Author's Notes: I thank everyone who commented on this last piece. Your response is priceless to me. A warning for all of those who have a certain dislike for darker tales, this is not the fiction for you. If the aforementioned is the case, then I suggest you look up a nice comedy to sate yourself.
"Parents learn a lot
from their children about coping with life."
Muriel Spark
Into The Tide, Into the Eye.
His breath was drawn slowly, calmly, for he knew that this would be the end of it all. Tomorrow held the promise of a new dawn, of a day undisturbed by the petty needs of men, of the nauseating righteousness of bigots, arrogant and on high, removed from what little sense of reality wealth, power can bestow upon them. Silently, he listened to the sound of pouring rain he loved, that gentle sigh that quivers from the earth herself, like saltwater tears, stinging, yet gentle as dew on the grass. The limestone reflected it all. The harmony of a million droplets of water cascading down water-carved sculptures within the stone himself put a faint smile on his otherwise grim, sound lips.
Lightning flashed in the distance as thunder followed for an encore, a bass voice amidst the mouse soprano, rumbling, but in essence, beauty. Trees of all ilk, nature, and size were spread out in his territory, everything from the quaking aspen to the sturdy oak, even the prospering maple leaf- his. With a slight sigh and a heave of the chest, his position in he solitude retreat of his cavern refuge changed to an open front seat to the forest rain. Calloused hands gripped ever so slightly the ledge of his home, a balcony for anyone who had the eye to see and mind to believe.
The scenery was exquisite. Nothing was hidden from view, neither the sky, nor the redwoods great of the west, the gray sky shone in all its muted glory, but foremost, one thing had his attention, much to his antipathy. Offsetting the beauty, the grace of the kingdom before him, was a moth among butterflies, a place drained of color, of life, leaving an exoskeleton of a place never quite there, but always glaringly in sight. Turning dark eyes aside to spare himself from once more reviving unnecessary thoughts, ideas that should have been abandoned, he sought out insects in the colony of insects that apparently had the utmost interest in his dwelling. He paused, even if momentarily, watching the creatures crawl about, each acting mechanically, as though a predisposition to do no more than collect and return were guiding them. In a way, it was masterful. Each being had its own place, its own duty, never to feel lost or alone, however, nothing was to chance. A soldier would never become a leader of the colony, nor the queen take her place as a worker.
His brow knit. Gods, even the insects reminded him of things best left to the past, horrible, strange, yet wondrous things. Flashing a half smile, he stood, the wind picking up as if on queue to strike his attire, pulling it out from him like a flag caught in the hurricane gale, ripping, tearing away at the fabric with rubber teeth that were doomed to fail. Pained droplets of water spotted his gi, turning the royal color darker, near back. It was refreshing, the cool against his skin, the current of air sweeping across high cheeks, drying them almost instantly. Many may have once questioned him for choosing to reside out here, many may have thought it foolhardy to live so depraved, but then, they never saw beyond their steel boxes and iron-sided war machines. The beauty of a flower and of nature's fury would yet again be missed by the eyes of man half-breed alike.
In silence he bowed his head, letting himself dry and be drenched at the same time. Understanding existed in the quietness, it always had for him. Sometimes the most important of all knowledge comes from the sanctity of ones own mind when all is calm, all is right. The lightning storm retreated farther away as if conducted by the keys of a classical piano, each note drawing it beyond the two cities which it threatened to devastate only minutes ago. Taking his turban off, dropping it to the ground as an object of no more importance than the very dirt he stood upon, he lifted his head, soft lips parted ever so slightly, eyes half-lidded, face a picture of elegance in serenity, cold, barren, yet somehow gentle, pleasant to the eyes.
Squaring his shoulders off, retaining that sense of regality he would never quite loose touch of, he took to the sky slowly, more hovering at first than achieving actual flight. Soon enough he would be far from the rock base he came to know as home, past the waterfalls so rumbling, clear of the willow and oak, starfire and rose petals that grew wild. His paradise surrendered for the concrete steps and stonemasons.
Sunlight dimmed, the already graying sky darkened, blue tint adding a reflective mood to all that they heavens claimed to the night. Soon the lights would turn on. Light of all colors, all shapes, all intensities; a bombardment of phantasm to shock the body and render the mind into a gelatinous mess in awe. Apartments, housing, cemetery, and business, all alike shared the plot of land shamefully dubbed Satan City. The name in itself was a waste; a foolish attempt of man to go on living long after his time had set. The name would forever more bother him, after witnessing the character of the man himself, so cowardly and bluffing, too arrogant and shameful to see past his own head, much less out to the world; but they say time and tide changes a person, and in the words of a man oblivious to his own wisdom 'everybody deserves a second chance.' Regardless, he could not quite bring himself to believe this on the best of days.
Shaking his head to clear his mind of such pessimistic thoughts he proceeded, keeping high enough to not draw unneeded attention of company most unwanted. He saw the house in the distance, keen eyes stripping it of every last detail as he drew closer. It was not a gaudy place, palatial or jewel-incrusted, but on the contrary a little two-story place, sturdily built and painted the color of angel feathers. From memory he recollected the fine wooden inside, mahogany, cherry, ebony, some that he even cut himself as a favor not so long ago. Faint memories of pictures on the walls, of books adorning shelves that were carved into the walls, of a marble fireplace, by far the nicest thing in the dwelling flowed back to him like leaves caught upon a mid-summer's breeze.
They loved that house, they not including him of course, but that was hardly the point. They were happy, safe; sound, with the warmth and awareness that there was always someone out there watching them, their own personal 'angel' to serve as guardian of the family. Perhaps such was a nice thought, enough to kindle a little light in the hearts of all who possessed such, or perhaps it was a mere burden, one they could readily do without. Whatever the case was, he would know it in time. Everything came in due time, no sooner, no later. The system works after all.
Drawing upon the house so secluded from the rest of the city, he touched down, feet lighter than a feather upon the ground, barely disturbing the grass from its nighttime slumber. Pausing, standing just away from the window's gaze, he looked in, watching the fire cackle and a small female sit in front of it, relaxing peacefully on a flaxen couch with book in hand and glass of tea by side. Life was good to them; it was a blessing on both parties.
Stepping ever closer, feet guided on invisible wings, he slid towards the cracked window, opening it wide, and slipping in soundlessly, with only the gust of wind and scent of rain and grass to give him away. The woman turned her head, eyes questioning the cold, the open glass before setting her bookmark in place and returning the book to the coffee table. He kept in the shadows, in the corner, visible to all who happened to look in that direction and unseen by all those preoccupied with past acts of his.
"Videl" His voice struck the air sharper than the forked tongues of the fireplace ever could.
She jumped, body set rigid for a moment before realization set in, putting her in a gentle ease. Brushing a few strands of onyx hair out of her still fair, maiden-like face she smiled, looking like the girl she was all those years ago.
"Piccolo, what brings you here?" She closed the window with minor difficulty to get it to finally come down all the way.
Tilting his head slightly, adding to the effect of his cleanly folded arms and arrow-straight back, he managed a stiff smirk. "Am I not allowed to see old friends?" Despite his intent, his words for all purposes were frozen in ice, cold, sharp, hinting at pride and humility at the same time, something only he had mastered to this date.
A chill traveled down her spine at the sound of his words. True, though she knew all too well that Piccolo was never to be a threat to her or her family, his presence, was stunning to the mind, his attitude boggling it further.
Wetting her lips she shook her head in confidence as she tended to the potpourri pieces that fell out of the container by the window that not even Piccolo quite missed in his invasion.
"You're always welcome here, it's just." She paused, sighing and leaning her shoulder against the mahogany wall. " You never seem to come around here that often anymore." Words were placed carefully, to avoid adding insult to possible injury.
Silence existed between them, a deathly one only disturbed by the fire and the ironic cricket chirping in the yard.
"Anyhow" Videl broke the quiet before one of them grew unnerved. "I suppose you came to see Gohan? He misses you, y'know?" Placing a hand on her hip she chuckled to herself before meeting Piccolo's eyes with her blue ones.
He nodded once and looked to the staircase, the one he helped carve himself.
" . . .I'll get him, have a seat will you?" Brushing imaginary dirt off her blouse, she set off up the stairs, into her husband's domain where nothing was safe from the rustling of papers to be graded and the red pen that marked the follies of many a young student.
Closing his eyes, shoulders drooping faintly, he contented himself to revert to the outdoors, taking the backdoor out to the porch and looking towards the city in all its glory. With eyes closed he could almost hear the ocean in the distance, smell the pine trees of the forest, of the mountains so far away sight barely beseeched their presence. In his mind, the roar of the tide against rocks took place of cars howling, the sea salt smell replaced the sewers, the sand conquered the blacktop. It was all right in him.
The person standing in the doorway only smiled that infamous family smile and watched him, taking everything in from the aroma of dried rain and wilderness, mixed with the normal eucalyptus, the flow of his cape when picked up to dance upon the occasional zephyr. He would forever be a Grecian statue among men from those child eyes.
"Hey." The common upbeat tone of his voice never faded over the years, same for his features, compliments to his father's line.
Piccolo turned slightly, eyes peering past his shoulder to the figure moving to his side. Inwardly he wore a Cheshire grin, though outside his lips were pressed into a stoic line, devoid of emotions of man, yet full of his won in their right.
Gaze never wavering; he kept an eagle's eye on the man, studying him like all those years ago. Saddened his eyes gave him away. His former student was growing older. Though the trivial downward pull of his features barely gave him off to being just past three decades old, he noticed immediately, the childhood version of the man permanently burned in his mind for all eternity.
Placing a strong hand on Piccolo's shoulder and giving it a squeeze, Gohan cocked his head to the side, eyes wide, so full of youth and wonder that it was almost purely undeserved for the occasion. Turning his head to look straightforward, Piccolo rolled his shoulders, spine following in the wave movement, lending him a feline quality.
Taking unspoken hints, the younger man backed off, taking a seat in a patio chair after dumping the water from it. Hands clasped across his chest, he reclined to the farthest extent, pushing the front legs of the furniture off the ground, and he raised his eyebrows before doing the ritual sighing and closing his eyes.
"So?" Gohan spoke in a patient tone and pushed his chair back onto all four legs.
"Mhh?" The question beckoned Piccolo to turn halfway around to face him.
Answer unproclaimed, Gohan vaguely opened an eye. "You know what I mean."
Silence.
"Piccolo?"
Nothing but the settling creak of the house replied.
Gohan nodded, taking all things into account and keeping his mouth preoccupied by other discussion to avoid brining up any more stalemate topics.
So there the two resided. One talking, one listening, both fining composure and stillness in the words that both were starting to drown out. It continued on like this for an hour's time. The conversation never passing from one to another, with exception to the occasional "Mmhmm" and "Hmm" Piccolo cared to offer.
Amidst the rambling, one inadvertent reared its head. " . . .So, how is he?"
Before Gohan could reclaim the words, working them into something dismissible, he was silenced by a gaze and most surprising . . .An actual smile, though remorseful in nature, a smile nonetheless.
"Fine. His answer was strained, caught in the growing lump that resided in his throat, slowly choking him from the inside.
"Really? That. . . That's good." His tone was soft, introverted.
Piccolo nodded in agreement.
The wind picked up again, carrying leftover drops of water to them, laying the ground with a mist as the fog began to roll in and temperatures finally drop. The unnatural silence resumed, conquering with the ferocity of Alexander and his great armies of old. Thunder cackled over head, mocking their moment, their let down guard that welcomed him back into their house. Thunder rumbled to the rhythm of war drums only the forces heard. The sky blackened like Indian ink, sweeping over the land like an indomitable sovereign imposing his will relentlessly and saving no mercy for the weak or ill suited.
Lightening flashed above, the blinding false daylight unleashed for a split second, it was long enough. In that time, Piccolo disappeared, cast to the darkness, in essence, becoming darkness himself. No trace of ivory cape nor flash of emerald skin showed where it once was, but the tender scent of eucalyptus leaves that were all but lost to the rain now, just as a mute love was.
"Our children are
watching us live, and what we ARE shouts louder than anything we can
say."
Wilferd A. Peterson
