by Hades
CHAPTER 2
False Desecration
One clear morning on my way to the beach, I ran into a couple of little boys who offered to help me find my way to wherever I was going for a couple of pizarros. A handsome pair, they introduced themselves as Julio and Hector. I rubbed their heads sympathetically, for they both had buzzed hair that was fun to rub. Impatiently they both kept on pushing for the pizarros. “Common, just two,” they begged.
One of them tried reaching into my pocket to get the money himself – a brave little man. He sure didn’t have anything to do with being shy. Hector had some gum that he offered to sell me; again the price was two pizarros.
I thought they were silly and cute so I gave them the money, which I thought would have sent them on their way, but they had other things in mind. They both decided to follow me to see what sort of fun I might bring. I had already provided them with money, so things could only turn to their advantage. Imagine their delight when they discovered that it was the beach where I was headed.
The boys threw off their shoes and ran to the water. Julio stopped midway and came back to pull me in with him. He didn’t know I was already in love with the water and didn’t need any coaxing. “Vamos,” he said, “Andale. Vamos al agua.” I took off my shirt and we ran into the water, as I became one of the kids again. It was fun and I soon forgot what being an adult was all about. As I splashed the children and held them over my head, they yelled and kicked to escape. The game was that I was the giant and they were my adversaries, trying to kill me.
In the States, playing with kids that weren’t mine might have landed me in jail as a kidnapper; but here no one needed two proofs of ID and references. On the island there seemed to be a natural trust, void of the fear and calamity one would normally have in the city. No one was told to watch out for strangers because here everyone was a good neighbor. I have always enjoyed trust; a thing so rarely acquired back home, but here so freely given.
After the water games, I dried myself off. Without asking, the kids cuddled themselves around my legs and took a piece of the towel. They had enough of the beach and were off to go somewhere else, probably home. Julio wanted me to go with them. He said he wanted to show me to his parents, so they could like me. He tugged my arm and asked me to follow, but I told him that I could not. Anyway, how could I go to their parent’s house and introduce myself as their kids’ friend? It was too weird, even for me.
As the kids scampered out of sight, I made my way inland, several miles up the coast. On my walk, I observed the locals and the scenery. There were many pretty girls on the island. It made me wonder what they ate; so perfectly thin and built. Some of the ladies carried baskets on their heads, with perfect balance, but it was mostly the older ones that did this. This observation ran a thought through my head. Maybe the younger ones, without the baskets, were single and the older ones were married and were carrying food from the market to their homes. If so, that would make it easy for me to know which were available!
I enjoyed the art of girl watching, without worrying to look at my watch. As I kept walking, I tripped over a little mat full of objects lying outside a round hut. I looked down at what I had tripped over and my attention shifted gears from girls to gifts. This was some strange stuff. Whoever owned the shop certainly wasn’t playing around to please the tourists.
I bent over and tried to straighten the mess I’d made. It was going to be interesting to see what other things this vendor had to offer. The hut itself was about six feet wide by ten feet long and had a slanting roof on one side that also became a wall. It was like an igloo, but with a partial ceiling, made of clay and straw. The walls were rounded, but they didn’t close up at the top. There was cloth used to extend out over the opening to form a porch held by two scrawny sticks. It seemed to be built from whatever materials were at hand.
I had always liked rare artifacts, even though I had never had the time to really get into true collecting. Once in a while I would find things to add to my humble collection, things that I was proud of, although I scarcely had the opportunity to travel. Finding something in the States wasn’t as exciting as finding something in its original land.
I went through the opening of the shop, pushing some hanging beads aside. There was incense lit and many candles flickered. A small man was sitting at the end of the hut. He was staring straight, but his focus seemed to be directed toward me, as if he had been expecting me. He did not offer any help, nor show me any of the merchandise, as I expected. He only sat and stared with an intimidating constant fixation. I looked around, for a moment, to find something to buy, supposing I was to look around first, before he’d pay any attention to me. The items must be selling themselves, I thought: “A pressureless environment.”
Immediately an object caught my attention. It was a dagger that was impaled in some gray mush on top of a small table. I went to examined it closer and found that the carvings were authentic, not cheap cuts to sell to the tourists. I wasn’t a real collector, or an expert on these matters, but it seemed I had struck gold! Possibly each item inside the shop was authentic and used in ritual.
Upon further examination, I saw that the knife had a fine blade with a hilt carved out of some hard clay or workable rock. I couldn’t see the entire blade because it was submerged in the dark clay, but what I could see was fascinating.
The hilt itself was the head of some dark demon, smiling with a devilish sneer. The style of art was unique to any other I had seen. Carved on it were three stems of life, feeding the neck of the fiend, which grew to fit the grip of a clasping hand. The effect would make one’s fingers appear to become part of the creature, to join in the deed when the knife sunk into flesh.
I was sold! By the look of the gems that were placed in the horn, I was sure I was going to have to put in a second mortgage for the knife. But it was worth it. I had to have it, no matter how much the man wanted for it.
I wanted everything but couldn’t do more than pick at a vault full of treasures, if I wanted to be able to stay on my vacation for its duration. It was at that moment when I wished, once again, that I was made of money.
The man did not seem to notice my fascination towards the blade. A more conventional sales approach would have been to show me the blade and tell me a little about its symbols, but he did nothing of the sort. Perhaps he wanted me to help myself, so I decided to do that very thing.
I focused on the knife, so masterful and precious, and slowly moved to grasp it tightly. Its feel made me shiver. I felt the material underneath the blade quiver, as would the liver of a cow when touched. The carvings felt like skin on top of living muscles. It came out easily, without any resistance. That was the first time the man really seemed to catch sight of me, though his eyes had been fixed on me the entire time. There was alarm in his stare. I didn’t know what he meant by it, but too late – the knife was already in my hands.
The blade was dripping the thick substance and coagulating drops were splashing on the floor. I was aghast when I saw the stain it was making on the magnificent carpet underfoot. I hadn’t noticed the rug before because of the other artifacts and relics, but in any other circumstance I would have seen it first. What a shame to stain such master-craft material. It was woven with the most intricate design that pulled you inside and made you part of another world, weaving you into its fabric. It could easily have been someone’s life long work and here I was staining it, ruining it within seconds. Well forget looking around for anything else, I had just bought myself a carpet and wasn’t even sure if I could afford the blade any more.
I now understood the man’s expression and why he had been looking at me like that. His face held a mixture of surprise, rage, and terror. I didn’t know if he spoke any English, but it was clear that I was in big trouble. I was sure, no matter what language he spoke, I would be able to interpret the words when they flew from his face. I owed him big. To my surprise, when he began to shout, it was in English.
“What are you doing here, you imbeci
le?” Those were the first words of his address to me and from what I’d done to his rug, I considered it a mild start. “You have not come to seek counsel from the incense of Meni , and now you trod under foot forbidden and untouchable oblation! This place is sacrosanct! It is protected by law! What are you here for, you baboon?” He threw the question at me, alongside many words in some foreign tongue that I could not even begin to recognize, but I’m sure were insults. Funny how one can always recognize slander, no matter what the language.
His attitude bothered me. I didn’t care to be insulted like that, especially when I just wanted to pay the man for my accident and leave. It was very unfortunate that I couldn’t buy the knife because of the spill. That alone made me a little crabby as I responded.
“Look. I am very sorry I stained your carpet. I will pay you for it and if you tell me the price of this blade, I might buy it as well.” I was hoping, once again, that the lure of the possible sale might relax the man, although I knew there was no way I could afford it after my mess.
“I do not need your cheap money, you son of a wild cockatrice,” the man answered, as he yelled out his anger, and almost spit out his lung on top of me. “You will get out! You imbecile!” I became irritated at his insults, and would have left had he not began again.
“You are a baboon! An idiot! You do not know what you mess with. You die – you die if I want and you don’t know why. The things you molest with your hands, they are for anointed hands only! You disturb Gad , you bother him and you are a fly!”
With those last words, I could take no more, even if it had been my fault. I started to leave the store, but he called out to me again, so I returned. He wanted the blade. All the time it had been in my hand. Remembering it now stirred a fire inside of me. Again he called out to me.
“You are a thief, you son of wraith! You steal from Heloa. You steal from Baal. You steal from Meni and from his numinous offerings! You are a profane child. You are violate! You were formed of unholy union from demon-mother! Give me back the Hecatomb, thief!”
The only answer I could come up with after that was, “What is a Hecatomb?” as the rage foamed and bubbled within me. I guess being called a thief was the part that upset me the most. I thought that I was relaxed at the time, but inside I was a boiling furnace ready to explode. It was added to, moment by moment, with the insults of an unreasonable man, a man who lacked any real skills in listening. A man who would not reason, but insisted on referring to me as some kind of blasphemer. How could anyone hold out his or her temper in such a circumstance?
“I only wish to buy your blade!” I shouted. “How much will you need for it? I am a very reasonable man!”
“I do not want your dirty money, I have said! Leave the blade and go! Go, before I smite you!” So there he was, that little puny man, threatening me. Smite me, he said. What more could be done? I could only take so much. So my anger, that thus far I had managed to keep somewhat bottled in, spilt over as an igneous overflow.
“Look, you little man, I said I would pay! Why can’t I buy from your store like anyone else?” By now the anger in my voice could not be kept. He answered, but it was not the answer I wanted.
“This is not for sale to you!” then he started waving his hands to frighten me. “But you stay still, so I give you a curse, you tyrant from the pit! I say to you, your children shall be sons of snakes as well. They will eat on their bellies and curse the Earth each day for its unfruitful nature towards them. There... You go now! You are dirt on my scarification. Now I will have to clean it up!” He waved me off, but I would not go, so he kept on insisting. “I have cursed you, so go, you dirt from Abaddon! You unfit even as sacrifice!”
“Sacrifice!” I screeched. “What sacrifice? What is it you have here?” I asked, looking around in disgust and beginning to understand the meaning of the place, as the hideousness of it filled my stomach. “What sort of place is this?” I yelled with abhorrence, as I began to suspect that that place was something else besides a merchant store. Perhaps this was a medicine man – a witch doctor. I couldn’t help to think that if he was, all the things I had seen and touched were some sort of evil sacrificial instruments used in rituals to Satan.
Even the knife! What of the mass on the table, the thing where the knife had lodged? “What is that on the table?” I demanded in deafening tones.
“It is the heart of a woman who died,” responded the man with a gnarling grin. “Now you make unrest for her soul! She will wander for a thousand years because you have bothered her. And because you have desecrated the offering of Meni, the highest of all gods, you will take upon you the highest of curse.”
My disgust for such crude witchery became the cause for the lash-out off all my rage. “Desecration!” I shouted. “If I have desecrating anything, it is only false desecration, for that is not a god but an idol!” I turned with hate towards the dagger and continued shouting to the old man, this time without any bridle of composure to hold me back.
“You old man! What kind of sick brain is in your filthy head? A human heart! You ought to be put away! I care nothing for your gods nor for the sick perverted joke you call a religion! You will go to hell, I am sure of that! The real God will ensure it and not some demon whom you worship with this sickness!”
My mouth was frothing with anger as I determined to take my course of action. I went over to the mass of gray, now with destructive intention; but since I couldn’t stand to touch it, I reached for another cloth, without the slightest regret towards its value and pushed the heart onto the floor. Then I stomped on it with my foot, as the mass of gray collapsed under the weight of my boot.
The man let out a scream. I think he wanted to get violent with me at that moment, but changed his mind as he measured the size differential between the two of us. He was only about five feet tall and looked well over a hundred and fifty. Even still, he gambled with his dexterity by jumping over a small bar, some altar of sort, but knocked it over in his attempt and landed right in front of me.
I am sure I did the wrong thing then, but I was under the influence of my rage and momentarily out of mind, so I took the blade and spoke. “As for this knife,” I yelled, and put it in my pocket, “it is mine! I am taking it so that you can’t be a sick-o with it any more! You should be put in a nut farm, or thrown away as a pig.”
He tried grabbing the knife in vain and pleaded his final threat. “You are defiling the gods! You cannot do this, don’t you know? Baal-Berith-Meni will be kindled against you. You are a robber!”
His eyes turned towards some stone image, while he spoke, as if he was claiming a right for its assistance. It was as if he expected it to agree with his words. The statue stood beside the place where the heart had been, tall and dark, submerged in the shadows. I wouldn’t have noticed it, had it not been pointed out. He was trying to scare me and I’m embarrassed to admit that he was successful.
The whole affair intimidated me, as a man often is when he is in the wrong, but that didn’t mean I was going to back down. In my right mind I would have thought twice about the thing that I was about to do. I don’t think I normally could have damaged such a piece of art, no matter how evil it looked.
My eyes fixed on the idol that stared at us from the back of the room. It was at that moment, drunken with a rage that consumed me, that my hands flew on the statue. I picked it up and held all its power in my arms. Menacingly, I looked at the man, this time with much more the upper hand.
“Well, if you’re not selling it, you’re sure not going to use it for sick stuff!” I said, holding the statue above my head. I would have said something more profound, in the act of idol bashing, but the weight of the thing was enormous and my arms gave way.
It fell away from my grip and cracked in two on the floor. I stared at what I had done. For a second or two, I felt ashamed and wished I hadn’t done it, but then I noticed that a thick, red as crimson, substance oozed out from the broken stone. It had been hollowed and filled with this liquid
.
‘Blood!’ I thought, ‘Was it blood?’ It sure looked like it! It was horrible, more so than the heart, for it looked like the stone-god was bleeding.
I looked at the man and punished him with my eyes. “Is that blood?” I asked, but the man did not respond. My assertion had been right then. Whether human or animal, it was blood so I could now justify, within my right, to destroy the ungodly place. It was safe to assume that everything there was part of a devil-worshiping act and that this man before me was responsible for all of it.
Without further hesitation, I picked up the two halves of the statue and threw them across the room onto a table. As if possessed, I then began destroying the entire hut, while the man shrieked behind me.
When it was over, I looked at my doings and was pleased with myself. The stone god was no more. All that remained were fragmented pieces of what had been a masterpiece. The place was a death-scene. Only the carpet remained in the same place, stained with a crushed human heart.
Only a few remains showed that there had ever been a sanctuary. The altar was on the floor, along with everything else, and the man was on his back, still screaming. All the while, a crowd had gathered. They had witnessed it all, as the man, with his cries, threw curses upon me. Most of his words are a foggy memory, but they were full of death and torment.
Fear fell on me again. Not of the people, for I didn’t think they had come to do me any harm. It was the look on their eyes that frightened me; the same look that the man had when he called to the statue for assistance. It was the look of fear, as if I had just awakened the dead. I felt the fingers of the Devil touch my back. Perhaps he had, and the crowd had seen.
