The old man was dying. Up until the week prior he had been seemingly lucid, still carrying the burdens of age in his motions, all very slow and calculated, quieted by the accumulation of time. His days had been the same as they ever were; still accompanying the hunts, honing the skills of young Bow and Arrow men, reciting tales to the children. But by week's end, his fever had developed, and he was no longer taking food. Pippipanga took to the old man's bedside for three nights, neither eating nor sleeping, washing the old man's body in ash and eucalyptus oils, paying special attention to the right arm, which for years had fallen limp and crippled at his side. The old man had been a father, his right arm being proof dedication. He had lost use of it while attempting to save Pippipanga's own father from a prowling Tiger during a nightly hunt.
Until that loss of limb, the old man had been the best Bow and Arrow man the kindred had seen in generations. And taking in Pippipanga, the old man had schooled him in all delicate ways of the Bow and Arrow. Sometimes at night, they would hunt together for the Purple Buffalo living in the forests surrounding their cob structures. Pippipanga was a Bow and Arrow man, but these were the only times he enjoyed the hunts, alone with the old man. When the other men joined, he could hear all the blood among them and the Buffalo boiling in unison. Before the strike he could taste the endangered, metallic viscosity of Life's internal fluid on his tongue, and smell its sharp odor. He did not like it. And on occasion, found himself so intensely dizzied by the experience that he would fall to the earth, only to awaken with the sweet, gritty taste of soil pressed against his teeth and upper lip, the whooping sounds of young men in the distance. He would lay there for a time, the cool dirt and leaves pressed against his beating chest, rolling the earthly essence around in his jaws, scooping it up with his tongue and allowing it to caress the roof of his mouth, until all nuances of its minerals filled his palate. There was such a satisfaction to it, a real history that felt like tasting all the good memories that ever were. And sometimes, due to impact, his own hot blood would mix with this sensational flavour, creating an entirely new and heightened sense of what he could only fathom as a certain love. He felt the soil press into the split skin of his lip, and the brush of legs against foliage would rouse him from this dream, as he rose the meet the clan.
The old man knew of Pippipanga's disdain for the hunt. But neither man made mention of this difference. And now, as the thin web of smoke grew from the hearth beyond the two bodies, the young man felt content with this resolve. He loved the old man, and the way he would delicately direct his arms and fingertips, depicting how to enact the most ultimate precision of the Bow and Arrow. He loved his quiet strength, and to watch the old man in contemplative moments, while they washed wool together. He recalled tepid, autumn days when he and the old man might sit at water's edge, making claims on just how beautiful the day actually was. And all the good thoughts swarming like delicious honey bees turned to stings, as Pippipanga relished these memories so possessively. "But he is mine..." he thought. Of all the old men living in this world, this one belonged to him. This one had cared for him, and when time crept up, the roles reverently reversed. Everyone in this world has theirs to care for, and no one cared for the old man like Pippipanga, so he cannot go, "He is mine."
"Sow the earth," the old man hushed, breaking Pippipanga's thoughts asunder. "Sow the earth, and keep it."
It had been several days since the old man had spoken audibly, not the mutterings of a fever. And at this Pippipanga could muster no response. It seemed a window of his mind had been burst open, and the winds of thought strew all intelligible words and phrases spinning about within him. He took the old man's mangled right hand and placed it atop his own bowed head. Gazing down at the bony chest before him, Pippipanga watched its slow, shallow inflation, the brittle bones partially expanding, then contracting, the sag of pectoral muscles and the wrinkled belly. He imagined a young chest, the chest he had known as a boy, so thick and robust. He thought of how he had soothed the old man's arm with remedial oils after the Tiger attack, how he had cleaned the old man's fingernails around the nightly fire, washed his feet, and watched in devotion as the old man relayed stories of a world still raw and supple, as an adolescent breast. He thought of their hunts, and walks through the forest to watch the yellow thrushes. He thought of the old man's solemn face the day he had returned from his father's fatal hunt. And how as a boy, he had felt his face gradually implode, as the old man placed his sovereign hand on Pippipanga's bowed head.
Pippipanga's eyes pinched shut with such force. The thick summer air filled his lungs to capacity. And he exhaled. Allowing his eyes to burn slightly, then relax into tired grief. The old man inhaled the same as he could, deliberate, depthless. And he exhaled. Pippipanga watched as the breath left the body. So necessary. So fully externalized it became, until the last waft of thin air. He could smell the breath. It reminded him of the ripest apples. And of the earth mixed with honest blood. The old man's oiled skin glistened in the waves of his wrinkled body, so much like the soft moon on a black, silken lake. It reflected the dim light, resonating like such real life rested within. But the blood of the body was already undertaking the task of stagnation, and even if the heart were pumping, the residing spirit had hence departed, making no matter of beating blood. Pippipanga could only imagine in the moist air that release of spirit. It felt very true, and real, almost tactile. His eyes narrowed to a sting and his face fell, while hands became alert with the rite of reverent duty. Sad pleasure welled up in the backs of his sockets, as he combed the old man's thin beard, cleaned his nails and oiled his body, all for the final time. His heart beating hard and heavy as a burial drum.
At last he covered the old man's vacant body in a shroud, then walked to the entryway of their hut. Looking out, he could see the shade of lavender creeping along the crust of the earth. He filled his hands with dewy soil and massaged the richness around his neck and forehead. The yellow thrushes were beginning to sing, melding into harmony with the somber song of the mourning doves, who's cooing had an air of wonderment and longing. Pippipanga's own right arm began to ache, and he gripped it softly, then tighter with memory. The ghostly haze of fog fell over distant furs, and an infant moaned for breast milk. He imagined mother's heavy rising, the plod of sleepy feet, her swollen eyes and body, ripe and ready to instill such nutrients into the mouths of babes. There was a greatness now within him too, fed from someone else, a gift worth receiving, and then giving away. He dreamed of the old man in eternity, the broken arm mended, clutching now a Silver Bow and Golden Arrow, the withered chest filled once again with a form of life. He imagined his own father and the old man together, youthful and laughing. Now the lavender had ascended in the sky, and a pink rim was indicating on the horizon. The din of all natural things seemed to hint at abstracted laughter, so Pippipanga sat, hearing it, all the while holding to that specter of the dead men, and waiting for morning to present itself.
Until that loss of limb, the old man had been the best Bow and Arrow man the kindred had seen in generations. And taking in Pippipanga, the old man had schooled him in all delicate ways of the Bow and Arrow. Sometimes at night, they would hunt together for the Purple Buffalo living in the forests surrounding their cob structures. Pippipanga was a Bow and Arrow man, but these were the only times he enjoyed the hunts, alone with the old man. When the other men joined, he could hear all the blood among them and the Buffalo boiling in unison. Before the strike he could taste the endangered, metallic viscosity of Life's internal fluid on his tongue, and smell its sharp odor. He did not like it. And on occasion, found himself so intensely dizzied by the experience that he would fall to the earth, only to awaken with the sweet, gritty taste of soil pressed against his teeth and upper lip, the whooping sounds of young men in the distance. He would lay there for a time, the cool dirt and leaves pressed against his beating chest, rolling the earthly essence around in his jaws, scooping it up with his tongue and allowing it to caress the roof of his mouth, until all nuances of its minerals filled his palate. There was such a satisfaction to it, a real history that felt like tasting all the good memories that ever were. And sometimes, due to impact, his own hot blood would mix with this sensational flavour, creating an entirely new and heightened sense of what he could only fathom as a certain love. He felt the soil press into the split skin of his lip, and the brush of legs against foliage would rouse him from this dream, as he rose the meet the clan.
The old man knew of Pippipanga's disdain for the hunt. But neither man made mention of this difference. And now, as the thin web of smoke grew from the hearth beyond the two bodies, the young man felt content with this resolve. He loved the old man, and the way he would delicately direct his arms and fingertips, depicting how to enact the most ultimate precision of the Bow and Arrow. He loved his quiet strength, and to watch the old man in contemplative moments, while they washed wool together. He recalled tepid, autumn days when he and the old man might sit at water's edge, making claims on just how beautiful the day actually was. And all the good thoughts swarming like delicious honey bees turned to stings, as Pippipanga relished these memories so possessively. "But he is mine..." he thought. Of all the old men living in this world, this one belonged to him. This one had cared for him, and when time crept up, the roles reverently reversed. Everyone in this world has theirs to care for, and no one cared for the old man like Pippipanga, so he cannot go, "He is mine."
"Sow the earth," the old man hushed, breaking Pippipanga's thoughts asunder. "Sow the earth, and keep it."
It had been several days since the old man had spoken audibly, not the mutterings of a fever. And at this Pippipanga could muster no response. It seemed a window of his mind had been burst open, and the winds of thought strew all intelligible words and phrases spinning about within him. He took the old man's mangled right hand and placed it atop his own bowed head. Gazing down at the bony chest before him, Pippipanga watched its slow, shallow inflation, the brittle bones partially expanding, then contracting, the sag of pectoral muscles and the wrinkled belly. He imagined a young chest, the chest he had known as a boy, so thick and robust. He thought of how he had soothed the old man's arm with remedial oils after the Tiger attack, how he had cleaned the old man's fingernails around the nightly fire, washed his feet, and watched in devotion as the old man relayed stories of a world still raw and supple, as an adolescent breast. He thought of their hunts, and walks through the forest to watch the yellow thrushes. He thought of the old man's solemn face the day he had returned from his father's fatal hunt. And how as a boy, he had felt his face gradually implode, as the old man placed his sovereign hand on Pippipanga's bowed head.
Pippipanga's eyes pinched shut with such force. The thick summer air filled his lungs to capacity. And he exhaled. Allowing his eyes to burn slightly, then relax into tired grief. The old man inhaled the same as he could, deliberate, depthless. And he exhaled. Pippipanga watched as the breath left the body. So necessary. So fully externalized it became, until the last waft of thin air. He could smell the breath. It reminded him of the ripest apples. And of the earth mixed with honest blood. The old man's oiled skin glistened in the waves of his wrinkled body, so much like the soft moon on a black, silken lake. It reflected the dim light, resonating like such real life rested within. But the blood of the body was already undertaking the task of stagnation, and even if the heart were pumping, the residing spirit had hence departed, making no matter of beating blood. Pippipanga could only imagine in the moist air that release of spirit. It felt very true, and real, almost tactile. His eyes narrowed to a sting and his face fell, while hands became alert with the rite of reverent duty. Sad pleasure welled up in the backs of his sockets, as he combed the old man's thin beard, cleaned his nails and oiled his body, all for the final time. His heart beating hard and heavy as a burial drum.
At last he covered the old man's vacant body in a shroud, then walked to the entryway of their hut. Looking out, he could see the shade of lavender creeping along the crust of the earth. He filled his hands with dewy soil and massaged the richness around his neck and forehead. The yellow thrushes were beginning to sing, melding into harmony with the somber song of the mourning doves, who's cooing had an air of wonderment and longing. Pippipanga's own right arm began to ache, and he gripped it softly, then tighter with memory. The ghostly haze of fog fell over distant furs, and an infant moaned for breast milk. He imagined mother's heavy rising, the plod of sleepy feet, her swollen eyes and body, ripe and ready to instill such nutrients into the mouths of babes. There was a greatness now within him too, fed from someone else, a gift worth receiving, and then giving away. He dreamed of the old man in eternity, the broken arm mended, clutching now a Silver Bow and Golden Arrow, the withered chest filled once again with a form of life. He imagined his own father and the old man together, youthful and laughing. Now the lavender had ascended in the sky, and a pink rim was indicating on the horizon. The din of all natural things seemed to hint at abstracted laughter, so Pippipanga sat, hearing it, all the while holding to that specter of the dead men, and waiting for morning to present itself.
