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Find below a short piece, inspired by the memory of a sci-fi short story I read years ago and always felt deserved an attempt at expansion. This is the start, sort of...an attempt at setting the stage for something larger while being a complete story in itself.
As the subject line indicates, your comments and criticsm are requested.
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How do I write this, when I really do not understand the things I write? How do I convey what is going on in my mind, pick apart the strands of turmoil and lay them out one by one so that everyone may see and understand. How do I begin? How do I lay it out in an ordered fashion when everything I want to, need to describe defies order?
An old bishop told me that you should never start a story with a fact. Rather you should start the story and lead towards the fact. But I shall ignore him, just like I have ignored many who were older and wiser than myself, and start with a fact: Yesterday, in the early morning hours, I caused the death of a people. I did not push a button or give an order. I did not spill chemicals or cause widespread contamination. All I did was stand still. I held my breath for as long as I could, and then, when my lungs were bursting, I allowed myself only shallow breaths, denying myself the relief of deep draughts of air. How long? Two minutes? Five? An hour? I don?t know and I don?t care?all I know is that my hands stayed by my side, my eyes remained downcast and I did not try to stop what was happening all around me. Could I have done anything? One man, alone? Maybe. Maybe those around me who also stood rigid, eyes downcast, harboured similar thoughts to mine. Maybe they would have joined me in declaring the error of our ways, the evil of what we were doing?maybe together we would have stepped in. Maybe every one of them was thinking the same thing. Maybe.
History can provide the names of those who were braver than I. The one man or woman who dared to rise up and declare. Countless souls in the centuries past have been the one who dared to take that first step, to tread down the path that others would eventually follow, widen, turn into a new world. What went through their heads, I can but wonder?what made them special. What drove them, what fire burned in the depths of their being? I do not know. We do not know. And now, I shall never know, for what has been done cannot be undone.
Our king, my king, he is triumphant. His banner flies. His reign is assured. Those like me, who stood by his side risking all, we are to be rewarded. Heralds call out the honours. Comrades in arms move forward to be commended, to have their achievements recorded and new status reaffirmed. New knights and new bishops revel in their newfound glory. I too have proven myself. The mitre of our faith adorns my head; the sword of its might weighs down my belt. All around me is glory and exultation. All within me is numb.
The king, he stands before me. His hand stretches out to bless my forehead, to offer his ring to kiss. I perform the ritual actions, woodenly parroting the phrases etched into my mind from countless observations. The war cost us many bishops. I have heard this ritual many times, I have seen the gestures performed until I saw them in my dreams. I need not think about this. I need to think about the other. My lips touch the king?s ring, my hand receive my staff of office, and I am confirmed in the rank that I received when Bishop DuChamp was killed, defending the king at the height of the battle. My back was turned, but I heard his scream when he was borne down by the weight of the soldiers that broke through. They threatened the king, and our response was automatic, closing ranks. I remember few things of that time. I was told I fought like a madman to the king?s side and fought off all comers. That faith and love for our king must have given me the strength of ten men, wielded my sword for me with grace and fury. How do I explain the truth? That I cared less for the king. That I wanted to reclaim DuChamp?s body, protect it from being trampled into the mud. That maybe I could protect him long enough for the surgeons. All in vain of course. He was dead long before I even started to his aid.
Now I hold his staff of office, and bear the weight of declaring the faith from the side of the king. I hold higher rank than the knights who sneered down on me from their steeds. I stand between them and my lord and lady. I command the legions of the faithful, the soldiers who have sworn to defend their king and their faith against all enemies. Except that now there are no enemies. I was silent, I did not speak out, and now there is no-one remaining who does not follow the tenets of the faith and salute the king?s monochrome banner. There is only that which we represent. There is no more black and white, no more right and wrong. There is only us.
I am not the first man to wield the sword in the name of the glory of faith and king. Many have held my staff of office before. But I am the first to hold it in peace. A peace that we will spend staring out over the battlefields looking for a new enemy that will never come. Our faith declares king and banner above all, to be defended from all. Our weapons are the sacred instrument of our right, our might. Righteous in their defence of the king, justified in their offence against those would defy us. But now, we face emptiness. There is no army arrayed against us, there are no adversaries hiding in the hills. We will stand on the edge of the battlefield in silent vigil against foes who will never rise up
For early this morning we killed the last of them. We rode out, their cries from the iron-barred wagon plaintive and ragged, like sheep. We rode long and hard, our faces set in masks of officialdom. There was no talk, no banter, no laughter and no crying. No emotions marred the picture of composure we presented when we reached the cliffs. No tears graced our cheeks when the last of those we had fought for centuries were led to the cliffs. And as the rays of the rising sun illuminated the scene, the soldiers pushed. I said nothing. I did nothing. For there was nothing to say. Our faith is not one of mercy, but of slaughter. Our king is not compassionate, but merciless. Now both stand by my side with nothing to direct their fury and anger towards.
I know what will happen. I know that in time, we will find it within ourselves to regard each other as the new foes. The quibbling will start, swell to argument, strain to the size of conflict, and then burst upon us with the gore and desolation of war once again. We will fight amongst ourselves, for there are no more enemies. And I? I will do the only thing I can do. I will raise my sword and do that which I am uniquely placed to do. It will not halt the conflict, but it will salve my conscience. I will not stand silent. My hands will not lie quietly. I will strike down against him who has brought us to this, to the point where I can but think one thought, over and over, as I wait for the inevitable?
There is no more white, only black. |
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