A dialogue about the two chief world systems
Ch1
It was one of those nights. Late August, when the rains began and the sun was busy emptying its last rays of warmth on the northern continent. Humid and Hot. The worst kind of heat.
Aron lay sprawled on top of his blanket, which seemed to twist and turn beneath him. It would coil around his legs and arms, sticky because of the sweat, trying to constrain him. Suffocate him.
Deciding sleep would not come Aron rose and sat upright on the bedside. The sky was clear outside, a hint of wind sent the trees along the road swaying sloppily back and forth. The window was open and the curtains wide-open, but still the room was stifling. He cursed his parents for not bying an air-conditioner and decided to go down for a sip of water.
Strange. He wasn't thirsty when he opened the door slowly, so as to not make a single sound; or when he eased himself down the stairway – left hand on the railing. But after filling a glass with water and a quick sip, his throat felt absolutely parched. He finished the glass and drank two more before he was sated. He stroked his belly and belched as quietly as possible before heading out of the kitchen. The floorboards creaked in defiance and the door to the kitchen screamed as he opened it.
At night houses, especially old ones, develop a mind of their own. At day, when you trudge up the stairs or open a door, its all silent; But at night, even the tiniest of movement seem to reverbate throug the house. Every step sent a large shriek through the house and Aron feared he might wake his parents. He liked them, but they were not good to deal with at night.
Aron came back to his room and closed the door behind him. It slammed shut with a big noise and Aron remained still for some time with his back hunched and left hand slowly easing of the knob. Sure his parents hadn't heard it, Aron went towards the bed when he made a discovery. He had stopped breathing.
With his hand on the bedpost, just about to jump into bed, Aron's eyes had found the window. Like before there were no clouds and only a small hint of wind, but there was something else. Something strange.
It took some time to really gather what had caught his attention. He knew something was wrong with the sky, but he could not place it. Sure, it was black as always. No clouds were not unusual, it happened every now and then. But something was off, but what though?
Aron opened his left hand and closed the fingers one after one with his right as he found the details on the heavens. Black Sky – Check. No skies – Check. Moon?
That was it. Aron ran to the window and leaned out. There was no Moon. At least, if there was he could not see it. He rubbed his hair frantically and leaned farther out. No, there was no moon up there. As he pondered this fact, he realized too that there were no stars. If was like God's decorator had gone across the vault of heaven and painted over the stars with a big brush. It was pitch black.
How big a brush had he used? Aron thought to himself.
Aron had not time to finish the thought. A noise; like something hard scraping along the ground, was getting nearer. The black sky made the dark on earth even more intense than usual. Only the street lamps managed to light up small patches of the suburban street. He could see the outline of the buildings, sleek facades curving around the crescent street.
A little further down, just to his right – where the sound was coming from – was a grassy roundabout with an old oak bang in the middle. The tree and roundabout was lit up by several lamps planted in black containers on the ground, so he could see the grass and the brown, wrinkly trunk of the tree, but the canopy, the leaves and branches, were all dark. Aron remained silent, waiting. Every now and then he let out some air, took some in, as the sound approached. Closer, then closer still. The ominous scraping continued.
It could not be an animal. No, this was metal, Aron thought to himself. Perhaps a dumpster blown over by the wind – No, the wind was too easy to have blown over a dumper. As the scraping continued, Aron's mind worked in tandem, busy to figure out the origin.
Origin is everything. A jacket over the chair can turn to a ghost if you can't remember laying it there, but if you know that it is a jacket you are able to override it – drive out the ghost. Origins dissipates mystery and fear and makes the world real. Tangible. Not knowing what the sound was drove Aron insane. Leaning ominously out of the window, his mind struggled with the decision whether to go to bed and avoid seeing the monster, or wait until its nature was reavealed. Then he remembered; if he went to bed now the sound would remain a monster and he would get no sleep at all. He's simply lie underneath the blankets, panting and mind spinning, waiting for the monster to enter. If he had the nerve to wait however, he would discover the origin of the sound, vanquish the monster. Yes, thats what he had to do.
Like predicted, no metallic monster trudged onto the uplit roundabout. Aron let out a loud sigh of relief. It was only a boy.
The boy was dragging a large plastic suit with his right hand, in his left was a shovel which scraped against the asphalt as he made his way across the road. Aron reckoned the bag contained something heavy because of how the boy was dragging it. Every slow step seemed like an ordeal and the boy had to stop several times to regain his breath before continuing, his chest heaving visibly – even from the second floor window where Aron was standing. The boy took a step, looked back and then pulled the bag towards him with all his might. All the while, the shovel was against the ground. Scraping away.
The boy made it across the road and onto the roundabout. Aron could discern some of his features, though it was hard due to the very dark night. Like himself, the boy had blonde hair. He was dainty and small, just like Aron. Long legs and narrow shoulders. The boy wore a loose fitting, black hodie and chinos. Worn tennis shoes on his heels, soles almost gone. Something was off. What was in the bag?
Aron's mind battled against the body's urge to go to bed, pull the racing-car blankets over his head and sleep soundly throughout the night; or find out what was in the bag. For some reason, perhaps because there was no moon, he decided to wait.
The boy outside laid the bag down. He then looked around him, suspiciously, clearly not wanting to be seen. His gaze wandered across the buildings, inspecting each and every one. If there was a light on, or noise, the boy would probably pick up the bag and march on. At least, that's what Aron thought, so he remained silent holding his breath. The eyes of the boy cut across Aron's window, hovered abit – just long enough for Aron to get nervous he'd been spotted – then moved on.
After pulling up the hood, the boy grabbed the shovel firmly with both hands and walked around the roundabout a few times with the shovel held high. What was he doing? After a few rounds, the boy stopped and stomped his feet, as if testing the soil. Then he made another nervous inspecton of the neighborhood before placing the shovel to the ground and started digging.
It went on forever. The boy dug and dug. Every now and then he stopped and took a short breather sitting on the curb, before picking up the shovel again and continuing. On a moonless August night, that strange, yet vaguely familiar boy was digging a man-sized hole in a roundabout in Norway.
His face was strange. Arons saw it clearly every time the boy looked up, brushed sweat away from his forehead or looked at the stars. It was unfinished somehow. Like the features had not yet settled.
Aron would strain his eyes, gaze intently on his face every time the boy looked up – but he never got a grasp on the features. He knew the boy had a nose, two eyes and a mouth but everything else was a blur. His jawline, cheeks and forehead seemed to shift about in a tiresome blur. Everytime Aron focused on his face, the features shifted and contorted about each other like when stirring a bowl of mexican soup. Aron was never able to tell what exactly the boy looked like. All he could say was that it was a boy. Just his size. Just his colour.
Halfway through the night. Just as Aron was thinking about going to bed, a man walked across the road towards the boy. The man wore a black waistcoat and shiny leather shoes. His greying hair had been combed back. Slick and proffesional.
The boy did not notice the man at first, busy digging his hole, but jumped as the man said something to him – Aron could not hear what. Whatever it was, the boy seemed surprised. He put the shovel down, jerked his shoudlers and the man took over while the boy climbed the tree.
With precise and deft movements the man dug the hole faster than the boy was able to. Every now and then, the man yelled at the boy in the tree – checking he was still there – before continuing.
Was the boy a lookout? Did the two know each other? Aron asked himself before realizing he did not really care. He just wanted to know what was in the black, plastic blag. He considered waking his parents, but decided not too. This seemed important. So important in fact, that he had to watch it. Because of the strange nature of the night, there was some covert reason why he had too – though he could not tell what – and it felt like the scene was meant for him alone. This was his night, his vision. It might hold some greater significance.
After a while, just as the man had finished digging, the boy descended clumsily from the tree. He almost fell several times. There was something in his arms, but he concealed it.
When the boy got down. He looked at the man and said something. The man opened his arms and shrugged his shoulders, something the kid didn't like since he stomped the ground angrily. Where they arguing?
A dog walked across the street. The pair of strange figures watched it, heads turning slowly, as the creature made its way across the road and dissappeared in the darkness. Opening his arms, the boy revealed what he had been carrying. It was a swallow.
White and fragile. It seemed like the bird was damaged. The boy was cradling it in his hands. He looked up at the man, then down at the bird, and back again several times before the man said something indiscernible and the boy jumped up in surprise. He was clearly happy.
The man offered a strong hand and the boy took it in his, cradling the bird in the other. Hand in hand, the boy and the man walked together away from the roundabout. Rays of lights flickered in between the buildings, striping the asphalt. With sure strides they walked away with their backs to Aron. As the sun reached above the roofs and coloured the world crimson, the pair dissapeared in the morning gloom, still hand in hand. Where had the moon been?
The bag was still there. So was the hole.
What was inside the black bag?
