The Moth

The Moth

"There's a picture, a painting. It's a shoreline with cliffs, there's a
house on the cliffs. Bellow the cliffs there's a pebble beach which
curves round and up into more distant cliffs. The sky is dark and grey.
So is the sea. But at the horizon there's light, red against the cloud,
and a smidgen of clear blue sky. But all that doesn't really matter.
Not as much as the boat. There's a small boat just off the bay. Three
men row the boat against the wind and the waves. They row as hard as
they can. They push the boat towards the shore. But the boat never
moves. Whenever I see the painting they have never moved that boat, not
a bit. Not how ever hard they push and they do push hard."
A train rattled overhead. Kibo looked up. A chimney silhouetted against
the silk twilight sky pumped out its black smoke, obscuring the stars.
He'd lost his train of thought. They sat beneath a tree, its canopy
stretched out grotesquely in an unnatural dome, enveloping them. He was
tired, wanted to sleep. But he could not. The cold, and the smell, they
stopped him. He breathed short shallow breaths to avoid them infecting
his nostrils. Pinchas jolted violently. His eyes burst open. He was
frozen still, his eyes glaring. "Were you listening to me?" Demanded
Kibo. "Didn't you here me?"
"I heard." Pinchas searched for something under his blanket. Eventually
he produced an old leather-bound booklet, brown, worn away and frayed
at the edges. "This'll get me there"
"No no no." Kibo shook his head violently. "I'm going were your going."
Moist clouds escaped his mouth as he talked. He grabbed at them, trying
to push them back in. "That's as much mine as it is yours." He leaned
forward, peering for a better look. His blanket slipped and a pulse of
icy air bit at the nape of his exposed neck. He covered up fast. "What
is it?"
"Never you mind."
The white clouds moved swiftly across the sky, as if they had somewhere
better to be. Momentarily, when the whim took them, they would allow a
star to peep through from the black mat into which it was encrusted.
But the moon shone through, bright, penetrating each and any cloud that
dared challenge it. A fixed point. A fixed time and place. It had
nowhere to go in either. It would always return. But the clouds paced
over it. Humbled by it, yet immodest. Bold and brash, hurrying.
Hurrying to nowhere.
"We had our last conversation." Kibo spoke suddenly.
"Who's we?"
"Emily and I."
"Oh. What d'you mean?"
"She finally told me to sod off. I knew it was coming. Surprised it
took so long. You know why I did it."
"You loved her."
"No I didn't, honestly. I was telling the truth. You believe me. You
know why I did it. I told her. Not for the sake of the past: not for
nostalgic or sentimental reasons, that would be stupid. And not for the
present, the present is only pain. But for the future. No 'whatifs'. I
could of loved her. I would have loved her. And she me, you heard the
tape. She was scared. I hate that word."
"Love?" Pinchas raised his eyebrows, frowning slightly.
"Yes. Don't use it. I shouldn't. It's bollocks. It's a fallacy. All it
is is an addiction. Like any other. You're just addicted to a person.
It's not worth the pain."
"So she was right."
"What?"
"She was right to be scared"
"Yes. Suppose she was. But you can't always run?"
"Why not? That's what you're doing now. That's what I'm doing, and I
can't seem to get rid of you."
"You love me really." Kibo said and smiled, or was he smirking? He
couldn't tell.
"I thought we didn't use that word. No I don't. I suffer you. You
invade my consciousness. Seep into it, into me and now I can't get rid
of you."
He didn't know whether her detested him, or loved him. Could he trust
him? No. For to stoop to be so close to him, he must be low himself,
must be degenerate, conniving, wrong. Or else it was all an act, a
ploy. The barbed comments were not ironic but a double bluff. And he
really did detest him, or worse. What was to be sure was that as he was
so trust worthy, he most definitely was not to be trusted. So, more or
less both Kibo and Pinchas felt about the other.
They pulled one another to their feet and began to walk. The city
remained asleep. The air was cold and sharp. It filled the nostrils,
biting at them. The city was still. The air was still. Both tasted
bitter. They walked in silence, at a steady brisk pace, clutching their
bags under their arms. Nothing moved. One foot overlapped the other,
and again and again, but that did not count. They passed tall dirty
vertical buildings that seemed to lean over Kibo. Each threatened to
collapse onto him. They waited for him to pass to unburden their weight
onto him. Then they'd pull back at the last moment. There was silence.
Kibo broke the silence, "Where are we going?"
"We need to go here first." Pinchas said, his eyes glued to the
chewing-gum-encrusted pavement.
"Where?"
"Here." Pinchas turned right into a dark ally. It stank. Some virgin
rays of light fizzled through the black painted grates of the heavy
metal fire-escape overhead. The stench was urine, and rotten rubbish. A
black cat darted out from behind a bundle of rubbish bags. Kibo jumped.
Pinchas led them down a steep concrete staircase. The steps were big,
bold, with sharp threatening edges. And they were wet. Both men gripped
the shaking handrail as they lowered themselves down.
The room was dark, lit gently by two candles that burned in a corner.
It was large, but a number of bookshelves protruded at right angles to
the walls, combining to make the place seem small and oppressive. Books
covered everything. The dusty smell of old volumes infested the air. It
intoxicated them. Near the candles sat a man. He was small. His white
hair was trimmed short, but a large moustache had been allowed to flow
over his lip. His small beady eyes peering over thin-rimmed glasses
fixed on Pinchas as he approached. Pinchas strolled over to him. He was
tense. "Have you got it?" he demanded.
The man hardly glanced away. Smiling slightly he handed Pinchas a large
brown envelope. Pinchas opened it, looked inside, and smiled. "It's
going to be fine." Said the old man, his voice steady and low. His
breath smelt. Pinchas' shoulders relaxed slightly. He smiled. "I know."
he said.
They walked in silence. Kibo had been here with Emily. They had walked
here. They had braved the throng of the crowd. Had forced their way
through the noise, then escaped it. They had climbed over a tall metal
fence, flinching as they crossed the pale of its spikes. Then alone in
the sudden calm they had sat and talked for hours. There was a path
leading from the gate through a garden to the door of the church.
They'd sat on a bench at the side of the path, just near here.

Pinchas took them into a bar. It was large, but barely lit. Men leaned
at the bar, alone, and drank. The back-bar was all mirrors. Two
dishevelled unrecognisable men reflected back at them. Both intruders
turned away. The music told them that night swimming deserved a quiet
night. Kibo had once swum under a setting sun to an island in the south
of a small sea that lay beneath mountains. The lights that littered the
jagged horizon of those mountains were the place he had been born. He
reached the island. The thick undergrowth made it hard to stand. Thorns
pricked his bare feet. He turned to swim back. The sun had set. The
stars now covered both sky and sea. They were everywhere, in every
direction. He swam and the small warm waves lashed gently at his face.
He was getting tired. Every gentle wave brought water gushing into his
nostrils. His arms were heavy. He ducked under the surface into a world
of calm nothingness and there he swam until the compulsion to life
forced him up. Waves again pushed him back. The tide pulled him further
from the shore. He swam towards a far light that he could not imagine
reaching. Above him and below the stars glistened. High to his right
his place of birth twinkled at him. It was a quiet night. Night
swimming deserves a quiet night. He understood. There would be no
witness. His arms were heavy. He swam. Was he moving? He plunged under.
Calm. Swimming alone, exhausted in warm kind waters which pulled him
towards them. Which did not want him to leave them, ever. He swallowed
water. He could see his body washing ashore. He found his feet. He
waded out. Emily was with him. His cloths were gone. Some bastard had
nicked his cloths and towel. She was not there. She could not be seen,
nor heard. But she could be felt. She had made sure of that. He walked
out, up the beach. Things were different. He'd swum to the next
village. Naked, wet, alone he walked through a foreign land of
manicured lawns and barbecues, of sunshades and well lit paved paths:
of tourists. He came to the village gates and walked sheepishly across
the no-man's-land to his commune.

"Don't talk to him, not now. You can later, but then keep a lid on it.
We can't trust him. Remember that." Pinchas' eyes fixed on a far corner
where Kibo could see nothing. "He'll help us for now." They walked
across the bar to a corner not visible until you were almost within it.
The table and the large fat man that sat at it were surrounded by dark
wooden carved walls. Kibo and Pinchas slid beneath the table and along
the bench. The man nodded to Pinchas. He ignored Kibo. Pinchas nodded
back. They talked calmly in hushed tones. The man was a trucker. On his
way to meet them he had picked up a young hitchhiker. The boy had been
resting at a truck stop, hoping to cadge a lift. He had spread all his
clothes out on a flat piece of grass to form a mattress. The boy lay
there, hypnotised by an incredible array of stars, a canopy that
extended in every direction around the circular horizon, even bellow
him. The next day he had given the boy a lift. They had not spoken.
That night as the boy lay beside him in his cab, he began to touch him.
He allowed his short chubby fingers to rub up and down the boy's back.
He pressed the boy's flesh with is own. He stoked the boy's skin. Then
after a time he began to allow his fingers to delve lower, then lower
still. The boy tuned over. He stopped. The boy turned back onto his
stomach. Tentatively, autonomously, the hands resumed their rubbing.
Then lower, lower still. The boy started up with short abrasive
unintelligible jabbering. He stopped rubbing. He nodded as Pinchas
spoke. He understood most but nodded to all. He just wanted to get
behind the wheel. Kibo listened, but understood little. He gazed into
the candle that stood at the centre of the table between Pinchas and
the new man. As he looked closer everything else turned darker. He saw
a moth circling the flame. The moth flew into the flame and emerged as
smoke.

They walked out across a large empty concrete car park. The sun had
risen. It shone aggressively across the earth, beating at their eyes.
They walked over to the truck and climbed in. The beast rumbled into
life then purred loudly, vibrating beneath them. They drove in silence,
passing swiftly and steadily through the waking city. And the city was
powerless to hold them.
The truck stopped. "What's going on?" Kibo asked. No reply. Pinchas
thought about hiding. What a stupid idea: there was nowhere to hide. If
any real inspection were made then they'd be arrested. "It's a check
point." He said after while. Kibo was happy he wasn't being ignored.
The truck moved forward, Kibo was relieved. The truck jolted to a stop.
There was a knock at the window. Kibo tried to swallow the apple lodged
in his throat. The window opened. A man in black uniform with gold
insignia stood at window. A demand was politely, menacingly,
terrifyingly made. Kibo swallowed hard. He was going to try to push the
apple through with his fingers. But first he'd wait and see if he was
going to be arrested. Pinchas was calm. He pulled papers from a brown
envelope and handed them to the man. A bead of sweet rolled slowly down
the side of his forehead, tickling him as it dropped to his cheek. The
man ruffled through the papers. He inspected one closely. He asked
short questions. Kibo couldn't understand. Pinchas answered. The man
handed the envelope back. The truck burred back to life, vibrated more
viciously than before and moved forward, away from the city Kibo had
never left before.

Days passed, little was said. The driver's seat bounced at every jolt,
providing the only interest as they passed steadily through the
desolate toneless landscape. Kibo pressed his cheek to the window,
staring blankly at the dull world drifting past. There was no movement
but for the wind, wrestling with the few trees, wrenching leaves from
branches. In the city he was one among many: a faceless ill-conceived
drone among a multitude of meaningless drifting bodies. Here he was one
among nothing. He began to knock his head against the glass in a slow
satisfying beat.
Pinchas rationed the food. They ate little. They slept together,
huddled for warmth on the driver's bed, the ceiling inches above them.
The driver fought his hands. He could not sleep. He must not look at
them. He grew hot. His hands twitched at his sides. He clenched them
into tight fists. Kibo slept. He had a flying contraption. It clicked
tightly into place around his arms and body. He flew over trees, over
many trees. He wasn't scared. He swooped and dived and rose. He glided.
He rode the wind. Below him flew flocks of white birds. He needed to
make it across the sea. He must cross the sea. But his energy failed.
He needed energy to fly. He must rest before the sea. He landed on a
cliff overlooking the waves and the sea wind caught his hair. They were
there. He ran, tripping around trees, diving across obstacles. They
were close behind him, after him. He was faint. It was dark. He saw
Pinchas through the black, lying by his side, lightly stroking the
brown leather wallet. Rain was crashing into the roof just above,
thunderous like a stampede of miniature elephants. Water gushed beneath
them. It streamed down the windows in small torrents all around
them.

They drove onward for a long time. Eventually they stopped. Pinchas
wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to the driver. The door
swung open and cold crisp air rushed into the cab. Pinchas chucked
their bags to the ground. He climbed carefully down. Kibo followed. The
truck that had begun to feel like home sped away, amercing them in a
cloud of choking brown dust. That died down, now they were exposed.
They walked. Pinchas led them into a wood that appeared suddenly to
Kibo's surprise. At its edge the trees were largely bare, exposed to
the battering wind that swept behind Pinchas and Kibo, pushing them
forward. They could not feel their bare hands. Kibo's nose and ears
were red, numb, raw. They burned and bit him. Had he a knife he'd have
sliced them clean off. They passed further into the trees. Here there
was some light. Slices of it pierced in through the branches,
illuminating odd patches of bare frozen earth. Then the trees grew
bolder, obscuring the little light there was, gorging on it, keeping it
to themselves. Everything was blanketed in thin twinkling frost. They
waded through a wide shallow stream. It ran blood red. Kibo tripped and
fell. Pinchas yanked him up and without a pause turned and continued.
Kibo hurried after, shuffling quickly carefully over the uneven ground.
Threatened again by dark towering monstrosities, Kibo felt almost
secure.
The trees stopped. The ground rose. Pinchas stopped. He raised his arm
to ensure Kibo stopped too. "What is it?" Kibo asked. Pinchas hissed at
him. He lay down silently, his front against the raised earth, his eyes
just peering over its summit. Kibo followed suit. Before them was the
expanse of a clearing. Men in black uniforms with golden insignia
pulled back on the leads of large brown dogs with sharp teeth. Many
more men were there. They wore thin dull uniform pyjamas useless
against the freeze, with no hats. They all looked the same. Each had a
shovel. Each dug. Rather each fought the frozen earth. Their backs were
bent. The well-uniformed men passed between the others. They beat the
other men with long thin wooden truncheons. Dogs barked. A crack
sounded behind them. Pinchas spun round and onto his feet. He stared
into the eyes of a black-uniformed man. Nothing moved. Kibo turned.
Pinchas smashed his fist into the man's jaw. The man winces. Pinchas
smashed his fist against the man's temple. The man fell. His hat fell
to the earth. His large incredulous eyes glared up at these men. He
spat. Blood splattered across Kibo's face. A tooth caught him in the
eye. Pinchas pulled his foot back and brought it crashing down into the
man's head. "Let's go." He said.

They walked as fast and as quietly as they could as far as their legs
would carry them then further still, fuelled by fear alone. With every
shadow of a tree they passed in the darkening night the fear diminished
slightly. But still it burned strong. Then it changed. They no longer
expected at any moment to be bought down by a bullet in the head. The
cold flame that had enveloped them died away. It was superseded by a
different feeling. It was as though beneath their chests their souls
were being slowly squeezed of their juices, crushed within a thick
fist. They reached a road. Pinchas instantly turned left. He walked
just off the dirt track, always behind a couple of trees. His head was
fixed forward, his eyes glued to the ground. At no time did he turn to
see whether Kibo was still behind him. Kibo walked behind Pinchas,
struggling to keep pace.

The trees stopped. They walked past the first house of what Kibo
thought might be a village. The houses were small, made of dark timber.
Pinchas stopped at one of the doors and waited for Kibo. Kibo was
overjoyed. Together they walked into the little bar. Its low ceiling
was lit by small upturned lights, and by candles that burned at each
table. Behind the bar stood a tall thin woman, her black-brown hair
flowing over slight shoulders, her eyes the colour of mahogany. Pinchas
approached and leaned on the bar. Kibo perched on a stool beside him,
his legs dangling. He looked around. An old man stroking his long wide
flat beard looked up from the book he was reading. Kibo thought his
beard might have been his jumper he had lost as a child. Pinchas caught
her eyes. They fixed to his. A silent moment passed. She put down a
blue tea towel as she turned and walked slowly around the bar. She wore
a small white shirt, the fabric taught against her breasts, and a long
deep-blue denim skirt, ripped off at the ankles. But when she walked,
for a moment with each step, a slit that ran the skirt's length
revealed her stockings and her thick strong smooth thighs above them.
Kibo was transfixed. Kibo blushed. To his amazement she walked right up
to Pinchas and stood square close before him. The world melted away.
Time stopped. Pinchas hesitated before he spoke, "Hit me. Kiss me. Do
something!" he said. She stood in silence, looking into his eyes.
"How's Bazinka?" he asked.
"She's dead." Said the woman. He flinched.
"I'm sorry." He lent over tentatively and kissed her on the cheek.
Their lips brushed gently as he pulled away. "I had to?" He stopped
short. "There was no way I could?" There was nothing he could say. She
lifted her hand and brought her thumb to his lips.
"Stop." She said. "We needed you, but I understand." He turned to
Kibo.
"This is Kibo," he said. Kibo blushed the colour of raspberries. "Kibo,
this is Elka".
"Hello." Said Elka. Kibo couldn't say a word. Instead he smiled.
"I'm going to get Anna." Pinchas said in a low voice.
"Don't."
"I have to."
"No you don't." Elka's voice quivered slightly.
"She's all I've got." 'You've got me.' Thought Kibo.
"I won't let you. You've got no right -"
"I have every right," Pinchas snarled. He grasped the brown wallet.
"You'll help me." He grabbed Elka, pulling her close. He held her
tightly to him. Her breasts pressed to his chest. He looked down at
her. Her slender back arched, her neck craned up. Her chin nestled at
his neck. He rested his forehead against hers. Their noses softly
touched. "Please help me," he whispered.
It was night, black. Dark clouds obscured the stars. There was no moon.
Pinchas walked silently. This was home no more. There is no home. Home
is the noxious illness of humanity. It binds, suffocates, crushes the
spirit. It lies; promises it makes flutter away and like butterflies
are ugly beneath false beauty. It is the vulture of human souls. He
slipped silently between the houses with Elka gripped tightly by the
wrist. She would come with him. He choked on a whiff of burning
timber.
They came to a door. Elka produced a key. She pushed it into the lock
and tuned slowly. The door glided open. They entered. They were in a
different world: someone else's world, someone else's abode. The
pictures on the wall, the carpets, the handrail. Someone knew
automatically where these were. Elka knew a little. Pinchas stumbled.
They creped up the stairs. A stair creaked. Someone snored. Pinchas'
blood pounded through his temples. They passed along a passage. Like a
bass drum held to each ear. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He
wanted to run. He stayed still. Elka opened another door. They walked
into a child's bedroom. A girl slept calmly in a white bed, a delicate
mosquito net draped from the ceiling. It was Anna. "You wake her."
Pinchas ordered in a whisper. "Wait." He crouched under the net, bent
over the bed and slowly slid his hands under the sleeping girl. He
lifted her gently, little by little. She was so light. She moaned. His
eyes grew large as he looked at her. She was calmness and rest and
beauty and? he had no more words. He stroked her soft hair. She smelt
of lavender. Elka prodded his arm. He looked up at her frowning and she
motioned to the door.
Anna was still asleep when they found Kibo. He had not moved. He was
huddled beneath a tree, muttering to himself. He was startled to see
the party.
He looked quizzically at Pinchas. "Get up." Pinchas said. "You wanted
to come." Anna awoke. She was shivering. Pinchas whipped off his coat
and wrapped it around her, kneeling beside her. She was scared. She
looked at him startled. Then she glanced around, her eyes darting to
Kibo and then to Elka where they rested. "It's alright." Elka said. She
hugged the girl. Anna was motionless, limp in Elka's arms. Then she
suddenly squeezed Elka like an infant monkey, gripping its mother's
back. Pinchas dragged the brown wallet from his tight pocket. From it
he produced a picture of a younger version of himself hugged by a woman
who held a baby nestled between them. He handed the picture to
Anna.

They walked. By daybreak they were almost at the next town. The cold
air moistened with the morning due. Pinchas had to get them off the
road. Daylight left them exposed. He couldn't fight or run with this
new gaggle of dependants. They walked threw empty white-stone streets.
All was clean; the gutters too, washed through by the rains. They
climbed steep steps connecting narrow roads, following Pinchas. Pinchas
stopped at dark red wooden door. Kibo almost crashed into him. He
coughed, then knocked, then waited. The door opened. A short, slim,
round-faced woman with a mole on her left cheek stood staring up at
him. "Hello Pinchas." She said in a low whisper.
"You've got to help us." He said.
"Are you crazy?" Her face contorted.
"They're after us." His voice strained, "They're on their way!"
"So why do you bring them to me?" She fixed her eyes to the ground. He
laid a hand gently on her shoulder. Her head jolted up, her eyes glued
to his in fright.
"Please." He said.
"Not here," she said, her head shaking almost without intent, "no
way."
"Please." Pinchas repeated. His hand grew in weight. She paused. Her
eyes searched his for compassion.
"Alright," she said, "but not here. No way." She tried to close the
door. Pinchas thrust his foot in the way. "Patience." She said. Pinchas
smaned morbidly.
She emerged rapped in a dark brown coat. She led the party of five from
her door up the large steep narrow steps. Pinchas followed. Anna
struggled. Kibo helped her. Then he carried her, bent under her
increasing weight. His legs fell numb.
"In here." whispered the woman. Pinchas ducked to enter the large stone
building. The others followed. The large empty room was cold despite
thick stone walls. They froze. There was an all-infecting stillness, a
nothingness that pervaded. A rat scuttled along the far wall. "Here."
said the woman. Kibo began to find her pretty. She opened a door to
reveal more stone stairs. Now they led down. Each large step dropped
them further into darkness. The moist open nothingness gave way to the
dry smell of settled dust. They trod carefully. They found the floor as
the metal door clanged shut behind them and Pinchas' woman disappeared.
There was no light. No opening to allow it. The air was stale. They
could see nothing. Pinchas struck a match. All around them dry bones
cluttered the walls. Human bones. Kibo started jabbering. Elka
screamed. Pinchas grabbed her. His large hands engulfed her head,
stuffing her mouth with his flesh. She spluttered. He released her. She
stared at him indignantly. Kibo kept jabbering. She stepped slowly
back. A skull rolled and crashed to the floor, splintering to pieces.
She raised her finger slowly until it pointed at him.
"Did you do this?" She asked.
"No." He said. Anna was shivering. There was a noise from above.
Mumbled voices. A kettle whistled. "Move!" Pinchas ordered. They moved
beneath the steps. But Kibo remained crouched in the corner, jabbering
louder. Pinchas court him by his jacket and yanked him forward. "Are
you crazy?" Kibo paused. He looked at Pinchas and laughed for a second.
Then he looked away and continued jabbering. The voices became louder.
Pinchas grabbed Kibo by the throat. His thumb rested on Kibo's Adam's
apple. His other hand smothered Kibo's mouth. Kibo kept jabbering.
Pinchas squeezed his thumb. A new woman's voice sounded clearly now. It
sounded smooth and kind. Pinchas felt Kibo flinch under his hands. Kibo
fell silent. Pinchas released him. "It's OK," Kibo said, "it's Emily."
He moved forward. His foot crushed someone's bone. It cracked. Pinchas
lunged after him, but he was already on the steps, invisible in the
blackness. The door swung open. They could see Kibo silhouetted, bright
light piercing the space around him, casting a shadow on the dry human
remains that decorated the far wall. Then he was gone. The door swung
shut. A key tuned. They were locked in the stillness of death.

Kibo opened an eye. The other refused him. His head felt stuck to the
cold stone floor. Light crashed into his brain. Urine and theses
littered the floor. A door opened then closed. Men and a woman stood
over him. He could hardly hear, only echoes.