The Breath of Night

“The narrow crescent moon rises

And the bleak September sun sets

The wind of the east rises once more

The Breath of Night has fallen.”

Clovis sighed and tossed the parchment down into his luggage. If he had any intimacy toward poetry whatsoever, he might have cared about it. Something in the words stood out. They made him almost want to care. Something was different about them.

“I represent the legacy of France!” He growled to himself, “If I knew…”  he picked up the paper whose words had been scrawled out upon it fiercely and tossed it from the balcony which he stood on. It caught a breeze and was blown back through a gap in the rail. Clovis caught it underfoot. 

“If I only knew who was sending them…”

Disappointed with himself, he stuffed it back into his bag with the others. He had never been able to bring himself to throw one away.

“There comes a time to stop caring about childish endeavours!”

He sank into his armchair.

“Well, Antonio,” he said to his Chihuahua, which had traveled with him since he adopted Clovis in Mexico City, “Take a good look: New York City. One more night, then back to Lyon.”

Antonio jumped up on his lap.

“I sure am gonna miss America.”

His imaginative mind put words into his dog’s mouth:

“Then don’t leave.”

“France is my home. I couldn’t abandon it even for this.”

“Classic Clovis: afraid of change.”

The words even formulated by his own mind struck an insecurity. Clovis Caron was not afraid of change in the slightest. Instead, he was mortified of the oblivion brought by change. He was an explorer who feared the unknown. He feared nothing as a concept; finding nothing; The fact that nothing is inevitable; yet cannot truly exist. 

Cogito Ergo Sum! He repeated as his mantra.

The second time, he bellowed it aloud: “Cogito Ergo Sum!” 

Antonio ran half way across the room, frightened. He stared at his master (who desperately needed therapy) and cocked his head. 

“God help ‘im” Clovis could tell exactly what his precious dog’s face told him.

He sighed, annoyed with himself. “I’m sorry, Antonio.” he looked at the face which loved him tenderly. After a few moments, he returned to the top of his thigh and rested his chin on his paws. Clovis gently stroked the dog smaller than a cat. The thin animal looked more helpless than ever, yet it fended for itself for the greater part of his life on the cruel streets of Mexico.

As the fire crackled, Clovis began to sing softly. He donned a blanket and Antonio put his miniscule head through an opening and peered into the heart of the embers. Clovis could only see a gleaming corner of one of his teary eyes. He began to sing softly to him:

Aurora lucis rutilat,

Caelum laudibus intonat,

Mundus exultans iubilat,

***

The entire room was filled with junk. There were no other words to describe it. Clutter as far as the eye could see. And in a flash it had disappeared. Now only cold oblivion remained. Clovis did not feel anything. No pull from the earth. No cold from the wind. No heat from the sun. Nothing. His fear of nothing was the only thing that remained. He did not remember anything of the past. And his mind was taken. The ability to think was taken. All he could do was listen to a voice that echoed; screamed. 

“The narrow crescent moon rises

And the bleak September sun sets

The wind of the east rises once more

The Breath of Night has fallen.”

Fallen? He questioned, though he did not know why,

Fallen! The voice repeated,

Fallen! Fallen! Fallen! Fallen! Fallen! Fallen in Antarctica!

***

Clovis did not remember his dream when he awoke early in the morning. He was going back to France. 

“Mornin’, sir” his bellhop said, proud to serve the wealthiest man in the hotel.

“Hello,” Clovis replied, grimacing from the back pain caused by sleeping upright in the chair. There was a brief, awkward silence before the bellhop broke it. 

“Sir, would you like me to take your luggage?”

“Oh, yeah.” he sighed. “By the window.” 

Something seemed off.

“Feels like you’ve got anvils in here.”

His mind drew a blank.

“Good morning, Monsieur Caron”

He was boarding a Ford Tri-Motor.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

The plane landed.

“Welcome back to Lyon, Monsieur!”

He had made it back to France. All there was was a blur between where he stood and where he was.

Mountain ranges, city lights. Now, more mountain ranges and more city lights. 

Clovis was riding a taxi when he came to the realization that something had been taken from his mind. The largest thing that came to mind was the eerie parchment slips that had been mailed to him for the last two months in the United States. He removed them from the pocket and read them again hoping to find meaning. 

“Welcome to the Land of the Free, Mr. Caron!

Enjoy your stay in the marvelous country

But a country is inanimate.

So do yourself a favor and lose hope.

~~~~~

“If you stay in the world, 

Know this:

~~~~~

“The narrow crescent moon rises

And the bleak September sun sets

The wind of the east rises once more

The Breath of Night has fallen.”

Who could have sent it? Who would have sent it? It felt like a wicked omen. But as he was putting it back into his bag, he noticed something strange about it.

Night doesn’t breath! He tried to dismiss it, It’s a metaphor!

Later that night, he lay in his large bedroom, Antonio at his side unable to sleep.

East wind rises… no… wind of the east rises… THE wind of the east rises, The Breath of Night has fallen. 

Clovis forced himself out of bed and made his way to his office. The three papers had been carelessly tossed on his desk.

There has to be something to this enigma.

He read the third paper again and it awakened a flame from the deepest halls of his memory; something almost forgotten. Oblivion was remembered by him first. The pain of not being able to think, only listen. His dream was remembered: abundance of possessions, then nothing. Not even thought. He recalled the voice that had forced him to listen to the short poem. It was his grandfather’s voice. It was the one that had told him so many stories. The rich tones were inscribed into his brain.

Then, Clovis saw it from a different perspective. The first letters of each line on the first paper spelled out his grandfather’s name.

WEBS

The second and third finished the name:

WEBS I.K. TATT

His grandfather was a poet and since he had died, Clovis had resented every form of poetry which he had once loved.

But why would someone spell out his grandfather’s name?

A piece of paper fell through the mail slot.

“It is now safe for you to know that I live.

--Webs I.K. Tatt”