Renaissance – Short Story
The following story I wrote when I was twenty years of age. It was a bit of a breakthrough for me, since, up to that point, I did not consider myself a writer. Hardly! A little insight: I’m Autistic (Asperger’s Syndrome to be exact) and so schooling wasn’t the ideal setting for education for me. Oh, I love to be educated, but the schooling system is a mental killer for me. Still is. On top of this I’m Dyslexic. I don’t complain about these things, I hardly even share them in real life. It is not the way I was raised – to complain. Instead, I was taught to face life and deal with it. So this story is one of those “dealing with it” experiences. Dealing with writing, something I had not attempted seriously up to this point. The literary quality of the following short story, I’ll leave that for the experts to decide. But I can surely tell you that it’s a heartfelt story, an analogy of my life.
Renaissance
Tinker’s tavern wasn’t what one would call a pleasant hang out. No, far from it.
Blood, alcohol and pain were what plagued this place. The tavern stood out from the rest of the village; its uniqueness was not in its structure, but in its presence. Men came to this hole of a place when their sorrows reached the depth of despair. The throb of torture was so thick it penetrated through the tavern’s crevices reaching into the world beyond, conceiving a fateful predestination on blessed souls. Locals prayed that this pitiless touch would not seize upon their lives.
On the horizon of this land, a storm broke.
Working men laboriously worked on their tasks and children continued to play in fantasies unseen to the onlooker. The townsfolk scurried along their jobs interrupted by the ensuing storm, amusingly resembling a colony of working ants. Meanwhile, the sky darkened and lighting ripped the sky, ferociously clapping its departure in case its blinding arrival had been missed.
A bottle of whiskey shattered its flight on the tavern wall. Its explosion was accompanied by the symphony of thunder and went unnoticed. The bottle’s violator sat alone, like the rest of the drunken congregation, each hearkening to demonic sermons whispered in their inner ears.
These demon’s whispers, hungry for life, were masked by seductive overtones. With their foot in hell they hypnotically rap their chant of rest in death. Lustfully thirsting for the submission of the men’s wretched souls. Their call is like the cry of molten fire, intriguing yet mystically deadly and all the while the expression of sympathy plays with their faces.
Jacob, drowned in a baptism of fire sits as condemned in a darkened corner. Under the yoke of hopelessness he trots through life, ploughing despair that ripens to death.
What a bountiful harvest.
Drunk in his own troubles, no beverage was ordered. Dim candle light scolds his face revealing deep lines on his forehead, much like the tracks made by a cart on a muddy road. Clawing down his cheek a tear falls, so bitter it leaves an open wound. On a weathered table, tortured by sinew, his elbows press hard on the wood. Hands gripping each other so tightly for comfort that they look like the work of a maddened blindfolded sculptor. The air – tortured by the stench of rot, bodily waste and liquor – lies ill on the atmosphere of the room.
A nerve jerks Jacob’s eyelid, as if desperately trying to cut itself loose.
A maelstrom has now blossomed in the sky. Green clouds profess tyranny. Winds wailing for their lost sun release their rage on the earth. A cataclysm of rain, wind, and lighting assault the land. The locals, accustomed to violent storms, now hide haunted in their shelters. The outburst so unearthly that nature seems to lie waiting as a soppy martyr.
Meanwhile, within the confines of the Tinker’s tavern, cold sweat escape Jacob’s pours. Every muscle tensed at the brewing rage in his soul. A rage cultivated by years of walking in suppressed anger has now reached maturity. Jacob spitefully caresses his inner pain, increasing his tempo as he fights with his mixed feelings. He gasps a breath of air…
…silence.
A flower withers, the stars die, the light is lost; all in the name of the rage to be released by Jacob.
He erupts like a blazing volcano!
As a tornado he twists up. His countenance, a nightmare of contortions, screams his agony. Froth pours from his rictus-like mouth. The men who are not yet dead drunk dreadfully sympathise with his suffering. They fall to the ground, bleed tears and howl for pity.
The drunkards watch Jacob maniacally shake his head.
He shrieks, “No! No! NO!”
Savagely claws his body – he wants the pain.
“Why! Why! Why!?”
Insanely he hailstorm’s the room with anything within his reach. He smashes his head through anything solid. The excruciating pain is blinded by the ardent fever of his savageness.
They watch him hit this. Head butt that. He violently convulses on the floor. Ripping his clothes.
Bleeding – it doesn’t matter!
Pain – I want it!
Jacob, so miserable to look. With supernatural strength imbued by a taint of evil Jacob slams up and down many feet from the ground, like a fish on land, fighting for life, as his shrieks soon sound like a desperate and agonised plea. Jacob’s thumps and cries play a battle song, accompanied by the hellish concerto of the storm, invoking unseen warriors.
At that moment, counter attacking Jacob’s inner war, a blast of rain cleansed wind shoots through the tavern. A chill of fear overrides every emotion in the room.
Who dares open the door?
Jacob seizes his rampage – now looking very much dead. Every eye turns toward the door. Lighting silhouettes a figure. Another victim to life’s ironic twists? If not, who dares trespass here?
The stranger’s cape flaps in the wind, giving the impression of a stray bird. The door closes…
…silence.
Observant eyes notice the stranger’s confident walk, marked by a trace of elegance. Some men hide their faces in shame, others glare with fierce hatred, while in dark corners others recoil in abhorrence. The stranger almost waltzes towards Jacob.
“Arise, Jacob.” Not an order, but still commanding. In the fringes of Jacob’s raw nerves hope is conceived.
Whom may this be? Who has heard my cry?
A clear tear, soon spoilt by the blood on his face washes down Jacob’s face.
Strong, but delicate hands grip his shoulders, turning Jacob on his back.
These hands dare touch me? This person, defies my fury?
Who am I to be touched? Who am I to be defied?
Just look at me….
Within the stranger’s hood a remarkably soft voice cooes in a heavenly melody.
“I’m here now, my dearest. Place your fears in my capable hands, for this moment, allow me to ease your torment.” Love rhymes with every word, such a stark contrast to the inn’s heavy atmosphere.
Fear? I fear nothing but my wretched soul. What I love I destroy, and what I destroy I love, yet… I fear that which I destroy would love me.
“I fear that I, wretched as I am, may be loved! Now, begone from me!”
The words are finally released from Jacob’s inner being. A sob cracks a shell in Jacob’s very soul, hatching an aspiration of hope. Such hope, so clumsy to handle – so soothingly soft – it brings exhilarating tears and his nerves rejoice with festivious delight at the sweet sudden change.
Looking beyond the dark walls Jacob sees the light of day. Tilting his head, as though preparing to make a statement of mere fact, he smirks, “I do not fear to die, or to kill. But that there be this One who has loved me so,” a pause, “Who am I to be so loved, oh…. Begone!”
The stranger pulls back the hood and reveals her pure beauty and celestial strength. Long ebony hair falls on her shoulders, highlighting radiantly clear sapphire eyes. She reaches within her cloak and pulls forth a parchment sealed with the King’s own signet. While looking into his eyes and penetrating into the filthy depths of Jacob’s soul she smiles ever so sweetly. Something so familiar about those eyes, that smile. Butterflies twist and turn Jacob’s guts as long lost memories tug at his pain enshrouded mind, demanding to be remembered.
The parchment falls by Jacob’s feet, bouncing once, bouncing twice, and in Jacob’s mind the parchment was a bell declaring impending doom. No, not doom, but something that would most definitely end his life as he knew it.
“If there is any courage left within you, Jacob, open the parchment, and then tell me whether you truly wish me gone.”
Jacob was now feeling rather ashamed prostrated before the presence of such a lady, in such a filthy place. There wasn’t any time to think why she would come here in the first place, or why anyone would be searching for him. For what? To simply give him a parchment? The last thing he wished to do was read some stranger’s words in a moment of time where he was wallowing in his own despair and misery. But, here it was, the moment had presented itself, and this ever so familiar lady was asking him to open it.
If it meant that there would be a chance for the lady to be gone from him, then he would at least make attempts to read the parchment.
Adjusting himself on the floor, as Jacob was still too ashamed to stand and face the pure lady face to face, Jacob reached out with trembling, calloused hands, and layed his hand on the parchment. He stopped, as he timidly looked up at the lady’s sapphire eyes, seeking some form of encouragement. All he found was a face set in determination.
This lady, she will leave if nothing came to from the reading of this parchment.
That brought a glimmer of sullied hope, the only hope he was lately accustomed to, and it was good enough incentive to continue on. Jacob dragged the parchment to himself, too weak and tired of life to even lift the parchment. With one free hand, Jacob broke the King’s seal on the parchment, the thought that it was a warrant for his arrest seriously crossed his mind, and with a sneer on the corner of his mouth, Jacob uncurled the parchment.
In the distance, the setting sun broke through the quietening storm, sending soft ochre light through the muddied windows of Tinker’s tavern. Birds chirped their post-storm songs, but their singing began to be drowned as blood rush into Jacob’s head, deafening his ears!
Bewildered, Jacob’s eyes rapidly scanned the parchment, now evidently a birth certificate, revealing his bloodline. Rage recoiled in Jacob’s mind, now overwhelmed with a sense of confusion, that was soon overtaken by memories rushing back!
Jacob’s features, only a moment ago marred by violent rage, now stared with pleading, teary eyes at the royally postured lady.
“Is this true or do you mock me as a fool? Tell me!”
“It is true,” the lady gently responded, “You are my brother, and truly, you are the son of the King.”
At that moment, in the distance, the sun broke through the clouds one more time before it rested its ardent head upon mountainous pillows.
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