Ernest Dempsey

From the Word

No more are the dancing waves visible. The view is all a steady whole of an image, one as dark as a somber night but conveying a mysterious touch of coherence. There are silhouettes in the open space, faint and merging, defying the darkness of the moment with their blurred appearance. Hidden somewhere in this still blackness is a motion, slow and subtle, that is felt distinct from the twittering of the night birds and the rustling of leaves swaying in the gentle wind. But it is invisible, veiled by the darkness of the night. My sight is wandering, curiously wandering, groping for the unseen figures whose shadowy outlines lie freakishly incomplete in the open space. The unease of uncertainty is tickling every moment. I need a spot, a speck to rest my peripatetic sight. Perhaps that might soothe my irritable presence over which lies a dark mist of unknown apprehensions. I want to see now, to stop my voice that makes me feel anything but secure. There is space before me, and space all around me. Space is to see or there is no space but only the word, the unseen word, perishable as a flame in a storm. I must escape somewhere that can be seen. I need to be out of this ghostly space that is felt but not clearly eyed. Where is the image that I saw first? Where did it vanish and how? As I let go the reins of my frantic look, it darts somewhere, upwards perhaps, or sideways, but not down. Not down since I still feel the stranded presence that thrusts my voice from below. So it is up then for I come out of the dark sphere. And the first rays of the celestial orb come to me, anointing me to peace. From the veil of an unshaped cloud, the divinely lit face of the moon appears slowly with an air of vanity. It is a perfect circle. It is space. I see it, clear and distinct. I get my stance. Yes, I belong to the moon. It lights the world, so will I. It leads the eye, and so will I. It floats above the depths of space, as I do by my nature. The moon and I are one, floating in the heights, viewing down the night of the world, with an air of supremacy. And this point, the view of the deeper space, divides us in our stance. The moon lights the world and is there to be seen. But I am not here to be eyed. No one can see me. I am not meant to be seen. I am meant to probe the sight with the momentary gift of seeing. I fix my stare downward, deep downward, where the shadowy silhouettes lay freakishly undistinguished and unrecognized a while ago. But that was past, near past of my present. My present now is the image. Yes, it is the image, the same image; one that was lost after the first vivid glance. It does not solely comprise of unshaped outlines anymore but forms a complete perceptible whole of figures. They lie bare before me, down there, bathing in the stream of the bluish white rays. My view is fresh but familiar, clouded by a distance of time, a gap of years. But the intimate bond with this space seizes the temporal quod beyond any help. Time is beaten. Its whizzing arrow is not always steady. Moments passed and moments passing are juxtaposed. My vision breathes in the moonlit spot. It is a clear image now. I see the space, and I know it. I know it something prior to my existence but my inevitable connection with it lies there before my very sight. Ah this sinking beat! Whence it comes? I feel sinking, sinking from the height to the ground. I feel a dismal plunge, inevitable and necessitated. I feel a dismal plunge, inevitable and necessitated. Perhaps, the moon could save me. But no, it wouldn’t. It lit the whole thing and it let me fall down. And still I cannot call it a conspirator. I cannot for I know it is not one. As the distance between the earth and me rushes to nil, my existence feels the coming unity with all that is waiting down to engulf me. And, to my wonder, my power of speech flares up like a fierce thunder. The earth, the night, the shadows, the sounds, the figures, everything strikes me as one and my voice takes the prodigy to speak again whatever living past I experience in the familiar space of an old house.

In the old adobe house a few wooden beds lie in a row. It is a summer night, short and peaceful. The moonlight showers the open yard and strips bare its openness, binding it to that of the sky. The walls of the verandah stand alien, burdened with years of inanimate indifference and neglect. The dim shadow of the sole tree, erect in the center of the yard, breaks the stream of moonlight on two of the beds. The still figures, curved irregularly in their blankets, are gone far too deep in the valley of sleep to witness anything of the world above it. The moment is dead, though certain to live again with the first rays of the sun. And yet, all is not dead with sleep. All is not still. There is motion in one of the beds, one lying at the start of the row, away from the tree. A young woman covered in her shawl from toe to neck is sleeping beside a little mass in a small blanket. The body in it moves slowly so that the motion reveals the limbs out of the blanket; small, lean arms and feet of a child. Perhaps it is the moon that meddles with the tender sleep of the child, or else it is some other ache haunting the child’s peace from the cruel world of human angst. The woman lies oblivious to all in her sleep, one as deep as that which follows a long tiring day of summer. She cannot reach the child; cannot hear or see though she may feel the existence of the little life moving by her side. With a little moan the child pushes the blanket off, and his small, dreamy, anxious face of a boy comes out entirely in exposure to the openness of the night air. His smooth black hair is scattered on his white forehead, reaching his half-opened eyes. He looks around in discomfort. All is dead and dull. The only answer to his breathing is his own unease, the feeling of a prying threat from within. He wants to speak, to utter something in his defense. But he sees the woman, lying beside him, so unconscious as if she has nothing to do with his pain. Helplessness envelops him like a tiny speck. His little heart is clasped in the somber claws of loneliness. His lips quiver but no word can escape them; only a sound of ache, a moan, a faint cry. The woman’s body suddenly jerks a little as if pricked. Her eyes tear open from the veil of a dream. The silent fact of the nocturnal world reveals itself to her. Her first beat motions to the little life lying at her side. She looks at him and sees his eyes, narrowed and unhappy. The child in them carries a need and the mother in her reads it.

‘What?’ she asks, touching his cheek softly. ‘Are you hungry?’ He looks comforted to know that she knows.

‘Yes,’ he answers in his week, famished voice.

‘Oh! Get up. I shall bring you food.’ She gets up and leaves him. His eyes follow her to the small room from where he knows all the food comes. The light illuminating the chamber flows out to spread in part of the yard but is not strong enough to interfere with the sleep of the other souls. The child is now sitting in the bed looking at his mother, sitting there in that chamber. He can see that she has lit a fire and he knows it is meant to make the food warm. He waits silently and without moving except for his twinkling eyes. Then she comes to him with a bowl in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. His weakened heart gains some strength as he watches her approaching him.

‘Here. Eat this,’ she says with affection, putting his food on the bed before him. He looks greedily at the bowl. The look and smell of warm porridge flared up his appetite and in his still sleepy mien he eats his food avidly. As he clumsily drops some of it in his lap, his mother takes the spoon from his hand and feeds him with care. His weakness begins to vanish as he feels strength filling him. But his real strength lies not in the bowl of porridge. The shine in his dreamy eyes does not owe itself to bits of porridge. It all comes direct to him in the vital bond of trust that connects him to his mother. She is his first power, the snug castle of his trust.