03-29-2022, 05:12 PM
At the scream of the owl, Jude did not flinch. In fact, he straightened, a wave of clarity washing across his face. Drunkenness still hung over him, his head thick, his body leaden, but the blood-- Yes. He could do something with this. His hands opened and closed at his sides. His pupils dilated. As human as he looked -- as human as he was, for most intents and purposes -- he was also something else, a man who had never been a child, a being who could hear and see things that mere mortals cannot.
Perhaps Near has never wondered about God. He is at the age where perhaps God is dead to him, or at least boring. God is wondered about most intensely by teenagers and the old, those who are just coming into the swing of life and those who are closer and closer to death. The hunger for meaning pries their minds open; they are waiting for something to crawl in. Jude and the Family have crawled in. But Near, confined to the earth and the known, is a door locked and barred. There is no faith, or hope for it, to bring him over the threshold. Even his own eyes do not persuade.
He walked to the owl and put his palm on its neck, unhesitatingly coating his hand with blood. The woman's hunting knife was of no interest to him now. "It's not much," he said. "But I can try." The look of determination on his face was visible only to their strange new companion. Touching his forefinger and thumb together, he circled them against one another. Already it was growing sticky.
Time and space were illusions of human constraint. 'Here' and 'there', 'then' and 'now' -- projections, circumscriptions.
"Do you need anything before I go?" There were rules about how to travel: Jude has always done it the normal way, by car or plane. No one wanted to risk his going into some wormhole or pocket dimension and not coming out. Still tipsy, he was inclined to recklessness. He will bring himself to Olympia, or he'll bring Olympia to him. He will fold the two ends of the paper so they touch, walk across, and bend them back. Easy peasy.
It was a lot to ask of the owl. Would have been better to have a dog. Or a deer. But beggars can't be choosers.
Perhaps Near has never wondered about God. He is at the age where perhaps God is dead to him, or at least boring. God is wondered about most intensely by teenagers and the old, those who are just coming into the swing of life and those who are closer and closer to death. The hunger for meaning pries their minds open; they are waiting for something to crawl in. Jude and the Family have crawled in. But Near, confined to the earth and the known, is a door locked and barred. There is no faith, or hope for it, to bring him over the threshold. Even his own eyes do not persuade.
He walked to the owl and put his palm on its neck, unhesitatingly coating his hand with blood. The woman's hunting knife was of no interest to him now. "It's not much," he said. "But I can try." The look of determination on his face was visible only to their strange new companion. Touching his forefinger and thumb together, he circled them against one another. Already it was growing sticky.
Time and space were illusions of human constraint. 'Here' and 'there', 'then' and 'now' -- projections, circumscriptions.
"Do you need anything before I go?" There were rules about how to travel: Jude has always done it the normal way, by car or plane. No one wanted to risk his going into some wormhole or pocket dimension and not coming out. Still tipsy, he was inclined to recklessness. He will bring himself to Olympia, or he'll bring Olympia to him. He will fold the two ends of the paper so they touch, walk across, and bend them back. Easy peasy.
It was a lot to ask of the owl. Would have been better to have a dog. Or a deer. But beggars can't be choosers.