Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire!
What the hand that dare maze the fire?
And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the hammer? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
***
They returned like conquering heroes. Neal paraded in at the head of the army, waving to the cheering crowd. In his mind they were happy, though in reality they were there because they knew that if they didn’t come then the army would soon be after them. Jason was horrified to see the slaves arriving in chains, first marched across the mountains and then treated like animals. He had tried not to think about what they were doing, but now they had brought back spoils of war and that was hard to ignore. He almost fell over when he saw them from the balcony. Jay leaned against the wall, badly shaken, his thoughts and heart racing. He felt sharp stabbing pains inside his chest and fought to breathe.
By the time the others had arrived he had regained his composure. To show weakness like that, well, it seemed unwise. Jay hated what they had done, but to show them his fear would be the end of him. He joined them at the feast in the Hall of Elders, toasted their success, and felt like dying. Simon had the battle-hardened army resting, recuperating from the Outlander War, and he had slaves from that crushed city serve their needs, fetching them food and drink. The fortress-city had fallen rather quickly after the death of Alex Rothrock, and its survivors were dejected, a conquered people in body and in spirit. Human cattle to be used. Jay had little appetite at that meal, but still raised his glass in every toast.
That night he had a great deal of trouble sleeping. His sheets were dishevelled as he fought to find a comfortable spot, but he could find no peace. The dark silence of the night seemed like an accusation, reminding him that he had remained quiet while his friends had descended into darkness, bringing the country with them. He had done nothing to stop any of it.
Jason remembered his childhood, being afraid of the dark. Alex would tell him there was a monster under his bed or in the closet, the way older brothers do, but Jay used to believe the stories. Most children turn the lights on, or get their parents. Jason would lie in his bed and shake in fear, every night-sound amplified by his imagination into monsters. Slobbering beasts and hungry wolves, creatures with fur and claws. Now, years later, he was again a frightened child, shivering in the dark.
Only now, the darkness was alive.
“Hello Jason.” A voice hissed from the void.
Jason would have screamed, but only let out a very tiny yelp. Little boys who don’t have the courage to hit a light switch a foot away apparently grow up to be men who cannot even get up the strength to scream. The boogeyman was real, and Jay felt his insides shrivel up into a cold little ball, tight in his chest. His heartbeat was like a frightened rabbit, so fast he thought he might explode.
“‘Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.’ And yes, Jason, there are things that go bump in the night.” The voice (that terrible, terrible voice!) told Jason, and it seemed amused, as if death could sound like it was laughing. As if a cold winter wind was happy that it was covering flowers in a killing frost. Jason’s weakened fingers clutched at the edge of his blanket. Like a child, he had this irrational hope that if he could pull it over his head the voice would go away.
“I… I don’t b-b-believe in you…” He whispered, but with no real strength.
The voice in the darkness laughed. “Oh yes you do. You have always believed in me. That’s always been your weakness Jason. That the darkness scared you more than you loved the light. It seemed so much closer, so much more real.”
The voice was like a dagger, piercing him. He had known his faith wasn’t strong enough, and the frightened thoughts that came to him at night when his conscience had awakened had now returned with the night’s voice. But the source of that voice seemed to have no conscience. It was blacker than midnight, it was the source of darkness; it was here for him, to drag him down where no light could find him ever again…
“I’m not here for you yet,” the voice said. “But soon. Perhaps I’ll poison your food. Or maybe I’ll creep up behind you some dark night in the corridor. Or sit beside you at a banquet and slide my knife between your ribs. Mayhap I’ll startle your horse when you go riding, or push you down the stairs. If I can reach you here, safe in your room, I can reach you anywhere, now can’t I? Be seeing you, little Jason.”
Jason lay there, sleepless, knowing that the voice was never gone. The darkness never really left. It might recede when the sun came back, but you could not escape the darkness that was in your mind. It followed you like your shadow, everywhere you went.
14 comments
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May 10, 2008 at 2:38 am
Fiona
“..and what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?” – W B Yeats
May 10, 2008 at 3:14 am
nomananisland
Thank you Fiona, that was PERFECT.
May 10, 2008 at 4:39 am
Allan T Michaels
Well that was dark. And very ominous.
I concur, Fiona – that’s perfect.
Also, Gavin, I put a new template on the new story. Tell me what you think.
May 10, 2008 at 8:28 am
nomananisland
DUDE, when I call people DUDE in caps I’m being mostly facetious.
But thank you.
May 10, 2008 at 1:13 pm
Katie
man that guy is creepy…
yes I know that’s already been established, but that was the overall feeling I got from this chapter. Creepiness.
May 11, 2008 at 7:11 pm
lethebashar
Your prose is solid here. I’m engaged by your knowledge of your characters and how you go between them so adeptly. The Blake poem sets the tone for the piece, a prophetic, haunting feeling. Blake’s poem has something of a reverence for God in it also. REading your piece reminds me of Beowulf, the mead halls and the discussion of dragons. Do you take your influence from that story or others like it?
I wanted to also point your attention to my philosophy blog. REading your comments on Novelr, I thought of you . . . YOu’re one of those writer’s who has a definite philsophical dimension. Quoting Donne and Blake, you’ve got to . . . anyways, read my latest post at http://www.philquotes.blogspot.com
May 11, 2008 at 11:33 pm
nomananisland
My university background is in literature, philosophy and theology.
So I’ve read Beowulf, Le Mort d’Arthur, the stories of Charlemagne (which inspired Robert Browning’s “Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower came” which in turn inspired Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, another influence).
Then there’s Narnia, Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit, Shakespeare, the Bible, Star Wars and Indiana Jones, and Superman.
Not to mention Nietzsche, Aristotle, Kant…
I read too much, really.
May 16, 2008 at 2:47 am
lethebashar
Do you like Tennyson?
May 16, 2008 at 3:01 am
lethebashar
I’d like to give you some constructive criticism but I don’t want to overstep myself. I can see that you’re an extremely prolific writer, and that your tale (as you said) has grown into a labyrinth of sorts. One thing I’d suggest and what I’m doing on my site is to give a summary every twenty blog entries or so. That way the reader can know exactly what’s going on if he or she wants to read from the most current entry. Here’s an example of what I’m doing: http://lethebashar.blogspot.com/2008/05/summary.html
And don’t forget my philosophy blog . . . I’d love to hear from you.
May 16, 2008 at 6:38 am
nomananisland
The way this text is designed, there’s no way that would work. From the first paragraph to the last, the entire story has a plan. No summary could possibly equip a reader to jump in and start with a current chapter.
Television works that way, as it is serial in nature. I started watching ER in season 3 and didn’t really care what happened in 2 or 1. Most shows have summary episodes and clips to help viewers keep up. I respect it for serials.
But No Man an Island is not like that. You need the whole story to comprehend the message and emotional resonance of what I’m doing.
May 16, 2008 at 6:48 am
nomananisland
And yes, I’m aware of Tennyson. The Lady of Shalot, Idylls of the King…
May 18, 2008 at 12:43 am
lethebashar
I guess our work differs in that respect. At least my purpose is to create a narrative that is open. I like the idea of “open architecture”. Robert Musil, an Austrian novelist who wrote The Man without Qualities, coins this phrase. I’m curious as to why you think this wouldn’t work with your narrative. Essentially my work is an investigation of character, and that’s why I think it works for me. You’ve read my work, would you agree? Or do you think my readers also need the whole narrative?
May 18, 2008 at 2:41 pm
nomananisland
Your story is definitely a character study. With a dynamic, life-like character, there will be many places and times in their life that are “story worthy” and these create episodes.
Episodic or serial stories, by their nature, allow for many changes across the tapestry of the narrative. And so, any reader can enter a particular episode and find involvement in it, without knowing everything that came before or came after. In your case, your Lethe character is interesting in Vegas, regardless of whether or not I read what happened to him in Spain.
I will come back to this in more detail later, but No Man an Island does not work like that. It has a meticulous plan from beginning to end.
May 18, 2008 at 6:10 pm
nomananisland
I said I would say more: This link is the “more.” 🙂