“There is a fatality, a feeling so
irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost
invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghostlike, the spot
where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifetime; and
still the more the darker the tinge that saddens it.”
—Nathaniel Hawthorne—
The boy raced down
the path, bare feet slapping rhythmically against dry ground, raising puffs of
dust that hung in the air for an instant, still and still moving, before
dissipating into a chalky haze. He moved with ferocious grace, the eloquent
symmetry of swirling arms and sinewed legs concealing his true speed. He seemed
to be fleeing a predator. And essentially he was, fleeing the spent moments and
dust-fouled air, the mortal backwash, that lingered in his wake.
He glided through
clean air, beyond the silence of before and the stillness of to come, toward the
springboard at the end of the path. Without breaking stride he reached the
board, stomped on it with both feet, and left the ground, legs bent, knees
pulled close to his chest. After two precise revolutions, he uncoiled, threw
back his head, stabbed his arms to the side as if crucified, and landed
flawlessly, feet together, legs locked, in the bottom of the hole.
The hole was eight
feet long, four feet wide, and six feet deep. Exactly. The boy’s father had
dug it using several different types of shovels—including an exotic Swedish
ice shovel with a carbon shaft and a titanium head—to mete out the precise
gradations. He finished the job with a shiny kitchen spatula whose edge had been
whetted to a surgical sharpness. Then, in order to stave off erosion, the father
stapled tightly woven nylon netting to the sides. It was an exquisite hole.
The father was
equally as virtuous in constructing the wooden springboard. He milled the 2x4s
himself, chose an unblemished sheet of plywood and soaked it in water until he
was able to impart a subtle but faultless convexity. He fashioned the springs
from rusted shock absorbers, spending hours removing the filth and corrosion
with a towel soaked in dimethylsulfoxide, a powerful industrial solvent that the
father and the boy’s mother also valued for its medicinal qualities. They
applied it topically as a remedy for their various ailments, which included
Diverticulosis, Candida, Diabetes and spider veins.
The path that led to
the hole was equal in length to 22 of the boy’s full strides. The hole was 10
feet beyond the springboard. The proximity of each to the other was fundamental.
When the boy was added to the matrix, it became organic. Surely, without the
hole there would have been no path; nor would there have been a springboard.
And, likewise, in the absence of the path and the springboard, the hole would
have been unthinkable. Without the boy, though, and for that matter the father
and the mother, well… clearly the connections are evident.
The field where the
father dug the hole was on the cusp of an alluvial valley. Once a vineyard, it
had long lain fallow, the generative vines burned and plowed under. It was
bordered on the north by snuff-colored foothills, scruffy lumps that seemed to
hesitate before finally slouching toward an unremarkable mountain range.
Opposite the foothills on the field’s southern edge was a stand of old
eucalyptus trees, each one a gnarled sentry with burnt skin peeling from its
trunk.
Every day just after
sunrise the father, the mother and the boy emerged single file from the dark
line of trees; the mother first, the father in the rear, the boy in between. The
boy would make perhaps a hundred passes before sundown. To an outsider, the
routine would have seemed merely quotidian—sprint, leap, land—with no
perceptible deviation in form from one endeavor to the next. But to the three,
it was this equivalency, this sameness, that endowed the ritual with its
numinous quality. They were loath to alter the pattern, fearful of retribution
from some unseen power. This suspicion imbued the act with a religious quality,
made it somehow sacrificial. For what is religion other than fear of invisible
power?
With her head wrapped
in a blood-red scarf, so that from the rear it looked like an overripe tomato
perched on her shoulders, the mother stood behind the boy as he prepared for
each run. She watched him rock gently back and forth, listened for the
deliberate exhalations of his breath, beheld the slight twitch of sinew in legs
that might have been hewn from tropical wood. She sensed the small beginnings of
motion even before the furious in-suck of breath that signaled the renewal of
the sacrifice. And all the while, she caressed the smooth river stone she’d
had since the boy was born. Each time the boy left, with the dust rising and
mingling around her, she uttered the same soft incantation: “Be well, boy.”
The father waited on
the opposite side of the hole. He watched the boy, a spare figure sketched
darkly against the pale canvas of the river bed that twisted away from the field
and crept into the dry hills. The father, whose worn denim overalls hung on a
reedy frame, had a rawboned face and black hair that shone like onyx but wanted
washing. In his hand, he held a ladder, which he’d built, too, and no less
lovingly than the hole or the springboard. It was simple, five feet long,
constructed entirely of hand-milled wood. The ladder.
He would lower it
into the hole after each landing, as it was difficult for the boy to climb out
on his own. The boy scaled the ladder slowly, methodically, right foot first,
four steps and out. He would turn, then, to his father and the two would
exchange a look, explicit but wordless. As the boy traveled back along the path,
and when the father was certain he was beyond earshot, he would mutter, “Well
done, boy.”
The boy had never
taken lessons, never been taught the acrobatic feats he transacted so
effortlessly. The skills sprang from a place deep within, beyond imagination
even. Though at one time he had perceived the motions only in his mind, they had
become involuntary, as natural as the blood coursing through his veins. The
twisting and turning, the layouts and somersaults, the rapturous sensation of
soaring, even the ineluctable melancholy of landing: together, they
counterbalanced the bleakness of gravity. They had become his necessary angels.
Day after day from
dawn until dusk, and season upon season, the boy and his father and mother came
to the withering field. It was an urge so irresistible that it had the force of
doom. In the cold morning, with the sun low in the eastern sky, the mother would
squint and raise her veiny hand against the light. This way, she could track the
boy’s ghostlike visage through the roiling dust until, for those few sacred
moments, he flew like an obedient Icarus, soaring well but not too close to the
flesh-dissolving sun. And as he reached the apex of his flight—the exquisite
image of his writhing body splayed against the sun—she was suffused with
despair.
Slipping into the
ground as if swallowed, the boy would thrust his arms skyward, not in a gesture
of victory or even gratitude but rather submission, in keeping with the covenant
of the act. Upon seeing the hands like two dark stubs rise above the hole, the
mother would let out her breath with a staccato rasp and loosen her grip on the
stone.
In the evening, it
was the father who regarded the figure of the boy, although against a far
different tableau. The sun was a deep claret, spent and misshapen, with all the
fury of a sigh. It was then, in the ochre light with the boy striding away, that
the father felt weak, almost forsaken, as a person must in that awful moment
before the plane hits the ground.
One evening, after
yet another flawless leap and immersion, the father found himself scrutinizing
the setting sun. Swollen and crosscut by a long thin cloud, it looked like a wet
wound wrapped with gauze. Yet he knew the cloud was powerless to stanch the flow
of light; anemic though it was. Only the slowly turning Earth could snuff that
flame. And only the Earth could ignite it once again.
Then the father heard
the somber thump of bare feet against dirt and shifted his gaze to a gliding
form that moved as smoothly as poured liquid. The boy’s head was a still point
around which flowed atoms of unseen energy. He ran toward the springboard, with
its stamped image of two dark feet, an effigy of accreted dust and perspiration.
He surged off his left foot, hit the board, occluding the dirty footprints, then
rose, spinning like a flipped coin. After three faultless somersaults, he
released his legs and untwisted his body into a knife-edge before disappearing
into the hole.
The father heard the
sharp crack and instinctively hunched down. He thought the noise was a rifle
report. He looked around, scanning the field for a hunter. But there was no one,
and nothing to hunt. Then, he heard a low moaning coming from the hole. He stood
up, ladder in hand, and walked to the edge. The boy was slumped against the
back, clutching his left leg above the thigh as if he were trying to strangle
it.
The leg was bent at
an odd angle, and just above the knee the father could see a shard of bone
poking through the skin. It was smooth and shimmered like the tip of an iceberg.
The shattered femur must have perforated an artery, for blood streamed from the
wound and a viscous pool accumulated around the boy.
The ladder slipped
from the father’s hand. The boy was shivering, and he wept, although the sound
was barely audible; the father did not believe the tears were from the pain but
rather the anguish of having succumbed at last. The boy lifted his head, looked
up to the father through wet eyes, tried to communicate his sorrow. Neither
spoke. The father beheld the sobbing boy, crumpled and bleeding in the ditch,
and the wordless thing that passed between them was love. The boy acquiesced
then. He leaned back against the cool dirt, let his hands fall away, and watched
the dark chroma seep from his wound.
The father stepped
back, turning as he leaned down to pick up the shovel. He looked beyond the
hole, down the path to the place where the mother stood. She was no longer
watching. Her hand hung limply at her side and she stared at the stone that had
slipped into the dirt. Even if she’d been crying—and perhaps she was—the
distance between them was too great for the father to hear.
He thrust the shovel
into the earth, measured a uniform scoop of dirt and, without looking, threw it
behind him into the hole. He added another on top of that. And another. There
was no sound but the falling dirt. It took him three hours to fill the hole, and
by then it was dark. He laid the shovel down beside the ladder and walked away,
paralleling the path but careful not to step on it. He encountered the mother
halfway. Guided by the listless moonlight, they quit the field single-file; the
mother first, the father several paces behind, and a hole between them.
© 2000 Gerard Varni
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