There Is Only Redemption

Today is April 31st. It is cold. The last thing I remember before the world broke apart is being at the Basilica di San Francesco in Assisi and gazing on Giotto’s “Saint Francis of Assisi Preaching to the Birds.” I stood there a long time, filled with such peace, and it must be said, so much gratitude, as well. My feeling was that all was right and good. How could it be otherwise when I could dwell freely upon such beauty and stillness?

All gone.

A friend, a dear friend from my childhood, once told me she was unable to understand the minds of soldiers who were willing to take prisoners and who seemed visited by bloodlust. I said to her it is not the soldiers we must worry about, but the ones who send the soldiers. I wasn’t able to change her mind.

Not anymore than I could change the mind of our unbeloved leader who added a day to the month of April because he felt like it. As if it made any difference. Of what use is an extra day when all the rest have been obliterated?

The sea is a deep blue and the sun of mid-morning creates brilliant flashes of light on the incoming waves. The sand on the shore is white and soft, except for the metal shells strewn across it from the final storm. I ache to hear rain on the leaves of the trees that used to stand near my house. I would stay for hours listening. But it was not rain that fell upon us this time.

This land is most suitable for the game of war. I know this to be true. I have returned here a hundred times and more, each incarnation promising joyous reunion, but yielding only destruction and the inevitable, curious, and familiar awareness of loss.

Melior died not ten feet away from me. How is it the fires enveloped her and not me? My only consolation, if I can call it that now, is that the soldier who threw the lethal charge at her had come too close and incinerated himself as well.

More fires bloom in the distance. Screams rise and fall with the wind. The visitors have been thorough, I’ll give them that.

Very soon I will be alone, the only one left. I am, after all, the one they came for.

Surrounded by cliffs, I have made a fire of my own and prepared a meal of blackened fish and kelp. Both are dangerous to eat now, for the sea is no longer free of poisons, but that isn’t something I need to fear any longer.

In my pocket I still have the mirror with its abalone cover given to me by my daughter during the Festival of Harapace. It was before they took her away while I was walking in the fields behind our home. I never look into it. It’s enough to know she once treasured it.

So many things once mattered to me, small things, like the dappled light on the trees and the cast of light and shadow in the moonlight and the laughter of children playing. I can recall striking a ball with my bat and watching it sail over the barrier and hearing the roar of the crowd. And, too, watching snow fall at dusk, and in its silence feeling something holy. It was the same feeling that came to me in the desert in the cool of the morning, when I watched an eagle fly high and make one haunting cry before disappearing into its eyrie.

Or did I imagine all of it? I’m no longer sure. The weight of war has changed me.

One thing I do know. I have loved with passion and with joy. They cannot take that away from me. They cannot control my heart and soul. Both are forever beyond their reach. This is a great consolation to me. But I still have had to learn how to let go of yearning for what no longer exists, for that way lies madness.

Nightfall. The fires across the sea have gone out. The only sound is the susurration of waves on the sand. It is still cold.

When will they come for me this time? It is, I admit, hard not to know for sure. Despite my best intentions, I feel a frisson of impatience. I have never been very good at waiting. They know this and it is part of their game, I think—to play with that. But I am not drowning in anxiety nor anticipating their arrival nor even interested in their timing. Not really. My impatience is simply a habit and does not really control me.

I crave something sweet, perhaps the blackberries that used to grow in my yard near a copse of ash trees. But I let the memory go. I let all memories go, one by one, as they appear. It is the wisest course.

“What do you think, my love, of my painting?” Melior would ask me each time she finished one. I would look at the splashes of color with gladness. One in particular seemed at first nothing more than a wash of blue and green and white with streaks of bright yellow. I didn’t know what it was but the feeling it gave me was of joy and delight and something more, and after a moment of contemplation I understood. I felt freedom. When I told her this she smiled and kissed me.

“Well done, my love. It is the essence of a sailboat pushed by a great wind, crossing the water in sunlight. What could be more free?” She was with me when I saw the Giotto artwork and loved it as much as I did.

I must let that memory go, too.

“Do you dream, Daddy?” my daughter would ask every morning. If I said no, her answer was “Then I’ll give you mine.” And she would regale me with images of fairies and birds made of sparkling gemstones and once she dreamed of a mouse who wore a velvet jacket and loved knitting and eating cream scones. Her dreams were always happy ones.

I hear the bursts of sound that signal their transports have arrived, these silver ships filled with the armies of the night, the ones who are so sure of their own authority over us, over this land, over my world. They have been successful in destroying it, burning the cities until they are but rubble, burning the fields and leaving the land barren. They will laugh when they reach me. And they will, soon. They will come around that cliff over there and swagger in glee, knowing I have no choice. For they have chosen me as the last survivor. Again.

I see the commander emerge out of the forward ship.

“It’s time, Number 41,” he says, as if I don’t know already. As if we have not had this exchange hundreds of times. To his delight. To my grief.

Earth believes it has the upper hand, every time. It is the nature of its denizens. The residents of Earth seek absolute power. They always have. Disrupting our peace was not enough for them. When they found my planet, they rejoiced. They had found new pawns, new prey, for their predatory game. Playthings for them.

But I know something the commander does not. We are so much more. Beneath the illusion which is all they can perceive, the veil that covers our planet, impenetrable and invisible, we live peaceful lives. Nothing they have done is real. The power over us they seem to require is none of our concern.

Yet still, we are somewhat weary of their games. We have one of our own. And it is time to play it.

The commander believes he has come to retrieve me.

No.

I am here to retrieve him. Or perhaps the word is redeem.

Either way, it is end game. Now.