Ned Condini, member of NCWN West, has shared some of his work with us today.

THE FASCINATION WITH GRAY
by Ned Condini


Don’t ask me why but I was set on my way to Alaska. I said good-bye to Father, Mother and Brother (crystal-clear trinity at long last), got slapped by Father and hugged sorrowfully by Mother (later, Dad would have burned his hand in expiation) and with just my knapsack, my shot gun, and a walking stick with a flower blooming on top, began my impossible journey. Why did I ever tackle this inhuman task? Now I’m alone, completely alone, and on the march. I’m already hungry.

I came upon a big, brown moose a couple of days ago. I’ve been following his tracks. Sooner or later we’re going to cross paths. In fact, there he is, I see his wise-looking head, the spacious antlers. I shoot him twice in the neck, and he falls, bleeding. In a couple of minutes he’s dead. I cut him up into savory pieces, bury him under straw and set the straw on fire. Short flames dart up from the straw. It seems that the ceremony is starting the right way: the glorification of fire and the consecration of food. The smell of it makes me think I’m one of the first patriarchs, or an Indian sachem.

The fire goes out. I put my head under the straw cover, smell hard, no celestial incense yet. Did I light the wrong pyre? Is the moose’s blood on my hands? I lift the straw cover, poke the fire again, reset the whole thing. Nothing happens. Let’s face it, the fire is dying. I toss the cover away, and look at the meat. Bees are landing on it; a few seconds, and maggots wriggle out. It’s hard to believe that this seemingly succulent dish is disintegrating so fast. It already stinks, without my tasting it yet.

I watch the dying embers (an emblem of what’s to come? I’m sick of emblems) and squat by them. Minutes go by, then, in a bewildering silence, wolves appear and start tearing at the moose’s flesh. Their howls fill the sky. None of the wolves come close to me. I must still smell like bloodless white carrion.

I resume my journey. A big bear grazes by me, growls at me in acknowledgement, trudges on. I spot a deadly-looking scorpion following my footsteps. Did it make it up here all the way from Mexico? Or have scorpions gotten everywhere?

I decide to switch to fishing, unless I want to starve. I make a rudimentary bow, carve out a couple of arrows, and look like Davy Crockett without his coon hat. But it’s no joke. The cold is getting more intense, and I’d better pick up the pace. I start running, and after a half hour of staggering dizziness, I discover an empty, disabled school bus. I occupy it, and light a fire inside. Just a few windows are broken, so it’s quite safe even if drafty, and truly dismal. I fall asleep, with the remains of a half-fried fish in my churning entrails.

I have been walking (dragging myself) for days now, and the first snow-capped mountains come into sight. The view is stunning, but the terrain harsh and the vegetation sparse: just stunted pines, heather, moss, lichen. The rest is a ubiquitous wild light, whose purpose is apparently to blind me to all the other colors in the universe. I’m feeding on fish dredged from ponds, losing pounds like a Jew in a ghetto, stumbling on like a hippo on roller skates. But one day I’ll reach Alaska, I say to myself--whatever Alaska is meant to be: my preparation for the pithiness of ice, the training for my cool tomb. I am the last of the Eskimos.

Getting rid of all paraphernalia-- that’s what I’m trying to do. I have dumped my T-shirt and I walk now in my shorts and boots. I carry on my shoulders the weight of the sun and the pull of this swirling landscape. It always looks like snow, but it never snows. The sky is a steely light blue, then sheer blue, but no angels yet. I begin to feel the pinch of cold on my bare flesh. I don’t have much energy left to go hunting for meat or fish. I haven’t found one single egg.

I think today I have landed in Alaska. The cold is brutal, but here I am standing in the raw air, half naked, happy to have discarded my ridiculous accoutrements. I thought I needed plenty for graduation. Graduation… It seems so outlandish now, so useless. The only close things are my father’s hand lifted to strike, and Mother’s gentle face. I’ve seen a few flurries but not much. It’s more like my vision is dissolving into stars.

I’m getting cold. I do want to get cold. I want to compose myself in the anonymity of ice. I retrace my steps towards the school bus, as deserted as before, and as I rest, seated, I realize a black scorpion is scuttling away. Have I been stung? Yes, I have, I say as I start vomiting my soul, thinking of my friends, my lost riches, hermits, animals digging for my heart. But my heart is not for grabs. Shuddering, I put on my windbreaker and the only long pants I still own, lay down and make the sign of the cross over my body. I’m slowly freezing to death, motionless in my gray mummification.

The shadow of the big bear is also close to me: has he come to keep me company in this solitude? He stretches by me, nudging me with his wet fur. I see Mom’s ever forgiving face, Dad slowly burning his right hand over the fire. How moving this all is. How full of light, and silence, and cold. Only a ghost could live here—the Holy One? Death does not exist. I close my tired eyes, smile a frozen smile, and stretch out my numbing limbs for the eternal rest. This is my first absence of speech. No words needed, only crossed bones that look as if they were singing.

(second part of this story will be published tomorrow)