Enemy

A loner. A harlot. A lunatic.

 ‘Benoni’, he thought to himself. ‘What sort of a name is Benoni?’ Well now that he couldn't do much about it, he drove on. The night was not very well lit- he was recently bespectacled and that unassuming sliver of moon that peeped from behind the silver firs did not help much. Nor did the street lights, which were very few in number, and more than half of them only flickered once or twice, as if trying to prove to the young man that they were still half alive.

 

Benoni smirked. The last time someone had tried to prove such a point was eleven years ago, when he was still in high school. His ex-girlfriend (well, he had only one girlfriend during all the twenty nine years of his life, although the ‘relationship’ lasted only months) was Renee, yes he remembered her name- that modest s**t. She called him up almost every half hour, under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or both, as if letting him know that she needs his immediate care and comforting skills. And Benoni gave in too. Later of course, he came to know about how she got into that state in the first place. It all happened so long ago, and frankly, Benoni didn't care. He was older now, and more mature than to spend his time thinking about Renee. He now had a different goal to build his world around.

 

The young man was a ‘science fiction and the unexplained’ author- or so he called himself. He wasn’t rich enough to get his works published, but he was pretty sure he would do well being an unpublished writer. But that unfortunately wouldn’t fetch him anything to buy beef lasagne with- ‘bread and butter’, honestly, is rather old school.

 

He remembered telling his mother that he’ll soon be back from his short journey to the outskirts of the neighbouring town of St. Agnes. Many great writers and poets of his time had flowered from the town’s wintry shacks and nooks, some of them had amassed great fortune, but most took their lives just before starving to death. Benoni knew that not everyone can become a great author, but a great author can come from anywhere.

 

Benoni streamlined his thoughts. He hadn’t even the slightest thought of an idea to begin with. He lay his trust fully in the city of St. Agnes, and its few dwellers and the modest buildings. He instead diverted his concentration to the driving of his father’s car. He would have to bring it back in perfect order for the old man to think any better of him- truly, he seemed to care more about the car than his son- but Benoni knew the falsity of that claim. Mr. Whyte was a good man. Quite like his son, in many ways- he could never show his love or praise for someone, but inside, his near ones knew he was beaming.

 

‘Peppery Eyes’- they might as well have named it ‘Cheese and Toenails’, but the inn was the only one in St. Agnes that accommodated to his budget- the others, honestly looked like red light areas, and Benoni was not the kind of man who would be even remotely interested.

 

“Sir?” he questioned the sleeping old man at the reception, “Can you help me out here please?”

 

The old man opened his eyes slowly and nodded, “Wha’ di’ya say aga’in lad?”

“Can you please help me out,” Benoni enunciated, “I am new here and-”

“I.D.,” said the old man, matter-of-factly.

 

Benoni took out his identity card and handed it to the man who snatched it from him in a strangely polite manner.

 

“Whyte, Benunny,” said the man, “Wha’ sor’ o’ a name is Whyte Benunny?”

“It’s Benoni, sir,” said the young man, “Benoni Whyte. I’m new here, in St. Agnes.”

“Room double o’ seven,” said the man, clearly not wanting to know any more, “Ya’ll foin’ the room keys on th’ wall.”

 

Benoni thanked the old man, took the small bronze key that hung on the wall, and made his way up the stairs to room ‘double o’ seven’.

 

The moment he got in, he turned on the light and collapsed on the bed. ‘How boring,’ he thought. He expected the room to be a Number 13, or a number something-that-would-add-up-to-thirteen. But it wasn’t anything of that sort. Number seven, according to numerology, is contrarily said to be a sacred, or a mystic number. Nothing ‘interesting’ would happen to him, no matter how hard he tried. But what really bothered him were the two zeroes that came before it. James Bond certainly wasn’t his thing, and the few friends he had back in high school would either call him an ignorant homosexual (using harsher words of course).

 

The loner that Benoni was came out best when he went to places like this, only that he’s never been to a place like St. Agnes before. Usually, he would talk little, if at all, and would solely concentrate on his work getting done. He sat up at the thought of this and arched his back as he muttered something to himself. He then placed the rosary on the desk (every room had one hanging from a hook next to the mirror), in front of a picture of his parents, both agnostic physicists, and also placed an enveloped letter that his mother had written to him a year ago while she was in Berlin. Benoni never got down to opening the letter, because he didn’t like replying to them. He thought it would be the perfect excuse if he would just not open it until he had enough time to waste.

 

It was only minutes to midnight. All the sounds of the surrounding hills seemed to cease at once. Benoni drowsed as he sat before a diary that had never been written on. He was almost going to fall into a deep slumber when he heard the creaking of a window. His blue-grey eyes opened up and he was petrified as he caught the gaze of what seemed to be a young woman sitting on the windowsill.

 

“No, no!” she whispered, “Do fall asleep, Ben, I’ve always liked it when you sleep.”

Being a man of both rationale and belief, Benoni handled the situation in his own way. He lay his head on the desk and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the woman.

“That’s not going to help, you know,” said the woman, “you know you are only pretending. And yes, I am a ghost, in case you are still wondering- which I doubt you are.”

 

Benoni stood up and shut his diary and capped his pen.

 

“Why don’t you talk?” said the woman.

“I only speak when I am spoken to,” said Benoni in a low voice.

“But you are being spoken to, aren’t you?”

“You do not count.”

“Well that was rude,” laughed the woman as she flipped her hair, “And why not?”

“Because you are from a world which most humans don’t believe in.”

“I know you believe in me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

 

The woman laughed again. “The living world is unaware of the lives of the dead.”

“That is not true,” said Benoni.

“You can argue with me all night, Ben, but I have little time. Besides, I only come to convey- a warning.”

“Of what kind?”

“Of the living kind,” replied the woman. “Your works are in danger.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have seen you working hard on your novel for the past five odd years-”

“Really? Then how come I haven’t seen you?”

“You see, but you do not remember.”

“Don’t bluff me,” laughed Benoni walking up to the spirit, “If you really are my guardian angel, then you must be someone I know, even remotely.”

 

There was a sudden knock on the door.

 

“Great, now you’ve made grandpa think that I’m schizophrenic.”

“I haven’t much time, Ben,” said the woman, “I have men to entice- in their sleep! A good-hearted succubus, if you may, though I mean no harm! Prostitution, one of the oldest occupations, exists because men do, and ‘clean’ women would never even think of-”

“Do I look like I want to hear the sad story of your life?” said Benoni as he crossed his arms, “Even remotely?”

“Well,” said the woman, “Ben, you should know that your works are in danger. And so are you. Charles Ludwig has shown your magazine entry to some people. The whole thing-“

“Yes, the whole thing about how science and spirituality are correlated, my new book, yes, what about it?”

“Yes, that,” said the woman hesitantly, “The Church. They’re after you, Benoni. They want to kill you.”

“What? How did they know what exactly I was writing?”

“I do not know, Benoni, but I say sooth.”

“That book wasn’t even meant for publishing! That was just…just an idea I had… and maybe wanted to publish later on, edited, after the consent of the Church or something.”

 

There was a second knock. This time, it was louder.

 

“I’M COMING!” shouted Benoni and hushed his voice again, “What’s your name? Tell me what you know.”

“I can’t. I have to go now. They’re coming for you, Ben,” and then she laughed a little and said, “Like all ghosts say- beware. I really mean it, Ben.”

“You will stay and tell me everything, until I am tired enough to get rid of you, but first, I want to know your-”

“Ben, I’m running out of time. I have to leave! Goodbye!”

“No, you stay here you common w***e! You can entice the entire load of depraved men later!”

 

The woman did not say anything. She just disappeared into thin air. Benoni looked around the room, slightly frantic.

 

“I know you’re there,” said Benoni, “Why don’t you speak?”

“I only speak when I am spoken to,” the answer came.

Benoni looked around the room for signs of the woman, but there were none. He realized that he should open the door.

 

“Yes?” he said as he saw a teenage boy dressed in a green tunic and bright green tights. He wore a handmade green elf-cap and smiled widely at Benoni.

“Do you know your enemy?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know your enemy, or are you merely well informed?”

“I’m sorry, you must be at the wrong door,” replied Benoni.

“Do you know your enemy,

Or are you merely well informed?

Will you be rewarded,

Or will you just be scorned?”

“You look like Peter Pan, kid, get out of here. Halloween’s over.”

“Sir, I beg for a moment,” said the boy, “Do come with me, Christmas is a-nearing, and I haven’t a place to live in. Will you come with me?”

“Why, so that I can become a homeless lunatic like you?”

“No sir!” said the boy, his smile turning into a frown, “You may want to see the silver alder- or, the ‘Tree of Resurrection’.”

“Silver alder?”

“Sir, I beg for a moment,” said the boy again, “Do come with me, Christmas is a-nearing, and I haven’t a place to live in. I have...no one to play with. Do come?”

 

Something inside Benoni pleaded him to stay, but the other side of him pleaded to go with the boy. And so, he did.

 

“Christmas is a-nearing!” said the boy, “What joy, what joy!”

“So where exactly are we off to, kid?” questioned Benoni, wondering how the boy managed to stay warm in that torn tunic of his.

“Christmas is nearing! What joy, what joy!

Harlots all around, but I am just a boy.”

“What?” laughed Benoni, “How could you even say something like that, young man? Have you no shame?”

“There is no shame,” said the boy, “Only that we put our names to stake. But I have no shame, sir. What shame have I?”

 

They walked till they reached a big silver alder that stood in the middle of the footpath.

 

“And why are we here, o great one?” said Benoni, folding his arms and smiling at the boy.
“’Tis time for the mermaids to come.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Mind, sir?”

“Yes, MIND. You knocked on my door at one in the morning dressed like Peter Pan, brought me to this alder, and now you’re talking about mermaids?”

 

The boy burst into maniacal laughter, “Isn’t that a co-incidence!”

 

Suddenly, the door next to the churchyard opened.

 

‘The Church’! thought Benoni, “Shut up! Quiet you little twerp!”

“Why? What is the matter?” said the boy as he continued to laugh.

“Look here, kid,” said Benoni, “I’m being hunted down by some hoodlums for quite a while. One of my closest friends has leaked information to- well... never mind. Now we need to go back!”

“What is a ‘hoodlums’, sir?” he asked rather softly this time.

“They are the enemy,” said Benoni, “Wait! I hear footsteps! Damn you, boy! You’ve killed us both!”

 

A bearded man came out with a long axe. Benoni gulped. The boy looked at the man with fear in his eyes, and ran away. Benoni stood there, motionless.

 

“So you are the one, trying to poison the mind with thoughts of religion, superstition and paranormal existence!”

“Yes, sir, I am the one,” said Benoni fearlessly, “And what bloody business is it of yours? Aren’t you one with the church?”

“No,” said the man, his eyes reddening, “The church has no place for me. I am a non believer.”

“I see,” replied Benoni, slowly taking steps backwards.

“You are an enemy of mankind. There is no Holy Ghost or its entire dance troupe. No God. No. He does not decide who lives, and who dies- but at the moment, I do- for I have been appointed to kill you.”

 

Benoni made a run for it. The man ran after him, until he couldn’t run anymore. Benoni had vanished. The man turned back and made his way to the churchyard.

 

Benoni went back to the inn, and thumped his fist against the hard wooden desk of the reception. The old man woke up with a start.

 

“I.D!” he shouted.

 

‘Oh not again,’ thought Benoni and handed him his identity card.

 

“Whyte, Benunny. Wha’ sor’ o’ a name is Benunny?”

“It’s Benoni,” enunciated the young man, “Benoni Whyte sir. The key.”

“On the wall. Room double o’ seven.”

 

As if he didn’t know. That man had the memory of a rubber duck, but Benoni had other things to think about. All that happened in that short span of time messed with his mind. He was being hunted down by both the Church and everyone else there was. He had to get out of St. Agnes by dawn. He immediately rummaged through his suitcase to find his mobile phone, but he realized that he had abstained from all ‘worldly contact’. He then realized that St. Agnes had but two telephone booths, one at the train station, and the other by the churchyard. This self-imposed pilgrimage was not such a good idea after all.

 

He immediately packed up his suitcase again and decided to leave for the train station that very night. He then remembered all the things he had kept on the desk, and hurriedly opened his backpack to put them in. But the rosary was stuck to the handmade cotton embroidery on the envelope. He yanked it hard and the envelope tore, and the beads of the rosary splattered on the ground.

 

“Damn it!” he cried out loud.

 

He didn’t care much. He wasn’t, strictly speaking ‘religious’, but something made him look at the wooden floor while putting in the envelope. A small piece of paper with the word, ‘beware’ written on it. He picked up the piece of paper and crushed it in his hand and gritted his teeth, even more determined to escape, but then, he looked outside.

 

An enormous crowd had amassed in front of the inn, with blazing torches, long knives, hammers and other dreadful items. The thought of being cut alive into tiny pieces and fed to mongrel dogs, was not his idea of a ‘happy ending’. He decided to jump from the only window in the room, but realized that he would fall in the hands of the mob. He had no other option, but to wait for God’s miracle, or be realistic and kill himself- like other great authors of St. Agnes before his time. Now he knew why.

 

He locked the door and packed his things. No emotion showed on his face. He would make his own death quick and painless. Suddenly, someone outside the door cleared his throat. Benoni took his Swiss knife and opened the door slowly. He almost would have struck the teenage boy, who was back.

 

“Do you know your enemy,

Do you know them like your skin?”

“No I don’t,” said the man, “They are all around me, kid. Now get out.”

“Christmas is nearing sir, may I-?”

“No,” said Benoni sternly, “Not again. Get out.”

“Do you know your enemy?

Do you know them like your skin?

Fret not for you know the enemy-”

 

And Benoni shut the door on his face.

 

Benoni went to the bathroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Over the past hundred years, the feud between Science and Religion has claimed the lives of many. And soon, he was going to be victim to the same history- all because he wanted to write a book- all because he believed in something different, and wanted to research the topic.

 

He went back to his suitcase and opened the diary, to list down the things that happened to him that night, before committing the final sin. To his surprise, there was not a single page left unwritten.

 

“Dear Ben,” it said, “I am sorry, but enticing men is what I do. It’s part of my character. That is how I like to live. Amongst the attention of many men, for otherwise I feel unimportant and inferior. Take the morning train back to your city, and all will be well…”

 

It went on and on. Benoni put the diary back in his suitcase and grimaced at the window.

 

‘A common s**t for a guardian angel, who isn’t even good at her ‘God-gifted’ job,’ he thought. He gulped down a bottle of medicine that his mother had packed for him, and slowly, fell asleep.

 

When he woke up, he found himself on his bed back in his city.

 

“Ah, you are finally awake,” smiled Dr. Eleanor Whyte entering with a cup and saucer.

“I...I don’t understand,” said Benoni rubbing his aching head with his fingers.

“Don’t understand what, darling?” asked Dr. Whyte.

“I thought I...”

“Never mind,” smiled Dr. Whyte, “The woman who died in front of the inn was not murdered. Oh how silly of the townsfolk to bring their knives and axes! They thought that the murderer was still around! But at least they found her- ”

“Wait, Ma,” said Benoni, “What are you talking about?”

“The young woman?” said Dr. Whyte, “Who committed suicide after giving birth to a child? In front of your inn at St. Agnes? The mob came with fire and knives to hunt down the killer because they heard incessant screaming?”

“Oh...” said Benoni, “Of course. Yes.”

“It’s too bad,” sighed Dr. Whyte, “You know, she wasn’t from the town, and after the man she was with disappeared after taking all her money, she lived on the streets for weeks. I suppose young women who elope like her and end up as hookers deserve this kind of fate.”

“She was a..”

“Yes, well people say that since she was out in the streets for a long time, she was an ‘unclean’ woman. But honestly what kind of woman commits suicide after giving birth? Some hellish creature she must have been! By the end of it, her blonde hair had turned completely black!”

 

Something suddenly seemed to strike Benoni right in the middle of his brain.

 

“Blonde hair? What was her name?”

“Well they knew her by the name of ‘Nigella’, but nobody knew her last name. No records were found in St. Agnes. They’ll be burying her sometime soon now. Oh dear! The tea! It has gone cold!”

“It’s alright, Ma,” said Benoni, “I don’t want anything sweet right now.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Whyte heading towards the door, “You used up an entire bottle of sugar syrup. You should know!”

“What?”

“The little bottle I gave you? The little bottle of ‘medicine’? It was no medicine darling, just sugar syrup.”

“Why would you give me a bottle of sugar syrup?”

“To help you feel better after your psychologically concocted headaches,” laughed she, “I keep telling you to be a bit more rational. Remember... it is all in the mind... and you can always do something about it if you try hard enough. You just don’t try at all!”

“It’s pure Psychology,” said Benoni, “You can’t fight fact with fact.”

“See you downstairs, your father wants to see you,” smiled Dr. Whyte and closed the door behind her.

 

 Benoni realized that he still had the piece of paper in his hands. He suddenly remembered everything and took out the envelope from his bag and started to read the letter which his mother had sent him a year ago. The following lines caught his eye immediately.

 

“Your old friend Renee (I don’t know if you remember her, she was in high school with you) has left you a message. She left this city the day I was leaving for Berlin with her boyfriend, I believe they will be going to a nearby town. I popped in the message in this envelope- she wrote it on a small piece of paper. Poor girl, tried to commit suicide many times- was probably depressed, they say. Anyway. She is happy now and she sends you her love.”

 

Benoni immediately picked up the crumpled piece of paper that read: ‘Beware’. Something made him flip it around and everything that happened in St. Agnes flashed in front of his eyes. Soon... teardrops fell from his cheeks, dissolving the ink to a mere blur. It read.

 

‘For I have fallen in love with you. And even though you left me, I will always love you.”

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Somewhere in the little town of St. Agnes, a boy in a tattered green tunic and tights sings as he walks down the alley:

 

“Do you know your enemy,

Do you know them like your skin?

Fret not for you know the enemy

Lies somewhere deep within.”

 

“Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.”

- Sun Tzu.

 

 

Author's Note

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Reviews

[KurKota]

Once again, as this is the last in order of my reading all of your entries here, you impress me with your writing ability. Your style and the treatment of your subject matter is so wonderfully unique, it just draws the reader into it. I honestly, do not read many stories on this site, because frankly, they generally are rather predictable, but I am glad that I read yours. You have a very cherished and unique writing talent. I look forward to your future writings. I have read all of yours here now. I wish there were more.