Darkness Fell

Inspired by and dedicated to Victor Hugo.

And the darkness fell upon the quiet village much earlier than expected for that time of year. Those who noticed were initially disoriented but quickly adapted. Those who didn’t notice were destined to lose so many of the things that they held valuable.

The children were the first to notice, as children typically are, but the dark sky only elevated the level of intensity that weaved through their seemingly pointless games. As they ran between the trees and the budding shrubs, little branches reached for their tender legs and slashed them between their gooseflesh.

Young men and women closed the large wooden doors to their struggling businesses and greeted each other on the street. The air was filled with the hearty laughter of the men as they trod, in heavy boots, down the dirt roads that ran between the buildings within the business district.

Fleshy chested women hung their bosoms over the Dutch doors and called out to the men, whose singular pursuit was cold libation and a steaming bowl of stew at Martha’s Deershead Inn. The warm, gold light escaped the ramshackle inn through the grimy windows and onto the street, inviting passersby to come inside and be served.

A very old man, dressed in rags, with cloth tied around his feet, leaned against his knotted staff and watched the younger men bully their way through the doors of the inn. One by heavy one, they sat on the large wooden benches at either side of the massive wooden tables.

The young women, freshly powdered and perfumed, followed quickly behind. They giggled and tittered like the hens they so resembled as they squeezed their generous bottoms between the hardened hulks of men who waited for their stew.

``When darkness falls…’’ the old man muttered.

As if to instigate him, or perhaps to discourage him, the fat black chambermaid poured the fetid contents of the porcelain bedpan on him from the balcony just above where he stood. The old man looked down and walked toward the fountain in the center of town. The smell made him wretch but he never let her see him.

The water in the large stone fountain was cool as the old man crawled in and allowed his withered old body to be immersed completely. His ears and his nose filled with the fresh clear water as he rested his head on the smooth floor of the fountain.

In a dream that passed too quickly, he was young again and strong. He wore the finest silks and leather and was the envy of the village. That was at a time before the pestilence took his family from him and left him with nothing but the cloth remnants he could acquire from the few who remembered him.

Behind the fountain, a long high-backed bench with wooden slats and a wrought-iron frame held two young lovers locked in a carnal embrace that reflected the moon off their exposed flesh. His thick, rough hands traveled soundlessly along her pure white skin as they mashed their bodies together. She hummed a song of love to the birds of the night. He hummed a song also, only his was not of love and it wasn’t for the birds or any other creature except himself. Her back was arched. His face was buried in her bosom.

The old man spoke again, ``If a soul is left in darkness..’’

The young men and women who inhabited the inn continued to gorge themselves on the succulent stew from the cracked wooden bowls that the portly matron dropped in front of them.

No spoon was big enough for the men as they began to plunge their meaty hands into the bowls and force the large chunks of venison and half-cooked vegetables into their mouths. The woman, eager to accommodate, dipped their fragile pink fingers into the bowls and plucked out greasy onion clumps and forced them into the mouths of the men between short breaths.

The weaker men heaved and spat the food out under the tables where it splattered their shiny boots. The stronger men lifted the bowls, like bulging wooden chalices and drained them, letting the broth run down their chins. Pewter goblets were filled with wine, which was quickly consumed.

``...sins will be committed...’’ the old man said.

A frail light trickled out of a small window in the white stone house that overlooked the fountain. An old woman sat alone at her mirrored vanity and brushed her long gray hair in smooth luxurious strokes.

Clumps and knots of gray hair fell from the brush and lay all around her. She continued to force the brush through her thinning mane, not noticing what the brush was doing to her hair. Across the room sat a portrait of her at a tender age, an innocent age, when her beauty was a natural gift. Balms, lotions and oils spread out before her on the mirrored vanity derided her. Her hair lay in clumps on the floor all around her as she gently set the brush into a drawer and pulled the shutters closed. She cried softly for a moment before picking the brush up and resuming her vain attempts at regaining her beauty.

The door to Martha’s Deershead Inn burst open and a small man rolled out like a jester in pantomime. He quickly regained his composure and re-entered the inn, only to be thrown though the swinging doors again.

He was quickly on his feet again, only this time he did not attempt to enter the inn, rather he ran down the path that surely led to his home.

Gales of laughter poured out of the inn as one large man in hip boots and a leather apron jumped up on the table and began to dance a debaucheries jig. The small man disappeared into the darkness.

Now the stronger men began to heave and wretch their food onto the floor and into the large wooden bowls but they continued to force what they could grab into their faces with their thick hands. They washed everything down with the wine from the barrels that seemed to have had no bottoms.

The small man returned, breathing heavily and sweating through his clothes. In his hands he held a small rifle, the type of rifle that he had used to teach his son how to hunt rabbits and quail.

He kicked open the door of the inn and drew a bead on the dancing fool in the leather vest. No one noticed him standing there but when the first report was issued from the gun, the room got deadly quiet.

The second report pitched the mob into a frenzy. They nearly trampled him as they ran en masse to the door. The agile ones jumped out of the windows while the slow ones moved to hide under the wooden tables.

The third shot, followed quickly by the fourth, made the large corpse nudge as if startled. The little man reloaded and shot the motionless body again before turning the gun on himself.

The old man watched the frenzied crowd push its way though the street. He yelled out to them as loud as his tired voice would allow, “The guilty one is not he who commits the sin...’’

The crowd ignored the old man, except for those who stopped long enough to spit on him or kick at him with their vomit-smeared boots. He watched as the slow moving people crawled out from under the tables and eased their way out of the inn.

An obese man in matted knickers and drooping stockings strutted out the door and staggered toward the fountain. His hat was down over his weary bloodshot eyes. They were of little use to him now anyway.

He reached into the pocket of his vest for the watch that wasn't there. He yanked out the imaginary timepiece out and looked at it before slipping it back in to fold of material. He staggered another step before pulling out the imaginary watch and looking at it again.

After each step he stopped and stood, swaying, looking at the watch that he must have had at some point but that was obviously long gone. When he reached the fountain, he sat on the edge and removed his shoes.

He placed them, side by side, next to where he was sitting and slid the stockings down his legs. The stocking from his left leg went into his left shoe. The right stocking, the right shoe.

Next he loosened his wide leather belt and rolled it, carefully, in a loop and set it between his shoes. His jack and vest were next. These he folded neatly and made a small pile just to the right of his shoes.

His breeches came off next, revealing his impossibly large haunches of pasty white flesh. Rather than reflect it, he absorbed the moonlight casting his heavy body in an unhealthy pallor.

Wearing only his hat, he stepped into the fountain and eased his frame, slowly into the cool water. He allowed his head and shoulders to roll down, along the smooth bottom until he was completely submerged.

It was there that he took his final piss and it was there that he took his final nap. He gasped once for air but had no energy left to extricate his body from the fountain. The angels strained themselves to lift him to Heaven, but the trip was in vain; he found no home there among the clouds.

The old man felt a familiar stirring in his chest and knew that it was time to leave the village. He walked to the road that led to the dirty old river where he would sleep under the shade of the willow tree until sun up.

It was then that he would set out on his final journey. His was a journey of discovery that would lead him to the doors of the kingdom. His time was near and the kingdom was at hand. He found his tree quickly enough but sleep would not come as easily. His body fit perfectly in between the roots that stretched like fingers into the river. Still he couldn’t sleep.

Across the river, at the foot of an old oak tree stood two brothers. They stood toe to toe and as one screamed at a fever pitch, the other matched it, then bettered it.

The darker brother pulled his fair wife up by her hair and dangled her in front of the lighter brother. The lighter brother pulled his beautiful wife up and dangled her in reply.

The darker brother opened his purse and began to fling coins in his brother’s face. The lighter brother opened up his purse and stuffed rolled up bills into his brother’s mouth.

The darker brother picked up a large rock and held it over his head. The lighter brother picked up a larger rock and held it above his head. The darker brother screamed with a throaty passion that caught the lighter brother off guard

The darker brother seized the moment and kicked the lighter brother full in the stomach. As the boulder fell onto the head of the lighter brother, the darker brother took the beautiful wife and the paper money and stole away in a canoe that had been stowed in the darkness on the bank of the river.

His laughter and the laughter of his brother’s beautiful wife – who he now possessed – overpowered the tears that the fair woman cried as she cradled her brother-in-laws bloody head in her lap. She strained her crying eyes watching the two familiar figures disappear into the mist.

The old man looked down at her but said nothing. He crossed his gnarled legs in front him, his arms akimbo, he uttered one last thought to the blood red moon. “..but he who causes the darkness...’’

And there was a light that followed as the sun finally forced itself upon the small village. The children played along the banks of the dirty river; others ran through the park and around the fountain.

A young couple, coyly, held hands and whispered sweet confections to one another as young couples typically do. The young men filled the streets with stern looks on their faces and opened the large wooden doors of their shops and began preparing for another day of sweat and labor.

The young women gathered on stoops with their knitting baskets or the socks for darning. Martha swept the floor of the inn while her cook, suddenly with an over abundance of fresh meat, began to prepare stew for the lunchtime crowd.

The old man rose slowly and began to navigate his way down the road that would lead him to the answers to the questions that had plagued him since his youth.