CHAPTER 8

Dear Grasshopper,

Man was chased to consciousness by a bright Sun, even as the ashy shadow that bore him into the world stayed unobtrusively, for the most part, further out on the horizon. There it hugged the perimeter in anticipation of nightfall each day, and at dusk would sweep down from its perch with steps bigger than the world.

In Joseph Campbell’s ‘Primitive Mythology’, he recounts a grisly love/death ritual of the Marind-anim tribe of South New Guinea. During the conclusion of the boys’ puberty rites, a line of young boys copulated with a young girl under a platform of heavy logs. When a chosen boy was on top of the girl, the supports for the platform were pulled away to allow the logs to crush the couple, whereupon their bodies were cooked and eaten by the villagers. The harrowing moment was no doubt transforming for those left alive. The Sublime, with its double face of beauty and horror, was summoned by ritual from a dark cave, and love, sex, and death—all windows looking out—revealed in a fleeting second the inscrutable design of everything.

Why do we love God and fear Him at the same time? Why do we stand in awe of tornados even as they swallow our houses and families? It is because such wholly perceptual moments expose our reason for what it really is: a means and not an end.

When calamity strikes, we peer up at the blazing blue sky, and see it for the first time. We feel our skin, our souls, and our very marrow. We are drawn to the flame that burns us, that tears away our mortality and our reason. We think if we can glimpse behind the thunderbolts that destroy us, we might see the Hand of God letting go. ~Omar

CHAOS

Michael rose unsteadily to return the clock to the night table, inadvertently kicking the toppled beer bottle at his feet. It was sent rolling up to where the police officer stood.

The policeman tried to explain his presence in the house. “Sorry, Mr. West, but your backdoor was open, and we couldn’t get an answer.”

Trembling, the resident put on his housecoat. “Is there a problem?”

“There’s been an incident.”

“Incident?” Michael was beginning to wonder if he were still asleep. He fumbled for his slippers. “What ‘incident’?”

“If you will come downstairs, sir, I will explain.”

The tenant followed the policeman downstairs to where another officer was waiting. The scream of a child met the men at the foot of the steps. It was emanating from the TV, where a boisterous kiddy program was in progress. The character of the flickering light from his nightmare was now lucidly clear: It had not been the lamp going off and on, but the television set.

The first policeman picked up where he left off. “There was an abduction in the early hours of the morning.”

“Abduction?”

“The caretaker’s child,” he continued. “She appears to have been taken from her bedroom.”

Michael was about to keel over.

The second officer chimed in. “Were you up at that time, sir? Or did you see or hear anything unusual?”

Michael could barely sense the words coming out of his mouth. “I did hear something last night, but I think it was a picture falling from my wall. What are you doing to find the child?”

“Everything that’s possible.” The officer glanced at the noisy television. “Do you always leave your TV on when you sleep?”

“The switch is faulty.”

The other policeman broke in. “Your door was open when we came onto the property. Would you mind if we have a look round?”

“No. Of course not.”

One man checked the rooms off the staircases while the other returned to the kitchen. Michael fell to the sofa in numb disbelief and staggered back through a chain of events. A magician on TV was just then making children (two boys and a girl) stick their hands into one end of a cloaked box in order to guess what was hidden in it by touch. The first boy screamed, which only made the second boy scream all the more when it was his turn.

The officers converged in front of the television. The more senior-looking fellow spoke. “Thank you for your time. We may need to talk to you again, later.”

Mired in his quandary, the resident did not answer. He rose to unplug the TV once the men left, yet hesitated on seeing the children still standing beside the black box. The little girl, who was last in line, was not among them. Indeed, Michael did not recall hearing a third scream. It was one more puzzle than he needed, so he disconnected the set and returned upstairs to bed.

His acquaintance with Brae involved him only in a circumstance and not the substance of her life, though this fine distinction rang hollow in his chest. The reclusive bachelor preferred dipping vicariously into the lives of others, but the feelings elicited had little expression beyond this. His emotions were like poltergeists unaccustomed to using doors, which meant they were frequently ethereal, but never will-less.

After some undeterminable while, he sat up to escape his ache and fiddled with his clock; the blinking twelve was now permanently affixed to its face. A few more minutes had him squinting out his window curtains at the mocking sunlight. He had no idea what time it was, so proceeded to get dress with faint-hearted intent. In removing his slippers, a small cut was discovered on the bottom of his foot, probably from stepping on glass in the hall. It was proof he had left the bed at some point, although just as many things were left buried in the night as were carried back. He unscrewed the camcorder from the tripod and laid both items aside in the closet before returning downstairs to get a broom. On sweeping up the pile of broken glass in the hall, he deemed it best to leave the painting where it was in the floor. The videotape from the camcorder was carried back downstairs with the dustpan, and, in passing, placed on top of the VCR.

As with the painting upstairs, it too was left to collect dust.

Chapter Eight, Section Two/ Back/ Contents Page

Copyright © 2007 Michael Teague. All rights reserved.