A Strange Fruit Indeed
by Kirpal Gordon
Humans become the food of the divinity they worship.
—Hindu Proverb
I’m only a civil servant from Punim Township & hesitate to introduce what might be mistaken for an exotic element yet I can think of no other way to begin: I live under the floorboards in the house of the archer of death. For the foreigner who knows nothing of our remote hamlet surrounded by mountains the archer avoids the human species unless under specific contract. How to tell it---it’s one thing to prattle & another to behold a face ugly enough to kill a human being or so I’ve heard Jemma joke with him in bed. Perhaps humor helps her endure. She may also be blind. I’m in no better position buried under oak; even the brightest moment is obscure. Captive in such a world, light would only be a hazard. Need I add other things live under the floorboards also?
Lest I appear to you bold, I’ve taken no pride in hunting death with the stubborn separateness that makes a man a warrior. It was not with courage I chanced upon such an unlikely meeting. It was at sundown in the forests of our province. Avoiding a shower of boulders, the archer fell backwards, tripping on his crossbow, smashing his head, an intimidating sight still: the size of two men, but with no teeth, nails or hair. Though unconscious he seemed almost human clothed in buckskin; he smelled of rotten forest & oozed wounds of blood & pus. I found his leather pouch between two rocks. Legend tells us the archer has an arrow for every one of us, & the arrow that was, as we say, dipped in my color, revealed itself like a lover. I grabbed the arrow & ran until a road appeared that led to town.
Returning home, grateful all were asleep, I lay down but remained awake, a wretched traveler unable to cross rest’s threshold. To know one shall live forever---if only eternity seemed so bright---I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the ugly colossus! In the morning I hastened to work as if it were another Monday, not the beginning of my immortality. To have conquered death, you say, to tear up that ludicrous postscript that makes the letters of one’s life a joke: I closed the door & took that arrow apart, making sure not to hurt myself with the object assigned to end my life. Although the prospect of defeating death filled me with dread, the actual event of dying seemed far worse.
I soon found my way back to the woods. From a hole in a nearby tree I observed the cottage. When the archer left & Jemma came out to garden I sneaked inside. Even a coward embraces a moment of defiance & having made myself tea I sat on their bed happy as a fool. I fell asleep & when I awoke the archer was berating Jemma in the front yard. I dug myself in under the floorboards. After the shock of him walking over me subsided I was thrilled to be spying on the habits of the agent of my own death having chosen the very ground he calls home as the most secure place for me to be.
The contest for my life, now on more human terms, took a new turn with the arrival of the three guardians. Death’s appointed hour must be precise, & after pulling out maps of stars & plotting the arc of human births, the guardians exercised an invasive power over the archer; he soon oozed from more wounds. To hear the archer shoot up from sleep & beg for mercy made me realize I’ve threatened his life for failure on an assignment is inconceivable & not without punishment.
This morning, he threw Jemma onto the floor, right above me, pleading, “What do you see?” Were they happy before I arrived? She knows I’m here crouched like an embryo for when he retires to his pipe & ledger with a worried look in the evenings, she drops the remains of his meal on the floor. If I’m quick I manage a few mouthfuls. These scraps sustain me & what would a meal produce but a moment of satisfaction followed by a digestion that would give me away? Such is the unending hunger that results from extending one’s own life.
Jemma, whose bones must have broken, finally acted. She grabbed his crossbow next to the crucifix above the bed & threw it but inches from where my hand was hidden under the floor. She then threw his pouch of arrows as well. Do not think me unable to break open these floorboards, grab that bow, load & fire it until the giant is defeated just because I did not do so, even though I rehearsed it often while she suffered those beatings.
I know human nature looks compassionately on helpless things, reserving
harsher judgment for the strong, but I was relieved when he returned
before I could do something even more rash than murder. Escape? Where
could I live having already seen the face assigned to take my life?
What did that woman expect? Neither her son nor savior, I’m only
a civil servant from Punim Township buried between a life I barely knew
& a death I only narrowly escaped. This is what dejection bears,
a strange fruit indeed.