An
Evening With Mr. Greybeard and Friends
“The rules are very simple,” he
said, with his old blue eyes behind a mountain of wrinkles. “Are you ready?”
I nodded.
“You
will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes,
Sir.”
“And
you certainly will not ask questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes,
Sir.”
“You
will not utter a sound of what you hear today, for I will know, for we all will
know, and, my son, that will not bode well. Do you understand?”
“…Yes,
Sir.”
It
wasn’t forceful: there were no pointed fingers or baleful tones lurking past
the veil of his warm smile; and his frame, short and robust, was anything but
alarming—for how could a man wearing a knitted red sweater, brown khaki pants,
and with enough bushy grey hair that his face looked like a grey bird’s nest be
alarming? The man was affable, affable as my mother (may she rest in peace), which
made his words all the more ominous, for you expect portentous words from a man
with beady eyes and slicked black hair—but not him.
“It
is settled then. The others will be arriving shortly—at least I do hope so.
Prepare four glasses of wine—red, rich with a slight burn on the tongue—and
place them upon the round table over there. I would do it myself, but I have
other things to attend to before this begins. Once again, I appreciate your
aid, my good lad; you will be compensated for it considerably; I guarantee it.”
“As
you wish, Sir.”
I
bowed and began heading to the kitchen, only to stop myself. “Sir, where is
your wine cellar?”
“Ah!
Yes. My apologies, dear boy, proceed down the hall to the end, bear right, and
head down the steps that will lead you to the basement; there, you will find a
prodigious selection, I assure you.”
I
felt a slight twinge of irritation. Dear
boy, I thought.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
There
was a moment of silence between us, a heavy silence, one that the creaking and
cracking of the wood floorboards could not withstand; it was a silence where a
man debated breaking obedience, where a man must force confrontation. It truth
it was a simple misunderstanding, one that, in my younger days, would have been
disregarded with the wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes. But I was not in my
younger days, and my tolerance for such petty things was at an end; in fact, it
had been at an end nearly twenty years ago. That’s what happens when you get old:
first you lose your patience, then you lose your body, and then finally your
mind—well, that’s how it was for me. I never had much patience to begin with so
it was expected; fortunately, my mind had yet to deteriorate, wit and sarcasm
not withstanding.
I
felt like I was back in the days of being a private in the war, obeying orders
with such faultless loyalty that a man could forget he was a human. I was his
subordinate that was true. I was his butler. But this was a one-time thing: I
didn’t do this crap for a living; I couldn’t obey every whimsical musing of
some old fool—patience, remember? Perhaps
I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but regardless…I hate being called a
“lad” or a “boy.” It may sound simple, and it may be petty, but, like being a Private,
if you never made yourself known, if you never gave yourself an identity, you’d
find out quickly you forgot who you were. Looking back, I hated the
military—and not because of the bloody fighting.
I
phrased it carefully. “May I ask that you refrain from calling me ‘dear boy’ or
‘good lad’? I am nearly fifty-three: I have fought in two wars, fathered three
children, and have been lucky enough for them to bear me grandchildren. It is a
simple request, but I ask you to please abide by it.”
The
old man put his hand over his mouth like a child, as his eyes went wide in
shock, and his eyebrows, like feathers that were wild, thick, and grey, raised
to the top of his head in dramatic fashion, forming wrinkles as deep and heavy
as his eyes. “Please forgive me,” he said hastily. “It is a force of habit, you
see. I call everyone that. It won’t happen again, my good Sir.” I bowed and
headed in the direction of the wine cellar. A good man he was, I suppose, a bit
absent-minded, but sweeter than my grandmother’s sweet tea…then again, I had just met the man.
I
had seen his ad in a newspaper and was in need of some quick cash—as a war
veteran you don’t get much in terms of jobs because most people think all you
can do is hold a gun and shoot somebody—there was my pension, but a pension
doesn’t allow a man to breath; it doesn’t allow a man to provide for his
family. His ad hadn’t said much: “Butler needed
for one evening only; will pay considerably; must be knowledgeable,
accommodating, and patient; prior experience not necessary.” So I gave the
guy a call, and here I was, and besides the creepy rules he had asked me to
swear my oath to a few minutes ago, it hadn’t been that bad.
The
wine cellar was cold and dark, the air crisp. Slowly, I limped along—my leg was
injured in the second war, you see, bullet to the leg, and it’s never been the
same since—and grabbed something from the last shelf on the last rack. I didn’t
know what the hell it was; he wanted something rich and sharp, but I knew
nothing about wines—strong liquors was my forte, strong and dark. I ascended
back up the stairs and to the kitchen, grabbed four wine glasses, and began to
pour.
As
the dark ruby liquid escaped from the bottle and settled gracefully in the
glasses, I heard a knock on the door. Setting the bottle down, I walked around
the large kitchen countertop and crossed from the tile to the wooden
floorboards, where I took in Greybeard’s house. The place was as prodigious as
it was picturesque: the living room was made of wood and stone—wood for the
floors, the bookcases that held rows and rows of books, and the walls, and
stone for the natural fireplace that was burning smoke up through the chimney—with
a coffered ceiling as high as a lighthouse and chandeliers, circular and made
of iron, which held candles that were wonderfully alight—how the old man was
able to do that every morning was unfathomable, for Mr. Greybeard could barely
walk. A few rugs in rich and calm colors lay a strewn here or there, under a
coffee table and a blue loveseat. There were no pictures of friends or family,
no television, but that did not matter, for even I felt at home here.
I
passed under a wooden archway to face the front door: it was tall, wooden and
wide, with a black iron handle and a painting made of stained glass engraved in
it; the painting looked to be of a man kneeling in prayer, garbed in blue and
violet, as his eyes raised to the shining rays of the sun. Suddenly, I realized
that’s what this house was, why I felt so at home: it was an old church dressed
up as a house. I did not ponder on my epiphany for long as three dark shadows
hung behind the stained art within the door.
Guests
had arrived.
Pulling
quickly on the handle, the door swung open, and before me were two men and a
woman. I almost had to laugh, for they looked like a motley bunch: men and
women from different lands, from different races and cultures coming together
for a country—or in this case, God only knows what they were here for. One man
was tall, almost as tall as the top of the doorframe and had skin as rich and
dark as the wooden floors we were standing on; his nose was large and wide, and
the same could be said for his red lips; but his eyes, though similar in
proportion, were dark, almost black—much darker than his skin. The clothes he
wore, I observed, were…peculiar, nothing but black robes and sandals, and a
white rope tied round his waist, acting sort of as a sash. A monk, I had to
guess, at least he appeared that way: he was calm and kept his hands under the
sleeves of his robes as he bowed and made his way past me without a word.
Next
came the second man, a suave capitalist and professional if I had to guess; he
nodded in his black suit and tie, moving elegantly past me with a perfunctory
smile. Everything about him was thin: his frame, his eyes, his nose, and his
lips. He wasn’t good looking, and he wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t
short. I immediately took a disliking to him: there was something about the way
the deep sets of his eyes cast a shadow in the light, something in how he
carried himself. The smile was contemptuous, as if I was nothing more than a
bug under his boot… I always hated people like that, ever since I was a small
boy. My mother and father would work for every penny that they could scrounge
up until a different kind of dirt appeared under their nails, one that wouldn’t
wash away, a dirt made of grit, of steel, of long hours away from home and
exhaustion. You didn’t get that being rich, and you didn’t get it being
entitled. I never minded other folks, other children, having more money than
me, but it was the ones who thought they were entitled to it that drove me
nuts. This man thought he was entitled. No one is entitled to anything, and
this world is far from fair—more great lessons from war, I suppose.
Mr.
Slick left a stench of cologne as he trotted past me. Resisting a cough, I
muttered, “For the love of Pete,” and heard a schoolgirl giggle come from the
woman still standing in the doorway. She was a pretty thing, I had to admit, a
real wisp of a woman. She had a slender appearance to her, but her beauty was
not ostentatious; it was sweet, humble. With her head reaching the bottom of my
shoulders, her stubby nose and blue eyes looked up at me with her round, pale
face. Crossing her arms, the red hair, loose and lank, like wine, fell over
them delicately. But she wasn’t delicate. She carried herself with the sort of
silent conviction that was rare to find; I had seen it before in a few great
men and women in my lifetime, but not often.
Her
clothes were simple: a flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and
some work boots that were muddy around the edges. She had to be about thirty or
so years old, maybe a little older—I couldn’t tell age much anymore; Mr. Slick
looked to be forty and Mr. Monk had to be nearly sixty or seventy, but it was
truly anyone’s guess.
“Mocking
the guests are not appropriate for the butler,” she said wryly.
I
grunted and shifted my weight to my good leg. “Laughing isn’t either,” I said
matter-of-factly.
The woman smiled and I couldn’t help
but smile back.
“Michelle!”
Mr. Slick yelled from behind me. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”
I
stepped aside and motioned with my hand for her to come through. She hurried past
me and I took a moment to gaze upon the dark sky before me: as if night had
fallen into the dying red sun, the sky looked obscurely surreal, a dream in
which no color existed except for deep blues, reds, and greys. A howl came from
outside, and I wondered if it was the wind or a wolf raging deep within the
forest (the house was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees upon trees
and grass upon grass). Either way, the storm was approaching, the heat tangible
beyond words.
Closing
the door, I quickly followed the one called Michelle to the kitchen and placed
the four glasses of wine upon a silver tray (I suppose I actually have to do my
job today).
Motioning
with one hand, I lead them out of the kitchen and through two wooden double
doors into a room that must have been Mr. Greybeard’s study. There wasn’t much:
more books, a desk, and a round table with four chairs. Mr. Greybeard was there
busy tidying up.
“Do
come in!” he said with eyes alight. “It is good to see you all again. How are
we?”
“Fine,”
Mr. Slick said tersely, as if the words were too much trouble, and sat down
with a heavy sigh.
“Don’t
be in such a rush, Gabe, or we won’t have time to enjoy the wine,” Michelle
said and smiled. “How are you, Ralph? It is so good to see you, too!”
The
woman ran over to Mr. Greybeard and gave him an adoring hug.
“I’m
fine, dear. It is such a pleasure to see you once more. How many years has it
been?”
“Too
many, I’m afraid.”
After
they separated, Ralph turned to Mr. Monk and said, “And you, Auriel. I’m hoping
things are well?”
Mr.
Monk grinned warmly and said, “As well as it can be, Ralph. It is good to see
you.”
“Ah.
Good to see you, old friend. Gabe,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.
“Brighten up, my boy, or your face will permanently be set like that.”
At
this, even Mr. Slick stood, smiled, and hugged Mr. Greybeard. “It is good to
see you, old man.”
At
this, Ralph hooted like a man who had drank too much. “That’s more like it—now
should we get started?”
I
set the silver tray on the round table and turned to go, only to hear a voice
say, “Wait a moment. Who is the new guy?”
New guy?
“Ah,
yes,” Ralph said. “This is the new butler—”
“Roy,”
I said, “Roy Wellington.”
“Have
you informed him of the rules?” Mr. Slick asked.
“Of
course. He knows.” Mr. Greybeard nodded to me.
“Yes.
Don’t ask questions. Speak only when spoken to. And do not repeat a word of
what I hear—sounds like the military.”
No
one laughed.
“Did
you serve long?” Mr. Slick asked.
“Yes.
Two wars.”
“That must have been hard on your family,” Michelle said.
“That must have been hard on your family,” Michelle said.
“It
was…for a time.” I suddenly felt a sinking feeling in my heart.
“What
do you mean?”
A
tinge of frustration irked at me: I had just met these people and they wanted
to know my life story. It was audacious, rude; it was arrogant.
“Frankly,
Mr. Auriel, it is none of your business.”
I
didn’t get the reaction I expected, for the man called Mr. Auriel smiled and
said, “I like him, Ralph. Good choice. Nice to meet you, Roy.”
I
returned it with a nod. “Anything else, Sir?”
“Not
at the moment, no, but do start the chicken in the oven and return immediately;
we are about to get started.”
“Right
away, Sir.”
When
I returned, the fireplace had been lit and the four of them were seated at the
round table, staring at one another in silence. The second I entered, Mr. Greybeard
rose from his chair and came towards me. Pulling on the wooden doors, he closed
them shut and said, “Sit down in the chair over there, dear—I mean, Roy. And
good, you brought the bottle of wine; keep our cups full until the chicken is
ready.” Without warning, his eyes furrowed and voice became very grave,
“Remember, Roy… Remember my rules.”
“Yes,
Sir,” I said a bit perplexed and took my seat in the chair across from them,
still holding the bottle of red wine.
With
the door closed, the chicken in the oven, and the wine on the table, they were
ready to begin, and suddenly, as if the comeliness of the house—with its burning
candles, wood floors and deep colored rugs—had been sucked dry, I felt a
tautness in the room, a tautness that comes when life and death are on the
line, when a commander gets the courage to send his soldiers into a place where
he knows they aren’t coming back. Whatever was going on here couldn’t be life
and death…could it?
“It
is time once again, my good friends, to discuss the matter at hand and come to a
decision once more,” Ralph said with a sad smile. “It will be a long night, and
I fear every time we do this, every time we discuss this, the wrinkles grow
ever stronger upon my face, and my heart ever heavier; but alas, we must
begin.”
“We
will go around the table; each will say their words and then there will be a
discussion, and then, by midnight, a decision must be made. Do we all
understand the terms?” Ralph eyes flashed across the round table.
Everyone nodded.
“Who wants to begin?”
Mr. Slick took a large swig of his
wine and sighed, the demeanor suddenly changing from the haughty to a quiet
sadness.
“I
suppose I shall go first,” he said with reluctance. “As you know, in my part of
the world, I see things that cannot be described, and that can only be hidden
when eyes choose not to see. What I see, what I am forced to gaze upon day
after day are the shadows of men—their dark side. I see pestilence, genocide, the
killing of innocent men, women and children, and all the devils in between. I
see too much of it. I’ve seen too much. Too
much. This world burns with such ignorance and hatred, my friends. And it
is a fire that cannot be put out. It is a fire, I’m afraid, that will only
continue to grow. There is no end to it, for I have tried to find ways to stop
it, to find people worthy, but from where I watch, all I find are men
succumbing to the most diabolical wills and instincts. It must end. It must.
That is where I stand.”
The
words fell they way bombs did in the wars—with a quake that rose from the soles
of your feet to your bowels, where it played the puppet master to your
intestines, and finally, to your head, where it rattled what was left of your
skull, causing a deafness in my ears that still hadn’t faded. It was truly a
quake, a rumbling. What had I gotten myself into? Who were these people? And
what did he mean when he said in my part
of the world. I had so many questions, questions that I swore I would not
ask. And so, despite myself, despite the burning curiosity and kindling fear
slowly rising, I held my tongue, waiting for what would come out of the next
person’s mouth.
Mr.
Greybeard peeked in my direction and then said, “Alright, who wants to go
next?”
“I
suppose that will be me,” Mr. Monk said, arms still under his robes.
“Unfortunately, I tend to agree with Gabe: my people…in the world I watch over…
there is goodness; there is tranquility. But it is fleeting. Greed and envy and
selfishness grow like weeds in a dying green grass of purity. I do not wish it
to be so, and I do not wish for the outcome that I propose, but there is an
inevitability here: I am not my brother’s keeper wasn’t simply words upon which
a foolish man lied; they were a portent that heralded this from the beginning. What
must we expect from beings so flawed that they strive for power instead of
doing what is good and just. They are all the same. The suffering of this world
cannot be undone much like water cannot flow upstream. It must end. It must.
That is where I stand.”
Who
is all the same? What did he mean when he said these beings? Were they not human? I laughed inside my head. That
just isn’t possible… is it? And just what in God’s name were they making a
decision on? I had to say something. I couldn’t just sit here and listen to
something so mysterious and ominous without making one utterance. What must
end? What?
I
rose from my chair with the bottle of wine and walked slowly over to the table.
Everyone leered at me, as if waiting for me to speak, half-expecting it; I said
nothing, and cursed myself for it. The silence was daunting and the awkwardness
grew as I poured more wine into their cups.
As
I headed back towards the lone chair across from them, Mr. Greybeard coughed
and said, “You may speak freely if you’d like, Roy.”
He
had given me a chance, a chance to ask questions and get answers. He had given
me what I wanted. But suddenly, my gut told me to wait, for as much I wanted to
speak, I had only gathered fragments of the true story. Wait, I told myself,
wait until I hear the others speak before I say anything. I must wait.
With
a slow turn and a stirring in my guy, I said, “…. I believe the food is ready,
Sir.” Bowing, I opened the double wooden
doors and headed for the kitchen. Grabbing the chicken from the oven, I
prepared the meal, buying myself some time to think: I hadn’t been ready to
speak; I hadn’t heard all the pieces yet. But whatever they were deciding on
didn’t sound good.
I’m
a man of morals: my mother was selfless as a saint and my father was a
hard-nosed catholic; with him, there was no grey, only black and white—either
you did or you didn’t and whatever you did or you didn’t do made who you are.
He had a point, though I tended to disagree on some level: there were shades of
grey; in the wars, nothing was black and white—nothing was grey either—just
different shades of red. Regardless, the people in that room were debating on
the death of something, and I had yet to find out if my morals would allow it.
It didn’t bloody matter that I wasn’t a part of their discussion: I was in the room
and I had ears—they shouldn’t expect a man like me to stay silent; then again,
they didn’t know me. I laughed silently to myself: maybe I shouldn’t have
called Mr. Greybeard for this job; I never was good at being a Private.
Pulling
a cupboard open, I snagged a larger silver tray and placed four plates filled
with chicken, broccoli, and mash potatoes onto it. Slowly, I hobbled back
through the wooden doors, carrying the silver tray and holding the bottle of
wine.
Mr.
Greybeard stood. “Thank you, Roy. Would you like some chicken yourself? There
is plenty left.”
“No
thank you, Sir. I seemed to have lost my appetite.” A subtle jab—okay, maybe
not-so-subtle jab at their little causerie of death—but I did not care. And my
words did not go unnoticed: Mr. Slick and Mr. Monk raised their heads from the
table like startled wolves and Michelle pursed her lips so tightly together
water couldn’t slip through them. And I could see in Mr. Greybeard’s eyes that
he got my “subtlety” as well, loud and clear.
“That’s
a shame,” Mr. Slick said with a sneer.
“No
matter,” I said, as I drained the last drops of wine into their glasses. “I’ll
grab something after.”
The
night went on and dinner commenced. Rain started to fall heavily upon the house,
and I couldn’t help but smile, listening to the hurtling of the tiny clear
comets crash into the roof; a trickling quickly followed, as the water slide
down the tin gutters and onto the grass. No one spoke as they ate; no one even
looked up from their plates. But once the food was consumed, Mr. Greybeard
wasted no time in continuing the enigmatic discussion.
“It
comes to me then,” he said. “Auriel… Gabe… you see all the hurt in the world
and nothing good about it. Must you not concede that what you propose is most
extreme? To say that this must end—all of it—because Man consumes in the
fallacies of the flesh is much too narrow of mind. This is expected. What is
the triumph is that some men and women achieve something more and do good in
this world—should all that go to waste? Is that what you truly believe? Have
you become so hopeless what these humans have to offer that you are willing to
sacrifice that? Unfortunately, my friends, I have made matters more
complicated, as I disagree with what you have said. This should not end. Not
yet. That is where I stand.”
I
no longer heard the rain. I no longer heard the howling wind or cracking
thunder. What I could only hear was my breaths, heavy and forced. My head
suddenly felt a sense of vertigo, or perhaps mere delirium from what had just
been spoken. I was in a room with beings that didn’t consider themselves
humans. “These humans,” he had said.
And what was “The end?” I knew. I
didn’t want to admit to myself, but in the depths of my brain it hid, and, much
like when I was a child checking for monsters, I had to look in the dark
closet; I had to pull open the closed door. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t say
those words, even if they were only in my head.
Michelle
flipped her red hair back and looked at me as if she knew my thoughts; at this
point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. I stared at her with fortitude,
thinking if she could hear every word I thought then she would know I wouldn’t
let anyone leave this room if they meant harm to someone—my parents and their
moral compass, remember? At that, Michelle smirked, her pink lips curving slyly
before she returned her eyes to the table.
“There
isn’t much left to say,” she said. “I am afraid we are at a crossroads,
gentlemen. My thoughts are with Ralph’s: there is still much good to be done in
this world. They have come such a long way and to take that from them now is
foolish.”
“Foolish?”
Mr. Slick interjected. “Where you see improvement, I see failure. They have
failed to stop genocide, to stop rape, murder; to stop persecution and
discrimination—and it has been centuries. You’d expect it from a race as old as
an infant, but they have grown; they have aged, but they have not matured. They
are still as petty as they were when they were children.”
Michelle
replied, “You have always been known for your cynicism, Gabe, but what you
propose is cruelty.”
“Is
it any more cruel than what they have done to one another—and will continue to
do? You’re too soft, Michelle.”
“Excuse
me?” she said, her voice suddenly piercing the stillness between the four. “May
I remind you with whom you are speaking to, Gabriel.”
Gabriel?
“Wait
a minute…” I whispered.
“Please,
Michelle,” Mr. Greybeard said, “Gabriel, I know this is a heated discussion but
we must stay objective. A decision must be made. And it must be made soon.”
The
old man pointed to the clock. It was nearly eleven: one hour left.
They
debated while I put the pieces together. I didn’t bother wondering if this was
real, if I was dreaming and I would wake in my bed alone in a cold sweat, or if
this was some absurd prank being pulled on me. I worked with what I had, with
what I knew; it wasn’t much, but it was enough. At the realizations I made, my
hands started to tremble; my palms and forehead began to sweat; my stomach
churned with terror. I didn’t bother questioning my conclusions, for regardless
of whom they were—or what—I knew one, absolute fact: two of them wanted to end
the human race.
The
debate had turned to a cacophony (I had stopped listening a long time ago; so
much for being objective) and it was nearly ten minutes to midnight. Slowly, I
stood and put my weight on my good leg. I had been quiet in my rising, unlike
the chaos in my head, but no matter, somehow they heard the movement, and
quickly, all four of them stopped their bickering and stared.
Mr.
Greybeard cleared his throat. “Ah...Roy, I—”
“Save
it,” I said. “I’m not abiding by your rules any longer—how can you expect me
to? You’re angels aren’t you?”
They
exchanged quick glances but said nothing.
“Gabriel.
Raphael. Uriel. But my catholic schooling never taught me about an Angel named
Michelle.”
She
smiled a smile as if impressed. “What angels do you know that start with ‘M’?”
Quizzically,
I said. “…Michael.”
“Close
enough.”
“You’re
Michael,” I said, baffled. “You threw…you’re the one that…”
“Yes…what
is it, Roy?”
“I
thought you were—”
“A
man? Yes, I get that a lot. There were some problems translating the word of
our Father to humans.”
I
had to laugh. “How the hell could they get that wrong?”
“You’d
be surprised. . .” she said.
She
stood in front of the rest of them, arms crossed. “You must have questions.”
“No,
just one: how often do you do this? How often has it been since you last saw
one another?”
“In
your time, the turn of the last century. We get caught up doing other things.”
“You meet every 100 years?”
“You meet every 100 years?”
“Yes.”
I
cleared my throat and wiped the sweat from my brow. I had been in trenches
taking bullets. I had watched friends die while somehow I had managed to scrape
away. I had faced death itself and lived. But it was more than that: as you get
older, you lose the fear of being wrong; you lose the fear of what people
think; you lose all the fear that held you back when you were younger. I had
always been a man of faith, but I wasn’t about to show them fear. I had never
been one of those children who feared God and his angels. And I wasn’t now: I
was going to say what I wanted to say.
“You
meet every hundred years to decide the fate our lives?”
They
nodded.
“Arrogant,”
I muttered.
“What
was that?” Gabe asked.
I shouted, “It’s arrogant! Do you feel
emotion?”
They shook their heads.
“Then you don’t know…you don’t know
what it’s like to suffer, to have to live in this world; you don’t know true
pain or sadness, to watch your best friend die in combat or to watch helplessly
as your wife succumbs to cancer…do you?”
Silence.
“No,
I didn’t think so,” I said, tearing up at the thought of my late wife. “You
don’t know suffering. And worse, you don’t know bliss or true happiness; you
don’t know what it’s like to feel your baby in your arms for the first time, or
see your child do something you couldn’t. You can talk about it. You can judge
it. But you can’t understand it. So yes… you arrogant, pretentious beings who
sit here every 100 years debating on the fate of lives you can’t possibly
understand…”
I
started to pace.
“You
talk about genocide, about rape, murder, persecution and discrimination. And
you talk about there being good people left in this world, but you don’t truly grasp
it. The bad of many does not outweigh the good of the few, because those good
people have lives, have families, and have struggles that you can’t possibly
imagine; they push through every day—sometimes those days are good and
sometimes those days are horrible. But they do it anyway because they don’t
have a choice.”
“Why?
Why do they do it?” Mr. Monk asked.
“…It’s
simple: they want to live.” I set the wine bottle down. “Now, it’s midnight.
I’m going to leave this house, get in my car, go to bed, and forget this ever
happened. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to go about my day, see
my kids, visit my wife’s grave, and do the things that I have to do, though
they may not be what I want to do.”
I
went to the wooden doors and pulled on the handle, but before I turned and
walked out I said Mr. Greybeard, “Thank you for your time, Sir. It’s been an
interesting evening.” And with that, I headed through the front door and out
into the rain.
***
That
morning I woke up in my bed, my head dizzy and my mouth dry. As I reached for
the glass of water on my nightstand, my hands knocked a letter to the floor. It
read:
Dear Roy,
We agreed. The bad of the many do not
outweigh the good of the few. We will continue to monitor this world, but we no
longer will leave its fate up to us. It’s up to you, you and every other being
on this Earth. You can either destroy it or you can save it. Good Luck,
Regards,
Michelle.
