We flew closer still, and hovered. The stench was intoxicating. I saw the war prisoner’s wild eyes, and in a heartbeat ravenous euphoria was replaced by terror.
I saw and understood that this smell of what was once a man was me, and in panic I began falling from the sky.
Death steadied me, “Do not be afraid,” he said as I plummeted towards myself. “I came once more to take you, but I am in your debt. You have challenged me, aided me, helped me hear life’s song, and finally you have even made me laugh. ‘My black finger puts the final punctuation at the end of every man’s life sentence,’” and his laughter began all over again.
We had begun the final dive of a bird of prey. There was no turning back. We were very close and flew very fast, faster than the speed of reflex. For me there could and would be no stopping. A wing tip away from impact, he flashed his final words. “No punctuation, Vincent, your life sentence has just begun.”
Instantly my world blazed white. Like the coals of a forge it cooled, sinking steadily through a sea of red and orange. Finally it settled into the black cold depths of the night, from where I emerged and moved as a man once more.
The fever had broken. The heat and redness around the wound still remained, but my arm no longer ached at every passing heartbeat. The blood that had seemed unstoppable had slowed to a trickle and had cleaned the wound as best it could. Dead flesh was gone, and the children of the flies had also vanished. A mind forced away by the body’s anguish has returned to its temple to worship at its altar of bearable suffering once again.
I had survived, I had begun to heal, and I had forgotten everything that Death had said to me.
My downcast eyes had measured both my journey and my life, but not in length or duration, for me time and distance no longer existed. No, they measured simply by what they had seen. They saw my body, wounded, starved, and ill, wither to the bone. They saw rivers turn to ocean, fields turn into forest, and forest turn to sea. They saw seas become mountains, and the mountains turn to desert.
In the desert they saw the sun paint my body with a color it had never worn, the color of the shifting sands. When they had seen my mummification process complete, they saw more. They saw desert become dusty road, and dust become cobblestone. They told me we had entered the kingdom of my enemy. When they saw the ground before me stop moving, they stopped measuring and told me I had arrived at a far flung outpost. It was here that they struggled to finally look up. I saw the multitude of strange people that surrounded me stretch to the horizon, and I felt only pain.
This was not an ocean of blue and green water, but a sea of brown, and shades of brown like an ocean of sand. It was a vast sea of human waves. It was a desert of the drifting dunes of humanity, and it made my eyes thirst. My eyes did not thirst for water like the flesh does, the endless shades of desert brown made them thirst for color. They had not seen bright colors since the blood had ceased its flow, and now they craved them.
On the distant horizon they saw sunlight split to rainbow, the answer to their prayer. It was like the sparkle of the setting sun on water or a shaft of light shining through jewels. My thirst was quenched, and my pain had faded. My eyes once again saw the people around me, and I felt something stronger than pain. I could feel their fear, their wonder, and their pity, and I wept.
The once distant flash of rainbow drew closer now. The desert of humanity parted before it, and it passed unimpeded. I saw that it was not a cruel mirage of deprivation, but a rider wearing the dazzling cloth colors of red, blue, green, and gold on a background of silver white, and they shimmered magically with his every movement. He was real, and followed closely by a horse-drawn wagon led by a female servant clad in the ordinary brown colors of the desert’s caress. My eyes followed their progress.
As they entered the square the servant and cart hovered back, while the man of color approached. His strong graceful movement told me that this one was skilled in the arts of war, and the long straight blade sheathed on his back hinted that my execution was at hand. Beside me now, he spoke in my language but in a tone and rhythm all his own. I had to listen carefully and closely as he asked only my name. Then I had to fight hard to remember it; it had been so long since I had answered to it. “Vincent,” I replied as strongly as my voice would allow.
He began to laugh. “Latin, meaning one who conquers,” he said. “That is funny given your circumstance.” My blood ran cold, for in my world, the one from which I had been so violently taken, being questioned by those that know Latin is almost always followed by a slow and agonizing death. The reality of my present situation flooded in, and I began drowning once again in a dark and paralyzing emptiness.
His first words had plunged me under but his next seemed to grab my head and hold me up, allowing me to breathe again. “Do not despair,” he said calmly. “Some believe that the one that endures has conquered.” And then a movement faster than an arrow’s flight, his hand was drawing up the bladed edge. I could hear it gather speed out of the sheath, and then silence as it cleared and swooped down. I stretched my skinny neck to give a clean target, but instead felt a jerk at my wrists, as his blade’s arc bit the chain that had held my hands together for so long. The links fell at my feet like the pruned branches of an olive tree.
Since boyhood I had heard the warriors tell stories of reverence about a sword that could cut through iron like a cleaver through meat, but these were just stories. I had been a soldier my whole life and had never seen one. Now looking at the metal bonds that lay coldly at my feet, I felt strangely complete.
I braced for the next cut, but the sword had returned to sheath, and its wielder had turned to address the throng. Although I didn’t understand his words, I clearly understood their meaning. “This man now belongs to me.” He directed their attention towards the cart of plunder. He studied the horde and asked, “Are there any objections?” There was only silence as the crowd’s interest had now shifted towards the rest of the spoils. His eyes met mine and in a low voice he said, “From today I am your owner. Vincent, your life sentence has just begun.” His servant helped me to the wagon as the crowd pushed closer to the treasure-laden cart.
My eyes caught the flash of shadow moving across the ground where a high-flying carrion bird had come between us and the sun, and I knew then that Death would wait.
The wagon that I fell into was lined with pillows and overlaid with a beautifully patterned carpet. I lay on my side, unmoving, like an egg in its nest, or an unborn baby in a wondrously colored womb. I heard the one who had claimed ownership of me say, “the road home is long and arduous; whether my daughter tends or buries, is not for me to say.” I felt the wagon begin to move, and I felt the one who I thought a servant climb in beside me. Clouds above and road below, my eyes closed, and I hovered between two worlds.
The first leg of the journey was difficult. She began her work immediately. I felt the skill of healer in her hands. She massaged me firmly but gently, leaving no damaged areas neglected. Her fingers dug deep enough to draw moans from my broken frame, and then her palms smoothly reassured its bone and tissue. I could feel both strength and confidence in her attention, and I marveled at her dexterity.
This went on day after day, but at week’s end I felt I could take no more, and I fell into the fearless sleep of the nearly dead. Through the depths of my slumber I smelled the fire, and as night descended she brought me a soup of bitter herb and beast unknown. After the meal I remember nothing until morning came, and I awoke to the sound and motion of wheel on road once again.
The
