IN THE LIGHT OF MEMORY
by
Leonardo Lunanero
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2010 Leonardo Lunanero
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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***
This book was first published with much appreciated assistance from the University of Sydney Student Union many years ago. It has changed almost completely since then, but I still would like to acknowledge: "This project has been assisted by the University of Sydney Union through the Cultural Grants Sponsorship scheme, its arts funding and advisory programme."
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IN THE LIGHT OF MEMORY
***
CONTENTS
Prologue
The
Lucky City
Arrows
The Mirror Of The Past
The Lake Of Tears
Nobody Gets An Appointment
The Singers And The City Of The Deaf
The Good Doubt
The Palace Of Eternal Beauty
An End
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PROLOGUE
He asked for a pen and paper. That was all. And for that they made him leave. I can understand why, but to me it seemed a great injustice. It was in a small library in a small country town in Buckinghamshire, England. As visitors there, to me and my father it was a quaint little place in the charming Chiltern hills, though it must have seemed drearily ordinary to the natives. I was 14 years old, and doing school by correspondence. We had been travelling a long time so having settled in the Chilterns for a few months, I was getting a bit of school work done at the local library.
Public libraries all over the world provide a fine shelter for hobo's, tramps, bums, bag ladies, deros or whatever they are called in your neighbourhood, so long as they can keep themselves quiet and not disturb anyone. This little library was no exception, so while I sat trying to save time by squeezing 2 days of junior maths into one, this old man sat opposite. I'm sure you would recognise him - the long grey beard, tousled grey hair, dirty skin and torn grey clothes seem to make all such unfortunate people the same person seen over and over again in every corner of the world.
He began speaking quietly. I pretended to ignore him but listened with great curiosity. He recited a poem. I don't remember a single word of it now, but it was some sort of visionary poem, with long verses and biblical and classical references. I must admit that at that age I was susceptible to the idea that all mad people are geniuses so, still pretending to carry on with the maths, I began writing what I could of what he said, though he recited too fast. I think he knew, and we suddenly had a tacit understanding. Eventually he stopped and asked me for a pen and paper. Without looking at him I reached into my bag and found a blank exercise book that was going to be for English.
At that point the librarian came over, having seen him speaking to me. I realise now that the librarian was probably concerned about more than a breach of the quiet rule. She must have been worried about a vulnerable, skinny little fourteen year old boy being lured or threatened into god knows what by a dirty old man. I thought it was unfair that a person could be ejected simply because of what they looked like - surely everyone was entitled to pen and paper. I was too shy to speak up but, as an act of subversion, I managed to put the pen and paper in his hand as he left.
Several days after the first encounter in the library, he was waiting outside the library. He handed me the exercise book, and went away. On the cover, in small modest letters, was written 'In The Light Of Memory' and he’d filled every page. I’ve lost the parts of his poem I’d written down somewhere in diversions of the intervening decades, but recently the old exercise book turned up at the bottom of an old box in my fathers shed. Even now, ever since reading it for the first time so many years ago whenever I see the shape of an arrow, be it a simple street sign, or some chance scratches on a cement footpath, I'm tempted to follow.
THE LUCKY CITY
And so I travelled on, short in the telling, long in the doing. Approaching a vague city the colours slowly faded until the sky was an unmoving grey and I was among decaying buildings and isolated, shrunken, grey faced people with grey clothes, grey hair, grey eyes, mumbling to themselves or not talking at all. Their eyes were empty and they responded to nothing. There was no colour in this city, only blurs of grey.
Through this stillness a pale horse wandered with a boy on its back. I watched them for a while. The horse strolled at its own pace, stopping occasionally to munch on patches of dead grass that had sprouted through the cracked concrete. The boy's silence was sometimes interrupted by sullen whines and once he drew his sword and thrashed about violently at nothing. As the horse sucked at a puddle of murky water the boy slipped from its back and lay still on the ground. I sat by him and held his frail body in my arms. His eyes were closed but he was still alive. 'What is your name?' I asked twice before he responded.
'Forget. Doesn't matter.' he murmured.
I shook him lightly and patted his cheeks, 'Hey. Hey, wake up.'
His eyes opened and stared blankly at me before his features faintly suggested an expression of surprise. 'You . . . You are coloured.' he said.
'Yes, that's right. You must be hungry.' I fished some dates from my pocket and put them one by one in his mouth. He chewed slowly, staring at me. When he was finished I asked, 'Who are you? What happened here?'
'I am on a Quest.' he said, deluded and strained, 'Yes. The Quest, remember? A night is black. But my heart is blacker. The dogs bayed and cats howled in this dark city is my soul. Full of discarded needles, brown paper bags, cigarette butts, empty bottles. Fast food joints went out of business, kitchen hands fired their bosses, tramps took over executive offices and suits were stained. Toilets flooded and urinals overflowed. The bones of buildings crumbled, all their wiring shot. Telephones were off the hook and all the lines were down. The pipes burst and mingled with the sewage. A day off work was claimed everyday and people muttered half heard phrases in the street. Boys scrawled messages on the tattered overcoats of men and the pain of women pounded like a heartbeat through the streets. We walk alone, mumbling half finished curses and mixed blessings to the trampled dapples of grey chewing gum on the street and the dewy mildew forming on our cheeks. It has been almost a week. I have to go and get some. Meaning. To save my city from nothing. I tried but am weak, I forget. Look! You! Your colour is fading. Go! Save yourself!' Exhausted, the boy lost consciousness.
It was true, my hands were greyer than before. I was afraid, but there was a strange temptation not to care. For a few moments it didn't matter if I faded, perishing away to nothing. There was nothing I lived for anyway. To the indifferent Universe I was a fleck of ephemeral dust. Nobody would even notice if I was gone. Fortunately I regained my senses, fear returned and I gathered the boy up, put him on the horse, and, pulling the lethargic beast by the reins and slapping its stubborn rump, led us out of the city.
By a cool stream, gurgling through a wildflower-filled prairie, sided by deep green, broad leaved plants, lilies and narcissi, I tethered the frisky horse to a small willow. Taking the boy to the stream I cupped water to his lips and washed his face. When he regained consciousness his eyes stared in wonder at the colours surrounding us. I fed him more, we washed and, as we rested, looking up at the shifting prismatic colours the swirling clouds captured as they drifted past the sun, he told me of his city.
'My city was once known as The Lucky City because Luck was our greatest commodity. Mined from certain streams in the ubiquitous Ether or "Plane", "the Mother Of Meaning", it was refined from the ore of Fortune. Those who dug into the Plane were a tough breed, their souls were hardy and almost unbreakable. It was not an occupation for the weak. Those who benefited from the miner's work were those who could afford it with commodities of the physical realm. Everybody has to eat, Luck miners included.
'Gambling was outlawed. The poor were committing heinous crimes to muster enough money to buy some Luck so they could win and have as much Luck as they wanted. All the gambling halls were going out of business anyway because with a little bit of Luck anybody could win.
'Depending on how much Luck a person was willing to consume, various sequences of Luck would filter through the populace. A person makes a million and finds love, in his happiness he throws a thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills out the window. It so happens that all the passers by at the time have taken a small portion of Luck and find various amounts of money falling at their feet. When the Luck wears off for one of them they drop their money on the sidewalk. Another Luckhead finds it, purchases some more pills and orders a Pizza. He tips the delivery girl with one. On the way back to her bike she finds a stash of Luck pills someone dropped, unaware that their last pill had worn off. She takes a few and sells half of them for a million dollars, keeping the rest till later. Her favourite Pop star falls in love with her and in her happiness she throws some of her money out the window.
'There was debate, however, arguing that Luck was not unlimited as was originally thought. Certain impurities were discovered and research indicated that levels were increasing. Unfortunate side effects emerged due to the presence of Karma, Chance and even Bad Luck. Expecting a run of good fortune users encountered the complete reverse, finding unexpected occurrences, uncertain outcomes, and their bad deeds returned. It was suggested that if everybody were given enough Luck, perhaps everybody would be lucky enough to discover that Luck supplies were unlimited. Nobody knew if there was enough Luck to be that lucky.
'It was up to the Queen, my mother, the luckiest person of the time, to decide what should be done. The night before the day of her decision, I approached her with a story I made up that day, after a fortunate and rare speck of inspiration turned up in my morning Luck pill. Sitting at her feet as she lay in bed I spoke,
'"There was this little boy. He was walking along the beach one day and found this green bottle. It was sealed with wax and looked very old. He wondered what was inside it so he opened it. A big Jinnee came out in a puff of smoke. He was bigger than the moon.
'"'My name is Ping Pong The All Powerful.' he said, 'I will grant you three wishes for letting me out of the bottle.'
'"'I only want one wish.' said the little boy. The Jinnee was so surprised his turban fell off but he couldn't turn down the boy's request because he was at his command.
'"'That is the most foolish thing I have ever heard.' said the Jinnee, 'But your wish is my command. What is your wish?'
'"The little boy smiled and said, 'I wish I had infinity wishes.'
'"The Jinnee was so shocked that his turban fell off again. 'But, but, but . . .' he pleaded.
'"But the boy kept him to his word, 'You said you're all powerful. You promised me. Now you have to keep your promise or the Plane will make you a victim of ill fortune.'
'"So the Jinnee granted the wish and vanished as quickly as he had come. The little boy tested his new abilities by wishing he could fly. Carefully he lifted his left foot, then his right one and remained hovering in the air. He flew high into the sky and had lots of fun for a while. When he got bored he wondered what it would be like if the air was made out of invisible marshmallow. He made it so.
'"He flew home to see what everybody thought. They were all dead, drowned by marshmallow they couldn't see. He wished they were all alive and could breath marshmallow. It was so. But they didn't like living in marshmallow because it was hard to move through. They angrily asked each other what was going on and when he told them what had happened they pleaded with him and cursed him until he made marshmallow easy for them to walk through. Then he realised that if everybody could do in marshmallow exactly what they could do in air then it may as well be air. So he wished that marshmallow was air. There were many disappointed faces when everybody about to enjoy a marshmallow saw it turn to air before their eyes. Frustrated, he wished that all that was air in the beginning was air and that all that was marshmallow in the beginning was marshmallow. And so it was.
'"Wondering what else he could do he went and flew high over his mother. She was talking to a woman in a shop. He wished he could hear her. 'My favourite colour is red.' she said. So he wished that everything was red in an attempt to please her. Instead he heard her wail, 'Oh no, my husband's favourite colour is blue, he will not be pleased now that he can no longer see it. And what's more, now that everything is red, there is nothing red is better than. I can't enjoy red things anymore.' So he wished the colours were the way they were before. And so it was.
'"'I've already used up so many wishes. It's lucky I have so many left.' He thought. Every time he had made a wish it made everybody unhappy. After a little while he wished that everybody was happy. And so it was for many years and he spent his time concocting the most wondrous and fanciful things he could think of to play with.
'"One day he became unhappy, his unnumbered powers had been spent in thoughtlessly passing the time and he was bored. He went to his sister and asked her what he should do. 'Oh I'm just so happy.' she said, 'It doesn't matter what you do, it will definitely be an excellent thing.' Irritated, he lashed out violently and wished her leg was broken. She couldn't have been happier. She laughed gleefully and thanked him. Then his mother came in and said, 'Oh you wonderful boy, look what you've done. I've never seen anything more delightful in my whole life. I'm so happy.' The little boy made her feet so big that she couldn't move at all. 'I'm so happy.' she said.
'"Annoyed with them the little boy wished for himself, far, far away across the universe, a blue and red striped lotus petal as big as a galaxy. He went there and sat on it. He wished for a book containing all knowledge and wisdom. It was no bigger than a pinhead. After carefully studying its blank pages he sat for a long time brooding and contemplating. Finally he decided that his family's happiness was meaningless if they were happy with anything that happened, even if it was nothing to be happy about. He almost wished he was happy himself, but knew that his happiness would then be meaningless too. He knew that all he wanted was meaning. So he wished he had never wished for infinity wishes.
'"He was walking along the beach one day and found this green bottle. It was sealed with wax and looked very old. He wondered what was inside it so he opened it. A big Jinnee came out in a puff of smoke. He was bigger than the moon.
'"'My name is Ping Pong The All Powerful.' he said, 'I will grant you three wishes for letting me out of the bottle.'
'"'I only want one wish.' said the little boy. The Jinnee was so surprised his turban fell off but he couldn't turn down the boy's request because he was at his command.
'"'That is the most foolish thing I have ever heard.' said the Jinnee, 'But your wish is my command. You need only wish it and it will be.'
'"The little boy smiled and said, 'Very well then, I wish I had one wish.'
'"The Jinnee laughed so hard his turban fell off again. 'So it is done.' he said, 'You have just made your one and only wish.' The Jinnee vanished as quickly as he had come.
'"The little boy spent the rest of his life cursing himself for being so easily fooled by the Jinnee and wishing he had wished for infinity wishes. His wish never came true."
'The Queen of the land, on hearing my story, believed it relevant to her city's situation. A parable of greed. She suspected it was a message from the Mother Of Meaning herself. The next day she banned the use of Luck. The people were angry. Luck had been part of their lives for so long that customs and a whole way of life had developed around it. They didn't want to part with it. They accused the government of being power hungry, of attempting to stifle a rich culture that had taken decades to develop. Eventually the majority of the population was convinced of a fictitious conspiracy between the Queen and a former head of Luck mining operations who had been lost for years after being carried away on a stream of Evil during an accident. It was rumoured that for years he had been living there in secret and conducting a sordid affair with the Queen.
'A rich black market in Luck flourished and the perpetrators were seldom unlucky enough to be caught. A unified movement emerged calling for the reintroduction of legalised Luck. They amassed a great store of black market Luck and gave it to their leader hoping he might be lucky enough to have it reintroduced. The Queen, seeing her throne in danger, bowed to public pressure and Luck was again mined and distributed officially. At first the public rejoiced. It was accepted that the Luck the leader had taken was successful.
'Now, though, it seems by the time the leader took the Luck which led to the reintroduction of Luck, most of the Luck around was of poor quality and mostly impure. It seems that what was originally taken as Good Luck turns out to have been Bad. It happened that Luck supplies were indeed limited and soon there was none left. My mother was killed in the riots. The depletion of Luck caused the general ill health of the Plane, leaving a frenetic spiritual wasteland, this great meaninglessness.'
Once the strength had flowed back into him the boy stood proudly upon the earth and declared, 'My city fades to nothing while I indulge in idleness. I must find some meaning to save my city. I already owe you everything but have nothing to give. I would be grateful if you accompanied me. I need all the help I can get.'
'Which way shall we go?'
'I do not know.'
'Any way seems as good as another.'
'Then let's follow the long tail of that red bird flying high in the sky.'
ARROWS
And so we travelled on, short in the telling, long in the doing. We took turns to ride and sometimes the horse went unladen. The bird seemed to wait for us as we camped, as if it knew we were following so that we became curious and all the more intent on following, having no other clue to direct us. As we went the I told the boys things I remembered to pass the time.
I have been travelling a long time. It has been so long, I don't know how long it has been. Maybe hundreds of years, maybe thousands. I can remember some things, and some things I can't. When I was a small boy, younger than you, I was a member of an organisation called the Order of Knights. Once a week we would meet and hold ceremonies. We would enter in procession and seat ourselves according to rank. I remember that I was mostly the archway. I don't remember what that meant, but I had a silver arch on my shoulder. I always wanted to be the boy with the two swords, but never got them. We would play games, then have our parting ceremony. There were all kinds of games. Games of strength, skill and intelligence. One night in particular we played everybody's favourite game. I don't remember it's name, but we divided up into two groups. One group went first with a piece of chalk. They would draw an arrow on the ground every so often showing which way they went, but every so often would leave an arrow pointing in two directions, perhaps dispatching someone with a piece of chalk to leave a false trail for a short distance before returning the rest of the group in the other direction. The aim of the second group, after waiting a little while to give them a head start, was to follow the arrows and catch up with the first group before they returned back to the base. When they reached an intersection, the group would split, to see which trail was the right one and which false, and those following the false trail would rejoin the others as soon as they realised.
On the night when my journey began I was in the second group and we followed the chalk arrows as usual, splitting into two groups at intersections. But on this night, whenever we split into two group we found another intersection and split again and again, and no-one rejoined us, until finally, I was alone, following the arrows. But the arrows never came to an end. They just went on and on. Of course the person leaving the arrows eventually ran out of chalk, so began leaving arrows by other means, an arrangement of sticks, a carving in a tree or fence post, or scratches on a stone. And so I followed these. Sometimes because of the limited things available to make a mark, and because over time, things are disturbed and erased, it can be difficult to make out the arrows that have been left, but if you know what to look for, and look hard enough, you can always find them. I followed and followed. Minutes became hours, hours turned to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to years, and years to decades. Sometimes I wonder if the decades have become centuries, because I have seen and heard so much that there is not room for it all. Things go in and others things are forgotten. Some memories remain, some depart, sometimes they return. I wonder if I have always been here, wandering through forests, jungles, fields, mountains, icy wastes, oceans, rivers, deserts, caves, villages, towns and cities.
There was once when it almost ended. I was in a desert, starving, thirsty, with no water remaining. I had followed into the desert, and not seen a sign for days, and I didn't know which way there was water. There was nothing I could do but keep walking. Vultures were above me, and when I fell they circled in closer. The sun blistered my skin and lips. My tongue was swollen and I thought I would die of suffocation. Everything in my vision, which was nothing but sun and sand and sky and vultures swam like a mirage. But I thought of the person leaving the arrows. There was someone out there, somewhere in the world ahead of me, leaving the arrows, for no other reason than that I was following. Why they lead me into one place and not another, why sometimes through sorrowful and hard places, and not through pleasant gardens I did not know. But it was for me. It was so that I would see what they saw. So that through all this, through everything in the world, there would be a person seeing what they saw, hearing what they heard. Without me there was no purpose, I was this persons purpose. Without me it would all be futile. Only absolute isolation. I was the purpose of these arrows. It was that thought alone that kept me alive, and is the reason I am still here today.
With these thoughts in mind, I lay still and waited. It was the only way. I lay still and the vultures came down. I lay still and slowed my breathing. When the vultures finally ventured close enough to peck out my eyes I surprised them. I caught one with my hands and wrung it's neck. I drank it's blood and ate some of it's flesh. That was enough to keep me going. I stood and went on. Over the next dune I saw it, the last trace of an arrow, dug into the shifting sand, almost obliterated by the wind, and went on.
THE MIRROR OF THE PAST
And so I travelled on, short in the telling, long in the doing. Taking shelter from a raging blizzard one winter night I entered a tavern. After all had eaten at the long tables and some beer had been downed a great commotion arose in the toilet. There was a sound of breaking glass and screaming. The manager rushed in, followed by some of the men. There was shouting and the manager soon emerged, dragging a big but craven man towards the door, as his friends pleaded to let him stay. "It's not his fault." they said, "He always breaks mirrors. He will harm no-one so long as there is no mirror around. You can't throw the poor man into the raging blizzard. He'll die out there. Just let us explain." And so the manager, seeing reason, allowed him to remain and as the man sat away from us, brooding by the fire, his broad silhouetted back bearing a great shame, tolerating the story out of necessity, but betraying a secret pride, knowing we would all look at him differently once the story had been told, we all crowded around his friend, gifted in storytelling, who told us of his life.
'Once he was a man who liked to do things. He didn't think about the fact that he liked doing them until he was asked.
'"Why have you murdered so many men? Why do you stuff yourself with enough food and wine for twenty when your brothers are starving? Why do you take so many wives and leave so many fatherless children?" They would ask.
'"Why?"' he would bellow and, after frowning for a moment in contemplation, burst into great peals of laughter declaring, "Because I like it!"
'His shoulders were wide, his brow was strong. He had logs for legs and his girth was that of an ox. His jaw had taken many blows but had never been broken. His eyes were of a piercing blue.
'One night as he was sucking the last chicken bone and eyeing one of his wives as she poured his guests more wine, a stranger entered his tent. It was a woman, clad from the top of her head to her toes in a black cloak. Sirdar, for that is his name, could tell by her eyes that she was young.
'"May I dine with you?" she asked.
'"What gift have you brought me?" He questioned in return.
'"I have no possessions but this small mirror, sir. You may have it."
'"Show it to me."
'The woman brought him the mirror which was a little faded in places and small enough to be held comfortably in the palm.
'"This mirror has no value." he said.
'"Sir, it is no ordinary mirror. It has special powers. If you look deep enough you will see the past. You may see as from the outside, as a spectator, all the deeds that you have done."
'"What need have I of the past? I do not believe your phoney baloney. But tonight I am generous. You may seat yourself at the end of the table." and he added as an afterthought, "But you must stay after dinner when the others have gone to provide me with your gift."
'"I will do so but you will not want me then, my lord."
'"We shall see."
'The slaves served a plate of chicken and vegetables to the woman and a chocolate cake to Sirdar and his guests. When Sirdar had finished he ordered everyone to leave but the woman and went to his sleeping mat. He beckoned for her to approach him.
'"Show me the gift you have brought." he ordered.
'"I will reveal myself but I warn you, you do not wish to see it."
'"Remove your robe!" With a flourish the robe came off to reveal a hunchbacked old crone whose cackling laughter mocked his surprise. "Begone evil witch! Before I chop off your head!" Sirdar yelled.
'"As you wish." With that the uncanny woman twirled and was gone.
'So shocked was Sirdar that for the first time he made signs in the air that he had heard would ward of evil. He stood up and paced around inside his tent. His mind was working quickly, having witnessed the magic of the woman he now believed what she had said about the mirror. He went to where he had left it, picked it up and, wiping the grease off it, took it to his bed. Peering closely into it he saw nothing but his own reflection for a long time. When he was just about to give up he noticed a movement. The features of his face changed until he saw a scene. It was a room he did not recognise until he saw himself and an old friend seated at a table playing Dringle. The table was piled with money. As he remembered the occasion he watched it unfold again before his eyes. He saw himself spy his friend cheating. He saw himself saying, "You dirty bastard! You're cheating! You're no friend of mine."
'He saw his friend draw his knife and reply, "What of it. I'm sleeping with your woman too."
'He watched himself in anger, hurling the table into his friend, taking away his knife, grappling on the floor, strangling him to death. Sirdar laughed to himself. He laughed at the weakness of the cheat. At how easily he had overcome the pompous idiot. He was pleased with his own prowess. He continued to watch scene after scene unfold. He watched as he disposed of everything that had gotten in his way. Cutting throats, chopping off heads, breaking bones. He watched the countless seductions he had performed. That was something he prided himself upon. He had never raped a woman in his life. He had merely made every woman he wanted desire him.
'At first he enjoyed what he saw in the mirror, but soon he noticed the expressions on the faces of all the other people of his past. He saw their pain and fear. He saw the agonised tears on the women he had seduced as he left them the next day, as he turned them away when they arrived at the entrance of his tent with his children. He saw in their faces the knowledge of a life of hardship that lay ahead of them, and the difficulties that the child would face. In those he killed he saw how they longed for the life he was taking away from them, no matter how miserable it was. Beggars and Kings alike. All this was in stark contrast to his own face, always laughing, always commanding.
'It struck him that in all these scenes he was the only one who was laughing, but all around him was misery. He concentrated on what he had not seen the first time around. He saw, without exception, the pain he always caused.
'The next day, as planned, he led his men on a raid of a nearby village. As usual his men slaughtered many men and raped most of the women. They brought before him the prisoners they had taken. As usual he began to ask them one by one if they consented to be his slave. The first man agreed but the second did not. As usual he raised his sword to chop off his head, but paused.
'Looking at the man's eyes Sirdar saw his own reflection, standing with sword raised. He suddenly remembered the mirror and saw the man as he had seen the faces of his past. He imagined looking at himself with his sword raised, ready to sever the head that was looking at him with fear, hatred and defiance. He wondered about the man's thoughts. The man who would rather die than serve as a slave under Sirdar. Sirdar considered that in the same position he would do the same. He would rather die than be a slave to anyone. He began to admire the man and saw himself in him. He sheathed his sword and issued an order, "Set them all free. From now on there will be Justice!"
'Somewhat surprised his men set everyone free. They did not wreak any more carnage and returned to their camp.
'That night Sirdar ate alone and retired early to look into the mirror again. As his past played before his eyes he felt a deep sense of guilt for the things he had done. The mercy he had shown seemed insignificant in comparison to the devastation he had caused that day and even smaller when compared to the many years that had passed. He resolved that in the future, in any situation, he would always imagine himself looking at the mirror and behave in a way that would not cause him shame.
'For a long time his men lay idle as he wondered what he could do that would please him in the mirror. His army became bored and lusted after more rich food and treasure. They complained to him, supplies were low and it had been a month since they had seen action. Sirdar recognised that something had to be done, but he could not bring himself to attack any more defenceless innocent townships. He spoke to his officers of his plan. "We will attack the camp of Kazik whose exploits have rivalled even our own for some time. Our army is strong and well rested. The spoils will be great and Kazik richly deserves punishment for his bloody crimes." The officers were dismissed but stopped to talk outside the tent. At first they were unsure if this was such a good idea. They had not fought with a force as strong as their own before. It seemed risky. However, they concluded that with Kazik's army out of the way there would be less competition for the spoils of the land. A rumour spread that Sirdar was planning to battle all the armies for supremacy and become King, and so he would have, and he would have spread peace to the land had the mirror not had its way.
'The next day at dawn Sirdar sat on his horse on a hill overlooking the valley in which his men were defeating Kazik's army. A messenger rode up the hill to him and informed him that losses were heavy but that Kazik had been captured and his army wiped out. Sirdar rode down the hill and through the burning tents, bloody corpses and the cries of the wounded. His horse trotted up to where Kazik was on his knees in the mud surrounded by Sirdar's army. He dismounted and his officers lay the captured treasures at his feet. He walked past them to Kazik. The man looked up at him, bleeding from a deep scar across his nose and cheek. "Hello Dad." said Sirdar.
'"I have taught you well, my son." said Kazik.
'"Yes. It was you who taught me to seduce and kill without a thought. How to command an army of men. How to win their loyalty with deeds more gruesome than they themselves are capable of. How to take advantage of the weakness of good men. It was you who spawned this progeny that has wreaked havoc on the world and now you will reap the rewards of your teaching!"
'Sirdar kicked his father to the ground and raised his sword above his head. But he looked at his father's eyes frowning at him behind the smears of dark coagulated blood. He lowered his sword. He looked around and saw his men watching in confusion. "Will you be my slave?" He yelled at his father.
'"I'd rather die!" cried his father, getting to his feet.
'Sirdar looked at the ground, not knowing what to do. He felt an army of eyes all staring at him. He knew what they would be thinking. They had fought and killed and died for him, and now he would not do the same. His father began to tease and taunt him, "You dirty coward. You yellow piece of shit. Give me that sword and I'll cut your head off." Sirdar looked up and saw the bewildered faces of his men. Some were angry, some were even beginning to laugh. He could not let them down and his old anger returned. There was only one thing he could do to regain their faith.
'He took a sword from one of his officers and held it and his own in the air. "Whoever holds the sword that kills shall be your leader!" he announced to his men. He cut his father's bonds and gave him the officer's sword. The army cheered, ready for a good fight. "I hold the sword of Justice!" yelled Sirdar, holding his weapon aloft. Kazik lunged at him but Sirdar parried the blow. A heated altercation ensued at the end of which, after having a deep gash cut in his thigh, Sirdar swung his sword into Kazik's body, just below his ribs, bringing him down. In a rage Sirdar cut off his head.
'That night, in the mirror, Sirdar watched his father showing him how to lace his boots, teaching him how to saddle a horse, to ride bareback, to steer a horse with his thighs. He saw the smiles on his father's face when he succeeded. The jovial laughter at his mistakes. He saw the way he treated his mother, bringing her gifts from his conquests, showering attention on their children. Telling stories of great leaders of the past, of the adventures of enchanted demons and fairies, of the strange animals he had seen in far away lands. He watched the child chopping off his father's head.
'He felt bad about it. Despite the carnage Kazik had caused, himself and by teaching his children, he was not all bad. There was a goodness in him. He had been kind to his family, if cruel to all else. It was unjust to cut off the head of a kind father.
'The way in which Kazik had died briefly restored the men's faith in Sirdar but now, as he recognised the little bit of goodness in everyone, he no longer felt capable of killing anyone. He left the executions to his officers. He saw all his men laughing at the misfortune of others as he had always done in the past and he felt shame at leading them on these horrific excursions. With thoughts of the mirror he hesitated at every action. Always a few moments too late, many battles where lost and his army no longer saw him as the great leader that he once was. He stayed in his tent most of the time, brooding over possibilities and consequences. His once proud and confident aspect was reduced to dejection and gloom. Gradually his officers became free wills, leading their own assaults without consultation and the men gladly followed, until one day he stepped outside his tent and the camp was deserted.
'They had not even found it necessary to kill him, such was the extent of his impotence. His treasures were gone and with them most of his wives. As he could no longer support them, his wives had sought their fortune elsewhere, becoming the mistresses of his captains or travelling abroad.
'He turned back to his mirror. He watched his officers making jokes about him in his presence and all the men laughing. He watched them seducing his wives when his back was turned, sometimes in front of his face. He saw their disdain. He saw their departures for battle without him and their loot-laden returns. He saw himself sad and futile as it all drifted away.
'Then, one day, as he watched, he saw, in the mirror, himself looking in the mirror. He saw those first moments when he had seen the past and passed a judgment on himself. He suddenly saw what had happened, he saw that the mirror had made him think twice, had made him hesitate, so that he was always those few moments behind success, behind the faith of his men. Perhaps he had judged himself too harshly. He now wished he had never looked in the mirror. He longed for the old spontaneity, for the carefree life he had once led. At least he had been happy then. Now his life was fraught with guilt.
'He wanted to throw the mirror away but hesitated. He recognised that it was the mirror that made him hesitate and that he should hurl it away into the night, bury it in the sands, but what if he needed it again? What if it was a mistake to throw it away? He resolved himself by putting it at the bottom of a chest.
'He asked himself what he would have done in his situation in the old days before the mirror. "I need a horse." he decided. He left his tent feeling rejuvenated. He would not care, he would fight his way back into command, he would soon be laughing as he once had done.
'With his sword in hand he wandered over the hills until he came to a small farm house. He saw that in the stable was a horse being tended by a young man. He entered and asked himself what the spontaneous thing to do would be but by the time he concluded that he should chop of the young man's head the youth had picked up a pitch fork and was calling for his father. The young man managed to elude his blows and when his father came Sirdar lost the upper hand and suffered an ignominious defeat. He managed to escape, warded off by two farmers when in the past he could have single handedly slaughtered 20 well armed soldiers.
'When he returned to his tent his sixth wife was leaving with the two children she had borne him and a sack of her belongings slung over her back. He did not want her to leave and wondered what he
would have done to stop her. A speech formed in his head but before he could say it she spoke, "Don't say anything. I don't care. You are useless, washed up, no good. I am leaving and you can't stop me."
'He spoke anyway, "Listen woman, I don't care what anyone thinks, I love you and we are going to be together forever." But it was too late, his words met her back as she disappeared over the hill.
'Sirdar returned dejectedly to his tent and took the mirror out of the chest, wondering where he had gone wrong. Looking over the events of the day he saw that he had not been spontaneous. He had, each time, wondered what would be spontaneous before doing anything. All his actions were still considered, still always a moment too late. Now, the mirror showed him watching himself watching himself in the mirror. He realised that it would go on forever, every thing he did he would step outside of, every action judged, every judgment questioned and every question judged and questioned in an endless process that had no conclusion. There was no escape. Once acquired he could not shake his indecision.
'Only his first wife remained, the one whose family he had killed so that there would be nothing to prevent them from being together, and she entered the tent as he began to cry. He remembered how much they had been in love. He went to her and, on his knees, he clutched her to him. I am lost." he wailed, "Please help me. I can't go on. What has become of me?"
'She stroked his hair kindly and replied, I doubt if I can help you anymore. Your men have taken all your treasure, except for that mirror that you keep with you always. I am only poor. You are like a cripple who contributes nothing but who needs to be fed. Our children have all grown up and left to fight the wars. I do not have the wealth or energy to take care of you. I still love you but it is for this reason I cannot be with you any longer, it is unbearable to see you in this state, I cannot go on tormented by your desperation and hopelessness every day. I need support too. My life has been hard. I need you. I need you to be strong. If you cannot be strong I must leave you."
'Sirdar felt shamed at having asked for so much when he deserved so little. But he could not bear to lose the only person that remained to him. The only person who cared for him after all had deserted him. The only one he had loved from the very beginning. In desperation he found a new resoluteness and made the words leave his mouth, "I need you. If I have to be strong to keep you then I shall be strong." He threw down the mirror and crushed it under his foot. He stood up and with thoughts of a patch of land safe in the mountain ranges, of ploughs and cattle and crops, of tools, a home and new children, he hugged his wife's head to his chest.
'There he lived for many years until his home was ravaged by the shifting wars while he was herding in the summer pastures. Then he, like us, left that region, vowing to move until we found a place free from war and far from it, but it pursues like bloodhounds. I fear the only land of peace any of us will find is at the end of life itself... A mirror means memory, and this man's I would wish on nobody, can he be blamed for breaking them?'
THE LAKE OF TEARS
And so I travelled on, short in the telling, long in the doing. I came to a lake, bordered by still reeds and water grasses spearing through its surface into the air. The breeze was cool, the clouds were intermittent, low, and grey at their hearts. The winter was a tickle of frost suggested in the moist dark soil. The trees were bare bar a few crisp, lingering leaves hanging loosely from their branches. The low sun drowned the place, littered with leaves, in deep tones of ochre, rust and sauterne. The frogs struck up their dull croaking. The crickets creaked lazily and the odd bird whistled. They sang a slow song, rising and falling in volume.
Across the lake stood a big old stone house. It looked deserted but once it must have belonged to some landed gentry. Its grey walls were partly covered by leafless vines creeping into its broken windows. A large hole was in its brown roof, by the tilting chimney. I watched a raven flutter out of it, circle the sky and head towards the sun.
The house looked like suitable accommodation for the night, but first I would refresh myself in the waters of the lake. I knelt at its edge and bent my head to a gap in the reeds. My lips touched its still surface and drank cool water. I cupped my hands but before splashing my face I caught my perfect reflection.
I saw, quite suddenly, I had grown old. Lines and cracks traced across my face. I followed them as I had followed all the tracks of my life. I saw again all that I had seen, everywhere I had been. I saw all the faces I had met and passed by. And as I looked I saw the deep sadness in all of them. Never was there a person who did not have some secret tragedy locked behind their smiles or brows set firmly in strength. And every place had seen the passage of countless generations of life, armies, wanderers, exiles and escapees, laying a timeless shroud of sorrow across the landscape.
I followed the lines of age to the edge of my watery eye. In the depth of my pupil I saw my own tragedy. It was all that I had seen. I could not help feel a great regret for all those I had left, all those I had failed to stop and help. All I had befriended and deserted. My home was far away, so far in time I could scarcely call it home. No friends or lovers travelled with me. The great weight of solitude pressed upon my shoulders. My cupped hands moved to my face and I cried. My tears dripped into the water, dispersing my reflection.
Beneath the soft ripples the pale face of a young woman appeared, her eyes longing to comfort me. Her arms were open, welcoming me into her affectionate clasp. Her lips approached the surface. All lines led here, this was the place my path ended. I leaned forward to accept her embrace. But firm hands gripped my shoulders and tore me away from the shore. The spectre swam away.
Frightened, I looked up at my assailant, a handsome young man standing over me. 'Don't be afraid.' he said softly, 'Sit by me. Be calm, man, be calm.' As he brushed a shock of dark hair from his pale forehead his deep set brown eyes revealed the kind of earnest honesty
that can only be found in young people. I crawled up the bank a few paces and sat by him, facing the lake. He patted me carefully on the back. 'You see that house?' he said, pointing across the water.
'Yes.' I swallowed.
'In that house lived a good family. They lived well off the land here and, for the most part, they were content and happy. Into this family was born a little girl. Her name was Sunlight. Her mother and father and brothers and sisters all welcomed her into the world and as a child she delighted everyone. When she was young she laughed a lot, playing with flowers and butterflies. She brought good cheer into the world. Her flights of fancy. Her delight in discovery.
'When she was about thirteen her father returned from a trip to the city. The city was a long way away in those days. He brought back a radio, a television set and a generator to power them. Sunlight became absorbed by these extraordinary contraptions. She spent all her time listening and watching. Behind all the soap operas and dramas she occasionally heard of all the other places in the world. She heard tales of war and famine. The figures were greater than she could fathom, at first. She had never seen more than twenty people at one time but now heard of thousands and millions of people suffering. As she watched and listened her skin paled, her limbs weakened and her lungs became sickly. She began to cry. She was so surprised and so amazed by these stories, these great volumes of population, that she concentrated and tried to imagine each and every one of them and how they were feeling. She cried for days and weeks on end.
'Her father told her that they were just stories like the soap operas and dramas. Though she could not understand why anybody would tell such terrible lies, and shed a few tears for them, she was calmed a little.
'One day a young man arrived, looking for work and a place to sleep. He was an orphan, born on the sea with no place to call his home. Curious, she asked him about the world. She asked about the stories on the radio and television. The young man valued honesty. "I have been there. I have seen them" he said, "and it is far worse than they can say. An image on a screen, a word on the radio cannot come close. To hear the wails of women who cannot feed their babies. To see in a beggar some brief happiness. To walk streets crowded with the sick and dying, having nothing to satisfy their constant need. The things that people will do."
'Sunlight began to cry, knowing the truth, not knowing why her father had lied. The young man was banished from the house and the radio and television destroyed but it was too late. Sunlight knew what was going on. She continued trying to imagine the lives of each and every one of these starving and warring peoples. But there were millions and billions of them. Even if she tried to imagine them each for a second she could not know them all. And how could a lifetime of suffering be grasped in only a second, a minute? How could she even imagine at all when her life was so easy? It was too much for her to bear. She wept and wept and as she wept her tears streamed down the hill into the valley where they settled.
'Her family asked her to stop crying. They tried everything they could with no success. "If anyone really cared," Sunlight said, "they could do nothing but cry for the rest of their lives. Nothing!"
'After two years of tears a reflective lake had formed, deep and still.
The young man who told the truth returned. He crept into her room at night and woke her. "Sunlight," he declared, "I have travelled the world and many women have I seen but none of them are you. I can't get you from my mind. Every day greets me with the thought of you, and bids farewell in the same way. It is the bane of my existence that you are forever unhappy and that it was me who made you cry. I have questioned my faith in honesty. I am your shoulder. I love you, Sunlight."
'But Sunlight could not see through her tears. "It's no use." she said, "You must seek your happiness elsewhere." She saw depression and rejection fill the young man.
'"I want to make you happy. My life is pointless if I cannot make you smile." he said.
'She cried even more at the impossibility of the task he had set himself. "My tears are all useless! They have not changed a thing. The world goes on as it always has. My selfish tears have only caused more sorrow. I must put an end to them!" She ran from the house. The young man pursued but her father, woken by their voices, stopped the young man's pursuit.
'Sunlight ran and ran and plunged into her lake of tears. She swam deep down to the bottom and tied complex knots of water weeds around her ankles. None could save her. Her corpse was lost. Her father hung the young man from a willow bough, where his body was left to rot, watching over the lake eternally.'
His story completed, the young man looked at me and grinned.
'And the girl's family?' I asked.
'They all moved away after the accident. They went to the city and took care of themselves.'
I looked through the fallen night to the reflection of the house in the lake.
'Be careful.' he said. 'This lake has been a place of solace for woeful souls ever since. It is enchanted my friend. Death is the only comfort you will find in her arms. You had better get far from here.'
I took his advice and sped away down an old path towards a dim orange glow on the horizon.
NOBODY GETS AN APPOINTMENT
And so we travelled on, short in the telling, long in the doing. We followed the bird into a town but it flew through a grate at the side of the street which seemed to lead into a basement. Greatly intrigued, sensing something uncoincidental we determined to discover where the bird had gone. As the boy put it, 'I have a feeling the Mother of Meaning is at work'.
The house looked like any other in the street but all the windows were tightly shut and a large muscular man, twice as high as the boy, with a foreboding scimitar in his broad belt, stood at the door. The boy tethered his horse to the grate, went up the three steps to the guard and asked, 'May we enter this building?'