The Very Last Step

Life is a circle that cannot be denied. A hungry mouth devouring its own tail. We come into this world alone and we die alone. We arrive helpless and vulnerable, and at the end, we are rendered into the very same state. And as the last of our strength falters, we are at last reminded of the temporary gift that is life. A miracle that we housed within our body, but that could never be sufficiently contained. The light of life spills forth from within those who are not too afraid live well. When someone lives well, life breaks free of them and they shine. They shine and that pure light joins with the lives of those around them.

No one should ever try to hold onto life, for surely they will lose everything in that foolish pursuit. To hold onto life is to grab at the stream in an attempt to beat it into submission and force it to run in the opposite direction. Life flows one way and it is for us to run with it. Go with it and discover what lays on the path ahead. The journey is everything. The destinations transitory.

Life, love, truth. There are one. They are all that matters as we pass through.

Sam and John understood enough of this, and they knew so much more. Theirs was an unspoken knowledge that they shared easily between them. A part of their bond. Life was precious and to be respected. Never to be taken for granted. The both of them had something that they absolutely had to do, and they did it each and every day. That something was quite simply living, and their lives intertwined so completely that they could not countenance a state of affairs where they were without each other. And so, there was never a day that they failed to spend time with each other and celebrate the simple joy of it.

Sam loved to run. Running was his passion. Sam could not hide his joy as he ran and that was a sight to behold. A sight that John could never tire of. John wasn’t as much of a runner as Sam, but this did not pose a problem for either of them. John’s lack of running was deceptive, he set a pace with his walking that few could keep up with. Many would have failed to stay the course on flatlands, but in the hills the game changed and oh, how it changed!

The two of them had been born to this place, and they knew no different. But not for them was the lazy indifference and contempt of a local become familiar with what they considered to be their backyard. John and Sam loved the land and the land responded to that love in the most magical of ways.

No two days were ever the same. Constantly, the hills called to them, and that call would not be denied. The call of those hills carried far and wide, and as John and Sam made their way across craggy paths, clouds appeared from nowhere carrying gifts that transformed everything. Myriad filters played across the face of the sun. The light dancing here and there, and never repeating itself. Not once.

The climb up the side of the hill was exhilarating. A reward of its own. But then was the promise of what lay ahead. A glorious panorama that made John feel as small as an ant, and yet as mighty as the legendary giants who had made this place home thousands of years ago. Hulking predecessors to the locals of this place, they had carved out the valleys so that they and their families could live in a place of plenty and a place of peace. The hills to all sides of the modest farms created impregnable defences that would leave any foe exhausted before battle was ever made. 

But then, no one had ever attempted to conquer these lands. Few knew of them, and of those who did, the wise settled and became a part of the land, and the fools passed through, blind to the beauty and magic that lay around them in such abundance.

Sometimes, as he strode across the spine of a hill, John would dare to allow the voice of his arrogance to whisper in his ear; this is all mine. He would smile at that thought and often, he would take a moment to turn around, so that he did not miss where he had come from and the views beyond. Taking stock and appreciating this place for all it was, or at least attempting to. He knew it would take a lifetime to even begin to assimilate the majesty of a land that had existed forever in the direction of the past and would be here well after the age of man had ended and been forgotten.

John was not an arrogant man. The place of his birth humbled him. He allowed himself the heretical thought of this place being his, but his intent was loving. This land was his, the same as a wife would have been his, had such an opportunity ever presented herself. As it was, he was wed to the hills, and the valley of his home, just as surely as he would be to the woman of his dreams. More so, and perhaps that was why the gods who dwelt within the hills had seen fit to steer that dream woman away from his path. He sometimes wondered whether there was ever enough of him left over for marriage. He belonged to this place. He belonged to this land. Once his time was done, he would return to the land and his circle would be complete.

Besides, he had Sam, and Sam was enough for anyone. Right now Sam was running down the side of the hill at a break neck speed that John marvelled at. At times, John envied Sam his raw energy. Energy that seemed to fizz and spark forth from the rocks and soil, powering Sam and driving him forth. John could feel it too, but for him it was a more sedate experience. A constant enlivening that drew him across the landscape and gently chanted promises of forever to him. Not once had he faltered. Not once had he weakened. Not once had he considered a day when he would not walk these hills of his ancestors, and commune with them and a power beyond imagining. 

John continued to walk the ridge as Sam tested himself on the slopes of the hill. Bounding back up now, John knew Sam would make a point of pausing at the peak to spend a moment with his best friend. Then he was off again, down the other side, throwing himself at gods knew what. John knew that they saw this place well. That they both looked beyond the superficial and saw beyond. Today he imagined them both as fleas. Playing along the back of a gargantuan beast. Co-existing in a quiet and gentle way. Avoiding the eventuality where they caused this beast to itch so that it rubbed them from its hide. 

Leave the place as you find it, if not in a better state, John reminded himself. It was a good maxim. They were gardeners. Caretakers for only a short time. There would be others after them. Others who would love and be loved. People who understood this place and how they belonged to it. 

The question of the years that John had been here was one he seldom considered. Time was a nonsense here. He had a watch, but he barely looked at it. It was an ornament that adorned his wrist. A gift from his dearly departed father. The movement of the sun, the revealing of the face of the moon and the changing of the seasons were John’s markers. But now he found himself visited by a ghost from his past. The impossibly small boy that he’d been. A rare weakling in these parts. The runt of a litter that only he was a part of. The grizzled and large man climbing an outcrop of rock was alien to that tiny lad. But yet again, the land had provided. It had nurtured him. Bade him grow into what he was now. 

That boy had struggled at first, and John supposed that the struggle of life was ever present. It had become a part of who he was and he’d not paid it all that much heed since. But now here he was with memories of a lesser state, and for the first time in a long time, he recalled his worries. The worries of a tiny boy who lived in the shadow of his father, and lurking in the darkness of that shadow was a crushing fear. The fear of living his days as a constant disappointment, as well as being a painful reminder of his beautiful mother. 

John’s father was a taciturn man. John supposed he may be described as such too. This made him smile again. He had words. He had thousands of them. They milled about his head like bees. Seldom was he quiet where it counted, but he was fine with that. There was a peace in that buzzing hubbub of joy.

“You remind me of her.”

His father had only said these words twice to John. Once on his deathbed. John had always known though. He’d seen the way his father looked at him when he thought John was not paying attention. He again felt the sadness of loss. That sadness had torn away at him. He did not want to make his father sad, instead he wanted to make him proud. He wanted to rise up from this far too small form and be big and strong. 

He had wanted to be his dad. 

That was the only image he had and he knew that was what he was supposed to do. What he was supposed to be. 

His father’s last words were a gift that he held in his heart. John had lost sight of what counted. He’d aimed himself at a windmill and fought a fight that was never his. His father voiced his failure and in that failure John rejoiced. He had remained a product of both his parents and in doing so, he’d remained true to himself. His father had given him enough of his mother for him to be. Best of all, his father had given him the love of his mother. Grieving her loss, his father had not held onto her too tightly, instead he’d given his son everything he’d had of her.

Only as he said goodbye to his dad, did John have a glimpse of how that might work. Then, that afternoon, after his father had breathed his last, he’d walked. Then he’d broken into a run and he’d gone into the depths of the land, paying no heed as to where he was, or where he was going. Recklessly he scrabbled at the scree. Blind to the world, but always aware of it. An infant clinging to his mother.

By the time he’d stopped, he was soaked in sweat, rain and tears. Sitting on a rock and looking down at the matchbox sized farmhouse where his dead father lay peacefully. He’d screamed at the sky and then he’d burst into laughter. A laughter that had threatened to undo him, but then, as his seams split wide open, his light shone forth and he’d laughed with the beauty of it all. He was home. He was where he belonged, and the love he felt was here in these hills and valleys. It went deeper than his comprehension of it. It was vast and timeless. He counted himself lucky. He’d been born into the best of places and the best of lives. 

“Silly sod,” he whispered to himself. He was about to chuckle when it dawned on him why it was that he was reminiscing. 

The hills were speaking to him.

His breath caught in his throat and his knees threatened to buckle. The land had spoken, but too late did he listen. Even with his love of these hills, he’d taken too much for granted. Gotten caught up in himself and not seen beyond that.

Steadying himself, he knew he must be strong. But for once, his strength eluded him, “no,” he breathed the word out before daring to look about him.

There was an absence now. Even in this place of abundance there was now a lack. The absence was ominous in its silence, and John dared not speak out into that foreboding stillness. Instead he broke out into a walk that was soon a loping run. 

Somehow he knew where to go. Which side of the steep hill his companion was. He threw himself forth on legs grown older and stiffer, less certain than on the day his father had died. His body threatened to topple over sending him into a fatal cartwheel, but compensating for that would lead to him losing his footing, sliding down the face of the hill, jagged rocks tearing at him and opening him up. 

It felt like an age before he’d made it half way down the hill. His heart leapt into his mouth when he saw him. He wanted to look away. An awful moment of cowardice. A tendency towards betrayal that shocked him. He’d thought himself better than that, and he’d been arrogant in that thinking.

“Sam,” he gasped as he slid to a halt beside his best friend, “what happened?”

He ran his hand lovingly through Sam’s hair, “it’s going to be alright, Sam. It’s going to be alright, don’t you worry.”

But it wasn’t. John could see that. He could see it from the way that Sam lay. He was broken and his running days were over. Worst of all, he could see it in Sam’s eyes. That moment would haunt John for the rest of his life. Sam’s eyes and everything that was in them. Love was the most of it. A love that they’d shared over the years. A love that had deepened and grown until that was all there ever was. Life without each other was not a life at all. Their roots had plunged deeper and deeper into this land and intertwined so completely that they were one. 

John lowered his head until his forehead was touching Sam’s, “no,” he croaked, “don’t you dare. I’m getting you out of here. You’ll be OK.”

He grit his teeth and raised his head, but that same message remained, in the midst of two pools of the deepest and purest love John had ever known.

Sorry.

This is goodbye.

John tried to ignore what he knew to be true. He had to. He had to hope against hope as he lifted Sam and carried him back up the slope and home. Carrying Sam hurt John to his core. It was all he could do not to collapse in tears. It wasn’t just how light his friend was. How thin he’d become. There was another lightness there. The lifting of a weight as the end beckoned and there was no holding on anymore. 

Sam was letting go.

John could feel his friend letting go. Slipping away. With a grim determination, he carried Sam all the way home. And within that stubborn focus, John did the right thing. He whispered soft words to reassure his fallen friend, but not once did he beg or plead with him to stay. John knew not to be selfish. Knew Sam well enough to know that he would do anything to be with John, even if it hurt to do so and cost him more than he had left. John knew that Sam’s running days were over and he had to let him go. Sam wasn’t Sam without that. This was his time. John had to respect that. He had to respect Sam and be true to their love and everything they had shared.

Holding him close, he walked with his companion. Feeling his heartbeat against his own. Wishing he could give his own heart to Sam. Truth was that he already had. 

When Sam contentedly sighed away his very last breath, and John felt the last soft and ragged heartbeat against his chest, his tears began. He saw nothing for the remainder of the trek home. Kicking the door open, he placed Sam’s broken body on his bed, and he lay next to him. Stroking Sam and talking to him throughout the night. A vigil that he kept until the sun rose on a new day.

“Goodbye, boy,” John said to his friend as the light prompted him to rise and greet the day. He ruffled the hair on Sam’s head one last time, and played with his ears the way he’d always liked best.

Standing at the kitchen sink, he splashed his face with ice cold water, intending to fill the kettle and make a mug of tea, but something out on the hills caught his eye, and his breath froze within him as he watched a familiar black figure bounding up the hill. He tracked it all the way to the summit and watched as it stopped and turned to look back him one last time.

“Goodbye, old friend,” whispered John. 

Sam nodded, and in that nod was acceptance, love, heartfelt thanks for all that they had shared and one last message, you’ll be OK.

“Will I?” John asked, then he returned the black Labrador’s nod, “I suppose I will at that, boy.”

And with that, Sam was off. Returning to the land that he had run through since he’d been a pup. A land that had given him and his master much and more. A land that required the smallest of prices when the last race was run.