Morning Ablution

D ark trees tower: green, majestic, eternal. It's the silver-tipped leaves of alders that move in a soft breeze, casting playful shadows. They host sparrows and swallows hiding from the predators perched on the peak of the barn's tin roof. I'm watching it now, through the skeleton of an unfinished greenhouse, across my pasture. I smile in anticipation, the despair not yet deep enough to bother going out to play again.

The grasses are knee-high waves of brown. They've already gone to seed, dropping next Spring's bounty to the dirt below. The apples are ripe and nearly all eaten, already swollen and sweet with Summer's heat. A hen wanders across the yard. Her ten week-old chicks scratch at the loose dirt.

The chicks are plentiful this year; three large clutches so far, and not a hawk in sight. No possums, raccoons, coyotes, or dogs. The smaller predators are all keeping their distance, respectful of those on the barn.

Only the turkey buzzards dare the fields; slow, cumbersome, and too stupid to realize their danger. They feast on bits and pieces thrown from the barn roof during each morning's frenzy. They hop from one gory bit to the next, their black wings extended, red tips clearly visible; their curved beaks pick over the morsels.

I'm at the end of the road here; no neighbors, so no one knows that I caught one of those damned invaders. I hear they're still wreaking havoc in some of the larger cities. The bridge into town has been out for over a year now, and with it the power: no lights, no refrigeration, no radio. Once a month or so I hitch up the horses and head down to the twisted remains that still block the river's passage. There's a rope and basket strung across. I send over goat jerky, salted hams, and fresh turnips as trade for coffee, sugar, chocolate, salt, pepper, and news. Someone tried to rebuild that bridge a couple months ago. It burnt. I like it this way.

That's how I know the cities are still out there, teeming with frightened vermin, too stupid to fight back. Or at least too dim to figure out how to fight back and win. The Rapturous still wait for their salvation.

The military was neutralized that first day. The morons met them head on, guns blazing, missiles flying, chins up. Damn lot of good it did. Can't beat them that way. You have to greet them with open arms, in the throes of ecstasy, and it has to be for real. They can smell a lie.

My need for them is real. I can feel the truth welling up again this morning. It starts deep in my balls, swelling, hot, a burning twist of need. It fills me, drowns my questions, drives me forward towards the ecstasy to come.

Towards the tin roof of the barn.

The metal sheets have wavy ridges in them. It's the runnels that catch the blood, direct it down to the gutter, carry it to the corner, where I will stand and bathe. There I will wash away my ecstasy. I made a wash cloth from the down under his feathers.

He arrived in the first open field, among the apple trees, the second week of the occupation; confident, pathetically serene. I already knew to listen carefully, to approach him with awe and need, ready to serve. The Old Ones told me.

The Old Ones were always here, in the dark shadows under the ancient trees, in the midnight dark of the moon where the mists gather. I had already sealed our pact with my seed. They, in turn keep strangers away. Until the invasion. They couldn't stop or turn it back, they said, but they gave me the secret. How to capture any that showed up. How to keep them bound. How to keep them silent, keep them from calling for help, keep them subdued. The secret is three: awe, truth, ecstasy.

And no fear.

You should have seen the look on his face, heard the startled gasp, the choked off cry. The cloying perfume of his realization that he had been truly caught. Ownership is a sweet, sweet nectar. Once I had him, securing him with the rope soaked in my own blood was an easy task, but I had to hitch the horses to drag him down to the barn. I used the block and tackle to lift him up onto the roof. That's when the Old Ones got interested, said they were impressed with my imagination, creativity, and ingenuity.

The part I had trouble with was getting up on the roof to cut him, get him bleeding again. They heal fast, and I wasn't getting but a few drops by the time I got back down to my corner bath. That's when the demon predators showed up, winging above the roof, above his cries. The Old Ones whispered they were mine to direct, to help me. I lifted my arms to the great horned flyers, and gave a great shout of welcome.

They settled on the roof, tore into the white one, ripped him open so that the blood poured in a great torrent down the tin, to the gutter, to my corner. That was the first day.

I see them sitting on the barn roof now, preening, restless that I've chosen to start late this morning. The white one writhes, testing the ropes that hold him, still seeking escape.

I let the anticipation grow.

© 2004 Guy Koehler