When I was a young boy, I was deathly afraid of the dark. Many nights would I find myself awoken by the terrifying sensation that there was something there. I could hear them chitter in the dark; I could hear their pattering and their gnashing. I could feel them brush against my skin, and crawl upon my body. In the midst of this was I, always lying there with my eyes aghast, unable to move my body in any capacity. My mouth stayed shut, and my fingers barely twitched, even as that crawling feeling ascended from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. I was always able to move my eyes, however, and they zigged and zagged, hither and thither, scanning the dark for anything discernable. Always I could see the vague outlines, the undulations of something in the pitch black. Only after hours of this, as the sun began to break and her delicate beams crested over the horizon, could control over my body return. Always I would scream, wailing until my voice grew hoarse. At those times my body would contort until my muscles gave out, and I would finally return to the slumbering state I had been in when I was first awoken.
After a particularly terrifying week, where every night had been spent in this agony, did my parents finally relent to seek me help. My father, who was a religious man, told my mother to take me to the temple of the Dream God, for surely prayer to them would allow my nights to pass away in bliss. But my mother refused this order. She was a pragmatic woman, not one for putting too much power in the gods’ hands, for many times had she seen the effects of doing one’s own work. She had listened to me as I described my torment and decided that I was to need an intervention by those of mystic disposition.
“We must go to the capital.” My mother said, “In my barri I know of one who can help our son.”
At this, my father scoffed, “The capital! And to a barri no less! How dare you insult me woman! A landed individual such as I should not be associated with such a place.” He furrowed his brow and stroked his beard. “We must seek temple. The Dream God must be placated. It is due to some slight that they punish my dear son with such a calamity.”
For a second my mother grew silent, absorbing my father’s words as she stroked my forehead. A tear fell from her eye, and she spoke softly, “If those from the barri are beneath you then what I am as your wife? What then is the worth of your child, the one who came from my loins? Is he too, beneath your station? Is he to live in punishment for my origins? Is this how you choose to exercise your contempt for my people?”
My father’s brow softened and his face sunk in. He bowed his head low and placed his hands over his head. From this lowly position I could hear him curse himself, “Please admonish me not my dear wife. You are the light of my life, the being closest to my soul.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “If your people can help our son, then I relent to your wishes.” He reached for my hand, holding it as he spoke, his voice resolute and somber, “But if they cannot help my son, then may the gods be merciful upon them, for my hatred will know no quarter.”
That day my father made arrangements for us to travel. His majordomo having assured him that all would be well in his absence, my father deigned to join my mother and me. He had his own misgivings about the barris of the capital, as well as the capital itself, but I’ve come to realize after all this time that he just prefers the countryside. As our chariot sped off, my father turned his head back, staring at his demesne with apprehension. It was less than half a day’s journey to the capital, but I could feel that even this amount of time dragged upon my father’s soul.
The hours passed without incident, and our journey out of the countryside towards the coast where our capital lie was as uneventful as any other. The arid grasslands of our lands were safe, the only threats being the occasional bout of thirst and the fear of breaking one’s tooth on any of the kinds of stone fruit that grew prodigiously in the lands of our country. While my mother told me stories of the capital, my father would throw in the odd remark here and there, and though he only meant it in jest, my mother would still chafe at these remarks. Eventually, as the sun passed over the meridian and began its march to the horizon, we could see the first fields and farms that marked the outskirts of the capital. This grew denser as we drew nearer, with the many homes of suburban dwellers growing closer and closer. As we broke the crest of a hill we could see the sea, its waves glistening as if it were full of a million diamonds. On its banks sat our capital, its tall walls of red and yellow stone growing high and strong. I could see ships upon the waters, coming to stop at our ancient port, and here I could make out the outlines of centuries, marching and maneuvering in practice for any conflicts that may arise.
My mother put her hand upon my shoulder and
spoke proudly, “See, my son, the capital of Din-Ili? Here is where I was born.
It is where your healing may begin.”
We came to a stop at the southern gates and my father paid for his chariot to be watched by a servant boy. We passed under Din-Ili’s threshold hand in hand; my mother pointed up to show us the many tiles of glass, crystal, and precious metals that made up its façade. The images of great ocean beasts were shown, being held back on both sides by the might of man, his visage illuminated by streaks of gold and silver. Entering the city the many sights cloyed my vision, distracting me in every direction. The amount of people was dizzying, with many bodies intersecting between each other, as if they were many fish in a small pond. The streets themselves were clean, but on their sides were narrow troughs that sunk into the earth, bearing in them a green and brown slurry. The smell was nauseating, and I nearly vomited. My father seemed bothered as much as I, but our lordly ways would not permit us such a disgrace. As we walked, I could not help but notice that the people seemed on edge, nervous, and unwelcoming, as if everyone was the enemy. Some stared down at us, watching as we walked. I could feel my father bristle at the challenge, but he did not act, instead holding my hand tighter, as if to say, “I will never let you go.”
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