S&S4

The Village of Dust

November 29, 1984

For "Dick"

Father Theodore had settled by the bell tower’s window, anxiously peering out towards the darkening sky. Every seven years, on the Night of the ‘Spirits’, he would take his place by that window, broodingly waiting for the sunset. Lately, however, the passing years had begun to vividly reveal themselves upon his weary eyelids. His stern figure, once firm and commanding, like a slab of cold tombstone, now appeared - as he observed his own dim reflection in the windowpane - softer, more sunken. Time’s unforgiving hand had carved deep, dark folds into his flesh, obscuring in the crevices of his old face the countless stories and events of old, concealing untold mysteries and so many unvoiced emotions.

His body moved with increasing difficulty. His knees, worn out by time and pained by the chill of the encroaching winter, kept him mostly indoors lately. He spent most of his time lying in bed, in the roadside room of his house, yearning melancholically for the lost freedom of the outdoors.

He would always gaze out through the misted window at the backyard garden, where he had spent his entire youth labouring from dawn to dusk, hands in the soil. Memories of people and places lingered within him and before him - in an almost ghostly fashion. He could almost see the narrow, dusty lanes of the village, where he used to wander from gate to gate, and door to door, until the sun would fall - visiting each home, either out of necessity (if they had some kind of problem), or simply guided by his spiritually parental instincts. His solemn intuition had constantly reminded him that he was needed in that long forgotten place… That he had to share those great big words which all the villagers needed to hear, or teach them all the rules they had to follow and respect. To remind them all of their eternal duties, both to the village and to themselves. Duties that he often felt compelled to repeat endlessly, in hopes that they might understand, eventually.

His body’s biological functions also began to defy his usual rest schedule, keeping him awake throughout most the night. Thus, he felt perpetually tired during the day. Pain, and tempting thoughts would always vex him, something he had wrestled with all his life - thoughts that, in his youth, he had the strength to suppress, but which seemed recently to almost sense his physical and mental weakness - and attacked him more and more frequently, evidently trying to suppress him.

Those long nights, filled with dark, oppressive thoughts, of wicked people and monstrosities, real or imagined, gradually and methodically drained him of the meagre strength that he had left. There were days, sometimes weeks, where he couldn’t even get out of bed anymore. If no one was around to bring him his walking stick, or help him out of bed, the Church would go without a Mass for as long as he was absent, the Bells would stay untolled, even on important Holy Days…

The Elders, led by the Preceptor, had repeatedly explained to the old priest that perhaps it would be better for everyone’s sake if he stepped down from his position, to make room for a younger, more enlivened soul - someone who still had the necessary strength to tend to the village’s essential nourishment. Someone to bolster in people, not just the basic knowledge acquired from books, from the outside world, but also the Faith that they so desperately required to withstand together, in their present state.

Father Theo, although initially hesitant, eventually yielded to their pleas … And after many services read from a chair, with many interruptions and breaks, during which he paused to catch his breath - lost amongst the twisted lines of the scriptures - he too realized that he could no longer be of any use to anyone in his current condition. The pivotal Night was approaching rapidly, and he no longer felt capable of protecting anyone, should some form of evil unforeseen decide to strike, precisely when he was at the end of his lifeline.

Then, he would have gladly ceded his place, in the end, but his cooperation with the Elders’ intentions was hindered by the simplest and most obvious of questions: Who would they put in his place?

The same question the Elders had struggled with also - and they asked for a respite to meditate on the situation. In their tight - knit - circle, in a village that had not any contact with the outside world for decades, they could not just bring in anyone to replace the Father in such an essential role - critical even, in maintaining the peace and the docile mentality of the populous, A Faith that had facilitated, after all, their successful isolation, all this time….

Many months had passed while the Father still awaited his chair’s liberation in favour of a newcomer, yet he heard no news from those who had pestered him for so long to abandon his position. And so, the night of November 29th found him again, more tired and older than ever, at the bell tower’s ledge - in the most crucial role of the event.

‘Father!’ a familiar voice rang out from behind him. A crackling adolescent voice, clearly undergoing the physiological changes associated with the age.

The priest didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, he intended to turn his heavy body towards the boy calling him out. But he quickly changed his mind: something in the landscape outside had locked his attention in the distance - towards the dark horizon, which seemed to be threateningly advancing towards them.

The air suddenly became denser, and it seemed to him that it was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe. He wobbled slightly on his feet but immediately leaned on his stick and finally regained his balance.

In the meantime, Eli had already climbed the ladder that led to the top of the tower and popped his head out through the opened trapdoor in the floor, to make sure the priest was still safe and sound, in the same place he had left him, just a few hours before.

‘Father,’ the boy called out again, ‘Everyone is downstairs!’

‘Alright,’ he replied curtly, ignoring the boy’s gaze. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said, feeling the boy’s persistent stares boring into the back of his head.

The boy had already climbed up and was now hesitating in a corner, unsure if he should, or if even could, approach the old priest. To help him, or just stand there. How old he had become…. Eli thought on the spot, as he looked on towards the priest, a weak old man, leaning on his elbows, on the narrow ledge of the window. His massive, tall silhouette, his back crudely hunched over, looked black and somewhat broken in the faint light that dimly entered through the open window; and the exhaustion in his voice seemed to stick to each syllable that he exhaled, laboriously, from deep within the abyss of his tired old lungs.

Although Eli had come hastily after him, his main concern to retrieve the Father from the tower, the present image he encountered eclipsed somehow all the importance of the great announcement that he’d wanted to convey - and he was no longer in such a hurry to return downstairs. He seemed to have caught himself in the state of fear and thoughtfulness that the priest’s entire being emanated, prostrated there, by the ledge, like a fallen statue, in the pale light of the settling sun.

The Father slowly turned his body, leaning on his crooked cane. He looked at Eli for a moment and was overwhelmed by such profound remorse for the young man standing there before him - he was just a child! He thought. He knew nothing … How could he have made him understand the truth?

And would it have been worth it, even, to try and explain it to him? To tell him what he should have known already - what they all should have known, actually, by that age - about the village, and the hills. About the myths and the stories and the customs that meticulously dictated every aspects of their lives, from birth to death; and maybe even beyond that….

In a brief moment of lucidity, he felt a surge of energy that instantly reinvigorated his entire body, like a cold and unexpected dive in the ruthless waters of the Umzimvubu river that circled around them. He still had such impulses of inexplicable energy, every now and then, and knew exactly how fleeting they were. And that, at any moment, the oppressive pains would descend upon him again and numb his senses once more.

So, he didn’t wait any longer - on such a night, he needed all the help that he could get, no matter where it would come from. He suddenly frowned at the boy, then barked as loudly as he could.

‘What’s the matter with you, Eli? Why are you standing there, like a dummy?’ His voice resonated deeply through the cramped dome of the tower. Even the large bronze bell behind them seemed to receive a tough jolt from the vibrations and wavered slightly in the chain that it was hung on.

The young man flinched at the harsh shout of the priest. He hardly recognized him in those moments, looking at him now, he seemed to see the old priest in his glorious youth, about which the whole village spoke with so much admiration and, at the same time, resignation….

He made to leave quickly so as not to meet the harshness for which he was equally recognized. He bent over the trapdoor in the floor but suddenly stopped. He then turned around, cautiously, with his head bowed to the ground.

‘Father,’ he spoke quickly, with his heart jammed firmly in his throat. ‘Have you ever seen one?’

After a brief moment of respite, the father replied, as subtle as before:

‘No. I have not.’ He then turned his back to the boy who was hesitating by the open trapdoor and kept looking at him, fearful and bewildered. A look that remained etched in the old man’s mind, along with the harsh realization that, despite his imposing stature - for Eli was almost as tall as the priest already, at his 14 years of age - his innocence and tender age could still be clearly read upon his pale face. Any spark of maturity that he might have occasionally glimpsed in him - and no matter how much work and patience had been invested in him until then, to prepare him - the boy was not yet ready to confront the truth ….

From below, in the church, the sudden noises of a heated argument arose. Eli flinched abruptly, then turned to the Father and met his frowning gaze. He understood that they would have to descend immediately - and did not wait for further instructions.

‘Go ahead,’ the old man told him, in a calmer tone now, despite his dark, menacing look, which would otherwise betray a much more aggravated state. ‘I’ll be right there, in a moment,’ He continued, mostly to himself.

The young man hurried down, while the priest remained behind, looking out from the side, through the open window. It’s already dark out, he thought to himself. He smiled tiredly, looking at the sunset, a shallow streak of light, smeared with mauves and yellows and pale reds - on the sky that was darkening so quickly in those late autumn days. Sometimes, all the darkness of the earth seemed to accumulate in that small village - forgotten by time and lost to the world - and it reminded him, every night, not just in those solemn moments of calm and mystery, but also in the ordinary, monotonous days, devoid of the bizarre events, how necessary still his presence was amongst the people!

A distant lightning thundered heavily over the plain in front, and a sagacious army of cold chills immediately assaulted his senses. The sound of the impending storm was grave in the distance. Beyond the hills in front of him, white lightning streaked over the evening sky, already darkened by the coming night and heavy winter clouds.

The first drops of rain began to fall, slowly at first, then suddenly they all seemed to burst out of nowhere, in a merciless outpour that violently struck against the thin walls of the church and its black wooden roof.

The smell of dust and linden invaded the room. Heavy drops clattered in the smoky window glass and thirstily struck the old man’s face. He slowly closed his eyes, and extended his arm out the window - he entrusted his palm to the rain, and let it drip down through his fingers.

And so it begins, he thought. Then he decisively opened his eyes and eagerly swallowed the sound of distant thunder, rumbling heavily over the hills, and collapsing into the void.

‘What, in God’s name, is going on here?’ The priest shouted, as he decisively entered the church. He approached the crowd angrily. His heavy, pressed steps resonated strongly from the bottom of the floor to the very top of the dome above them.

‘What’s all this racket - have you all gone mad?’ He shouted again, then took a quick look around at the gathered people. He immediately realized that someone was missing, and turned quickly towards Eli.

‘Where is Norman?’ He asked.

The young man, in turn, looked angrily at the gathered crowd, which was now silent.

‘Come on,’ the boy shouted at them, “Tell him! Everybody’s silent now, right? Got nothing to say?’

Indeed, no one was saying anything anymore. The echo of shouts and heated protests from earlier had suddenly given way to a sepulchral silence that had settled inside with the arrival of the priest.

Father Theodore calmed down a bit, looking at the timid crowd, but Eli, on the other hand, seemed to be more frustrated by the established peace than by the chaos he’d initially descended to calm down.

‘Nobody saw him, Father,’ the boy eventually mumbled, looking oppressively at the mob around him. ‘Nobody knows where he went,’ he said, heavily.

‘And what have you all been waiting for, huh?’ The priest shouted, addressing the people.

‘Why didn’t anybody come to me, to let me know he’s missing? Maybe we could have helped him somehow, we could have sent some people after him. How is it possible? How could you leave him alone, doing God knows what - and on a sacred night like this?’

‘When did he leave? Who saw him last?’ he continued, but his questions still remained unanswered. He helplessly looked around at the crowd that did not sketch a move, or sound, and suddenly yelled out.

‘Speak up, God admit! Say something - anything!’ He shouted again, in frustration, his voice echoing through the sounds of pouring rain coming from outside.’

‘You will have him on your conscience - good - for - nothings.’ he rasped. ‘What if something happens to him tonight? What if he gets caught and taken by a …’

‘That’s enough, old - man!’ a heavy voice resounded through the silence. A tall man immediately emerged out of the crowd and Eli trapped him quickly in his hawk - eyed gaze.

‘I, for one, have had enough of your tired old ramblings,’ the tall man continued, I’m going home!’

He seemed obviously fed up with the situation he was in and visibly tormented by the bottle of brandy that hung loosely in one of his hands.

The priest, surprised by such an unpredictable reaction, unprecedented reaction, unprecedented in the sacred context of the event, did not know how to react, at first. It was unheard of for someone to rebel in such a grotesque manner in the church, in front of a priest, and even more so on such an important Night.

The present crowd, suddenly awakened from the state of collective speechlessness in which it had been laying until then, was now buzzing with the whispers and vociferations akin to those in panic - especially from the elders who were scattered amongst them, and evidently appalled by the situation. Everyone was curiously watching the man who had already left the crowd and was threateningly parading in a wobbly fashion towards the exit.

‘Stand your ground, you crazy old drunk!’ the priest yelled out in fright. Then he suddenly threw himself towards the man who was heading for the door.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re doing, man?’ he whispered, approaching him and softly grabbing him by the elbow.’

‘Johnathan, have you gone mad, or what? If you need any help, just…’

‘What, old man? Just what?’ The drunk man shouted, arrogantly, pulling his arm out of the priest’s tired grip.

‘You are all fools,’ he shouted, looking around, frowning at those gathered around him - the same people who were looking back at him in utter disbelief.

‘You have no idea…..’ he continued, ‘You follow these fools and their spooky old ghost stories.’

‘Johnathan, that’s enough!’

‘Fairy Tales - to scare the children!’ the man continued, ignoring the priest’s warning.

‘Fools - bloody, sorry, fools - the lot of you! The Spirits exist only in your stupid, empty heads! And if you don’t believe me, you just wait - and I will show you!’

To the shock of everyone inside the church, the man reached the large wooden door at the entrance and lifted off the iron latch that kept it locked. The metallic noise resonated heavily throughout. The entire crowd fell silent, awaiting an inevitable, unimaginable end - or at least for some kind of a gesture, a detail - anything that could have justified all their collective fears, taught and learned and propagated by the generations passed.

Because, up to that point, everything they had been told had not come true for any of them, for none of those that gathered there that night had actually seen those fabled Spirits that had always plagued their lands. But they had all been affected somehow by their presence among them.

The monsters always acts from underneath the shadows, the Elders would preach, as the Devil that birthed him and tossed him among us, on Earth.

But who they were and how they got there, nobody could say exactly. That they existed, this was a truth that no one could ever contest. Doubting the existence of the Spirit was like doubting the Creator himself, or the very air that you breathed - which, although could not be seen, the Elders concluded, you could not deny that it was categorically there.

Johnathan’s reaction that night defied every kind of philosophy and even law - written, or unwritten - which all the Villagers had been hitherto strictly obliged to respect.

The priest looked at him for a few moments, inertly. Then, seeing that the man was not giving up at all and was pushing with all his might against the heavy oaken door, trying to get out, he screamed again.

‘Johnathan, you fool! Get away from the door!’

His powerless screams resonated through the silence of the church and agitated al the people gathered inside even more. ‘You’re going to kill us all, you fool! You’ll kill us all!’ the priest shouted again, trying with all his might to catch up to the man.

Then, suddenly, there was silence, followed by the loudest smack. The indistinguishable sound of knuckles stomping flesh, and out of nowhere, Jonathan felt a violent shock from his right side, which jolted him and shook him on his feet. The bottle of brandy fell to the brick floor and shattered all over.

Father Theodore, looked up - upset, but understanding - at young Eli, who had dealt the decisive punch that ended Jonathan’s tirade. He gave the young man a look that let him know that they would have a serious discussion afterwards, but that - for the moment, at least - he was grateful for his intervention.

He then cast his stern gaze upon the man who was now leaning against the wall, dazed, his jaw in hand and nose bloodied and broken. He started slowly, but determinedly, towards him, limping on his cane. He was angrier than ever, and everyone around could sense it.

‘You wretch,’ he began, gritting his teeth, as he approached the man. He bent over him, overshadowing him with his dark, imposing stature. He raised his arm, ready to strike the dazed madman too, but something inside him urged him to refrain from the act. He was shaking all over, he realized - and even his voice had a different vibration, which made him unrecognizable to the villagers who had never seen him so angry before.

He felt his blood boiling inside him. Then suddenly he was seized by a fear, or perhaps a primal survival instinct, which instantly awakened him from all his anger, he thoughtfully lowered his arm and slowly shifted his gaze towards the large wooden door of the church - where he noticed that the latch was up and the lock was out of place. He suddenly felt a huge void growing rapidly inside him, filling up his stomach with a dread that violently assaulted all his other senses.

He started heading towards the door, determined to put the latch back in its place - but as soon as he approached it, he heard a powerful crash in the door, a noise that made him jump back with a tremor. A thin, aggressive whistling accompanied the strike. The blows began to land upon the outside walls, as well - in violent, rapid succession. Simultaneously, there were violent clashes in the doors and windows and the stained glass trembled noisily, in the increasingly aggressive whistling of the harrowing blizzard outside. The whole church seemed to tremble with every touch of the wind. Dust was shaking off the walls and the icons began falling one by one from the nails they’d been hammered into long ago.

Inside, a deathly silence fell upon them all. The people crowded into one another, like a pack of desperate rats, locked inside a sinking ship.

And so they waited… And they hoped for the dawn of a new day to reach them sooner, for the breeze of a November 30th to breathe once more upon the fields and village, to drive away and scatter any of the consequences of spilled blood that came upon them.

Bad Blood lured them in large numbers, every time!