We absorb the image, the glistening body-form, that is and will continue to be the life-source, the centrifugal axis to our attentions. We squint. We screw + tin-eyes* but it is a dying, dying sun that lays a pale blanket over our point of conjecture, that turns the mud-pool into a Great Gilded Dish, flat 'n' round. We skirt the perimeter, lifting our eyes up from the central mystery only to reaffirm that We Are Still on Solid Ground. We are. Ego est protog. Doggéd. Steam rises from the figure in coils. The figure has not moved for one entire circumnavigation. View-point follows view-point in an attractive circular sequence. We fear our eyes will betray us, like so many times before, so we imbibe the information with greater urgency. The golden sun is sinking. Our minds race and never rest. We absorb, we digest, we interpret, we construct. Our heads pound with sickly poetry. The mist is trapped beneath the tree-tops. It hangs in veils. Trees and bushes become so many jilted brides.
The dark out-land will smell of death before the next sun-rise. How do we know this? We know now, that it was death that robbed the weeping brides for from behind their veils fall heavy tears that splash into the gilded dish. A morsel lies, uneaten in the centre of the dish. You can find a potential husband anywhere but good food will soon go rotten. By all indications the reception was a sumtuous affair. We identify the wasted morsel as a crustacean, possibly a prawn. Our eyes strain for further evidence. Steam rises from it in coils.
We see that his knees are drawn up to his chest and that he lies naked upon his side, forgotten. We see that the pale orange glow filtering through the mist catches the beads of moisture upon his body. From the perimeter his skin appears segmented like the exo-skeleton of a cray or a prawn. He lies naked on his side. One pitch-black pearl stares up, frozen. We suppose it to be a death-stare until, without so much as one tendon flinching, in face or body, it pleaded, this pitch-black pearl, pleaded, for death and we stare aghast. Our hearts swell in sympathy. Our eyes well in misery, and flow freely down our cheeks. They mingle with those of the jilted brides who have not stopped, not even for a moment. We stretch out our arms to him, but in vain for though we are tall men, we cannot reach him. Still he does not move, nor his eye. We try to call him, but we have not been given voices yet. Secure in the knowledge that we are many and possessed by the urge to lend assistance we step bravely across the perimeter. But noble intentions, nay, nor brave steps sate the gluttenous malacostoma. Lo! the black mud sucks all feet bare of boots and we are forced to lurch back lest we are fully devoured. We quiver in the dark, the sun gone now and with it its golden glow.
O gone is the sun. At home our pining Nancies lie warmly waiting. O gone is the glow. Our boots are full of black mud. We scrape and scrape but they are ruined. How can we attend the reception with one soggy boot? We cannot! Alas, we must let gold tarnish and the good food rot!
The forgotten crustacean decays rapidly, turning a smoky grey. The rot works like a cancer from the under-side upon the black-green dish. Within minutes half the morsel has been eaten away. It is disappearing before our eyes. Only one pitch black pearl stares up, pleading. A swarm of insects attack what remains of his diminishing frame, sucking and stinging him, causing his skin to blossom with welts and bites. We are impotent to help and we hang our heads in respect for his suffering. Again our emotions shame us for we cannot suppress one final bitter tear. It emerges the shape and weight of an oval lockette that springs open to reveal the image of a little girl. She has a face of unearthly countenence, like a child-saint. We recognise her as if she is one of our own but for the moment cannot place her. The lockette falls and is consumed. We make to retreive it as one clutches at the phantom of a loved one. Gone. In its place our own reflected image becomes clearer as the mud settles. We recoil in horror. Our faces are frozen there for a moment upon the surface. Screwed and pumped with blood they are, our eyes bugged and full of hatred. Our mouths are twisted into grimaces of rage. Split purple lips form obsenities midst the yellow froth. Spittle runs freely and our hair is caked in dirt and the shit of animals. In our fists, knuckles showing white are all manner of makeshift weapons, shears, picks, home-made clubs, lengths of rope, kitchen knives and corn-scyths that we wave pel-mel above our heads.
Night removes its cloak and the pit turns blacker than death. Beasts howl like hags at a wake. We do not hear them. We grope for small bushes, we uproot them. We soak their tops in gasoline and ignite them. We hold them at arms length toward the centre making a circle of fire. Black smoke rises up and is trapped beneath the treetops. The smoke hangs in veils. The trees become so many grieving mothers. Their faces are set as stone, beyond tears. That which robbed them of a wedding, that which snatched their only child, must take one last man this night. But who? The wheel of night diminishes as the fire-light moves across the surface toward the centre. Only his head remains, and his eye, no longer pleading, no. That black coal mocks us all now. We recall the child-saint. We push our fingers through the holes in the little red dress we find fouled and bloody in our hands. We roar at this monstrous trickery in silence. The grieving mothers twist and shudder and tear their mourning-veils from their faces. And as all rage and vengeance at last takes focus, we know we must work fast. His life is ours. It is a point of honour. We cannot be deprived. In a matter of seconds he will be gone. Death will not cheat us again. We must work fast and hard, that pitch black pearl.