Father Saul | 2220 C.E.

Part of "Nadir: A Story in Post-Apocalyptic India." An old priest comforts a young girl after the loss of her maternal grandmother.

Eastwall is admittedly dull before it is razed to the ground by a death-cult. Luckily, Father Saul has no idea that his home will be destroyed in less than a decade, nor does he know that his bleeding heart will quite literally bleed onto the steps of his beloved temple. But now, there are clear skies, except for the days when the dust storms rake through. They are less frequent now that the foliage has started to regrow, and remnants of the old world haunt the newly established order. There is a distinct calmness, except for the muggings that occur along the roads. There is a beautiful, treeless horizon where one can hear a three-legged tiger limping and yowling pitifully after it has starved to the point of chewing off its own leg. The village walls keep most of these occurrences out, and that makes it boring to most of the youngsters.

However, “boring” is good, and Saul does not know about the bleary future " only about the bleary present. The village of Eastwall has, well, a sturdy wall and guards keeping the danger out. Little happens. Long before the disruptions, there is a funeral. It’s a nice social event at the temple. Instead of counting grains of dirt or relaying old rumors, the village folk can bond over kheer and plum tea. Many attend, though few were acquainted with the deceased woman. Over the years, they heard her name, but they never ventured into her house; they never spoke to her once she secluded herself in her home and made her granddaughter go to the market. Her name has been long forgotten, but she was sagging and sad and senile. She lived in a decrepit shack with her ten-year-old granddaughter, Rosa. The young girl called her Grammy.

Father Saul is a black man with a wizened complexion. His smile is merely ceremonious and his nervous hands are clasped in front of him. Saul laughs often, but this event prompts a less jubilant demeanor in the proclaimed optimist. He nods at the graffiti on the temple’s exterior walls and comments that the old gray stone was terribly dull anyway, and thank God someone with skills in decor was generous enough to remedy the wretched monotony. He watches the proceedings folding out behind the temple with a tempered gaze; the day is devoid of warmth, despite the humid weather.

His religion is not a single one, but rather a conglomeration. He’s traveled a good deal in his life, and the numerous religions he’s discovered that he cannot proclaim one god or pantheon as true.

Saul has faith in humanity, and that is his ultimate truth in the face of decay and rebirth; he has had visions beyond explanation. Once, he wandered in a fledgling jungle and he fell to his knees. A man with blue skin and large, strong hands knelt beside Saul and handed him a wooden bowl of water. The land spanning from the ocean to the vast interior of the continent is diverse. The people come from many backgrounds. Some of their home countries have been gone for over a century, and others have reformed.

Good God, the girl is only ten, but more importantly, there is a funeral, and the attendees quibble on about Rosa. Saul doesn’t even know where the young girl is. That strange child, they say " always driving that poor dear woman up the wall. And Rosa never tells them that all the noises weren’t because she liked the scalding water or other hot things placed on her bare skin for penance. Dirty, dirty, Grammy always told her, clucking mournfully.

There’s something dirty inside you. Then, Rosa runs into the temple, dirt kicking up behind her. Saul calmly goes to find her. There’s a slight limp in his gait because his joints are sore. The child is set apart from other mourners. She stares at a wall, not crying. This particular wall is to the side of a row of benches. The large room is woefully bare, consisting of white walls and dark wooden frames, but there are windows with fantastic mosaic images. Saul’s temple isn’t part of any denomination, so the building of worship encapsulates the theme of its time:  disunity.

The saints and prophets, bent and their bodies nearly hollowed from years of burden and stress, appear to be weeping as the stone becomes complete darkness, deflecting all light.

Saul knows why Rosa runs. Well, part of it. His ears are still in working order, after all:  a guest referred to the girl once as “that little brat,” and the young child had a gaze, not of a wounded doe, but of an unannounced scream. There was heat in the place of pain, and she almost stomped away. Something like a vein burst within the temple, within this little girl.

Oh, I’m sorry for your loss, and yet they wouldn’t let the girl into their homes and closed the shutters when dear ol’ Grammy conceded to her dementia and the pleas began; and that little brat flees to the streets and knocks on doors with burns spiraling down her tiny arms. Nobody ever came:  not a social worker; not a savior.

Despite the pain of age, he kneels about three feet from her. Rosa faces him, her whites of her eyes reddened. He doesn’t expect the child to trust him, given her old living conditions. He hadn’t realized things were that bad, in such a state of squalor; he only found out when her grandmother died of a heart attack in the living room, and Rosa fled to the temple to tell him. He had never seen the girl before, and, though she was bathed and presentable, she carried herself with a slouch in the shoulders.

On the day of Grammy’s death, she recoiled when he stretched his hand out to grip her arm in a meager effort to console her, the girl with nothing left. Saul never reaches for her. He waits until she is comfortable.

“Child,” he says, then corrects himself, “Rosa, I don’t know your pain, but I’m here if you need to talk.” The response she gives in return is a lowering of the eyebrows, suggesting resentment. Not surprising. Rosa has heard false promises before. She’s been with Grammy since she was a year old, since her father went to the city for good work and returned in pieces after he stepped on a landmine in the wastes.

Rosa, despite her lessons in distrust, steps forward. Another tentative step, and she leans into his shoulder. She doesn’t embrace him, but the sobs slowly dredge up, dry and loud. He rests a hand on her back and lets her cry. The noises come from deep within her. She no longer has a family, which is not uncommon. That’s no consolation, Saul knows.

Leaving her there, Saul retrieves a washcloth. The water he dips it in is cool on his fingers. When he returns, Rosa is sitting on a stone bench.

“May I?” he asks, extending the hand with the washcloth. Water drips through the cracks between his fingers. Rosa bows her head and sniffs. As Saul bends down and dabs her cheeks, she does not lean into the touch. She does not do anything at all. Saul pats her knee with his free hand and finds that he can’t offer what she needs at the moment. At least, there will be no immediate benefit. Perhaps, in time, her heart will heal, and they will both find peace.

Reviews

[Sue Hart]

It paints a picture of such solitude that it's touching. Perhaps this is not your genre but it's definitely a talent. My guess its that it shows in your other work as well. I'll read more of your work.

[emilydeibler]

Thank you! :)

[Chiko]

I have skimmed over you recently shared writings. Your piece of writing is quiet remarkable.