The Barricades of Heaven

1146 AD (The period between the First and the Second Crusades), The Principality of Antioch (Northern Syria)

She knelt at the altar in the chapel, staring straight ahead at the golden cross placed on the massive stone altar. It occupied the length and breadth of her attention. She did not even notice the cold from the rough stone against her knees, or the heat from the desert seeping through the two arrow slits in the semi circular room. The highest level of the citadel, this was the safest and most peaceful place in the castle.
She did not need the security of the castle though, her faith would keep her safe. Her conviction would shelter her. Her belief would preserve her. Her muttered prayers would reach the ears of God and he would send down his angels to protect her as they were protecting her beloved husband, the Lord of Saone, and the men he had taken with him to defend his charge. She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
She did not hear the grunts and screams of the few soldiers left to guard the castle as they fell to the arrows that arced over the walls. She did not hear the rattle of the chains as the gates were opened to let in the invaders. She did not hear the doors and windows of the houses in the little town slam shut. She did not hear the children whimper in the arms of their mothers. The sound of the hooves on the cobblestones below did not reach her ears. She was listening so hard for the word of God that she could hear nothing else.
Blood flowed down the curved grey steps of the citadel. Blood of the defenders and the attackers, both the same shade of red. Broadsword and scimitar fell on tempered steel and cured hide, tore through mail and flesh, clattered on the stone stairs.
The large oak doors, polished almost to the colour of night, opened behind her. Soft, measured footfalls and fervent muttered prayers echoed in the room. His baggy clothes hissing as he walked around the altar.
"Look at me", he said. His voice was barely over a whisper, sounded like a snake.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, standing behind the cross on the other side of the altar. The desert had made his skin like leather, stiff and dry. A great black beard covered most of his face. The whites of his eyes gave the impression of two moons in the night sky of his face. He placed a helmet on the altar with both hands.
"You know this helm", he said. It wasn't a question.
She nodded, the gossamer trail of her headdress swaying behind her.
"He fought bravely", there was no sarcasm in his voice.
He bent his head slightly and placed a finger on top of the cross, tilting it slightly, dropped it to the ground. The corners of her eyes twitched as it fell to the floor. She fought the impulse to get to her feet and place the cross in its position of privilege.
He rounded the altar and placed the edge of his sword at her throat. The steel felt cold against her skin. She heard the screams of the women and children from the courtyard below. She smoke from the burning houses assaulted her. Her eyes glazed over with the tears she was fighting.
She asked, her voice quivering, "Why are you doing this?"
"For Allah," he replied, his voice barely over a whisper. "For heaven".
"And what will you do when they won't let you in? Will you storm the barricades of heaven?"
He twisted his wrist.

Echoes

He smiled up at her as she tucked the blanket under his chin, her hands smelling of the honey she'd put on his ice cream just a few minutes ago. She gently brushed his cheek with the back of her hand and kissed him good night. Turning off the light as she walked out the room, softly closing the door behind her. He watched the sliver of light narrow until he could only see the outlines of the door. Throwing off the covers shackling him to the bed, he tiptoed to the door, his batman action figure in hand. Putting his ear against the rough wood he strained his ears. He heard the sound of footsteps retreating down the stairs and the TV being turned on.
A grin spread across his face like sunshine on a rainy day. In the blue hue of the night lamp he stuck his arm under the bed and pulled out his action figures, laying them out on the bed, making up his stories about how his superheroes fought to save his world, his city, his house ... his family. They flew around the room in the safety of his little hands, with a whooshing sound that sounded suspiciously like someone blowing. They spoke to each other in the shrill voices only a little different from each others'. They made plans to defeat villains in their cave hideouts or their clandestine space stations with quilted roofs and walls. The plans were always the simplest one, beat the snot out of them. All of this as quietly as possible so that nobody would realize that their puppet master was awake. Time passed and slurred conversations were interspersed with yawns, until finally the world had to wait until morning to be saved.
His little hands let go of their charges as he fell asleep with his head under the quilt cum cave at the foot of the bed.
He opened his eyes to thin slits at the slam of the front door, turned over and sought his dreams again. The sounds of shouting from below didn't touch his blanketed ears. His slumbering consciousness didn't heed the sound of shattering glass or of hurried footsteps up the stairs.
The door of the room adjoining his slammed shut, forcing him into a wanton state of waking. The sound of the bolt being thrown barely registered.
He heard the muffled screams of his father as he banged his fist against the locked door. The slurred speech a sign of how drunk he'd gotten. He heard his mother arguing with him through the door. Sobs held her words back as they tried to get free. He sat upright in his bed, back against the wall. Sleep, a distant memory. Dreams and illusions shattered against reality. He brought up his knees against his chest as the shouting increased in volume. He could hear what they were saying through the thin walls. The sound of his father's fists on the door. He wished they'd stop fighting. He hoped his father would pass out. The shouting continued. Sobs and Stutters against bellows and roars.
The crack of the bolt giving way startled him. He brought his legs closer to his chest, hugging them. His breath came out in laboured gasps close together, as though he'd been sprinting. He heard a sound he recognized all too well, the sound made by his father's belt when it touched flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, the wrinkles in his eyelids making him seem older than his tender age. Rocking back and forth, his back to the wall, his head made a soft knocking sound against wall behind him.
With every crack of his father's belt he heard a whimper. After a while he didn't know which side of the wall it came from.

The Dangling Conversation

She walked up the pitted concrete stairs into the dilapidated building hoping it wouldn't fall down around her ears. The sounds that normally occupy the afternoon seemed conspicuously absent from the apartments in the building. Wondering how many were still occupied she walked down the dark corridor with its single flickering tube light at the end. She walked away from the sun, unflinching and confident towards the unsteady light of flickering tube that wouldn't even be able to serve as a child's night light.
The brown paper bag in her hand seemed to move in the opposite direction she was moving in, the inertia of the coffee cups inside pushing and pulling it, rending it apart. She didn't notice though, all too consumed with the thoughts and ideas playing hide and go seek in her head. Fleeting images, sounds and smells that seemed to stay only long enough to bring up another memory. All of the things she wanted to forget but couldn't. All of the things that had once made her happy and now hurt. All of the things that she hoped to fix here today, perhaps build on. Maybe laugh about a few years from now. She didn't think that would happen.
Turning at the end of the corridor she climbed the aged wooden steps up, unsettling the film of dust that had collected there as the planks creaked under her weight. Her breath came in soft, laboured gasps that exertion had nothing to do with. Her anxiety seemed to multiply with each step she took. Climbing one storey had never been that hard. The checkered tiles on the floor brought back images of long rainy afternoons spent poring over a chessboard with numerous cups of coffee. Her shoes displaced the grime as she moved two squares forward and one to the right ... knight in a tweed suit. The thought brought a smile to her face. An extremely nervous knight.
The green door she stood at was cracked along a groove in the wood, the paint falling off in flakes, collecting at the bottom of the door. Nobody had stood there in some time, the cake of dust at the foot of the door was testament to that. She could hear music through the door, barely audible.
Trembling, she knocked on the door, barely creating any sound at all, knowing that it wouldn't be loud enough to hear. Looking for an excuse not to go in. She gathered up all of her courage with a deep breath and knocked louder. This time more sure of herself, or so she hoped. She heard scrape of furniture on the floor and then nothing. The sound of breaking glass and a muffled curse from within.
She heard the latch being unfastened and saw the door open up a crack. The room inside was almost pitch dark. A bloodshot eye looked out over the chain holding the door in place, the pupil constricting, adjusting to the light. Rage brought the eyebrow down as recognition dawned. The door had almost reached the frame before she put her hand against it.
The eye behind the door shrank, reflecting the force behind the door. She stood holding it back with all of the strength that she could muster and some that she couldn't, as though her desperation had taken physical form. She stood with a pleading expression on her face, looking through the small opening in the door. Finally, small sigh and a few seconds later the pressure on the door stopped. S took a step back. The sound of the chain being unfastened seemed almost like music. A gasp escaped from her mouth as the door opened.
The frail form of a young girl stood in the doorway, standing out against the shadows behind her. The black t-shirt with yellow stains made her pale skin look almost like alabaster. The impassive expression completing the illusion of a statue. She leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed. She looked emaciated, as though she had stopped eating altogether. The tips of the fingers on her right hand had bandages on them. The drum of a crack pipe stuck out of the pocket of her torn denim shorts.
She looked at the alabaster youth, willing herself to say something. An ocean roared in her ears, keeping time with her racing heart. She took a deep breath and just as the words were about to roll, Sirha held up her hand. Bhuvna Naik's eyes were rooted to Sirha's hand and the words she was about to speak stopped cold in her mouth, her promises and assurances never made it out of her head ... out of her heart. She cast her eyes down and noticed the marks on Sirha's arms, the small red dots standing out against the alabaster skin. The places where the clots had healed seemed just a little lighter than the rest of her arm. What was she into this time?
Ms Naik looked up into the eyes of her onetime lover and the love of her life to find only rage and resentment staring back at her. The door closed and once again reasserting the borders of their lives. Taking her fountain pen from her jacket pocket she scribbled a message on one of the tissues from the brown paper bag and put them down at the door. She walked away with a tear spoiling the makeup on her cheek, the sound her shoes made echoing down the hallway.
The tissue fell from its place atop the paper bag, the ink still drying. "Whenever you're ready".
--
I first introduced Ms Naik and Sirha in "A Pinch Of Soul".
Approximately 5% (200 million people) of the worlds population is addicted to an illegal drug.

Song for the Asking

He scratched the beard that covered most of his face, the patch over his left eye taking care of the rest. His dry lips cracking in the recesses of blackness, trying to hold onto the mouthpiece of the saxophone. He leaned with his back against a wall, decorated with graffiti, cracked, old, dirty ... he felt a kinship with it. They supported each other, a certain symbiotic relationship that started so very long ago. His coat swung around as he looked at the people milling about him, trying to catch their eye, but they gave him as much attention as they did the wall he was holding up. Pulling his thoughts away from his faces made of stone, he focused his breath into the mouthpiece, trying desperately to hold onto the melody he'd started with. The black case lay open in front of him, still empty except for a few small coins. Looks like he was going hungry tonight.
The setting sun tried hard to peep out from behind the clouds. He played with his eye closed, surrendering to the rhythm his mind created,. The rhythm his fingers and breath translated into music, as though they were acting of their own accord. The dented yet smooth surface of the sax felt warm under his palms. The keys, smooth with age, felt familiar as his fingertips caressed them. He poured his soul into the blues. The notes, tangible in his mind, felt soft ... soothing, yet cold, somehow distant, incomplete. Behind his wrinkled dancingeyelid he watched the notes climb to the clouds, saw them lose their way and vanish into nothingness. Losing his place again, he opened his eyes, greeted by a few more coins, worn with use and age, like him, and a little girl staring up at him.
Her pink satin frock with the white sashes, against the drab background they were set in, swayed as she moved, dancing slowly. The brown teddy bear with blue eyes and a black nose that she hugged seemed too big for her little hands. Her big brown eyes, wide open with curiosity, staring at him with wonder in their eyes. He raised his head in a questioning gesture, wondering why she was staring at him.
She shuffled her feet under his gaze, drawing circles in the dust, buying time. She took a deep breath.
"Mister, I don't have any money to pay you, but could you please play 'Humpty Dumpty' for me?"
Her voice was like honey, oozing with innocence and sincerity. She suddenly seemed woefully out of place in her gray surroundings. She reminded him of the patch in the clouds where the sun seemed to be trying to get through.
He smiled his crooked smile, "Sure, sweetie, my name's Thompson. What's yours?"
She looked at him through narrowed eyes, hands on her hips. "My mom used to tell me not to give my name to strangers, so I'm not going to tell you."
Laughing, he put the mouthpiece to his lips. The notes came clear, loud, steady, for the first time in long time. She sang the rhyme in her honey voice, loud, clear ... sweet. He closed his eye and leaned against the wall behind him, losing himself to the music. Her voice faded into the myriad of notes.
He opened his eye to a world a little less gray.

Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate

The door moved soundlessly on its new fangled hinges into the dark room. He waited for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, intruded upon only by the glow of the street lamp three storeys below the large window and the full moon, so very far above it. The almost silence seemed solid, a living thing holding its peace. He tiptoed into the room so as not to break it. The sound of his leather shoes stretching to accommodate the movement of his feet echoed in his ears. He held his breath as though hoping that he could make up for the animation of his feet with the stillness of his lungs. The large bed occupied most of the room, the white sheets dropping off the sides of the bed until they almost touched the floor.
The only occupant of the room lay silent and peaceful, protected from the world behind a veil of slumber.
He walked softly toward the bed, the silence forgotten, all of his attention focused, his heart beating as though he'd run a marathon. He placed the styrofoam cup he was holding on the end table and stared down at her face.
"Beautiful, so beautiful. You always looked cute when you were asleep ... peaceful. Quite a change from the bundle of energy you normally are ... ", he whispered. Looking down at the woman in the bed, the corners of lips turned up in an almost smile, the sadness in his eyes pushing them down.
He sat beside her on the bed. Her head on the pillow, face framed by the deep black shoulder length locks, highlighted by the soft moonlight streaming in through the window, looked exactly as it had so very long ago. The soft ticking of the wall clock seemed an unwelcome intruder, reminding him that he couldn't stay too long. Reminding him that if he did he wouldn't be able to do what he had come for. He reached for the cup, the coffee in it had turned cold while he paced outside the room gathering his courage, trying to figure out what to say. Trying to make this seem right somehow. A soft smile tickled the corners of his lips. He shook his head slightly.
"My greatest weakness ... how many times have you told me to stop drinking this sludge. And then you go and insist that you should make it for me. 'The froth is the most fun part.' It takes so long for you to make a single cup of coffee, but it's always worth it ... just to see the satisfaction on your face", he smiles at her, swirling the coffee in the cup, hoping to replicate the feat that she'd gotten down to an art.
The faint sound of a bus rushing past the building, winding its way to its destination.
"Remember the first time we went out for coffee. You were so late. I was waiting at the bus stop for almost an hour", he snickered into the cup. "I'll never forget that sheepish grin you had on your face when you got of the bus. Then that puppy dog expression. That would melt anybody's heart .... always worked on me."
His eyes fell on the silver locket glistening in the moonlight - 'Angel'.
"The first fight we ever had. You remember that. Those lockets you wanted to make out of clay."
He looked up at the ceiling of the room, noticing the cracks in the smooth white surface. "We barely spoke for days after that. I felt so terrible. I remember coming over with the flowers and that box of candy ...what was it ... your favourite kind. The expression on your face changed so quickly once you saw those. I never seen a frown turn into a smile that quick!"
He chuckled into his cup. He moved to sit more comfortably on the bed. His hand brushed hers. Gently opening her fingers he held it, the warmth from her hand seeping into his cold, sweaty palm.
"Talking to you used to be so easy, so simple. I'd never have to worry about what I said to you, never had to look before I leaped ... with you. I don't know how much of money the company had to spend on my phone bills just for the time that I spent in the office talking to you."
He brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her eyes.
"I always found it strange that you never called me by name. You'd just say 'listen' everytime you wanted my attention. Why is that? I remember how you laughed when I'd respond to that with 'listening'. It always got such a rise out of you. It was so easy to make you laugh."
Grinning, he took another sip of his coffee. The bitter taste at the bottom of the glass making him grimace. Throwing the almost empty cup into the bin he hunched over as though the act had sapped him of all of his remaining energy. He rested his face in his palms. The sweat from his brow finding its ways between his fingers. The weight of what he had come to do making him hunch over further. Only his elbows resting on his legs keeping him from falling over.
"I'm sorry, Angel. I'm sorry for so many things. I'm sorry I didn't take you out dancing. I'm sorry I never learned how to dance, I know how much you love it."
He looked at her, tears glistening in his eyes.
"I'm sorry for what I'm going to do. I just don't have the strength to go on anymore. I feel like I'm letting you down, like I'm letting us down. I'm leaving town tomorrow, I have a new job far away from here."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope that he placed on the side table.
"This should explain everything."
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. He touched the locket she wore, running his fingertip over the cursive script.
"Merry Christmas, Angel. I love you."
He pushed himself off the bed and walked to its head, reaching behind it, all the while keeping his eyes on her. The soft click of a switch being turned off. The room seemed to become suddenly more silent, still as the surface of a pond in winter, broken only the ticking of the clock and the sound of just one person breathing.
Mr. Kaunds brushed the cheek of his Angel one last time and walked out of the room into the corridor of the hospital.
--
Mr. Kaunds is one of the people I introduced more than a year ago in 'A Pinch of Soul'.
Euthanasia is a concept and an act that we all have to learn to deal with. We can't choose how we're born, but we should be able to choose how we die. Some of us are unable to do even that. If nothing else, we should at least be able to die with dignity.