Feedback and flames are welcome.
**********************************************************************
The Gift.
He can feel the city. Any city on the planet. Or off. He can hear the city.
Every breath taken, every car engine turned on, every shot fired. He can
feel them blend together in a song like no other, into a pulse unmistakable
and unforgettable. Every city has its own Song, every one of them feels
differently from another. And he can hear them all.
It's around 7pm in DC now, one of those beautiful March evenings when it's a
crime to stay indoors and the streets are filled with people who are just
happy to enjoy a spring day.
It's 4 in LA and the beaches are probably full. The music is blaring in the
clubs and cars as the working day finally ends and the nightlife just barely
starting to come to fore.
In Paris it's 12am and the city is alive with vibrancy and laughter, where
the fun has been in full swing for hours and will remain so for many more to
come.
It's 5:57pm here and he's freezing in the cold rain. The wind is a fury of
the Gods personified. It's grabbing at his coat and pushing him of the road.
He's given up on his hat; it was snatched from his head an hour ago. It
would be a matter of seconds for him to open a Door and step out in some
place where the sun is shining and azure waves softly collide with the
velvety sands. He can. He even knows the perfect place. He knows all of
them. That is his gift. That is his curse.
The wind dies for a moment, only to come back with even more force and throw
about a gallon of water in his face. Windy City, indeed.
It is if the city herself is crying, bawling her eyes out, lashing out in impotent anger…
They were so alike. Both poor. Both from the South Central. Both went to the
same school. Lived a block away from each other. They watched the same
movies, read the same books.
Jamal and Moishe.
One was a son of black steelworker, the other of the Polish Jews. That made
all the difference.
So alike. Jamal's brother, John, joined the "Black Tigers" at 14. Helena,
Moishe's sister started dating Jacob Rabinovich, the leader of the
"Slashers", on her 16th birthday.
At 18, John was shot to death in the turf war. A week later Jacob was knifed
and Helena's jaw broken.
So different. They hated each other on sight. The fought in school and in
the yard. Finally the teachers stopped breaking them up. Neither joined the
gang. Neither brought a weapon into those fights, but they were brutal
nonetheless.
So alike. One joined the police, sentencing himself to hate from the most of
his former friends. Other became a fire fighter. As fate would have it they
were sent to the same district. The 6th.
He pulls the coat tighter about himself, ignoring the fact that it's soaked
clear through.
He can feel the City. That is his curse. He can feel her pain. He can feel
her anger. The City weeps tonight, and he can feel it. That is his gift.
So alike. It was their day off. No-one knows how they both ended up there.
Nobody knows how the fire got started in the first place. Rumor is that the
wiring in the building was too old. Or maybe kids were playing with matches.
No-one knows.
So different. They both called for backup and then disappeared inside the
building. Seven kids. The oldest was 12. No-one is harmed more then a scrape
or a bruise.
Black and white. A Jew and a Moslem. In the end it made no difference at all.
No-one knows who heard the soft crying first. No-one knows which of them
guessed that there was another kid. No-one knows who was first under the
bulkhead and no-one knows how they managed to raise it. Just that they did.
And held it. Held it long enough. No-one knows how.
He can hear the City. He can see her soul. And better than anyone he knows
that the soul of the City is not her streets or buildings or monuments. It's
her people.
Finally his walk is at the end. He stops, as do hundreds of other people.
Many of them in uniforms. Every officer, fire-jockey and paramedic who could
make it, is here today.
He stands, seemingly just another face among many that are weathering the
wind and rain behind umbrellas, hats and glasses, following the slow, somber
movements of the coffin-bearers.
They were not there. It was just another fire, after all. Not Authority's
business.
Jamal and Moishe were there, by accident or by Destiny's design. They were
there. To serve and protect. To die if need be…
He can hear the City. That is his gift. That is his curse.
The City weeps today.
And Jack Hawksmoor weeps with her.