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rochesta

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            He leads us into a restaurant filled with the chatter of innocent people.  The air is clear as he brings us to an empty table, pushing the chairs aside for us sit in.

            “Tell me,” he says, steadily reclining, a bold smile on his dark face.  “Wat do dae call you bak ‘ome?”

            “We have no home,” my brother says flatly.

            “Oh,” the man sighs.  “I see.  Were ya looking for a place to stay, den?”

            “That would be nice,” I say.

            “But not why we’re here,” my brother interrupts.

            “To see da Master, den?” asks the man.

            “Yes.”

            “Ah,” the man replies.  “But dis is too much business to be discussing now.  As de master says, night was made to rest in, and dat we shall do now.  And listen up, bot of you.  Much too serious you are.  Learn to smile.”

            “We have been through a lot,” my counterpart answers with a hint of annoyance.

            “Dat is no reason not to laugh once in a while.  Please, let me offer ya two a drink.”

            “No, please.  That’s-“

            “No, it would be my honor.”

            He rises, leaving us alone to sulk in our silence.  My attention slips away, numbing through time and space and over to the window.  Such a sky.  Is there no end to the beauty of this place?  Heaven itself would almost envy its grace if it contained the power of such dark sins.  The sky seems spattered with the blood of a thousand years, tainted with the red that only the radiance of a lovely rose would know.  The clouds, swimming in colors of deep emotion, absorb the warm rays of the sun, sheltering the earth from the cold bitterness of space.

            The streets remain nearly deserted, a few laborers walking happily home, talking and laughing with strangers, perhaps friends.  Who knows?

            The sudden fire of the sun races through the streets.  A small boy dashes through the desert road.  He falls, glancing over.  A cloaked man hovers over him, as if a snake hunting prey.  The boy glances up, whimpering for help- aid- calling silently for someone- anyone- who will reach for his trembling hand.

            I cannot help myself.  “STOP HIM!” I scream.  I rise, hurrying from the restaurant.  Out the door and down to the street below.

            “Wait!” calls the man from behind.  A commotion stirs about the crowd; I can hear their whispers.  But I care not.

            Onto the empty street I glide, kneeling by the weak boy.  The cloaked man is not where he was, nor can he be seen.  Like a phantom, or perhaps a puppet, he has vanished into the shadow, lurking behind his stage.

            The boy lies, panting pathetically on the hard ground.

            The man approaches me.  “Dis,” he says.  “Is de Master’s son, prince Okwe.”

            “Well,” I say.  “He was nearly attacked.  What’re we going to do?”

            “We shall bring him to his father,” the man says.  He turns, striding toward the magnificent tree.

            The prince groans, feebly attempting to rise.

            “Come, come,” the man commands to him.  “Ya can rise and walk.”

            “What’s going on?” my brother asks, out of breath.

            “He’s taking us to see this ‘Master’.”

            “And dare, ya can ask him yar questions,” the man calls back to us.

            We sigh and follow him into the hollow.