Ch 9 - Children of Tegalupa

Confession of Things Forgotten

"Tell me about it!"

I jump three feet in the air almost falling through the railing that holds my weight. The voice of the Old Man within the black night is as subtle as a glowing ball of fire falling from the heavens. Where did he come from? I never heard his approach. Breaths come in tight gulps. My heart jumps around like an angry horse.

"Jackass! You could cough or something to announce that you are here. You scared the shit out of me! Why do you sneak up like that?"

A breeze comes in from the East. The scent of The Old Man envelopes me like a wet towel: moldy, rotting, and fertile. Like the man sleeps within a hole in the ground. His smell is the only sign of The Old Man's physical presence on the deck of a boat without lights.

My relationship with The Old Man is complex. Friend is not the word I would use. But since The Greek broke me, The Old Man has been with me much like a shadow, unnoticed until the wee hours when the sun finds low angles that make silhouettes billowy and long. Then like a flicker at the edge of my eye he is there ready to push me in unexpected ways.

The Old Man nudges me, "You died for a time after the Greek man beat you. Some say you are a specter. Certainly, you are different than you once were. But your noise was always a bit different. That is why you left your home. That is why you are here. Tell me the story. Tell it to me in whole."
"You want to know why I left home?"

"Just as I have said. Tell the story. Do it now." There is no please or thank you. Most often there is no pause.
Irritation boils on the edge of my voice. There is a slight tremor that I try to keep in check, "Can't you look into my mind and pick out the pieces you want?"

His response has as much meaning as a conversation between a monkey and a dog, "Every man is his own mosaic. Things you think you understand you do not. Things that you think I can do, I do not do in the way that you think. For some locks there are keys. Where there are locks and no keys there are other ways of getting inside."

Listening to this is difficult. Every fiber of my being just wants to lay down. I am so exhausted I could sleep on the cold wet metal of the ship's deck, "Old Man, there are plenty of men who deserve this torture more than I. Did I not save a life today? Just for tonight, can't you leave me in peace?"

There is a pause in the air. It grows so long and wide. The Old Man is regrouping. Nothing ever pushes him back. The smells that bathe him still wash upon my senses. The night begins to change. Then I begin to see.

A glowing light fills the space between me and The Old Man. At first I can see the outline of his form relieved in contrasted silhouette. The glow brightens a bit more until I can see the man's bright white eyes. Most of his features are still bathed in shadows, but his eyes... his eyes are quite clear.

The Old Man speaks, "The Greek man broke you. Now, you forget things..."

"Gregorios," I interrupt the Old Man.

"What?"

"Gregorios. Was his name." I remember this part. It seems very important that I do.

"Yes," the Old Man concedes. There is a pause. The Old Man starts up again, "There is more afoot here than you are likely to realize. I will help you on your path. But first, you need to fully focus. If you are to survive, then you need to fully engage.

With those last words there is a rustling within the man's robes. A gnarled hand he produces. He pulls his sleeve up just to the elbow. Long curving blue lines glow slightly in the gloom. The curving blue lines coil around the man's arm resembling dancing snakes.

I know these lines or something much like them. I imagined them as I healed my broken bones. Thick and blue on the arm, they taper and thin upon the writs.

The Old Man presents his palm, flat and level with my face. Here the lines gather into a tight spiral shape. The lines slowly spin. The spin gains speed. It is much like viewing the turning screws on the back of a departing ship.

This image gives me pause. Something is not quite right. A more appropriate perspective might be that of a cork viewing the descending corkscrew descending upon soft flesh. The spiraling line grows closer. There is an expectation of piercing and cold steel. I stare at the lines, not knowing what to do next. The blue glow grows brighter. With each turn of those lines, something fundamental begins to shift.