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A week later the sharp pain of Clanomer’s passing had been blunted to a dull sorrow. His absence was daily noted by his family, friends, and indeed the whole village. At every turn his absence and the loss to the village was acknowledged. Yet in a curious way, the Hansa knew how to celebrate Clanomer’s passing and the village’s loss without descending into despondency. Deep down Dave marveled that their inherent joy and optimism was undiminished.
Nothing brought home more clearly to Dave this Hansa ability to sorrow on a bed of joy than the announcement that a celebration would be held in the town meadow to commemorate the death of the rokash. Dave expected a dull evening, more of a wake than a celebration. And indeed, the festivities began slowly and solemnly with food and drink. But soon, to Dave’s surprise, the younger Hansa were dancing, slowly and quietly at first, and then with much more vigor, laughter, and exuberance. Everyone remarked how Clanomer’s place in the village dance was empty, but the joy and laughter could not be suppressed. After everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, the clan chief, Hanomer, rose to speak to the assembled villagers.
“We are remembering the loss of our friend Clanomer and how he gave his life to save those of his companions.”
Hanomer bowed his head, and silence fell on the gathering as everyone shared a moment of remembering. Then Hanomer looked up.
“We are also here to honor the hero who vanquished the rokash. We will make him champion of our village.”
Dave was still thinking of Clanomer and reliving those terrifying moments with the rokash when his musings were disturbed by the sound of his name, and he roused himself to see all eyes turned toward him. Hanomer beckoned him to come to the center of the circle by the bonfire. “Here is the hero!” said Hanomer, and there was loud table thumping, clapping, and cheering as Dave came into the light. He was delighted by the unexpected honor.
Three sturdy Hansa came forward. One was carrying a tray while the other two carried a large shrouded object. Hanomer took a necklace of rokash teeth from the tray and gestured to Dave to kneel so that he could hang it around his neck. There was loud cheering as Dave received his trophy. Next the shrouded object was brought to Hanomer and Dave. The shroud was removed, revealing a four-foot wooden carving of a rokash about to spring. Around the base of the carving were the remaining teeth and the talons of the beast.
Then the bard of the village came forward and the crowd quieted down. The bard began singing softly. Dave marveled. Hansean was a language far superior at rendering images, to any human tongue he had heard. The lyrics transported Dave back to the valley, and the images of that day filled his mind like a vivid dream. The bard sang:
From mountains cold
And caverns deep
The rokash came
To kill and eat.
With stealth it crept
Through larch and fir
It leapt and killed
Brave Clanomer.
The rokash turned
And fixed its gaze
On one who faced it
Strong and brave.
The rokash leapt
The arrow sang
With hideous voice
The death roar rang.
Rokomer pinned
By mighty foe
The rokash killed
By his last blow.
Dave was stirred from his reverie. “Who is Rokomer?” he asked.
“That is your new name. It is short for ‘rokash slayer,’” said Hanomer.
Dave was stunned, but he had no time to think about what had happened. Many of the younger Hansa came to him, asking him over and over again to tell the story of the rokash. He was a poor storyteller by Hansa standards, but he did his best.
After he had told the tale again and again, Dave headed for bed.
__________
In his dream, Dave was standing in a hospital room at the foot of a bed. He saw himself laying on the bed in front of him—at least, the corpse looked like him. He and the corpse were bathed in a wonderful bright light. The light emanated from a hallway. The hallway was a tunnel, and he walked toward this wonderful light, so much brighter than noon sunlight that it hurt his eyes. Even so, it filled him with expectation and delight. He felt a deep longing to go to the light; he felt as if he were going home.
He left the tunnel and emerged onto a broad heath bathed in even brighter sunlight. He looked down, and his limbs and body were made of glass filled with tendrils of brown smoke, without organs or bones. As he looked across the heath he saw others. Some were a deep gray color; others seemed more transparent than he. All were walking toward the light, which emanated, not from a sun in the sky, but from a mountain range far in the distance.
At first the walk was a delight. He enjoyed the smell of the heather, and his longing for the light added a spring to his step. His sense of going home to the light filled him with longing to reach the mountains. As he walked, the light grew stronger and stronger. Some of the others that had been walking with him stopped, and he walked by without speaking to them. Others, who were already stopped when he approached, turned back and began walking away from the light.
The light grew so intense that it began to burn him. Wherever the brown smoky discoloration in his glass body was strongest, the burning pain was most intense. He still wanted to go home to the light, but he had to be clear as glass to get there, and he was not.
With each step the little smoky discoloration that had not mattered at first mattered more and more as the intensity grew. He began to despair. He had so far to go. He was like a dirty projector bulb. If the smoke in his glass body burned now, what would it be like as he approached the mountains that were his destination and home? He seemed to be two people: one loved the heather and intensely longed for the light and the mountains; the other wanted to escape the terrible burning that the light caused.
He stopped, and a battle raged within him. On the one hand his desire for the light was intense, so that even the thought of stopping the journey was unbearable. On the other hand, the pain of the burning was so great he simply could not go on. What was the use! He had so far to go. Finally, his desire to go home to the mountains was overcome by his desire to escape the unbearable burning.
His ego rose as a third voice in his mind. I choose to be tough and strong like steel. I do not need to go home to the mountain. I cannot change the light, but I can kill my desire for it!
It came into his mind that he had grown in power since he had left his old body. In his old life, he could not wipe away feelings and desires; but now things were different. If he chose, he could wipe away the desire for the mountains forever, since that was something inside him. Once erased, like a beautiful story wiped from a blackboard, that desire would be gone forever.
He chose; his loneliness and longing for the mountains were wiped away, never to be remembered. When they vanished, he also lost his enjoyment of the heather, the sunlight, and the smell of spring. The place no longer looked like the path to home, and the very things he had enjoyed now angered and offended him. He turned and began to walk away from the repelling light. A part of him had died, but it was a different death from what he had seen in the hospital room.
The scene in the dream changed; much time had passed. Dave was sitting in a vast circle of beings. He was filled with a monumental boredom. He loathed himself and those around him. He was defined by his loathing. Nothing was left to give him delight. By conscious choice, he had slowly erased everything that had once been wholesome and good, because it caused him pain and reminded him of the mountains and the light, which he loathed above all. Now he was left with a vast hatred for himself, for others, but especially for that Being who had made him.
A sepulchral voice spoke in the gloom. He hated that voice—but then Dave hated everything. “We have destroyed everything else that reminded us of Him. We have nothing left to destroy, but our hate for Him has grown like a towering mountain. Let us punish Him who made us. From the heart of hell we will stab Him who still loves us. We will dig a great pit and fill it with burning pain. We will climb in, to our torment, and it will feed our hate. It will reduce our boredom. Each stab of pain we feel will bring pain to Him who created us, and this is how we will punish Him. His love for us is the only weapon we have to torment Him.”
And so the dreadful work began on the lake of fire. Driven by hate, they toiled ceaselessly. Their hate for Him continued to grow.
__________
Dave woke up in a sweat and shuddered as he thought about his terrible dream. He went outside to reassure himself that the world was as he remembered it. The day was overcast and somber, like his mood. A hawk circled in the air currents looking for breakfast. He hadn’t prayed since that brief cry for help when the ape¬men had seized him, but he tried to pray now. He stood with his palms flat against each other, but words wouldn’t come to him.
“Begging your pardon, Rokomer, there’s trouble in the dead city.” He turned to see Hanomer standing beside him.
“What kind of trouble?” asked Dave.
“Come have a quick breakfast,” said Hanomer. “Then you ought to come with us and see. I will tell you the scout’s report on the way.