The gauze, constricting, shrouds his hands. He would that they would meet, moving beyond the lifeless clasp which whitens the knuckles. No amount of false tears can melt his yearnings to his words, which fall in a litany of useless entreaties. He repeats phrases, runs down lists, enumerates names to eat time away, but the clock ticks baroquely on the inert invocations, as his eyebrow twitches to its every movement. Time progresses, with God but slowly. He sweats with anxiety and steels himself for death whilst his life is robbed. His precious moments simper on, but he is girt only for abasement.
Every day he comes calling. Ask and it shall be given to you, seek and you will find. But nothing poured its deluge and smothered the coals of his expectation. Hear my cry, he would call. Are you there? he would ask. He looked on silence as the face of things, and his brow was not crowned with humility and patience. Once he would lose himself in supplication, but now his staticity made devotions of the clock’s ticking. Because he could not move his heart beyond the seemly, its exertions became fixations. His prayers became fuel to enervate the minutes and hours, his anticipation and his hope, wrapped up in numerical values, ceased to function on the human. He was paralytic in his computing, subdividing chunks of time to make faster its passage; varying his perception of the movement and interpretation of segments to augment the impotence of the already unengaging hours.
Something changes, though; the second hand clicks and vibrates as it tries to move forward. He watches as it ticks off second by second without progression. He frowns at the dirty trick but cannot leave; his hour is not at end. With the counting frustrated, he scrabbles for words and praise to lay out in offering. With every hollow crust of a word, the clock fails to record a second. With every extra moment, his indifference turns to ire. The more he babbles in his mind, the faster time does not pass. He contemplates abandoning the whole failed myth of it all, but he knows if he does that now, he will not be able to go back on it later. What can he do? There is no negotiating with a malignant deity demanding devotion.
It is apparent, he reflects, that only an imposition on his will could bind him in such a way. The convergence of events, the intersection of moods and precedents, these show the artfulness that goes beyond natural life. There is an intervention at work on him. He can but tremble, for he knows not the why or the wherefore. Cut off from man, cut out from time, cut away from the world, he imagines this isolated eternity imposed on every second that he has ever lived. Every humiliation, every shameful act, every guilty moment, every wasted evening, every barren, sorrowful ounce of pain he has inflicted or suffered, each one stretching out, echoing through the canyons of reality, unchanging, deepening the scars in his trapped soul, and he, unable to escape, let go or be free, is shaded with regret, becoming its doppelganger and kin. He begs freedom from recurrence.
Earnestly, he cries. Don’t let my days blow through open windows, he says. Don’t let my crooked ways haunt me. Don’t let my unfruitful hours prey at my mind. Don’t let my goodness be squandered and stifled by evil. Don’t let me be a limb lopped off. Don’t burn my fat and consume me for glory. But above all, don’t let my slow heart impede you. I desire mercy, not sacrifice. Forgive me. Forgive me.
The second hand ticks once more and moves forward.
The lights were crashing by with incredible noise, breaking the water in sheets that spread out like wings. Humphrey emerged from the bushes timidly. He blinked slowly, but did not look both ways. A vicious urge drove him forward. He had to move. East, over the plain, there was somewhere he needed to be. Directed by his instincts, his individuality was obscured. He was now primal matter, invested as a force, soulless and driven.
The deadline drew near, for his destination was time as well as place. He had to go forward despite the danger from the roaring lights. He placed his foot on the unyielding surface. His knees buckled as the ground refused to give way beneath him. Each step felt as if he was kicking up rocks.
A set of lights roared up and over him. The massive bulk behind the glowing eyes became visible like a can rising to the surface of a pool. He tried to pull his head in to protect himself, but he was struck anyway. Violently he was smacked around and thrown aside. His blood oozed everywhere, his limbs splayed and broken. Agony electrified his frame, pulsing in convulsions.
Car after car drove by his shattered body. The lost life at the side of the road meant nothing to any of them, but it meant a great deal to him. As his vitality waned, so did the need that had screamed through his flesh. He was restored to himself; the heavy hand of his ancestry left him to face his death alone.
The room fell silent, as the head scientist emerged in his ceremonial vestments. The spotlight reflected off his starch white lab coat, creating a retinal after-image. He laid out Galileo’s telescope and Marie Curie’s bunsen burner on the podium before him. The room stood in awe and reverence of the Concrete Realities. Then the oath was recited, each member recommitting themselves to seek to discover all that is knowable, to rely only on empirical truth, and to disavow all mystical representations. “There is the fact. On the fact we rely,” they chanted.
The HS spoke over the noise. He introduced the evening’s issue and the prominent related questions: On what level can an appeal to the majority of scientists be considered an evidence of veracity? When should the majority of scientists honour such appeals? How can the majority of scientists reach a consensus on what the majority of scientists believe?
Each question was wrangled back and forth. Learned debate went on for hours, with evidence, charts, diagrams, equations and photographs. After all sides made their case, their was a vote. The majority won.
The outcomes of the convention were published in newspapers worldwide. The average reader asked himself , “Who are the majority of scientists?”
As he wrote, the nine grew anxious. They could not afford Meriwether’s attack on the slender threads of devotion they yet had. In a brief, but heated, conclave it was determined that Erato would be sent to distract this man from his work.
When she appeared to him in all her glory, he addressed her with contempt. “I thought one of you might try to interfere.”
“Meriwether Gorse do not speak to me so disdainfully. I am not a mortal to be disregarded, not when I bring pleasures you cannot imagine.”
“Don’t speak to me of your pleasures. I cannot take them; I have found the higher. With one four letter word I can destroy you. The similarity it has to what you offer is merely coincidence. There never have been muses.”
Erato left defeated. Melpomene thought to do better, but it was too late. A thought was born, the knife on which inspirations balance.
He turned to Keren, “Did you see the man?”
“Not close-up,” answered Keren.
“What did he want?” someone shouted.
“Why has he gone to the home that fool? He’ll find only that hell has sent its servants here, too,” someone else put in.
“Please, please,” Shem Tov called out, “if Keren did not have a chance to see the man close up, he surely would not have been able to speak with him. Now, there is much work to be done today. We have wasted enough time on this matter already. We will surely see this man in our village come nightfall.”
With that statement we returned to our respective tasks, yet the day did not pass into night without incident, as Shem Tov thought. A couple hours into our work, a rumour came to our ears that something miraculous had happened at Abiezer’s hut. The madman, they said, who spoke only nonsense and spat on holy truth was healed. He acted now as any man of subdued and sensible spirit. Moreover, he was going to the temple to make veneration for this gracious healing. Immediately all work stopped. No man or woman was able to resist the calling that beckoned them to witness these unforeseeable happenings.
We came back to the village and saw Abiezer walking down from the ridge, some shepherds in his wake. He walked with the confidence and assurance. To his right stalked the unreadable migrant. His face was set like stone, and his eyes glinted with detachment and disinterest. It was impossible to say who filled us with more awe, Abiezer, whose eyes glinted with a light of humane intelligence never before seen, or the prophet, whose very demeanour was rank with otherworldliness. As Abiezer came forward into the village the way before him was made clear; the villagers gave him, and that prophet, a wide berth. Abiezer arrived in front of the temple and halted. The elders were assembled before him.
“I present myself now,” he began, “as the custom demands, to show that I have become clean. I humbly ask, therefore, that my name be reentered into the temple register.”
Shem Tov stepped forward as speaker for the elders. “There will be some questions as to the nature of your miraculous healing before we can grant your request. Would the man who caused this healing come before me?”
The prophet came and stood right in front of Shem Tov, towering over him. He held out his staff at arms length and rested it in the dirt, saying, “I am he.”
“Very well,” Shem Tov peered suspiciously into the prophet’s eyes, “By what magic have you done this? On what authority do you pervert and subvert the laws of nature?”
“My power is grounded in and comes from the authority of God. By His faith was this man healed, and by His grace I was chosen, though unworthy, to be the vehicle for this declaration of His glory. God has done this among you, and you must ask yourselves why? Know that the Kingdom of God is near. Let each look into his own heart and see if he has cause to tremble. Only your sins will keep you from the holy presence.”
The crowd began to shuffle and shift with discomfort, but Shem Tov was unabashed. “What sins do you mean?” There was overt hostility in his voice. “We are a faithful, law-abiding community, not some brood of vipers that you may spit at with venomous speeches.”
Abiezer looked at Shem Tov pleadingly. “Please, Shem Tov, do not speak in such a manner. This man is my benefactor. He deserves honour.”
Shem Tov looked with disgust at Abiezer. “My honour is reserved for the lord of Heaven. Here, we follow the word of God, not that of filthy pilgrims.”
“You may follow the word,” the prophet shook his head, “but you know nothing of it’s spirit.” The crowd exploded with mixtures of shock and outrage, and Shem Tov looked around in horror. “How dare you? I see now, you are a sorcerer, a worker of evil magicks. Be gone both of you.”
“But my petition?” cried Abiezer.
“You have no petition. We want nothing to do with you;” Shem Tov waved them away rudely, “you are both malefactors.”
“Be wary, man,” said the prophet, “God does not look kindly on those who lead his children astray.”
“This is not God for whom you speak; it is an agent of chaos. You twist truth to your own ends.”
“It is God for whom I speak!” the prophet screamed.
“Then show us,” Ravit, a farmer’s wife, yelled from the crowd, “my daughter is ill, cure her, prophet. Show us that God has anointed you.” We began to shout our assent for her proposal.
“You fools,” the prophet cast down his head, “God does not work at your whims, but for your needs.”
Shem Tov began to chuckle. “You have been trapped by this simple woman’s question. Why would God not want to heal her daughter? Why him,” he gestured toward Abiezer, “and not her? This is not justice, it is not love, and it is not fair. Now we see that you truly are from the devil himself. You have come to divide us and to spread doubt with your sorcery.”
The prophet looked around at all of us. There was a sadness in his eye, a resignation. “I see that this gift is wasted on you. You see power and think only of what you have to gain, not of what you have to learn. You see God and think not of how you can serve, but of how He can. Yes, this is a wicked and sinful generation.” He walked to the edge of the crowd, shook the dust off his feet, and said, “I leave you now. May God have mercy on your souls.”
Abiezer ran to the edge of the crowd, then he turned around. He looked at all of us hesitantly, “I was born here. My fathers have lived here for thirteen generations. I was your brother. And now you send me away because I have been blessed. You ridicule me that my life has improved. I pity you. I have found a higher calling, but where does that leave you? Farewell.” With that Abiezer ran up the ridge after the prophet. They were never seen or heard from again.
Many said that we were well to be rid of them, that they had done nothing but disrupt the peace and harmony of our lives. Indeed, all are thankful publicly for the failure of the prophet’s attempts to tip our lives into an abyss of hysteria where God was unfair, unreliable, and unjust; and where His power was thrown about like some indiscriminate force of nature. “God has his realm and we have ours, let’s keep the two separate.” the argument goes, “What good is a God who does not follow the laws he laid down.” Some of us, however, are in doubt. When we do have misgivings, we look out to the ridge, with the sun hanging over it, and we wonder. In the back of our minds we worry that God really did come knocking and that we refused him.
I.
Hitting wind with wings, at times
brings out hope in all of those
who live with the ground close
II.
Among sparsely growing grass
lawns of car parts, toys, and trash
split by scorched earth track
Faust was standing at the head of his brother’s grave preparing to deliver the eulogy. Behind him his mother sobbed, but he didn’t have the strength to look at her or give her comfort. He found himself staring at the ground as he imagined the things he should say to his mother but knew he wouldn’t; uncle Polonius will be there, he thought. He looked over the crowd to shake out the thoughts of guilt and saw nothing but fawning sycophants. Most of them had come for the simple reason that one could not in good taste avoid a funeral; their only purpose was to avoid insult. They would deliver their platitudes and insincere condolences with dismayed expressions, their limpid eyebrows raised, foreheads creased, lips puckered in a spurious imitation of sorrow. And after all their fraudulent empathies, they would return home relieved to have “gotten it over with.” Faust ran over what he planned to say, and as he did, all the memories he had dredged up for this occasion came back to him. In his rage, tears nearly came to his eyes. He raised his hand to cover his face, composed himself, then looked over those gathered together once more. After clearing his
“My brother, Erkenwald, was only twenty-one. That’s twenty-one years we spent together, far too short a time to spend with such a wonderful boy, no,” he paused, “man. We should all remember him as a man. In years he may have barely been out of boyhood, but how like a man in his compassion, how like a man in his loyalty, and how like a man in his love. Erkenwald’s courage always astounded me. He was never afraid to express affection to anybody. He was never ashamed to say when he loved or when he cared. He could say the most disarming, honest things to anybody. Once,” Faust chuckled, “at a bus stop, Erkenwald met a stranger and his girlfriend. The guy was dressed up as Superman. So, Erkenwald told them that he had a super power, too. The girl asked what it was, and Erkenwald responded that he had the power to withstand any awkward situation. The superman and his girlfriend were silent as Erkenwald smiled at them ingenuously. They stared and he stared back. Then the superman sighed, saying that he wished he had that.” Faust grinned, “This was so true for Erkenwald; he was always unabashedly bold.
"Erkenwald had been having some trouble in his late teens;” Faust’s demeanor became grim as he said this, “he had no direction in his life. I will not speak of those days, their proper place is in the past. His life should be judged on how he lived after that time. My mother and I were a little confused when he began calling himself a Christian, but the change wrought in him filled us with joy. He finally appeared to be pulling his life together, getting his diploma, going to school, and finding a job.” His eyes began to sparkle, “He became so devoted in his affections and his honesty. He quit drinking and smoking. He began hiking, and grew healthier and healthier. This was not to last, however; the world was too cruel for his fragile optimism. Erkenwald had a run of bad luck, and he proved unequal to the task of bringing his dreams to fruition. We can only presume,” his voice cracked, “that it was these sorrows that brought back his malaise and led to his suicide.”
Faust stopped to take a breath. His look became darker as he went on, “Erkenwald’s depression is something that we are often likely to blame ourselves for,” there was an almost sarcastic tone in his voice, “thinking that we could have prevented all this by being kinder or more considerate. What if more of us had told him how much we loved him?” his voice was almost outright hostile now, “Or what if we had been there? Could we have helped him?” The angry edge left him and he looked defeated, “These are questions I have had to put out of my mind many times since Friday. Erkenwald was my brother, I loved him.” A few tears appeared, streaking down his cheeks, “I would have done anything to help him. I can’t now. I can only hope that my brother will be happier wherever he ends up. And, I can say these few words, keeping him forever in my heart. This is our last goodbye for dear Erkenwald. May he rest in peace.” Faust stepped down from before the assembly and took his seat for the remainder of the service. His face was blank and haggard.
Following the Eulogy, Faust retreated into himself. On into the reception at the funeral home, he acted petulant and apathetic. He couldn’t stand to think. All his heart and soul went into his speech, and he was left with scanty resources to face the remainder of the day. He wanted nothing to do with anybody, but he sat patiently through all the forced greetings and false commiseration. It meant nothing to him when someone would tell him, “We’re so sorry for your loss.” He would stare at them, no emotion registering, and mutter, “Thank you.” He didn’t mean it; they didn’t mean it. Nobody owed anybody anything, and they all left without having sacrificed the convenience of their formal relationships. When he found a moment free from attention, he slipped out. Passing through a room full of empty coffins, and a broom closet, he found a small room with a couch and a table of refreshments. He put some water on to boil, picked out a bag of tea, then lay down to rest his eyes for a few moments. He fell asleep immediately.
Faust was walking along a flat gray plain. The light was not unlike twilight but it was as if it came from a colourless sun. He could see nothing but small stones, the ground being but granite, broken here and there. The wind was still, but howling like a hyena. Beneath the howls it whispered to him. The more he marched, the clearer he heard the whispers. They told him of every little secret he kept hidden from fear, shame, or guilt. They brought faces to his mind of people he’d hurt: the five year old half-French boy, the girl with the golden curls and the voluptuous figure, the married simpleton who believed in salvation, his own mother, his brother, and so on. Tormented by the whispers, he did not see the orchard approaching on the horizon until he was upon it. It was filled with shrubs, their branches bare except for the strange fruit that hung with great weight upon them, decaying rather than growing. He approached the nearest shrub to examine its resident. He recognised his brother’s corpse resting before him. The legs and arms were splayed out in what would have been an uncomfortable, even impossible, position were they attached to a living person. Blood dripped from the branches and down along the multiple trunks from numerous gaping wounds and sores. Maggots slid through his flesh, whilst rats crawled all over him. His head hung back with his mouth open slovenly, like he had just fallen asleep in front of the TV. Bile trickled down his chin as drool used to. Faust looked, contemplating the almost lifelike expression on his dead brother’s face. A shriek cracked through the sky, waking Faust from his reverie. He looked up, bending and ducking as he did so. Flying above him was a pack of savage harpies, vigorously extending and flapping their immense wingspan, and feasting on the abandoned cadavers. Their dirty yellow hair whistled and whipped behind them in a tangled matte, and their wrinkled and sagging breasts flounced violently against their chests. They clawed with their talons as they wheeled in Scythian circles, diving at their many and defenseless victims. They were constantly gnashing their near toothless mouths, their cracked and blackened lips becoming stained red. Their eyes were dark as opals, glittering malevolently in the reflected light like so many stars suspended in the hostile emptiness of space. One of the clamor came down and snatched at Erkenwald’s ring finger, and struck a branch as it went by. The branch broke and out came a hideous wailing scream. Faust recognized his brother’s voice. He clasped his hands over his ears and fell to the ground, groaning before he realized that it was only the kettle going off.
Faust stared at the kettle in confusion. He got up and poured his tea. The door to the room opened and his mother looked in. “Oh, here you are,” she said. “What are you doing? I was worried when I couldn‘t find you anywhere. I hope everything’s alright.” Her eyebrows lifted questioningly.
“I’m as fine as can be, mom. I was just getting a cup of tea, and I fell asleep on the couch. I needed to get out of there for a bit, you know.” Faust looked up at her. “It’s a lot to deal with right now.” Faust looked down into his tea and then took a sip, jerking his head away when his tongue met the boiling liquid. His mother let go of the door and gave Faust a hug, cheek to cheek. “I know,” she said, “I love you. I’m sorry this is so hard on you.” A crack came into her voice. She released Faust, giving him one last squeeze. She turned around, walked to the door, looked back with misty eyes, and said, “I’ll leave you alone for a bit.” Then she walked out. Faust wondered again why he couldn’t talk to her. He had been thinking, over the past few days, of all the things he should have said or done for his brother. Now here he was in the same pattern, locked down and uncommunicative with his mother. He had developed a fear of being vulnerable with others. He walked the easy road, hiding anything that showed the true state of his heart and avoiding direct, open intercourse with other people. He felt it guarded him from pain, but it also shielded him from joy. Hell, he thought, I should have told her about my dream. He needn’t feel uncomfortable about sharing it with her. Dreams, stories, all flights of fantasy were perfect for broadcasting how one felt with out being put on the line. On the other hand, he hadn’t had any time to process it for himself, and it was only a silly, meaningless dream anyway. There was no reason for him to tell her anything that might further upset her. She didn’t need to carry his burdens; she had her own.
The door opened again and Uncle Polonius appeared. “Hey, your mom told me where to find you. We’re wrapping everything up. It would be nice if you came out and said goodbye.” From Uncle Polonius’ tone, Faust gathered that his mother had mentioned that Faust was in a mood. Faust scowled, irritated that she would blabber about it to Polonius of all people. He wasn’t in a ‘mood’ either. He was just sick of dealing with people’s lying smiles and weak handshakes. He took a few more sips from his tea, nodded to Polonius, then put down the half empty mug. After about an hour of winding down, saying goodbye to people, gently dragging the stagglers away from the bar, Faust found himself in a car with his mom and his uncle. Polonius was driving. Nobody said a word. Faust was staring out the window, watching the storefronts go by, looking at everything and seeing nothing. Eventually, his head, bobbing back and forth to the motion of the car, his eyelids sliding up and down, he fell asleep.
Faust saw Erkenwald standing before a large wall, like a battlement, with a wooden door painted a deep, dark blue. Erkenwald looked extremely pale, his mouth hung open and his tongue was lolling out of his mouth. His pants, soaking wet all along his inner thighs and crotch, sagged as if weighted. He had a noose tied around his neck and held the several feet of extra rope penitently in his hands. When Erkenwald approached the door, the air around him seemed to implode. Faust felt he almost saw Erkenwald’s soul flipping. The door swung open smoothly without sound. He was flanked on one hand by a man with the head of an ox, and on the other by a man with the face of a horse. The ox head carried a gavel made of bronze, breathing heavily from his forceful nostrils. His horns were soaked in blood. The horse face had with him an enormous iron spike; he whinnied slightly, smiling a horse’s demented smile. The two animal things were mangy, there fur matted and disheveled. On their hands, it came up to their knuckles, and it grew in large tufts on their toes. Around their mouths it was crusty from former meals, and the fleas jumping in their fur were the size of bees. Erkenwald stepped forward hesitantly; his otherworldly guards struck and jostled him roughly. Their weapons left deep gouges and black bruises all over Erkenwald’s bare back. Erkenwald stumbled forward under their blows, being pushed into a large crowd . When he crossed the threshold, the door closed up as if it had never been. Erkenwald was in a vast expanse, closed in by the battlement. People, so many that there was hardly any room to move, filled the enclosure. They carried disfigurements of every imaginable kind. The field was mute save for the shuffling of the multitudes as they shifted back and forth unable to sit or find any rest from their tortures, yet constantly searching for some relief. Erkenwald joined the mass in its aimless dance, his eyes matching all others in their vacant gaze and hollow expression.
Faust woke up with a slight jump as the car came to a halt. He looked out the window to see that they had arrived at the house. Uncle Polonius turned around with a friendly, if patronizing smile. “You have a nice little nap?” he asked as he unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door. Faust’s mother was already stepping out of the car. Faust looked out the front windshield, trying to get his bearings. His dream remained perfectly vivid. He was left disturbed by the unfamiliarity of the imagery. He found it hard to believe that it all came from his own subconscious. “Are you coming?” said his uncle. Faust fumbled with his seatbelt. As he came into the house his mother asked him if he was alright.
“I’m fine,” he said, as he passed through the foyer and flopped onto the couch with his coat still on. “I’m just exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping well. Weird dreams.”
“Dreams?” his mother looked at him inquiringly, “About Erkenwald?” Polonius was taking off his coat and scarf, and pretending to be uninterested in the conversation, he drew it out as long as he could.
“Yes, about Erkenwald.” Faust replied with vehemence, as if he had confessed some horrible sin. “In my dreams he’s suffering in hellish places. He’s being tormented, and everything that makes him who he is, his soul I guess, is being annihilated. I mean, these are some sick, twisted dreams. We’re talking R-rated. And they’re so real. I’m starting to wonder if that isn’t what’s going on. We don’t know anything about the afterlife. Maybe suicides do go to hell, how can we know? ”
Faust’s mother looked puzzled, “Faust, I don’t know how all these ideas got into your head. Maybe you’ve been thinking too much about your brother’s little Christian thing. All I can say is that those stories passed around about a wrathful God who punishes the wicked are idiotic. Its not a wrathful God out to get us, it’s those petty hate mongers crucifying everybody who’s different from them in their small minds.”
“God’s a far stretch, I know, mom, but the Devil, now there is someone I can believe in. Look around you at the world today.”
Polonius, finally removing his shoes, decided to jump in, saying, “On the other hand, you can’t just throw out the experiences of thousands of people over thousands of years.”
Faust’s mother began to get offended, “Shut up, Poly. This is no time for your philosophizing. My son is not roasting in the lake of fire, no matter what a bunch of whacko priests and starved ascetics say. He was a good boy. If there is a God, I can’t believe that he’d damn a poor kid to an eternity of despair, just because he couldn’t handle that which he was dealt on Earth. If He’s supposed to be in charge of the show then it’s His own damn fault that people commit suicide.”
“Except,” replied Polonius, “that we create all the sorrow here on earth.”
“That’s enough you two,” Faust cut in, “this isn’t about God or the problem of evil. This is about Erkenwald. My brother! Who may be suffering. I’d give my soul, my life, to save him if that was the case.”
“Don’t say that Faust.” His mother commanded, “I’ve already lost one son. I don’t want to think about losing another.”
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” Faust retreated upstairs and collapsed onto his bed.
Erkenwald was in a field of fire, completely naked. He was screaming, raw and harsh, at the top of his lungs, his vocal chords sounded hoarse and his body was frozen in pain. Faust found himself next to Erkenwald, but unaffected by the flames. They flickered, coiled, and leaped all about him in streams of red, columns of orange, sparks of yellow, flashes of green, foundations of white, and hearts of blue. Faust ran to his brother and tried to talk to him or get him to move, but he could find no way to help him or communicate with him. Faust looked around frantically, distraught and disoriented by his brother’s wailing. He saw a tall tree grow in the distance. He flung his brother over his shoulder and began carrying him towards it. When he came to the tree it was like walking into a clearing; the area surrounding the tree was bare, the ground cracked and dry from the excessive heat. In the clearing were many people, some, covered in enormous blisters, their skin red and oozing, were crawling towards the tree. There were many, however, who had no burns, yet they writhed on the ground in savage hemorrhaging and pain. Faust watched one woman take one of the berries from the tree and place it in her mouth. Her burns seemed to begin healing she kept eating. Faust, relieved, rushed his brother, still screaming, to the tree and, taking berries hastily, stuffed his mouth with them. His brother’s burns began to fade away. Erkenwald’s shrieking ceased. Faust released him, and he got up onto his feet. Erkenwald stretched as the last of his burns disappeared. He smiled and sighed, then his face contorted into a grimace. He bent over and clutched his stomach. His face went violet. He fell over and began to roll around moaning. His moaning grew into a frenzy of squeals more primordial than his last bout. Faust looked at him in horror. Turning to the tree, he grabbed one of its fruit and gave it a closer look. The berries were shaped like people’s faces only distorted and disfigured. The berry he was holding looked up at him and smiled; he dropped it in shock. It began to hop around on the floor. A laugh came from behind Faust, he spun around quickly and briefly glimpsed a lizard-like behemoth rippling with muscle and flesh before he awoke.
Upon awaking Faust sensed a presence in his room. It was dark and he could see no one. He peered into the darkness and heard a laugh identical to the one in his dream. “Who’s there?” he demanded, sitting up in his bed. “Show yourself.” He heard a crack, felt pressure on his forehead, and his eyes crossed. He saw Erkenwald wrapped in chains in a dark pit. Then he witnessed himself unwrapping Erkenwald’s chains and putting them on himself. Erkenwald walked away smiling and met their mother. He hugged her. The vision ended and Faust was conscious again of being in his room. “Is this what you’re here for? A trade?”
A voice that came from the ambience of the room said, “Yes. He will live if you take his place.” The voice was deeper than any that came from man. It was hoarse and menacing. It’s guttural and alien cadence did not fit well with the English it spoke.
“How do I know he won’t end up right back with you next time?”
“That is his decision. We will give him, as you say, a fair chance.” The voice chuckled, an eerie rumbling that gave Faust some misgivings.
“Am I to gather that there is the possibility of being saved from you, of being free?”
“I will not speak of this,” the voice became abrupt and impatient, “Do you accept?”
The voice’s irritation made Faust feel smug. “I accept.” He said. There was a burning flash, and he disappeared from his room. He was engulfed in indescribable pain.
*
Erkenwald woke up on Faust’s bed. He was alive and well. Looking around him he was confused for a second. He shook his head and, gradually, his memory returned. On realizing what Faust had done, Erkenwald began to cry. “You fool,” he said between tears, “bringing me back to life does not cure my misery. It is only expanded by my experiences. How can I be free from hell when it lives inside me?” His grief turned to rage, he began screaming and throwing things to the ground, turning over the desk and smashing the pictures on the wall. “God damn you! God damn you! Why didn’t you leave me to my fate!?” He began to claw at himself. Polonius and Erkenwald’s mother, hearing the noise, came rushing in seeing Erkenwald they stopped, amazed. Polonius then tried to restrain Erkenwald who had not noticed them in his madness. Polonius wrapped Erkenwald in his arms, but Erkenwald broke free, and, running from him, ran through the window and fell three stories. He did not survive. The brothers, who loved each other so, were together again.
It has been growing for some time. One might have begun to realize that it is a He.
It began as an idea, easily rejected. The nature of an other to existence, something outside of, not a part of, external, is non-existence. To define the essence of the other there needs to be the under girding of the common inherent properties of all things. Rejection in an idea is an acknowledgement of meaninglessness. Meaning can have no common property with the other. It may merely be illusion, but that illusion is grounded in its nature as predicate of reality. The other comes as an object of existence and not an other. Its essence, requiring existence, paradoxically presupposing its nature as an other to existence. Too big for itself, the logic collapses inward.
Yet, the other remained acknowledged as such. As such it grew. One began to see that the necessity for the other preceded the structural support of common inherent properties. The common inherent properties themselves, being a foundation built on nothing, were in want. Only the paradoxical suffices to erect the erroneous picture of actuality that is purported, by simple observation, to exist. The other, at once in and out of what is, finds itself suddenly, against all probability, inflating. When the essence of the other, being eliminated, abandons preeminence to its nature, then the other is suitable as foundation. From the very conflict of essence and nature emerges the inscrutable and ineffable, that which can cause movement without moving.
Finally, the other imbues from its disenfranchised environment, being entwined with, superceding even the common inherent properties. It lays claim to the paramount position among concepts. And meaning will bow and be defined in the light of the other. Essence will find its own essence to be the other. There will be no definition that does not presuppose that the other is implicated. Still, it grows. All that is real, all that is unreal, it encompasses. Its very nature demands that all the imperfections fall under one heading. Perfection becomes only its mark, the view from a distant vantage point. It speaks, and nothing does not come from its voice, and so it lays claim even to person -ality and -hood. One might have begun to realize it was a He.
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