On a bright, sunny summer day in 1788, Christopher put down his hammer, removed his apron and walked out of the foundry. He ignored Mr. Bristle’s shouted demands that he returned to work. After all, the shouting of his former employer was just another loud noise in a city that was full of them.
The city seemed to have become full of sound. The hammering in the foundry was just a small part of it. There was a new mill across the road whose hundreds of identical machines produced the unholy screeching of banshee legions. And the workers who tended the machines would all pour out of the building at the same time, and fill the street with their coarse language, expressing their blasphemy at the very top of their lungs. Even the usual cacophony of schoolboys and livestock and policemen’s whistles was defeated by that infernal barrage.
For a single second, he faltered, fearing that he was overreacting, but in each sound he heard the echo of Mary’s screams, the screams that had shaken his world, that took him back to the moment when the light of his life disappeared and took his not-quite-born son with it. It was not a moment he could bear to repeat, even if he could only hear its echoes in the clashing sounds.
The hesitation passed.
The air was so full of noise that Christopher was convinced that there could be no room for him, so he left his tools off to one side and walked out, to find a place he could fit.
He walked up the street, to where the mills and their legions gave way to the stately houses of the owners. But here, too, the sound of carriages and horses and — again — the infernal whistles of the law informed him that it was time to move on.
The street turned into a dirt road, and the post jangled past him every few hours, keeping him from the silence he craved. Birds tweeted annoyingly in trees. Once, a whole regiment went by, surely with no other purpose than to stomp its boots on the packed earth.
The road went up, and his spirits rose with it. Up into the mountains, above the lakes and tree line. The birds had gone and there seemed to be a still calm upon the land. Perhaps there was room for him there. But, upon turning a corner of the path, a herd of cattle blocked his way, and upon the lead cow… a bell.
He walked off the path, along the rougher, rock strewn spines of the mounts until he came across a small ridge overlooking a tiny lagoon. It was a secluded place surrounded by mountains that blocked off the wind, and it seemed completely silent.
There, Christopher rested. And there, with no echoes to remind him, Christopher forgot.
As he rested, he listened. Without the constant noise of life and bustle filling the air and the inside of his head, he could hear the words that could only be said in silence.
He listened to the Earth and to the stars. He listened to the distant oceans and to ghosts of fallen soldiers. The voices in the silence taught him the ancient secrets of the Titans and the hidden shame of the gods. They taught him to live forever and to gain nutrition from the very air. They taught him to control the fabric of reality and to see beyond the veil of death.
Christopher sat and listened to the voices and grew fat on the thin mountain air. He listened for days, years, decades. He listened for centuries and was at peace.
One day, however, the shout of a hiker broke through the silence. It was miles distant, and only reached the ridge on which Christopher was seated because of a fortuitous gust of wind. Its power when it reached him was akin to the sound made by the flapping of a butterfly’s wing.
The thunderous noise nearly killed him. He felt a searing pain in the very atoms of his body, and he was sure that he would never recover.
But the sound didn’t repeat itself. The wind was still, and no further interruption was carried up to his retreat. Over the next few weeks, the atoms of his body healed, and the pain receded.
But Christopher remembered that day.
He could not bear to remember that day.
On a bright, sunny summer day in 2012, Christopher wrapped himself in a shield of silence and walked away from his ridge. He retraced his steps across the tortuous hillsides, and came to the small mountain path he’d walked before.
There, stood not a herd of cows, but a flock of sheep and a shepherd. He saw that one of the lambs had a bell.
Christopher gave a silent command and the shield around him expanded to give them the gift of silence. As he left them behind, he saw that they were cold, immobile, and blessedly quiet.
He walked on. Birds fell from the trees as he passed, but hit the ground with no sound. The rustling of the leaves ceased to be, forever. A row of army trucks on the paved two-lane that had replaced the dirt track of yore suddenly stopped. No men descended, and no men ever would.
The city had grown, and the mills had spawned countless progeny. But he pushed back the noise, filling the previously cramped air with the power of eternal peace. As he walked across each intersection, the city behind him went cold and lifeless — glorious in its lack of noise.
Christopher kept walking. He walked until he’d given his gift to all the living creatures of the land and the seas, and had brought absolute peace to the world. But the perfect stillness was incomplete.
He listened to the voice of silence to discover what was amiss. And then Christopher, understanding, smiled.
He banished the winds.
And he was content.
Gustavo Bondoni writes way too many stories, but he enjoys it, so that’s okay. His work wanders all over the genres, and occasionally into mainstream. Some of it even gets published.
GD Star Rating
loading...
loading...
Did you like this story?
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
Subscribe to the RSS Feed! (what is rss)
Don’t miss another story! Subscribe to Every Day Fiction via RSS.- Share on Facebook
12 Responses to “CHRISTOPHER’S RETREAT • by Gustavo Bondoni”
Comments
« JUST JEFF • by Dan Purdue | Home | GLASS CEILING • by Laura Crowe »
January 18th, 2012 at 5:38 am
Sometimes the infernal editor in my head spoils stories for me. Wish I could turn it off.
“The city seemed to have become full of sound.” Passive
“The city was full of sound.” Dynamic
I dislike editing because a lot of rules can stifle creativity and, worse, makes me sound know-it-all.
Parts were poetic, and I certainly empathize with Christopher as far as non-stop noise but I wouldn’t want to halt the wind. A nice flight of fantasy, but not my preferred reading. ***
January 18th, 2012 at 7:05 am
Must agree with ajcap on all counts.
A further edit was definitely required.
January 18th, 2012 at 7:41 am
Since there is no polite way to say STFU, I’ll simply explain that “The city was full of sound.” is the perception of a 3rd person omniscient narrator, while “The city seemed to have become full of sound.” conveys the feeling of the character. Competent writers know when to use passive constructions and why.
Good story.
January 18th, 2012 at 8:13 am
Wonderful imagining, felt epic to me.
I particularly liked the phrase, “…words that could only be said in silence.” It made me think about how sometimes people share thoughts without speaking. That was wonderfully real.
Anyway, I liked this tale. I also wonder if there is a Christopher in the mountains around me; I know the scene he described is. Four stars….
January 18th, 2012 at 9:35 am
Respectfully disagree, Msstacy13, but realize futile to argue.
January 18th, 2012 at 9:48 am
I like the meditative feel to this.
January 18th, 2012 at 10:00 am
@3 – Thanks for adding to the discussion, Stacy. Alas, using troll-speak tends to weaken any valid argument you may have had.
January 18th, 2012 at 10:37 am
What an odd little piece. I don’t think it’s quite my ‘cup of tea’, but there are some interesting ideas here.
I would have liked to see a tighter edit – there are a number of word repetitions that draw needless attention to themselves, and Christopher appears to walk out of the foundry in the first paragraph, and then again in the fifth.
To join in the debate, hopefully without attracting any accusations of trolling, I would argue that “The city was full of sound” is still passive. “Sound filled the city” would be the active version. “The city seemed to have become full of sound” makes it seem like (a) there’s some doubt about whether it had or hadn’t become full of sound, and (b) it had only just happened, or that the character was noticing it for the first time (which clearly isn’t the case when you look at the phrase in context).
January 18th, 2012 at 10:38 am
Let’s not have any attacks on each other, please. Comments should be respectful of other commenters, and if you believe someone is trolling or commenting in an offensive manner, please report the issue to us rather than engaging. Thanks.
January 18th, 2012 at 1:35 pm
Hi everyone, just wanted to thank you all for reading and taking the time to comment – it’s always a great feeling for a writer to know that he is being read, and better still that people are taking the time to analyze the writing!
And if the work is generating passionate discussion, even more so!
January 18th, 2012 at 2:25 pm
This story was beautiful and strange story. I’m not sur I understood it all, but I enjoyed it. The idea of Christopher as a sort of God-like being was interesting. five stars.
January 20th, 2012 at 3:41 am
Enjoyed this, had shivers down my spine a bit at the idea of silence reigning everywhere, spooky and thought-provoking. Thank you.