Burns
Burns
Written by Clive Nelson
I walked along a plane leading to the edge of the universe.
My feet no longer ached with each step I took.
There in front of me, a man stood, a burning scar concealed his face, an unseen enigma among those who cared not for the journey.
He already noticed me long ago.
He spoke in an alleviating tone, a sign of his enlightenment:
“You have taken the ultimate sacrifice to search for answers. Not many would journey to the end of the world just to hear an old man tell his testimony.”
The man closed his weary eyes, for the first time in what seemed to be centuries.
As he spoke, the words seemed to materialize before me:
“A millennium ago, I was the only man to tread the earth.”
“Upon the wasteland lay a palisade, with a beautiful yet dangerous volcano resting on its peak. The volcano spread like fire on a vine, creating a desert wasteland of ash.
“At first, the small sparks that pricked my fleshly mask were of no inconvenience to a strong young like I was, but each time my face became more burnt, so did my soul.”
“Year after year, this volcano’s ashes covered its crater, that once caused the destruction of my body and mind, and year after year, I forgave and forgot the volcano for the fissures in my skin.”
“How do you forgive something that cannot feel?” I asked the man.
“Forgiveness is a simple task once you’ve learned humility, and even things that cannot easily be forgiven, or even lack the capability to be forgiven, should be.”
Puzzled but intrigued, I continued to listen to the man’s tale.
“The only memory of the things the volcano did were written on a tablet and hidden miles underground, where no one would ever find the remains of my pain.”
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“As people began to enter my realm, the volcano became unrecognizably beautiful, a mountain top where colors themselves came to blossom. The people loved it, and I dared not ever tell them of what the mountaintop had once been.”
“After all, who could believe something so divine could have brought so much destruction long ago?”
“A city was built upon a nearby valley, and the king ruled as well as any king ever could.
“The ashes, the only remaining proof of what had once been, were covered by stone, and then dirt. If only they could know that the beautiful landscape that brought them joy could once have destroyed what was a comparably puny town.”
“They were fools.” I interjected.
“A fool is someone who does not believe in objective truth. To not forgive them for their ignorance would be to make me a fool.”
I shook my head, confused at the capacity for forgiveness the man had.
“Perhaps,” he continued.
“They will soon find the tablet which holds the recollection of the pain I bore. I sincerely hope it does not happen. I would have ripped it from out of the earth centuries ago if I could.”
“But alas, just a man I am. No more, no less. I am no god. No brave soldier. I am just a man who chose to forgive, to forget what they did to me. I hope they make that choice too.”
“And then fools no longer will they be” I muttered.
He nodded.
The man refused to speak again. He seemed to dissociate from the world, or the end of it, altogether.
He was at rest.
Telling this story was his final intention before he passed on, and departed what he had watched over for centuries.
I could tell this time was not really when he died. Not in his soul or mind at least. He died a millenium ago, when no person could have known him.
The moment long ago, when he finally closed those weary eyes, the burial had finished.
And there he was, miles underground.
Another piece of history lost to the ash.
