Echoes

22.6.24

Lost in the depths of the cave, I find myself yet again. No glimmers of daylight make their way to such a place as desolate as this. The faint light of my torch illuminates my surroundings. I venture on. My footsteps fall in eerie echoes. I’m alone here. I don’t know which way is up. Not even down. Only forward.

On and on I go. Ever onwards. Am I going in circles? Is there anywhere to reach? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The sun, for what light it may offer, offers nothing more than despair. The chill I feel from the drafts of the earth remind me of why I search: to escape the fires above. That the sun’s life should offer death.

Whispers fill the cavern. My echoing footsteps ring like words. Tomorrow, they say. As I shuffle through dusty crevices. The tumbling of rocks ever downwards to the abyss call out their final words: home, they call, peace, they yell, life, they scream. The echoes fill my ears.

Bright reflections remind me of dewdrops -- and them, of rain. Of torrents falling on what was our home. Of floods carrying the life we knew away into the sea. Of the calls of those too weak to swim. The yells of those too close to save. The screams of those already lost. And the moon’s reflection on the water. In the still in the wake of the storm. How it smiled upon us in the stead of the sun’s wrath. How its presence marked the clearing of the skies: that the stars should shine their false hopes upon that already ruined.

And there, in the distance, the mountain. Whose unwavering fortitude was mockery itself. That the earth alone should be immune to the game it makes of living. Whose tallest peak would stand forever proud, no matter the calamity. To where I drifted. Pulled by the current cleansing the ground upon which I now stand. Against which I cannot fight. Though I did.

So when came the sun, the hope of tomorrow set. Scorching heat begged me shelter. Wind begged me refuge. And all that was was the Earth. The empty, barren earth. Silent.

The scratching grows louder with each step. Not the falling rocks fallen to my footsteps of the past. But the scratching upon the walls. Whose echoes tell yet other stories. Stories of life before death. Of hope before despair. They scratch and scratch until they glisten. In the light of my torch is only red. Even the reflections.

I see in them myself, the eyes of one of too much known. The stares of one of too much seen. In their faces, others. Other people and their past. Their stories, that which led them to this place. I see a man. Who walked through life unaware. Who wandered because he could not speak. And another. Who spoke because he could not wander. And there they lived, on the shore. I knew them by their names. They stare back at me, their eyes. Their tormentful reflections. Now red in the light of the torch. As are their faces, twisted by devastation.

They walk before me, footsteps adding to the echoes of mine. Drawing their bleeding fingers across the walls. Three steps ahead. Their dripping trail glistening. Whereupon my dancing flames tell stories of the skies. That looking down should remind me of the night. Where here that I am, in the depths and darkness, is refuge from the day. Their expressionless faces would speak to me, tell me I am right. If only they could speak.

And the whispers grow only louder. As the space grows only smaller. Why did you not turn back? they demand. Why do you get to go on? they beg. Nowhere to go, nothing to find, they repeat. Again and again. Until I reach a place familiar. An opening. The two before me step through. They turn to me, watching me as I follow. Their empty gazes bring no fear more than the sight of my fallen home. The aftermath of fallen waves. The aftermath of life. And behind me, footsteps echo. They echo louder, louder still, until I am surrounded.

All around me, they stand. Bodies bent and broken. Empty eyes in empty faces. Empty reflections. Cast in shades of red. Whose being is nothing more than the memories of days to never be relived. Whose torment is the memory of a sun that rose before it set. Whose expression is marked not by that which is but by that which is not. That I see now only because of what I saw once before. Whose names hold meaning only to memory, now walking without name.

Upon my head lights a drop. And soon upon every other. And soon does it rain. I look up into the vastness where no light can reach. Drops become torrents of ceaseless rain. The flame of my torch extinguishes. To the darkness, I am succumbed. To the rain, I am given over. I close my eyes and drifts my mind.

I stand on the bow of a ship in storm. Waves crash against the side. Fluttering sails give voice to the night, calling out their pain. Lightning strikes the distant sea, lighting the scene before me. In but a blink, I see too much: reaching arms from deep below. The water churns. The ship straightens. Each lifting of the stern brings with it the grasp of seeking hands. Through the veil of the rain, I see them growing. In countless number, they soon swarm the deck.

They grasp and pull, each heave speaking in shuddering voice: “Would you not take hold?” they ask me. And I step back. “Would you dare not look us in our eyes?” they ask me. And lightning strikes again. “If we drown, what use is your ship?” they ask. As I see once more their blank expressions. Their dragging echoing into the night. Their voices overpowering the storm.

A second drop falls upon my head. I look around at the expressionless faces, watching me in silence. I hold out my torch. I step towards them, against the wall. They step away. And behind me, they step forward. All their steps echoing through the cavern. A deafening roar of wonder. For why else would they follow? — yet stand ever away? I need to ask. I take a breath. And out goes my torch.

In darkness, I stand. I listen to the fading echoes, whispers growing distant. I dare not move. My heart beats. As do theirs. I hear only the flow of blood. And the wind blows. And with it, my breath. And in the darkness are the gazes of those that surround me at long last lifted.

And I open my eyes, the light of day streaming through slitted curtains. My face on the mirrors on the walls. Closed doors, windows shut. My head is filled with sounds. Faint echoes. Gentle rushing. The echoes grow closer as I rise. Rushing turns to whisper as the windows open. Slowly fade the echoes. Reflections not of red. From the streets comes laughter. No more scratching from the walls. Only the softest rain — which falls only from the sky.