Dusk has descended on Podil, an end to the intermission that is twilight, extended by the approach of summer, the inevitable triumph of light over night.
The prisoner is alone in his mind as well as his cell, the doors to memory shut tight, deaf to all sound, blind to any sight. His tongue disdains taste, his nose defiant of smell.
Then along comes imagination, his lifelong trusted friend. Surely someone is home in there. Won’t you let me in? We can wend our way through the hills of Kyiv, behold its beautiful churches. Let’s row the waves of the Dnieper in Cossack sculls, explore the catacombs for medieval saints.
Just release that latch on your consciousness, put your eye to the peephole of perception. I’ll take you away on a magic carpet ride to live a lifetime of adventure. Keep your past locked up if you like, it matters not to me. I fly forward and will carry you along to places you’ve never seen.
It’s darkening, I know. The air dim all around, but that’s no reason for fear. The stage will soon be ablaze in blinding action, the illumination of human drama.
The ribs of the radiator that he’s chained to are now indistinguishable from his own. The dull ache is now numb. The thumps and creaking wood from floors above have grown more distant, those ghosts long gone to bed.
The murk outside the window is yet devoid of light. A glimmer here and there reaches down into the basement, sets shadows into play. A silhouette poses before him, a silent passenger on a sleeper train rumbling through the tunnel, then out onto a bridge.
It’s Josh Davies, his head atop his shoulders, those familiar wavy locks, the broad outline of a broad forehead, long jaw and turkey neck, barely visible but unmistakable in the faded light of day.
The face is otherwise flat and shaded, except the eyes, probing the distance between them, piercing the perimeter of Stephan’s person, delighting in their ability to see while remaining unseen. It’s as if he’s about to ask a question but awaits the full attention of the respondent.
He sings:
Don’t wake up after dark my darling
Don’t fall asleep during the day
Don’t wake up after dark my darkling
Or the Woe Man will take you away
His voice is soft like a man imitating a mother to her child
Don’t go to bed while it’s light outside
Don’t get up in the night
Don’t go to bed while the sun’s still shining
Or you’ll catch your death of fright
The sounds of someone sobbing can be heard through one of the walls. It’s followed by a shriek, hollow pounding and then a maddening wail tapering off to a barely audible moan. Footsteps echo in the corridor; something dragged along lifeless beyond the door. Keys rattle in locks, hinges squeak.
Stephan’s eyes are now wide open, staring into the window of his mind.
“My mother used to sing me that song,” begins Davies, closing the distance between them with a whisper.
“She feared that I would fall asleep one day and awake all alone in the dark,” he continues, peering into those very same eyes of Stephan, as if to find that window, and espy the goings-on of some well-lit room therein, unobserved in the dark outside.
“But I was what was known as a lunatic, delighting in nocturnal escapades. Then as now, I saw advantage in the night, the freedom to prowl unobserved among the sleeping, helpless as they were in their dreams.”
“They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul, but eyelids all aflutter tell much more. It’s like Morse code being sent from the unconscious, telegraphing the deepest desires of the heart, the most terrible trepidation of the mind. I leave soul-searching to the clergy.”
Davies is now up close, his turkey neck stretched into the neighbor’s yard with no concern for the fence it straddles. Stephan barely blinks.
“Pillows are hardly an obstacle, though many cling to them like childhood toys. Others toss, turn, mumble and drool into the night unaware of who is looking over them. While awake, they may imagine it’s some angel, sent to guard their sacred spirits while they rest. More often they slumber like pigs, snoring off a heavy meal or night of drink. The faces say it all, all puffed up with crust-covered eyes…”
The heavy iron door swings open and shut with a loud thump, and Stephan finds himself alone under a light. The rest of his cell appears darker, really black, as a result.
The older still well-built man is straddling a plain wooden chair with his arms crossed and rested atop the chair’s back. His face is firm but not unkind.
Josh Davies, now dressed in the robes and wig of a Crown Prosecutor, turns to face Stephan.
“Please state your full name, won’t you?”
“Stephan.”
“Yes, indeed – Stephan, but not Sir Stephan or Father Stephan, much less Saint Stephan – Am I correct?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re no more noble, moral or saintly than the collection of all too believable expatriate losers with whom you worked at the Kyiv Poster, drank at local watering holes, defamed and libeled on the pages of your so-called Saint Stephan site [saintstephan.com.ua, sabotaged, we think, in 2016 – Publisher’s Note, via Jonathan Hartley Finch] – isn’t that so?”
“I suppose.”
The older still well-built man remains somber if not grave.
“Have you not walked in the shoes of the alcoholic, stumbling home each night oblivious to shame, a cloud of tobacco smoke wafting overhead? It’s a wonder you didn’t fall into a ditch to be never again discovered… or get flattened by a bread truck while crossing the road. But you would have us believe that you were the victim of devious intrigue, hatched and undertaken by envious and cowardly coworkers… stabbed in the back and left to die on the Left Bank, which you were barely able to return to after a night of boozing…”
To be continued
Filed by DD, May 17, 2015