BLOOD RUN 15
The light was fading. The Legate's entourage arrived at the Kratz mansion. A selection of armoured Vees in a line. Skyte's state vehicle in the centre. He emerged with Glass and the two of them, bald heads bowed entered the mansion alone. Despite its grandeur the guts to the house were simple and lacking tyrannical ostentation. There were no trinkets. Some might even say it was rustic. Others only that it had been possessed. It was certainly cosier than one would expect from a man of Kratz's station. Flowers and plants were everywhere. Splashes of colour. Snapshots of nature in firework. A full sunset in bloom. Rich aromas of all the seasons in simultaneous adoration. Deep greens, reds to orange to yellow streaking azure prosperity. Reeds, stems, storks, branches, giant leaves paddling an ocean of polychromasia.
The councillor's feet squeaked on the wooden floor as Glass closed the thick wooden front door. A gentle, oiled click. In the semi darkness Skyte sniffed the air and then reached out and flicked the lights. There was a momentary glow and the hall clicked on. Above, below, splattering light here and there. Artificial illumination in worship of the horticulture. To the right and left of the hall were two doors. In the centre a flight of stairs, wooden and dark, roasted beef in complexion. Behind the stairs and running underneath them, a passageway that led to a small door.
There was a silence. The silence of spirits. The kinetic energy of memories. A force that refused to welcome the two men.
Skyte opened the door to the right. It opened onto a sitting room. There were three comfortable leather chairs and a large leather sofa surrounding a small table on which were discarded newspapers and articles. In the corner a small modestly carved desk with matching chair. Both had a royal varnish shine. They were curved and sensuous. Along the wall ran a bookcase glutted by books that had known many lovers . The fireplace was carved from the knotted wood of a single tree trunk. It swirled. The gaping hole sooty and black. Logs lay ready for a winter retreat.
There was nothing new about the room. But neither was it worn or tired. It was like the earth in this respect. Lived in. Eternal in comparison to the lives of men.
The two councillors crossed the hall. Their gowns lightly brushing the parquet floor.
This second door opened onto a vast library. Ladders clung to the walls. There was tier upon tier, lined one on top of the other, stepping upwards pushing the ceiling higher and higher. Each row crammed with books and manuscripts. Works of all ages. The knowledge of centuries. Epochs now forgotten. Outlawed imaginings. Celebrated fancies. Generation upon generation. Voices and voices. Streaming thoughts, dreams and words. Arguments. Discoveries. Pictures and paintings, images and prints. Illustrations. Muses. Space, time, continuum.
In the centre of it all a desk of worn dark wood and a thick heavily padded chair, worn by hours of study.
Glass clouded over. Where did he?...
Skyte crossed to the desk. In the centre a heavy leather bound notebook. He put his finger in and opened it in the middle.
Today the earth appeared to me red. The sun flooded the world. Each day comes with its own dynamic signature. The wind blows. The birds fly. But never the same as before. Age passes with each moment of the day. Time onwards.
I watched it come. The dusk. The end. I sat in my garden silent as the sun painted the world into a bloody slaughter house...
We have harnessed our energies and made light work of cruelty.
I asked myself if we cannot rise above this.
Is this brutality self induced or it is a natural expression?
Do we have moral identity?
Has morality given way to egotism?
Is this an evolution?
And if so does this mark an advance or a step back?
It is assumed that over time organisms improve with each new manifestation. The older less effective form dies off and is replaced by a further efficiency. It was once assumed that human evolution was a step towards civilisation. That humanity was the capacity for mercy. That evolution would negate the need for mercy. Because brutality would give way to... But I observe otherwise. We are simply more efficient. Deliberation and reason are deemed unnecessary.
In the height of it I am numb. I believe I am so accustomed to enforcing the rule that I am immune to the horror. Deaf to the screams. Cut off from any empathy. Detached from suffering. Unmoved by its ugliness. And so it must follow that if I fail to react to the grotesque nature of the suffering that I induce then I am disconnected from any sort of beauty. Blind to it.
I function. I breath without a notion of the act. I feed with no enjoyment. There is no taste on my tongue. I wash and the water neither appears hot or cold. Under my skin I lack nerves.
I observe how we all work. Often in silence. We are meticulous, drone like. Passionless. I can recall a time that I felt passion. It kicked me on.
Skyte closed the book and picked it up. He walked passed Glass, out of the room and stood in the hall, vivid in its rebellion. He walked to the side of the staircase to the narrow corridor underneath. He followed the passageway which turned left before halting at a door. The door opened onto the kitchen. In the centre of the kitchen a large oak table on which stood a vase with flowers. More extravagant colour. He walked over to the sink. He picked a clean glass from the draining board and filled it with water.
He looked out of the window and saw them sitting there in the dusk sun. He watched their stillness silently as he drank. He filled the glass again and sat down at the kitchen table, placing the notebook in front of it. He ran his fingers over the leather cover. And then tapped it three times. He opened it onto the last page that contained Kratz's writing and read quietly without expression. When he finished he breathed out through his nose, sat for a moment in thought and then closed the book. He looked up from the book to the kitchen. It was ordered and tidy and clean. On the table in front of him was the single vase of brightly coloured bustled carnations, elegantly punctuated with purple lilies.
Finishing his glass he stood, picking up the book and wandered out into the garden. The kitchen opened onto the side of a stone work patio. The patio looked out onto Kratz's enormous garden. There was an arm of trees stretching from left to right an acre away. And beyond Skyte could see farmland and beyond that the country rose gently to a forest crown on the horizon on which sat the open heart of the setting sun. Birds were singing in the late evening.
On the edge of the patio, on the balcony were Kratz's wife and five year old son. He was sitting with his head resting on his mother's chest. She had his arm around him. The sun silhouetted them in a red haze wash. Other than the wind in their hair they did not move.
Skyte approached them. He sat on the balustrade to the side of them. The child's eyes were closed. There was no expression on his face other than the natural look of innocence that life had not succeeded to steal nor death distort. His mother was looking into the distance. She had died in the middle of a thought with her eyes open. In the midst of knowing.