Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

You try and penetrate the veil to a higher form of existence, but at present you cannot. This reality appears to be the only one given to you. So it will have to serve.

Your skin is hanging from you and your hair is falling out, you are in rags caked with blood and filth. But you are a holy fool. Enthused. The Lord is in you. You are St. Anthony in the demon-filled desert. You are Diogenes mired in grime. You are the Buddha at Bodhgaya. You are a Jain priest, naked, with a broom before you to sweep away any living being that you might inadvertently step upon. You are holy because you are possessed by a vision of a future time. It is a bright vision and a tight one, compact. Simple. The truth of it has made you pure. It is you. You are healed and strong and patient. You have bided your time and you have slept alone in the city. No one knows you are there, you have been waiting. Watching. And now you are ready. You have acquired a firearm and you are taking the subway train. You are in a house and you have silenced bodyguards and opposition. You are in a study with a man explaining, pleading, he didn’t know there would be deaths. You don’t want explanations, you just want to pull the trigger and turn and leave. Which you do. You leave and that is all. What happens next, if anything, is irrelevant. The circle is complete, the future event comes back to the now. It is the clarity of this vision that makes your legs move and your lungs breathe. That drives every tendon and nerve within you. Yes, you are beyond pain and beyond hunger. Your mind is cast and your will is subservient to this pact with tomorrow.

What kind of an emotion is revenge? Oh, it is much derided. And observers to an execution will often say that they feel repulsed and unsatiated. That it made no difference. The Hebrew God knows this and reserves the right to vengeance for Himself. It’s an eejit’s game. The cycle of violence that spreads itself out from West Belfast and the Bogside and South Armagh. Tit for tat and eye for eye; didn’t someone say that these rules leave us all blind? And yet what if it’s all you have? There are other motivations for a narrative of your life. Love, ambition, greed. But you have erased them all and there is only one thing left. It’s either that or absorb yourself further into the wraith’s world, disappear completely. No. It isn’t noble, but it’ll do. It is good, good enough.

Not that your thoughts have coalesced into a plan, or even that they make sense at all. It’s rather more that in the cold and the unfeeling extremities of your mind there is one glowing coal that helps you to move, put one foot in front of another.

The vines trip you and the trees talk, but they let you pass. The jaguar sleeps and does not stir. The snake rests. You are a fellow being. You cannot see any of them, but they are there and they recognize you. You are part of this now. The forest. Deep into the bush. The swamp comes up to your knees and the hurricane pauses while the eye crosses. It is only a respite, but in fact, as you’ll see, the worst is done. The peninsula has broken it. The wind and the rain come again, but they are halfhearted. They have exhausted themselves. It’s a harsh autumn in Rathlin for a day and you sleep in a forest clearing that in County Antrim they would say had been enchanted by the wee people. And when you wake, the sky is gray and the rain is less and the dream within you is fast and clear.

The hurricane had moved northeast and died to a warm drizzle. I slept under a highway bridge, and as the river rose, tiny crabs came out of the water and sidled up the bank. I killed one with a rock and tried to eat the flesh, but it was rancid and not fit for human consumption. The river continued to flood, and it became dangerous under there. I saw that I could be swept away or trapped under the overhang and drowned; but even so, I needed a break from the downpour. The crabs were coming out of the little holes in the mud and soon the concrete slopes were full of them. They crawled over one another and came up to investigate if I was still alive or not. I wondered where we were and tasted the river water and saw that it was fresh. I hadn’t known then that there were such things as freshwater crabs, and for a while I’d assumed I was near the sea. I’d been walking directionless for a long time and, for all I knew, I might have circled back and been close to where I’d started, wherever that was.

I scooted the wee shites away, but they kept coming back and eventually the crabs were too much and I climbed up out of the overhang and went along the road. A road that in good times must be an impressive two-lane affair, cutting through the jungle and the plains, but now, quite frankly, was a fucking mess. Mud and branches and landslides had made it impassable. There was no hitching here, and it was actually easier to walk at a steadier pace going through the jungle.

I was feeling better. I hadn’t eaten and I was sick with fever and I was concerned that the gash on my foot from the razor wire was turning gangrenous, but for some reason I was feeling better.

As the rain eased, the jungle soundtrack picked up again and I began to see the creatures. The ants were the first out, clearing up the mess like the global janitors they are. Then there were flies and mosquitoes and lizards and then from nowhere came the birds. Blue ones and a crimson one and a parrot or two. It cheered me. I ate some fruit off the trees. By trial and error I’d found which ones didn’t make me throw up. The green prickly ones were ok and the red ones that looked like oranges weren’t bad either. I chewed bark, too, as I walked, and all this time I wasn’t really ever very hungry, which I took as a bit of a bad sign.

Night came, and I climbed a few feet off the ground onto a wide, splayed-out branch and tried to sleep a little. Songs were a great comfort; I didn’t sing but just played them in my head.

Girls. Bridget. Rachel. Cousin Leslie, whose brother-in-law was big-time in the building trade. A foreman. Yeah, don’t worry, Michael, Mr. White doesn’t need muscle. He’s looking for lads from the Old Country who’ll work hard and come on time and take minimum wage. Yeah. Sure. And that’s why I’m here. The jungle.

Noisy. My mind drifted and would not sleep.

What did you say? Revenge. Is that what you said? Is that enough to get you through, can that drive an engine like you? Shouldn’t it be hot, won’t it dampen? No. It’ll do. It isn’t much, but it’s enough and I promise you, it’ll do.

That’s what I was saying. Foolish maybe, but that was it. Thinking too much. Too much. My heart, a snare drum in my ears. And there was a dullness beneath my left knee.

I managed to get off to sleep and woke in the morning, stiff and shivering.

The rain was gone for now. I attempted to climb a tree and get a perspective, but I wasn’t made for climbing yet; walking was hard enough.

I licked dew off a leaf and ate some of the things that looked like pears. During the night, ants had come and made me part of their fraternity, cleaning bits of scabs and exploring unwholesome aspects of my skin. They hadn’t woken me, so I chose to see them as benign beings.

I walked along the springy forest floor, mulch and dead leaves making it an easy path for the weary. The vines were the enemy, though, getting everywhere and trying to trip you. It wasn’t hot, and this at least was a relief. I walked directionless all day and lay down in the afternoon. My leg was almost numb, and this concerned me more than anything else. I sat down and sniffed it, but I didn’t smell anything. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. I tried to get up but sitting had been a mistake and I was too knackered now. I found another likely-looking branch and curled into the fetal position and slept.