Somnolent Sojourns



  Somnolent Sojourns

  By Binit Koirala

  Copyright 2015 Binit Koirala

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  The man slowly stood up from his seated position. He felt the side of his left arm. Slowly and methodically, he pulled out the six shards of glass that had cut into his limb. His red blood dripped to the ground along the jagged edges of the shiny ultramarine crystals, making a pattern on the ground that reminded him of the painting of a beautiful sunset that once sat upon a ledge in his childhood home. There were two blurred figures in a tight embrace at the bottom left corner of the scene and on the ground beside them was a small, ornately carved wooden box.

  The man held the largest shard of glass and squinted through it at the bloodstained sand, hoping to bring back the entire imagery in its full clarity. The image became even harder to decipher, as drops of clear liquid from his eyes fell upon the glass and distorted whatever had been visible so far.

  “No use thinking about what might have been.”

  The creaking sound of a door disrupted the man’s thoughts. He looked to his left, to a seaside hut made of twigs and leaves. The open door and the gentle sound of a flapping piece of cloth invited him in, and he was not going to avoid the welcome. He tossed the piece of glass into the sea and walked slowly towards the entrance. His feet brushed along the soft grains of sand, being gently caressed by the warmth they had appropriated from the morning sun.

  The inside was very dark. Or perhaps it was just his eyes taking their time to adapt to the abrupt change in the level of light. Whatever the case, he didn’t need his eyes to guide him here, he knew where each and every thing was. He walked three steps, then turned right. He stretched his hand in front of him and felt the curved shape of a bottle. He put it to his lips and drank—the sweet taste of fresh, cool water on a hot salty day was a joy that wouldn’t be lost on him, no matter his condition.

  Nor would the taste of fresh fruit, he thought, as he took a bite from the plate that sat beside the bottle. Then he remembered that he had not entered the hut to quench his hunger or thirst, at least not the kind of thirst that is quenched by a few sips of water. He needed something else before he set out on the journey.

  Turning about from the shelf, he walked a few paces to a desk littered with scrolls and with many pens strewn about, each having a different ink and writing with a different stroke. He wasn’t going to be needing the pens today.

  The man first reached out for an old, dusty scroll. He looked at the text in the faint light, then nodded to himself. He then forced his right thumb into the deep gash on his left arm and then pressed the digit onto the bottom right corner of the parchment. His fate was now sealed.

  With the decision made, the man began his slow walk outside. On the door, there was an old hatchet hanging from a pair of nails, its sharp edge the only thing suggesting that it might still see some use. The man lifted it off, then put it in his belt. The tool secured, the man slowly closed the hut door and fastened it shut with a stick and some vine. Not really necessary, not very effective, yet this move gave him a sense of finality as he moved on.

  As the man walked, the sand turned to mud, then to grass. Soon, he was climbing up an incline that led towards a cliff. He continued his steady walk, never turning back even to see the large flock of birds that now hovered over the shore he had started from. He reached the peak, then finally decided to look around. The grass was high enough to reach his knees. The sea and the sky both looked bluer than before. The sun was glowing majestically and shining off the sea and the rocks. It was time.

  With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and jumped.

  The sudden jolt he felt at the moment he jumped made him lose consciousness. Everything went black. There was no cliff, no hill, no grass, no sun, no sky, no sea. Just an empty expanse filled with blackness. There was no sound of the roaring waves, so smell of wet sand, no salty taste of the sweat that had trickled onto his lips from his brow. There was no feeling of the grass on his feet or the wind on his back. It was silent.

  And then, it came back.

  He was not on a cliff anymore.

  A room, well lit and well furnished. A balcony, several floors above the ground. An armchair with an occupant. A book in his hand. Halfway through, with the little and ring fingers serving as bookmarks to previous chapters. A small table with a cup of warm coffee, black with no sugar.

  The man frowned. The book in his hand wasn’t as enlightening as he had hoped. In fact, it was the opposite—building upon clichés one after the other, it made a promise to be something grand, but delivered nothing of importance whatsoever. When one claims to reveal all about the nature of logic and the logic of nature, one has to at least attempt to keep the reader interested.

  The man walked into the room. He made his way towards a kitchenette at the northwestern corner. A chopping board was propped up on the wall. The man placed the board on the counter, then the book atop the board. He pressed his right thumb upon the cover of the book, leaving a bright red mark. From a rack, he pulled out a carving knife. With a grunt, he raised the knife high and plunged it hard into the book, stabbing right through into the board behind it. Not entirely satisfied, he picked up a box of matches and proceeded to set the wretched book alight.

  Dropping the mess into the sink, the man walked to a desk in the center of the room. There were several more books on the table—perhaps some of them warranted a similar treatment. Not today, he told himself. There was also an old radio beside the books. He turned it on. There was no station available to listen to. All there was, was static.

  The man decided he didn’t need music. Leaving the radio on static, he slumped into a chair and focused on the noise itself. In seconds, he was fast asleep.

  Or was he?

  Voices woke him up. Not voices he was used to. These voices were not in a language he understood; in fact, he could not say if they were human or not. They sounded low-pitched and grating and he could not tell whether they were talking to him or somebody else.

  He couldn’t tell where he was, either. It was quite dark and the only visible thing was a small flickering red light far out in the distance. The voices seemed to be coming from the other direction. The man decided that he would be better served by seeking the light than by attempting to understand the voices. He decided to walk towards the light.

  He took a step. There was a faint whisper that whizzed by his left ear. He took another step. Another voice, one that sounded like a guttural curse went by his right. A few more steps. A few more voices, each sounding angrier than the last. He decided to make a run for it.

  As he ran with ever-lengthening strides, he came closer and closer to the flickering light. Now he could see around himself, although there wasn’t much to see. Alternating vertical bands of red and black filled up the space around him. These bands were not solid—no, he could walk right through them without making contact.

  Then he saw the shapes. There was no other way to describe them. They were shapes that just didn’t appear to be a part of this red and black world. And while they were shapes, their shapes were shapeless. They changed form from one irregular formation to another, all the while circling him and making constant grating noises. The voices they carried were omnipresent and burnt his ears, almost searing his skull.

  He began to count. One, two, three...Seventeen shapes. He was almost at the light now. Perhaps they would leave him once he reached th
ere. Or perhaps, they were intending for him to reach there so they could start some bizarre ritual that involved ripping his guts and leaving him to bleed. Maybe the light was his salvation. Maybe he was fuel for the flickering light. He didn’t have any idea. Everything was confusing.

  The man stopped, about three steps away from the light. He was tired and gasping for air. The shapes were closing in. They had completely encircled him, blotting out all the red and black bands. It was between him, them and the flickering light.

  The shapes began glowing and changing color. One moment they were sparkling amethyst, a bright golden shade the next. They were scarlet, then blue, then green, then pure white. Finally, they fell black. A sudden shriek filled the air as the black shapes began to come even closer. The man began to lash out with whatever he had.

  He remembered the hatchet on his belt. He drew it and swung wildly at the shapes. He did not know what he aimed to accomplish, but he was quite unprepared when the shape he struck divided in two. He swung at another shape. It divided again. And as he looked at the shapes again, he saw that they had now developed fangs and claws.

  He swung with his left hand, the one that had no hatchet. A shape caught it with its claws and proceeded to bite hard into it. The pain was excruciating. Thick, black blood began to pour from the wound. And as the blood pooled on the ground, it began to move. Another shape was born.

  Unable to control himself, he swung at the shape clinging on to his hand. The shape moved at the last moment and he ended up striking bone. His wrist, palm and fingers flew into the waiting maw of another shape. Making a last desperate effort, the man swung at the flickering light behind him. The light dimmed. The shapes came closer, but their voices began to fade. The pain in his hand began to ebb. He swung again. The world went black.

  Silence and darkness.

  For a while.

  Then the world lit up again.

  The man was lying on a bed. He was drenched in his own sweat and gasping for breath. His parched mouth slowly opened and closed seeking a few drops of water. His limbs moved about, attempting to gain hold of any surface so he could get up. But his head refused to turn.

  The man could see the window of his bedroom. A few beams of sunlight were peeping in. A bee was buzzing about, attempting to fly through the glass by repeatedly smashing into it. People do the same thing, he thought, only it is not a window pane they smash themselves into. He would free the bee from its self-imposed trap he thought, right after he got up and had a glass of water.

  But he couldn’t get up. His head and neck were stuck to his pillow. His legs snaked about in the bottom half of the bed, but they couldn’t lift off from the surface. His arms flailed about, but he couldn’t grasp anything or press down hard enough with his palms to pivot himself up. His chest and back could move, but not enough to roll to either side.

  Slowly, his mouth got drier. His eyes were locked open, forcing him to look at the window and the bee. He could hear the repeated taps of the bee on the glass pane. He could feel the bed below him, soaking wet with his sweat and sticking to his skin. He panicked, his heartbeat got faster, his breathing became shallow and rapid. The breaths were not deep enough to fill his lungs. His eyes began to go dim. Perhaps this is how it ends, he thought. Perhaps I get stuck to the bed and end up becoming part of the bed. Then his eyes went black.

  An eternity of darkness awaited the man.

  Or a few minutes, going by the clock at his bedside.

  He woke up, got off the bed and drank a tall glass of water. He washed his face, then opened the window, letting the bee out in the process.

  As he turned from the window, he stopped by his desk, picking up a pen and a sheet of paper. He scribbled on the paper the thoughts he had been carrying with him for the past several minutes. “The man who enjoys sleep has no reason to fear death.”

  Then, he looked at his calendar. Realizing that it was a Saturday, he pulled the drapes over his windows and collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep in an instant.

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  Thank you for reading this very short book. I hope you liked it. -- Binit

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  About the Author:

  Binit Koirala is interested in several things, most of which involve sharing information in one way or another. He also enjoys sleeping, which helped immensely with researching ideas for this story.