The Form Beneath

    At the corner of the courthouse, in front of a thick stone pillar and beneath a complex array of swirls and twists, there sat a man. The solid forms of leaves and ferns ringed the top of the edifice like a Roman crown, and beneath this canopy the man waited. He perched on a simple throne, with a low back and simple yet elegant armrests which his strong hands clasped tightly. His face was stern and focused, screwed securely onto a neck that was thrust slightly forward, his body leaning in toward the sidewalk with silent purpose. The robe that hung about his rigid body was long, pooling at his feet and spilling over the ledge upon which the whole white statue sat.

    I saw this man each time I walked downtown. I saw him five days a week on my way to work, and five times more on my way home. He sat there as I walked past to the post office, the mall, the video store. Unlike the portraits in the museums or the lobby of the old library, his face did not watch me as I passed. His eyes looked straight ahead in a sharp line, his unfailing gaze passing several feet over my head. I do not know who the statue was meant to commemorate, whose face was replicated in the smooth granite. His identity lost on me, the man took the form of a severe father, the lunch-time crowd at his feet a passel of unnoticed children. Though the sun never seemed to warm his stone face, I took comfort in his self-assured posture. Whatever grave thoughts moved behind those stone eyes, the man's immovable strength commanded unfailing respect.

    One day, the sky gray and forbidding, I walked down the street toward the courthouse. I was lost in my own thoughts, and by chance looked up to find the man gone. In his place sat the Angel of Death. I stopped suddenly, the person behind me dodging awkwardly and cursing under his breath. I hardly noticed, for my vision was encompassed by the black figure that loomed over me. After a few airless gulps, I caught my breath and steadied myself. As the details of the apparition before me began to collect in my mind, I realized the figure of Death was an illusion.

    The statue was wrapped in a protective shroud, the tough black cloth completely covering the man. String had been tied around the neck and shoulders, presumably to hold the wrapping in place. It had the effect of defining the shape of the form beneath, creating the image of a large specter wearing a hooded black robe. I shook the surprise off and continued walking, forgetting about the incident for the rest of the day.

    That evening, however, as returned down the same street, I was again stopped in my tracks by the chilling sight. I found myself wondering what ghostly visage was hidden within that dark hood. The dim light of the streetlamps threw strange shadows across the front of the tall stone building, the sculpted ferns transforming into the writhing tentacles of some inhuman horror, the carefully carved leaves turning into the grasping fingers of skeletal ghouls. Beneath the swirling mass of shadows sat the statue in his new garb. The image from my first encounter returned. Before me sat the Angel of Death, watching over the oblivious masses of humanity that hurried from engagement to engagement with downcast eyes. Here was a king. The courthouse that loomed over us was not just the place of man's law now, but was a symbol of the eternal judgment of Death.

    My fear had me rooted to the spot. I struggled against it, sweating and panting and finally breaking away. I hurried home, looking over my shoulder constantly. In the branches of every tree and in the darkness beside each building, I looked for him. The night passed slowly. Even when I was safe behind locked doors, my eyes rolled in my head as I searched for him.

    I stayed inside for three days. When I finally left the house and returned to work, I walked slowly. The apprehension that stirred in my gut kept me from striding freely, and so I approached the courthouse at a crawl. When I was within sight, I kept my gaze firmly on the sidewalk in front of me. My plan was to pass without looking at the phantom, but as I leveled with the corner of the building my face turned upward, as though pulled by an invisible string. As I looked upon the statue, my shoulders sagged with relief. The shroud was gone. The man, with his stern gaze and rigid white shoulders, sat before me once again. The demon was no more. I laughed as the anxiety left me, and continued on my way with clear thoughts.

    My comfort fled that night. When I passed the statue on my way home, I noticed the change. The man's expression was altered ever so slightly. The countenance, though always grim, was no longer as stalwart as I remembered. Since I had first noticed the statue years before, the assuredness that graced his noble features marked him as a courageous man. That strength of spirit was gone, that frowning boldness now vanished from his face. The horror of the past few days began to swell within me again as I saw in the man's eyes a new identity. The spirit of Death had not fled with the removal of the cloak. I could see now what lurked behind those white eyes. He looked out at the world with a fresh gravity, the serious look that is seen on the face of the hammer-man in an abbatoir or the man who throws the switch at an execution. It was not evil. It was just the discerning look of someone who is doing with calm efficiency something that must be done.

    The specter still lived within that statue. I saw it as I stood on the pavement, looking up and realizing that the eyes that had for so long looked straight out over the heads of the crowd were now looking down and meeting my gaze. A leaden weight settled on my shoulders, and a penetrating cold seeped up from the ground into my body. I felt as light as a shred of newspaper, as weak as an abandoned infant. I could see the skull behind the granite cheeks, the hollow sockets behind his eyes. I could see him for what he was: an emperor stoically guarding his land, sitting immovable on this side of the earth's crust while just beneath there hid a teeming mass of weeping souls, their hands reaching desperately up from the shadows. This was the land he governed. That night, I turned and walked away. Though I left the statue behind, the Angel of Death followed me home.

Waving

    They were there, lonely and desperate and full of hope, waving at us as we hurtled past. They could have been anyone, and were surely someone, but who exactly is irrelevant. What those people were doing out in the wilderness, at the bottom of a valley so deep they were in constant shadow, is irrelevant. The mountains were their neighbors, and the snow on the heights was cold even in the brilliant sunshine, the distant sunshine. The slopes were so steep they were impossible to climb, the grass slick and growing downhill like the feathers of a bird.

    To our left, to the south, a wild cascade of frigid water pranced down the mountainside, a child of some hidden spring, beloved by her mother. It giggled and slapped the stones, flicking spray out over the tracks. I saw it hit the valley floor with tremendous force, and it appeared suddenly violent. I knew that this momentum was born of rage, not love, and I saw the stream for what it was, a bastard child of the snowcaps, born not of the earth but of the distant, uncaring sky.

    The people standing by the tracks, their strange little cabins behind them, could feel the mist drifting down from the battered rocks. It chilled their faces as they stood in shadow at intervals along the tracks, waving their tiny hands. I could see their faces getting sucked off their bodies by the wind of the passing train, and they swept upwards through the windows and settled comfortably in their seats, like passengers returning to their car after stretching their legs for a moment outside. The faces were the picture of longing, sad and pinched in around the eyes.

    It took only a moment for each person to whip past in the gloom, and when the last figure had disappeared behind us, I looked and the empty seats were empty, the sad faces back in the wet air by the side of the tracks, looking after us and hoping. They hoped the sun would peer over the peaks and touch them, hoped the mist would stop drifting down, hoped they might be warm and dry. Mostly they hoped the train would stop.

    Beyond the cabins, following the curve of the valley, we hurtled on. A family of deer, startled by the noise, leapt from the tracks and through the brush. I turned in my seat and followed them with my eyes, and I saw them running and afraid. They climbed the slopes, their pointed feet flying over the slick grass. They headed straight upward, running towards the peaks and the sunshine.