On the
stone, the bloodstained and desolate rock; occupied only by the screaming and
thrashing girl tied down with vines.
Accompanied by Father Malachi, and shadowed by a congregation of sheep
chanting the banter of their so-called savior.
A sacrifice they say to please the gods.
To bring rain, let the crops grow, bring us salvation and what have you. The chanting comes to a climax, I turn away
from the mob just as the screams go silent, and an overwhelming wave of nausea comes
over me. I walk over to a log and sit,
trying not to vomit as the mob disperses.
I guess they lost interest.
These
spectacles have been a more common sight below the Canopy, ever since the
drought. It’s been a year without rain
and our crops won’t grow. The mystics
have been foretelling the end, but I’ve never been one for their
astro-babble. The world will correct
itself; the rain will flow from the great stems of the Canopy once again. In that, and only that I have faith; none of
this sacrificial bull. It’s barbaric and
it sickens me.
But where
are my thoughts? I forgot to introduce
myself, my name is Wallace Goldberg, and I am of average height, pale skin,
brown hair and grey eyes. I am a
philosopher, but nobody thinks of me as such.
They think of me as a madman, the only people with enough sense to
listen are my friends, which are few and far between. But that will change, I will make my voice
heard, that much I set my heart on. If I
have to post my views on every wall, every log, stem, so be it. As long as I am not reduced to the barbaric
acts of my – I hate to say it – peers.
After the
girl has been removed from the rock, her blood joining the others on that
cursed thing. I lift myself from the log
and head for home, my lonely solace in this town. When I reach my hut, the door still gone from
when my parents were taken. I browse the
house for anything stolen; my usual ritual around when I get home. Of course I have nothing of great value, my
house has been empty since the rations went out and my house was raided. I am engorged with the vacancy of the place,
almost as if it purged itself of me long ago.
Hearing my stomach rumble I decide to go out to the ration line, purge
myself of this place.
Walking
through the shanty town I pass dry roads, dark shadows on the ground and lines
of sunlight struggling to get past the Canopy.
One thing I never understood is if we are in such a bad drought, why is
the Canopy still green? The stems and
leaves show no signs of a lack of anything, they still sway in the wind, block
the harsh sun, and protect us from the space above. As I look up the Canopy moves with me,
silently keeping track of me as I meander toward the ration line. But if I look up, past the leaves, I think I
can see something – what looks like a life form -- past the Canopy. Could it be something past our world?
A loud smack and a crash bring me back to reality. I had run straight into the exit ration line. The lady I ran into had dropped her plate and was absolutely livid, she was screaming at me. I really couldn’t apologize enough, nor could I really understand what she was saying. My mind kept going back to the Canopy – in the proper ration line I stare back up into nothing – it must have been my imagination, playing tricks on me.
“Oh yeah, I
thought I saw something up there but it must have been my eyes playing games with
me. I guess I got distracted,” I said
while I moved my hands in a wavelike motion, a nervous habit of mine. “Games never end well now-a-days do they?”
“Not when
you’re playing with the sky,” she said with a smirk. “Saw something huh? Like what, another plant, some clouds, sky”
—she quickly changed to a whisper--- “A life form maybe? You know how dangerous that kind of talk is
around here. Especially with Father
Malachi around, he likes to creep around the ration lines and listen to the
gossip. Look, meet me at my house after
dark and we will discuss what you really saw.”
She disappeared in an instant.
Just in time too.
“Ah, Mister
Goldberg how nice it is to see you here.
Where is your friend Alex going all of a sudden?” The old but strong voice was
unmistakable. I knew the face before I
turned around; Father Malachi.
“She forgot
something at home Father, nothing get flustered over,” I say with reluctance; I
hate lying.
“I saw you
two speaking before, anything I should know about?”
“What, don’t
tell me one of us is next in line for one of your sick performances, we aren’t
nearly old enough. You already took my
parents, why not take me?”
“Oh gods no,
I would never do that to either of you,” he said with a very hurt look on his
face, one that I think he wears a lot.
“What must be done must be done.”
Something I think he says to himself just as much.
As I was
coming up with something to say, something comes into my attention that wasn’t
there before, an extraordinarily loud buzzing noise mixed with the sound of
ripping and tearing times a billion. And
it’s getting closer, much closer; much faster.
Soon enough the air is being sucked out of my lungs and I am being
ripped off the ground and everything around me is coming with me. Into a big metal spinning blade we go, it was
almost enjoyable, then—
* * *
On the mower, Jose was overwhelmed with the sensation of destroying something great. But what could have he destroyed? He was just mowing the grass before the rain came; the weatherman said it would be a perfect time to mow. The more he mowed the more the sensation came, so he crossed himself and prayed. There wasn’t much else he could do.
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