• I



    Night time brings a staggering chill. Coaxed out of the shadows from the days furnace; a dwelling burden to the sticking clothes that accompany most whether they linger outside the walls or not. Light fires are littered as the dawn comes. Evidence of the change inside is forted by lack of children at night. They dawdle outside their make-shift bedrooms that are nothing short of dungeons of cobblestone and slab, decorated with scarce instruments and toys to appease them. Shrill cries and excuses range in severity to put off the bed time, but by the time the moon is nigh and glowing in the sky---all are asleep.

    At night I am still awake and about my duties as if the day prolonged itself. Red and blue. Black and white. There is very little that deviate me from distinguishing the cycles of our life. Everything blazes a thick trail of importance past me, sometimes making me forget what is valued in the moment as time ushers me forward. I have no time to think, I only act. Partially to keep the rest of my peoples’ spirits above the ground and in the clouds where they ought to be. Close to god as one can believe. With enough imagination we were already at gods’ doorstep. With robes draping over our flawed bodies thick with mortality and illness; words would spring out with tearful cries to follow, hummed in tune like a hymn into the midnight sky. Of all the towers scattered across the wasteland of our barren ancestry, we were one of the few that stuck to tradition, run by an ancient belief that we were blessed so long as we put all our heart and faith into the great being we refer to as ‘God’.

    As the acting leader managing every square inch, I can say that is a load of bull s**t.

    It is not because I do not believe. My lineage has since presented me with opportune moments of praise. Rather it is all hollow. Empty. Like the ground unmoving when I look out the nearest window to see it immaculate; untouched by human feet for the last three days of Hortenda. Knowing deep down that below the Earth there is more dirt, and eventually, a desirable death in flickering flames of lava that courses through the planet like the life blood in mans’ veins. I chuckle to the comparison and tear away.

    How did I become a bishop?

    A mild wonder that brings a bout of chuckles, cold like the dampened slabs that line at my feet. Passing by the children’s’ doors like a ghost, my legs direct me down a circular path where the only source of light is from the flagged flames beaten by the wind to nudge farther inside. They comply by the unseen force and hiss when agitated. I barely offer a blink to the sounds. Far too interested in double checking all the occupants. Dragging on route; two young females bow respectfully to me garbed in clothes of a holy maiden. They are wide awake and cheerful. I can only smile like a puppet and slide aside, though the space does not require me to. Hallways are vast and allow for a group of five, perhaps six, to travel side by side, but I relent the obvious and do it as a sign of respect. Once past I swivel on my heel and press on, urged not from sleep, but by my family name.

    The Dolass name.

    Turning down corridors and pushing open doors with minor effort on my behalf; people become a more frequenter sight. Most adults in their late thirties to fifties like myself are lined up in neat rows. As I approach they all share the same imagery that it becomes impossible to pick out a face and name when all bow their heads. Cover their elements that separate each ones’ notable features such as curly hair, lips naturally redder than the next, a tattoo from a previous tower---all meld and become one. Though my inside churn at this display I let the smile tug on my lips, prevailing over disgust lurking in my private thoughts and lay a palm on a few individuals at random. Not uttering a single word my actions alone are volumes above trivial wasted breaths. I can hear sniveling from someone I just past, but ignore it. To these people whom my father watched over; I am a savior. Just like him.

    And I hate it.

    “Father Eros! Father Eros!” A voice calls to me and halts me at the double doors bombarded with elegant markings of heavens knows what. I incline my head superficially and beckon the speaker forward with a quick gesture. I know immediately who the speaker is and give a genuine grin that is not false.

    “What is it?” I inquire to the breathless pants to follow. Hunched over in white with a backing of black and a hat that shares the symbolic color standards of good versus evil; Clarin is just winded of a silent run through the lower quarters of the tower. I c**k my head to one side, fully turning away from my final duty of the night to lay a hand on her shoulder, somehow thinking it could eliminate the breathless ailments and bring speech forward in haste. She snaps like a twig forced upright and holds out her hand.

    She is sheepish while stating simply, “You forgot your cross.” From her upright hand sits a small item of great importance. It is a cross, but no ordinary one that should be easily shuffled aside. My fingers pause , hovering above it. Eyes trained on the outlining of black string tying it in a generous knot; dipped in ink that makes it appear thicker to the naked eye. The cross itself has colors of vast gray at that are splotched on, overlapping the white that aims to smother the black smears along the ridges like an unholy beast pushed back from a cavalry of knights. Knowing this is a wild imagination fooling me I take the necklace slowly, admiring the onyx that tackles all angles of light and hold it high as if appraising.

    “Thank you,” I say. “Where would I be without you? You never miss anything do you, Clarin?” I ask; honesty seeping out of my words of immense gratitude. While I busy myself to looping the necklace around she has her heads in the clouds----again. It brings a warm feeling to see her boast like old times. Since her father died last summer she rarely has her old charm on her. When it is present though, it is welcome. Always. Its something I can relate with her unlike any other. Both losing a father at some point in our lives to unprecedented circumstances. Though it wounds me to think about it, I cannot dwell too far into memories of my father. Mentioned only in passing, he disappeared when I was barely old enough to learn my ABC’s.

    I assume my people think I am daft and have forgotten about him by now. Not quite.

    Clarin continued to babble nonstop until I secure the string and she shuts up when I drop my hands to my side, waiting. Suddenly she turns red and starts to forget her manners. She’s flailing and making all sorts of hilarious movements that I have to bring a hand to my mouth and shield my amusement. My eyes are sparkling and there is nothing I can do to hide that, but I pretend that is a trick of the light coming in from the many windows riddling the foundations of the tower. During crucial times when I am to pray to the lord in our esteemed church alone, I am required to be consoling, mature; not unlike my present self that oozes immaturity like a contagious disease from a bumbling young woman half my height.

    “Clarin?” I compose myself. Knowing agitation around is frightening with expectations.

    “And then the elder was all like no! Eh?”

    Finally. I have her attention.

    “I have to go now Clarin,” A sweeping hand loosely flops to one side to show that there were several handfuls of people ready to kneel and mutter the seven hundred trillion lines from the Second testament. I exaggerate. I hold little interest and would rather ban the book if my people weren’t so desperate to seek stability in a tradition that has kept this place sane longer than I have lived. My black hair sags a little at the inconvenience of bursting my young friends bubble of happiness. “They are waiting,” I stake my life that they were doing more than that. It is a weekly venture always done in the middle of the weekdays to propose good fortune for our harvesting. Also to pray that our home is not conflicted in jealousy with another; bandits that roam the vast wasteland that is like a barren desert where water and vegetation are bleak often pick at random and attack. We were victims a few months ago, but held well thanks to the support of everyone involved to push them back. Suffering minimal casualties we strived to better ourselves; few deigned to learn self defense.

    There was little my say had to alter a majorities opinion.

    Golden eyes filled with disappointment. I heaved back the sigh of regret to cause one such as her the bitter edge and kneeled down quickly, knowing time was against me now. I wasted too much of it already and the priests that follow my example were beginning to raise their heads and wonder what in gods name I was doing dawdling. “Clarin. Please understand that I must partake in these. You know the rules.”

    Even if I didn’t look at her outright the rolling eyes to follow would just happen naturally.

    “Don’t bother the head priest during ceremony. It’s a sin and blah blah blah…” She turned hushed, a fighting pout making a few lines appear indignant on her face, “..you KNOW that’s a load of crap! You can send someone else in to do it for you dressed like you. Come ON Eros!”

    “True. But then if they found out I skipped out I’d be in a heap of trouble, right?” I put a finger to my lips, hoping to shush her but she blew me off, scrunching her face that the seriousness I tried to show caved away. Her voice came out small, like when I first met her. She is hitting her late teens but had the traumatized mentality of a thirteen year-old. I wanted to hit myself for forgetting this and braced for the whines----which did not follow much to my relief.

    “Yeah, I guess. Promise you’ll play with me later? What about your nightmares?” the robes twist on her when she fists a handful of my black tunic. I clear my throat to warn her not to bring that up now when I feel furious eyes pierce my back. She lets go instantly and I nod, not trusting the words to come out and pat her head like a child. Promising to come back to the conversation later. I rarely break my word. As I rise back to my feet I waste no more chit-chat and approach the double doors.

    With a hand against both I push them open and step inside.

    And the world behind me vanishes as brown gives way to a an unsettling black void that carries no sound.

    Not a glimmer of sight of a fathomed candle light.

    Just a hungry darkness, engulfing everything and leaves me, naked to its nature.