Rivers

Rivers(David Symmonds) The sun did come up in the end. The four men stood on the crown of a hill and looked out over the vast emptiness before them. It was, in fact, quite strikingly beautiful, and they felt as though they were riding the crest of a tidal wave. From the distance, the men could see wild horses stampeding towards them, and the dust cloud they left behind rose like smoke from eastern factories. A tall man in a grey trench coat broke the silence.

“If I was a painter I would paint it you know”

“Sure as the moon and the stars,” piped up a second.

The other two were not so interested in the view from the crest. One wore a faded three-piece suit, an item that would have been considered very nice in its better days. He was leanly built, with black hair slicked back and a well-trimmed mustache of the same colour. The second man was a dark, stocky youth wearing dirty farmer’s clothes and had a rifle slung over his right shoulder. These men waited while the others considered the beauty of the west. They had travelled four days and three nights together, sleeping without comfort underneath the stars. In the daytime they walked, and had covered many miles since leaving the jumble of shacks unjustly recognized as the town of something or other.

“We’ll fetch you gentlemen a postcard in town, right now we’re burning daylight and I would rather one hundred dollar bills.”

The suit man was frustrated. He had a job to do, and he did that job to the best of his ability. He resented being held up by a couple of country idiots. He had done his job well since the moment he took it; he was not about to stop now that some country idiots liked a view. These men are necessary, he told himself. Although he had no idea of their purpose he knew that they were very necessary to some very important men, and he left the thinking to very important men. He was a pawn, a grunt, but he was good at it. Whatever purpose these men would serve, he would get them safely into the hands of the men whom he represented.

“We’re leaving.”

“Not a fan of this country?”

“I’ve never been a fan of looking. A waste of time; I have never been known to waste time.”

“No, I shouldn’t say it’s a waste of time. What is time for except enjoyment?”

“Get moving. Your future enjoyment depends entirely upon it.”

He thought this was quite a good line, and began to walk with a pleasant smile on his face. He enjoyed a good bit of humor at the expense of others, but he had never been much of a wit himself. He had never been to college like the very important men, nor spent time in the social scenes of the high society. No, although he spent some years in a schoolhouse and knew his letters well enough, he was more for the pleasures of the body than of the mind, if he was for any pleasures at all. By this time the country folk had gathered their few possessions and began to walk behind him. They were not tall, but neither were they particularly short. They were strong men, their muscles large and defined by lives spent working the hard, unforgiving land found in these parts.

“Time, time, time. These city folk, all they talk about is this time and that and where to be and where to go and what time to get there. I don’t give two expletives about the time. What’s time to me? In the morning I get up, at night I go to bed. The only thing I care about is getting a little enjoyment out of my life.”

This was the first farmer, the one in the coat. After this speech the dark looking youth gave him a shove with the butt of his gun and told him to get a move on, and keep the philosophy to his thoughts.

“True as the sea is deep,” said the other farmer of the remarks of his compatriot.

The suit man looked back and he knew he hated these men. He hated them with so burning a passion that he was forced to drag his head and eyes around to face the front so as to keep their image from burning into his mind and causing further hatred. They walked steadily for five hours, and all the while the man thought about how one did not keep very important men waiting.

“Hey boss,” called one of the odious farmers, “what do you say we sit and have a little chow?”

“It’s three more hours. Shut up and walk.”

“I think, boss, the way I see it, I think it better be time for eating of some kind.”

The suit man threw some jerky on the ground. “Eat then, get it over with.”

“Good. This will do.”

“Right as the hand of a man.”

The suit man regretted to inform him of the existence of a mutation present in some humans often referred to as the left hand. These men frustrated him so, he knew he would kill them given the chance. They came now to a river, and he bent to drink. He liked rivers. They moved constantly, and it took a great deal of effort to slow a river. If all men were rivers he would be very pleased. They came to a shack beside the river, with a boat tied to a small dock, which was more of a pile of planks than it was a dock. He entered the shack, and found a bent old man sitting in a worn rocking chair. The room was dim, and most of the old, tired furniture was covered in a thick layer of dust.

“We require your boat.”

“O, well, if I could just get me-self up I could take ye down this river for a little payment, surely.”

“We require your boat, old one.” This time it was said with a colt to augment the point. The old man began to reach for an ancient looking single barreled shotgun that leaned against a dresser. Before his hand could touch it the suit man had shot him three times in the chest. The shack was torched, and the party took the boat down the river.

Perhaps at one time the old man had the qualities of the river he lived on, but not any longer. That was enough for the suit man to justify the killing. He saw death for what it was, a realization of the inevitable. No one lives forever, one dies when one’s time is up and no amount of prayer or power can change that. The farmers told him he had a cold heart, and he informed them that they would see the extent of its frigidity if they continued with that line of talk. He had no patience for that kind of man, the grain of sand type. They sat in the riverbed, identical to millions of others. Sometimes they were picked up by the river and taken to a new place, but always in this new place they sat, unmoving, horribly content with their mundane existence.

They arrived at their destination, and his thoughts were cut short. It was a large town, perhaps even a city, with many wealthy houses and streets lined with trees. The men he was to meet were in one of these houses, on one of these streets. He would not keep them waiting.

They stood before him in the drawing room. They asked if he needed to excuse himself, it had been a long journey. He liked the bathrooms in these houses of very important men. They always had running water, and the temptation to bathe and drift into the ecstasy of relaxation was offset only by the disrespect it would imply. He returned to the company of these men with running water constantly at their disposal, and made his report.

“These men are suitable. Yes, they will suit our needs nicely, thank you.”

“I serve at your pleasure.”

“Yes, yes you do.”

The suit man left the building and emerged onto the tree-lined avenue. He was glad the meeting had been quick and painless. He walked the clean streets for as long as they extended, inevitably finding a part of town more suited to his particular means. Beggars and drunkards lined these streets, replacing majestic old trees with pathetic scenes of the vulnerability of humankind. He didn’t care much for these failed beings, clogging up the atmosphere and slowing the pace of nearby life. He kicked a dog that was blocking the path, and when it became clear it was not a dog, but a human child, he kicked it again, harder. He was an administrator of justice. With a brisk pace he walked until he reached a grey building that jutted out from the side of a large stable like some sort of hideous tumor. The stairwell smelled distinctly of piss, and although he climbed he felt as though he descended into the depths of hell.

“You made it, unexpected,” said a deep voice, which emitted from a large man in overalls.
“You survive yet, unexpected.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“No, get out of my house.”
“You can’t stay angry forever. We share the same blood.”
“Oh shut up. Shut up for Christ sake.”
“Fine, we can talk about other things.”
“Sit down in that chair before I kill you in cold blood.”
“I need money.”
The revolver was out, and leveled. He did not understand his family. He could not be related to these leeches.
“Beg for it.”
“Never.”
“Beg for it now, on your knees!”
“Fine! Please, Please! I need it!”

The suit man, disgusted, spun the cylinder, positioning it so that his next pull would find an empty chamber. He put the gun to the other’s head, and suggested he beg for his life. The man obliged, and was quickly reduced to a quivering mass on the floor. The suit man was tempted to kill him. He resisted temptation, and allowed the hammer to fall on emptiness. He hoped it was the last time he saw this wretch.

Disappearing into the night, he felt no shame, no twinge of regret. It was all necessary. Lessons had to be administered to the weak.

He felt no need for sleep. He wanted to find out what those farmers were to be used for. It wasn’t so very hard; with careful prodding a kitchen staff could be divulged of any rumor. The men were to take the place of friends of the family, who were in a jam and set for the gallows. The suit man felt a profound sense of satisfaction. Here was justice, a lesson to those grains of sand. He had been terrified that they would be kept in some important capacity here, never to realize their deserved fate. He laughed heartily, and left the house.

He walked in a haze for what felt like days. He found himself in a bar, in an unfamiliar room, and finally at a table atop which sat a gun. He struggled to comprehend his surroundings, until he saw the stranger sitting across the table. The stranger had taken the gun and spun the cylinder. The suit man looked up, and saw a woman standing over him. She wore a red dress and her dirty blonde hair was tied back behind her nearly circular head in a tight bun. He had never had much time for women; they were not a species of creature he particularly cared for. They broke too easily, like porcelain dolls. This one was familiar. She was one of the few special ones. He hated her for it, and she hated him for who he was. It was of no import, he hated many people and many people hated him. Still, this creature vexed him. She vexed him in such a way that he was unsure if he could weather it. The look in her hard, grey eyes told him all there was to know.

Unbeknownst to him, the stranger had survived another pull of the trigger. The woman leaned down and offered to clean the gun. He knew what she was doing. He let her do it. He merely wanted to know what it felt like, to hold the power of life and death so firmly in his hands that nothing could interfere. He wanted to become master of time and space, arbiter of the sunrise.

He announced his position to the roomful of people. He now had power over time. He was able to stop it, then and there. It was a shame to be murdered by an angry woman, via oneself, he thought. At least justice will be done for those men from the country. Their type deserves nothing less.

She could be quite strikingly beautiful if she wanted, he thought to himself. Not any more. An unfortunate side effect of a bullet to the brain. He put the gun to his own head. Whether the sun would rise or not remained a mystery.