Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Jinn, Bo

  He lowered his eyes. His breaths started to shake. And for a long time, he stood frozen before the first stair.

  “Saul…”

  His head turned slowly toward the hermit and they gazed at one another silently. The ravaged look in his eyes imparted what must come next.

  The hermit accorded with a bow of his head and turned and walked down the narrow passage into the small room with the two chairs set across from one another, where the foretelling of this moment had been made.

  With stark clarity and a dead, frontward stare into flashback, he proceeded to recount to the hermit everything that had happened and everything that had been made known to him: about the massacre at Dolinovka, Naomi’s family, the destruction of her life at his own hands, about his past, what he was and was forever doomed to be – the destroyer of all destroyers – a true child of the martial world. And he concluded with the three final words of submission: “You were right,” he said. “You were right.”

  The hermit remained silent, his immovable, vaguely commiserative stare summoning the confession from him.

  “Take her,” he struggled to get the words out. “Take her as far away from this place as you can.”

  “I will.”

  “Protect her,” he gasped. “At any cost, protect her.”

  The hermit nodded.

  “She will not understand why it has to be this way,” he said, staring blankly ahead. “She may grow to hate me.”

  “She won’t,” the hermit reassured. “I will make sure she knows the truth.”

  A longer silence followed.

  Soon, he began to shudder again and his hands trembled furiously, clenching into tight, shaking fists of sorrow. He felt, at any moment, as though the bloody tears would break from him again as he dwelt on his deepest agony. She would be a lost memory, a faded dream.

  “They will clean me,” he shook, choking on his words. “She will never have existed. Everything … It will all be forgotten.”

  “The soul never forgets,” said the hermit. “You carry her light now.”

  “I want to die,” he said. “I should have died long ago.” He looked up desperately. “Is there any way,” he pled, “any way I might remember?”

  “As long as you live, there is always Providence, so long as you believe.”

  “And if I do not?”

  The hermit did not answer.

  There was the cruel hope binding him to life, just as Pope had foretold. He said nothing more after that and neither did the hermit. When the silence continued long enough, the hermit rose from his seat.

  “She is waiting for you…”

  It was a while before he stood and when he did, the hermit moved from his path.

  With slow, soundless steps, he ascended the stairs and stood outside the barely open door. He stopped at the threshold and rested the palm of his hand against the door. Not a sound came from the other side except the intermittent wails of the swelling blizzard. He nudged the door open and looked immediately to his right, where a slightly taller figure than the one he remembered cradling in his arms so long ago, stood staring out of the bedroom window. He stopped and stared at the reflection in the glazing.

  When the door clicked shut behind, their eyes met.

  Naomi gasped and twisted around and froze, her broad eyes shimmering and her mouth wide. Neither of them uttered a word. For a long time, it seemed both denied the reality of the other. They had both changed considerably.

  Her first step toward him was gradual and hesitant.

  After the second step, the third followed almost immediately. She rushed straight toward him, throwing her arms around his back and bursting into immediate, quiet tears.

  “Hello, little one.”

  He laid his hand gently on her head.

  Her little breaths shuddered. “I knew you’d come back,” she cried. “I knew you would.”

  “I promised you…”

  “He said you’d come back,” she whispered. “He said you would...”

  In spite of his pain, he waited for her to exhaust her tears and when her arms loosened from around him, he lowered himself to her, wiped the tears away and gazed with the most intense sorrow into the moonstone eyes. She had grown since that first day, in so many ways and the blurred passage of time revealed itself to him in her.

  “It is late. You should not be awake, little one.”

  “Stay with me,” she said, burying her head into his shoulder again.

  An ache went from the very point where she rested her head and seized onto his chest so that his breath broke again. When he gathered himself, he gently held her back.

  “There is something I must tell you.”

  Unable to look into her eyes, he hung his head, lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, feeling so weak, old and ruined as he lowered her down. Her inquiring eyes seared into his heart. He would die at any moment.

  “I promised I would come back,” he muttered achingly. “I did not promise to stay.”

  Her big blue-gray eyes shimmered and the little mouth trembled.

  “What?” broke the small voice.

  He looked away.

  The silence was long and excruciating.

  “But…” she faltered. “But, you came back. You came back.”

  “I know,” he nodded woefully. “But this time it is you who must leave, not I.”

  Her little hands seized onto him, on her face was a look of utter confusion.

  “But, why?” she begged helplessly. “Why?”

  “One day, I hope that you will understand,” he strained. “When you do, you must decide whether you can forgive me. But, now. now is not that time.”

  “No,” the little head began to shake.

  “You have to.”

  “No!”

  She plunged her head into his heart and began to weep again. The little trembles of her sobs shook him like a quake and he could do nothing but stare into the void. A sole tear fell from his gaping eyes.

  “I am sorry, little one.”

  “Don’t go, Saul,” she begged and repeated. “Please don’t go, please don’t…”

  “You are not for this world,” he said. “I belong in this place.”

  “Saul…”

  “Know that you are special,” he continued. “There is no one in this world like you – no, not one. I know that you will do many great things, little one.” He paused to muster the very last of his fading spirit. “Never forget me. You must remember for both of us now.”

  The last words barely wrung from him.

  Naomi lifted her head and pressed the side of her face against him. She would rather lay there forever than leave. Her tears had soaked into him, percolating to his heart.

  “I love you, Saul.”

  The knife twisted. His eyes shut.

  “I love you too.”

  IV

  Night had long fallen by the time the old man ended his story, and a diffuse light from over the bar counter took the place of the light of day. The masses, brimming with festiveness, had dispersed from the city centre and were, by now, making their merry ways into the promises future.

  The young barkeep gaped into his glass, wordless. His son had fallen asleep on a bench at the back, and in the backdrop was a low burble from the media broadcast which had transitioned from the live coverage of Capitol Plaza to a group of conversers joined in one of the eager dialogs which typically follow major political events.

  “That’s quite a story,” murmured the barkeep, still staring into his empty glass.

  The old man smiled and finished off his fourth glass of scotch. “I am afraid our time is up, friend.” He lowered his glass to the table and seized his cane.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “We all have somewhere to be. Places to go. There’s a long way yet to walk.” The old man lifted himself out of his seat with a groan.

  “You’ll be alright?”

  The old man grimaced as he straightened up. He puffed and
nodded.

  “My story ends where yours begins.”

  With one last look of valediction, the old man turned and hobbled to the door.

  “Is it true?” asked the barkeep just as the door opened.

  The old man stopped on the threshold.

  “Your story,” the barkeep underlined. “Is it really true or is that just some yarn you spun up over the years?”

  The old man was quiet awhile. Then, he turned a bold eye upon the young barkeep.

  “What is truth?” he asked.

  The young barkeep seemed as though he was about to answer, then, appearing to smile, went silent again.

  “Until such time as you are able to answer my question,” said the old man, “you may decide your own for yourself.” The old man smiled, raised his collar. “Farewell, friend.”

  He stepped over the threshold and onto the night streets, where the traffic started to circulate on the overpasses and two trains shot past one another on the bridge. He set his sights northward and made his slow way.

  The barkeep remained staring at the closed door, lamenting the fact that it might well be the last time he and the old man would ever cross ways. He finished off his own drink, set the glass down and lingered in his seat, dazed, deferential and slightly disconcerted by the tale that he had just heard. He looked over to his son, asleep in the corner. Anticipating the bands of happy celebrators who would soon fill his small tavern, he stood, walked over to the boy, lifted him up and carried him away.

  Fireworks leapt up into the faraway sky and burst and glittered against the dark, marking the start of festivities across the city. The flickering lights shone in little fingers through the window and withdrew, picking up the crumpled sheets of paper and strewn pastilles over the floor, and the desk on which the sleeping little head of the girl rested.

  Her face was buried into her little arms crossed for a pillow and draped with a coverlet of golden hair. The cracks, pops and whistles from the distant fireworks did not wake her, but the tender hand which settled on her did. The girl woke softly.

  “…Dad?”

  “Come on princess. It’s time for bed.”

  She blearily sat back in her seat, balled her little fists and rubbed her eyes.

  “I … finished it,” she yawned.

  He looked down at the desktop, and the image of the golden phoenix she had so devotedly toiled over throughout the day.

  “Yes you did,” he said to her fondly. “Mommy’s going to love it.”

  He gently put his arms around her and lifted her up to his chest.

  “Mom,” the girl seemed to wake from her trance. “Where is she?”

  “She’s not home yet.”

  “I want to show it to her.”

  “You can show it to her tomorrow.”

  “No,” she insisted with a tired croak. “Tonight. It has to be tonight. Please...” She looked up at him with her dreamy eyes.

  “Alright.” He lowered her slowly to the floor and brushed the hair from over her drooping eyes. “Tell you what,” he said; “you go leave it in the art room. She’ll find it when she comes home.”

  The girl rubbed her eyes again and the drowsy little head bobbled.

  Eyes half-shut, she walked over to her desk and patted down the top as though blind. She took the picture and immediately sleepwalked out of the open door and down the hall.

  Just as he was about to follow, the twinkling of lights in the bedroom window stole through the corner of his eye. They were not fireworks. The flashing lights of the motorcade proceeded down the final road.

  The newly inaugurated President of the Eden Accord gazed pensively out of the car window, as she had been doing since they’d departed the Capitol Building. The end to a long day of pageantries seemed to have only heightened her lethargy, much to the concern of her chief of security, who sat across from her observing her earnestly and with some distress. She would not speak. Attempts to call her attention had gone unanswered twice since they had left. Whatever had been troubling her since the morning, it was plainly more profound than originally supposed.

  He sighed quietly and looked away.

  The motorcade rolled up to the main entrance and slowed as the gates opened. Another wave of fireworks lit up the dark sky as the line of vehicles slowed to a stop outside the front doors of the presidential residence.

  The porters waited at the open doors. The low whirring of the engines wound down to a stop.

  There was silence.

  “No calls tonight…”

  Shields roused to her sudden voice, low, sombre and concealing intense sadness.

  “There’s something I have to do. Something important.”

  “It’s been a long day,” said Shields. “Why don’t you give yourself a rest? Spend some time with your family.”

  “I can’t,” she replied slowly. “I have to finish it tonight.”

  There was the thump of closing doors. The chauffeur approached the rear and stopped at the side of the door. The doors opened.

  “Good night Lucas.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded vaguely before rising out of the car, led by the hand of her chauffeur. Two security men shadowed her ritually to the front entrance and Shields maintained his earnest stare right until the doors closed and the motorcade drove away. The porters held open the doors to the entrance and bid her “Good evening” as she crossed the threshold into the foyer.

  It was dark and silent. The members of the presidential household were nowhere around. The doors shut. She stopped. Her heart thawed and her worry eased when she caught sight of her beloved descending the stairs to meet her.

  He stopped at the foot of the stairs, under the dim light

  “Welcome back.”

  She went to him and laid her hands and face against him. His arms swathed round her like satin to her spirit. She closed her eyes. Her breaths shuddered with the release of passion.

  “You were great today.”

  “The day’s not over yet.”

  He laid his hand upon her head and gently caressed the soft, snow-white hair. She appeased her soul in his embrace for as long as she could, then raised her head and put her crown to his lips.

  “Where is she?” she asked.

  “Upstairs.”

  She looked away and smiled briefly.

  “Tonight…” she said. “I have to…”

  “I know,” he nodded. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  Their gazes joined in affection and the gleaming sapphires of her eyes sparkled in the dark depths of his. She put her hands on his face and kissed his lips.

  “Thanks for being patient with me. I know I’m not an easy wife … I am nothing without you, you know.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He laughed softly, kissed her brow one last time and walked away.

  She ascended the stairs to the upper hall. Sidling over the carpet without a sound, she approached the open door of her daughter’s bedroom and peered over the sill. Her silhouette came in the path of the light, and the light stretched down the middle of the room up to the desk, just touching the bedside and a few trailing locks of golden blonde hair hanging out of the little knoll in the bedding.

  “Sweetie…”

  No answer.

  A few seconds late the knoll in the bedding shifted, ruffled and sniffled.

  She withdrew from the threshold and drew the door shut, narrowing the shaft of light from the hall until it disappeared with the click of the shutting door. Her hand dropped off the door handle and she fixed her anxious sights on the illumined door at the end of the hall.

  The little thuds of her heels ran with her pulse as she proceeded through the hall.

  The shoes slipped off her feet outside the door of a large, oval room, decked and walled with mahogany. All around the oval room were dozens upon dozens of art pieces: different shapes, sizes, media and moulds, from frescoes to sculptures, and all of them her own
.

  The whole city, lit up in celebration, was partitioned from that solemn space by a long glazed wall running along the curve at the back of the room. And right in the middle of the otherwise empty floor was about nine square meters of cloth stained with paint drops and paint smears, and suspended over the cloth was the largest canvas in the room, set upon an easel.

  She approached the canvas, shedding her coat and other adornments and letting them fall to the floor in her trail. She stepped up to the easel, let down her hair, lightly rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse, let her hands fall gracefully and looked up at the canvas.

  The canvas bore an image sufficiently complete to be discernible. The image was of a little-known man: the sharp lines of his worn, tormented features prominent in the brush and knife-strokes of the paint, and his eyes, bottomlessly bleak and black. And at the man’s breast, clutched in an embrace as though she were bound to his soul, was a little girl.

  She stopped and took a deep breath before taking the palette in one hand and a palette knife and a fine brush in the other. She took the knife and cut into the globules of paint, mixed in the turpentine and linseed oil in faint doses and, with a still and timid hand, began to apply the dark crimson in fine lacerations.

  She wielded her brush like an apothecary of the soul, tending to her own wounds. Cathartic twinges shot through with each aching stroke. Her heart numbed as the tip of the brush parched, then she would lower her hand, take another deep, shaking breath, dab the brush onto the palette and again, eliciting from the man’s features all the anguish of a soul wrung dry, stroke by slow stroke; each streak of crimson more painful than the last, until her mouth began to quiver.

  A lone tear broke in the corner of her eye and streamed down.

  She took the knife and cut the paint in short slashes under the deep, vexed orbitals of his hung head. Her pain seemed to increase with his beauty, and his beauty increased with her pain. But she would shed all the blood of her soul to do him justice. Hours passed into the night. The tears streamed constantly and fell on the cloth beneath her, but she never wiped them lest she break her focus. She painted through the pain, through the beautiful commiseration with her subject: the hero whose sacrifice she could never truly grasp, except through her art. The brush trembled painfully as she raised her hand from the palette and brought the tip to the canvas for the final touches.