“Not everything,” I told her, “but nearly everything. The
hill offers no comfort, and certainly no advice. It speaks, but in a language
no one understands, and no one has heard before.”
“As well,” said the hill, “I speak in a language constantly
changing, evolving, so that no one, at no time, will ever understand me.”
“Then how can you report what the hill just said,” she
asked.
“Ah, because that was an eon ago, when the hill spoke, and I
only just now learned that language…. But what the hill is saying now, I have
no idea.”
“I want to embrace the hill, to take it into my arms, to
have my fingers grow like roots into the hill. I want to be anchored here like
an oak in a giant landscape, so that no storm, no wind can move me.”
“That would be possible,” said the hill. “But do you really
want to stay? This is a dead place, a place scorched by the angry God.”
“I have known that God, and worshipped him,” she said. “And
he has given me deaths—fifty deaths. One of them my own child. Yes, I will
spend my time on this hill, until I too die. The birds of carrion, how I love
them!”
“They are all that fly here!”
“The piranhas, the fish of carrion, how I dote upon them!”
“They are all that swim here!”
“The murderers, the men of carrion. How I reverence them!”
“Yes,” said the hill. “All these, the beautiful faces of
destruction. The hill, seared of all life, bids them welcome. Here, their
emptiness can grow and grow. Their hate can rise, expand, fill the sky. Their
murderous rage is fanned by the flame of solitude and anger. Lovely is it to
see, and the angels of the god of anger rejoice.”
“They do. They sing a song of cacophony, a song that stirs
the blood in my veins, warms me, and soothes me at the same time. How pleasant
to my ears, that wail of anguish! How I dote in it! I want nothing pleasant,
now, now that my son is dead. No, I want the hill, since my son is dead. I go
with him, here on his last journey, and I rejoice in the bird of carrion. That
is all that is left. That is what we have.”
“They are beautiful….”
“They are necessary, and it is necessary that I see them; I
welcome them, they who will eat the flesh of my son.”
“They are lovely…..”
“They are welcome, since what need does he have, now, of his
flesh? And I love them, as I must, since is not my son in them? Now, he too is
the bird of carrion. The vulture. The crow. Beautiful, beautiful birds, with
their fetid breath and their night-dark wings!”
“They are comely….”
“They are wise, since who has not tasted wisdom who has
tasted flesh? And beautiful, as my son was beautiful, as he danced into the
night of death. Yes, he danced into death, so beautiful was he. And now, he
awaits them. I await them. The birds must come, must they not?”
“They are regal….”
“Regal, yes, the vultures, the crows, as they rip the skin
from the bones of my son! Regal, as they circle above, celebrating the death
dance before they dive. Yes, death’s maidens, the vultures who dance! The
crows, whose caws are the trumpets of death! Whose plumage is the color of
death, and whose eyes are the diamonds of death!”
“They are holy…..”
“Holy, yes, they are holy. See, they begin now, their sacred
and holy spiral of the dance of death. I hold him in my arms, my son—a pieta
here on this hill of death, and I offer him, as a mother, to the dancers of
death.”
“They are sacred….”
“Sacred, yes, they are sacred. As how could they not be,
since the angry god, who has blessed the hill with his curses, has given birth
to these birds of death. I am here as a mother, and as a goddess offering her
son to the birds. I must see. I must see the flesh torn from him; I must hear
the ripping of the skin, the beaks crashing against bones. I must look into the
eyes of death, and call them beautiful.”
“They are radiant….”
“Radiant, yes, they are radiant. As he was radiant, radiant
as he danced into death. Radiant, now, as we wait for them, the dancers of
death. The celebrants of death. First it will be his eyes, his lovely eyes that
they will pluck. Those eyes that first gazed at me, on the day of his birth.
Those eyes that cried after every toddler spill. Those eyes that looked upon
his lover, that first night of their love, and could imagine no other eyes, no
other face, no other body. Yes, first shall be the eyes that the dancers of
death will tear out!”
“Lovely will that be….”
“Lovely, yes, lovely will it be. And then, his guts. The
dancers of death—those vultures, those crows—will dance into his guts. The guts
that nourished him, made him strong, made him alive. I nourished him, fed him,
changed him from a baby to boy to man. Into his guts they will dance, the blood
spilling out, the bile splashing onto the rocks of the hill. I will hold him,
my son, as the vultures devour his guts!”
“Noble will that be….”
“Noble, yes, noble will it be. And then, his liver, his
blood-rich liver. They will seize on it, fight for it, wrest it from his body,
and attack it with their beaks. They will grow blood mad, liver rich. I shall
hold them, as they tear the liver from his body. I shall rejoice, as they
jockey and claw, so drunken are they on liver. The liver of my son. The dancers
of death.”
“Glorious will that be….”
“Glorious, yes, glorious will it be. And last, his heart.
His heart, which I first heard deep in my own womb! Whose beat was stirred by
another god. And now, the god of death has stilled the beat, has muffled the
drum, and has sent the dancers of death to claim his heart. The heart of my
son. He danced into death, and now death is taking him, claiming him. I
rejoice, I celebrate, I who will stay always on this hill.”
“You will not, you know. No one can stay on this hill
forever. The day will dawn when you will be moving, the rocks clutching and
stabbing at you feet. The day will come when you can no longer see the bones of
your son, whitening in the ardent sun. The day will come when the songs of the
singers of the dancers of death no long ring in your ears. Then you will go.”
“Even a mother may not stay?”
“No.”
She cast a single tear on the body of her son, and then the
dancers descended.
