THERE IS SOMETHING NOT QUITE TRUSTWORTHY ABOUT CIVILIZATION. how nice it is, to have a bed with four perfect legs and a headrest upon which to set your dreams. how nice it is, to sit dry beneath a roof –– to look up and to picture yourself sitting on the beams, legs dangling and feet dipping into the air like a cool pond. how nice it is, to lean over a bowl of hot food, to lift your eyes the way steam rises, and to see friendly faces smiling from across a weathered table. but comfort does not equate to trust, and trust is not the cornerstone of civilization. ( at any given point the walls may shake and tremble, tumbling to the ground and laying in grey ruins like stars falling from the sky. ) it is nice to be safe / to be held / to be together, but it is easier to be alone. so why does he remain among a company he can never quite accept, trailing behind as if hoping they will leave him so that he will not one day leave them? simple: the urge to run not stronger than the urge to stay –– to burrow / to hide / to build a grave and nestle among the moss and the loam. ( how nice it is, to be one that is part of many. )
caiaphas thinks because he cannot sleep –– or perhaps he cannot sleep because he chooses not to. ( sleep is a practice in death. staying awake is an assurance of life. ) sometimes he tries, attempting to run and jump at the moon as if lacing his fingers in its sands will grant him peace of mind. it never does. some people are destined to lie awake the way others are destined to fall in love. he stares at the ceiling, trapped in a blanket in a bed in a room in an inn. the ambience of slumber fills the air and so he listens, dark lashes blinking against dark shadows. at the very beginning of their journey, he did not hear their breathing. it meant nothing to him, sure as a dead gosling means nothing to a flock doves. now, he hears it –– can pinpoint what lungs belong to what body as if he has an ear pressed to every chest. ( at some point, you stop hearing with your ears and starting listening with your heart. ) bjorlamb breathes deep and true, like the earth from whence he came; celeste undaunting and excited, like a small flame flickering in a hearth; finn … he holds his own breath, ushering in silence and searching for a familiar sound. ( finn is not there. ) sometimes absence is the loudest sound of all.
this, as most things, does not strike him. it simply is, for better or worse, and so it is not this that rouses him from the embrace of warm blankets. caiaphas is driven by choices predicated on enigmatic needs. ( the answer to ‘why walk out on a conversation?’ is the same as the answer to ‘why get out of bed?’ –– because he feels like it / because the former action has served its purpose / because there is nothing left to learn from the current state. ) he leaves the bed unmade, the covers folded in on themselves and waiting at the foot of the cot –– discarded ropes that lurk, waiting to catch another tired victim in their snare. caiaphas leaves the room, quick and silent, and pauses only to grab the cloak he’d folded and laid down neatly on the floor. he throws it on as he descends the stairs, taking each step with the coordination of a frog hopping across lily-pads. the inn sleeps with its occupants the way mothers sleep with their children, one arm draped protectively across their slumbering forms. its walls are silent. he thinks if he touches them, he might hear the laughter and the chattering and the scraping of plates. reaching out, he skims pale fingertips along as he goes. the ground floor is a ghost town –– still, he looks intently into its corners, then at the door. the locks are old. ( they could probably divulge stories from ten years past like a grandfather telling tales to wide-eyed children. ) but old locks are loud locks, and noise before the first rooster caws is sacrilege. caiaphas chooses a window instead, fastened by wood rather than by lock and key. he lifts the slat and pushes the shutters outward. then, with all the grace and none of the flare of an acrobat, he climbs up / goes through / hops down on the other side. he shakes out his hair, glancing instinctively from side to side, and then settles cautiously onto the stoop. once there, he thinks. always thinks. the rain tries to wash the thoughts away, but all it can do is sit and wait. by the time finn finds him, the droplets have rallied around his head like an army accosting castle walls. caiaphas looks up as he’s spoken too, tired eyes impassive. if he’s surprised to see finn, he does not show it.
❛ couldn’t sleep, ❜ he says, matter-of-fact. admissions are a currency he rarely deals in, finding himself too light of pocket to afford the luxuries of vulnerability. every disclosure and every confession is like pulling out a coin, rubbing it against rough-hewn clothes for good luck, and pressing it into the open palms of another. ❛ you’re up, ❜ he repeats. mockery is not an intentional sin; caiaphas simply observes, reporting his findings the way an alchemist might dutifully note discoveries in an old, leather journal. he looks away from finn, blinking languidly against a horizon bleeding starlight from between gashes of gray clouds. the chill of the rain settles on the folds of his cloak, prying desperately for an entrance so it might nestle in his bones. ❛ the drowning man is not bothered by rain. ❜ a remark plainly uttered. he has a habit of speaking as if he knows things, even when he doesn’t. rain gathers on the bend of a curl, falls off, and lands on his cheek. he wrinkles his nose. ❛ rice isn’t bothered by rain, either. but if you want to grow cucumbers, sunshine is better. ❜
finn stares at caiaphas as he speaks in riddles. he’s an odd one, finn thinks fondly, as he approaches. he joins caiaphas on the stoop, takes note of the way the rain gathers in his curls, feels the lack of warmth between them. finn had noticed the way caiaphas leans away from contact; from people, in general. he wonders briefly what happened to make him shy away. he considers reaching out, briefly. but imagining caiaphas's reaction—a snarl waiting on his lips, barely there; panic in his eyes as he leans away; a violation of unspoken trust—stops him; imaginary rejection stings just the same.
the damp makes itself at home in his bones as he considers caiaphas’s words, and wonders who caiaphas thinks finn is. he has endured hardships; imagines the same is true of caiaphas, for who in this world hadn’t? pain seems as necessary as the rain itself; how else will one grow? he thinks of rice and of cucumbers: of the way a bowl of rice fills the stomach, of how cucumber could save a parched man.
he aches to inch closer, to figure him out—but holds himself back.
❛ are you? ❜ he asks, instead looking at the other’s bored gaze. ❛ bothered by the rain, i mean? ❜
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