The child cries in the arms of a woman who is not his mother over the body of a man who is not his father. The tears, they fall like rain on to her body and fall to the ground, finding themselves eventually in the soils warm embrace. The child does know they they will arrive here, only that right now, in this moment, he is crying and that this woman is holding him. And that while he might thrash out in his distress, she will not leave or let go, for she has taken it upon herself to hold him as he cries, for as long as he needs.
The child’s mother died a long time ago, so long ago he has no memory of her. Of course he knows he had a mother at one time. He just thinks upon her like how we think upon dead ancient people, from times and lands we are not of and only remember today because of ruins and relics.
Of course the child knew his father. In fact he knew of very little else, in the way that young children often don’t. And because of this, his father had always seemed something Other to him. God like, gladiatorial, a teacher; like most raised motherless, the child had come to view his father as a figure imbued with these qualities. And why shouldn’t he? For while he did possess many faults in character and behaviours he’d learned from his father before him, the child’s father was on the whole someone who was worthy of being loved. But he was not a god, nor was he a gladiator, and the man the boy weeps over, in the arms of the woman who is not his mother, is the man who killed his father.
The man who killed the child’s father is the same man who kills all but a few of the fathers of those born fatherless. All born motherless know this man, though they rarely see his face due to his many masks, which he would change often when conversing with different people or while engaged in different activities. They knew him because it was from his power that their fathers power drew from, power he’d come to reclaim at his whim. His power was wielded through his changing names and changing masks. All know his names. You know his names. I know his names. The woman knows his names. The child knows his names. The other children knows his names. The fathers knew his name. He is often mistaken for changing faces when changing his masks, and with each face a different name. But he is dead now, with the child crying over him in the arms of a woman not his mother, face revealed and masks destroyed, now nameless and empty.
The woman holding the child she is not the mother of, who has taken it upon herself to hold him, it is her knife piercing the flesh of the man who is nameless and maskless. She too is nameless, though she is known by many names; they are just names without masks. She is naked as she holds the child to her bosom. Her feet breach the soil that embraces the child’s tears. Her body is both fire and water to the child, as he breathes and cries upon her naked skin.
The blood of the man flows into the soil, as the child ceases thrashing and crying. The woman who is not the child’s mother holds the child still.
It is a new moment; one in which suns and moons dance across the sky; where seasons change in an instant. It is an instant where the chaos of a storm and calm of a gentle breeze are one and the same. It is a boundless, indefinite instant, that escapes history and renders time meaningless.