By Shane Devine
The man enters the clearing. There’s a brisk chill hanging over the untamed landscape. The marshlands are windswept with wisps of smoke, and all around stand stout trees with bristly pine needles. Far out, past the jagged rocks, winds a forceful river, full with rainwater from the night before. On the outskirts of the scene lie thick woodlands, dense with uncut branches and bramble, and tough terrain beneath them, the whole of it flooded with bugs and wildlife. The man, red-skinned and lean with a long braid of black hair, restores his gaze upon a fleeing deer. He spurs his quick pace into a trot, keeping his footing light so to muffle his sounds. The deer is without an idea of the hunter’s whereabouts and hunkers straight ahead, dodging puddles of swamp water, not wasting a moment of his endangered life by turning for a glance. Silently yet swiftly the man takes up his long bow, readies an arrow retrieved from his quiver, and fires it clean across the marsh. It nails the animal in the back of its skull, sending the beast tumbling downward into a neat patch of dry grass. Grinning with pride the savage descends from the rotten tree trunk and closes in on the corpse. He gives a loud call to his nearby brothers, alerting them that they may leave their hiding places and gather round to lift the score over their backs and bring it to their far-off site, where wise women and children start fires and warm themselves in tepees. With hopes that the Great Spirit has noticed their sacrifices they begin the long trek back to feed their families.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. The sun is just peering out from behind the clouds, sending its rays upon the field. Brush and trees around the area breathe easy and dance with the wind that comes in gusts. Crunching twigs and swiping away loose rocks with his foot, the sounds of the flowing river past the hedges greet his ears. He is surrounded from all sides by a wooded mass, harboring dangers and the unknown. The man, white-skinned and tall, holds his hat at his chest with faith that he will get his family, trailing behind him in a tarp-covered wagon, through the following hours in safety. Knowing that the fate of their lives depend on his actions, he places his hat back on his head and with a stern face gets back to work. He turns back to his wife and lets her know he is done scouting and is ready to resume as driver. Holding her hand and patting her back, he eases her off onto the ground and helps her into the back of the wagon, where he secretly smiles at his sleeping children. Mounting the front, he throws himself back into seriousness, fetching the reigns from the floor and steadying his loaded musket on the empty seat beside him. He snaps the horses into a run, guiding them to follow the rough path laid out for him by previous trailblazers, wild Englishmen who burnt ways through the terrain in order to aid the ones to come. It is his goal to get out to the Ohio River Valley, where he could perhaps settle down on a plot of land with his family. Behind him, he can see in a quick glance, the mother of his children sleeps peacefully with them around her, all wrapped in a thick blanket. He humbles himself and prays: God-willing, the early morning sun will shine his way to prosperity.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. Warmth is beating down from the noontime sun, covering the settled lands with healing light. Without a trace of clouds the clear air illumines tidy, ordered trees rooted in well-kept grass, though the soil straight ahead is quite wet. Past that runs the gentle Potomac River, bubbling round the bend of sloping rich silt, speckled with tiny rocks and tree roots. Ploughed farmlands, pleasant barns, and dusty roads cutting their ways through the tall trees can be made out in the distance. Notes of a violin ring through the air. The man, dressed in buckled shoes, stockings, and a powdered wig, rides atop a noble horse. He is contemplatively weighing the beneficial and damaging aspects of a philosophical school of government, peering over the newly-born republic which he helped to forge. Many trials face the newborn land, but he has faith in the enduring traditions of his people that they may uphold the framework induced after a tumultuous war. The storms of birth have faded to reveal the sprightly, youthful character of a nation without a history to bog it down. Trouble is lurking in lands across the seas, and yet with firm resolve he insists his fellow countryman to have a poised and restrained approach to these intensive diplomatic matters, free of headstrong politics. Bells ring out from a chapel over hills in the distant horizon, and mothers in bonnets can be seen holding hands with their smartly dressed children, pouring out in an orderly fashion after receiving God’s grace. With hopeful airs, the man pulls the reins for his horse’s attention and begins the ride back to his manor home.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. The concourse doors slam with solemnity behind him. His train arrived just on time, due to the marvel that is modern transportation. Orange and yellow leaves sway in the cool air, falling in piles along the curb of the street. The Capitol Building, grand and tall, commands his glance upward: its mighty dome, bold in its world-defying power, is complimented by the Statue of Freedom who holds herself with grace on its peak. Past this supreme construction is an obelisk, dedicated to his nation’s father; past that is wetland grass, and still further there finally comes the columned temple commemorating the preserver of the nation’s unity, hoisted on a cliff above the Potomac River which sways its waters back and forth, with little pull in its direction. Office buildings and busy roads offer their industrial demeanor to the far-seeing gazer, but the man is much too busy with his tight-knit schedule to pay them attention. He fixes his hat, adjusts his tie, and takes a glance at his wrist watch, where he also sees the cuff of his fine woolen suit. Remembering its purchase was accomplished by his new raise, he feels all the more hurried in his walk to work in order to maintain that raise. The man is not late: he left home on time and his brokerage firm is not even far away. It is rather the immensity of work that he fears, the piles of paperwork that he must complete before his short meal, after which the New York office will telegram even more work for him to complete by the arrival of the evening. Around him swarm hundreds of businessmen, dressed in fine suits and hats, all in the same predicament. Some of these men could have been soldiers alongside him in the trenches some years before, but their intertwining lives have been atomized and their goals redirected from celebration to efficiency. The clock’s hands are moving, time is running out, and money is to be made. The whole stock market is betting around the outcome of the new presidential election between two vituperative candidates. A more furious electoral battle has not been fought in recent memory: ballot boxes wait to be filled to their brims, and the fate of the world economy hangs in the balance. New social programs ensure that whatever the outcome will be, people will have work, and there is massive work to be done in the financial sector and massive changes that need to be made to accommodate the socialized experiments. Meanwhile, immensely rich plutocrats, all spending money on the election, are managing their industrial companies out west, producing massive amounts of steel, oil, and lumber and importing them all back to the booming east, where prices and loans will have to be made. It is a busy time, and the man hardly has a moment to think about the wonderful woman taking care of their children at home. He hopes that God or whatever is up there watching over him grants him good luck as he goes through his day.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. The air is still, lukewarm. Tall, dirtied archways lead into the litter- and taxi-filled street. Homeless men squat around him, making noises and begging for money. The dome of the capitol building is encased with elaborate construction scaffolding, beyond which lies a long, rectangular, well-kept pond, resting proud in its artifice. Unlike the pond, the river behind it is contaminated by waste fluids from the urban environment. Silent corporate firms loom over the scene, with blinking red signals flashing on telecommunication polls in the afternoon sunlight. The man, slender in jeans and a sweat jacket, takes a picture with his digital camera at a statue just ahead. He is a video journalist hired by an internet news company to record footage of his nation’s capital in an effort to produce a documentary on the city’s increasing ethnic tensions. Feeling overwhelmed from his long journey by train, the young man took his bag off his back and placed it on the ground, unzipping it to fetch out a cigarette. As he smoked it down to nothing he stared at all who passed: women in business clothes talking rapidly into cellphones; silent and unblinking older men, gray in their hair and nostalgic in their countenances; obese fellows chewing on cheap meat purchased from a nearby food stand; all these and more surround him who, without having been phased, flicks his cigarette butt at the concrete. Still feeling empty, he lifts his backpack over his shoulder and presses onward, looking around for anything to film. But everything is quiet, and despite the few working men and women he sees around him, there is no one in view. Things are flat, stagnant. He begins to think forward to the next projects he was assigned to: climate change and resource depletion, refugee resettlement programs, the rise of private armies, and the upcoming election. He puts in earbuds to drown out his wide-ranging thoughts, shaking off the anger from his pent up rage at certain social issues and political talking points. Turning to walk down a side street, he stops and tries to remember the last time he talked to his ex-girlfriend, wondering if she would be angry if he gave her a call. After failing to remember how their last conversation left off, he shrugs in acceptance, tolerantly, and carries on with vacant eyes and a quiet hope that she will, somehow, come back into his life. Ultimately, he reminds himself that life is meaningless, and none of it, not if he covers these video topics well, or if his ex-girlfriend answers his phone calls, or if he ever achieves his highest dreams – none of it matters anyway.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. He is marching with an army of twenty, following the orders of the man in front. The train station has been closed down by the occupational force he is a part of: its concourse doors are sealed and its arches are guarded by officers wielding rifles. A substantial dusk hangs over the scenery, interrupted by flashlights, fires, and truck headlights. Sirens blare in the distance. Smoke clouds encircle the old business district buildings, whose owners have recently been exterminated by the Populares, a rival political faction to his own. They march into the square and stand straight, raising their rifles skyward and firing, alerting the enemy that they are near. Humvees speed around the corner and park beside them. Ally radio is overheard from the vehicles’ speakers: the last representatives of the old democratic government –torn apart by both sides – have been slaughtered, and Chulainn, the leader of the Populares, ordered their execution. While waiting to receive orders, the soldier reflects on his memories. The relative peace of his youth was quickly uprooted by constant civil strife he experienced in young adulthood. Resources were running dry, which inhibited the ruling class from maintaining the peace. Eventually, the government faltered on its task to provide adequate representation for the ever-increasing, ever-diversifying populace, giving rise to lone men who gathered together private armies, many of which were splinter groups from the national military, around their Wills and marched down to put the old order to death. Now these lone men do battle against one another, vying for the winning seat of empire-as-spoil. The entirety of the West is being disputed over in private militaristic competition while the people are either stored up in unharmed cities or spaced about in the countryside, silently tending to crops. Calm civilian life has been swept aside and replaced with constant political intensity. The soldier thinks to the wife he has left behind, and how he serves his life as a warrior to grant their life security and meaning. He prays to the almighty Sun to show him the way to victory.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. His senses are barraged with the glowing torches, the spectacular light show, and the fireworks exploding against the darkened sky. A mild chill lingers in the air, but the vibrant festival displaces all discomfort. Lavish displays of wealth and prosperity hang from every building, every terrace. The Capitol building is wrapped with gold tendrils, and confetti floats down from above. Floating down the Potomac River are celebrating navy men on top boats with tall masts whose sails display the symbol of the victorious Populares, now the single party of the Western Imperium. The man, cheerful and laughing, restores his gaze forward: trumpets sound in unison as the triumphant leader is carried through in the grand procession, ready to be crowned the new emperor. The people are overwhelmed with joy at the prospect of safety, of civility. For so long they had been robbed of their peace and homeland; they’ve had to sacrifice democracy and equality on the altar of strength and discipline; but so it shall be, for the people have willed it. Guards stand tall and proud on the reward pile given to them for vanquishing a tough foe. Rifles at their sides and helmets on their heads, they gaze at the ground with assurance that their might means something and that their authority will never be undermined. The free media has been abolished and replaced with a propagandizing cabal of artist-pamphleteers who serve to spread sculptural and cinematic displays of imperial power across the land – and so they have. Likewise have the financial and intellectual classes been purged to end the nay-saying world of petty politics, which have been replaced with the hard fist of force politics. Statues of the nation’s founders, its builders, its generals, and now its emperors are in lines through the streets leading to the Mall, all of whom are decorated with garlands and golden laurels for the night’s revels. After securing a spot to watch the ceremony, the man yells across the walkway for his wife to come to him, trying to make his voice heard over the raucous crying and callings. He thanks the holy Unconquered Sun for his great empire and his wonderful life.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. Fire is all around him in the darkest of nights. Buildings are burning and sliding off their foundations into the soaking streets. The pond and the Potomac River have overflowed the city center and warring naval ships are entering the bay of the Empire’s capital city. The Capitol building itself is lit aflame, and pitch-black smoke pours out of a wide gaping hole. Far off in the distance is but the same display of fire, smoke, and ever-increasing rubble. People sprint for their lives, but some are tugged by their shirts and their dresses backward, into the captivity of the invaders. All their dreams have ended. The Western people, more degenerate with each passing decade, have finally succumbed to their fated defeat. Their emperor is not older than a schoolboy, and word has it that he has been dismissed back to his country home. The leader of one of the invading tribes seeks to be crowned king. But all is rumor, lies, deceit. In the falling millennia-long “World Civilization” all is up for the taking. The private families have had their fair share, and their degenerated stock has nothing left to offer. The man wipes soot off his brow and wonders if his wife has been captured. He longs for peace, he prays for resolve, but feels that death will be his only satiating answer.
* * *
The man enters the clearing. The morning sun shows a sweeping vista of grass and trees. Ruins of what appears to be arches lie directly in front of him, but past them he can see those famous stone walls and columns, encased by moss and ivy, still standing after so many centuries. He heaves a heavy sigh and sits, beginning to compose a poem while wondering what kinds of people must have built such wonderful structures. He cannot wait to tell his young girl at home of his travels. He knows that his new gods will get him back to her without troubles, without delay, in peace and quiet, where he may rest his head in his sheltering grove.
Azure Bell 