#64 Short Story
Evil exists.
It does.
No—
you misunderstand.
Evil varies.
We, as common—
mundane, banal,
so used to ourselves—
are easily tempted,
and never forever steady.
We often
lack the courage
to decide
which is the true lesser evil.
And the truth is,
we are rarely aware
that we ourselves—
with all our flaws,
our indecision,
our cowardice—
are evil incarnate.
Or perhaps we,
as the human race—
from which the word humane was born—
simply deny it.
"Oh! Sir, brave knight! Hail be to you—"
A door meant to swing inward pushed out instead. A foot stepped in, retreated, and then two ragged hands appeared—calloused from too many tales oversung.
"Enough with this noble speech. I am no noble. Nor am I one to speak such… what do you call it? Much-adorned foolishness understood only by the select few—and when I say select few, I mean the very few who fancy themselves chosen by a higher—"
A man appeared—so scarred he seemed almost deformed. Bruises, old wounds, healing gashes carved permanence into his skin. Yet the way he stood—tall, composed—told another story. With proper clothing and a helmet to hide his imperfections, one might even mistake him for royalty kept from prying eyes.
"Hush your tongue, gravekeeper," said an envoy priest clad in armor—an inquisitor.
The man covered in scars sighed.
"Pray tell me, why is the oh-so-great Inquisitor General here at my abode?" he asked mockingly.
A robe fell behind the inquisitor’s horse. Tiny shoes touched the ground, splashing specks of mud. A small figure, no taller than the saddle, emerged.
"Uncle Phil," a high-pitched voice called.
The gravekeeper knelt immediately. He knew that voice.
As the child rushed toward him, something shifted in the gravekeeper’s face. A strange warmth cut through the cold that usually lived there.
"Uncle Phil! Uncle Phil!"
The boy launched himself forward. The gravekeeper caught him with arms already waiting. The child laughed, jumping even after being lifted, ecstatic in his joy.
Standing with the child in his arms, the gravekeeper turned his gaze toward the Inquisitor General—sharp, questioning.
The inquisitor dismounted and merely shrugged, palms raised.
The gravekeeper exhaled slowly, a visible puff escaping him. His eyes hardened.
"Uncle Phil!" The child leaned back in his arms to look at him. "Where have you gone?"
Like magic, the gravekeeper’s grim expression brightened.
A roof littered with stars. Walls that had long since surrendered to time, their bared faces framed by glassless panes and immortal cracks. Pillars barely clung to the roof, the floor, and somehow even to one another.
In the middle, beside a makeshift bed assembled from mismatched boxes—foreign to each other, labels barely torn off—lay a mattress. Secondhand, perhaps third or more, but placed carefully on top.
Around it gathered an audience of forgotten things. The unwanted. The misunderstood. At the center burned a small gas lamp, holding back moths and the unclean night air of the slums.
Two souls, like moths themselves, leaned toward the light. In their hands lay a torn, thrown-out children’s book. Neither of them knew how to read, yet their thoughts interpreted the pictures differently than the author ever intended.
"Is that all of it?" asked one of the boys. A strangely shaped birthmark streaked across his face. Younger. More curious.
"Let’s go to the church tomorrow. Maybe we could find the rest of the pages there," said the older one—though barely more learned.
"Can we find something else?" the younger asked. "There are so many words written, and all we got was the boy calling out Uncle Phil while smiling as he gets abducted. What a weird story."
"Let’s find the rest of it first. Maybe we could ask Father Oscar about this," said the older one.
"Oh! Yeah! Let’s find Father Oscar tomorrow. He always treats us to snacks when we see him behind the church," said the younger boy. His smile barely dimmed his hunger, nor the paleness in his eyes. The thought of the good priest brought him comfort.
They were the same—the younger and the older. Hungry. Unlearned. Hopeful. And with eyes that saw what mattered more than trivial things.
A growl broke the silence, inside and out.
"Is that you, Ethan?" asked the younger.
"Must’ve been a dog outside," Ethan lied. He was hungry. And soon, his brother would be too. "Say, we’re done with our day. Want to head out for a bit?"
Ethan smiled. He was hungry—and he knew his little brother would be soon enough.
"But you said there’s a dog outside," the younger complained.
"Did I say it was a dog?" Ethan replied. "It’s the wind. And right now, we have a quest to do."
Ethan winked. It meant everything would be alright—as long as his brother followed him.
The younger smiled. His face and eyes grew brighter.
Adventure.
"Let’s go," he said.