Long she had known the family. One of them but not of their blood. Most akin to the sister, a shared generation bonding them; not old, nor young, nor with children of their own. An in-between-ness that set them apart, together.

It was a long and deep relationship with that family. She well knew the demon that haunted them, that plagued them generation upon generation for time immemorial.

The demon was near, for he was never far. His strike inevitable, his timing ineffable; his presence always perceived on the edge of awareness like a looming threat, a hanging sword barely above their necks. It could fall at any time, upon any of them. Swift. Final. Fear was ever-present.

But this time, something else stood on the threshold. She watched the scene unfold with keen and knowing eyes.

A door opened to the sun rising, and in its radiance stood a large figure of a man. In the surprise of his sudden appearance, and the shocking brightness of the light, he momentarily appeared as having a pelt of orange hair, reminiscent of an orangutan of the jungle, across his broad chest and along his strong arms.

He bore a primal vigor, a sense of enormous strength and power of body. Yet it was wrapped in gentleness. He was the Long Lost Son, banished in a bygone time when he was but small. He, born in his wildness, his primal spirit, his natural state, was an affront to the father and was rejected. In exile he had not remained idle nor surrendered his true nature. He had grown, albeit evidently shy of the maturity of his sister, there was no sense or suggestion of inferiority.

In isolation he had persevered. And he had waited.

His arrival now among the family was accepted without hesitation, and welcomed, stepping calmly and steadily into the opulent house he had long missed in his wild residence. None too soon, as the other presently followed.

From whence he emerged none could tell, as with his arrival so too came utter terror that chased all else from the mind. In stark contrast to the natural image of the Long Lost Son, the other was garbed in the attire of its performance. Garish, motley clothing; face heavily coated nd cracking, painted in a manic grin; a tattered unkempt wig upon his head which once might have been pleasantly coloured but was now dark and red and brown like dried blood.

So much effort attempting to conceal behind a clownish exterior the form, the visage… the intent… that lay beneath. Yet the extent of its corruption had corrupted even his disguise. It no longer had the skill nor the capacity to conceal what it was.

The sword fell. A young girl of the family was grabbed and she fell senseless. The family stood rooted in horror, helpless in despair, as the slight figure was drawn towards the gaping maws of the Devourer. Feet first, he began to consume her. Bite by rending bite.

He was comfortable in the power he wielded over the family. He knew they were long cowed, willing to allow this sacrifice for their own subsistence. He did not mark the new figure in the room. Nor, as his attention remained rapt in his destructive consumption of fledgling life, notice this figure launch unhesitatingly directly at him. It was only when the feet of the Long Lost Son, bearing his full weight, hit the Devourer in the chest, that he deigned to take heed.

Far too late. He flew backwards, towards the wall behind him. A rift in time and space opened and swallowed him and he disappeared. A sudden shocking emptiness became apparent, of space no longer contaminated and dominated by his ever present menace. The family snapped out of their stupor, gathered their fallen child, and tended to what remained of her lifeless body, and mourned.

As evening approached they sat together, subdued in grief and relief, a strange and uncomfortable cocktail. The sitting room was gloomy and vast, the ornate couches arrayed in a great circle. She sat contentedly with the sister on her right, and the Long Lost Son on her left. Many ages she had suffered his absence, more so than even his own sister.

As they sat in wearied quiet, from the wall where the Devourer had vanished, a hail of projectiles began; balls of immense energy set to explode and destroy. He was not done with his devastation. The aim however was wild and wide of where the family collected; the Devourer could not see them and could not well direct his destruction.

It appeared no effort at all for the Long Lost Son to engage a mysterious energy of his own, and deflect the projectiles back through the rift, protecting the fragile peace and exhaustion of the family still in such great sorrow. Like the Devourer, there was no way to aim cleanly, and this back and forth raged on as the shadows lengthened.

The family eventually retired, but she and the Long Lost Son remained. They knew there was work yet to be done. Once alone, they walked to the wall where the rift waited unseen, and stepped through.

In the same realm as the Devourer it was easy to locate him. She stood back at a respectful distance as the Long Lost Son advanced. She was not privy to the interaction between the Devourer and the Long Lost Son. What action he took or words he may have spoken remained outside her awareness. It was not her battle, but she bore witness to the confrontation. She saw the Devourer drained of whatever dark energy fuelled his fury, and perceived him to be subdued.

The Long Lost Son returned to her, and together they travelled, exploring the realm for a little time. Still, she felt she was bracing for some further attack, but it did not come. After a time, the full sense of his triumph hit her like a great wave. She felt such a certainty in his strength, in his commitment, and the safety in which he held her, that an immense weight fell from her. A weight so long carried that she had forgotten it was there. Such bliss to finally be able to let go.

She leaned towards his great strength, felt it embrace her. A golden energy of love was birthed between them and encompassed them wholly. They dissolved in their rapture.

She and the Long Lost Son returned to the house of the family as the new day was rising. They made their way into the large airy kitchen, dimly lit by an early predawn glow. The family drifted in one by one, for a somber morning communion. All was calm and quiet.

There entered the father.

His absence had not been marked, nor his presence missed, at the previous day’s encounter. He was not witness to the Long Lost Son’s return and his first victory over the family’s demon. The father emerged now in a state of severe panic. As though he neither saw nor heard, his arms flailing and his feet stamping, he ranted loudly and incoherently, mad in terror and pain.

The family like spectres withdrew. She in stolidity stood still beholding the man’s madness. The Long Lost Son, she could feel, had also remained. Standing some short distance away, witnessing for her, as she had for him.

Unhurriedly, serenely, she walked towards the wretched man. She opened her arms, and despite his wild movements, she gently enclosed them around him and held him close. Immediately his movement ceased, his form slackened, and he collapsed.

She supported his gentle descent until he lay unconscious on the tiled floor of the grand kitchen. One by one, the family members reentered. One placed a soft blanket beneath the father’s head. They lowered themselves around his prone form as though settling in for a careful and loving vigil. Some soon arose to prepare breakfast and start the day’s activities, while some remained holding space in hope for his awakening, freed at last from madness. They knew the wait may be long and fruitless.

She reached and took the father’s hand one last time. It was limp and clammy and she sighed in sadness. Then she felt the smallest, lightest, barely-there squeeze in response. She gently laid his hand down and retreated from the family scene.

Turning, she walked smiling towards the beaming Son.

Photo by Daniel Gregoire on Unsplash

Tags