An Old Fisherman and A Young Man

There was...

...a small village in the vast forest of untouched nature by humanity. The chaos of billboards, marketplaces, celebrities, and advertisement never reached the place. The majority of days in a year were freezing here. All of the supplies were coming from the nearby lake, which was for them like the entire ocean (which was connected with the sea by a web of minor rivers).

Some people who held ancient beliefs were visiting the village from time to time to watch the stars with the locals and enjoy life without modern comforts.

Here, in this sacred place far away from conflicts, lived an aged fisherman and a youthful man full of vigor and spirit. Both of them meeting each other in a place of little light, a little warmth, but fear cast by enormous trees and the presence of the wildlife.

An old fellow took one needle from the dark tree and made a small hole in his finger to make the blood flow out of his body. One requires to participate in filling a kettle full of human bodily fluids to begin mourning, to connect with nature. Without the gift, his words would not be heard by unforgiving life coming out of the ground he steps on, killing many of the little creatures habituating those lands.

- Why have you chosen blood? - a young man asked whilst taking saliva out his mouth and donating it to the pool.

An old chap was whispering and pressing his body against the ground to beg for... mercy? Not quite, he couldn't do that. He was crying the tears of true remorse.

- Because I'm not human even though I was born as one. - he howled while something was moving in bushes.

The young man said nothing; he just sat there to observe the branches, the spikes glowing with blue lining even though the light was scanty, the moss that was humiliated over and over again by animals stepping on it, yet still proudly handling itself and providing shelter for others. His attention was concentrated on the man because sometimes it's better than an uplifting talk.

As a person who lived only fifteen years, he was full of good ideas and a lack of knowledge of the outside world. He had to make a decision, an important one but was completely lost in the vastness of possibilities. How is it possible that people want to come back when someone is calling them out there? Waiting for their glow hidden deep inside those woods?

The old fellow calmed down; breath became even.

- I'm a bad person. I've never killed anyone. I couldn't bear the thought of taking something away from someone else. I tried to be a judge full of virtue, never assuming bad in the other person without evidence. I've never touched other women, just my fair wife. My tongue has forgotten to swear words. But I'm a bad person. Worse one than the masterful murderers, worse than people who use someone else's blood and sweat to fill their bottomless stomachs.

Silence disturbed by falling snow and winds above their heads reigned the place for a time comparable to the whole adult lives of some of the most colorful butterflies. It was getting even darker, so they couldn't see even their own feet being covered by a white layer of cold.

- What have you done then?

The young man asked, somewhat afraid of the answer and continuation of feeding himself with what was supposed to come to pierce his wonderfully tender heart.

- Nothing. And that was the source of my nightmare.

- I don't get it.

- Who would have thought that one of the scariest things in life is something so mere and common. Being indifferent. I was distant.

The face of the boy froze. Was it going to turn into ice? The water drowned his soul, and the cold was slowly reaching the warmth. It was like getting an answer to his question, yet, he wanted to doubt that with his soul.