June 21
6:13 a.m
The trees, dense and dark, tower,
as skyscrapers over ants.
Golden light filters through the blanketing leaves
and dances across the ground,
waltzing with the flowers and tango-ing with the fallen leaves.
In the center of the dell,
bathed in a pool of ethereal light,
sits a sentinel of The Time Before.
Moss covers the rocks and sleeping trees,
where the grass can’t quite seem to reach,
creating a carpet,
muffling all sound but that borne on the air.
To the surrounding nature,
it’s simply a jungle-gym, a trellis,
or a cozy place to nest.
But to the Shadows,
the metal base, the once white mattress, the restraints,
and the arm rests spread like wings,
can only mean one thing.
Flowers bob and weave among the earthy greens,
sparkling white and gold as the light plays
across the petals in sharp contrast
to the silent guardianship of the bark covered giants.
This bed of death is the only thing left
of the Western Metropolis,
the most powerful nation in the world,
after the fire storm.
Wind seeps through the canopy,
setting the leaves to singing;
a million microscopic wind chimes
harmonizing to create an opera rich
with quiet tranquility flowing over raw, sleeping power.
If you are lucky enough to find a Shadow
willing to talk before they kill you,
you can learn a great deal about The Time Before,
a subject strictly forbidden by the High Counsel.
I did.
And it landed me right here,
talking to you.
Birds flit overhead.
Feeling no need for explosive exits,
they fly and settle with whimsy.
50 years ago
this wooded conurbation,
once called a city,
was home to over 600,000 people.
Now, the world we know
holds 50,000 strong.
The air is rich
with the smell of sweetgrass,
evergreen, honeysuckle, and the natural musk
of dirt and decaying leaves.
They say the fire storm
was the result of a jealous world,
intent on destroying its rival.
They say that the fire was so bright
it left a daguerreotype image of those too close on the pavement.
The mist, backlit by the first flush of morning,
glows in hues of red and gold.
The sun, having driven it into the dell,
comes to burn it where it stands
and the wind drives away its ashes.
They say the Shadows are remnants
of The Time Before,
caught between this world and the next.
Their translucent skin and unnatural long life
act as reminders of the effects of the fire storm
on those not vaporized by the initial blast.
Butterflies roam from flower to flower,
pausing to sample each color
before tumbling on,
like leaves caught on a sudden draft of air.
1:34 p.m
They say the Shadows are dangerous,
unpredictable, bloodthirsty beings.
They say that the blood they take from their victims
sustains them,
slows the advancement of their war-born disease.
Squirrels pause their acrobatic routines
to bark orders at the lowly goldfinch.
A snake stops to partake of the dew
gathered on the leaves of clover.
Its heads take turns keeping watch
as the other drinks its fill.
They say that the High Counsel arose,
out of the ashes of The Time Before,
to shepherd their people to safety, prosperity,
rest.
A chipmunk chirrups from its perch
atop the once-white mattress,
keeping thoughtful watch.
“What do you say, my child?
You speak of this unknowable They with anger, contempt.
You speak as though you have been greatly wronged.
Do you disagree with the words of the Elders?
Do you doubt the ways of our people, our leaders?”
His voice is soft, comforting,
familiar.
His face wears his age
as a badge of honor.
The lines tell the world
that he has seen much,
and heard more.
Father, I will not say that I have sinned.
I have spoken, at length,
with the Shadow called Judah
and I am troubled.
His hair, cottony-white,
sparkles like spider silk
in the climbing light.
Liver spots, like flies,
show through the net of threads
emerging from his scalp.
“And what did this fear-monger
tell you?
What honey-tongued lies
fall from his serpent mouth?”
The sun, having conquered
the horizon and advanced
to mid-day, sends a spear of light
that shines on the lenses of the man opposite.
He has told me much,
but I have heard no lies.
My heart knows,
as do I,
that I have heard the truth.
For a moment, his eyes flash milky red.
The care-lines leap off his face
in stark contrast to the chalky opacity
of his skin.
“Why do you recoil, my child?
We meet here in good faith
so that I can help you in your troubles.
What is it that your body wishes to keep from me?
The truth will set you free.”
The sunbeam, having done its worst,
shifts, returning his features
to their original arrangement.
Reinstating his kindly countenance.
I will tell you what I know,
what I have learned,
but it matters not.
I am already free.
4:42 p.m
Where would you like me to begin?
“One must always begin
at the beginning if they hope
to get where they are going
with little hassle along the way.”
You speak in empty riddles
and veiled threats.
You want me to tell you my story,
and yet, I do not know your name.
“My name is Samuel,
meaning ‘God has heard.’
And one who has ears to hear
will not find confusion in the words I speak.”
Your words would seem like wisdom
but for the warning in my heart.
I do not think that confusion
is what I have found.
His chest swells
as his Adam’s apple
fights to breach the wall
created by the too-tight white collar
that peaks out from the folds of skin
around his neck.
Very well, Father Samuel.
I will tell you how I came
to be here, across from you.
And I will tell it from the beginning.
I met the Shadow, Judah,
in the confines of these very trees.
Seeking solitude,
I wandered among the Spruce, and Oak,
and Ginkgo.
At last, I came to this clearing
and face to face with Death.
The flesh of his face was sheer muslin over bone.
His skull smiled at me through the drapery
of his cheeks.
A hummingbird, his throat stained
an angry shade of vermilion,
shares a meal
with a bumblebee of equal size and coloring.
Their wings beat in unison,
like the drums that heralded
the arrival of kings long gone.
Yet I knew no fear.
I did not recoil from him
and I was not repulsed.
His eyes, to match the growing sage—
lightly frosted in his illness—
radiated a kindness
that rivaled his grotesque appearance.
He told me, in a voice like sandpaper and dry leaves,
that his name was Judah,
meaning ‘praise.’
And he wished to speak the truth,
if I would hear it.
He told me of the place, called The Capitol,
where the leaders of The Time Before
once gathered to decide the fate of their people.
A sharp gust of wind
whips the dirt and leaves into a spiral.
Some say these imp-spouts
are a failed attempt, by some nefarious entity,
to break through the barrier,
into our world.
He told me that this dell,
where we now sit,
housed the most dangerous citizens
in that old country.
And he told me about that structure,
there in the center of the clearing.
The one that these citizens
were laid upon before
they were put down.
“Did you not already know all of this?
Were you not taught these things
in the assemblies you attended as a child?
Have you forgotten the history of our beginnings?”
Judah told me, not of the buildings,
the cement paths that stretched for hundreds of miles,
or the ruthlessness of the place called the Concrete Jungle,
but of the people who lived there.
He told me of the spirit of hope
and dedication that filled that place.
Of the colors and sounds
that saturated every inch.
Of the cherry blossoms that fell like rain,
carpeting the walkways in pink velvet.
He told me that it was a beautiful place,
if one only took the time to look.
6:00 p.m
“None of what you have told me
would account for your sudden change of heart
towards the systems of your people.
What ideas have been planted
in your mind that would possess
you to turn your back on your home, your family?”
Judah was there, at the beginning.
He bears the scars as proof.
He was there when our leaders ignited
the mushroom cloud that leveled The Capitol.
The High Counsel told us that the World Powers
destroyed the Old Country.
They told us that The Vestige
survived because they saw the signs,
and recognized their duty
to honor the fallen.
8:18 p.m
The death bed,
once diminished
in the warm, direct light,
now imposes
itself on the shadows,
taking up more space than it should.
Flirting
with the dawning darkness,
playing
with the advantage of light,
like some dancer in some exotic place.
Its presence is suffocating.
The High Counsel told us
that we were the only humans
left on this continent.
That the world outside
was empty, overgrown.
Like these woods where we now sit.
The High Counsel told us
that the men, women, and children
that go missing are taken by the Shadows.
Judah told me
that some are killed,
and the rest are sold to feed
the sick desires of the world outside our boundaries.
“What makes you think
that you can trust
the words of a Shadow
over the words of your leaders,
your protectors,
your people?”
I trust Judah.
I do not believe he would lie to me.
The tall grasses at the edge of the dell
whisk together. Shushing
the gathering crows
as they give voice to their growing unease.
9:23 p.m
“The question is not if the Shadow would lie.
But rather, Why would the Shadow tell you the truth?
What does he have to gain
from telling you these things?
Perhaps you should think deeply
about the motivations of this Shadow.”
I believe that is why we are speaking here today.
You wish to discover what I know,
and what I have done with that knowledge.
You wish to assess me as a threat,
before you deal with me.
“I merely wish to be of service to you.
To make sure you understand
the forces at work
before you throw your life away.
The Shadows are not who you think they are.
It would be most unwise
to fall on the sword of a traitor.”
I do not understand.
Where are these monsters
with which you seek to frighten me?
Judah has not betrayed anyone;
he has simply opened my eyes
to the truths that were hidden from me.
Silence swells as darkness grows,
and the inhabitants of the Day acquiesce to the Night,
building pressure like the weight of too much water.
And as the pressure mounts,
a drum begins to beat, heavy and slow.
Each strike stealing breath from the lungs.
Each strike coming slightly quicker than the last.
“Judah used you.
Knowing you are of stout heart,
and strong will,
he understood that you would not
be able to sit idle with his testimony.
He sought to wield you
as a linchpin
in the wheel of destruction
he hopes to turn.
He wishes to undo the systems in place,
at any cost.
Without concern for collateral damage.
That is you, my child. You are simply
collateral damage.”
I do not believe you.
I cannot believe you.
Judah is my friend.
You lie
to convince me
that a world of fog and fire smoke
is truly blue sky and clear water.
I do not believe you.
I cannot.
Somewhere nearby
the air whistles
in sharp gasps
and an owl
telegraphs its mournful
retort.
“The Shadows are not the innocent,
misunderstood creatures
that you make them out to be.
They are cunning.
Scheming has enabled them
to thrive as Silent Powers,
bending our piece of the world to their will.
The Shadows use our leaders’ convictions
against them.
They witnessed one regrettable action—
some small, necessary evil—
enacted to preserve, honor, and protect
the lives and rights of our citizens,
and have used it as a device as base, as ignoble, as themselves.
As blackmail.”
The desolation of thousands of people
is not ‘one regrettable action.’
Nor is the murder and enslavement
of hundreds more.
“The Shadows are aware of our industries.
How do you think our leaders pay
the demands of the Shadows?
Nothing moves, in the High Counsel
or in our community, without
the knowledge and permission of
the Shadows.”
The drum rolls on.
Muffled, but growing louder,
beating faster.
“My child, do not despair.
You are not the first
to be misled
by a Shadow.
There is still time
to admit your mistake
and amend your thinking.”
I have been a fool.
A naïve child,
blindly trusting the words of Authority.
But the blame does not lie with Judah.
Just as the blame does not lie with our people.
It is with the beasts, hungering for power at any cost,
that my quarrel stands.
I will blindly follow no longer.
“So be it.
Then it is time.
The freedom you thought you gained
is now your eternal prison.
Be thankful,
Your end will be more humane
Than Judah’s.”
12:00 a.m
Firelight, from the single torch,
flickers over his face.
Once again twisting, distorting,
or perhaps unmasking,
The ghoulish entity, hidden
beneath his humanity.
The metal base,
tarnished by dirt
and rusted by water,
squeals but stands resolute.
The once-white mattress,
degraded by time,
still holds the imprint of the hundreds of bodies
that have lain here before.
The restraints on the arm rests spread like wings,
brittled by exposure,
remain strong. Unmoving.
The drum beats in a continuous hum.
Each strike indiscernible from the next.
A continuous stream of noise,
like so many locust’s wings.
The needle tears
soft, exposed flesh,
as age-shaking hands struggle
to find their mark.
Warmth spreads
like sun-softened honey
as the drum beat slows,
losing its regular rhythm,
striking at odd, painful intervals.
Searing heat
washes like rainwater.
Each drop a blister
failing to reach the surface.
Each blister a tidal wave
obliterating a boat of one.
So fire burns on water
in silent waves of shimmering distortion
that the fish will never see.
Somewhere, far away,
a soul cries
in the harsh, half-light
of a single torch.
But here, moonbeams filter
through the blanketing leaves,
and dance across the ground.
Waltzing with the evening primrose,
tango-ing with the darkly fragrant jasmine.
The Night is sable;
The air is gentle and sweet.
The stars wheel overhead,
a kaleidoscope of Fate and Fireflies.
And the drum ceases to beat.
