Necropolis

         Walking between the trees that stand like silent sentries on either side of the gate, I peer nervously into the necropolis. I call it a necropolis, but I can’t be sure that it really is. The white marble city may look dead, but what if it is only asleep? What if my presence disturbs it into waking? Would it retaliate like a bear shaken from a winter slumber, or like a frightened dear taken by surprise?
         The gate is made of old green copper, shaped into delicate leaves and is untouched by the ivy that covers the mammoth wall. Within the wall the streets are cracked and grass and soft moss covers the pavers. I can see where the buildings are crumbling. Their roofs now give way to growing trees and vines. For a necropolis this city is surprisingly full of life, and beautiful.
         Taking my first hesitant steps into the dead realm, I can hear birds singing in the flowering trees and a kitten’s tiny mew. Mourning doves perch in the trees and sing their sorrow in throaty voices. I wince in fear of what might happen as I have violated the solitude of this beautifully serene place.
         Something rubs against my leg, startling me out of my fearful reverie. It is the kitten who is now purring and crying to be loved. Of course in this beautiful place even the wild predator cats would be friendly. Nothing here could possibly be terrible. I reach down and let the kitten sniff my fingers. It is a calico with disproportionately large ears and an adorable black patch around its left eye.
         Before continuing further into the city, I unsheathe my sword and leave it stuck into the ground before the gates, with my shield leaning against it. I would not need such defenses here. Those were for the world outside the gate. In a place so peaceful even the roses would grow without thorns.
         Walking down the ancient grassy boulevard with the kitten mewing after my heels, I view the necropolis with a changed mind. Colors flash and glow as if freshly painted by a celestial hand. The sky is a clear perfect blue. The marble glows white and grey in the perfect sunlight. Leaves glint brighter than emeralds in all their millions of separate shades. Flowers glow brightly from within. Beauty is all around me in the ruins of a great city.
         The long, high main street leads in a straight line directly to the center of the city. I can see that the focus of the city is on the crest of a small hill. An obelisk and a tree stand there. My feet lead me to this monument as if by their own will. The calico follows as she has decided to attach herself to me. I feel that I have made my first ever true friend.
         Walking to the monument I can see no signs of anyone ever having lived in this crumbling capital. The buildings all appear to have been built and quickly abandoned. Pausing near the base of one such building, I pluck a nectarine from the hanging branches of a tree whose limbs emerge from a first floor window.
         The fruit is the best I have ever tasted, and its juices clean the road dust from my parched throat. The kitten bats at my bootlaces playfully. Such perfect innocence would touch even the hardest stone heart and grind it to dust. I take off my boots and give the kitten the string to play. Pulling off my thick socks, I leave them in the shade of the tree to continue to the obelisk with bare feet.
         The sun sets in a fiery red ball behind the giant stone pillar. From the edge of the open park surrounding the monument, it appears as a giant finger stabbing the sky silhouetted against the sinking sun. The whole world holds its breath as the sun falls behind the monument and drops over the edge of the horizon. It is a sunset like no other that could ever be.
         Time starts moving again when the sun is but a faint purple glow on the indigo line marking horizon. The kitten chases a cricket through the grass, breaking the silence. Somewhere in the city a nightingale sings its bittersweet melody. I enter the open park full of rosemary and sage. A sweet olive blooms near the low border of short azaleas. The effect on the olfactory senses is incredible. I can see and smell the pale roses in bloom at the base of the monument.
         I spend the night at the base of a giant live oak that appears to have stood for a century or more. In the morning I would get a look at the point around which this city must revolve. All night, however, I can feel the tiny quick heartbeat of the kitten. For one night, the whole world revolves around the quick pulse of a sleeping animal.
         The sun does rise in the eastern sky, no matter how far from home I might be. That fact eternally remains the same. I wake with the first golden rays of light dancing across my eyelids. The kitten is already awake, and has resumed playing with tufts of grass. I watch her frolicking in the sun as I lay in the mottled shade.
         Standing and coming out from under the tree and into the light is as refreshing as any morning shower. I eat a breakfast of blueberries from a bush nearby, smiling as the taste is like returning to youth from old age. Fast broken, and awake, my feet turn once more toward the sable monument that is the center of gravity for this glorious capital.
         Upon reaching the obelisk, I find at its base a small reflecting pool and a vine of pure white roses. The blossoms glint silver in the white morning light, but I stand corrected: the vine indeed has thorns. The roses crawl over the short stone border of the pool, dipping their tendrils into the still waters as if to drink. I stand in awe of their beauty, as I have seldom seen a thing of greater perfection.
         The stone itself is not overshadowed by the beauty at its base, simply diminished. There are words etched in bold, dew-glossy letters on its front, but I cannot read them as they are written in a different tongue than my own. The words do not worry me, as I have no use for foreign words. In this land of ancient wonders, I do not dare consider that they could have a use for me.
         Turning away with a whisper of prayer, I leave the pillar to its own devices, and think of it no more. I have decided to make this land my home. In this place alone reside the only two things worth dying for: tranquility and a friend. To live in that presence is to live wholly and completely.
         So I stayed, for how long I do not know. Time did not matter anymore, not for me at least. For all that time, nothing ever changed. The city remained bathed in splendor, and all its animal inhabitants lived untouched by time. Impossible as it seems, the kit that was my companion never grew a day older, though many a perfect day and glory-filled night passed.
         I, myself, did not feel as though time had any meaning in a place so old and so completely wonderful. However, time was lurking always outside that gate, and finally did intrude.
         In the morning I relax in the shade of an elm that grew near the wall. It is nearly nine o’clock, but could be later: it is hard to tell time where time holds no power. Something in the air seems different. I can smell rain, and the birds are curiously silent.
         Climbing to the top of the wall, I can see a storm gathering on the horizon. It is the first time I have looked beyond the wall, and am startled to see a plain of barren stone. All is dead outside the city. All falls silent within its walls.
         There is only one physical feature on the barren plain: a road, carved deep into the crust of the earth. It appears worn my a hundred feet more than a hundred years, the pavers are smooth and set well below the level plain. The storm gathering in the distance glares black as a moonless night, and sparkles with blue-white lightening.
         It grows closer, and moves quickly, the light breeze picking up into a gale-force wind. I hurry down from the wall, and huddle within the nearest offered shelter: the gatehouse.
         The interior of the gatehouse is one place I have never explored. Dust lies inches deep, covering everything. The kitten’s paws leave prints in a trail winding before me to the only window. The kitten, seated there in perfect stillness, stares between thin iron bars to the world outside.
         Never have I seen any living creature sit so still, and so patient.
         I attempt to imitate my little friend’s patience and expectant posture, failing miserably as my fingers nervously tap a cadence on the sill. I watch the storm close in on my paradise. Surely it has rained before, but I cannot recall a single moment when the rain was anything but gentle.
         Soon enough, the storm is close enough that I can discern the leading edge. There is a minuscule, and far away figure riding at full speed there before the storm. It is the only other human I have seen since passing the gate. I have never felt lonely, but the possibility of another human’s company brings the fact that I am now quite close to killing me.
         They ride onward, the rider like a bat before Hell and the storm like an avalanche, rushing unstoppable toward my island of glory. I watch as the features of both come clearer with the diminishing distance. The storm brings with it some vague sense of malice. The horse’s hooves kick up dust and grime from the long road behind. I cannot see the rider’s face for it is shrouded under a hood.
         I hurry out of the gatehouse, to open the vine-covered portal further to admit the rider. They are close enough now that I can hear the hooves pounding on the pavers, beating out a rhythm of their own. The kitten follows me, but does not go near the gate. Fear touches those trembling whiskers, and the large round eyes stare piteously up at me. A tiny mew escapes her throat, and a thousand things happen at once.
         The storm hits. The rider pulls up and dismounts at the gate. I lend a hand with the road-worn horse. The kitten scurries back into the gatehouse.
         As the storm rages, I help lead the beast into the stable there, and tell the stranger to follow the cat. He obeys, and I can see a cloud of dust rise within the building as his long cloak brushes the floor. I can find no grain in the stable, but give the horse water anyway. I remove the saddle and tether it at the end of the row.
         Inside the gatehouse, I find the stranger already seated wearily in one of the three chairs that circle a low table. I close the door behind me, and the dull thud attracts his attention. He looks up, startled, and I can see a smile forming beneath the hood. He lowers said hood and stands, saluting me with military crispness.
         “Captain.” The word is uttered with utter admiration. I stare. “Captain,” he repeats, as I wonder how a stranger would know my former rank. I do not wish to claim it anymore. I shake my head in derision, indicating scorn for my past. “Captain?” It is a question this time.
         I do not want to respond, but the hand of this not-stranger reaches out to grasp my shoulder. I turn away from his nervous eyes; fighting tears in my own. I never cry.
         “Captain, please.” Now it is something of a command. “When you left us, we lost hope. Tell me you’ll return.” I glance back. There is desperation in his pale eyes.
         My response: “No.”
         His: “Please!” Complete panic fills his voice, and it cracks hoarsely. His hand flutters away from my shoulder, flying to hide his face. Military training tells him that such outbursts are shameful, and disrespectful. He wears a lieutenant’s badge: I would be a superior officer.
         “No,” I repeat. The dust hangs heavy in the air, and thunder roars outside. The storm will not let itself be forgotten. A gust of wind rips open the door, and I cannot hear the lieutenant’s objections over its lupine howling.
         Angrily, he pitches himself against its wooden surface, and forces it to close. Breathing deep to quell his rage, the lieutenant leans against the door. I stand and watch quietly. I want nothing to do with the world outside the gates to my necropolis. The kitten crouches beneath the room’s single table. She is so careful in her steps that her paws do not disturb the dust.
         “Captain, you cannot deny me. I rode across the Plains of Fear to bring you home.” I cannot help but to think that it is a fitting name for the wasteland outside the gate. For the third time, I reiterate my refusal. I cannot leave. This is my home, my paradise.
         The storm is quiet now, having blown past as quickly as it blew in. I wave my unwelcome guest out the door he leans against. He stands and salutes with parade ground perfection, and proceeds through the exit. I watch from the step, as he saddles his beast, mounts, and quickly leaves. I do not wonder at his sudden change of heart. Away, into the distance, my ears record the rhythmic hoof-beats.
         Turning, I call the kitten from her shelter, and my eyes travel the distance across the floor. Something is not right in the way the dust lies scattered on the slate of the floor. My very soul is set shaking as my eyes trace the movements of only two sets of prints: the lieutenant’s and the kitten’s. My own are missing.
         Realization crashes over me in a tidal wave of fear. Instinct sends me running out into the street and toward the obelisk. Reason whips my mind into a frenzied panic. The wind is suspiciously still, but it carries on it the scent of smoke. Clouds hang low overhead and shroud the face of the sun. Light in the direction I travel is from a fire, which is bright enough now to cast stark shadows across the path.

         In the park, the oak is burning. Red light shows the reflecting pool as filled with blood, and the monument stands like an upthrust spear. I waste little time staring at the flame-riddled tree. Instead I fight through the tangle of thorny rose-vines toward the sinister stone. The thorns tear at my skin, but I do not bleed.
         Reaching the dark pillar, I lay my hands against its chilly surface and beg any benign spirit to tell me the meaning of the words it displays. Those words, glint in the firelight, glowing red and gold as the flames dance. My hands on the stone grow colder with its touch, and a grim terror fills my being.
         Looking up, I can read the words, the immortal phrase etched there, and understand. In understanding, I am damned. I wish, against all wishes, that I had gone with the lieutenant. In staying, and in this understanding, I can never be completely happy again.
         Now I know: I am already dead.