Wonder at Nothing
He stumbled out of the church, down the stone steps, and moved with increasing speed toward the top of the high cliff to the west. Arriving at the edge, he approached with no respect for the drop, repeatedly advancing and retreating, as if picking a fight with the open expanse. The wind whipping up the face of the cliff and the stirring of the waters of the Mediterranean before him seemed an open challenge, calling attention to his impotence, like a smirking schoolyard bully gently pushing open fingers against his chest, softly, but repeatedly. He felt the buttresses of his fatalistic tower crumbling, exposing as folly his assurance that he was secure in his isolation, that nothing more could be required of him, that he would simply cease to exist in solitude, that there was nothing left to say. These facts he long ago accepted and taken as a comfort. But no more. Alone! ... Not alone! Barking anger, he punched and swung at the vast openness, and bellowed a final agitation. ‘I’m dying! Let me be!’ This was as close to a prayer as the solitary figure could manage, before falling to his knees.
The ground beneath him, damp from the sea air and a recent storm, surprised him with its softness, provoking in him a sense of wonder. It was open, breathing, like fresh-turned soil, and he thought in that moment that the earth had chosen to receive him in answer to his nihilistic prayer. He felt his arms lift, allowing a moment of gratitude (of worship?), as he reveled in the feeling of unexpected release.
That is what it might have looked like from a little distance: like relief, like worship, until the figure disappeared from view. Because within one horrible instant, Arpa realized that he hadn’t lifted his arms at all, that they were only floating up beside him, while the rest of his body first sunk, then tipped forward, as the edge of the cliff quietly gave way. ... Not received by the earth after all, but shaken off.
He flung his hands behind him like a mad bird only able to flap backwards, and flailed once. As he cartwheeled to meet the churning ground below the cliff top, his arms, first, were pinned to his sides, useless, as he launched down the slope; then, desperately he paddled to keep himself atop the wave of moving earth. The chaos of the slide allowed no further petition, became everything: he rode the fall, it seemed, until the world itself came apart, turned inside out, and a burning hell broke free of its prison to swallow the sea and mountain and him with it, to steal him and everything from the light. He lost consciousness.
Arpaxos woke in the early morning darkness to the fading sensation that he was the last solid piece in the mouth of a chewing demon. His own mouth was packed full of dirt. His right arm was numb and cold, while he felt as though the rest of his body were on fire. He had the irrational sense that he was still sliding: it took a long time for him to feel certain that he had come to a stop, that he had not died, though this was only a small comfort. He did not know how long he’d been asleep.
The left side of his face felt swollen and useless, but through his open right eye he could see a half-dome of stars overhead. In his new reality, he understood that the other half of the sky must also have been swallowed up by the earth demon; he did not, however, know why he himself had been spit out. There was no wind. He could hear the sound of water washing over tiny stones somewhere nearby.
Lying there, a bitter feeling of defeat came upon him. It was like the feeling he’d had when news of the disease broke. Back then, it only felt like falling, like the whole planet had gone off a cliff for an epic plunge that had yet to end. Today’s sharp hurt surprised him by its unfairness. He had been alone and living in quiet resolve for months, almost wishing he could feel the pain, even to die.
But now he had to reckon with the wrath that came quickly on the heels of other feelings. He couldn’t tolerate that such (relatively) simple humiliations still had power over him. The world was ending. He’d made every effort to get away from the prosaic follies of humankind to die alone in peace. Now he was tortured by the realization that he had not really gone far enough – the appearance of the priest had ended that fantasy. Nor, apparently, was he prepared for death. It frightened him, maybe for the first time. Something in the experience of being very nearly buried alive, maybe. Buried, unburied, and buried again (before the earth had turned him out, he’d been twisted into every shape recalled in plaster at Pompeii, but his final shape had not yet been discovered). There was no feeling of release for him in the moment of death, no peace in it, just a child’s horror, which embarrassed him. Grief piled on top of grief with the final realization that he couldn’t pretend to welcome the end any more, as if he knew what it meant; nor did it appear that his opinions on the subject mattered in the slightest.
He let out a small muffled whine, and his face scrunched around his mouth, wincing in protest against each muscle’s attempt at movement. His mouth began to work, automatically, to expel the dirt and pebbles that had collected there. His arms were of no use at the moment. He turned his head gently to his right. His tongue, which itself felt an icy-hot burn at the slightest movement, slowly began working the ball of earth around, while his jaw clenched involuntarily with each contraction of his facial muscles. He directed all of his willpower against the impulse to throw up; he was getting barely enough air through his nose as it was. As he accepted the fact that one of his teeth would be coming out too, he worked his tongue harder, crying out as exposed roots grated against the stone slurry being pushed out of his mouth. Finally it was free, and he resisted the urge to swallow gulps of air until he could work the dregs out.
As the night sky gave way to a pale dawn, his situation slowly came into focus. He could now see the stony ledge he’d landed on, and that he was on the bank of a tiny stream that emanated from within a dark cleft in the surrounding wall. To see details in the looming cliff face awoke him to the fact of it again – and he chided his assumption that half the stars had been eaten; now he felt prepared to concede the likelihood that the missing sky was behind the cliff itself. Probably, he thought, wisely, a demon had not consumed any stars in its ravenous attack on Arpaxos.
He tried to learn more. His right arm was submerged in the frigid water, which explained the numbness. He lifted it out, and carefully raised his head to look around. He could see the earthen chute by which the cliff had delivered him – more gently than he deserved – to this spot; a pile of soil to the left was peaked like sand at the bottom of a giant hourglass. He was trying to work out how he survived the fall, and how it was that the mound of dirt was not on top of him; he had no memory of moving himself from the base of the cliff, nor any clear memory of the fall itself. But he felt encouraged in this moment to respect the proverbial wisdom of forgetfulness.
Finally, looking past his feet, he saw that the cleft in the wall enclosed a narrow, whitewashed archway formalizing an entrance to the dark space behind it. An uneven cross-shaped embrasure, like a keyhole, topped the passageway. It was a cave.
A cave. Perfect. His Hero’s Journey was about to take a turn. He would descend into the darkness and confront ... his fears!, or himself!, or something, and he would learn the Valuable Lesson. Then he would be permitted to return ... to return ....
His head lay back. He laughed quietly until the pain became too great, at which point the exhaustion and the trauma of the day, and all the years, overwhelmed his consciousness and he passed out once more.
And he dreamed.
