SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

PROLOGUE | Sit.θ: The Impossible Quest

MY LIFE

The things that make me happy
are things that make me mad
field, sea, sky, and people
no more is to be had

I work the fields in earnest
I earn what I can make
I know I'm not in charge, though
I don't own all the take

some take it upon them
to wear the absent crown
they shout and march forever
they never set it down

In words I see the past
both spoken and in tome
but words sound very different
from changing as they roam

in eyes I see the present
to what we all can strive
to whom we have to strive for
to whom we are alive

in clouds I see the future
no single image tells
but a series of arrangements
in crow's caws, and in bells

I don't have many friends
but some friends do have me
one day I'll learn to bridge the gap
but I'll never learn to please

though separation serves us
allows us to divide
and rejoin later onward
and know from center's side

I know I'm not a statue
my body stands today
and one day it will pass me by
and I'll be yesterday.

Perhaps my soul will linger
my spirit will depart
and travel places never seen
and live in every heart

I'm not sure if I want that
I don't know if that's me
do I need so much majesty
and synchronicity?

they say that Gods can hover
above us when we sleep
but so can ghosts, and both of them
say nothing when I weep.

* * *

I am The Reaper. Life is difficult for me. I live in Ireland, in a village that wants to be a town called Fogborn. We're farmers, mostly, but half of what we harvest is sold abroad. People still go hungry at home. I guess life is difficult for a lot of people, but I know it isn't hard for everyone. I should be thankful, I wouldn't exist without the trade routes.

My mother was Egyptian, and her mother was from India, and hers was from a place that might be called 'Siam'. I hear they're going to start calling it 'Ayutthaya', or something. My father was a French Jew, his father was a Persian-Greek of the Homeric gods, and his father was an Irish Catholic. Their mothers were whatever their fathers didn't have, and their wives brought in the Scottish, Nordic, German, Russian, and English, though in what way I never learned. That's all in four generations, in the last hundred years. People say "If you're from a land, you ARE that land." But I was born right here in Fogborn, in my great grandfather's house. And nobody believes that I'm Irish.

You're probably wondering how a farmer can read and write. I was one of the lucky kids selected to learn in The King's hold, a few days away. It was a sort of test: The King wants to know if people who can read are better for the market than people who can't. The King is a gentle man with a commanding presence. He has long blond hair, both from scalp and beard, that hangs to his sides like a lion's mane. He wants to be everyone's friend, but he beats himself up over petite faux pas, and grows bitter to callous in defense of his pride. Sometimes he's happy, other times morose, and his in-between is the calm he shows at dinner, when he's laughing but not yet manic from wine. Then, and when the other tribes attack. He has a stern anger and never loses his head about things. The other leaders are scared of him, he seems to win every battle.
Anyway, I wasn't lucky so much to be chosen, but to have been born to my parents. My Egyptian grandfather is The Mentor of The King. An unsmiling man of rope and robe whose white hair seems to cling to him only in SPITE of falling, at the bottom of his face and nowhere on top of his head. He's the smartest person I know, but his feelings are like tough sand full of roots, and mine are like wind and water between blades of grass. Girls I like tend to be like rays of light, or tall shadows, or cotton balls, or clouds in the wind, but there were no girls in my class. It was just me, I was their first experiment.
My Grandfather believed I have better memory than my seven siblings did at the time. I'm not sure why, but I can remember almost everything I've ever seen, though I have trouble with faces and more-so with names. I don't have a name myself, so that might be for the best; I'd probably forget it. My parents forgot to give me one when they were done naming the others. When I was growing up, they called me "boy", or "you", or "Reaper", knowing from my birth the job I was going to die with. I'm still a bit sore about them doing that. That's one of my problems, I remember some things too well, and I can hold a grudge about things nobody else remembers, against people I care for. And I can get lost in my memories, too.
Back to my story. While studying at the hold, I became deathly ill. I had boils on my arms and legs, and my face swelled up like a melon. My Grandfather said the disease came from far away, and that The King's need for foreign furniture, delicacies, and information were both the life and death of him. To me, each new good was like a friend from one of my many homes. I spent a lot of time recovering on a Persian sofa, which I hear is close to Egypt. The King had to re-cushion it when I got better. He's still a little sore, it cost him a few gold coins. Me, I'm okay now, but my sickness spread to my Grandfather and took him in his sleep. I miss him. He would have known why the side of my face that swelled up no longer has as much feeling to it. He might have known what to do before the sickness returned years later, and took my parents and seven siblings. Honestly, they should call it The Plague of Loneliness.