Ashes of the Moon Epilogue
Epilogue
There was so much that needed to be said.
Jared could have told him of how he had longed to hear Jensen’s name through the months of a grief bigger than his heart could hold; to know it was not forgotten, that Jensen was somehow with them; but how it hurt like knives to hear it, whispered by the children at night.
He could have told of the phone call placed in the US embassy in Dodoma. Of waiting for hours, cross-legged on the floor, to hear a connection had been made. Of hearing his mother’s voice for the first time in months, and hearing, underneath it all, the unmistakable, unforgivable disappointment that her son who had reportedly died a hero was returned to her as a living embarrassment.
He could have told him how Jensen’s actions on that riverbank taught him more about the possibilities of love than his mother would ever know. Of the day he dropped the penitent’s robes in the fire and burnt them into blackened scraps that he stirred with a stick until they were lost in the mud beneath his feet, given over to the African soil forever.
Jensen could have spoken of waking in pain and terror to hear the surviving rebel wail his own grief by the upended truck full of bodies. Of lying in the undergrowth, so still, as warm rain battered him and he bled slowly into the soil beneath as hours passed and the rebel left. Of crawling to the bus and retrieving his pack to lie helplessly again at the foot of the steps while the world dipped and spun, before dragging himself, foot by foot, to the Butaganda hut and barricading himself inside.
He could have told Jared of pain that lasted for days, for as long as Jensen knew of time, of the sound of rain drumming on the tin roof belling like an apocalypse coming down on him.
Jensen could have told of the day a black terror seized him, and how he barely managed to roll off the bed before lying, curved foetally, on the packed earth floor until exhausted sleep freed him.
Of how Death whispered to him from the corner of the hut, rocking on its bony haunches. He could tell of waking to see Death hunched over him, staring, whispering, and how Jensen had thrown his head backwards and forwards in feverish denial, chanting no, no, no, no until it returned to its corner.
And how one day he woke clear and loose as a mountain stream, to find himself alone in the little hut and the rain stopped. It came back, as did the pain, but that first relentless onslaught was over.
He could have told of eating the supplies in his pack and those the Butaganda family had left behind in their haste, before venturing out on legs as wobbly as a newborn calf’s to throw the boatman’s nets into the swollen river and catch his first fresh food for weeks. Of seeing tracks in the mud where jackals had scavenged the bodies of the rebels, had sniffed at the door of his hut.
All of this could have been said, and none of it needed to be. They sat side by side in the back seat of the Rover like exhausted children, silent in the wonder of recovery, while Lon muttered and sang and occasionally banged the steering wheel and shouted in triumphant delight, “You see? You see?”
Only as they approached the turn off to the farmhouse did Jensen look at Jared and say, simply, “I was coming to find you.”
And Jared nodded. “Me too.”
At the house they moved in a daze of calm happiness, of relief so great it brought a kind of lassitude upon them. They drifted through the rooms, picking up something here, straightening something there, but always circling back to each other, irresistibly drawn to where they could feel each other breathing from feet away. Moon and tide.
After a slow lunch on the verandah, Jared stood beside Jensen at the gravesite, an arm around his shoulders. Jensen saw the mounds and the empty grave between, stared long into its depths, breathing in the scents of clay and cut grass, listening to Jared’s heartbeat and the cry of a cuckoo hawk far above them. They had both lived so long in the half-light of grief and loss and shame that this moment, so clear, so bright and diamond-hard, cut them both to the quick. But the cuts let only tears; their blood was slowly warming to a different purpose, a different rhythm, and all the permission they would ever need was granted to them by those they loved and lost.
And later, when the moon rose and Jared cried out, arching his body helplessly, he called Jensen’s name again and again, a kind of prayer, and the only blessing he would ever need.
The End
Author's Notes
There was so much that needed to be said.
Jared could have told him of how he had longed to hear Jensen’s name through the months of a grief bigger than his heart could hold; to know it was not forgotten, that Jensen was somehow with them; but how it hurt like knives to hear it, whispered by the children at night.
He could have told of the phone call placed in the US embassy in Dodoma. Of waiting for hours, cross-legged on the floor, to hear a connection had been made. Of hearing his mother’s voice for the first time in months, and hearing, underneath it all, the unmistakable, unforgivable disappointment that her son who had reportedly died a hero was returned to her as a living embarrassment.
He could have told him how Jensen’s actions on that riverbank taught him more about the possibilities of love than his mother would ever know. Of the day he dropped the penitent’s robes in the fire and burnt them into blackened scraps that he stirred with a stick until they were lost in the mud beneath his feet, given over to the African soil forever.
Jensen could have spoken of waking in pain and terror to hear the surviving rebel wail his own grief by the upended truck full of bodies. Of lying in the undergrowth, so still, as warm rain battered him and he bled slowly into the soil beneath as hours passed and the rebel left. Of crawling to the bus and retrieving his pack to lie helplessly again at the foot of the steps while the world dipped and spun, before dragging himself, foot by foot, to the Butaganda hut and barricading himself inside.
He could have told Jared of pain that lasted for days, for as long as Jensen knew of time, of the sound of rain drumming on the tin roof belling like an apocalypse coming down on him.
Jensen could have told of the day a black terror seized him, and how he barely managed to roll off the bed before lying, curved foetally, on the packed earth floor until exhausted sleep freed him.
Of how Death whispered to him from the corner of the hut, rocking on its bony haunches. He could tell of waking to see Death hunched over him, staring, whispering, and how Jensen had thrown his head backwards and forwards in feverish denial, chanting no, no, no, no until it returned to its corner.
And how one day he woke clear and loose as a mountain stream, to find himself alone in the little hut and the rain stopped. It came back, as did the pain, but that first relentless onslaught was over.
He could have told of eating the supplies in his pack and those the Butaganda family had left behind in their haste, before venturing out on legs as wobbly as a newborn calf’s to throw the boatman’s nets into the swollen river and catch his first fresh food for weeks. Of seeing tracks in the mud where jackals had scavenged the bodies of the rebels, had sniffed at the door of his hut.
All of this could have been said, and none of it needed to be. They sat side by side in the back seat of the Rover like exhausted children, silent in the wonder of recovery, while Lon muttered and sang and occasionally banged the steering wheel and shouted in triumphant delight, “You see? You see?”
Only as they approached the turn off to the farmhouse did Jensen look at Jared and say, simply, “I was coming to find you.”
And Jared nodded. “Me too.”
At the house they moved in a daze of calm happiness, of relief so great it brought a kind of lassitude upon them. They drifted through the rooms, picking up something here, straightening something there, but always circling back to each other, irresistibly drawn to where they could feel each other breathing from feet away. Moon and tide.
After a slow lunch on the verandah, Jared stood beside Jensen at the gravesite, an arm around his shoulders. Jensen saw the mounds and the empty grave between, stared long into its depths, breathing in the scents of clay and cut grass, listening to Jared’s heartbeat and the cry of a cuckoo hawk far above them. They had both lived so long in the half-light of grief and loss and shame that this moment, so clear, so bright and diamond-hard, cut them both to the quick. But the cuts let only tears; their blood was slowly warming to a different purpose, a different rhythm, and all the permission they would ever need was granted to them by those they loved and lost.
And later, when the moon rose and Jared cried out, arching his body helplessly, he called Jensen’s name again and again, a kind of prayer, and the only blessing he would ever need.
The End
Author's Notes