The Contour of our Shadows

Paris, 1892

Damien always woke up just before the dawn, maybe because he never slept much, or maybe because the darkness somewhat soothed him. As per routine, he would gather his tools and head towards the graveyard with a lantern to check on the condition of graves, but on this day, he went towards a mound overlooking an old farm down the hill. He dropped his tools on the ground, put the lantern beside him, crouched and after mechanically selecting a tool, started digging. Although the light emanating from the lantern was little, it nonetheless illuminated his face and highlighted his strong cheek bones, finely chiseled creases on his forehead, deeply sunken eyes and wrinkles around the mouth. 

The time around dawn elapses very rapidly and so, a faint light from the sun escaped the clouds and slanting towards him, radiated his figure. He was a tall, thin, pallid man with an unkempt beard and shriveled hair and his mechanical digging in the earth showed his dedication to his work. He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat ; his shirt open at the throat, and from time to time wiped the beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead with the back of his hand. Suddenly a light passed on his face, a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought. Lifting his eyes to the old farm down the hill, he heaved a sigh that was pregnant with emotions and sat beside the grave he had just dug up. 

His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort; his whole world being limited to a few feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band. Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the flowers at his side in such numbers as to weigh them to the roots. The strange colored butterflies which this graveyard produced, and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and revolved around him in a jovial sort of way. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers leaped over his feet, falling awkwardly on their backs, heads, or hips like unskillful acrobats; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations under the fern-fronds with the silent ones. Huge flies, ignorant of wire-netting, and in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing that he was a man. 

As the sun now showed itself in full splendor, small and large snakes glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being season immediately following the shedding  of their old skins, when their colors are brightest. Litters of young rabbits came out of their forms and warmed themselves upon the hillocks, the hot beams blazing through their skin. None of them feared him.

The monotony of his occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure. He stooped down and with his emaciated hands touched a cockroach on his back, which immediately stopped and listened intently,its antennas ever attentive. A faint chuckle escaped his lips and his eyes brimmed with tears.
"Hey there, little one. Want to hear story?" he said to the cockroach. 

Saying this, he propped himself against the stone wall of the ancient cemetery, closed his eyes and started his usual soliloquy. a faint smile still lingering on his lips.

Paris, 1772  

It was a time of turmoil and a time of joy. A time to make amends and a time to get punished for. A time when felicity and grief walked hand in hand and reigned in the streets of Paris. When thieves, beggars, vagabonds and drunkards lived like there was no tomorrow, laughing boisterously and dancing to a broken tune, their bodies gyrating in a disgusting manner. People roamed, or rather, crawled the streets day and night wearing rags and tatters, even the men of higher class had themselves drunk and roamed with the wild crowd. The whole city was overflowing with sewer and gutter refuse. It was altogether a shameful and disgraceful picture to look at, but well, that's how Paris suffered then. 

It was during this time that i arrived in Paris and was looking for a lodging for the night when i chanced upon a deserted street, and my intuition instantly told me that this was a bad sign. I immediately slipped into the darkness of an old tavern and waited for any signs of movement. I sniffed the wind and listened, but no avail. Quivering with fear, i came out of the darkness and had advanced only a few steps when the path became muddier and muddier. 

Now i observed something rather extraordinary; the street was not deserted. Here and there were to be seen creatures crawling in a certain, vague, shapeless mass, which moved towards a light flickering at the end of the street. It reminded me of those heavy insects which drag themselves along from one blade of grass to another, towards a shepherd's fire. I was mortified at this sight and darted in the opposite way only to hear them crawling towards me and joined by more cripples, paralytic and blind men swarming around me. Also one armed men, one-eyed men, and lepers with their open sores. They emerged from the houses, from the side streets, from the cellars, howling, bellowing and screaming- all running towards the big fire at the end of the streets and that's where they forcefully led me.

"Where am i?" i cried, with tears streaming down my face. 

They all answered with a burst of demonic laughter.

At last we came to the great fire and then, it came upon me, something of a revelation : the city of thieves, a hideous blot on the face of Paris. A sewer from where there escaped a monstrous horde of people every morning only to return to this grotesque place to celebrate. People of all religions covered with painted sores, beggars in daytime and robbers at night, enacting prostitution and murder on the streets of this once famed city. 

It was a vast square, irregular in shape, lined with crooked, hideous frames of old houses whose decayed, worm eaten walls presented an ungodly sight. Fires around which swarmed strange groups, roamed here and there. All was commotion, confusion and shouting. One heard shrieks of laughter, the wailing of children and the high pitched voices of women. The hands and heads of this crowd, silhouetted against the luminous background, made a thousand fantastic gestures on the wall behind. 

Beautiful. Nay, ghastly, i would say. As soon as i regained my senses and my bearing, i had a bottle of beer in my hand and some woman's bonnet on my head. This was ludicrous, i shouted indignantly, and throwing the bottle and bonnet, stormed out of the company of this vile crowd and  climbed the roof of an old shop, in order to have a clear view of the ceremony below and propping against the wall fell in contemplation.  These poor souls weren't celebrating life, they were celebrating death. And what was more terrifying about it was that they knew it. These people were cursed. Nay, this wasn't witchcraft. They were being dogged by death the day they were born in this vile city. It was death that roamed the streets of Paris at night time, and not these people. Or rather, it was death disguised in their shadows. 

"Any time now", was the sentence which lingered in their minds everyday, every night, every waking moment. Thus, it was for this sole, unwavering reason that these men, women and children, armed with daggers and pitchforks reigned the streets of Paris at night and celebrated death in this obnoxious and repugnant manner. 

Every night. These ceremonies were held every night for 17 years and more, till these souls finally succumbed to their shadows.

Paris, 1892

"....Since time immemorial, death has been crouching in our shadows, ever watchful, ever attentive, to feast on the next soul it decides upon."

He finally heaved a sigh and opening his eyes, turned towards the cockroach.

"Little one, do the dead ever dream?", he asked in a matter of fact way.

"I guess they do, they do dream. And a lot. Maybe, the dreams are the canvas on which the dead paint their sorrows. Eh? Let me know what you think."

And saying this, he picked the cockroach between his forefinger and thumb and turned it over on it's back. The vigorous, spasmodic kicking and flinging of it's arms and antennas gave him delight, and he burst in a fit of demonic laughter, rivulet of tears streaming down his face.

The Ballad of the Winds

A Sunday afternoon in  a cold and windy November was slowly approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as the Helmcrow moor was being enveloped in a mist. It was at this precise moment in its nightly roll into darkness that the moor came into its particular glory. The solemn stretch of rounds and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom, the moor exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. 

Slowly and gradually the place became full of watchful intentness now; for when other creatures sank brooding to sleep, the moor appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night its huge form looked as if it was waiting for someone, but it had waited thus for so many centuries with no one to keep it company save for the storm as its lover and the wind its friend. Civilization was its enemy, it seemed. And ever since the beginning of vegetation, the soil had worn the same antique, brown dress and it took pride in wearing it.
Even though Helmcrow or the wasteland, as people used to call it, was the most peaceful place one could find and with its majestic form spreading to as far as the eye could see, people abhorred it. Its bleak and dismal emptiness sucked the marrow out of them, as they used to say, and made them depressed and melancholy. But with no other alternative at hand, they lived and died a dejected life. 

At this point in time, you could discern albeit not easily, a crooked and weary form amid the gathering mist moving to and fro upon the moor. Upon close inspection after a while, the contour of a man becomes dimly visible sitting on a stool in front of a small fire. The red hot coals from the perishing fire greeted him like living eyes in the corpse of day and lighted his face. He was white headed as a mountain, bowed in the shoulders, wore a glazed hat and long boots. His whole figure was wrapped in a shawl but still his frame was shaking with the cold gusts of wind that had started blowing. He neither had a whisker nor a mustache and his lips were thin, and now and then there was a twitching as if he was often engrossed in thought. The old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze in the north east direction and then reverted them to the fire.

Silence reigned supreme, save for the chilly gusts of wind that were howling among the bushes and the chatter of the old man's teeth. He picked up a stick from the ground and was using it to shift the coals in the fire with considerable alacrity when suddenly he stopped. It might reasonably have been supposed that he was listening to the wind, which rose as the night advanced. The wind, it seemed was made for the moment, as part of its tone was quite special. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other and ricocheted against the objects in its way. Treble, tenor and bass notes could be found therein. People unaccustomed to this land would have found this conspicuous murmur of the wind to be ordinary, but in fact, it held a more deeper meaning.

The frail, bony hands holding the stick started quivering as the surge of emotions swelled inside him and made his eyes well up with tears. He perpetually fought the urge to wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks and instead, closed his eyes. Listening to the winds engulfing him, caressing his wrinkled face with the remembrances of the past. These were no ordinary winds, these were the sea of voices, cries and laughter kissing the shore one last time before returning the next night. They were the wind chimes, the church bells and the laughter of the past Summer.

A chirp from a blue bird broke his reverie, and he opened his eyes rubbing them, startled at the scene around him. It was a beautiful morning and he screamed with joy and with a smile across his face started jumping, amazed at how he could do that. A deep frown now settled on his forehead and he raised his hand and saw to his surprise that he was young again! But that didn't stop him in his tracks, because there she was : Rachel. The love of his life, the very name radiating happiness. Those blue eyes and those lips could make anyone swoon.
She was walking towards him in her favorite blue dress but she was walking very slowly, as if afraid of something. As she came closer he saw the look on her face, the look which made him scream in anger, '' Oh Helmcrow, what have you done? Bring Rachel back! NO!" But no sound came out of him nor could he move. She looked worried, nay, terrified. Her face was pale with fear, and on approaching him, she raised her hand and on touching his face she immediately crumbled into dust.

Suddenly, a few drops of water fell on his face and blurred his vision, followed by a loud croak of a frog which brought him to reality. He wiped his eyes and watched it hop and jump into a nearby pond, an indication of rain. A peal of thunder further confirmed it and heralded the coming of a thunderstorm. What he uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something which had led to his presence there. There was an erratic abandonment about it, as if in allowing himself to utter the sound, he was accepting something. One point was evident in this, he was existing in a suppressed state and not one of languor.
The mist had cleared by now and the gathering dark clouds further enveloped the moor in its gloominess. The bells had started ringing  to call those who were outside back to their houses. The old man stood up and wrapping his shawl around him more tightly, retraced his steps from memory towards his home, guided by the sounds of bells.

The die is cast.
But even now, if you were to venture to Helmcrow moor at night at that precise spot, you could hear the winds hissing and sighing as if it never ceased to converse.

Soliloquy of Silence

A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on the eerie, abandoned street. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night and the hissing and sighing of the wind amongst the trees carried a macabre touch with it, as if the rustling leaves were having a conversation with the wind. The colored and wrinkled leaves on the road suggested the advent of autumn and their dancing on the wind presented an ironic sight, as if they were bursting with joy and life after being withered from their branches. There was a flurry of movement behind a hedge and a figure soon emerged clad in a reefer jacket and worn out jeans, hands thrust deep into the pockets. He walked with a cautious tread lest he should disturb the fugue of excitement that the night had chanced to bring about, but, each footstep produced a resonance which pierced the night and replaced the howling of the wind with indistinct, receding voices and laughter that chased him until he reached the porch of an old, abandoned house.

The door creaked open, moving open a centimeter at a time, it could move faster but the door had grown moldy and soft with water and neglect. Once inside, the sheen from the moonlight slanting through the broken window illuminated the room and revealed a poignant scene. A thick coating of dust and mold encrusted everything. The once, grand wooden staircase was now thick with dust and dust covered papers were strewn on the stairs, each paper a burning memory. Old teacups lay on the coffee table, thick with dried up mold, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew and stale air. Silence reigned supreme in the house, and its only occupants weaved their webs from the spindle of the stair banisters and and from the ceiling to the wall. Each mote of dust dancing in the moonlight carried a voice, a laughter, a cry, a shout, a silence. Until tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down the cheeks, his legs became weak and he lay on the floor, sobbing explosively, hands outstretched, crying for  redemption. 

Yes, drown yourself in your guilt, go tell yourself nothing is worth smiling at, let that sonorous voice echo into your conscience and convince you that this is what happiness sounds like. Maybe we're all stories in the end, read by fractured, depressed and guilty souls in silence, reflecting on their lives. Perhaps i am redemption, or perhaps i am damnation. I am the songs left unsung, the stories left unwritten, the pause between each telephone ring, each honk, and each...sob. I am the cloud pregnant with emotions and anticipation hovering over every soul. 

The crisp, musical rustle of her gown on the polished, wooden surfaces of the stairs is what you could have cherished. The fresh, rejuvenating perfume of her skin is what you could have yearned for. The child curled up in a white blanket in her lap is what you could have smiled at...but you..you apathetic being turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to her and now, after all these years rings the familiar telephone ring somewhere in the pit of your brain, erasing the memories into wisps of smoke which fade into the background, like landscape on a fast moving train.

A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on an eerie, abandoned street. In this circular area stood a woman with a bundle of white blanket in her hands, rocking to and fro, shivering, shrieking and vibrating with cold at the same time, like the shrill, piercing urgency of a telephone ringing somewhere.

The Wandering Zephyr

 It was a lovely night, one of those nights, dear reader, which can only happen when you are young. The sky was so bright and starry that when you looked at it the first question that came into your mind was whether it was really possible that all sorts of bad-tempered and unstable people could live under such a glorious sky. The mention of bad-tempered and unstable people reminds me that my behavior during the day and in fact during all other days has been reproachful.

When i woke up in the morning, i felt strangely depressed, as i did every morning. The disheveled hair covering my forehead, the reek of piss and vomit from my bed indicating that i didn't changed them since a week, and the disorderly state of my room completed the picture of a man depressed with his life and an enemy of himself. I must confess that i liked my room this way, for it made me aware of my conscience and i didn't trust the maid. She would barge into my room every morning to clean it which resulted in my cursing and swearing oaths at her till tears glistened in her eyes and i was forced to stop and let her clean it. Oh how a girl's tears have the ability to pierce the strongest of hearts!

I am spiteful. i am vile, base and impudent. I am a sick man. Forgive me, dear reader, as you must be cross at my disdainful demeanor  but it really relieves me by expressing myself so. I have not been able to make a single acquaintance during all the years i have been living in Baltiysk, Russia.  But what do i want an acquaintance for? I know the whole of Baltiysk without them. Every Sunday night i would go to Hob's market where half a million workers, men and women, with their children spill into the streets like a flood, flocking to certain parts of the town, all through the night, till five o' clock in the morning, eating and drinking like beasts. The people swarm round the open taverns and into the streets, eating and drinking everywhere. It was as though a ball had been prepared for them, the public houses were as gay as palaces. I, however, did not take part in the festivity and felicity but rather enjoy watching the expressions on their gleaming faces but at the same time feel sorry for my unhappy state.
Suddenly, new jobs were being available in the country and the whole town leaving for them. It terrified me to be left alone, and for three days i was racking my brains in trying to find if something was wrong with me. I would no longer see and meet the old familiar faces that i used to see every morning, and it hurt me to even think about it. It is true, i am a complete stranger to the people on the street, but they are not so to me, i know them rather intimately, for i have made a thorough study of their faces during my wanderings in the street. I am happy when they are happy, and i am sad when they are sad and downcast. This particular old beggar used to wave his cap and blanket at me whenever i left my house, and i did the same to him.

The houses too, are familiar to me. When i used to walk along the street, they seemed to be running before me. They would gaze through the windows and practically say to me, " Good morning, how are you? I am fine, thank-you  They are going to add another storey to me in April", or " I was nearly burnt last night, oh how withered i am now, i was so terrified!"
It seemed as thought everyone and everything had left the city for good, as it looked like a desert now. Perhaps they had started to dislike my company and my presence  After a day or two, the houses too, had lost their charm and gaiety with which they saluted me every morning and looked forlorn and sad. I had no excuse to go to the country, as i had no cottage or relative to go to.
Days and months flew by but the deafening silence which prevailed in the city was not broken, for i strained my ear against the window pane for the slightest sound of their arrival. During my lonely walks in the day, i noticed that even the birds had stopped singing, as if they were hurt that nobody liked them and had forsaken them because  of their incessant noise.

After getting dressed in my usual clothes and an overcoat, i left the house in search of them. for it was impossible that they should forget me. I walked for hours and hours  and, as usual had for some time been completely oblivious of my surroundings, when i found myself near the toll gate. I felt cheerful at once and stepping beyond the gate, walked along the road between fields of corn and lush grass, unconscious of any fatigue and feeling with every breath i drew that a heavy weight was being lifted from my heart. There is something incredibly moving in the way nature, with the coming of spring, suddenly reveals herself in all the glory, splendor and blossoms out with flowers....She reminds me of that girl, ailing and faded, upon whom you look with pity and compassionate affection, but who in the twinkling of an eye, becomes by some  magic chance indescribably fair and beautiful, stunned and fascinated, you ask yourself what power it was that made the sad eyes gleam with fire? what caused the rush of blood to her pale face? What brought the passion to that sweet face? Why her bosom heaved so wildly? What was it that filled the face of the poor girl with life and vigor and forced it to light up  with so brilliant a smile and so contagious a laugh? You look around and wonder who it could have been, you begin to suspect the truth. But the brief moment passes, and tomorrow perhaps you will encounter the same forlorn gaze, the same remorse in her eyes and traces of vexation in her movements. And you feel sorry that the beauty, so suddenly evoked, should have faded so irrevocably and so to little purpose that she did not even give time to fall in love with her.
Suddenly, a loud boom occurring at intervals reverberated across the land and shattered my reverie. It happened in a bell-tolling sequence, perhaps it was a bell tolling. A wedding? A hanging? It could be anything. A tear glistened in my eyes and the cheerful countenance which i had just now, faded away. I turned around and walked back the way i came, dejected and dispirited   eyes downcast.
And so, i would always wander away in search of my dear friends and in search of solace, oblivious of my surroundings, drowned in my own thoughts, until the 'sound' would reach my ears and would force me to retire back to my home.

Whisper of the Sirens

KAZAKHSTAN,                         (1)

From the ramparts and their jagged towers, the village of Balkhash presented a wonderful sight. Woman paced through the market, a blue blur of burqas. Children guided goats through the crowds, struggling to avoid the throng of cyclists . Pigeons wheeled in the sunset. Various birds squawked from treetops in an evening chorus joined by barking dogs below. Some street mongers pushed trolleys along, selling scrap metal and pieces of plastic. Sheep entails hung over the bicycle handlebars of a butcher's shop. A  row turbaned 'white beards', the elders of Balkhash, sat on a mosque rooftop talking among themselves while they waited for the call to prayer. On the mud roofs around them,  boys of all ages ran here and there, shouting and chasing each other wildly amidst the smoke drifting upwards from the kitchens below. Many were flying home made kites  which fluttered in the breeze, gathered around the sun like excited moths. In the distance, lights were being turned on in the sixteenth century mosque. Further off, hovering over the Balkhash like a dark cloud was the black crayon smudge of the Paripomosus mountains.

Then it came, first the crackling, croaky whir  a large intake of breath and them, the melodious voice of the muaddin calling the faithful to the evening prayer. As the call continued, a tide of men, swelling by the minute, flowed across the city towards the mosque, and the white beards descended from the roof to pray. High above the street, a man stood on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the low parapet, surveying the scene with delight. He was clad in torn shirt and  jeans and raising his cellphone to his face he muttered something and closing his eyes, pressed a button. 

It seemed like everything and everyone had stopped. The time had completely ceased to move forward and the only sound that was heard was the ticking of the second hand until the minute hand moved forward and then, it all happened. An immense explosion erupted near the mosque in a ball of fire and all the shops, stalls, cars, people and houses disintegrated and disjointed as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb. The fire and smoke spiraled up into the air and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed. Madness began.


                                                           

Amsterdam, Schiphol Airport.   (2)

As the big DC-8 sank down, i glanced round its crowded interior. The bulk of passengers who shared my belief in the madness of flying, dug their fingers in the upholstery or in the seat, while the others who were not, sat with excessive nonchalance like those who are ever ready to face their impending doom.

The DC-8 landed with a short bump and taxied on the runway to the airport where it was to line up with the corrugated disembarkation tube. The exit door opened and i stepped into the tube and came out on the terminal floor, passing  tow or three airport employees who eyed me suspiciously. Oh well, its their job, i thought, and moved on. There was a man standing at the end of the platform. He was of middle height, with dark hair and black, cold eyes. I recognized him immediately : Nathan Lloyd. He was dressed in a black suit and overcoat but his forehead was accumulated with beads of sweat and looked worried. As he came forward to greet me, his worried countenance jelled almost instantly into an expression of pure shock. It was then that i observed , almost subconsciously, that he was looking to his right and not at me.  

In that small fraction of a second, i caught a glimpse of a man in grey suit to Nathan's right with a pistol raised to his head as he pulled the trigger of his silenced  Walther. He jerked convulsively and fell on his face on the floor, as the assailant made his escape. My senses were numb and i couldn't react, waves of nausea engulfed me and my stomach was in a knot. On noticing the dead body riddled with bullets, the whole terminal was soon enveloped in furor and madness. In this commotion, i lost my bearing due to the pushing and nudging of people running by but soon regained my balance and on impulse started towards the door of the second terminal.

On my way there, i found myself correct as the first terminal was flooded with screaming people. Suddenly, i saw the man in grey suit making his way past the door of the second terminal. I darted towards it and tried to pass through but the damned door was blocked by a person trying to enter. A girl. I dodged to the right and she dodged to the left. I dodged to my left and she dodged to her right. Check. You can see the same performance take place any minute on a city pavement when two over polite people succeed in blocking each other's way. I looked up to see her face but right then, a heavy, blunt instrument hit my head and i fell on the floor, lying unconscious. 

                                                                   (3)

When i opened my eyes, i found myself seated on a chair with my face on the table in front of me. I guessed myself to be in a cabin of  a boat or ship with a single light at the end of the room, as it was swaying side by side. I tried to sit erect but couldn't, and my face and body ached painfully. My head was swarming with unconnected places and people and my thoughts were a kaleidoscopic whirl. I couldn't focus correctly but on shaking my head, i made out some pictures on the table and two large hands picking them up and putting them down. There was a brass knuckle on his right hand, from which i judge, i got the bruises on my body.

Silence reigned in the room save for my muffled groans, and after a lapse of some time , a hoarse voice spoke in an Italian accent from the darkness in front of me. He was probably fat and short necked.

"You scoundrel! You failed us, dammit. You've failed us ALL!", exclaimed the fat guy.

I tried to speak but couldn't find my voice.

"Kazakhstan, the Mosque, You ruined my plan. Nathan Lloyd, shit, he was YOURS, goddammit! It was a good thing i tested you, you mole. Look for yourself, you twerp!" 

He threw the pictures at me, and i found to my surprise, that it was me in every picture. How could that happen? I gasped in horror and recoiled in my seat.

"Ten years of my planning gone down the drain. Ten years! Hell, you were my best man, Brain. I relied on you. But, no....NO! You do not get a pardon this time. This time...you sleep with the fishes!" He shouted in anger, and pounding his fist on the table he cursed at me in Italian and pointing his burning cigar at my face, whispered in my ear the words, " Brian Cain". 

Brian Cain. Brain. Oh God, no, this cannot be. And then, it all came to me. Everything. And before i had time to assemble my thoughts together, i was lifted off my feet and thrown into the sea. Struggling against the current in vain, i kept myself afloat and saw to my horror, barrels of oil being emptied into the sea. I was slowly losing my balance as the waves pounded and engulfed me, and the last thing that my eyes could register was the light of a flickering flame coming towards me. Everything turned black after that.                                                              

Of Dust and Ashes

The moon, looking as ageless as ever, peered through the wisps of clouds and graced the graveyard with it's graceful splendor  The time of the night when the churchyards  yawn and profound silence reigns supreme. When the owl hoots it's mournful song, careful not to disturb the dead, when the hum and murmur of the crickets and grasshoppers blend into a chorus which gradually ascends with the passage of night. This is the time of the night when softly and deftly, the music of the night caresses you and then secretly possess you.

   The wind fell; it's distant moaning were more low and mournful, carrying with it the hum and hiss and clatter of the train passing by. By degrees, it lulled and died away; and then it came onto snow. The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches deep and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. Rows and rows of venerable gravestones dotted the churchyard, and were slowly being enveloped by the falling snow. The Church, with it's low, cracked arches, fragments of blackened walls and foliage and overgrown grass crowding the porch indicated that it was built many hundred years ago. Besides the Church was a small house with a quaint, thatched roof with walls that were blackened by time. This is where the old Sexton lived. The door led to a small room, with two old windows on either side of the door and a large hearth. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with age, a table which had a pile of papers and the Bible upon it and a bed.  On one of these chairs sat the Sexton, wearing a black wool jacket. His eyes were deep and sharp, but they had a peculiar shade under them. There were deep creases on his forehead which showed that he mused a lot, he had grey, unkempt hair and his emaciated hands, like his body, were worn rough by the constant digging and repairing of graves. 

  He sat hunched on the chair with his chin on his chest, eyes inward. One would have thought that he was asleep, but in truth, he was thinking. Thinking about the grave he had recently dug and the person he had laid to rest in. A few tear drops still remained on his cheeks, and wiping them with the back of his hands, stood up and leaning on his cane, approached the table. Holding the jug of water with both hands, he poured it in the glass, but halfway through, it slipped from his hands and fell on the floor. 

Frowning in vexation, he turned towards the hearth and shouted, "Marge...Margret! Where is my darned juice?  I've told you to keep it with in my reach! Old hag, never learns." 

Muttering the latter part under his breath, he returned to his chair and sitting down, sighed explosively.

"You look adorable with those wrinkles, David, try smiling sometimes. Lights up the face", returned a woman's voice, chuckling.

"Yeah, yeah. Butter me up. Keep sewing your whole life, and clean the hearth! The ash is piling up", bellowed the old man, scratching his head in anger.

" Yes sir. What would you do without me, i wonder?" 

A chair was pushed back, there was some shifting of feet and the sound of the poker being used to shift the coals in the hearth was heard. The old man shook his head in dismay and resting his head in his hands, cried uncontrollably. Hysterical sobs bubbled out, tears ran down in rivulets, blurring his vision. All this time, an almost deafening, painful and stressful silence filled the room.

At last, he wiped the tears from his face with his jacket sleeve, and holding the sewing cloth tightly in his hands, spoke softly, "Mar..Marge? Margret  It's me, David. Would you like some juice? An om..omelette, perhaps? Oh, you do? Ha ha! You naughty girl, i can't cook. Its c..c..cold outside, Marge. Oh how my bones creak! You want some flowers? I'm going outside. You look pretty, Margret. K..keep sewing, i'll be back." Smiling and chuckling as he talked with gestures of hands, he stood up and leaning on his cane, approached the door. A gust of cold wind rushed inside the room as he opened it, and  smiled, " Yes, Marge, i heard you, some sunflowers too." Chuckling and talking as before, he trudged forward, closing the door behind him.

The constant fidgeting of birds in their dark recesses pointed towards the approach of  

dawn. With the passage of time, the stars grew dim and a  tinge of blue appeared in the sky, the snow fall also gradually lessened in it's intensity.

The old church bell rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the dead and unheeded warning to living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping. 

Let sleep be the death of each day's life. 

And let the dreams be the canvas on which the dead paint their sorrows. 

Fear in a handful of dust

Paris, France.

                                                   

                     The Blue Ripples International Airways landed with a short bump and then slowly taxied its way on the runway towards the Charles De Gaulle airport. It was forty-five degrees in Paris, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. The snow from the previous days had blanketed the whole airport. Frank Adkins of the British Embassy disembarked the plane and had simply no difficulty going through the corrugated disembarkation tube which linked the airport and with a slight, cunning expression on his face, he entered the security check.

Going through the security monitor he felt ostensibly anxious for some reason and after coming out of it he heaved a sigh of relief. Three policemen near the check point were talking to each other in a jovial kind of mood like a college student has when talking with his friends and when he came near them, the smile on their faces disappeared and changed into a slight frown. Their eyes were glued to his briefcase for some dim reason and in that frozen moment in time ,he really felt that there was something truly dreadful with his luggage and then, the inevitable happened. 

 

                                He was always scared of these moments since his childhood, and when one of the policemen yelled at him, he totally ignored him and kept on walking. The policemen then revealed his silenced Walther from the waist band at the small of his back and aiming on him said, ‘‘stop right now or I’ll shoot your head off! You understand?!” and then, at that very moment he seized his opportunity and darted to the door. He could hear the ricochets of bullets behind him but paid no heed to them and reaching at the door he almost stumbled, but had caught the handle of the door and rushed out.

               High above the street, a figure crouched on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the low parapet. He was holding a MR-k41 bolt action sniper rifle and his eyes peering through the sniper’s lens were focused on a particular target on the street. He took his Nokia cell phone from his olive green army holdall and after punching the redial button he placed it on his ear. In a deep, hoarse voice he said something in Russian, and after listening for sometime, he put his phone away and looked through the sniper’s lens. The figure on the rooftop shifted his gaze for a moment to see if someone was looking at him or not, capturing everyone like a mega pixel camera. People of all shapes, sizes, religions, walking, staring mindlessly, standing undecided, lounging, slouching, smoking, getting on and off vehicles, talking to one another, plugged into I pods, shopping, eating on the run, kissing goodbyes, cuddling, arguing, saying bad words, forgetful, cell phones glued to their ears, hunched, drunk, fighting with one another, first- date embarrassments and mumbling to themselves. Suddenly his gaze was distracted by the bellowing and yelling of the people on the street. He quickly peered through his sniper’s lens and found his target running with the cops on his tail. Aiming on his target he shot one, two, three times and then stopped. Madness began. 

Frank was running on the sidewalk with all the strength he had albeit his legs were killing him, but was suddenly grabbed by the lapels of his trench coat and was pulled inside a dark alley beside the sidewalk. His stomach churned up and was in a knot, fear surged through him but when he looked closely in the eyes of the man who pulled him in; he saw to his surprise that it was a girl. A short, middle-aged girl with a pale face and dark eyes. He was about to open his mouth to speak but she grabbed his arm and led him towards the door with a sign post that said ‘Hades inn’.

                     Inside it was dull and overriding, two large fans revolving in a low ceiling. There were several booths against the walls, a scattering of marble topped tables across a floor with black and white tiles. There were high stools on the long mahogany bar, bottles on glass shelves against the mirror behind. A large, handsome black man with graying hair was constantly polishing glasses, Tom Curry, the barman. Only two people were sitting at the darkest corner of the room, talking discreetly amongst each other. The girl stiffened her grip on his arm and as they came near those men on the table, her hand was slowly turning into a tight fist as though she was about to hit them but she suddenly relieved herself and stepped back from him as if it was his turn  to go in the noose. The man with the broad shoulders stood up, his face calm, and looked at him, “What’s your name, old son?”, he asked him, there was a hint of Russian  in his accent and calming himself, he replied, “ Frank, sir, Frank Adkins”. The man with the broad shoulders nodded in satisfaction and sat down. Frank hesitated for a moment and then sat down, putting his briefcase between his legs. The man removed his cap, and ran a hand nervously over his hair which he’d dyed black and then turned to him. “The name’s Melvin, Melvin Strauss. I’m the head of the DCRI here, that’s French intelligence. The thing that concerns me is the briefcase that you’re carrying, nothing else”. Frank swallowed hard enough to choke himself up, then replied with ease, “my personal belongings are in that case sir”. Melvin patted vigorously on the shoulder of the man sitting at his side and said angrily, “even though my brother here doesn’t speak English but is quite efficient with weapons, and so, if you refuse to answer me, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to blow your kneecap off, you understand!” At that moment, his brother took out the silenced Beretta from the pocket of his overcoat, took out the magazine, checked it, and then rammed it home. He was thunderstruck, beads of sweat came trickling down his forehead, his throat became dry,   and before he could reply, a huge, blunt instrument struck his head, and in minutes, everything seemed to drown into the abyss. 

“Goddamnit!” shouted the man on the rooftop, and kept on cursing himself while he was collecting his gear, and then stood up, picked up his army holdall, and proceeded towards the stairs, the rifle slung on his chest. He took out the cell phone from his jacket, punched the redial button, listened for a while and then closed it. He had failed his mission; he knew that pretty well, his career, his fame, was now all drowned just because of one silly mistake. He went to the curb on the road, and amidst the huge furor on the street, he waved to the van that was approaching him, slid open the door and jumped in. “So how’d it go, me ould son?” came a voice from the front. “It went as planned”, he replied and sat back, relaxed on his seat as the van started to move. “To tell you the truth, if I were you, I would never lie in front of my boss”, the man said. “Go to hell!”  Came the reply to him from the back, and at that moment, some hands grabbed him from the rear, the man in the front turned around in his seat, raised his gun, and shot him between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Frank was all of a sudden shaken from his reverie with the sound of the keys that were rattling in the door. He opened his eyes and saw that he was situated in a room not big from his own, and had seen better days. The only light coming in the room was from the window above him that was too far to reach. The door flung open with a bang, and he saw two men appear in reefer coats, coming towards him. At the sight of those men, he stood up, went back a few steps and then lurched at them, hands crawling on their skin with a fierce anger that was beyond their control and then, one of the men divulged a Walther PPK with a Carswell  silencer from his coat, and the other one punched him hard in the kidneys that made Frank lose all his strength, and crying in agony, he fell on the floor on one knee. All of a sudden, the fluorescent bulbs above him were opened, letting out light that penetrated into his sullen eyes, weakening him, and illuminating the whole room. The man with the gun had now concealed it in his coat, pulled a chair in front of him, and sat on one himself. “Have a seat Mr. Frank; we have some real questions that need some straight answers, okay? Now straighten up and be a good lad, and by the way, Erich’s the name”. Frank stood up and sat on the chair given by Erich, and after glaring at them furiously for some while, he said wryly, “Is that a fact, now?” 

                     “I’ll give the spanking of your life, you cheeky old bastard! Do as he says!” bellowed the man beside Erich with enraged fury in reply to Frank’s statement, and lurched forward in an attempt to hit him but Erich got in his way and grabbing him by his collar,  took him to the corner and said in his ear discreetly, “ you get out of this Johnson, don’t spoil this one now, we can catch the fish when its still in the bloody net, you understand?” “Fair enough”, replied Johnson, his face red with anger. Frank glanced at Johnson and noticed the prominent scar on his face that ran from the corner of his eye to his nose, which along with his long hair gave him altogether a more sinister look. 

“Sorry for that, that’s my brother, he can get stupid sometimes, especially when it comes to interrogation. Anyways, where was I now?”

“The damn questions! Now don’t get all Gestapo with me here, okay?” Frank frowned and lit a cigarette from the Zippo lighter provided by Erich that now dangled from the corner of his mouth.

“Ah yes, so, how did you happen to come to Paris?” asked Erich, a sly smile dancing on his lips.

“Paris?  Well, obviously for vacation!” Frank answered back thoughtfully. 

“Okay, then would you care to tell me that why, on a vacation like this, would you be carrying a aluminum briefcase comprising of two .32 AK assault rifles and a Belgian automatic, which I’m afraid would be your only luggage?” inquired Erich, a slight ironic smile had now appeared on the corner of his mouth.

         

      Frank sat facing him motionless and in complete horror, his face pale, he tried to speak but nothing came out, actually felt his bowels move, and so, he ran his hands on his face, straightened up, and then, looking at Erich, he told him the worst, stuttering in between. After hearing what he wanted to, Erich took out his silenced Walther from his coat, and aiming at Frank he said merrily, “ all’s well that ends well, my friend”, and then, the last thing Frank heard was the laughing of those people as the Walther coughed once, swaying Frank on one side, his eyes staring into oblivion. 

    John Hopkins was making scrambled eggs and sausages in his kitchen and was humming the Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony simultaneously, when the phone rang, he cursed at whoever it was, then went over to answer it. 

  

“John here, who is it?” 

“It’s me Carter, something bad has happened, Johnny boy”, there was a slight pause, he sighed, and then continued, “Frank blurted it all out. He's dead. Gunshot wound.”  

“Holy God!” exclaimed John, and then the line went dead.

He stood there with the receiver still in his trembling hands, thinking of it all, replaced it, then went to his door, he paused for a second to hear the rain that was still drumming relentlessly against the roofs, got his rain coat on, opened his umbrella and went out. The rain increased the intensity of cold and was followed by a loud peal of thunder. A few gunshots and shrieks were also heard outside but were soon drowned in the ascending  sound of thunder and rain. Inside the house, the phone rang for several times and then stopped.