Homecoming of the gods Read online

  ‘He’s fine and I believe he will still be when this is all over.’

  # # #

  Zach was dropped off at the wardroom by the driver. Pûjó had the cravat in his hands when he walked in. They exchanged glances. He seemed happy. His elation was beyond what he could articulate for anyone else. It was all his and his alone.

  However, something did happen that left Zach with an impression. Into the night, the rains had started pouring with rage. There were flashes lightning and cackles of thunder. It was a reminder that it was August—for those who had forgotten.

  Zach sat still on the bed with his back held against the wall. His mind was rocking to a boat that was sailing outside of Nānti to his family. He was exhausted emotionally and physically.

  However, all of that faded into the moment when the boy stood from his bed, walked over and handed the cravat to Zach. Zach hesitated before accepting the gift and watched as the boy returned to his own bed from where he now sat and watched Zach.

  Sleep was hanging over Zach. As was the nightmare.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Harvest Of Vegetables

  The hunter could not have imagined what was waiting for him, and for everybody. But he had no other place to go.

  He took one of his own coat, a trouser and a shirt and headed towards the hospital. It bothered him the man’s reaction but the load got lighter with each step he made towards the hospital. If he had stood Yanda with his sins, why not this man? What difference would it make if the man chased him away? Had he not given him a reason to do so? Will he play the victim when called to speak for himself?

  Those were the thoughts that he wrestled with all through the night and into the morning. He was almost sure that he would not wake to the new day. But he did and now he was standing at the door of the wardroom with the clothes in his hands. Before him, stood the man, his face was in his hands. He was in tears.

  # # #

  Zach woke with a start. A face had finally emerged into the nightmare. It was that of a young woman of about twenty-five years old. She was dark in complexion as was her hair and the scarf that was loosely placed on it. She had piercing eyes that sparkled with a faint green light. When she spoke, Zach heard the words but her lips were not moving to them.

  Aside the smiling face, he could not make out anything else of the nightmare—not the words that had been said or its setting. Words had been exchanged as in a dialogue and he had woken shouting ‘shut up’ as usual. However, he could not yet make anything of the dialogue that had led up to that.

  Being in his position meant that he had to learn to tell the time by instinct, since there were no clocks or watches around. He was sure that it was at about six o’clock that he woke that Thursday morning. He had stayed in bed for another half hour, still trying as hard as he could to remember anything from the nightmare. Unable to do so, he had then stood from the bed. The cravat caught his eyes and he had picked it. Then the boy. He was coiled in that position from the boys’ first visit with his frame held against the wall.

  There seemed to be something odd about the way he was laid that made Zach draw closer.

  Two hours later, a sheet was laid over the boy. Nurse B told him that he had died at about midnight.

  # # #

  The news of the death of a vegetable boy, named Pûjó spread all over the town in a flash. And with it spread the news of the man that had taken care of him in his last days. The general feeling was that of sympathy. They had not expected him to live that long. Vegetables were not known to outlast the harmattan. But here was a boy who had outlived many dry seasons of his life. The most, who thought his life unliveable in comparison to theirs, felt that he was now finally relieved of his sufferings. Even Rev. Iňaō was touched by the news. He was certain that it was not a ‘judgment’, at least not for the boy. ‘Sorry for the poor boy,’ was his honest reaction. All questions of whether he would go to heaven or not…’ were drowned into that sympathy. He was sure that if he were God, he would give him a free pass through the Pearly Gates.

  But there was never a time that the boy himself sought relief from his life. If there was anyone who was sure of that, it was Zach. The image of Mother and Child that had obsessed the boy all his life was the only relief and consolation that life had ever given him.

  He too had lived and had conquered his own fate. And that was all that mattered.

  # # #

  Zach was comforted by the boys. They had followed the news to the hospital. They crowded the wardroom, tears dripping from their eyes, wetting their chubby cheeks.

  They seemed to be grateful for haven fulfilled the chance that had been given to them to recognise that even his birth was worth celebrating and to participate in the boy’s life even for a minute.

  The next question was how to bury him. It was Zach’s burden to bear as his illness had been. The hunter had a patch of land about town. That would do. From there, they set out bearing the body which had by then stiffened. The boys hurtled from behind the hunter who carried the boy on his back and led the way.

  The party got attention from the townspeople that saw them as they made their way to the farm.

  They arrived the farm on the edge of the town and set about the task of digging the grave. Two men who had come from their farms helped and they all took turns with the shovel, the hoe and the pickaxe. By midday, they had a very rough five-foot grave dug. They could go no further for the sun was high up. They laid the boy into the grave and stepped back to observe him and pay their respects for one last time.

  ‘My mother says that when a person is smiling in his death, it means he went to heaven. And when he is frowning, it means he went to hell.’ One of the boys, Stanley, said. The other boys seemed to agree with him.

  The smile they had given him was still in his face.

  ‘Do you know that if you keep digging down and down and down, you will burst into hell fire?’

  They all agreed to that one too. And naively so.

  ‘The cravat, it looks odd on him actually….’ Another observed and they laughed. They had placed the cravat on his neck, not expertly. It did look awkward.

  ‘My mother says that you will never see heaven with your eyes if it never was in your heart.’

  That was insightful and they all agreed.

  ‘Paintbucket does not believe in heaven. He says that when you die, you die.’

  ‘He says Lazarus did not rise from the dead.’

  ‘He says it’s all fairy tales.’

  Zach smiled. Paintbucket could have been Thaddy.

  ‘What do you people think?’ was his question.

  ‘I believe in fairy tales.’

  ‘So do I….’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Paintbucket has a big head too.’

  The other men listened, without taking from them the chance to philosophize over death, what they knew was an inevitable fate for them. They seemed too certain in an authentic way—regardless of what their mothers, their Sunday school teacher, Alright and any other person had told them—that death was not the end, not for them or for the boy, in a hopeful way.

  ‘We will see him again.’

  ‘And we’ll have unbirthday parties, lots of those.’

  ‘And maybe get him a bicycle too.’

  Zach was not sure what the effect of their witnessing a burial would have on them but he was sure of the one it would have on him. He was not even sure the way their parents would take it if they found out.

  ‘What do you think Mr Zachariah?’ Mwāi asked.

  ‘I think he heard all we that we’ve said. Where he is, there are no dumb or deaf persons.’

  They then laid the boy into the grave and took turns heaping earth over his body. After which the boys stamped over the mound with their feet. They even played over it.

  Those images would forever live with Zach.

  The boys made promises among themselves. ‘We will plant vegetables over his grave. We will put a wooden cross over it. We will eve
n build a shack over it. Every August 30th, wherever we go, we will always celebrate an unbirthday for Pûjó.’

  # # #

  Zach was sure that he was going to be throwing tantrums by the time he’d returned to the shack. But he wasn’t. He would have gotten angry with God for letting the boy die, with himself for haven not haven seen it coming, and with life for being so cruel. He was comforted by the boys. All his frustration disappeared into their great offering.

  He was now back at the batcher house. That would be his last day in it. He was certain that he could not stand another night alone in the shack. The recent nights had been starless, moonless and pitched with blackness. He was not sure he could sleep with those torturous images in those nights.

  The boy certainly had nothing in a life apart from the batcher house and all that was in it. There was not much worth saving in the shack after all.

  The framed photo of Mother and Child….

  His attention turned outside the shack to the sound of feet coming up the footpath. The owner of the feet came into full view just in front of the door of the shack and Zach saw that he was a Reverend Father.

  The priest, carrying his cassock in one hand, held out the other for a handshake. His cheerfulness was with him. ‘Mr Zachariah, I believe.’

  Zach hesitated before taking the hand. ‘Reverend Francis.’

  ‘May I?’ the priest asked and Zach stepped aside to let him pass.

  The priest surveyed the shack. He was evidently disappointed. He took notice of the altar and the framed photo.

  Once outside it, he began. ‘News of the boy’s death reached me. I heard he’s been buried already.’

  Zach did not say any word. He felt the taste of spite in his mouth.

  ‘I want to hold a Funeral Service for the boy.’

  ‘Why would you need my permission for that?’

  ‘I want to request your presence. If you please.’

  ‘So much in death for a boy whom you despised in life.’

  The priest smiled. He did not look as if the words had angered him. ‘I suppose you to be a very sensitive man. And undoubtedly, you may think that I seek something for myself in all this. I stand guilty though at the same time, I cannot tell you that I stand to gain anything. I cannot properly apologise. Forgive me and forgive the Church for as true followers of Christ, he was our burden to bear. He did a few jobs at the parish house and he was known there. The sisters there are in grief over his death.’

  ‘That does not change anything for the boy.’

  ‘You must understand Mr Zachariah that we are in guilt and I personally, I am in guilt. He was our burden to bear as are many others. They were ours to comfort in this world and give hope for the world to come. But the Church has not been worthy of all her Saints, and certainly not of the One she represents. We are in guilt over our unworthiness. Not even Eternity can absolve the Church of this guilt.’

  Zach did not understand.

  ‘I suppose if Christ were to be born in our town, it would have been in this shack or some other place far from the cathedral. Your sacrifice has reminded us all of that and we will try not to forget. Your sacrifice has given some significance to the boy’s life. Tomorrow by 4PM before the evening Mass. Kindly do me the favour, sir.’

  Zach’s heart was softened though he still did not want to attend the service, not from spite but from exhaustion and grief.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lazarus

  The news of the Funeral Service for the dead boy followed that of his death and burial—with even far greater pace. The story of the boys spread with it. Tamsie had his mother whip him after he walked home half-covered in earth. When the news of the Funeral Service reached her, the boy was vindicated. Now, she had sent him off to go cut his hair for the Service. ‘Don’t let me look for you.’

  Damian managed to take out three of the fresh posters. He turned them over, drew the face of Pûjó, copied out the Funeral Service announcements, and signed the names of the nine boys and Zach’s as ‘survivors.’ It became a known fact that even Pûjó managed to receive an obituary announcement. It was not the best of funeral service announcement and the other kids that saw it afterwards made fun of the artist.

  Zach had moved into the mayor’s place and for once, he had no worries, earthly ones at least. He watched TV, had a warm bath, ate a belly-full and forgot about the world for a minute.

  That night, the hunter paid him a visit in the room that was once Silas’. Zach had already forgotten about the money and the clothes. He had smelt alcohol as they worked around the grave as well as sensed unease in the way the hunter carried himself. However, he had not paid any attention to those. They did not seem to matter at the time. Now the hunter was telling him a folk tale about the tree and the bird.

  ‘So the two had a deal. The Tree said to the Bird: Be my eyes, seeing that I cannot fly. Go see the world and bring me news of its greatness. And my leaves will ever be a covering for you and your little ones.’

  There was silence in which the hunter gathered his thoughts about him.

  ‘I used to think, all to myself, and it’s all nonsense if you think about too, that Judas had planned to drink with the money he received for betraying the Lord.’

  Zach laughed.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been anything else. Forgive my naivety, I can’t figure out quite any other indulgence that would have been worth it.’

  Zach laughed again. ‘Worth it?’

  ‘You must understand that a man must have someone to share the burden of his life with. If you do it with your fellow man, he will certainly despise you. He may not forgive you for he does not owe you that. However, the bottle always understands a man’s frustrations, at least, while it is still open before him. And that is the deal that the drunkard makes with wine.’

  ‘And what is the wine’s part of the deal?’

  ‘They say that wine is a mocker. Your sorrow will be his so long he gets to be the mocker…. The world has no place for drunkards.’

  I cannot quite say that Zach understood the references that the hunter had made. But he never again spoke of the money or of the clothes. It had slipped out of memory, more or less.

  The hunter however assumed that he did when word was made of ‘forgiveness’.

  ‘Who do you share the burden of your life with?’ the hunter asked.

  ‘God, of course. And a few good people who owe you forgiveness.’ When he said that, his mind flashed to that framed photo.

  In his assumption of being ‘forgiven’ and of Zach as ‘owing’ his forgiveness, the hunter had said a Thank you, which was received.

  # # #

  Zach was taken by surprise when he was called upon by the Lector to take the Reading of the Gospel. The Lector was under the instruction of the priest when he introduced Zach thus: ‘We have among us a man who has made a most humble but very significant entrance into our society and lives. Please Mr Zachariah.’

  It felt good only afterwards. While he walked to the podium, it did not feel so.

  Zach was surprised as he was thrilled to find that the order of service had John 11 as the Gospel Reading. If he had any ill feelings and reservations left about the Service that Kuniā had dragged him to, they disappeared as he prepared to begin to read into the excitement of travelling with Christ to the town of Bethany.

  The small cathedral was packed. The lot of the town had come to pay their last respect to the vegetable boy. He had become one of them, in his death.

  The boys were present, except that this time, they were more than nine in number. Kuniā sat with her father in the front pews. Ūö was there as was Sir Daía and his wife.

  He gave himself a moment of silence, which was indulged by the audience before he began to read. For once, he forgot about the vegetable boy as the story of Lazarus took its effect on him. He was not sure but he had wanted his audience to do the same. Summoning all the Shakespearean instinct in him (there weren’t much), he took a deep breath and began to read….<
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  # # #

  “Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha.

  Therefore his sisters sent unto him, saying, Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.

  When Jesus heard that, he said: This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby.

  Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.

  When he had heard therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where he was.

  Then after that saith he to his disciples, Let us go into Judaea again.

  His disciples say unto him, Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither again?

  Jesus answered, Are there not twelve hours in the day? If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of this world.

  But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.

  These things said he: and after that he saith unto them, Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.

  Then said his disciples, Lord, if he sleep, he shall do well.

  Howbeit Jesus spake of his death: but they thought that he had spoken of taking of rest in sleep.

  Then said Jesus unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead.

  And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe; nevertheless let us go unto him.

  Then said Thomas, which is called Didymus, unto his fellowdisciples, Let us also go, that we may die with him.

  Then when Jesus came, he found that he had lain in the grave four days already.

  Now Bethany was nigh unto Jerusalem, about fifteen furlongs off:

  And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother.

  Then Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him: but Mary sat still in the house.

  Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.

  But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.