When there was so much uncertainty surrounding orphans let alone life in Avendia in general, a family coming to adopt and rescue a poor, unfortunate child, instinctively sought to grasp onto anything that was of a cemented construct. And aside from gender, age was the only tangible cornerstone for the adopting family’s psyche to firmly grasp as the foundational block to begin the reconstruction of a lost life. As such, he was always passed over because he presented an equation with no beginning theorems with which to solve. In the eyes of everyone, he was unsolvable.
Over the course of perhaps a year, perhaps several months (it is difficult to express a concrete time frame from memories when he had not formed a construct of time beyond a “lengthy” period) he had become aware of a man who had taken up refuge in the back alley behind the orphanage. The man was not always present, but when he was, he resembled in all things hygienic, the condition of the most poorly attended horse’s stables in the entire realm. Yet the look behind his eyes suggested a calm certainty that stood out the way a lantern stands out against the midnight cover of black. While his clothing and all of its colors blended into a seamless gradient of mud greens and mud browns with the occasional blotch of black, his eyes lit up his dirt covered face the way a rainbow lights up against the dark storm clouds.
On a particular evening while the orphan children were coming inside for dinner, he went up to the man, propagated by several factors, not the least of which was a connection felt from the similar status of their lives and even more so out of a curiosity to see the man’s eyes more closely, and asked “Where is your Drahin and Drashin?”.
The man stood entirely motionless except for the dancing lights behind his eyes. After a short moment of stillness, the man reached into his dirt covered shirt and produced a brilliantly perfect red apple. A toothless but stunningly formed smile broke the silence as the man handed it to him. Apprehensive to receive it, because rooted deep within him was the understanding that everything given was done so on the platform that a price was to be paid, he instinctively, though not from any conscious intentional desire, shrank away from the man’s outstretched gift.
When the old and disheveled man did not withdraw his offer, with tentative fingertips, he reached for the perfect redness the way an animal might reach for a treat from the first human it experiences not knowing if trust is forthcoming. The man, now motionless again except for his long, grey and greasy hair slightly blowing in the wind, broadened his smile and relaxed ever so slightly. For trust can go both ways and, undoubtedly, this man has lived a life filled with an equal portion of ridicule heaped upon his plate. Shifting his eyes from the apple to the man’s face at the very moment his smile broadened, he grinned slightly as the bonds of trust were beginning their formation. Now, with more confidence, his eyes shifted fully to the deliciousness that was about to be his. The man slightly extended his grasping hand. Contact. The instant of touch between the apple and the boy's tentative fingertips revealed a need that was long denied, even in his young age; conditionless giving.
There are moments in life when time seems to stop and emboss upon our souls an eternally clear image. As if uncontrolled by anything we can consciously do, these moments descend upon us from a seated throne of divination meaning to affect our lives and either change their direction, or affirm it. Such was this moment. As the apple was held suspended by both sets of fingers, so to was their sense of time. They both, in this moment of unconditional trust, giving and receiving, became aware that there was indeed a like soul to their own. Likeness begets hope and trust, and there was true likeness between them. They both experienced a renewed understanding of hope and beginning to faith established by their foundation of an immortal, yet entirely human, connection. So tenuous and precious was this moment that neither was he fully at peace with completing the intent of his grasp, nor was the old man fully at peace with letting go. Not because either’s focus was upon that which would, in the following minutes, be devoured by the depths of hunger in their bellies. Rather, they were focused on sating the hunger in their souls.
As their hands hung for what seemed as an infinite period of peace, bursting forth behind them, they heard a sound loud enough to dominate thunder. Instinctively they were both jolted away from their peaceful Eden, leaving the boy's fingers as the only set still contacting the apple, now forcefully being gripped from the knee-jerk reaction of fear. They both looked to see what had caused the loud crashing noise, and out from the freshly slammed opened door of the orphanage charged a huge and wild figure running directly at them. It was the owner. It was The Beast.
Although the scene of The Beast rushing toward he and the old man was, on a whole scale, entirely fearful, what struck him most deeply was the expression and resulting intent behind the owner’s eyes. He had seen this before. The uncontrolled, primal need for destruction caused by the overflowing of hate in a soul that could contain no more before bursting was driving the thundering form of the orphanage's owner. Just as a dam has a built in system to release pressure before breaking, so to do we have that same system. It is called anger. While the pressure on a dam is gradually released by a complex monitoring and relief system preventing a resulting catastrophe from a flood, there was no such system in place when the owner chose to release his anger upon the world with the uncontrolled flows of rage. Consequently, all that could be done was to hope that the waters of malice would not overtake him before the pressure was completely expended.
Expecting to be fully consumed by the hate, the boy crouched down and prepared to be drowned. A moment later, he felt a large and strong shove send him reeling and twisting, eventually striking the ground with enough impacting force that the apple was jarred from his small fingers and sent tumbling away. Again, he prepared for the pummeling; however, when he heard the familiar noises of a beating and did not feel the accompanying pain, he knew. He took a quick look and caught a glimpse of the horrific scene. He could see the legs of the old man, now lying on his back with the owner mounted atop him, pinned to the ground. He saw the beast land repeated blows to what could only be the old man’s face and head. The old man was kicking and defending himself as much as he could, but the result had already been determined. No one can fight that degree of expressed hate and rage except those possessing equal portions of both. And the old man with the apple possessed none. After a particularly forceful blow, the old man’s legs stop moving and there were no more struggles. Three more blows. As each one landed on its target, there was a faint shift in the old man’s legs, but nothing to suggest life. As each of these last three blows was successful, he felt them land upon more than skin and bone. Each of them found his soul striking his faith, hope and love.
As the owner, The Beast to end all beasts, stood from straddling and pounding the old man, he turned and calmly walked over to the boy's sobbing form. The boy saw him approach and looked again at the old man. More sobs. Then he looked at the dusty, bruised apple at the edge of the ally, lying as motionless as the old man.
Connection. Hate. Rage. They began to build. He felt them bubble inside from a place that gave him strength. As they built, the pain, tears, and doubt faded away. He heard a voice from within. No, not a voice, but a feeling offering confirmation to his raw emotions. Propelled by this unknown source of pain numbing fortitude, he grasped the slightly tethered hate and pulled it with the hands of his heart. As it drew nearer he found the strength to rise and face the owner now only steps away and still walking toward him. They met and stood to confront each other; one, a small, slight and sickly wraith, and the other a huge, hulking horror; one commanding in his presence, and the other defiant. When the boy did not relent to the presence of the beast, the owner crossed his arms and backhanded the boy. An explosion of pain sent him reeling across the street again. And then, stillness.
Slowly, deeply, he inhaled a life filled with the resonate hate formed and fashioned in the moments of this first memory. Echoing beyond the confines of this childhood, it worked w
ithin his child’s mind for a time after until it was all but a single feeling of a faint and tarnished hope that something, anything in his desolate life could provide an escape from the reality he was slowly resigning to. Indeed, only the confirming feeling he felt quietly screaming inside offered some solace from his meager surroundings. This was the first time he had witnessed, up close and without censer, the crushing might of selfish greed upon those who would seek to do only good.
In the days and weeks following he had questioned his role in the death of the old, homeless man. Had this happened because he had reached for the apple? The urging within him said that it had not. The reasoning whisper told him that it was not his fault, but it was the rampant rage contained within an unchecked mortal who held the ultimate responsibility. Yet, tenderly, the nudging he experience while lying helpless on the street reminded him that, while his responsibility was not the only anchor to the ship of injustice, it was a contributing factor. How could he, a child, be responsible in even the smallest fashion, for such an outburst of a grossly performed, primal display of thoughtless need? The feeling, a slight and gentle tugging, returned that he should have known better. He was smarter. Of course he should have known that the owner had been watching him. And of course he should have known what the elicited reaction would be when he accepted anything as a gift from anyone. He should have known that the audacity of this acceptance would be exponentially compounded because it was given by someone who had nothing except selflessness within his heart. And lastly, and most importantly, he should have known that nothing is given without a consequence and nothing good was meant to last.
The nudging was right. It was honest. For perhaps the first and only time in his life, he had been given a guiding touch of knowledge without a selfish intention behind it. And still, even now as he sat in the solitude of his most holy of places, surrounded by the runes of power establishing the Dark Link between he and his master, this honesty and truth rang clear as if the most brilliant bell had just been struck by a hammer resonating with a complimenting vibrational pitch making a perfect harmony with each collision.
Yet the old man was only the first step in his journey into the blissful acceptance of darkness and its resulting power. Though there were several more events contributing to his transformation from a scared and troubled child into the ambitious weapon of darkness he was directed to be, only two more stood apart. There would only be two more memories he would allow himself to temporarily indulge in while feeding from the Dark Link; only two more with the worthiness to necessitate a temporary pause in the internal ceremonies and meditative development of his faith. So between immortal breaths of accepting more dark power into his inner most being, he dove into the second of his specific recollections. Nothing brings clarity like the true revisiting of cause and effect after enough time has passed to remove the subjective need to twist things so we can face them thereby easing our realization of just how imperfect we are. It wasn’t until far in the future that he was able to face his role in this second memory and consequently, his role in anchoring his growing ship of hate. Therefore, it wasn’t until the same time had passed until this revelation became truly manifest, and he felt the fullness of having his master within.
As a direct result of the episode of the old man being beaten to death, and in no small part to the urging of the tugging within, he began speaking out against the injustices he witnessed. At first, this was a silent, self-admission of what someone should say. He would often be seen sitting alone at dinner, or under a tree, or just standing with a blank stare upon his face. During these times of isolation, he would relive the memory and instead of staying silent when confronted by the beast in the street, he would say what he felt to say. He would say what felt right. This re-enactment of events was, most of the time, audible. Varying in volume from a whisper to screaming, he would verbalize everything from fain grunts, to full sentences. And shortly thereafter, the words produced his desired actions. When in the immersed completeness of his horrific recollection, the nudging would grant him the sight to evade the coming backhand, and then lash out with a strike of his own. This made him feel good. This made him feel accomplished. The action of completing his desired vengeance upon the beast made the pain diminish and his smiles return, even if it was only in his wishful memory.
These actions did not go altogether unnoticed, nor were they misleading in their intention. Very few, if any and including the denizens of both the surrounding community as well as the orphanage, did not know the full measure of what had happened that awful day. Fueling his internal sense of injustice were the dozen or so witnesses who watched from their places of apathetic peace. They watched and had done nothing. Not one felt the urge to intercede for either the old, homeless man, or the young orphaned boy. He blamed himself for staying frozen with fear resulting in his inability to intercede. Not until the atrocity had completed did he gain the defiance necessary to pass the point of inaction plunging him into courage. No not courage because in his moment of action, he felt no fear, but into hate. Hate had allowed his actions to manifest. So he would access this hate in order to atone for what he did not do, and for what it would allow him to feel, regardless of who was around to observe his fits of rage.
During the weeks and months following, he was befriended by a boy about two years older than he was. Perhaps this boy had been through a similar event at the hands of the owner and wanted to help another unfortunate soul from reaping the harvest of The Beast and his hate. Or perhaps he too was looking to compensate for doing nothing when he should have acted. No doubt, and at the very least, he had felt the comradery shared by another who also suffered from both the physical and emotional sting of the irrational and explosive anger as fists turned from tools to weapons. So, during a particularly vocal episode, when all of the other children turned away to return to their activities after shifting their postures so they could no longer bare visual witness, the older boy boldly went up to him and placed his hand firmly, yet compassionately, on the younger boys shoulder. Spinning with the quickness as if to deliver a fatally planned attack, the younger boy drew his own hand back and used it to dislodge the older boy's. Seeing the wild look in his eyes, the older boy stepped back, drew both hands up beside him and said, “Hey, I was just looking for someone go on a walk with me. You wanna come? I heard there was this really cute puppy a couple doors down! Wanna come see?”
There was a short silence as he unresponsively stood facing the invitation with seemingly no more understanding than an untrained animal might face his trainer’s initial request. “You wanna come. You know, Puppy?” urged the older boy a second time.
Again he returned with silence, except now, his raised hand was beginning to slowly lower in unison with the relaxation of his facial muscles. “Yeah. That is it. Let us go see that puppy. This way. Follow me. I do not know how much longer it will be outside.” And with that, the older boy darted outside expecting to be followed. And he was.
On this first of many followings, he was introduced to a small and playful puppy that belonged to a rather unsuccessful merchant selling what must have been poorly made clothing. During all the times he and his new friend had visited the puppy, he never saw more than a couple people within the store walls. Yet the merchant, a woman about half as old as the owner of the orphanage, always seemed to be in a good mood. While The Beast made a standing argument of how his only chance at obtaining any degree of wealth would be by selling his business or by selling all of the “young, ungrateful dorshlings” to the slavers of the Great Desert, she maintained an aura of contentment.
What began as short visits to the puppy developed into longer and longer periods of play ranging anywhere from executing innocent tricks on the other merchant shop owners to fantastic battles between the forces of good and the forces of evil. As these adventures became more and more frequent with a corresponding increase in duration, his episodes of isolation and reenactment of past events became less so in both number
and intensity. When one’s mind is occupied by the current moment’s endeavor, there is no room to give rise to the recollection of that which is done and gone. As such, there is less influence from that which is no more and, consequently, there becomes more opportunity for growth and change.
Though he was not aware of it at the time, everyone else could see it. What started as adventures for two grew into adventures for many because the surrounding dark clouds fixed to his mind were no longer casting their rain, losing their thunder, or striking their lightning upon his already damaged soul to the observation of those around him. He still had nightmares of the horrific day, and would often times wake screaming and wet from sweat, but they were confined to the night and no longer presented themselves as episodes encroaching upon the waking hours. Such as this was, he began to make friends. And he began to be a kid.
And the beast noticed. And the beast hated. You see, the owner of the orphanage hated everything that was a source of enjoyment for his tenants. He called them such because doing so removed the veil of he taking care of them and reminded them that everything they received by his hand, was done so only if they paid the price. And anything that infringed on this understanding could potentially plant a seed of entitlement within them that, if watered and tended, would grow into the plants of disobedience and rebellion, ultimately a sign of disrespect. And he would tolerate no such thing.
So he always observed his tenants with an eye of paranoid delusion stemming from his fear of losing what he owned. During one of these observations, he noticed the two boys playing together with the puppy and committing an unforgiveable crime - smiling. How dare they, especially the one who stood with such open defiance of him, find joy in something apart from what he provided? Who were they to display such palpable joy in his world of misery? Why should they deserve to be happy when no one else was (and by no one else The Beast meant himself because beyond his wishes and desires there was nothing)? Following his flawed and damaged logic, he vowed to, yet again, take it away.
Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1) Page 5