The Pacetaker
The man with the silver box wanders through the street all night, every night. Never hurrying or slowing his steps, he moves like a shadow on a wall, sinuous and silent. No one seems to see him or to take much notice.
No one waves.
No one glances.
At intervals, he pauses like a snake waiting for a charm. Then through the streets it comes to him, a whistle so thin and lightly-pitched that it could almost be air. Smoothly, the man with the silver box raises his box and eases back the lid. And then through the air, the whistle grows in volume, weaving in and out of the velvet darkness that is the sky, seeking reprive.
And then, all of a sudden, it swoops like a bird tired of flight and lands deep in the center of the silver box. The whistle chokes and stutters, and then is silent. And the man with the silver box smooths the lid shut before sliding through the streets once more.
No one waves.
No one glances.
On a good night, the whistles crowd above his head like vultures in a glorious ballet, jostling to plunge into the deep black of the receptacle. The man stands with his silver box, held high like the second coming of God and breathes as the whistles soar and dive with Olympic grace as souls do, and listens as they flicker and die.
A soul is a funny thing, he thinks. It fades with scarely any of the glory that heralds its arrival into this world. And people are funnier things, to mourn the departure of souls so.
Across the town, a girl presses the silver blade of a razor to her forearm. She slices along it, not lengthwise but down the arm, as she’s been told to, and the pain is like a prayer. The blood first seeps, then bubbles through the wound. Above her head, her soul whistles its goodbye.
In a hospital, a man gasps for life. Deep in his chest, a bullet hole has ripped a path of broken veins and flesh, tearing the golden thread that is his time on earth. His hands convulse briefly and as the orderly hurtles his gurney toward an operating theatre, the whistle begins, pulling to join the others that swirl in the quagmire that floats above the hospital.
In a little room in a little building, two girls crouch over a hamster cage. Their pet is on his side, his beautiful beige-white fur matted with the struggle to breathe. His eyes, pasted shut with dried tears, waver slightly, as if in a plea. His stomach, soft with thin fur, is a little well of hunger and pain.
Still, his nose twitches with the curiousity that has led him into nights of sleeping in cups, burrowing holes in boxes and getting lost behind the fridge. His is a life of getting lost and being found, of being stroked and gently held, of being loved and laughed over.
One of the girls is praying to something that she cannot understand. To the stars, the moon, to the leaves in the trees. Take him away, she begs, let him be free. He’s just a hamster, she says, he won’t understand the hurt.
The man with the silver box hears her. He hears her more clearly than words, as if she were a whisper in his chest. There is a whistle too, a very little one, smaller than the whistle of a baby’s soul, cleaner and more musical.
But it is faraway, pulling with some reluctance, still a day and a half away. It is a soul hovering between life and death, longing for rest but also for existence. He is in no hurry, he will wait. The girl’s words are thudding in his head like rocks rattling in a bowl and as long as she prays, he will wait.
Take him away, she begs, let him be free.
Humans are funny things, he thinks, gently caressing the box to receive this last, tiny soul. They call so desperately for life, and yet sometimes, so desperately for death. Well, unlike them, he has all the time in the world.
And he will wait for the prayers murmured in his ears till the little lost soul finds it way to its rightful place with him. And then he will walk, never hurrying or stopping, to the pier at the end of the world where he will release the souls from the box and watch them dance and swoon like grateful sparrows into a briny sea backlit by the moon.
Now he stands, hands and heart open, for one lost soul and a girl’s whisper.
People stream past him in the streets, oblivious to the silver box and the whistles.
No one waves.
No one glances.
No one waves.
No one glances.
At intervals, he pauses like a snake waiting for a charm. Then through the streets it comes to him, a whistle so thin and lightly-pitched that it could almost be air. Smoothly, the man with the silver box raises his box and eases back the lid. And then through the air, the whistle grows in volume, weaving in and out of the velvet darkness that is the sky, seeking reprive.
And then, all of a sudden, it swoops like a bird tired of flight and lands deep in the center of the silver box. The whistle chokes and stutters, and then is silent. And the man with the silver box smooths the lid shut before sliding through the streets once more.
No one waves.
No one glances.
On a good night, the whistles crowd above his head like vultures in a glorious ballet, jostling to plunge into the deep black of the receptacle. The man stands with his silver box, held high like the second coming of God and breathes as the whistles soar and dive with Olympic grace as souls do, and listens as they flicker and die.
A soul is a funny thing, he thinks. It fades with scarely any of the glory that heralds its arrival into this world. And people are funnier things, to mourn the departure of souls so.
Across the town, a girl presses the silver blade of a razor to her forearm. She slices along it, not lengthwise but down the arm, as she’s been told to, and the pain is like a prayer. The blood first seeps, then bubbles through the wound. Above her head, her soul whistles its goodbye.
In a hospital, a man gasps for life. Deep in his chest, a bullet hole has ripped a path of broken veins and flesh, tearing the golden thread that is his time on earth. His hands convulse briefly and as the orderly hurtles his gurney toward an operating theatre, the whistle begins, pulling to join the others that swirl in the quagmire that floats above the hospital.
In a little room in a little building, two girls crouch over a hamster cage. Their pet is on his side, his beautiful beige-white fur matted with the struggle to breathe. His eyes, pasted shut with dried tears, waver slightly, as if in a plea. His stomach, soft with thin fur, is a little well of hunger and pain.
Still, his nose twitches with the curiousity that has led him into nights of sleeping in cups, burrowing holes in boxes and getting lost behind the fridge. His is a life of getting lost and being found, of being stroked and gently held, of being loved and laughed over.
One of the girls is praying to something that she cannot understand. To the stars, the moon, to the leaves in the trees. Take him away, she begs, let him be free. He’s just a hamster, she says, he won’t understand the hurt.
The man with the silver box hears her. He hears her more clearly than words, as if she were a whisper in his chest. There is a whistle too, a very little one, smaller than the whistle of a baby’s soul, cleaner and more musical.
But it is faraway, pulling with some reluctance, still a day and a half away. It is a soul hovering between life and death, longing for rest but also for existence. He is in no hurry, he will wait. The girl’s words are thudding in his head like rocks rattling in a bowl and as long as she prays, he will wait.
Take him away, she begs, let him be free.
Humans are funny things, he thinks, gently caressing the box to receive this last, tiny soul. They call so desperately for life, and yet sometimes, so desperately for death. Well, unlike them, he has all the time in the world.
And he will wait for the prayers murmured in his ears till the little lost soul finds it way to its rightful place with him. And then he will walk, never hurrying or stopping, to the pier at the end of the world where he will release the souls from the box and watch them dance and swoon like grateful sparrows into a briny sea backlit by the moon.
Now he stands, hands and heart open, for one lost soul and a girl’s whisper.
People stream past him in the streets, oblivious to the silver box and the whistles.
No one waves.
No one glances.
She said, she said at 10:33 pm
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