Furies

Furies
'It's never the fall that gets you,' said Banner, slowly, clearly and
conclusively. He had finished his Irish whiskey a few seconds earlier,
which had only increased the surety and smugness of his momentary
ecstasy. The dog jumped to its feet, the record clicked to silence and
Furrow turned his head to the flames.
'I have something to show you,' Furrow had replied.

Furrow had invited Banner to his house earlier that day after a chance
meeting outside the town hall. It was lunch time and Banner, accustomed
to taking his packed lunch to the park across from the town hall, had
heard his name audibly announced from somewhere close behind. He did
not at first recognise the voice. They were not friends but had, in
earlier days, shared an office. Both had been 'taken on' straight from
school and as their families had grown larger they had drifted, at
first slowly and then completely apart. They still sent cards at
Christmas, automatically from a list, never with sentiment, never any
message, simply a card with indecipherable names, or just initials. In
spite of this less than exciting past, the two had spent the evening
knee deep in nostalgia for their treacherous, dark and mysterious
pasts.
They had dined sophisticatedly, if not a little old fashioned, and
dressed somewhat excessively for their cares. No one now, no one here
would have seen them. They were in every way their very own solitary
selves. Both living alone, both widowers, neither a beacon to any
living satellites, except the dog, Furrow's dog.
Was it a successful evening? Well, the two men were obviously used to
less expressive times. They spoke with the confidence of experience and
the knowledge of their unflappability. And then...
'What have you done with your life?', asked Furrow.
'Oh, I don't know? I've been so busy,' Banner replied. 'I've never
really thought about it. I, I suppose I have achieved most things. The
things we people do. Yes.'
'No! Banner. I mean what have you done? What will your life mean when
you are gone? What have you achieved beyond life, beyond the oxygen you
have inhaled, beyond the bills you have paid? I mean something beyond
those simple memories. Something beyond expectation? Not a simple man's
pleasures,' Furrow retorted.
Banner sat back, momentarily stunned at the sudden harshness in his
companion's voice. He was not used to being pressed, or indeed it being
suggested that he had missed the point. No one had suggested that to
him in thirty, maybe fifty years. He quaked slightly and rolling his
head on his shoulders, he rebalanced his posture and although not sure
what he was about to say, he made ready for speech. 'What is a life?
Eh, Furrow. You talk of something, something beyond. I have something
real. Yes, I have had hard times and I have had fine times and what is
more Furrow, I have my memories.'
'Your memories,' laughed Furrow. 'You mean, your falsehoods and your
fantasies. Your failings and your compromises. We are old, tired and
lost. We cannot even remember our pasts. We lie, we mislead, we deny
our real memories and for what. For fear of seeing the truth, for fear
of the knowledge that we have fallen to nothing.'
Banner laughed, or choked, took the last sip of the whiskey in his
glass and once again sat back.
'It's not the fall....,' said Banner.
'I have something to...,' said Furrow. 'Come with me.'

They left the warmth and comfort of the lounge and with Furrow leading
the way, they proceeded down the corridor to a door set into the side
of an upward flight of stairs. The door was locked, in Banner's eyes, a
little over cautiously, but Furrow, producing a collection of keys one
after another, was able to gain entry. One final click and the door
opened allowing the darkness of its inner secrets to flow freely
between the two previously closed off worlds.
They said nothing.
Furrow turned to Banner and silently gestured his companion forward
into the place where no light shone. Banner, normally a cautious man,
felt the whiskey warming his yellow heart towards an unknown hue. He
stepped forward as desired, past the threshold, past expectation and
deep into the realm of Erubus, the darkest and most deepest of
pits.

Furrow did not follow. Instead, he replaced the door in its frame,
locked it and returned to the comfort of his lounge with the spirits
sated somewhere deep beneath him.
'Sometimes,' said Furrow to his dog, 'it is indeed the fall that
kills.

****