There existed for a time, in a location not known to the rest of us, a ring of five faces, each with a countenance settled to fully view the others, but with one turned just slightly akilter, yet still able to look upon all of the other faces. So arranged by a puckish whim of nature when a cargo of severed heads tumbled off a donkey cart and rolled away from the path down a long slope. They came to rest on a field of short, deeply soft, clover. That same nature that placed them there deemed that none had died, at least for now. And so they were settled, looking around with eyes wild with terror. The faces blinked in disbelief, trading stares and simply blinking at one another, amazed to be like a miniature Easter Island of balanced heads. None believed their individual sparks of intelligence would continue to burn for very long. For a time they were still. Then the flooding memories of recent horror consumed them. Tears of anger and self-pity. Moans of fear. Screams of agony. The need to retch but no retching mechanism extant. No one blamed any of the others for choices of expressions against the outrage of being beheaded by a vengeful society. Throughout the day it lasted, then all during the night residual groaning. As the day burst upon them, almost like on-switching a light bulb, they were mostly cried out. By degrees, their terror eased in the sweet morning air. And they took stock and began to communicate with looks and expressions. A few gave the others encouraging half-smiles. As yet no one ventured to speak. Then a butterfly settled on a young feminine nose. Her eyes crossed, to look at it.
“It’s the clover,” an older male voice offered. “There are many butterflies here. A few bees, also.”
This particular head with full growth white hair on it had belonged to A, a journalist/essayist. Any who recognized him in later life would call A a radical. His turn to feel the bite of the blade had been almost universally anticipated.
The butterfly had taken a rest upon the nose tip that had been a part of R, paramour to a man whose head balanced on the lush greenness two places away. R had always worn her flaxen tresses nearly waist long. As a prisoner, she had had it hacked until it was ragged and short. There was a scabbed over gash caused by the reckless actions of the man wielding the shears. Her gaze rested on the head that had spoken to her; yet there seemed nothing to say.
The head that we will henceforth call A commented on her eyes, telling her the poets wrote sonnets to such eyes as hers.
R said nothing, still. It was evident in her expression the belief that men only serve compliments to pretty females when strategizing control over them. Her eyes sought out Z, her former lover for an instant.
No interest was returned, for Z to all intents and purposes no longer knew her. She had understood the man all too well for it to bother her as her gaze randomly swung to and locked on a certain M.
To M, the unwavering stare from a single set of eyes constituted an audience, to which he could not resist responding. “I offered them pearls, those swine,” he said.
M looked about to see if his outburst had gotten the attention of the rest of the group. Their paused faces, though their eyes looked away, told him they were listening. “I gave millions of people hope,” he said. “I had more followers than anybody.”
“We all know about you,” Z said. “Nobody deserves to be here more than you.”
M regarded his accuser with scorn. “Trafficker. Flesh merchant. You will burn in the bowels of hell. The Lord will see to that.”
Fleeting amusement crossed through Z’s features. He dismissed M from his thoughts. Shortly, he closed his eyes and could correctly be deemed to be close to napping. It had long been a habit with him to sleep by day while pursuing most activities in the deepest night. He felt no impetus to change.
A had noted that the head akilter had not as yet acknowledged the group. His curiosity grew after he determined it to be female and that she concentrated her attention solely on what could be seen of the world from that very confined vantage point.
“Are the butterflies gone?” R asked, breaking into his musing.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “However, I do see a crow in the distance, hopping, and driving its beak into the clover. Now it has flown. A good thing in my book. I wouldn’t want something like that getting close.”
“I’m afraid,” she said. “Now we’re half dead I would like to get it over without further pain.”
A backed out of their talk, finding it distressful; also cutting it short because he was eager to focus his attention on the other woman, made interesting because mysterious.
Provoked by his undisguised curiosity, the akilter woman’s features froze, her eyes holding a steady gaze to her front. A felt unapologetic. He brashly studied her features, which were plain, yet strong, her eyes that were deep and shadowed. That skin tone and hair could put her in multiple ethnic groups. “What is your name?” he said.
She slowly trained the trajectory of her gaze on his face. “You are A,” she said.
“Everyone knows me. I don’t recognize you,” he said.
“I taught in a top university,” she said without responding to A’s request. “I researched the material and taught the truth.”
“As you should have done,” he said.
“My work often contradicted the texts we were expected to follow,” she said. “A few students reported me. At first, the administration tried to support me. In the end, they joined with the government to demand I retract certain information. I refused. I was imprisoned. Still, I refused.”
“Maybe,” A said, “you ought to have compromised just a little.”
Her sigh said more than any words. Her renewed silence somehow cut A, set him to review his own transgressions. A's transgressions were tolerated until the wrong persons assumed legal power. After that, no amount of backtracking could erase the bruising untruths contained in the words he had written. He mentally shrugged. “So it goes -”
R was singing to console herself. Her voice was once deep, sultry, but no longer resonated. A didn’t know any songs and didn’t care.
M had been muttering to himself since the exchange with Z. He saw A looking around. “Let me tell you where you’ve gone wrong,” he said in the best pitchman’s voice.
“Shut up,” said Z. “I’m sleeping.”
The three men began haranguing one another, causing M to sing ever louder. They didn’t notice that the head akilter had gone still and her eyes semi-closed. When A finally noticed it was when that head rolled forward, leaving the face to rest in the soft greenness.
“It’s the clover,” an older male voice offered. “There are many butterflies here. A few bees, also.”
This particular head with full growth white hair on it had belonged to A, a journalist/essayist. Any who recognized him in later life would call A a radical. His turn to feel the bite of the blade had been almost universally anticipated.
The butterfly had taken a rest upon the nose tip that had been a part of R, paramour to a man whose head balanced on the lush greenness two places away. R had always worn her flaxen tresses nearly waist long. As a prisoner, she had had it hacked until it was ragged and short. There was a scabbed over gash caused by the reckless actions of the man wielding the shears. Her gaze rested on the head that had spoken to her; yet there seemed nothing to say.
The head that we will henceforth call A commented on her eyes, telling her the poets wrote sonnets to such eyes as hers.
R said nothing, still. It was evident in her expression the belief that men only serve compliments to pretty females when strategizing control over them. Her eyes sought out Z, her former lover for an instant.
No interest was returned, for Z to all intents and purposes no longer knew her. She had understood the man all too well for it to bother her as her gaze randomly swung to and locked on a certain M.
To M, the unwavering stare from a single set of eyes constituted an audience, to which he could not resist responding. “I offered them pearls, those swine,” he said.
M looked about to see if his outburst had gotten the attention of the rest of the group. Their paused faces, though their eyes looked away, told him they were listening. “I gave millions of people hope,” he said. “I had more followers than anybody.”
“We all know about you,” Z said. “Nobody deserves to be here more than you.”
M regarded his accuser with scorn. “Trafficker. Flesh merchant. You will burn in the bowels of hell. The Lord will see to that.”
Fleeting amusement crossed through Z’s features. He dismissed M from his thoughts. Shortly, he closed his eyes and could correctly be deemed to be close to napping. It had long been a habit with him to sleep by day while pursuing most activities in the deepest night. He felt no impetus to change.
A had noted that the head akilter had not as yet acknowledged the group. His curiosity grew after he determined it to be female and that she concentrated her attention solely on what could be seen of the world from that very confined vantage point.
“Are the butterflies gone?” R asked, breaking into his musing.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “However, I do see a crow in the distance, hopping, and driving its beak into the clover. Now it has flown. A good thing in my book. I wouldn’t want something like that getting close.”
“I’m afraid,” she said. “Now we’re half dead I would like to get it over without further pain.”
A backed out of their talk, finding it distressful; also cutting it short because he was eager to focus his attention on the other woman, made interesting because mysterious.
Provoked by his undisguised curiosity, the akilter woman’s features froze, her eyes holding a steady gaze to her front. A felt unapologetic. He brashly studied her features, which were plain, yet strong, her eyes that were deep and shadowed. That skin tone and hair could put her in multiple ethnic groups. “What is your name?” he said.
She slowly trained the trajectory of her gaze on his face. “You are A,” she said.
“Everyone knows me. I don’t recognize you,” he said.
“I taught in a top university,” she said without responding to A’s request. “I researched the material and taught the truth.”
“As you should have done,” he said.
“My work often contradicted the texts we were expected to follow,” she said. “A few students reported me. At first, the administration tried to support me. In the end, they joined with the government to demand I retract certain information. I refused. I was imprisoned. Still, I refused.”
“Maybe,” A said, “you ought to have compromised just a little.”
Her sigh said more than any words. Her renewed silence somehow cut A, set him to review his own transgressions. A's transgressions were tolerated until the wrong persons assumed legal power. After that, no amount of backtracking could erase the bruising untruths contained in the words he had written. He mentally shrugged. “So it goes -”
R was singing to console herself. Her voice was once deep, sultry, but no longer resonated. A didn’t know any songs and didn’t care.
M had been muttering to himself since the exchange with Z. He saw A looking around. “Let me tell you where you’ve gone wrong,” he said in the best pitchman’s voice.
“Shut up,” said Z. “I’m sleeping.”
The three men began haranguing one another, causing M to sing ever louder. They didn’t notice that the head akilter had gone still and her eyes semi-closed. When A finally noticed it was when that head rolled forward, leaving the face to rest in the soft greenness.
No comments:
Post a Comment