Finality, Trepidation, and a Fare Farewell.

This is probably one of the hardest things I have ever wrote, and yet the easiest.  Earlier this week I had lost one of my cousins, one of my closest cousins, so close he was like an older brother. The hardest thing to write about this is to figure out how to begin it all. I could start off about his character, his exterior, his looks, how he carried himself, but that would not do him justice. I could talk about the hardships he has endured, I could talk about the joy he has brought, but that would not suffice. So, instead I will start with it all, start from the earliest memories I have of him. Start from the beginning of my consciousness, from when I realized that he existed. I do possess some memories as an infant, but the funny thing about that is that most of them are just feelings, and some blotches of images, never really a clear moment of interaction, just sort of still moment that give an impression of the time. With that being said, my first memory of him was a smile.

While being raised, I often visited my grandparents’ home, and he was adopted to our grandparents, which happens in Inuit culture, even today a lot of families still practice this tradition. It’s usually the eldest child that is adopted to the grandparents, but his biological brother, and sister were also adopted by my grandparents for whatever reason it may be; I was never really told as to why that was, nor have I asked. There may have been many complex reasons for this, it may have been some part of a tradition that was lost or I was never told about, but the reasons aren’t all that important. In regards to my cousin being adopted by my grandparents I should have considered him uncle, but we were so close in age, that I guess we never really considered it. He was my cousin, and that was it.  But then again I was a strange child; I didn’t call my mother ‘mom’ until I was about seven, or eight.  I would call her Oonga, and I didn’t think it was anyway weird. I figured that my mother actually had a name, and all other mothers didn’t and were just called ‘Mom’ and should be referred to as ‘enter kid’s(kids’) name(s)’  Mom. I also knew my older sister was adopted to my eldest uncle and aunt, and would refer to her as my sister, even though I was supposed to call her cousin.  If you can follow that, then you’ve been in the Arctic for some extended period of time, and a family tree, or diagram would not be necessary to explain all this. If you could not follow this, then too bad, make your own diagram. I’ve got no time for it, and I’m writing here dammit! Straying from my point here, but I did need to try to explain some things. I guess what I was actually saying was that in my perspective he was always my cousin, and to my younger siblings, and younger cousins he was ‘Uncle’.  I would spend almost every day with him; we’d play, and watch TV, more specifically the CBC’s Disney movie specials, Hockey Night in Canada, and especially Takuginai (it’s a northern thing, kind of like a ‘Sesame Street’ for Norherners).  TV wasn’t really something we’d watch all the time, back then there were just three channels, and the only thing to watch was usually soap operas, and Anne of Green Gables type shows (Road to Avonlea, did anyone watch this show? I mean, ever sat down through a whole episode?)  TV was usually just a specials only type thing. Usually we’d end up going outside and finding sticks to play with, go around to The Candy Store, pick-up some candy and possibly a new toy. A lot of the time we did play with action figures as well. Latter on, we both amassed a large collection and wound up turning my laundry room into a giant playroom dedicated for the action figures.  But I’m getting a head of myself. There’s far more to that story. Of course when speaking about close relationships with people, especially family, there were bad times. He was older than me after all, and he did have his brother who was closer in age with him. There were times I was excluded from play because I was just too young, too small, or just not fast enough to keep up.  That would happen a lot, but I did have Jimmy around, and we’d usually be excluded together and quickly move on to something else. Then my cousin Harry came along, we would also include him into our plots and schemes, activities and other general foolishness that children get themselves into.

There were never any shortages of cousins to play with, but things do happen, and people do die at any age. Before I was born there had been a couple of losses in the family, of children, more specifically my only biological sisters, and ones that were not my half siblings. It was a year later that I came onto the scene, my mother was probably pregnant with me when one of my sisters past on, as the other before her passed on while she would have been in my mother’s womb.  I came around and it was still fresh in my family’s minds, and I grew up being conscious of this from an early age. Just before I was five I found my eldest sister in her room, motionless, and I was sent up to give my sister a glass of juice to go down with her chicken soup.  She was sick, very sick, so sick my mother pulled me out of kindergarten and brought me to the high school to pick up my sister from the nurse’s office. We had no idea what was wrong with her; they just figured she had stomach flu, or food poisoning or something like that. The truth was that my sister, being a silly teenager, did not study for a test she had that day and heard if you take enough pills you’d get sick. And to avoid getting into trouble she made our cousin of the same age to not tell anyone. This is what ignorance can bring; it can give birth to tragedy, and a simple promise to not tell had cost my sister her life. My cousin could not be blamed, she was young, and she had no idea of the implications that her inaction to tell brought this event from just an excuse to miss some stupid test, to a tragedy that left a family scarred.  When I went up to hand my sister her juice, she would not respond to me, and she didn’t eat her soup. I was four. When I left food untouched on my plate I would get into trouble. I would be told to eat my food. I would be told that if I did not eat my veggies there would be consequences or something like that. With my sister leaving her food untouched, I stomped down the stairs and yelled “Anna’s not eating her food! She wouldn’t even take her juice!”

 What happened next was something new to me. My parents were worried, and had a look I had not seen before. They were watching TV and were just relaxing after a hard day of work, and running around to get my sister home. My dad said, “She’s probably just sleeping. I’ll go check up on her.”

My mother looked at me and beckoned me to come and get a kiss and sit on her lap. My father then shouts something, and an ambulance was called, and all of a sudden paramedics came in and I wasn’t allowed to look for reasons I didn’t know. My sister was on a stretcher, with something on her face. Then time passed and we were up at the hospital, and in a room I have never seen before, and I was wondering why I was going in there with my mother, and why everyone was crying, and I heard it. The scream, and earth shattering howl, something that would shake every fiber of being, nothing else in the world could make this sound; nothing could be so sorrowful and frightening at the same time. A howl, and moan, a scream and bellow. It comes from deep in the soul, as if someone had just ripped a piece of it away and you are crying for it to return. My sister passed on that night.  I know what is to lose a sibling, as did my cousin. His brother, Paul, committed suicide one night, I believe New Years, I could be wrong, I would have been only six or seven. But nonetheless, we did share that in our lives. Knowing that losing a cousin can be similar to losing a brother, or sister.

Time passes, wounds scar over, and give a semblance of healing, and things go on as normal as they can. Remember when I said we would play with action figures and set up my laundry room as a play room pretty much dedicated to it? Well, when Paul died, my cousin, Soudloo, would come by and hang out, on some days. We’d play as brothers would, even when he was technically too old to be playing with such toys. For those of you who have younger siblings, let’s say a span of six to eight years younger, you would placate to their desires to play with little Ninja Turtles, GI Joe’s and Hotwheels. Even play hide and seek in small spaces. Anything to entertain your little sibling. He would do that for me, and did that for me for years. As we grew up we also would sit around the TV and watch really bad action movies, and martial arts films. Every Monday and Thursday was WWF night. We’d sit with our uncles and watch Wrestlemania, and King of the Ring and cheer on Bret the Hitman Heart, Hulk Hogan, Macho-Man Randy Savage, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and the Ultimate Warrior. Seeing as I was so much younger, and smaller, he would body slam Jimmy, and me onto a soft bouncy bed, while we took turns playing referee.  We would take toy guns and pretend to be Rambo fighting ninjas, or Arnold Schwarzenegger blowing up some army.  We would also go outside and play sports. Baseball, soccer, and hockey were our favorites. He even taught me how to shoot a slap-shot, and after The Mighty Ducks movie came out, he showed me a knuckle-puck.

Aside from being the older brother I never had, he was also very talented in the arts. And I mean talented. He picked up a keyboard and played ‘What if God Was One of Us?’ like it was nothing. He figured it out in no time. Then he played ‘Amazing Grace’ from memory alone. He’d also play parts of classical songs here and there, and he would do it flawlessly. He had very little interest to play in a band, or pursue music as a lively-hood, and if he had any real interest in it he never let on that he did. He was also an amazing artist. He would draw something awesome, and wonderful without any prior training. He would just do it for fun, a talent some people would kill to have and he did not do it to pursue any form of monetary achievement. He did not do it to become famous; he just drew for the fun of drawing. He was also a good puppeteer. That show we used to watch together, Takuginai, he ended up as a puppeteer for that show. When I was younger, and we were out camping, he’d take a sock, a skin, or make something and use it as a puppet to keep us kids entertained while it rained, or if it was too windy to play outside, or so said grandma, because it’s never really too windy to play.  Some would say he wasted his talents, but really, he would put joy into the hearts of his younger cousins, his nieces and nephews. His talents would amaze me, they would entertain me, and they would inspire so much more than anyone would give credit for. Even this little piece has been inspired, along with just about everything I have written in my life, by his talents. Who knows how many stories, essays, diatribes, and quips I have written, but in a sense they all stem from that little light he had ignited in me to pursue some art-form.

There was a time when we did spread apart, a lot of that had to deal with geography, and the age difference. When I was fourteen, my step-father had brought my little brother, and I down to Ottawa to live. My little brother was actually adopted; he was Soudloo’s biological nephew. The joy in his eyes, on his face, lit up whenever he saw my brother. The smile that crept, then erupted was a sight onto itself. You could not find a man more proud to have a nephew, especially one that was his biological nephew. In their veins ran blood that was closer, and truer than in the blood in his other ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’. He had someone who he could claim to be his only ‘true’ nephew. My brother was more special to him than anyone else, because he had claim to being his ‘true’ uncle. Of course this did not take away from the rest of the family, as my brother was nephew to the same uncles and aunts as I had, and Soudloo did not consider our other cousins anything less than family, and did not show any less love either, but Soudloo saw him as his special nephew.  He also loved our grandmother dearly. He would spend his paychecks to help feed the family, as at any point there could be at least eight people staying at my grandmother’s home, and all those grandchildren that would show up with hungry mouths, and that can cost a lot of money to feed everyone.  One day, he just manned up, and took it upon himself to feed everyone. He took it upon himself to help alleviate some of the pressure from my grandmother. Regardless to whatever anyone says; my cousin was a good man. He loved my grandmother so dearly, he grew up with her being his mother, and treated her as such, as he should. When she passed away, I think he was hurt the most. We were all hurt, we were all saddened. But he was really hurt, and it took a toll on his already fragile body.

For at least the last decade of Soudloo’s life he would constantly become ill, or injured. Every other month or so I would hear about a surgery he had, some pneumonia, or something he had to go stay at the hospital for some time.  I would worry about him. If I was visiting and he would tell me that he had a pain in his stomach that just would not go away, I would tell him to go to the hospital. Get it checked out, make sure it’s not an ulcer, or something worse. Eventually he would, probably not from just me telling him, or rather asking him to have it checked out. He used to drink quite a bit, I have even had a few with him, but apparently his health deteriorated to the point where he could not drink anymore, which was actually good for him. He really was not the type who should have been drinking. He was much better sober, and when he stayed sober, as so many of us are. He once had Tuberculosis, but that was treated, but hey, TB sucks, even if it is dormant. He once broke his leg in a snowmobile accident, but that healed well. But there the last time he got sick, he did not heal from it. He had a lung infection of some sort, and possibly a resurgence of TB. For the last several months he would complain about being sick, and would make runs to the hospital often. Only to be dismissed, and turned away. Back in November, I once told him he has to request that the hospital do something. Anything. Do some tests, ask them to do some tests, and if they say they cannot do the tests that need to be done he has to insist and that they could not refuse to somewhere where they can do such tests. They would dismiss him. They would tell him he had the flu, or a cold. Again, a few months later he posted on his facebook page about it, and I would implore him to insist that he needs help, that he needs to find out what was wrong. They would tell him to quit smoking. He did that, he still was getting worse. He started to noticeably lose weight, after he had started gaining weight again. When my grandmother passed away, he fell into a deep depression, and just would not eat often. He lost some weight, but not enough to look completely emaciated. He then started to gain weight again, he had an appetite again. He was on his way to heal; he was on his way to become his normal self. Then he got sick. He lost his appetite again, he started losing weight, and he started losing strength. For the last few months I would see him in pain, his face sunken in. Always holding onto something to keep himself propped up.  It used to be I would see him almost every day at work. We would talk for a bit about what movies came out, what movies are coming out, what he’s been up to.  A short five to fifteen minutes of catching up, I enjoyed those few minutes I would speak with him. Looked forward to it actually. I have a very busy social life, which means there are some family, and friends I will only see every once in a while, but it does not mean I love them any less, just I do not have the capacity to split myself in to the number of people I wish I could.

At this point I could tell you the horrible way my cousin passed on. The loneliness he had. The terrible way the Qikiqtani General Hospital had treated his case, and the blatant dismissive attitude presented to him. But I will not go into any more detail about that. He died alone, away from his family, and we grieve heavily for him. My cousin, my uncle, my brother, I will miss you, and I love you.  

Diapers, Bonnets, and Holy Matrimony

What is love, but a feeling of true acceptance, joy, and expectation? Love is not discrimination, it is not hatred, it is not a feeling akin to apathy. Boundless, ever expanding, and so cleansing; serene, and chaotic. Wholly unexpected, yet when it arrives there are few words to truly describe the evanesible flood. The heart races, then calms, blood pressure rises and subsides, breath is gone and returns overbearingly so, and a simple sigh is given, as if to ease the building weight. But the pulse flows, every beat a life time passes, and the object of your affection stands still basking, and bathing in the light of your eyes. Never wanting to change, never wanting it to end. Seized and stunned, words fail to expel from the mouth, limbs tremble, and control over rudimentary movements is lost. Panic. Ecstasy. And insurmountable fear, and courage ascends. A barrier broken of indecision, and indiscretions.  A goal is set, and hope, nay knowledge!  Of your object of affection does feel what you hold in your soul! Blinded by the iridescent light of love, you did not see, could not see they were experiencing in kind to your own. 

At the very least, this is what I would like to believe happens on a regular basis. You see, some more of my friends are getting married.  I know, it happens, time passes, your friends get married have children, and go on leaving you behind to dwell in single life, because they know what they have is far better than what they once had. Who am I kidding? They don’t actually leave you behind, as a friend you get to go on the ride on the outskirts of their journey together! You get to be the cheering crowd! You get to be the audience of their greatest achievements, greatest joys, and the ‘uncle’ who teaches the little ones about pyrotechnics and all that fun dangerous stuff that Mommy and Daddy would have a heart attack if they had been there. Your friends getting married can be awesome. The parties, the stories, and the experiences are the objects of life that keep it worth living, and your friends worth having. As the bonds of holy matrimony begin, as a friend, you get to strengthen the bindings by going through absolutely insane rites of passage. Don’t believe me? Watch The Hangover, seriously, that movie had it on the nose, although a little extreme, but still pretty damn close to the real thing.

Darryl Smith, and Laura-Lynne Conley, I am happy to say that your marital bliss is something to look forward to.  These two are a perfect couple, after these past two years I don’t think I could see either of them with anyone else. I wish you two a long and happy marriage.

Thoughts of a Horologist

A man sits quietly lurched over a desk. Focused and diligent, he prepares for his work. Unfolding a leather roll full of tools, and parts. He brings out a box, full of gears and gems. He begins his work with a base of metal plate, then he begins to lay his gears. 

In the beginning there was nothing.

He sets his eyes upon his project, he sets his eyes upon what will become.

Then thought appeared for the first time. Without predisposition, without prefix, and conscience. The Thought then became lonely, and brought another, and the Second Thought brought consequence, and predilection. Then Thought brought another, which bore reflection, and wisdom.  After Thought then brought others, to improve and expand, and the others thought it best to improve on their own, and their thoughts inspired, and bore more. The First Thought then just became a memory, a façade to the new, and a glimpse of a probable past to the old.

The man places his gears in their place, gems to set weight, and coils to set motion.

With the universe full of Thoughts and ideas, entropy reigned, so some thought of vessels to house Thoughts, to help create ideas, to filter experiences so that all may share perspective, and to give guidance to those who are susceptible to become lost in other Thoughts.

After countless hours, with time passing without notice, the man finishes his geared creation. He gives it a drop of oil, and wipes the beads that bleed out. He breathed life into it by winding its coil. His watch was finished, yet without another he could not set the time. He stands and falls to the floor. Starved, and weakened. Thirst had dried his throat, and he could not let out a scream, a shout, a call, or a whisper. Yet his watch ticks, and tocks with unmatched precision. 

Thoughts condensed, and collected, and thus created Conflict, Avarice, and Compassion. Then there were Thoughts’ end.

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.