he arrives home away from home, where the other ‘angels’ reside. They rushed him to a medical construct, leaving his helm with him, as they could not take it away, he dared not part with it. He dare not be without it. Even in his weakened state his strength was impressive. The Custodian had spent several weeks at the base to recuperate enough for him to be safely transported home. And he leaves with the ashes of the Child.

When he arrived home, he was given an honorable discharge and a rather sizable compensation package. When he left for home the first place he drove to was three hundred miles away from his door; he drove towards the black beaches to the north. The Custodian then walked onto the beach, clear of mind, and long after his hallucinations ended. He brought his helm, and sat on the coarse ground and waited for the Sunrise. Dawn was approaching. He stood with the ashes and watched the majesty of the Sun’s glow upon the water. With each sunrise, a new day begins and life goes on, and the dead are further from the future. When the Sun rises above the water, you can swear that it glows a special glow, it is as though life is given a new breath of air, and burns with a special eloquence, much as the Child’s eyes had. As the Sun stares at the Custodian, he lets the ashes loose upon the ground, spreading them carefully, and evenly. Making sure they are cleanly spread. He leaves the beach and arrives home, healthy, and full of life.

The Custodian was without a spouse or children so he sold his home after his father passed on, and rented an apartment in the city. Even though his compensation package was sizable, he felt it was important to work, but he did not want a high paying job, he didn’t need it. He found a job as a custodian at the mall, and when he was not working he was volunteering at the homeless shelter, and soup kitchen. He goes there to find anyone who may have had that light the Child had, and he sees it everyday when he’s there. He also fosters six children across the globe; whatever he makes he sends out to them what he does not need. He has bought them all water purifiers, and wells for their respective communities. They too had the light of the Child. He makes no mistake there is no way for him to redeem his atrocious actions against people, but he can try to find a way to help those in need rather than causing more suffering for others.

~

The Custodian works hard, and he enjoys the simplicity of his job, but every once in awhile he is reminded of the bombs he has swept, the tears and blood he had mopped, and the lives he had sucked away. And that could make any man breakdown. Which he had done in front of a young man he called Jay.

“Hey, old man… you okay? What’s wrong? Did you throw-out your back? My dad used to throw-out his back all the time…”

“No, no, no… you know what, we can take a break from this. Here, lets just go to the break-room, get some coffee and donuts.” The Custodian musters all of his strength not to breakdown again. They arrive at the break-room, and the Custodian sits in his favorite chair. The young man brings him his coffee, but the custodian just stares blankly, out into nothing. His eyes were blank and distant and he sat unmoving, and silent. He breaks the silence with a sigh, and looks at the young man, “You know what kid? You may think you know a lot, you may think you know what’s out there and what a ‘shit-hole’ really is but you don’t. I’ve got something to tell you.” Then the Custodian proceeded to tell the young man he calls ‘Jay’ his story about war. His story about the hell he wrought against an unsuspecting people, he told him about the Child and his eyes. About how he watched the flesh being stripped and cooked from the Child’s charring bones and how the light pierced through smoke and flame. And how he thirsted for six days wandering towards his base. After several hours of telling his tale in full the Custodian rose and told ‘Jay’ to clock out and head home. Whether this young man had learned to be thankful for what he had, and to look at the world in a new light is uncertain, but one thing for certain is the young man did learn something.

Emaciated

There is a place where a man sits on a crude throne, more like a blue opulent mound covered in fabrics, feathers, and woven straw. He sits with assertion; stone faced, a look of assurance, and his frame still and strong as marble. He sits as a pillar, upon a bluish mound. Decorated with a coloured blanket of exquisite craftsmanship, a loincloth left clean, and embroidered with golden strains. Upon his head, a long ornate headdress made of white feathers fashioned to seem like wings draped down on his back. Even when he moves to take a drink, his feathers do not move; majesty, peace, and power exude from his presence. This must be, as it should be, fore he his king, chief, leader of his people. Since he was a small child he has been taught to lead. He has been taught to be fair, to love his people unconditionally, and to do everything in his power, and beyond, to help his people, fore they belong to him, as he belongs to them. When he became leader, he was young, but his years of training, of teachings made him a strong leader, as was his father, as was his mother, as was his line before him. The other clans sent envoys to see if he was weak, if he were deemed as weak then they would destroy him and take his lands, his people and all possessions. This was their way. But with his youth he still portrayed as such a strong leader of his clan, all envoys and ambassadors kneeled in respect and left with promises of peace and tribute. He had gathered all of the clans with his presence alone. No war was needed, no conflict raised that was not subdued with a few words. With the clans united there came more responsibility, more love, and strength for him to bear upon his shoulders. He is fair, and shows no favoritism, even to his own clan. He is just; if there arise a problem with his subjects, his words would calm any quarrel.

Right now this man sits on his mound, with his ever authoritative presence, with his benevolence, and love. Strong he was, eyes of steel, which burned with the light only matched by stars. Statuesque he is like a pillar sitting upon his throne that came from the beaches a hundred miles away. The blue painted on with grounded lapis, to represent the sea. They believe all life comes from the seas and would traverse to the edge of their lands to the coasts to gather their important relics. Not everything that comes from the beaches is sacred, only the black stones, black sands, and the white feathers of birds are sacred. Even certain birds are searched out for specific feathers. For instance, the feathers of the albatross are sought after for outer edges of this leader’s headdress, the smaller feathers are taken from seagulls, and the smallest feathers are taken from only special chicks that are hatched with white feathers rather than gray or brown. Each feather is taken with care and only the best, strongest, and eloquent are taken. This is the only time when animals are taken not for food, but for ritual, ceremony, and opulence. Only the Great Leader may be adorned with such fashion, and it has been a long time since one was worthy enough to wear such an exquisite crown. His blue mound was a black stone that was a curious sight to see. It was gathered and moved from the beaches many generations ago. Shaped in the semblance of a winged man holding himself in a fetal position; the stone looked as if it was in pain, even though there was not much in the way of detail to the boulder, all the priests agreed it was once an Old One; one of the First of Creation. The rock was black, and sleek, it always looked as though it was wet, yet it was drier than bones found in the desert. When the stone was brought back to the village, it was painted blue, and adorned with blankets, and straw for comfort, and it was presented to the leader. Since then, this new Great Leader’s line sat upon that stone, and each one is told the story of how it came to be in their possession. His loincloth, although decorated and ornate, is not as special a one would think. It is made from the hide of a four-legged animal, dyed white. Gold threads sown into the leather, and beads placed around the edges. This was not a symbol of great status, or wealth, it was commonplace with his clan. And the other clans had their own ways of decorating their own cloths. His shawl was not that special either it was just a sign that he felt the morning chill.

He sits with majestic exuberance. As strong as he may seem, if you were to look at him more closely, you would notice his arms have shrunk, his cheeks have sunk slightly into his face, his ribs are showing, and his belly, although muscular, has thinned. He is emaciated, and weaker than he presents himself. There is famine that has spread across his lands and across the clans. He has not received tribute in months, but not because the other clans have not tried to pay, but because he refused to accept any; all are starved and all need what they can get. Many have starved to death, and it pains him more than he allows himself to show. He only eats if the whole village begs and pleads him to, but he only eats a little no matter how many feasts are presented to him. He will not let his people starve so he may eat. He will not take food from a babe’s mouth, even if that child’s mother tries to give the Leader the child’s food. It may be his right to take all so he may remain healthy, and strong, but he will not, his strength is his love for his people, without them he would not be leader, without him, his people would starve. He has sent the young and strong to find game, as all the livestock has dwindled to almost nothing. Each time he sends out the parties, they come back with less and less. It has almost become a pointless endeavor to send them out anymore. He no longer feels the pangs of hunger; he no longer knows when he ate last.

At first when he went without food for a day there was some discomfort but he pushed it to the back of his mind. The second day he felt weak, and the pain had irradiated out to his joints. The third day he felt his mind going and the hunger went away. On the fourth day he had a bite of food, and he voraciously ate his small meal, then his stomach ached for hours, he swore his food was cutting through his stomach. He has gone without food since.

The hunting parties returned all had nothing to show for their effort. All were stricken with grief upon their faces, and their leader looked upon them with concern then a smile. He had told them not to worry, he will consult with the priests and pray for food, and from his own stash, which was dwindling, he handed each with enough food to feed four families and sent them to provide for those who are without. Each man’s eyes shined with tears of joy, and gratitude, with disappointment, as they do not know how to thank their generous leader. He sat there with a heart-warming smile, and his face showed them they need not worry to give thanks, as he was content with their existence alone. To them he seemed strong and full of life, but in actuality he was weak, and hungered. He cannot bear to see his people starve, and in these dire times he must consult with the priests. The priests stave off hunger because they must. The priests have no choice in the matter, even if they wanted to give food to the people they cannot, they must be fed so they can pray and prepare. There is only one course of action if food cannot be found in five days straight, so far this day has been the fourth. On the fifth day without food, one must be sacrificed and purified, so that their body may feed the hungry. Only the leader and the priest know of this ritual. Cannibalism, it is beyond all taboos; it is far worse than any other crime, except when the ritual is preformed. On this occasion the leader would pick one of his people, all are susceptible to be asked to perform this ritual, and they cannot deny their duty. This day the leader must decide whom he will choose to do this. How can he decide? He knows his people personally. He knows their woes, he knows their achievements, he knows the pride they have, and he knows their love. Anyone of them, if asked, would gladly do this for him, and for his people. But they do not know the ritual as he does. They are kept in the dark about it. It is grueling, torturous, and would take from dusk till dawn, and from dawn till the next dusk. He may choose an old man from two huts down, but he will not survive long enough to finish the rites. He may ask one of the young hunters, but he will be needed when the game returns. He may ask a woman, but she will be needed to bear children to replace the ones already lost. He may ask his son, but he will need to be there when the leader dies to replace him. He cannot ask one of the priests, they are needed, and they cannot be asked, even in extremely dire circumstances; the ritual would remain unclean, and this would only incur the greatest taboo of taboos. The leader sits on his mound as a pillar, strong, authoritative, and filled with a questioning stare. He does not move for hours, not to take a sip from his cup, not to scratch an itch, he is as still as a statue. His features carved with such detail, one would imagine a great sculpture had taken a slab of marble, and carved out this man, and gave him life. It is an impossible decision, but one he makes, one he makes not so lightly. He can ask one from another clan, one he does not know, but this would not be fair or just in his eyes. He cannot capture a wandering traveler and make him do it, the one to do the ritual must be asked, and must understand what it is they must do. A wanderer may not know of his people, may not know of the great implications that his question may bring, a wanderer cannot be asked and expect to willfully give his life to feed the people he does not know.

The High Priest enters his hut; he expects an answer. He does not want to hear it, but his duty to the people and the gods demand that he asks for the Leader’s answer and listen. The High Priest is the Leader’s youngest brother, the only one who has not died of starvation, or from a hunting accident. The High Priest stands at the entrance of the hut and awaits his brother to answer, and he stands for a long time, as his brother was still thinking of one to give him, and he will stand there till one is given. The Leader spends another hour unmoved, and lost in a contemplative trance. It is impossible to decide, it is impossible to ask another to do this. He moves his head slightly to gaze at his brother’s eyes, their sight met and the leader lets out a single tear. His brother, shocked, with mouth a gaped, knew what his answer was. He quickly composes himself, as he must be stoic, and he must respect the decision without any sign of disapproval, or emotion of any kind. But the answer is a hard one to swallow, and digest. All of the people in his clan, and the other clans would lay their lives down for their Great Leader, with fanatical fervor. This man understands full well the implications of such power. He can lay waste to any enemy. He can conquer the peoples across the desert. He can have his people traverse to the sea, and build ships to cross to new lands and claim them, and their riches as his own. He can call upon the people and start a holy war against all of those who may have a difference in opinion, a different way to pray, or simply a different appearance. He can be all-powerful! Revered as a god! The blood of virgins could fill his goblet whenever he desired, grotesque feasts of enormous size could be fed to him daily. But these are not his desires. He desires the well being of his people, he desires his subjects to live long and happy lives in peace. This is why he is the Great Leader; this is why he will give his own life to feed his clan.

This Great Leader understands full well of his decision. A person who is not leader, or a holy man would only figure that the purification, and death would be peaceful, and quick. This is not the case. The Great Leader’s brother knew just as well as he did of the rites, even more so one would say. The ritual starts with a single tear. But there is still one more day; there is still hope. Hope that the ceremony will not need to proceed. It was a sleepless night for the leader, and for the priests, they all must prepare incase the hunting parties do not succeed. He sits n his mound unmoving, but not with his usual presence. He shows weakness, as some would say, but others would understand. He no longer has his assured look, his marble frame cracked with the ever tensing of his muscles, his face filled with worry, and his eyes fade like a dying star. Hours he sat unmoving, trying to compose himself before dawn.

The song birds sing to welcome the Sun, a beautiful and majestic thing to witness during times of plenty, but times are dire and the air is filled with dread as the ravens caw, and cackle at the coming light. They mock it and welcome it to their sight, fore it is easier to spot decaying corpses in daylight, and with each new day, they had a new feast. In times of plenty the raven is revered as a necessity to the circle of life. But in times of famine and desolation they are abhorred as reminders that your life may be forfeit the next morning as your stomach shrinks, and your muscles fail to even hold your frame. A person who dies of hunger does not die from just the lack of nourishment, but their bodies collapse into themselves and asphyxiate. The ravens’ caws, and cackles bring only further despair. He knows this, and thinks about the feast to come the next night. The joyous calls, the dances around the fire, and the rapturous cackles of children and women.  If only they knew the truth of their feast. If only they knew the morbid sin I am about to make them commit, if it were not for the ritual. I wish there was another way. As expected, the young and strong return to his hut, tired and gaunt. He gives them his blessing, and prays with them for a safe return and a good bounty that could provide for the people. They must ask him to come with them, he must refuse, and this call and answer must go on until one gives in. He is a man of great will and never folds, and they are men of great loyalty and do not ask him more than three times, if they were to ask anymore than that they know they are only wasting precious time. He sits on his opulent mound of bluish hue, with blankets and straw to cushion the hard stone. He sits nervous and still. Before the party returns he knows the answer, he knows the outcome. They come back with empty hands and ashamed. He lets out a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. Whether the men standing in front of him noticed, they did nothing. They may have not noticed, as they may be too ashamed to have noticed anything, or they are too starved to think of anything else other than the energy wasted for no result. The leader contemplates a little, he hands them the rest of his food stash and tells them to prepare for a feast tomorrow night. They leave with thanks and grief. They do not believe they are worthy of his presence. They know he had sacrifice his own food for the village, to bring them one night of plenty, and one night of joy. But they do not know what exactly is about to happen. The Great Leader knows. The priests know. The ritual will begin at dusk.

The Ritual begins as the sunset, to symbolize the passing of a former life, and with a passing one must be purified not unlike one prepares a corpse for a funeral, yet with subtle differences, for one he is still very much alive. His body stripped of all clothing, cleaned, and adorned with oils, and linens. Wrapped from head to toe completely, and left on the funeral stone for all the night as the priests pray, and one constantly beating on a drum. Several different prayers are recited during the night, and through it all not one of them can fall asleep, not even the one wrapped in linen. He must lie there awake and still for the entire night, if he falls asleep the Ritual cannot be completed and his people would partake in the greatest of taboos. He meditates and listens to the priests, and the constant drum beat, he prepares his mind for his rebirth in the dawn. This dawn, this new dawn, will be his most dreaded dawn in all of his life.

The Sun rises again. It rises and shines on the once Great Leader; now is the beginning of his rebirth. His bandages removed, the oils washed from his body, and he places himself in position, the position in which we all come from the womb. With his back to the air, his knees below his chest, his fists clench, arms crossed, and his face to his knees. They first cut off his hair, chanting and praying. Two priests take his headdress, and split in two to make a semblance of wings. Hooks are then fastened to the edges. Three hooks on each side, they will be needed later. His former brother, the High Priest, carefully, ceremoniously, picks up an obsidian knife, with an albatross’s talon for a handle. He prays and chants, and he asks for forgiveness for what he is about to do. He takes the knife and raises it up to the sky lying on his open palms. He flings his head back and shouts out his prayers to the gods. When he is done he brings his hands down, slowly, unflinching, as if practiced, as if he has done this many times before. In truth he has not, this ritual has not been performed for many, many generations, and has yet remained unchanged. One priest pushes down on the Reborn’s left shoulder another holds his right. And one more for his head and neck. The High Priest lets out a tear and adorns the obsidian blade with it. He prays, and chants. He helps with the Reborn’s transformation.  The first cut is to his left shoulder blade. The knife is sharp, and cuts cleanly and easily, but not without pain. The Reborn must stay silent if he wants the Ritual to end quickly, but he still screams. The ritual comes to a halt. They must wait for his wails, and cries to stop to continue. The High Priest continues to cut the left shoulder blade and the Reborn does not let out a sound. They cut the shoulder blade till it protrudes out of the skin and extends out. The kindest matter to do this is quickly, but there is nothing kind about ritual. It is what it is. With the Reborn’s left shoulder blade exposed it is time to continue on to do his right. But first they must ask the Reborn if he would like to continue, they must ask kindly, and with love. If he answers yes then the Ritual continues; if he answers no, he must be put to death immediately, and then they must find a new candidate. All of this explained to the Reborn. He answers with quick consideration; he tells them to continue. His right shoulder blade was exposed quicker than his left, fore he did not scream, cry, or wailed. More prayers and more chanting are made, before the next stage of the Ritual can proceed. The wings that once were the eloquent, white headdress are now dyed red with the blood of the Reborn. Each wing has three hooks that will be placed through the shoulder blades, but first, the Reborn must stand. He is, weak from pain but he stands on his own until they fasten his wrists on two black stone pillars. His new wings will be tied by their tips of their arches to the top of the pillars. His Wings hang down the pillars as a daunting, ghastly sight to be seen. Ritual is not kind it will take its time. The hooks must be placed through his shoulder blades slowly and carefully, as to not crack or break the bone. The pain is surely excruciating, but the Reborn does not make a sound. He cannot make a sound yet. The left wing is hooked through without ease, and without speed, and the same can be said for his right wing. When that part of the ritual ends there are more prayers and the High Priest must ask to continue, with love, and kindness. The Reborn, with his eyes crazed with insurmountable pain, still answers the same. The priests then stand in front of him, in a semi-circle, and wait. This is the only time they do not pray, they do not chant, and the drum-skin left unbeaten. The Reborn lets out a horrendous scream, his body flails, and his feet constantly leaving the ground as he flaps his new wings. He walks, and he floats. With every step a score of millennia are fed, with every hover the same are left to starve. With every step, he quivers, and with every quiver he sobs, and with every sob some may drink, fore there is not enough for every soul to quench their thirst. This part of the Ritual is the least kind, and the most relieving. The Reborn is then allowed to cry, to scream, to wail out all of the pain, until he dies. With his dying flaps and flails, he screams then his face becomes gaunt, grotesque, and unmoving. Yet even in his death, his eyes still shown with the light only matched by the majesty of stars.

The Ritual is done, and now the priests carve the Reborn’s remains, for the coming feast. They do this in silence. That night the feast was held, and the Great Leader, was not truly missed, everyone figured he would not eat unless he knew they would be fed, and that his people were happy. Trying to bring their leader out, they danced voraciously around the fire, and they cackled, and laughed, and called out joyously to their leader. They all fed themselves to beyond fill. Full stomachs and happy hearts were in the village that night. How could the Great Leader have asked one of these people to take the place of the Reborn? He showed them unconditional love, and he had sacrificed everything to give them strength, fore they were his greatest strength. His son will be leader the next day, and he will know all there is he needs to know about leading his people. He is young and he is strong, but the other clans will send envoys, and ambassadors to make sure he is not weak. He will be as his father was, he will be as his mother was, and he will be as his line before him.

Father

I sit on a bench at the edge of a cliff; the wind rushes off the sea in a calm howl. It blows strong enough to make you feel the stinging chill off the water. I zip up the collar on my coat to fend off the cold, but I still sit and wait. It was pertinent that I wait here on this bench. My father, whom I have not spoken to for a while for a month at least, he told me to wait for him here in this godforsaken cliff. He only takes me to this cliff when he has something important to tell me. When I was five he brought me here to tell me that he and my mother were splitting up, and that he was going to move away, far away. Then he took my baseball and threw it over the cliff, and he said that our game of catch would never end, as the ball has fallen to the edge of the world. He said that I would never catch the ball, until we return then it will be my turn to toss. The next time he brought me here I was six, he told me that he was moving back and that I’d see him more often, possibly once or more a week. He gave me a ball and told me it was my turn to throw. When I was at that age I’d believe him, somewhat, that the cliff was really the edge of the world; I also believed him when he told me we’d be spending more time together, it was like that at first but as time waned so did the frequencies of our visits, but on our important talks he would bring me here. The ignorance of youth; now at my age, I couldn’t fathom how in the world I could have thought this wretched cliff was the edge of the world. 

I knew it wasn’t really the edge of the world, I found out for myself when I was nine. It was a black sand beach at the bottom of the cliff. At school I learned it was a place that some silly people with wild puritan beliefs got stranded there a few hundred years back. I do remember one thing from that lesson; when the ship run aground the people on deck looked up the high cliff and one had asked, “Is this… Is this truly the edge of our world?” They’ve got a piece of the ship hung in the town’s local museum, and a roster of names of people who had gotten off the ship. I wonder if my father knew about that man’s first words, with his first steps on this new land, with tears in his eyes… Why would I think of that? I don’t think I’ve learned that from a simple history lesson; must have been something I’ve read, or simply the wind in my eyes. Goddamn! It’s cold.

When I was fifteen I was finally curious as to what was really down at that beach. I took a long walk down. It took nearly the whole day to get down there to finally see the black sands, and the black cliff face. I guess no one really takes care of the place, I found a ton of garbage down there. Amongst that trash I found twenty-one baseballs. I did not realize that we’d come out here that often. Twenty-one conversations of life, twenty-one games of unending catch, only to have the balls left at the base, unmoved. At that point I realized the game was a farce, and our important talks just didn’t seem so important anymore. I picked up a ball, then another, then another. I went around that black sand beach and collected all of the baseballs I could find. Black sand is a little different than the sandy beaches most people are used to. It’s coarse, and many of the rocks are sharp. I remember that I cut my fingers as I was picking the balls, and the cuts burned from the salt that was left on the rocks and pebbles. As if tears had torn the black cliffs and remained in the sands a reminder…  I don’t know why I think of these strange thoughts at times, it’s almost as if someone else was having them.

~

I shiver and shrink into my coat, trying to escape into my own body heat as the wind gusts and blows. There is that constant howl. It goes on and on, when you sit here alone you start imagining things. You swear the ocean is wailing and speaking saying a long ‘hello’ and it taunts with a constant condescending ‘HEELLLOOO’. Or a HEEELLLLO SON.

“Hello son? You there?”

I jump out of my seat a bit, I must have been in deep thought for a while because when I came to I realized that the man I was to meet was standing, bent over, and waving his hand in my face saying, “You there sonny boy? Having a little dream on the cliff, are we? Eh?” My father chortles to himself.

“Why I remember when you were a little boy I’d take you up here and we’d just stare off to the horizon, looking for ships, whales, and what not. But they wouldn’t be there now would they boy?” A delightful tone expels from my father’s voice as he reminisce of times of yore. Not the way I remember it at all.

“Hello, Father. What’s so important that you had to take me all the way out here? Couldn’t we have just sat at a coffee shop? You know, where it’s warm and not windy at all?”

“Well, you don’t have to be like that, my boy! You know we like to come out here, it’s a beautiful spot to talk nonsense, sports, and the like” well, nonsense maybe, but I don’t retort with that.

He goes on about everything; about every reason he brought me here over the years. From the ‘I’m moving away, son’ to the ‘I’m getting married again.’ All the while avoiding my questions.

“Dad, why the fuck did you bring me up here for? I know it’s not to talk about some stupid shit that’s happened in the past. I know it’s not about you getting married again, cause you just got married four months ago!” With that he sits silent, distant look in his eyes, as if my few little words of discontent shot him down from the sky. He stares blankly, and his eyes have look of tears forming. I stand there, over him with a scornful face. All these years of bringing me here to listen to his bullshit, all these years to be brought here for disappointment, he finally sits there, on the same bench we have sat on for twenty-two years and he’s about to cry. Standing there, in silence, demanding an answer from the man who had given little, to nothing other than words of seeming wisdom, and disappointment. Time had passed; it could have been forever, or just a few moments. The wind still howled it’s silent howl, flapping the tails of my coat, the only movement to be seen. He finally looks up at me mouth a gaped, still silent, lips quivering. His white beard shivers in the wind. His eyes well up with hot tears of desperation, his face becomes pale, and I break my stance of confrontation and become a little worried.

“I’m sorry son…” he manages to whisper out. Then he breaks down, his rough old hands covering his face as he silently sobs.

“I’m sorry, to put you through this, I mean to put through all that I have… I was never a good father. I couldn’t…” he heaves and sobs and lets out a slight cry, composing himself for the next few words. “I c-c-couldn’t give you much than to give you our little talks here on the cliff…but I think it’s time to tell you, I’m-I’m dying, have been for over six months. That’s why I got married, that’s why I’ve brought you here more times than usual these past few months. I’ve wanted to tell you but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t make this place such a depressing and dark place for you.” Shows you how much he’s been paying attention. “I loved taking you out here, it’s where my father brought me when he had something important to say. His father did the same, and so on and so forth. All the way back to when the first settler’s came here. You see, my great-great-great-great-many times great-grandpapi stepped off the ship and saw this as a magical place. He saw the Edge of the World here.

“This was a place I would look forward to when I was a lad. Father and I would play catch here, not like the way we do, but we would toss the ball, and he’d tell me everything about life.  Women, sports, assets, kids, and everything!” He sobs a little, again covering his face. I’m stunned; I do not dare say a word. This cliff, this place was important to him, I knew that much, but I never fully realized how important it was to him. This is where his fondest child hood memories took place. I never really knew my grandfather; he died just before I was born. But I’m sure he took my father out here till his twilight years. I imagine an old man going from his grayish state becoming bright eyed and full of life as he played catch with his only son, upon the cliff at the Edge of the World.

My father collects himself. Sits up straight and breathes in heavily, and expels a loud rush of air. In a few seconds he looks calm, and composed, and regains his former voice of hearty assertion. In a serious tone he says to me, “The last time my father and I came up here he told me he was going to die, die very soon. He looked so old, and sickly, but he still had that twinkle of life in his eye. Burning stronger than it did when he was younger. He smiled at me, he let me know he was proud, although you were not around yet, he knew that his own son would live on to carry our tradition. So bright was his face, and so strong was his smile, I swear it gave him enough strength to get out of his wheelchair and toss the ball. One. Last. Time.”

I sit back down beside my father, not saying a word, and look out at the horizon, looking for sailing ships, whales, or anything at all that could be out there. He continues on with his speech.

“This place, is a good place, that is why I’d brought you here. I figured if I can’t be around you, my boy, all the time then I’d bring you to a happy place so that you wouldn’t have any bad memories of me here. I love you my son. And I’m so sorry, that I couldn’t always be there for you. But please promise me only one thing, one thing and that’s it! When you have a son of your own you will bring him here. This is the edge where we teach our boys the finer things in life. The important things! I’m not-not feeling to good right now, I-I-I think I should go home and rest a bit…” his voice trails off, and he’s about to get up and leave, and I stop him.

“Dad, you should throw the ball. I know it’s my turn, but I think you should do it.” He turns and looks at me. His face pale, and gaunt, weak and powerless, then his eyes burned bright with life. His smile more genuine than I have ever remembered, and the blood flowed back into his face. I swear he looked twenty years younger, full of life and strength you could not imagine him being ill. Then as quickly as life flowed through his veins and the spark in his eyes exploded, he collapsed, and toppled down to the ground grasping his left arm.

“Dad! For Christ’s sake, Dad!” I screamed. The ball falling out of my hand and rolled to the edge of the cliff, and it fell over and bounced its way down to black sands. I clutch my father in my hands. There was nothing I could do, he looked at me for one last time and smiled with his eyes distant and yet burning bright. He died in my arms. I picked him up, and put him in the back seat of my car and drove the thirty kilometers to the nearest hospital. I tried to save him but I was told he was dead before I even put him in my car.

~

A few months have past since my father’s passing. We had him cremated, and I got to keep his ashes. The service was nice, and no word of malcontent was passed about him. Even though I’ve spent half my life hating him, and that cliff, I still couldn’t bring myself to say anything bad at his eulogy. I quoted him as well, I said ‘In my father’s words, he once told me, at the Edge of the World,  “Life is a game of catch, a game of catch with all the people around you. The game will end when you part ways, but you just start it up again when you see them next…”’ but what I did not say that our game of catch, our own special game of catch would never end. Until now that is. I drove out to the cliff and sat with my father’s ashes, for several hours. Then the several hours led into the night. I sat there silent, and still, waiting for the right time. The night rushes by and the wind died. The Sun was starting to rise. I pick up my father’s ashes, walk to the Edge, and let my father go. His ashes spread finely across the black sand beach, and I let out a single tear and collapse into myself. A silent wail pierces through me and out to the world. I cried for a man I claimed to have hated, on a cliff that has brought me only news of misery, but I now realized, this is where my life began. This is where my father’s life began. This is where I’ve learned to become the man I am today. This is the Edge of My World.