nothing in comparison to mine. You must either be insane from rumor of me or from a distant land to not know of me, to not have heard my titles whispered in frightful men’s ears or to feel my wrath upon the wailing wind you must surely be from far, far away.”
“You speak truth, warrior.” He said simply.
“I do not know truth and neither does truth know me, stranger.”
“Why, my warlike friend, you have just spoken a morsel of truth when you declared me to be from a distant land.”
“Do not mock me, old man.” I shouted without realizing it. My swords were raised to strike him down.
His grey head bowed, he was resigned to his fate, the same fate of my father. He looked like my father. I felt pain stinging my heart to recall that I ever intended to strike him down. My hands weakened and their skeletal fingers dropped my swords.
Finally, I was broken, I am still broken. I crumbled to my knees; I stared into his caring eyes, his deep compassionate eyes. There was the same look in those eyes as was in my fathers, even as I killed him, a look of love. He was right, my father was right. The stain of killing one’s own father, the man who sired him, is a mark of blood, a mark of twisted character that can never, never, be erased.
“Something taxes you,” the old man began, “will you let me pray for you?”
“Pray? Men have died on their knees before me, praying to their worthless gods. The gods of man are nothing more than a product of mankind’s feverish minds. In peace, man worships gods of pleasure and wisdom. In war, man worships gods of blood, courage, and strength. Prayer cannot help me. Do not think me godless, for every man has his gods. My gods are Vengeance and Hate and these gods have no mercy.” This was the answer I gave to him, but he bowed his head anyway and began to pray, his words were of a language I had never heard before.
I let him pray, my wrath subsided, for some reason I could not bring myself to hate this intruder. He looked at me and I told him everything. He encouraged me to write it down and so that is why this manuscript is here on this desk. The old man, I have found out, is what he calls a Christian monk, a man wholly devoted to his God. This Christianity is a strange religion, I have never heard of anything like it before. I, if I was not what I am, would surely like to follow this God’s Son whom my companion talks about so much. He has lived with me in this shack for a full moon. He prays when those accursed fears attack me, no longer am I master of fear, but when this monk prays to his God fear has no control over me.
This desk at which I write was crafted from a log by this old man’s hand. From what I have learned about his past he was a rich, religious leader in some far off land. The very land in which this monk’s Savior was crucified. A horrible death to be sure, I saw many while chasing my hated foes. I must confess also that I crucified many men with my bare hands. This monk can make such beautiful things from wood; the only things I ever made were men’s death. This old man urges me to follow his God but I am sure that I am not worthy of the sacrifice of this God’s Son. All that I have done weighs upon me, it bears down on me. It haunts me.
This Savior is supposed to have risen from the dead. Now I must say that I have seen many dead who seem to be alive, but these were and are only apparitions caused by Fear. Yet, for some reason, I feel there is validity to the monk’s story.
He is back, my old companion has just stacked more fire on the stove and has replaced my charcoal with which I write this, though it would be more appropriate to write it in the blood of my thousands of victims. The victims of my Revenge, of my Hate, I am one of them.
When my old companion leaves again I shall kill myself with the very dagger I killed my father with. I grip it now under the desk. I wonder how it will feel in my heart. I wonder what my death will be like. I hope that I shall feel the pain which all of my victims felt, I do not deserve a quiet death. It will be slow and painful, as it should be. Vengeance is I; it is my soul, my life, my essence. I abandon all hopes of further life for I have no other. Vengeance is a wheel; when one man carries out his twisted, sweet revenge it will cycle around and bitter vengeance shall be inflicted upon him. I can hear it now. Oh, how eerily it creaks, turning forever on its axis of Hate.
Another weary day has ambled by, and I have sat here, at this desk, for the whole day. I cannot bring myself to do it. I cannot bring myself to plunge this thirsty, this lovely, this accursed dagger into my sick heart. For sure it is not out of love for me that my arm resists what my mind has already decided.
The monk has returned and I find myself slipping involuntarily into its sheath under the desk. The blood sharpened edges of this keen weapon scrape against the rusty sheath binding. I feel him stiffen, though upon his strong shoulders he is carrying the carcass of a young doe. All this I can know, inhumanly, without using my eyes. Alas! What sort of monster have I turned into? What has my life become, it has become a life indebted to Hate, Vengeance and all evil though I have done these demons no favors. I can smell the venison cooking now, how it smells so good, but I refuse him. Though he offers generously I refuse him with a grunt, like the animal that I am.
Another day and I cannot bring myself to slay him, but what is worse, oh, the demons they torture me! How they bite and whip me cruelly! I cannot kill, I cannot hate this monk. Is not this man a man like all the others I’ve slaughtered? No, he is not the same, he is different.
But if I cannot hate him I hate myself, but even now, as I once again clench this dagger in my already lifeless fingers Hate tortures me, allowing me not to slaughter this lifeless form of mortal existence nor to, in the same action, release my agonized soul from this lifeless carcass. But where my soul, my rotten, festering, hollow soul goes after my mortal death I do not know. I take consolation in the knowledge that…ah, these demons have too strong a hold! Could they? They would. If I slew my mortal flesh would my soul be bound still to my gods?
“O, man of knowledge, man of wisdom! Speak to me and tell me the secrets, the secrets of the dead!” I cried out in my torture. But there was no one to listen to my woes. There is never anyone. Not a single being can listen to my tortured soul. I wonder now if that Savior, no, He would not save me. But, still, can I not wonder, o paper? O desk? O ground, who made you? O life, who made you? O soul, who made you?
I feel them coming for me. I hate myself. I hate my hate. The dagger thirsts for vengeance, I hate vengeance and vengeance hates me. No, the old gods are gaining control once more! How I hate them. Perhaps when I escape this mortal flesh; perhaps when it is rotting in a grave, no, none would bury me. Perhaps when it is being digested by the carrion, perhaps when my soul is finally free I shall find the answer to all my questions and then I shall wreak vengeance upon the gods. How I hate them; how I hate myself; how I hate what they caused me to do to my father. But, no, it was my choice. Was it not? I hate and I am hate. I revenge and I am vengeance. No grip do those gods have over me. When I avenge my father I shall hate only those ancient gods of human revenge and human hate.
Vengeance I shall now inflict upon myself for the monk is gone, he is departed to hunt for meat, meat to keep me alive. I do not live off meat, I live off hate. And I cannot hate him, so I am dead. I feel the prick of the dagger in my skin. I feel the Hate for myself; it urges the knife deeper, ever deeper, blood trickles now. I wish to say to any man thinking of vengeance, or who hates someone else, I wish to say to those who may read my story, “do not follow in my steps.” I am sure this monk will use my story to show the atrocities caused by Hate and may his God bless him for it; his God is for him but Vengeance is my god, vengeance has been my life. Now the dagger which drank my father’s blood is drinking his son’s. The wheel has turned its full cycle.
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Wind of Destruction Page 5
