The Sacrifice, American Serial Part 19 by Frank Hinton
There is greatness in the man’s eyes. Hundreds of people sit listening and praying before the man. He sits on a small little mattress wearing simple, thin clothes. His features are long and pale. This is a creature that knows hunger and filth, yet he is at peace with this place and the world around him. A soft brown beard with thousands of tight curls drips from his face and just above that his long nose seems to hang the beard like a coat. His eyes are both marvelous and dull, in one moment sharp and in the next inconspicuous. He looks about the crowd from person to person, offering the occasional smile or wave of his hand. There is so much silence and stillness surrounding this man that it is almost as if Francis had stepped into another world itself.
This was the world of the Magus.
Francis walks through the small, crowded yurt. There are candles and rugs that look Arabic. People sit cross-legged, saying nothing, they all sit in silence meditating or contemplating this thing or that. A man in the back sits holding a large sitar. He does not play it. In front of them, on a stage made of blankets and pillow sits the Magus. Incense sticks piss smoke upwards in half a hundred directions and behind him rests pictures of Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tsu and Rumi.
When the Magus sees Francis, he looks at him a long while. Joshua is sitting next to the Magus and whispers into the man’s ear as Francis approaches. Francis’ knee catches something on one step and he loses balance, it sends a rush through his body that feels wholly unnatural within the yurt. Francis regains his composure and begins to walk forward. The man continues to stare at Francis with those sharp eyes, the eyes of both a hawk and a holy man. As Francis nears, the man makes a gesture with his arms and the mass of people begin to part a path. Francis steps through it, being pulled forth almost by magic until he is no more than two or three feet from the Magus. Francis sits down slowly and crosses his legs. The Magus smiles.
“I have something,” the Magus says, “that belongs to this boy.”
His voice is like some thick serum being poured, each word said slowly and used with the deepest meaning. Each syllable is filled with power and wisdom.
“I have something that he believes he owns,” the Magus says.
Francis watches as the man pulls the wooden box from a small heap of objects. The man holds it in one hand but does not look at it. Francis cannot take his eyes off the box.
“This, is a small wooden treasure box. There is nothing extraordinary about it. It is made of a dense, cheap wood and crafted poorly. I have no doubt that this box cost very little during the time of purchase.”
The Magus turns the box around in his hands a few times upsetting the contents within.
“Yet,” he continues, “what lies within this box is apparently precious. A family heirloom perhaps? A bit of gold? There could be any number of valuable things in here for all I know.”
His words come out so slowly, there is no possible way for them to seem offensive or harsh.
“The boy here brought this box all the way from Eastern Canada to show us. He wanted me to see this.”
Joshua looks at Francis, Joshua’s eyes beg Francis not to expose the lie.
“Not only did he want us to see this beautiful thing, he wants to share its preciousness with us. He wants us to know how closely his heart is connected with this small object.”
The man looks into Francis’ eyes and smiles, showing a mouth filled with tea stained teeth.
“Tell us about your box, Frank,” the man says.
Francis shakes his head.
“Come, Frank. Tell us about this artifact,” he says.
A few words spill out of Francis’ mouth, light as pepper.
“No,” the Magus says, “don’t tell me. Tell us. Turn and tell everybody here.”
Francis seems frozen. His back cracks as he turns around and faces the crowd of people. Silent, pacified faces stare forward, some with loving eyes others holding expressions of disinterest and mistrust. These are hippies, or the heirs to hippies, all here looking for answers amidst this silence.
“My friend Joshua told me to bring this box. We were smoking pot a couple weeks ago and I showed it to him. I told him it had been in my family for years, that it was passed on from person to person. I don’t know what’s inside, I never looked. I don’t know why. I promised myself one day that I wouldn’t look inside and the habit stuck, it’s a compulsion. I guess it let’s me know that something will always be hidden, something that is a part of me will always be hidden. There could be a feather in there or a whistle or some stupid trinket but I don’t care. It’s the not knowing that makes it precious to me.”
When Francis stops speaking he looks over the crowd once more almost in disbelief that he was able to orate. He turns back to the Magus and sits down.
“Beautiful,” the Magus says letting each syllable of the word fall like a scoop of ice-cream. “The essence of your desire is very pure. People like to live with mysteries. They are itches we don’t need to scratch, comfortable soft itches. They move us forward in life but also keep us at a distance. Your box is very much of that sort of thing. It keeps you in a kind of darkness and you hold on to it tightly as if without it you would die.”
The Magus lets his eyes fall from the crowd and rest upon Francis. He raises his long arm and points a finger at Francis.
“And, I am sorry to say that without the box, you will die.”
The Magus makes a strange gesture with his hand. A moment later one of his assistants, a woman in a beige robe steps forward and places some kindling within a nearby circle of rocks. She pulls a box of matches and lights the kindling. In a few moments there is a small fire. Its heat and light and smoke fill the yurt.
“The death however,” the Magus says, “will not be one of the body but one of the mind. You see, there are two types of sacrifice: voluntary and involuntary. Every form in life exists at the expense, at the toll of another form. Man lives by taking from the earth and in his dying day he must return to it in some form. This is an involuntary manner of sacrifice.”
The flames grow higher and the assistant adds more kindling. The light of the fire dances off of the Magus’ face, painting it with new forms and colors every second.
“True sacrifice is voluntary. True sacrifice is willing and conscious. In a man, voluntary sacrifice can be the birth of consciousness. It is a direct assault against one’s ego. It is a chance to start anew by shedding off old skin, old filth. Your box anchors you to a life that is illusory, Frank. By giving it up, by destroying it you will understand a new kind of freedom. The freedom Jesus felt when he gave himself up. Or the freedom the Buddha released through sacrifice. Great men become great only through true sacrifice, only by relinquishing what was once most dear to them.”
The Magus hands the box to Frank. Frank takes it into his arms.
“Frank, give up your mystery. The box is just a box. Throw it in the flames and feel the effects of your sacrifice.”
“But,” Francis says. “I need to bring this to the man. I need to bring it to the man with all the answers, the dead man in the forest. I need to ask my question. That’s what I came here to do.”
“He’s really high,” Joshua says to the Magus.
The Magus looks at Francis, trying to digest these comments. Is he weighing the spiritual merit of the comment, if any?
“I am the man with all the answers, Frank,” the Magus says. “And when that box is turned to dust you may ask away.”
The fire spits and crackles as the flames lick at the nothingness around them. Francis steps over the fire and holds the box above. The smoke and the heat pours upward over him, everyone in the yurt watches each movement he makes. His eyes glaze as the smoke burns them. He hangs in suspension.
“I wonder what I should do,” Francis says to himself.
“Only you can choose to be unburdened Francis,” the Magus says.
A sudden crack comes from outside. It is followed by a deep rumble and then the sound of rain, heavy and powerful rain. Raindrops fall upon the felt roof of the yurt sounding a thousand tiny beats about the space beneath. Francis listens to the rain and snatches the box from the flames. He holds it to his chest.
“There’s a storm,” Francis says, looking up at Joshua. “Just like I told you. There’s a storm outside. He was right!”
Francis turns and runs out of the yurt.
—
American Serial concludes in Feb with part 20.
© 2010, Metazen. All rights reserved.
Related posts:
- Black Veil Uncertain, American Serial Part 15 by Frank Hinton
- The Concept of Anxiety, American Serial part 16 by Frank Hinton
- The Other Side of the Fence, American Serial Part 17 by Frank Hinton
- Sir Galahad, American Serial Part 18 by Frank Hinton
- The Man With All the Answers, American Serial Part 20 (conclusion)
just loving it Frank!!…its gets better and better…cant wait for next week’s excerpt!!
brilliant series….you gotta do MORE!!