Don't Fear The Reaper (27 page)

Tentatively, Vince reached out and took it. He turned it over and the
first thing he saw was the fresh ink trickling down the page and dripping onto
his lap. He made an involuntary shudder of revulsion. Then refocused and saw
the new word that was the answer he’d sought in big black lettering at the
bottom of the parchment.

LATIN

‘Latin,’ Vince said under his breath. Then he regarded the three words
scrawled at the top of the parchment, now knowing what language they derived
from.

VENI, VIDI, VICI

He said the words out loud. But still they meant nothing to him. He
shrugged. ‘What does
Veni, vidi, vici
mean in English?’

The Reaper showed no impatience or vexation that Vince could see.
However, he still felt obtuse for not being able to decipher three Latin words.
Yet it wasn’t something he’d been taught in school, even if he had made more
effort to attend and pay attention.

Death used its staggeringly long jagged fingernail again to etch out the
answer. Then it gave the parchment back to Vince.

Beneath the three Latin words were six English words.

I CAME, I SAW, I CONQUERED

Vince read the sentence three times, absorbing and trying to grasp their
meaning. Then he raised his head with more confidence than before to meet the
Reaper’s crimson neon pupils beneath the baggy hood.  

‘This is referring to you, isn’t it?’

The Reaper nodded once, displaying no emotion.

The young man frowned then. ‘But I still don’t get what this has to do
with being able to make fire and cook the food you have brought us.’

The Reaper pointed to the supine figure that had once been Roland
Goldsmith. Now he was a human shell with an incandescent glow shining from
somewhere deep inside him. Then it indicated the Latin words on the parchment.
It repeated this motion three times.

‘You want me to speak these words to him – or it?’

The Reaper nodded once.

‘And that’ll be the code to make a fire to prevent us from starving?’

Again the Reaper nodded.

Vince’s bowling ball shoulders slumped. He offered the Reaper a smile of
appreciation. ‘Thank you. For everything…’

*

The
sun was but a hazy glimmer through the grey skies. Tom Watts sat outside
sipping bottled water, squinting overhead. If you looked carefully for a
lengthy amount of time there was the hint of blue sky beyond the cloudy dust.
Or it could have been his imagination relenting to his deepest desires.

Belinda cooked them all sausages and baked beans for breakfast. Tom’s
stomach grumbled, as though sensing that he was going on a hike shortly thereafter.
Prudently, he opted to let his food settle and sipped water.

In the first few months and couple of years they’d struggled to adapt to
their new living arrangements and environment. They scoured the stores for
bread and lived off sandwiches and all other fruits and junk food. Not to
mention the heavy consumption of alcohol on a daily basis. It was Tom’s
sedative, his narcotic, to dull his senses and the brusque reality of what had
befallen civilisation.

Now spring 2012 was fast approaching. The sun was still obscured but the
temperature had risen palpably. Tom’s podgy belly that he’d developed in the
first couple of years had all but disappeared. If he lifted up his long-sleeve
shirt and flexed his abdomen he could see the six-pack that was more defined
than when he was Tobe’s age. It was the only aspect that this catastrophe had
been good for, he surmised. He was overly glad as well. Otherwise making an
arduous trek in his previous physical condition would have been unthinkable.
He’d probably keel over from a sudden coronary.

‘Ready, Dad?’ Tobe said, breaking Tom’s reverie.

‘Oh, yeah.’ He consulted his watch. ‘An hour is ample time to let the
food settle. I got plenty of bottled water and a bottle of squash in my
backpack.’ With that he hefted himself out of the deckchair and crossed the
patch of grass that they’d known as their front garden to the backpack.

‘I got some cans of Coke and some Mars bars to keep us going.’

Tom smiled. ‘Ah, good boy.’ He got the backpack fastened around his
slender waist. ‘Well, we better get a move on I’m not as young as I used to be
and it’s been a while since I had some proper exercise.’

Tom and his son bade Belinda goodbye and then ambled out of the copse of
pines and firs. From there they crossed the deserted highway and only then
appreciated the sheer size of the mountain and the magnitude of the ascension.

Already Tom felt the biting cold through his fleece all the way into his
marrow. He gritted his teeth and kept his head low against the indiscernible
squalls.

From the picture window in their cosy caravan the mountain appeared to be
steep but no more than an hour of endeavour. Up close and at the foot of the
marshy terrain Tom felt small and inadequate.

In the midst of his deliberations, Tom hadn’t paid heed to the two golf
clubs Tobe carried. And he wouldn’t have noticed them at all if Tobe hadn’t
placed a hand on his shoulder and proffered him one.

Tom flicked his head to the right, glimpsing an imaginary audience and
then back to his son. ‘Do you want to climb this mountain or d’you want to go
back and play golf?’

Tobe doubled over immediately, guffawing. He slapped his knees and tears
induced by the cold and howling laughter chased each other down his rosy red
cheeks. ‘They’re not for playing golf, you knob. I brought them for us to use
as walking sticks.’

Tom shrugged, embarrassed. Then he said, incredulously, ‘You called me a
knob.’

‘Well, be fair, what you said was a bit retarded.’

‘Oh great, now I’m a retard. Thanks.’

Tobe threw his hands up in the air, mocking vexation. ‘Will you come on?’

They ambled abreast until they reached a rickety sty. Then Tom clambered
over first and into the sloping pasture. His feet crunched through the frost.

Tobe dropped down beside him and exhaled. Cold air billowed from his gaping
mouth. ‘That took us about half an hour, and that’s the easy bit,’ he pointed
out.

‘Still got plenty of daylight,’ Tom said. He sighed inwardly at the
absence of sheep and other cattle. A second later he stopped Tobe going any
farther with a hand to his chest and unfastened his backpack. Then he removed
ear muffs and drained half a bottle of water.

Following his father’s common sense, Tobe did the same.

After five minutes of catching their breath and taking in their
surroundings from this new vantage point, father and son continued on their
quest to reach the summit.

Twenty minutes on Tom winced and clutched his sides.

‘You all right, Dad?’ Tom called out over the shrieking wind.

‘Nodding,’ Tom said, ‘Just got a bit of cramp, is all.’ He gazed ahead. ‘Not
much to go now. Then the ground levels off. See.’ He pointed to the hilltop
reaching another plateau a hundred or so yards directly in front. 

‘Take a break,’ Tobe said. ‘If you fuck yourself up now it’ll be even
harder to get back down later.’

Tom laughed at his son’s profanity, but realised what he’d advised was
sensible. He nodded acquiescence and lowered himself from his bent over posture
and winced again.

Tobe sat next to him and exhaled. ‘Not only is it much bigger when you’re
actually climbing it but the wind is constantly blowing in our faces. You
almost slipped on the frost a few minutes ago. Gotta be more careful. Take your
time. Make sure where you’re putting your feet isn’t slippery and is safe.’

Tom regarded his son with a raised eyebrow. ‘You an experienced mountain
hiker or somethin’?’

Tobe shook his head and sipped from his bottle. ‘No, man. I been
following you the last hour and watching you. Where you nearly lost your
balance I avoided it and paced myself instead of rushing ahead.’

The ear muffs helped stop the wind freeze his ears numb. Nevertheless,
his back sang in chorus with the squalls. He closed his eyes and did his utmost
to block out the discomfort shooting up his spine.

‘Sit up straight and gently stretch,’ Tobe’s voice told him.

Instead of arguing like a lot of fathers would have done, Tom did just
that. He stood up and leaned back, stretching, coaxing the lactic acid and
sores out his back muscles.

When they resumed their climb after five minutes Tom raised his hand and
performed stretches. His hunched over posture could cause him problems later in
life if he didn’t take precaution now.

Soon after, the climb became much easier. The constant intake of water
and the food from breakfast assisted him well indeed. Then before they knew it
they’d reached the path that led directly to the crag.

They exchanged looks of bewilderment.

‘The path goes round the cliff,’ Tom said, as though reading the exact
words from his son’s mind.

Behind them stones protruded from the mountain like ledges or footholds.
If one used them as intended they’d reach the summit where the grey sky loomed
no more than an arm’s length away.

‘Which way?’

Tom’s face was flushed and scalding from the climb. He could barely think
let alone decide their next course of action.

‘The footholds are quite generous,’ Tobe said, chest rising and falling a
little faster than normal. However, he could’ve been walking briskly to the bus
stop to look at him.

Meanwhile Tom’s chest heaved and sighed, heaved and sighed. His lungs expanded
and contracted; expanded and contracted. If the shrieking wind hadn’t been so
bitterly cold up here in this altitude then sweat beads would have glistened on
his brow.

‘The path around the cliff is even, although a tad muddy. But one minor
miscalculation and we’ll be falling in love with a girl called gravity,’ Tom
said once he’d caught his breath. ‘On the other hand the footholds as you say
are pretty generous. But one slip and at best you’ll fall and break your legs
and back.’

A stream coursed through the apertures of stonework and into the mountain
where the footholds were situated. The footholds would accommodate a Bigfoot.
However, all there was to grab onto was the undulating blades of grass. The
high winds blew them flat one way then the other, like a drunken imitation of
the Mexican wave.

Tobe was confident to the point of certainty that he’d get to the summit
with ease if he went that way. However, he had to take into consideration the
waning condition of his old man. Exhaustion affected the mind and in turn one’s
concentration. This could quite easily be the reason his dad would fall to
death or in some respects worse – to being paralysed evermore.

The muddy path however was wide enough to permit them both to sidle along
at a measured pace and not place themselves in great peril. Also, if his dad
went first Tobe could keep a watchful eye on him and instruct him accordingly.

‘It’s up to you son.’

‘Let’s take the path route,’ Tobe said. ‘We’ve done enough climbing for
one day.’

Tom knew that Tobe had been considering what was best for them both and
not for him alone. He wanted to thank Tobe for that, although he didn’t want
his relief to hinder his son if the muddy path led to a dead-end and they had
to retrace their steps. If that was the case, Tom would stay here and give his
son the binoculars and wait while he reached the summit, alone.

‘You go first,’ Tobe said, by way of explanation. ‘Don’t go fast. Go slow
and listen to my instructions, all right?’

Tom nodded. His son telling him what to do in a soothing tone made him
feel as though he was the son and Tobe was the father. Roles in reverse. ‘Okay.
And thanks.’

Tobe grinned from ear to ear. ‘You: “Do you want to go back and play
golf, or what?”.’

Reluctantly, Tom turned away from his cheerful son and made his way
towards the muddy path that curved around the crag, not realising what was
lurking out of sight in close proximity.

In the moments thereafter when it was too late to go back, Tom wondered
if it would have altered his and Tobe’s fate had they chosen the other route.

*

The
human remains that had once embodied the soul of Roland Goldsmith bounced
ballerina-style on his toes around the marble onyx-coloured monolith. The
circular area at the foot of the amphitheatre was where many a men had forsaken
their ordinary existences and ascended to a higher form of existence.

The pit beneath the stone risers was also the battleground where many a
man had spilled geysers of blood that the ground soaked up.

His body glowed neon green. A torch from within burned radiantly. He’d
awoken from his cataleptic state an hour earlier when Vince had whispered the
three sacred Latin words to him. The incantations of a hundred phantoms
reverberated around the amphitheatre, but Vince couldn’t decipher what any of them
were saying. It wasn’t the same chorus sang in unison, it was a myriad of
unintelligible declarations.

These hallowed incantations occurred when the monolith was either rising
or disappearing into the aperture or motionless at the centre of the amphitheatre.
Vince was by no means a man who possessed acumen in abundance; on the contrary
if anything. However, he wasn’t so insensible not to notice that the monolith
gave off an aura as palpable as any other entity.

For the first couple of years he made forceful endeavours to converse
with the green figure of a man, but was evidently something quite unique. Vince
was never one to be able to have the ability to live inside his head. One who
had acumen above average human condition could ponder profoundly the depths of
their past, present and future. Vince had never been one for notions of
deliberations. He wasn’t a reader or anyone who looked beyond his own
selfishness. The asinine folk of the present world long begotten offered in its
absence, stress-free, unburden slumbers and long, rich lives.