“No,” I scream, and I see my beloved. He’s there, right in front of me, with his back turned. Oh, how he’s changed and how he’s shrunk. Time has taken its toll on him. I’ve been with my lover.
“Sarah,” he says.
He kneels down. I try to walk across to him. Words feel like gravel in my mouth.
“My dear,” I say, and he gets up, turning toward me.
“Sarah,” he says, staring at me.
“My dear,” I say.
He takes several steps toward me and then walks right through me. Something warm and cold at the same time, and then my beloved is gone. I turn around. There he is, holding an oil lamp.
“I thought you were there,” he says, blowing out the light.
The darkness is honey.
“My dear,” I say.
Now he’s gone.
But there’s something else. Scratching. And teeth, hard and cold.
“Sahah, Sahah.”
I shout, I scream, and I see the cold light.
Into the cold light I’m dragged.
I lift up one of my feet. The other foot is tied down. My lover’s roots.
If I lie down, I’ll hear the scratching. My lover’s gone. He was angry. He bit and tore at me and was ash and charcoal.
Darkness and sounds are out there.
I close my eyes, but I can still see. My lover has fixed my eyelids. He cut them off, and they were gone. I lift up soil and sand and rub it in, but I can still see. My vision is stained and speckled.
I can see something crawling. It comes into the cold light. Here it comes.
“Hello,” I say.
It’s a spider. Legs upon legs, see how it crawls.
“Hello,” I say.
But it’s no spider. It’s a maggot.
“Hello,” I say. “Maggot.” It starts digging. I reach out to it, but then it’s gone. I shout out.
“Hello,” I shout. And something scratches at my hair.
“Hello,” I shout, pulling at my hair, and there’s the maggot in my hand. Small bugs have been taking strands of my hair. There it lies in my hand, twisting about. Twist and wind, in the light to find. Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.
“You will fly,” I say.
The maggot gets up. It has wings now. I gave my hair, it grew wings. And it flies away. I hear it, I hear it, such a beautiful buzzing.
“Farewell,” I say.
Twist and wind, in the light to find.
Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.
My lover approaches. I can hear scratching. I hear his voice there in the darkness. “Sahah, Sahah.” He’s coming. Teeth so black. Teeth as hard and cold as rocks in water.
“Sahah, I’mm backk, I’mm yourss, Sahah, you’re minne.”
“Sahah, Sahah.”
I pull at my foot, but my foot is stuck, I’m stuck.
And then there’s a hum, buzzing. His voice, the scratching, and a long, deep sound. My lover’s getting faster. He doesn’t speak to me anymore. My lover’s words are something else now, like scratching in his mouth.
Something moves in the darkness. My lover’s coming. But into the cold light comes a great, dark cloud. Part of the darkness has been torn away.
They’re flies.
They come to me. They swarm around the roots, their wings beating and cutting, cutting, cutting. My foot’s free, and then the flies are all around, everywhere. The cold light becomes gray, and the sounds of my lover are far, far away. I lift up my hands and wave them in the swarm, and then I’m stuck. My hands are stretched up and out to the sides.
Twist and wind, in the light to find.
They lift me up.
Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.
My lover’s voice is an animal, growling and snarling. But I’m in the air. The flies take me with them. They fly into the thick, thick darkness, to the sound of voices and soft, short thumps. Everything has its own sound, but oh, what a beautiful sound the living make. I can make such sounds too. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I try. I talk and beat my hands on my chest. Come, come to me, I’m waiting, waiting. And the flies came. The flies took me back.
But then there’s nothing there anymore, just the darkness and me falling. When I hit the ground, there’s a snapping noise. I don’t feel anything, but my foot is loose.
I get up, close my eyes, try to walk. There’s the voice of a child, whispering a prayer. I follow. But then it’s gone. Another voice, a lady’s. She speaks softly at first, but then louder and louder. Oh, she’s furious! But she vanishes too. My foot is loose. I’m not fast, I’m no fly. I’m a beetle, I scratch away. My foot, my foot.
I crawl around in the darkness, turning toward the voices. Some whisper, some shout. Some are hushed, some scream. They all disappear before I can find them.
Everything is darkness. Darkness clings. Everything clings.
A voice rises louder and louder, and I try to get up.
It vanishes, and another appears. I can’t get up. I open my mouth and spit out words. They fall into the sand and black earth.
My beloved, where are you now?
My son, don’t let yourself be consumed.
I try to sing, but I have dust in my throat.
I try to walk, but I walk so slowly.
Darkness is everywhere. Black and blacker. The humming drone and voices. If I close my eyes, I can still see. The darkness runs through me.
One voice won’t leave me. I stay still, and the voice is there, right next to me. A woman, so young, she speaks between short pauses, and then she starts screaming. She screams and screams until she falls silent and is standing next to me. There are cuts and deep holes in her head.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” she says, looking at me, before looking at herself. And when she looks back at me, there are tears running from her. Tears running from her whole body. Out of her fingers and ears, out through the clothes she’s wearing.
“My name’s Sarah,” I say, and then: “You smell of earth.”
My words feel cold once they’re out of me. She smells of earth, moist, warm earth, but me, what am I? Am I cold wind?
Back I must go into the honey-like darkness.
But I stop when she says, “I’m Ruth.”
“Ruth?” I say. She nods, and her head is strange.
“He hit me so suddenly,” she says, lifting her hand up to her forehead.
“The man who hit you has gone,” I tell her. “You’re here.”
“He hit me, suddenly, with all his strength, he beat me and beat me, and then I was here,” she says.
“We must go,” I say.
Ruth stares at me. “I can’t go,” she says. “I must help my sister.”
“She’s not here,” I tell her.
Ruth looks around her. I lift up my hand and close it around hers. I tell her we have to go and pull her along behind me. I think about my lover. He’ll be looking, wanting to find us. He’ll snatch her, he’ll snatch me. I’ve got to get her away. Not into any light, just into the darkness. Ruth tries to pull her hand back, but I hold on, hold on, hold on, and Ruth follows me.
“Who are you?” Ruth asks.
“I’m Sarah,” I reply.
“Who’s Sarah?” Ruth asks.
“I’m like you,” I say.
Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.
“How did you die?” Ruth asks.
“I was giving birth to my child and was torn in two,” I tell her.
Twist and wind, in the light to find.
“Oh,” says Ruth, who then falls silent. Her hand loosens, I let go of it, and she walks by my side. She smells of earth. The remains of what we were. I’m the remains of what we become.
We walk and walk, and I see, and Ruth says, “Look,” and the darkness around us is no longer darkness. Black has become gray, and something large and tall rises up in the grayness. It’s a mountain, and Ruth says we’ll have to cross it. Pitch darkness is behi
nd us, but here it’s gray darkness, and I agree with her, we’ll have to cross it.
My foot can’t climb over rocks, so Ruth has to drag me. She holds my hand, but once we get farther up, her head starts to drip away. She needs both hands to stop everything from running out of her. We stop by a well, and the mountain’s above us, and I hear my lover whispering softly far behind us there.
“What’s that?” Ruth asks.
“It’s the wind,” I reply.
“That’s not wind,” says Ruth.
“It’s flies,” I tell her.
“Is it him?” Ruth asks.
I nod, and Ruth takes my hand again. We kneel down by the well.
“Is that water?” says Ruth, putting her hand down into the well, and the water creeps up her hand. It splashes and flows. It trickles over to me. Cold water, and it makes my mouth twitch. Ruth’s mouth twitches too.
“What is it?” I say.
“You’re smiling,” says Ruth.
“No,” I tell her.
“We’re smiling,” says Ruth.
Then something touches my foot. I turn around.
“Feel,” says Ruth. “It’s alive.”
But I turn around, and they’re roots. They’re around my foot.
“Sahah, Sahah.”
“No,” I shout. “Ruth,” I cry. And the mountain changes. Ruth begins to scream. The mountain cracks open, and out come the roots.
“You’re minne, Sahah, I’mm yourss.”
“He’s everywhere. He’s everywhere.”
“Thhat’ss how I like you.”
My eyes are open, they’re always open. I hear a buzzing and lift my hand to stroke their wings. But it’s Ruth’s hair I’m stroking.
“Sarah,” she says. “He’s here.”
I feel the roots binding my foot. My lover’s here to take me.
I’m in several pieces. Ruth gathers me together. She has a needle, she has thread, she stitches me together.
“Hush,” she says. “I’m going to free us.”
“Hush,” she says. “We’re going to the sea.”
The roots tighten around my foot. I belong to my lover. Wherever I go, whatever I am. The cold light, his grip. I’m his.
“Sarah,” says Ruth. “Sarah, you’re Sarah again, you’re in one piece.”
He’s my lover. I’m his.
“I’m going to free us,” says Ruth.
“The water,” I tell her. “You have to give him your water, Ruth.”
My eyes are open, they’re always open. I hear a buzzing and lift my hand to stroke their wings. But it’s my lover’s mouth.
“Sahah, you tasste of salt and earthh.”
“Ruth,” I say, and he pulls at me.
“You’re bothh minne, everything here iss minne.”
“Ruth,” I say, and my lover tears himself out and away. He goes into the cold light and says that this mountain isn’t his, he’s going back to the sand and the black darkness.
“I tasste wetnesss here, Sahah. You should be dryy.”
My lover vanishes into the cold light. Through the darkness out, I must seek the drought.
My eyes are open, they’re always open. I hear a buzzing and lift my hand to stroke their wings. It’s the flies. It’s Ruth. She’s covered by the winged creatures, the water’s dripping from her to me.
“Sarah,” she says. “I’m going to free us.” And I hear my lover. I see him coming in the cold light.
“You’re bothh minne.”
“Sahah and Ruthh, small and dryy and finished.”
“Come,” says Ruth, taking my hand. The flies’ wings beat and cut, and cut and cut and my foot’s free. But my lover’s here now. The cold light and his howls.
“Ruth,” I say, and my lover begins to grab at me. He takes hold of me and pulls. Then I hear Ruth, she’s dripping and dripping. She’s water, screaming and flailing and flapping, and the gray light blinks, or is it me? My lover snatches Ruth, he tears her skull apart. Ruth is left in pieces, but out of Ruth comes gushing water, and my lover stops everything. He’s in the water, burning up, and I blink and crawl toward what was Ruth.
“Ruth,” I say. My lover burns and growls.
“Ruth,” I say, and the pieces of Ruth are wet. The gray light blinks, or it flashes, or is it me? Everything blinks, everything flashes, gray and black, and Ruth and water and the buzzing and the wings and my beloved and my son and I blink.
“You’re here,” says Ruth.
She’s back in one piece; her skull has mended again.
“Sarah,” she says. “I’ve found light, we’re there, listen.”
There’s no buzzing, but it’s not silent. There’s something else.
“Listen,” says Ruth. “We freed ourselves, your lover’s no more. The light will come to you soon.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s gone,” says Ruth. “He burned up in the water. The light will come soon.”
“The cold light,” I say.
“No,” says Ruth. “More light, warm light.”
There’s no buzzing, but it’s not silent. There’s water, so much water. It’s the deep and the rulers of the deep. And then comes the light, it’s there ahead of us. Not cold light like my lover, not light like the hand of evil. Another light, a light that is great and warm and good, and it comes down over me like a soft, light carpet.
No voices, something else. Not my lover, not my beloved. Not even little Ruth. Something else, and it shows me the sea. That’s where I’m going. I’m free from the evil that bound me. There is a great light in the world, and it will give light and life where I want. Ruth, me, everybody who smells of the earth, the ones who are cold wind, everything will be lit by a great light. The ones who have been in the clutches of evil, who have been torn apart, smashed to pieces, broken. They’ll all be lit by a great light.
“Say it,” says Ruth. “Say your beloved’s name.”
I look into the light, and I can feel my beloved in my hand.
But I open my hand and let go of it all.
“Jacob,” I say. “Set him free, take away the evil, set him free.”
And the light lifts up, rushing over my stomach, my chest, shoulder, hand, then it vanishes.
My beloved’s gone, my son’s gone. But I’ve sent out a light. I’ve sent a light of goodness.
Ruth places her hand in mine. I put my hand around hers. The sea is there ahead of us, blacker, deeper. As if the darkness we came from were merely twilight. This is the night.
“I smell of earth,” says Ruth. “I’m still warm.”
“I’m Sarah,” I say.
“Sarah?” says Ruth.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Everything’s gone, hasn’t it,” says Ruth. “No light, nothing growing. Everything just dies and dies, even after everything’s dead.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ve spent my last night on earth,” says Ruth. “The light’s been sent, my sister will be saved. Now I’ll come to an end. I won’t be here any longer.”
“Yes,” I say. And we go forth. Down to the sea, where dark waves carry us away, foot by foot. I hold Ruth, Ruth holds me. I’m going now, my beloved. I’m leaving now, Jacob. You’ll be set free. One day we’ll be together, on the other side of the blackness.
4 CHILDREN OF GOD
My brother, Jehoram, held his hands out to me and asked if they weren’t a wonderful color, and I nodded and agreed. His fingers glistened, and he asked me all kinds of questions. Reuben was panting, stabbing and kicking the men we’d just killed. I turned to Nadab. He just stood there, watching. Jehoram, his arms red, his face red, fell silent.
“Nadab?” I said, but Nadab didn’t answer, still staring at the bodies on the ground.
“Nadab?” I said again, and this time Nadab looked at me. He blinked. In the failing daylight, his pale, white skin seemed to shine softly. His red hair and beard almost made him glow. Jehoram started to speak again, while sweat and the dead men’s blood ran
down his forehead and cheeks. I asked him to be quiet.
“Nadab?” I said. “Why aren’t you joining in?”
“It’s not right,” he mumbled. “I said I didn’t want to do any more killing.”
“Right?” said Reuben, who’d also stopped and was standing still now. “Not right? What are you talking about?”
“I shouldn’t have done this. We shouldn’t have done this,” said Nadab. “We promised to go with them all the way to Jerusalem.”
“Nobody tells us what to do,” said Reuben. “I’m sick and tired of being a mercenary for the rich.” He spat and tried to dry himself off. He was so tall that he looked like some strange, giant animal that didn’t know how to clean itself.
“It’s like Reuben says,” I said. “We’re not in anybody’s service, we take what we can get. Have you seen the money they’ve got with them?”
I went over to the two slain bodies, lifted up their clothes, and showed them the purses that were now red with blood.
“I didn’t want to get involved in what they were planning to do in Jerusalem,” I continued. “They would’ve got themselves killed anyway, and maybe dragged us into it too.”
“I didn’t do this,” said Nadab. “It’s putting out the light inside me.”
Reuben took a step toward him, but I raised my hand to tell him to take it easy.
“Nadab,” I said, “what we do, you do. You’re us. There’s nothing you didn’t do. We do what we do, we are what we are. Now, shut up and give us a hand.”
I stopped to see if he would say something, but he said nothing.
“We’ve got to hide them,” I went on. “If the bodies are found, their people will come looking for us. If nobody finds them, they’ll wait before coming to look for us. Sooner or later, they’ll forget about us.”
Nadab stared at me and then nodded weakly. Reuben nodded too, went over to Nadab, smacked him on the head, and told him to help. They started to drag away one of the lacerated bodies. Jehoram grinned at me. I pointed at what was left and asked him to get to work.
I snapped a few twigs off a bush to rake the blood-stained ground. The remains of the dead were absorbed down and into the sand. This world consumes us all. Some time ago, I decided that we should try out another life. I sold our services to rich families who needed protection. I transformed us from thieves to mercenaries. It wasn’t right; I could feel it in my hands, in my stomach, in my chest. Even at night, when I slept, it came to me. I can’t change us. We are what we’ve always been, and we’ll remain like that until there’s no breath or thought or anything beating within us.
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