Afeallan

"Chapter" Twenty-Four

Rýnelic was fishing. The tides had not been going his way and as of late he had scarce to eat, save for the unlucky crab. It was then, with his net in the water, that he saw the figure in the distance. It drew closer.  The figure, in the distance and in the waves that occur in heat, slowly coagulated into the form of a man walking toward him. Rýnelic stood and raised a hand to his brow, simultaneously wiping away the sweat and peering further toward the horizon. Rýnelic recognized the man, curved over his cane like a rusted sickle as if hobbling across the water. And then he stopped. He waited. Waited for Rýnelic. Rýnelic hauled in his net. Nothing. He looked down then out at the man standing on water. He cast away his net. As he climbed down the helm he looked behind him and saw the man turning the other way. They locked eyes, though there were no eyes. Only faces. The figure of the familiar man walked away. Adhering not to the waved lapping at his feet. Rýnelic felt a sense of urgency. He hit the ground hard after letting go of the railings and ran after the man. The sand slowed him, burning his calves as he struggled in alacrity. Running. Rýnelic, once again, was running.

Léas wailed at Líchama’s bedside. He hoisted Líchama over his shoulders like a sack and carried him into the city. He carried him to his bell. He stripped off Líchama’s clothes. He hung Líchama, arms outstretched with rope, to the beams of the bell. And when he rang it, Líchama’s body vibrated from the oscillations, as if dancing for the crowd that had gathered around.

“Hey, wait,” Rýnelic called after the ancient man as he ran forward. The old man kept walking. With the water and the sand Rýnelic felt that he was going nowhere. Perpetual motion without movement. Finally the old man disappeared past the horizon. Rýnelic broke and rested his hands on his knees, winded. He exhaled through a small opening in his mouth. He rubbed his hands together, laughing at the oddity of the situation, and started walking back to the ship. As he was approaching the bay, he saw a figure hanging around the cliff-face. Rýnelic rubbed the back of his neck, puzzled, wondering if and how the old man had doubled back without his seeing. The figure appeared to be pacing back and forth in tiny, self-involved circles. As Rýnelic drew nearer he heard a thudding above the waves like a heavy metronome. Nearer. He saw the body hanging limp from a rope. Rýnelic ran to the body thinking it was not too late to save it. He shooed away the seagulls that had congregated for the feast on the boy’s shoulders. Rýnelic took out a blade and cut the body down, catching it as it fell. He held the body in his arms. Found the note. Slowly he placed the body down and removed the letter. He recognized it. Not being able to find words he made a sound like that of a stifled sneeze. He crumpled the paper in his fist burning with fear and rage. He tossed the paper ball against the rock face. The inconsequential click as it lightly tapped the wall made Rýnelic feel foolish and enraged him all the more. He went to his ship. He retrieved his things. He marched toward Afeallan.

“You see?” screamed Léas at the crowd. “This disease, this fantasy that Rýnelic will return—that there is a Rýnelic at all—is killing us. Just last night, my dear friend that you see before you, said that perhaps, if Rýnelic returned, perhaps things may be better, as in the stories you tell yourself. And I, I spoke the truth to him.” Léas composed himself. “The truth, the information that Rýnelic never was, and thus could never return, depressed him so. He mutilated himself in order to shorten his days.” Léas stopped speaking in order for his words to sink in. A man from the crowd stepped forth boldly to examine the wounds. “This is the result of several days of bondage,” said the man as if to help. “There was no cut. This would have taken at least a week and a half. This was no mutilation-suicide.”

“Sir,” Léas interjected, “may I enquire of your profession?”