The silver locket and the sun gazer

“He told me you would come. I’ve been waiting.”

Reynolds’ heart made a bid to flee the captivity of his rib cage as the voice croaked out unexpectedly from the silence. He turned to face an old man with a beard and wild hair as unkempt as the weeds which had overgrown the ramshackle home’s exterior, lips as cracked and sun blistered as the weathered paint on its walls and skin as tanned and rough as the brown dead earth that lay at its foundation.

The dilapidated old home would have been seen as an eyesore in the world that was, but to Reynolds’ eye it had shimmered with the promise of a desert oasis.

He had been dragging his heels along the lonely road for days, which had bled into weeks, then stretched into eternity. No sign of what once would have been called civilisation. He had been travelling by night, but on this day, driven by desperation and delirium, he had stumbled on long after sunrise. The relentless sun seemed intent on breaking him with its carcinogenic, sub-Saharan heat. While his heavy legs had weighed his body down, his empty stomach and drought ravaged body had made his head light, his sweat glands as barren as dry creek beds. On and on he had trudged. Surely soon his body would give out and he would fall on the roadside, making a meal of himself for some lurking scavenger, be it four, or two legged.

Then, miraculously, the old shack had appeared on the horizon. Too giddy with relief to question his eyes, Reynolds had walked on with renewed vigour - his rubbery legs spring loaded by the promise of shelter... the hope of hydration and nourishment.

He had not even paused to question why the front door had been unlocked. He had obviously been meant to find this place. It had been laying in wait for him. As he’d stepped into the kitchen he had wept at the sight of bottles of water lined in rows with military precision on counter tops, shelves, a wonky old dining table. He had immediately snatched a bottle off the table and taken a long drink.

The pantry doors had swung open like the arms of a long lost lover, revealing shelves stacked high with canned food and dehydrated meat. He had been rummaging through his newfound bounty with glee - a child on Christmas morning in Hell, when the voice had spoken up behind him.

Now Reynolds stood eyeing the old man apprehensively. His voice and body language conveyed no anger or hostility and his ageing appearance and diminutive frame suggested he posed no physical threat. Still, the unhinged nature of his words made Reynolds uneasy. He could be dangerous. He could be armed.

“Who told you I would come?”

Reynolds reached for the switch blade in his right hand pocket as he spoke. The old man’s eyes did not follow him. In a world so full of danger, this seeming act of complacency was unsettling in its own right.

“God.”

“God told you I was coming?” A religious nut, then. Which definitely didn’t rule out the possibility of danger.

“Of course. Who else?” He paused allowing Reynolds to process this new and unusual information. “I saw Him myself, you know?”

“You did?” His grip tightened on the knife.

“Oh, yes. Not many know where to look for Him. He lives in the centre of the sun, you see.”

“How did you know to look for Him there?” Reynolds asked, humouring the crazy old fool but not loosening his grip on the knife for a second.

“What better place to look for Him than the vehicle of His wrath?”

“Right. When you put it like that, it makes sense.”

“Anyone can see Him if they are willing to look. But I got greedy. I stared for too long, so he took my sight.”

“You’re blind.”

“As a bat.” That could explain the sun gazer’s lack of concern over Reynolds reaching for his pocket, but he remained apprehensive. He removed the knife from his pocket, freeing the blade and waving it in the old man’s direction, failing to elicit so much as a flinch. “Is that a knife?”

“I thought you couldn’t see?”

“I can hear.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“No. To be wary is prudent in these times, but I have no need. You’re here to do God’s work.”

“Talk about blind faith,” Reynolds muttered.

“God can be hard. If we become greedy, He will punish us. But He is also merciful. I asked for forgiveness and He promised me protection. Now He has sent you to help me.”

In a past life, God may have been right. Reynolds had considered himself a person who liked to help others before society crumbled. Things were different now. There was no society but the society of the self. Perhaps things now were the way they had always been, only without the frills and lace.

What could he possibly do for the old man? He supposed they could stay here for a while, but the time would come when they would have to move on. An ailing blind man would slow him down, with possibly fatal repercussions. Besides, for all Reynolds knew, the doddering old fool would start preaching in the streets, alerting anyone within hearing distance to their presence. In the stillness and silence, sound could travel a long way.

He couldn’t care for the old man, so there was only one thing to do. In this world, only the strong survived. It was a world much like the world must have been before technology had allowed humans to become too soft and comfortable.

Reynolds gripped the knife tighter, preparing to use it, but maddeningly, he found himself hesitating, his left hand reaching into his other pocket.

He fished out the silver heart locket he had found lying discarded on the roadside weeks ago, its chain broken, but its body intact. Impenetrable. It had no material value, but he had found himself reaching to pick it up anyway. From that moment, he had carried it with him. It was a reminder of what once was. A reminder of who he was. That he was something more than a lurking jackal, or hovering carrion bird.

Maybe he could stay with the man for a while. Help him to survive as long as possible. Surely he couldn’t just kill him? At least until he was left with no choice. But what was the point of delaying the inevitable? The more he humanised the old man by getting to know him, the harder he would be to jettison when the necessity arose.

Not to mention the water and food. Reynolds had driven himself to the brink of death on his quest to find his treasure. He had earned it. It belonged to him. It was HIS. He wasn’t about to share it with some delirious old sun gazing fool who was the author of his own misfortune.

But in this world, everyone and no one were the authors of their own misfortune. The sun gazer had been resourceful enough to keep his home well stocked in preparation for the worst. That suggested he had once been a relatively rational and practical person. What had caused him to go mad? Was it the silence? The solitude? Had he simply succumbed to the same demons that threatened the sanity of anyone lucky or unlucky enough to still be drawing breath on this menopausal earth?

Reynolds stood there undecided. The knife in one hand, the locket in the other, a human soul and a feather, balanced on the scales of Anubis. Finally, he forced himself to make his choice. Hesitation was a fatal flaw.

“He never lies,” the sun gazer said confidently. You will help. I know it.”

“I’ll help.”

Reynolds extended a hand toward the sun gazer and slashed his throat in a quick, deliberate gesture. He told himself he had done the right thing as he stared at the dying man, watching the hope and then the blood drain from him.

*******

Later, after the worst of the day’s searing heat had passed, Reynolds went out into the backyard. He found a wheelbarrow resting alongside a rusty old shed, dragged the old man’s dead weight outside, hauled him into the barrow, wheeled it a few hundred metres down the road and laid the sun gazer to rest in a bed of weeds. After a moment of contemplation, he pulled his heart out and tossed it onto the roadside. He had no use for it any more.

*******

Reynolds woke with a scream, his heart thudding in his chest. That damned dream again! It was the third time this week. Usually waking from a nightmare brought relief. Not for Reynolds. It had been a dream tonight, but he knew there would come a time, whether it be tomorrow, or the day after, when it was not.

A gunshot rang out in the distance, echoing off hills that bore silent witness to two legged vultures and hyenas, going about their night’s work.

Reynolds buried his head in his hands and wept. ‘I’ve lost so much. Everyone I’ve ever loved. Can I really afford to lose myself?’

He composed himself and reached into his pockets, retrieving the blade and the locket, balancing them on the scales of his hands. He took a deep breath as tears trailed down his cheeks, now as silent as the sentinel hills. He knew what he had to do. He had thought about it often. There was no use delaying any longer. Hesitation was a fatal flaw.

He clutched the locket as tightly as he could, raised it to his lips and then pressed the point of the blade to his wrist.