Once upon a time, the boy in ripped blue pajamas asked his mother to tell him a story of lions, tigers, and bears. He sat straight up in his car-shaped bed and pulled the covers to his chin, his heart fast with excitement. He loved his mother’s stories and the way they made him feel. They were full of flying fish, exotic peoples, white tigers, and food so strange you couldn’t believe people actually ate it. Had she really gone to these places, he often wondered, but did not dare to ask. Never break the spell.
The two lived in a half-painted bungalow towards the end of town. A window had broken a month earlier so his mother nailed a board up. At night, the wind flew through the rooms; he could hear it whistling by the light chords. His old, rusted, and red bike with a little basket lay against the bark of a half-dead willow. His mother sometimes pinched him and asked him which one was older. Once two men in a white van came and took their three hounds tied to three stakes outside in the snow. And as he chased the van down their dirt road⸺his breath disappearing into the cold sun, icicles forming over his eyes⸺he screamed and screamed. Once the heat stopped, and his mother burned photographs to keep warm. In the light, beside the stained pine desk, he rested on her lap, and she told him a story about each glowing photo. In one, a young white girl with ruby earrings and a shiny necklace stood in front of a Black man holding a rifle. In the long grass, at their feet, slept a large lion with a beautiful mane; his torso was blasted and emptied, blood crept through the grass to the parched sand. Once upon a time, his mother said, brave men shot noble lions on the wide plains of Africa; the stars were so close, you could reach up and grab one. She looked at her son, his dark eyes blaze with light and said they respected the beasts as men respect a storm. Her son sat in silent reverence of the men and the beasts and the power.
He heard his mother cleaning the pots and plates from their pasta dinner. We eat as fine as Italian nobles she had joked. On his wall, he had taped an old map of the world. The drawers had cut and carved the space into finely sanded chunks. The map was full of chunks and each could see the other. Each one had a colour and belonged to other colours. He would run his fingers over the red, green, and blue spaces and longed to be there. The world was known. And brave men had met it. He would imagine himself with those men leading a conquering army into distant, unknown lands. Children at school would remember his name by heart, his bravery a legend to hold and to pass on. In his mother’s glossy travel magazines, he saw young men and women standing proud on top of icy mountains, praying inside sacred spaces, and walking amongst terrifying tribes. The world was as scary as it was holy, but it was known.
His mother sat on the small chair beside his bed. She lit the candle and set it on her lap. She tasted his excitement, the desire, for it was her own. She folded her hands and commenced.
Inside the church with the high, painted ceiling, black robed men approached the vassal sitting in his gold-studded throne. “Come” the vassal commanded. The men slithered an inch further, their gold chains swinging around their necks. “You shall go across the unknown sea. You shall mark the lands furthest from our reach.” His voice was as strong as oxen and as magnificent as dragon’s breath. “We will remember you brave men.”
On the ships, the robed men stood on the planks staring out into the mist, the waves crashing against the side. They were brave heading into the unknown. On the horses, they sat covered in steel armour, shields resting on their soft manes. They had the fire in their hearts and gold in their eyes.
The boy clapped his hands together. He loved brave men. They cared little for their own well-being and wanted to give the gift of friendship to the world. Sometimes he felt alone with his mother in their poor home, and it made him feel better to know brave men could make the world a little smaller.
Near the sandy shores, the ship stopped. And they fell out tired, hungry, and sick into their canoes. They were afraid but kept the fire warm. The jungle spread out wide and far in front of them; strange birds circled and cried above; monkeys screamed within. They struggled through the deep sand as the clouds darkened and hardened. The first drops hit as they stumbled into the long, scratching vines. And then they saw the faces, as red as blood and as savage as wild boars. The pounded drums sent the birds higher into the shallow sky and the monkeys deeper into the jarred jungle.
The boy’s hands trembled yet his eyes remained locked on his mother’s plump face; her eyes sparkled in the moving, dancing light. She took his hands and gently rubbed them through hers. Sometimes he did not like to be frightened like that, but he knew that being scared was part of living in the world. Often he saw his mother crying in her bed, her blankets violently shaking. And if even his mother felt the fear and the sadness in her breast, he would endure. Like those brave men in the jungle, he would endure.
Strange painted marks covered their faces; gold rings hung from their noses, ears, and lips. Serrated, black knives were tucked in their quilted vests, the lances gripped at their side. The tallest draped in a feathered cloak shouted some terrible thing, and the others pulled the men by their hair over the rough ground. Others swam to the canoes in the sea, but arrows soon covered the sky, and they hit the men under their ribs. As they sunk down, they looked like red Christmas trees. On the sandy shore, you could not hear them scream, their pleas lost among the falling arrows.
The boy, cried and his mother smiled. The boy had known cruelty: when they took his dogs; when they called him names at school; when they did not help his mother when she cried for it; when the wind mercilessly blew, and the windows could not hold. Why did people act so cold to their brothers, he needed to know. Why did these tribes want to hurt the brave men, he demanded to know. His mother held him and softened his back. Why could not brave men find comfort wherever they went?
They came to a clearing. The brave men couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw a huge stone pyramid rising to the heavens. It had long, steep steps to the top and wide ridges overlooking the jungle below. A feathered man with blood clotted hair grabbed one man by the neck, heaved him above his head and carried him to the very top. A bed of peat lay across the steps; it was so green and so soft. Along the way, the brave man saw carved images on the rough stone; of birds, of jaguars, and of beasts, they held his hollow hand as the jungle fell below him.
Once, in the winter, when the snow was so high, they went to the island forest surrounded by dead plains and he asked his mother about the trees, the sounds, the footprints. The white birches sank into the snow, their bark peeling. He scampered over the fallen trunks resembling cannons firing empty into an ocean of white. The chick-a-dee’s call hushed the boy’s shouts as a snowy blue-jay perched on a spruce branch hanging sad from the heavy snow. The forest was still. His mother bent over, sent her warms hands through the cold snow, fashioned a ball, and threw it at her son. The ball screamed past his ear and hit the fat trunk of a maple. The boy laughed, hurried his eyes across the snowbanks and found a sharp pinecone innocently left there. He rushed towards his mother, bent his arm, and hurled it. It struck her eye and she cried. And as he apologized and wrapped his arms around her kneeled body, her blood cooled in the snow. In bed, he thought about bloody pinecones.
At the top of the pyramid, the brave man saw the jungle swathed in the golden hue birthed by the early morning light piercing through the departing clouds. Large birds as big as stumps swooped and swayed above the altar. The blade was stained with dark patches, its face finely cut like diced herbs. The brave man was placed on the altar and was tied; he heard the loving wails of the faithful below. He smelled the incense burn and to his left sat a large stone idol of a serpent swallowing a lion. As the pierced rock came down, his eyes rolled away and he gave a short and shrill snort. His body was as relaxed as water behind a dam and the smell was as sweet as freshly-bled sap. His aching heart was held high so the furthest eyes could see.
The boy wore eyes as sad and as large as a calf’s at auction: big, brown spheres of terrors searching for a reason. The mother gave no warmth, no reassuring smile; she only sat on her wooden chair sternly looking at her son to say brave men die. Yes, the world is a mean place; it is a cold and a vicious place. And brave men need to know the risks; brave men need to know the price. When they put the knife to the throats of babes⸺their soft, alive fingers signalling⸺and they catch their blood⸺coughing, gurgling, choking⸺in richly-adorned brass vessels, and they cut the fat from their chubby legs, will you wince? Will you turn away, she asked. The boy shook his head, his eyes fierce. She took his head and led him past the living room with overturned picture-frames to the kitchen where the cookie-cooker lay silent against the wall, the bread board as dry as sand. In the window, they saw themselves huddled together in the blowing snow. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and squeezed, the streetlight lighting the falling snow as fat as bullets. The quiet was violent and dull: the mundane bled forth, enveloping and enlarging space like a cancer, until the ordinary became the extraordinary. And as she resumed the story back in bed⸺she rested beside him, her head next to his⸺the boy knew that brave men do not go gently: their blood is its reddest in white snow and their fire is its fiercest in winter’s cold.
Later that day, more and more brave men took the beach, their blades a strong silver against the high-noon light. They slaughtered the tribesmen and bled their sons over the open fire. They suckled from their women and took their daughters for play. They burned down the jungle and killed everything that crawled or jumped or flew. They ripped the gold from their nostrils and cut their paint away. And when it was done, they asked what they believed in and they sat and laughed. They laughed until their faces and bellies ached. But they kept listening and laughed less.
In his bedroom, the boy leaped from his bed, grabbed his plastic sword and hacked the air. He circled his prey, blade twirling around his head, and delivered a series of short, strong thrusts. He had the fire in his belly that laid death to fear and to foes. He hacked until his shoulder hurt; he hacked until his mother grew tired from cheering and clapping.
In the clearing, the tribesmen worked. The jungle had been gutted and the space lay innocent for homes and buildings. Brave men walked in conversation with tribesmen hauling away rock and wood. The heat rolled upon them in waves, the air like soup. From the sea, more boats came sailing, the billowing smoke stretching long over the red jungle guiding them in like a hand at night. A timbre cross stood on the sand hill. A tribesman was flogged underneath.
She licked her finger, put out the candle and pulled the covers over their heads. In the darkness, they heard the wind blowing outside. She felt his cold face against hers.
Around the stumps, the tribesmen sat and listened to the brave men telling stories. They spoke of their beloved mother draped in beautiful satin holding her son. They smiled when they recounted the tales of their fathers reeking vengeance on those who had plundered and soiled their lands. They laughed when they shared the story of the man in cold armour killing the last dragon. And they sighed when they told the tribesmen that their kind king, a ruthful ruler of many lands, had instructed them to go forth and share their stories and spread their joy. And their stories became our stories became the stories.
Mother and son lay side-by-side in bed. The house was as cold as the road dark. Tomorrow, they would rise, and the hurt would still be there deep, and the sky would remain far and vacant and a cold blue. And by the following week the frost would still not have thawed and the history so caged would still have remained silent on their breaths. But story-time would still have the power to pull them to the belief and to the hope that there existed places where they could feel spring’s pollen on their etched skin. In their pain, they sought lighted adventure and from that all worlds came crying forth. And in their travels, they would make friends and tell them their stories until they were known and loved throughout the lands.
The tribesmen burned their idols, and the fire engulfed the scary faces. They held their children close and told them what a nice mother they all now shared and how her son watched over them at night.
The eyes moved under their still lids. They dreamt of boats and of trains and of blades. They imagined themselves beyond the warm light with brave men fighting back the dark. Away, together, they ran. Faraway.