Notes to be Read

It started simple enough, though through time it became more complex. Each passing moment elongated until the steps turned to frustration and agony. Once started, there would be no stopping until every last motion was enacted. 

The whole town was involved. Everyone had their role to fulfill, and everyone knew exactly what they must do. No one could remember how they learned; many would say they were born with the knowledge. Genetic memory: the lessons were written in the blood of the newest birthed. They couldn’t teach you. If you didn’t know, then you didn’t know.

The fellers would gather the wood for the fires, taking months to prepare. The wood had to dry. The wood had to season. You couldn’t cut corners. Everything had to be done to perfection. There was no room for error.

The year I came to the village, I was astounded at how the citizens’s lives revolved around this one night. Their world knew of this one special nocturne, and they knew of nothing else. Trying to keep up was dizzying. If it were not for the article I was employed to write, I don’t think I would have been keen to stay. But, the money was too good to pass up. No one wants to hire a fresh start journalist. I understand the seasoning of the wood. My work needed to be honed like the knife the smith crafted. I needed to age. My work only to improve with time.

I gathered my notebook and a couple of new pens. I was ready to take notes. The villagers had said they had a seat waiting for me, near the action at a small student’s desk. It, too, had been made especially for me to use at this event. Everything was made new- even the clothes I wore. I was astounded at the craftsmanship of it all. It truly was a production, and I had tickets center stage.

I was led to my seat, which was indeed set center of the festivities. The villagers gathered around as silence fell upon their shoulders. The quiet so loud it could wake the dead. I sat and laid my notebook open upon the polished oak surface. I felt the embrace of the matronly magistrate as she embraced me, warm breath lingered in my ear.

I must say that the silence would awaken the dead, and indeed it did. My notes written deeply as my blood spilled from the knife’s razor edge: notes only to be read from beyond the grave. 

I thought my life would end, but in all earnest surprise, it truly was the beginning. As I stood outside my body, looking on over the crowd I saw them- The Others. They the disemcorpulated and decidedly disembodied of the ones that came before me. I could see they held a similar position as me. They all were the writers, scholars, and otherwise employed chroniclers of the years before. They filled the role that no other person in the village held. 

I indeed was dumbfounded when I came to the village. No one could read, and thus, could not write. Some benefactor unknown was the one that facilitated the procurement of someone who could read, and made it their life’s work to write. If only the writers knew just how short their career on this earth would be. I looked about me. If I still had breath, my lungs would have betrayed me. 

There were more than I could have imagined standing around me. The whole of the village was surrounded as far as my eyes could see. In circles radiating outward, there were more than just the writers. Where writers were light in spite of their situation, these circles were abyssal and dark. I felt a cold that enveloped me. Not the chill of death, but something much destructive. Something desolate and consuming: I dispaired. The sun would never shine again as I had in my childhood. I felt old, decrepit, and completely broken. My heart quivered in pain, and I doubled over. I felt their fingers gripping tighter as I fell ever more into the void.

My body moved: fingers twitch, limbs stretched, and hair fell away from my face. I stood. My body turned, and I came face to face with what once was mine. Now, I looked into eyes that held no spark of life. What once was a vibrant hue of green-gold was now a dull ocher. These unknown eyes peeped and peered. A smile crept to pale lips once rose, mirthless and disturbed. It pointed a finger at my notebook and beckoned me to look.

My blood was no longer pooled across the paper. In its place were lines upon lines of text. I recognized my handwriting. It read of the festivities and celebration of life that I had expected to record. It had written the piece that I had been charged to pen. I dared not pull my eyes away. I wanted that one moment to last. The what once was me now something else closed the cover of the book and picked it up. There mirthless smile broke into a cacophonous cackle. I made myself meet those dull orbits, and watched as it turned away. The village, still silent, returned to their homes. The darkness faded. Only the light remained.

We gathered in the center of the ritual grounds. We stood shoulder to shoulder, fingers entertained and sure. Softly, methodically, and with increasing vigor our spectral voices rang out. With each syllable, the cadence found footing. With each note, octaves blended into chords of euphoric resonance. The chorus echoed off every building and stone.

The not me turned. The crooked grin melted off its face. Malicious eyes were replaced by fear. It had underestimated the bond. It had underestimated the light. Our vigor increased. Feverish our voices raised, arms followed suit. We pulsed with every beat. As our light crescendoed, the darkness waned. In one swift action, our fingers released. A wave emanated and enveloped everything that surrounded. My body once again fell limp, lifeless as it had ever been since the blade kissed the flesh of my throat.