The First

by Glen Kenner

  -Four million.

  Joram says this without looking up from his computer

  -Give or take. Assuming he was first with a woman at the age of twenty and that he has been with at least one woman per day since then.

  I look from the boy to the Firsts and then to Sarah.

  -There are a lot of assumptions about The Father. Who knows. He does seem to have a voracious sexual appetite. But at any rate, it’s an incredible number of women. Those women, just like your mother, all died in childbirth. No one…

  I look to the History Keepers to watch their expressions.

  -...knows why.

  Nothing.

  -I chalk it up to Mother Nature. So you knew that already, and presumably, you assumed that some of the offspring are boys and some are girls. It seems that, just like with Thirds, the ratio is fifty-fifty. And I told you that most children don’t survive First Death. Which is true. It’s probably less than two percent. Except that’s not the whole truth. You see, that less than two percent survival rate is only boys. And has always been boys. For twelve thousand years. No girl has ever survived First Death and become a First. No girl until you.

  I pause. I have to. Gotta let that sink in. The room is so quiet now that I can hear street traffic and then the labored breathing of the old man.

  Sarah breaks the silence.

  -Why is it called First Death? Is there a second death? A third death?

  -There is a Second Death. Yeah. But it’s the final death. And it sucks. It sucks real bad.

  -Like how?

  -Well, if a First lives for five thousand years, for example, Second Death is like all of the diseases and natural causes and whatever else that a Third would have gotten during those five thousand years hitting all at once. The First’s body just breaks down and falls apart and, well, it’s insanely painful. I’ve seen it happen too many times to ever forget it. Witnessing it just once is enough to give you nightmares. There’s no torture man has invented that comes close. You’re going about your day, life is good, and then you get a little headache and a few minutes later your muscles are a little sore and within an hour your flesh is rotting off your bones into a pool of blood and body fluids. Plenty of Firsts choose suicide once it’s obvious what’s happening. I know I will. Fuck all of that pain. Or, if possible, you get a friend to chop off your head. I did that once. Nicest thing I’ve ever done for someone.

  Sarah lets out a nervous laugh in the sudden quietness.

  -Well, that was more than I wanted to know.

  No one says anything. I want to make a joke but can’t think of one at the moment.

  -Alright. So I’m the first woman First. That’s cool and everything. And a lot of pressure. But you said something that sounded strange. You said that I’m the first girl to survive First Death and become a First. Why did you say it like that? What else would I have become?

  And right on cue, me, Zain, Alvaro, the boy, and even the old man, let out a sigh.

  -What?

  I try to take her hand but she pulls away and gives me a look like what the fuck are you doing?

  -I said that, in that way, because probably about one percent of one percent of girls, so a tiny, tiny fraction, do survive First Death. They become Seconds.

  Her face shows her confusion but also agitation. I don’t know exactly what she’s thinking but she’s starting to get pissed off.

  -Alright, so I’m not a First. I’m a Second. God, these names are stupid. You said there were Seconds running around, but that they’re loners and anti-social and don’t hang out on Facebook. Whatever. That’s cool. I mean, I can be seriously anti-social sometimes. I didn’t date anyone my entire freshman year of college. And I hate parties. And Facebook hasn’t been cool since I was in high school. I’m not even on it anymore.

  -Facebook’s for old people.

  Joram says this while still typing. I shoot him a look but his eyes are focused on his laptop. I jump back in to try to explain.

  -No, Sarah. Sorry, no. I’m not explaining it right. You-

  -You’re not a Second.

  Joram says this forcefully and with his voice filled with exasperation. He’s now looking directly at Sarah.

  -Seconds are monsters. Literally real monsters. They live in empty houses and old schools and churches and warehouses. In forests, in caves, and even on ships abandoned at sea. They’re what people see in their dark basements and closets. They’re the face that you see outside your second story window at night. They eat babies. They’ll eat anyone. They are monsters.

  He says this so matter-of-factly, and it’s all true and then some, but then softens his voice.

  -You’re not a Second. You’re not a monster.

  Sarah takes a long drink of her tea, puts down the glass and takes long looks at the Firsts and then me.

  -You all are crazy. Or on some nasty shit. I don’t know. John, let’s go. Alright? Let’s just go.

  She starts to get up and I put my hand on her arm. She flings it off and stands up. I get up but the others stay seated.

  -I said, let’s go. Let’s fucking go.

  No one moves.

  -What the fuck is wrong with you people? Monsters? Living for thousands of years is one thing. It’s some weird genetic defect. Or evolution. I don’t know. I don’t know if I even believe it. All I really know for sure is that the three of you give off a buzz and I can now run insanely fast. But this kid is talking about baby-eating monsters in the closet. And no one says shit. So, what does that mean? He’s autistic or something? You just let him say shit? Or do you all believe in the boogey man? Monsters?

  I keep looking at her. She’s angry and confused and scared. And she’s starting to yell and now her hands are balled into fists and her eyes are wide. The muscles in her neck start to tighten up and her nostrils are flaring. She’s losing it. Oh shit. Fuck fuck fuck-

  Pop!

  Out of instinct I turn and move toward the sound and the old man is still sitting and he’s holding the pistol. I didn’t feel anything. I look back to Sarah. Confusion covers her face and she’s holding one hand to her chest, just below her neck. Blood is seeping out between her fingers. I turn back to the old man and I jump but the other two Firsts have already moved in front of him, their hands held up to stop me.

  -Move! Or I’ll rip off all three of your heads.

  Zain is trying to talk. Our faces are nearly touching.

  -John John John, please! No! Please! Let me explain! Please!

  I grab him by both of his upper arms and throw him across the room. And now Alvaro is standing there, his hands up high, begging in Arabic the same words as Zain. I do the same to him as Zain, only I throw him harder because fuck him. I turn my head to watch as he hits the wall on the far side of the room, just above Zain, then falls down on the other History Keeper. They’re Firsts, they’ll live. But as for the old man… I turn back around to face him, hoping like hell he has the pistol pointed up at my face and even gets a shot off before I reach down, crush his hand and pick him up off of his cushion by his neck.

  But the boy is standing there, his arms spread out, looking me straight in the eye.

  -No, Mr Smith. My great grand-uncle was doing his job. He was protecting the History Keepers.

  -From what?

  I say inches from his face, more of a growl than anything.

  -You said she isn’t a monster.

  -I know she isn’t a monster. But she was starting to act like one.

  I look back at Sarah and her color is back. She has the headscarf held up to the bullet wound and shows me that, with the blood wiped away, she’s no longer bleeding.

  -I, I should be, uh, bleeding. Right? Shouldn’t I?

  I take her arm, again, and this time she lets me.

  -Let’s sit back down.

  I tell the boy we need something to pull the bullet out. A small knife or maybe tweezers. He runs from the room. I tell the old man to put the gun down. If she were a Second, I tell him, he would be dead.
We would all be dead. With no expression, he sets the gun down in front of him.

  Alvaro and Zain get up and come back over to us and after a few seconds of looking at the wound, they too sit down. No one speaks until the boy returns with two thin, long bladed kitchen knives and hands them to me.

  -Will these work?

  I don’t reply. I just tell Sarah to turn facing me and tuck her hands under her butt.

  -This is going to hurt a little. I don’t want you hitting me. But hey, the bullet won’t leave a scar. Just one of the perks.

  I tilt her upper body back just a little to get more light in and then slowly put the knife into the hole.

  I don’t know shit about guns. I’ve ripped a lot of them away from adults and kids alike, and I’ve been shot I don’t know how many times. My body has caught hundreds of bullets and musket balls. But I’ve never owned a gun or even fired one. I like to kill people with my bare hands. Or knives. Or swords. Or a good-sized rock. Or just about anything really. I once beat a man to death with his own shoe. But not from a hundred yards away. I’m no fucking coward.

  -What kind of gun is that? Do you at least know that?

  -Browning Hi-Power. German.

  So the old man can speak English.

  Never heard of it. But it looked old when I took it from him the first time. Probably the Second World War. He’s probably been carrying it since he was kid, eagerly waiting for the day he could fulfill his duty and save the life of someone who probably doesn’t give a shit about him and his measly eighty-two years on the planet.

  Sarah flinches and grits her teeth. I tap the bullet with the knife point and tell her this next part won’t hurt a bit. Then as quickly as I can, I slip the knife to the right until it sinks into her flesh next to the bullet, use the knife to wedge the bullet a bit and then a bit more and bring the knife forward. I don’t even need the second knife. I just pop that misshapen bullet right out. I’ve done it so many times on myself, I’m an expert.

  Sarah screams right in my face.

  -Feel better?

  She’s breathing heavy, but her color is still good and she’s not sweating. She asks me, just loud enough for me to hear, can I kill him? I shake my head and give her a small smile.

  -Not now. Maybe later. The day’s not over. And I’ll explain more about Seconds later. Not here. But later. I promise.

  Sarah nods her head and closes her eyes.

  I hand the knives back to the boy and Sarah pulls her hands from under her butt and flexes them. Then I drop the bullet in her hand.

  -Sarah is not a Second.

  I say this loudly and look directly at the old man.

  -She is not a monster. And she’s not going to kill anyone.

  The old man has gone back to staring at the wall.

  -Can we get to the real reason we’re here? I want to know about the prophecy.

  The Firsts whisper to each other. It’s not Arabic but something related. Still, I can’t make out anything. Zain turns to me.

  -Alvaro has the most knowledge on the prophecy. And he of course is happy to share that knowledge and I will translate. But first, John, I must remind you of the formal process. History Keepers will always share the history of Firsts, and Seconds, what little we know, and will share all names, places, and dates unless specifically asked not to by the original First who shared the history with us. However, you must share two histories first. Only then can we share a history with you.

  -Ok. I knew that. Didn’t know it was so formal. But no problem. I’ll tell you about the time I met Abraham Lincoln. I actually met him twice, so it’s two stories. Perfect, right? It was 18-

  -Oh, no, sorry, John. We have a specific story we’d like to hear. The story of the cave.

  -The cave? My cave?

  -Yes. Your cave. This is the story we’d like to hear before sharing the history of the prophecy. We need as much detail as you can remember. Nothing is too trivial. Leave nothing out.

  -Nope.

  -What?

  Zain looks incredulous.

  -What do you mean? Nope? No?

  -No. No, nope, not gonna do it. La-a. Fucking la-a.

  -But John, it’s a story that we need. A story that will help make sense of other stories from that time.

  -Yeah, sure. But no. See, your secretary there, shot my-

  Fuck, what did I almost say?

  -shot Sarah. Tried to kill her, actually. And, if you haven’t noticed, he’s still alive. You owe me. Us. A hundred years ago, I would have ripped his head from his body and the both of yours for the hell of it. Maybe even the boy’s. So, no. You owe us every fucking story we want to know. Or, I could pop his head right off his body, which he probably wouldn’t even notice because all he does, other than trying to kill people, is stare at that fucking wall!

  And here’s where I lose it. I start to get back up but the boy, that fucking soccer-loving kid, jumps up and stands in front of the old man. Again. Goddamn this kid.

  Zain spreads out his arms.

  -John, please. We are very sorry about Nizar’s actions. As the Joram explained, Nizar believed he was protecting us. That is his duty. And there’s nothing we can do about it now. He is not used to seeing us threatened in any way. Here, in Aleppo, we are treated very honorably. Strangers, especially women, do not yell at us. At any rate, all we can offer you is our apologies. Nothing more. We are more poor than you can possibly realize. We live here, in this building. What little we have is provided by generous donations from other Firsts.

  -In exchange for what?

  They know about the cave. The dark place. Who the fuck told them about the cave?

  -John. I’m very sorry. But it’s your history of the cave or no information about the prophecy. What happens next is up to you.

  Motherfuckers. How are people always holding shit over my head? The promise I made to Sarah, my Sarah, back in New York, has caused me nothing but frustration. I do good deeds now. I do the right thing. I don’t kill people. I go out of my way to help people. I go out in the middle of fucking ice storms and fix my neighbors’ frozen pipes. Because I made my Sarah a promise.

  And then she threw herself off a building.

  Fuck. Goddamn it all to fucking hell.

  I sit for a moment in a rage that twists inside my head like a tornado of fire. Everyone is quiet. I look at the wall behind the Firsts, the boy, and the old man. It’s stucco, finely cracked, slightly gray from dust. There’s nothing hanging on it, no pictures, tapestries or calendars or maps. Nothing. Just like the walls of my house. And my house before that. And on and on and on, houses and rooms I can’t even remember living in. All the way back to the cave. The dark place.

  I take a deep breath and think of my little toe on my left foot. Little toe, little toe… there it is. I feel the canvas of my Vans pressing against it. Then slowly to the next toe. And the next and so on. Slowly. Give all of these sensations all of my attention. Then my right foot’s toes. Then the top of my right foot and then the bottom and then my ankle. By time I make it to my knee, I’m calm and the words come easily.

  -My first memories are in the cave.

  I say this out loud to no one in particular with my eyes on a spot high on the wall. The boy starts to type.

  -It’s not like I was born in the cave. I was a man, I had on animal skins and rope sandals. Eventually they all fell apart and I was naked.

  I slowly turn and look at Sarah and smile, trying to break whatever awkward tension I think is there. She simply looks back at me with no expression other than curiosity.

  -I had amnesia. I figured that out long after I was out, of course. But while I was in the cave, I only knew that I was forgetting something. It was just outside of the reach of my memory. But I would say that my very first memory in the cave is of being hungry. Starving. I was always starving and thirsty. My next memory, I think, was of looking up at the light coming in from a crack of light in the dark sky. It was an opening in the cave ceiling but so high up that jumping
as high as I could didn’t bring it any closer. Being in the cave itself was like being in a modern stadium. A sports stadium that has a roof that closes during bad weather. Only there’s a crack in the roof and light comes in. I have no idea how big the cave was. I could walk or crawl through the dark on two sides and never find a wall but I always stopped once I was in complete darkness. In the other directions I either could touch a wall or the floor simply fell away. Another memory, very soon afterward, was when I became aware of a high-pitched buzzing.

  I look down from the gray stucco wall and see everyone staring at me. The boy has stopped typing. Even the old man is looking at me.

  -The buzzing itself was just buzzing. A high-pitched buzzing. I didn’t know what it was for a really long time. Bugs, I’m sure I assumed. Bees. Beetles. I don’t know. But it moved throughout the cave. Sometimes I would wake up and it would be next to me. Or I would lie still on the floor, always under the crack, and pretend to be asleep, and the buzzing would come near. Close enough to touch, I thought, but when I looked, there was nothing there. Once, maybe more than once, I pretended to be asleep and when the buzzing came near, I jumped up and charged it, my arms out trying to grab onto whatever it was. But there was nothing there to grab...

  9 - Mine and Mine Alone

  There is a fourth memory that I don’t tell them. A memory I’ve never told anyone and never will. The singing of a short, simple lullaby in words I couldn’t understand. My memory is clear on this though I’m not convinced it was real. I think I went crazy in the dark place and my broken mind would sometimes create a diversion from the loneliness. I’d hear the lullaby, softly, always so softly, sometimes just out of sight of the light, sometimes from far off deep in the darkness.

  I’m keeping that memory to myself.

  10 - The Ending & the Beginning

  My throat is dry and I take a sip of tea without looking at anyone. I should wrap this up. I look over at the boy for a second.