The Wake
I brought the drinks to our table. Simon didn’t look up when he heard the glasses clink; he simply took his and cradled it. As I sat down, he gulped half of it down and grimaced.
If the other regulars knew… Simon wasn’t simply another veteran trying to get drunk in a bar by the road. Here was the caped superhero, the guardian of the night that the city had learned to respect and fear. And yet. And yet.
He looked at me. I saw his empty eyes, the pain in all the wrinkles that didn’t use to be there.
“To the Jester. May he rest in peace. Finally,” he said, and knocked the rest down.
I sighed and signalled the waitress to bring the bottle; at the rate Simon was drinking, there was no way I was going to be making trips to the bar and back. And I made a note to cut down on my own booze, else it would be two of us passing out. Not a nice prospect.
I asked the question.
“Simon, I don’t get it. The Jester was a madman, our worst enemy. Why this?”
He looked at me, confused. The bottle materialized before him and, for a second, he lost focus as he fumbled with the tap. I took the bottle from him and poured another glass. Simon took another long gulp and stared at me.
“I mean,” I continued, “we’re not murderers. Accidents happen, and let’s face it: the world will be better without him.”
“You don’t understand, Mick,” he said. He scratched his stubble. I noticed, for the first time, that it was white. “He was my brother.”
My expression must have been one of utter incredulity, because Simon made a dismissing gesture, the alcohol sloshing in his glass.
“Not my real brother, mind you. But there are bonds thicker than blood.”
Simon stayed silent for a long time. I could see his mind was not there, in the bar. I thought that was going to be it, but then he started talking again, so low that I had to strain to hear him in the din of the bar.
“It was in Tibet. The Temple did have a number of visitors, but two westerners, both arriving on the same day? It was considered an omen. Whether good or bad, it wasn’t clear.
“Master Chang took us in. It was unavoidable that we’d grow fond of each other. One has to… leave his former life in the Temple. Unlearn in order to learn again. But we were too much alike: white, orphans, looking for guidance in order to discern if we wanted justice or revenge. Or peace.
“We lived together, trained together, fought together. We became brothers, much more than with the rest of disciples. Master Chang recognized it: together, we were more than the sum of our parts.”
Another glass and the story continued.
“One day, the Temple was attacked. You know the political situation: it was used as a cover by our… their enemies. The attack was massive: they weren’t simple beating us, they were exterminating us.
“Master Chang told us to run. To escape. We wanted to stay, but he insisted that we live so we could fight another day. We fled to the mountains, to the Deep: a narrow gap between two vertical walls, crossed by a rope bridge. If we could destroy it behind us, we’d have a chance: choppers couldn’t follow us up there, and on foot the advantage was ours. When we reached the bridge, it was worse than I remembered. Planks were missing and the ropes looked thin and rotten. Still, I crossed it as fast as I could.
“As I turned, I heard a crack and saw the remains of the bridge falling down, to the ravine that burbled down there. We stared at each other. He told me to go, but I wanted to stay. He insisted, and so did I. So he nodded, told me farewell and jumped.”
Simon drank once again. I remained silent; it was one of the few moments in my life when I didn’t know what to say.
“Many years later, when my career was starting, the Jester appeared. He was cruel and ruthless, and somehow knew everything about me. You know the rest, of course. What you don’t know is this: the first time he killed, he revealed to me who he was. He blamed me for what happened at the Deep. To this day, I don’t know how he survived that fall. That day, he told me something else: that I would not be able to bring him to justice.
“I’ve blamed myself for every death since. And now he’s gone. Forever.”
Simon grabbed the bottle. I drank my glass and pushed it toward him.
~~~~
This is the basis for my entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: June 1–7, 2015 at the Writer’s Discussion Group Google+ Community. The piece is too long, hefting in at 800 words, give or take.
I’m quite happy this week for a number of reasons: one, because I managed to edit it down to the mandatory maximum of 600 words and I still had a nice version of it.
I also liked the fact that I included the photographic prompt twice: one literally, with the scene at the Deep, and figuratively, because it causes the schism between Simon and his unnamed brother.
And third, of course, is that I paid homage to Batman.
Oh, and I guess I should also be happy because I did not go with my first idea, which was a funny piece. And I don’t think it was funny at all.
