An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  At last, Asriel found the courage to reach into his coat pocket. Gingerly, he opened the old piece of parchment, worn and turned brown by the years. Scrawled within, in the hasty hand of a madman, were the last coherent thoughts of his brother, Naharai. Pity and shame swelled within him when he saw what he could have become, and salty tears filled his hickory eyes as he began to read:

  August 6th, 1945

  Stranger,

  Where do the children play?

  Stranger,

  Where are their loving mothers?

  Where are their gentle fathers?

  Stranger,

  Where are their little houses?

  Where are their little schools?

  Where do they play?

  Oh, stranger!

  Where have your hands gone?

  I see only black stumps.

  What happened, dear stranger?

  You are burnt.

  You are scarred.

  Why won’t you speak to me, stranger?

  Where have your lips gone?

  Where are your eyes?

  Oh, stranger…

  What happened, sweet stranger?

  You had a face once,

  You had a smile.

  You had little arms to play,

  and little legs to run.

  What was your sad fate, tiny stranger?

  There were no soldiers here.

  There was no one to loot,

  no one to burn.

  Live by the sword,

  die by the sword.

  Your hands were too small

  to pick up a sword.

  Look yonder!

  That cloud.

  What is that cloud,

  that mushroom cloud?

  Is that what brought ruin to Hiroshima?

  Is that why you are here, little stranger?

  Is that why your home is gone?

  Where do your parents lie?

  Do you even know?

  It came from the sky,

  so far away.

  A bright flash,

  and you knew no more.

  I see no conquerors.

  I see no victors.

  This land is barren,

  its people are ash.

  Where is the glory?

  Where is the triumph?

  Come now, little stranger.

  Rest now, sweet stranger.

  Dream of Valhalla.

  Where are the heroes?

  Where are the warriors?

  What does it matter,

  when death comes for all,

  at the press of a button?

  Is this what you wanted,

  dear brother?

  Is this science,

  is this progress?

  I see fire,

  raining down upon us,

  until we are gone.

  Then darkness,

  only darkness.

  That terrible darkness.

  Do you remember it, dear brother?

  Small stranger, damned stranger,

  sleep now, sleep well.

  We will join you soon,

  will we not?

  Answer me.

  Asriel…

  The final word trailed off, as if at that moment, Naharai’s mind had finally been utterly consumed by the dread in his heart. Asriel sat there for a moment, his suspicions confirmed. He wiped his tears away with a single, brown finger. Asriel smiled. He had an answer for his brother.

  Asriel took out his fountain pen. It had been crafted exquisitely, with a nib made from silver and gold. Gently, he pressed it to the paper, just below where Naharai had written. In his elegant hand, he wrote in black ink:

  What lights up those infant eyes?

  Not Washington, nor Moscow.

  Not Delhi, nor Islamabad.

  Toys!

  What is the colour of those tiny lips?

  Not Dark, nor Light.

  Not Asian, nor Caucasian.

  Pink!

  What brings out that precious laugh?

  Not Vishnu, nor Allah.

  Not Karl Marx, nor Adam Smith.

  Love!

  So have you seen a baby’s smile?

  What is in a baby’s smile?

  It is the promise of a life ahead.

  Hope!

  That done, he folded the paper and, put it back in his coat pocket. He stood, leaving five ₹1000 notes on his table. Leaving the restaurant, he slowly ascended the seven floors to the top of the hotel. Nudging open a grey metal door, Asriel walked out onto the rooftop, suddenly feeling the intense heat of the Indian summer on his skin and blinking as the radiant morning sun blinded him. He kept going until he had reached the edge. Then, he dug a nail into his left wrist, drawing a small stream of blood. Quickly, he pulled out the parchment and briefly pressed it onto his bleeding wound, staining it with a crimson mark. He brought it to his lips, noticing the mingling scent of fresh blood and old paper. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he kissed the little paper goodbye and threw it to the wind. He watched it fly away, contemplating the fate of his loved ones.

  He wished that he could join them, but for now, his place was in the world. He took solace in knowing that they would both live on in mortals. The pride of Naharai and Belit’s wild soul would always form a beautiful, inviolable part of the human spirit. It was strange, but it was what truly made them great. Man would always tend towards civilisation. It was their natural condition. Yet if no one knew their story, what would all those great nations that rose and fell like the desert sands truly matter? All the literature, the paintings, the music, the art of man was born of that rebellious spark, still bright despite man’s best attempts to snuff it out. No matter how the world changed, that spark would remain. It was there that his people were truly immortal.

  The mortals were improving. The light in their hearts was conquering the dark. Kindness at last prevailed over malice. Love of joy and merriment began to replace hatred. The children of labourers, servants and slaves could finally hope to become merchants, doctors, even the rulers of nations. The path was still harder for them. There was no denying that. However, at least they had a chance, and it would only improve as time went on. Those who had been oppressed had begun to throw off their shackles, but instead of taking terrible vengeance on their captors, they had learned to forgive. After millennia, mortals were finally realizing that they were a single race under the golden sun. Of course, there were still those who would seek to stem the tide of progress, but they were gradually dying out, replaced by gentle hearts and bright, new minds.

  Asriel finally embraced what he had always known, deep in his heart. It was his fate to live with the mortals until the lights of civilisation dimmed and the world that he had chosen passed into some distant cosmic memory. He was their future, their darkness and their light.

  “Minister!” the tender voice of a raven-haired young woman snapped him out of his reverie. She spoke in Hindi. She had waited on him at the restaurant, he remembered. “You only owed us ₹3,200. You left much more than that and I came to return it to you,” she explained, offering him a few coloured bills.

  “Well, that is very honest of you. Keep it. I meant for you to have it.”

  “Oh, thank you, Minister,” she said, blushing. She shoved the bills back in her pocket, looking up at him in gratitude.

  He nodded and turned to face the horizon as she left. With a few quick footsteps and the clang of a metal door, she was gone. For a while afterwards, Asriel thought of her pearly smile. He thought of the beauty in her modest soul. She could have kept that money without going through all the trouble of following him up the building, knowing full well that he did not need it. She could certainly put it to better use than he would have. Asriel looked at the sky, content. Indeed, there was hope.

  He with body waged a fight,

  But body won; it walks upright.

  Then he struggled with the heart;

  Innocence and peace depart.

  Then he struggled with
the mind;

  His proud heart he left behind.

  Now his wars on God begin;

  At stroke of midnight God shall win.

  -William Butler Yeats, Ireland: “The Four Ages of Man”

  Epilogue

  Abrahem Jameel strolled through the crumbling remains of the ancient city of Uruk. He was followed by two guards, local men. They were massively built, well-armed and deadly. The archaeologist was taking no risks. Working in a country at war was always dangerous. He had accepted that reality in order to pursue his passion. However, there had been news of a slaughter in the nearby ruins of Babylon. A small army of Iraqis had disappeared without any explanation, leaving only panicked communications over the radio and bloodstains on the ancient walls. Whoever the perpetrators were, Abrahem did not intend to be caught alone and vulnerable. The guards’ watchful presence comforted him. He did not notice their tense muscles, or their constant, nervous glances.

  “Gentlemen, we are almost there!” he called out, walking faster as his excitement grew. It had taken years, but now, he was on the threshold of one of the greatest archaeological discoveries ever made. Uruk, the city of Gilgamesh. It must have been grand once. Certainly a far cry from the pile of rubble he was walking in.

  Arriving at his destination, Abrahem saw, as expected, a large stone sitting in front of what seemed like a crack in the piled-up layers of dust and rock that rested over what his investigation had concluded was likely a hollow structure. He motioned for his companions to assist him, “Come, help me move this thing. Carefully now.”

  Slowly, the boulder began to give way to their efforts. The three men strained and sweated for what seemed like an eternity in the Iraqi sun until at last, panting and spent, they moved away to reveal an opening just large enough for a man to enter. Inside, there was only darkness.

  “Right. Who’s first?” Abrahem asked.

  The guards looked at each other for a moment before turning their heads to stare at him. They began to chuckle. One of them, Hussein, said, “Boss, the honour is all yours.”

  “Well, here we go then!” Abrahem grinned, trying not to show his annoyance. Cowards. What was he paying them for?

  He took a moment to take out his flashlight before crawling into the dark abyss. He looked around from the side to side, shining radiant beams of light around the cavernous expanse as the other men joined him. The walls were bare of any decoration. Curiously, they were scratched and charred, as if someone had tried to remove any trace of their past. Interest began to give way to disappointment as he realized that if there had been an archaeological find in Uruk, it was long gone. Years of study, gone to waste. Feverishly, he paced up and down halls long untouched by mortal feet, looking for something, anything, to justify his being there.

  Seeing him, the guards couldn’t help but to smile, unsuccessfully trying to keep from laughing. Abrahem Jameel was an arrogant city boy, no doubt raised in luxury. His fancy degrees and years spent in a tidy office meant nothing. They had warned him that there was no discovery to be made in the ancient city. The foreign archaeologists had already combed through the entire area years before. Either way, they were getting paid, disappointment or not. It was a good day.

  “Come now, Mister Jameel. It’s time to go. Nothing here, like we sa-” Hussein’s mockery was abruptly interrupted by a piercing scream as he stepped backwards and, finding empty space, he tumbled into the darkness. The light from his flashlight illuminated his passage downwards, casting erratic shadows as he fell until, with a thud, Hussein arrived at what appeared to be the bottom.

  “Hussein? Are you alright down there?” Abrahem shouted from the entranceway, fearing the worst even as hope began to swell within him.

  Hearing no response, Abrahem and his other companion rushed down the ancient stairs. They found Hussein sitting on the floor, rubbing his arms.

  “Hussein! You gave us a fright. Are you alright?” Abrahem asked.

  “Do I look alright? Idiot!” the big man snapped.

  “Well, is anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Can you stand or do you need to rest?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Hussein said, glaring at Abrahem. “Let’s get a move on and get out of here as soon as we can, shall we?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Abrahem agreed, offering Hussein his hand. The guard stared at it in contempt, picking himself up while grimacing at the pain in his sides. Abrahem looked at him in confusion. The archaeologist would never understand such vexingly proud men.

  They walked on, eventually reaching the far end of the corridor. There, a simple, golden plaque was embedded into the wall. Upon seeing it, the two guards looked at each other. Hussein forgot his aching ribs. Maybe Mister Jameel knew what he was doing after all. They saw some words inscribed into the shiny, yellow metal. The letters, however, were alien to them. Neither English, nor Arabic. They looked totally different from both languages. The guards looked at the archaeologist.

  “Can you read it?” Hussein asked.

  “It looks like Sumerian. I cannot be totally certain, but it reads as follows: Never again will we follow false Gods,” Abrahem murmured, hesitating as he translated the words.

  “Hmm… so what now?”

  “Well, if I interpreted the legends correctly, pressing against the plaque will reveal a way through this wall. Beyond that, I do not know what to expect. Be ready for anything.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Prepared?”

  The two guards nodded, raising their pistols and pointing them towards the entranceway. Abrahem began to push and to his delight, the stone bearing the plaque gave way relatively easily. After a few moments, it popped out and fell on the other side, making a loud, crashing noise. They heard a low rumbling as the wall split in two, causing Abrahem to jump backwards, behind his tall companions. As the gap opened, their flashlights revealed a small chamber.

  Astounded, the small group walked inside. The sweet scent of jasmines filled their nostrils as they entered. They saw a few urns, scattered coins of silver and gold and an entire array of weaponry. Tridents, curved swords and arrowheads littered the room. There was also a mask. An odd, crimson mask. Three large, black feathers sprouted from its crest and crude, black markings had been painted on it. The mask was strangely unsettling. Just looking at it made Abrahem want to flee. However, he managed to steel himself against its terror. He had to remain. There was something even more interesting amongst all the treasures. On the far end of the chamber, there was an ornate series of carvings on the wall. They seemed to be telling a story. While his companions busied themselves with the treasures in the room, Abrahem walked towards the carvings and began to translate, taking a pencil out of his pocket to note it down in the leather-bound journal that was his constant companion.

  1: Ishtar was the first lady of Uruk.

  2: She was both beautiful and cruel, olive-skinned like our people.

  3: Where her armies trod, they wreaked havoc.

  4: Fields burnt, homes destroyed, thousands killed.

  5: The lady led at the head of her army, on a chariot of gold.

  6: She wore a mask the colour of blood. It bore strange writing.

  7: Three long, black feathers were mounted upon it.

  Abrahem stopped writing for a moment, and glanced at the mask. He had begun to understand why it had been so terrifying. Again, he focused on the carvings, eager to learn more.

  8: She would charge into battle, and none could stand before her.

  9: Even the strongest men would fall before her trident.

  10: None who raised arms against her were spared.

  11: Then came lord Gilgamesh, dark of skin, proud and merciless.

  12: The lady Ishtar fell in love with the lord Gilgamesh.

  13: Together, they ruled over Uruk. All bowed down before them.

  14: One by one, more dark-skinned masters came out of the South.

  15: The lord Enkidu, chief amongst their
majesties’ generals.

  16: The lord Utnapishtim, master of treasures.

  17: The lady Shamhat, high priestess.

  18: The lady Siduri, mistress of ceremonies.

  19: Over the years, they adopted our olive skin.

  20: We were only slaves to them, born to serve their every whim.

  21: They called themselves gods. Feasts were held in their honour.

  22: Thousands fell under the daggers of their priests.

  23: The lady Ishtar laughed at our pain, at our misery.

  24: This might have gone on for an eternity.

  25: Yet there was a change in the lord Gilgamesh.

  26: The lady Ishtar did not agree.

  27: So there was war. A great and terrible war.

  28: Enkidu and Utnapishtim and Siduri joined the lord.

  29: The common people rose up to follow them.

  30: For days, fire and blood reigned in Uruk.

  31: At last, the lady Ishtar came down from her citadel.

  32: She donned her terrible mask and killed many of our people.

  33: Until at last, the lord Gilgamesh stood before her.

  34: It seemed for a moment that they would duel.

  35: The lady’s eyes fixed upon his with the brilliance of sapphires.

  36: Her trident fell to the ground and she removed the mask.