[meritinabox] 29. An enemy loved.
Ironically enough, this may be the fluffiest piece to come out of meritinabox from me. Also, damn, are endings hard to land. I'm not thrilled with this one, but the point isn't to make something perfectly crafted, at this point, it's to just get something finished and done.
*
The tourist was waiting on the street, smoking a pungent cigarette. He wasn’t dressed for the hike - he didn’t seem to be dressed for anything more than going out to a club in some big city. Ertan knew it wasn’t his prerogative to tell his customers what to wear, but if the mountains defeated them because the stranger wasn’t able to continue, he might not get paid.
“Are you certain you’ll be all right in that?” he said, after a moment.
The man raised both eyebrows, very slightly. He wore black denim jeans and a battered leather jacket. On his feet were a pair of flimsy canvas shoes. He carried no backpack, no water bottles, no sunscreen, no nothing. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly, with no more of an accent than a local. Ertan hesitated. The man was very pale, and very tall. He threw his cigarette onto the cement and rubbed it out. “Shall we?”
They drove for three hours. The tourist turned out to be quite engaging, and Ertan found himself telling him all sorts of things about his life - the times he’d been to Ankara, the German penpal he’d had as a child, the anthropologist who’d lived in their house one summer, the woman he was saving money to buy a house for. They talked politics, and Ertan vented on a number of problems he couldn’t speak to anyone else in town about. They talked about music, and Ertan heard stories about shows the tourist had attended in America.
“Are you American?” he asked.
The tourist shook his head. “But I live there now. It’s a good place, for all its troubles.”
“I hope to go there someday,” Ertan announced. “What should I prepare for?”
The tourist talked for a long while, but as they rose up higher into the mountains, the pauses became more frequent. Ertan knew that look: he remembered it on his father’s face, when his father remembered his years as a soldier, and so he just kept driving until the road gave out.
“Okay,” he said, yanking up the parking break. “Time to walk.”
The tourist looked up. “How close are we?”
Ertan shrugged. “Hour and a half to the base?”
The man laughed. “How small the world’s gotten.” He climbed out of the old jeep. “This way?” Ertan nodded, and they set off.
The climbing was rough: the mountains were high and the air thin and chilly. The tourist hardly seemed to notice, but Ertan had to stop several times to catch his breath. Overhead, the wind wailed and keened. The tourist did not speak, but kept on walking in his thin rubber shoes.
“Here.”
“What?”
They had stopped near the foot of a particularly forbidding peak. The tourist turned to face Ertan. “I can take it from here.”
Ertan opened his mouth, then thought better of it, and said, “All right.”
The man smiled. “You have my thanks for bringing me here, Ertan.”
“You’re-not going to kill yourself, right?” he blurted. The tourist laughed.
“Not at all. It’s just something I have to do alone is all.”
Ertan nodded, as though he understood. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”
“I’m sure.” The tourist bent and pulled off his shoes. He sighed happily, kneading the ground with his bare feet. “Come here.” He took Ertan’s face between his hands: the scent of his cigarettes muddied Ertan’s vision. His hands were hot, and very strong. “Go to New York City when you are thirty-two years old. You’ll have a great story that can be told to many there. The woman you’re saving your money for will love you all her life. You will be a father to beautiful daughters. Go and do good in the world.”
When Ertan could move again, the tourist was already far away. He had removed the dark leather jacket; his bare arms stood out against the black rock of the mountain. Ertan watched him walk alone, up and up and up, and could not for the life of him remember what the man had told him his name was. The shoes sat before him, cheerful and modern amid the looming Caucasus. Ertan decided to leave them, for when the man came back.
* * *
The eagle is waiting at the top of the mountain, perched listlessly next to the empty rock. Prometheus drapes his jacket over a boulder and climbs down to meet him.
“Hello.”
The eagle’s head jerks up. The years have not been good to him: his feathers are dull and shabby, the beak crusted and the eyes filmy. Even the claws grow gnarled and chipped. He spreads his wings and rears, raising a cloud of dust. Greetings to you, old companion.
Prometheus glances out over the vista spreading out beneath them. The centuries have not changed it much. “You don’t spend all your time up here, do you?”
The eagle ruffles his feathers. I miss you.
“I’ve been gone a long time.”
Yes.
“Do you ever find anyone up here?”
The claws scrape against the rock. Sometimes.
Prometheus approaches the rock. The chains that held him in place have long since vanished, though the holes where they were ripped out by Herakles still gape back at him. He runs one hand over the surface: the iron manacle on his wrist scrapes on the stone.
It has been a long time since you have come to see me, the eagle says, and Prometheus laughs at the accusing tone.
“The world continues apace, Aeton. And it’s wide, and getting wider.”
Have you found him?
“Which him?”
The eagle clacks his beak, impatient with such glibness. The Olympian. Our tormentor.
Prometheus shakes his head. “I don’t go looking. If he wants to find me, bully for him. He’s been out on his ear for two thousand years: I could give a damn what he’s feeling.”
What of any of the others? The Speedy-Comer, he would visit sometimes.
“Yeah. I see him.”
Your brothers?
Prometheus’s eye falls on his wrist. “Still scattered.”
The eagle dips his head. I am very hungry.
“We’ve been over this.”
The eagle makes a soft noise that in a human would be crying. I miss you.
Prometheus is very close now. He goes still for a moment before meeting the great, still-golden eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I miss you too.”
That is a strange thing for you to say, isn’t it.
“Funny how that doesn’t make it less true.”
The eagle bows his head. Sometimes I think the world has lost me.
Prometheus snorts. “You’re getting melancholy in your old age.”
I am like you now. I have too much time to think.
“I keep myself busy.”
I meant then.
“I know you did.”
I miss our talks. No one ever talked with me before you did.
“No one ever ate my liver before you did.”
There is a first time for everything.
“Did you just make a joke there?”
The eagle screeches, pleased. Prometheus finds himself smiling as well. “You’ll be okay.”
For the most part, they all will.
*
The tourist was waiting on the street, smoking a pungent cigarette. He wasn’t dressed for the hike - he didn’t seem to be dressed for anything more than going out to a club in some big city. Ertan knew it wasn’t his prerogative to tell his customers what to wear, but if the mountains defeated them because the stranger wasn’t able to continue, he might not get paid.
“Are you certain you’ll be all right in that?” he said, after a moment.
The man raised both eyebrows, very slightly. He wore black denim jeans and a battered leather jacket. On his feet were a pair of flimsy canvas shoes. He carried no backpack, no water bottles, no sunscreen, no nothing. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly, with no more of an accent than a local. Ertan hesitated. The man was very pale, and very tall. He threw his cigarette onto the cement and rubbed it out. “Shall we?”
They drove for three hours. The tourist turned out to be quite engaging, and Ertan found himself telling him all sorts of things about his life - the times he’d been to Ankara, the German penpal he’d had as a child, the anthropologist who’d lived in their house one summer, the woman he was saving money to buy a house for. They talked politics, and Ertan vented on a number of problems he couldn’t speak to anyone else in town about. They talked about music, and Ertan heard stories about shows the tourist had attended in America.
“Are you American?” he asked.
The tourist shook his head. “But I live there now. It’s a good place, for all its troubles.”
“I hope to go there someday,” Ertan announced. “What should I prepare for?”
The tourist talked for a long while, but as they rose up higher into the mountains, the pauses became more frequent. Ertan knew that look: he remembered it on his father’s face, when his father remembered his years as a soldier, and so he just kept driving until the road gave out.
“Okay,” he said, yanking up the parking break. “Time to walk.”
The tourist looked up. “How close are we?”
Ertan shrugged. “Hour and a half to the base?”
The man laughed. “How small the world’s gotten.” He climbed out of the old jeep. “This way?” Ertan nodded, and they set off.
The climbing was rough: the mountains were high and the air thin and chilly. The tourist hardly seemed to notice, but Ertan had to stop several times to catch his breath. Overhead, the wind wailed and keened. The tourist did not speak, but kept on walking in his thin rubber shoes.
“Here.”
“What?”
They had stopped near the foot of a particularly forbidding peak. The tourist turned to face Ertan. “I can take it from here.”
Ertan opened his mouth, then thought better of it, and said, “All right.”
The man smiled. “You have my thanks for bringing me here, Ertan.”
“You’re-not going to kill yourself, right?” he blurted. The tourist laughed.
“Not at all. It’s just something I have to do alone is all.”
Ertan nodded, as though he understood. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”
“I’m sure.” The tourist bent and pulled off his shoes. He sighed happily, kneading the ground with his bare feet. “Come here.” He took Ertan’s face between his hands: the scent of his cigarettes muddied Ertan’s vision. His hands were hot, and very strong. “Go to New York City when you are thirty-two years old. You’ll have a great story that can be told to many there. The woman you’re saving your money for will love you all her life. You will be a father to beautiful daughters. Go and do good in the world.”
When Ertan could move again, the tourist was already far away. He had removed the dark leather jacket; his bare arms stood out against the black rock of the mountain. Ertan watched him walk alone, up and up and up, and could not for the life of him remember what the man had told him his name was. The shoes sat before him, cheerful and modern amid the looming Caucasus. Ertan decided to leave them, for when the man came back.
* * *
The eagle is waiting at the top of the mountain, perched listlessly next to the empty rock. Prometheus drapes his jacket over a boulder and climbs down to meet him.
“Hello.”
The eagle’s head jerks up. The years have not been good to him: his feathers are dull and shabby, the beak crusted and the eyes filmy. Even the claws grow gnarled and chipped. He spreads his wings and rears, raising a cloud of dust. Greetings to you, old companion.
Prometheus glances out over the vista spreading out beneath them. The centuries have not changed it much. “You don’t spend all your time up here, do you?”
The eagle ruffles his feathers. I miss you.
“I’ve been gone a long time.”
Yes.
“Do you ever find anyone up here?”
The claws scrape against the rock. Sometimes.
Prometheus approaches the rock. The chains that held him in place have long since vanished, though the holes where they were ripped out by Herakles still gape back at him. He runs one hand over the surface: the iron manacle on his wrist scrapes on the stone.
It has been a long time since you have come to see me, the eagle says, and Prometheus laughs at the accusing tone.
“The world continues apace, Aeton. And it’s wide, and getting wider.”
Have you found him?
“Which him?”
The eagle clacks his beak, impatient with such glibness. The Olympian. Our tormentor.
Prometheus shakes his head. “I don’t go looking. If he wants to find me, bully for him. He’s been out on his ear for two thousand years: I could give a damn what he’s feeling.”
What of any of the others? The Speedy-Comer, he would visit sometimes.
“Yeah. I see him.”
Your brothers?
Prometheus’s eye falls on his wrist. “Still scattered.”
The eagle dips his head. I am very hungry.
“We’ve been over this.”
The eagle makes a soft noise that in a human would be crying. I miss you.
Prometheus is very close now. He goes still for a moment before meeting the great, still-golden eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I miss you too.”
That is a strange thing for you to say, isn’t it.
“Funny how that doesn’t make it less true.”
The eagle bows his head. Sometimes I think the world has lost me.
Prometheus snorts. “You’re getting melancholy in your old age.”
I am like you now. I have too much time to think.
“I keep myself busy.”
I meant then.
“I know you did.”
I miss our talks. No one ever talked with me before you did.
“No one ever ate my liver before you did.”
There is a first time for everything.
“Did you just make a joke there?”
The eagle screeches, pleased. Prometheus finds himself smiling as well. “You’ll be okay.”
For the most part, they all will.