Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Bō Jinn

  The pandemonium in Capitol Plaza was audible until the bounds of the city, even in the most secluded boroughs and alcoves. All along the dusk-concealed street of one such borough, the eight-star phoenix of the Eden Accord swayed, sparkled and shimmered – on hologram billboards and bright banners hanging from corner to corner and window to window of jagged, terraced, corrugated old buildings.

  Though it was only just past noon, a mist had dulled the sky to ash-grey and the flyover which ran directly overhead cast its shadow over the borough, impeding what little light was left. The rain came in rising rhythm, thin at first and then growing from patters to drumbeats.

  On the edge of a footway on that narrow, dusky street, stood an ancient figure in archaic wears – a long black coat with a high collar over his face. A marbled fist tightened over the grip of the cane on which his weight was precariously perched. And he stood, gazing around, receiving his surroundings like a new arrival to the world. His sights stopped high and afore, in the direction of the distant blares from Capitol Plaza.

  The rumble of a fast-approaching train rose and smog kicked up in a cold draft. The old man lowered his eyes and fixed his stare on the small door across the street. The long, platinum hairs on his old head flustered as he took his first step off the footway, following his line of sight. A solid tap of his cane separated each measured step on the sodden road.

  A stray dog, huddled up for warmth, raised its head and followed the old figure with a deferential stare.

  The young barkeep at the sink behind the counter turned up a steely eye when the door to his vacant nook opened and the ancient figure followed a cold draft in. The door closed. A young boy of dark complexion stopped immediately in the course of buffing a table and nervously peered from the old man to the barkeep. The media broadcast on the small screen showed the same live feed on every TV in every home and on every street across the region.

  When the door closed, the newscast became audible again.

  The old man hobbled in and, with stifled pain, lowered himself into the seat nearest the door, his shaking hand clutching hard onto his cane as he did so. When he lowered, his head hung, his eyelids drooped and he breathed slow, heavy and tired breaths.

  A long silence followed.

  With a single look and a nod, the young barkeep instructed the young boy to go on buffing the tables. He took up a wet glass from the sink, poked a hand and cloth inside and turned, firmly in his grip and peered over the counter at the old man. “Weren’t expecting no visitors today,” he said, in a raised voice. “Can I get you anything there, old timer?”

  The old man raised his head and, looking forward, answered slowly, wearily and in a dry voice: “Water … please.”

  The barkeep turned the glass in his hands and set it down on the counter with a clink.

  “Ezra.”

  The young boy started at the call of his name.

  “Go on and get the man some water.”

  The young boy hesitated, snatching glances at the old figure.

  “…Go on now,” insisted the barkeep.

  With dumb obedience, the boy dropped his cloth, and the old man followed with his eyes as he scurried over to the bar counter, took the clean glass the barkeep had set down, then disappeared through a back door.

  The barkeep dried off another glass and set it down on top of a stack behind the counter, snatching another quick and wary glance at the elderly newcomer.

  A subsequent rise in the volume from the small screen drew the old man’s attention to the broadcast from the Assembly House and the inauguration of the Eden Accord. The citywide ovation shook the ground with chants of “Novum mundi resurgent!” as a speaker took the podium. The leaders of the Accord appeared, seated at the fore and the president-elect was front and center among them – the crown jewel of New Eden.

  A vague smile curled up the sides of the old man’s mouth.

  The back door opened again and the boy named Ezra returned with the full glass of water, eyes fixed on the brim for spillage. He stopped and held the glass out to the old man.

  “So … you from outside the Capital?” asked the barkeep.

  The old man took three long gulps and set the glass down with a sigh of relief. “You might say that,” he replied.

  “A lot of people from out of town today.”

  “It is a great day,” said the old man. “A day of freedom.”

  “Freedom…” the young barkeep scoffed under his breath.

  When he looked up, there was an unnerving severity in the old man’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I just have a thing about that word.”

  “How so?” The old man took calculated pauses before his answers.

  The barkeep set another glass down on top of the stack. “Everybody throwing words around lately,” he sighed: “Freedom … liberation. Or my favourite: Novum mundi resurgent!” He snorted and shook his head. “I tell you. Sometimes you get to thinking these people don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Hell, I know most of ‘em don’t. This one guy came in here a few days ago…”

  The young barkeep went on at length, and at the end of it the old man smiled an ironic smile. “I see you are not so optimistic for the new world,” he said.

  The barkeep let out a short chuckle. “I tell you what – every old world was a new world at one time,” he said. “You look like you’ve been around long enough to know that. You don’t want to get me started, old man…” the barkeep paused and then continued. “Na, see, me, I don’t think it’s even real. This ‘freedom’ thing. It’s all a dream – damn dangerous dream too if you ask me. Hell, it’s why these damn wars start in the first place – people going around thinking there’s this ‘freedom’ they need to fight for. Then, soon as they get it, they already get to figurin’ it’s something else, then they start fighting all over again.” The barkeep stopped mid-sermon and finished drying off another glass. “Then they call themselves ‘freedom fighters,’” he laughed. “Ah, hell with it. You probably think I’m crazy.”

  “No … I think I understand.”

  The decibel level of the broadcast rose again with a new climax.

  “…And they all think this’ll end the wars,” the barkeep continued after the brief silence.

  “You do not?”

  “Hell no,” the barkeep exclaimed, setting another glass on the stack. “The old damn world is the whole damn world, and the whole damn world runs on war. This – all this – it’s like screaming for all hell to come our way. And it will, too. You better believe it…”

  They were interrupted by another, greater climax.

  The old man looked up at the broadcast. The barkeep and the young boy stopped what they were doing too when the pronouncement from the speaker sounded:

  “Ladies, gentlemen, brothers and sisters: The president of New Eden!”