The Fortress

I feel the rusty tremor of the engine, the appalling judder of the wheels. At night there are no lights. The coach driver complains aloud about avoiding bomb craters in the road. He talks loudly and fast. I hear something about “war” fought here “long time ago”.

Tired by long weeks of restless travelling, my head hangs forward uselessly, swinging limply from side to side. I lean exhausted into the curtain of the coach window, lit by needles of daylight. My forehead glances against the rattling glass.

My veins ache with the acid of fatigue, my legs are gripped with cramp. I yearn for darkness but my head fills red with morning sun. My eyes are almost too tired to close. Damaged sunlit dreams flit in and out of my head. I see a man in the middle of a market square. He's clutching something he's bought from a stall, stammering, turned away from me. Then I see something which fills me with revulsion. A growth on the back of his neck. When I look more closely it reveals itself to be a small green carnivorous sundew.

Daylight pierces my retina. I peer at the little eastern driver, irritated. His diminutive frame shakes with loud frustration or unpredictable laughter. His shirt is streaked with sweat. He talks constantly in a high pitched broken stammer above the roar of the vehicle, to anyone, to himself. He never sleeps. His thin white arms throw the wheel of the coach dramatically with the full force of his body as we career into space. I’m left breathless by the speed. Time and again I’m thrown violently forward. My heart tumbles out of me, wheeling into emptiness.

I momentarily think I must be ill. Why is the journey so long, so remorseless? The coach suddenly spasms to a halt. I see a flat expanse of land. Far in the distance, tiny silver domes glint above the trees. I catch a glimpse of a small town enveloped in morning dew.

***

I become aware of your presence as you awaken. The passengers arise to leave the bus. Some stretch their limbs, or talk idly. Some lounge on the grassy bank in the steamy heat of the morning.

I follow you and we step outside. I almost forget my precious books. It's warm but the air is fresh. We greet the morning sunbathers lying exhausted on the grass. They are curious about the leather bound volumes under my arm. I say they are my travelogues. I often meditate on places I've visited. Everything is written and drawn from life. After some persuasion I distribute them. The passengers gaze in awe at the pen and ink illustrations. Some even read the stories aloud.

I too stare captivated by the craftsmanship of the volumes, the delicate mysterious faces and landscapes of far off countries. However, I keep a dark secret to myself. Touched with an uneasy feeling of shame, I accept the praise with humility.

***

A guide known to the driver approaches. I collect my travelogues into a shoulder bag. The passengers assemble and we are led through a trail in the jungle. The vegetation looms on either side, deep and inpenetrable. It is completely silent. We reach the entrance of a fortress. Its ruins stand high though great stones lay pounded by battle. We climb up monolithic stairs. Small idols stand on either side, flaking with flowery clusters of lichen.

We reach a deserted courtyard. The guide and passengers disperse. I follow you to an arched entrance in a mighty moss coloured wall. It has no door in the conventional sense. It is a rectangular slit raised a couple of feet above the decaying stone flags. You lie on your back, placing your arms by your sides then roll beneath it. I follow in the same manner, impressed by the assured way you reach the other side.

We climb stone stairs along the side of a wall. The stairs narrow at a perilous height. I look below and fear for my life, imagine smashing against the stones. At the summit is a garden. The low walls, mostly obscured by vegetation are maze-like. At the centre of the stone labyrinth is a small cage.

Behind the bars are two monkeys. A still, anxious looking mother gripping the thin rusty bars with her delicate fingers, and her son, a smaller, restless agitated creature. He runs with unnerving agility up and down the cage, with nimble liberty and abandon. The mother remains still, yet her eyes apprehensively follow the mad acrobatics of her son. Finding a flaw in a corner of the cage he unexpectedly squeezes free, leaping up and down at my feet in a mad dance, fixing my eyes in an imperious stare. The mother snaps in anger, helpless and trembling.

What are we to do? I turn, but you're gone.