Every morning, my mother changes the wrapping around my legs with a hope I’ll walk again.
This is the last ditch attempt to make my legs work. Evidence based medicine didn’t work. Now it’s down to magic.
Wet silk cloth wrapping, one for every leg, smells of sandalwood and camphor. I look down at the angry red text on the cloth written in ancient script – healing verses in praise of the new Gods.
I mostly play video games – when I am bored – I have counted the moons over Deodar trees since I’ve been lying down - I can see them, through the crack in my frosted glass window.
“Eighteen moons” -- I mutter to myself.
“The great war went on for eighteen days. Eighteen moons must seem like eternity” -- That’s the first time I hear him speak.
He’s sometimes there. Lurking in the corner where the television set is, if my mom sees him, I am not sure – or perhaps she ignores him.
But I am very aware of him. He looks at me and nods at me knowingly with that creepy smile that his kind is famous for.
It scares me a lot – but then again, warriors of the moon clan shouldn’t be afraid of his kind. Or so I tell myself.
First day of the waning moon, twelve moons ago, I helplessly watched him eat mounds of starchy rice off the broken clay pots - they were meant as offerings for the departed souls of our ancestors. My mother left it on the patio – a ritual that brings her peace, she doesn’t speak much about our past and who we are. In many ways, repression is therapeutic I guess.
He hissed every time he’d eat mounds of rice - I always thought these creatures make guttural noises. Apparently I was wrong. The hisses, when I listened closely, were primordial, the utterances that were forbidden by the new gods. I remember seeing him look at me when this realization hit me – he was smiling and his yellow eyes glowed – a chill runs down my spine every time I see how his eyes glow. There are cataracts as well, I observe, perhaps he’s older than I originally thought he was.
I wished this ritual desecration of everything my clan holds sacred, from the bronze age to curated Instagram accounts – would end with him eating rice mounds. I was wrong.
He fashions a small pea from the bits of rice sticking to his long gnarly fingers, places it on his palm and stretches out. An unsuspecting sparrow flies in through the cracked frosted glass window, to peck at it, he closes his palm, in one swoop motion puts it in his mouth. I close my ears to block out the primordial hissing that follows, too helpless and more scared to do anything –
The sparrow eaters.
It’s been a year. It’s a full moon day. He is back again. Tomorrow is the first day of the waning moon.
“The great war went on for eighteen days. Eighteen moons must seem like eternity” - He repeats.
He’s referring to the great war from the moon clan scrolls. My clan.
“You’ve read our scrolls, you know what we do to sparrow eaters. I know in your retelling of the great war, your womenfolk lament about widows’ lakes and bloated corpses.”
I say this with as much courage as I can muster. I am too scared, and an invalid lying on a waterbed to be doing anything, even if a drug addled teenager were to attack me – here I am confronted by a sparrow eater.
Legends of the past, allegiance to a bloodline which doesn’t mean much in the age of podcasts and Tide pods - yet they can stir very primal emotions. The last vestiges of glory, that make us sound pompous, when we say “Eighteen moons” -- all the while sporting an Apple watch.
I’ve angered him. He came back the second time to desecrate the sacred offerings for my ancestors. I can’t stand up, but I will fight.
With shaking hands I reach for my walking stick - made of sturdy wood and reinforced with iron studs, sit up, point it at him, his gnarly hands wrap around his curved dagger, he stands up to his full height and eyes me intently – the cataracts are more pronounced now and the eerie yellow glow is more hotter. No hasty moves or drunken over-zealousness they’re known for –
This one is a warrior like I was in another life. He comes closer to me, I swing my stick.
Eighteen moons – I am rusty, legless, and I tire easily. He makes a mock-stab movement and pulls back at the last moment, I swing again, my walking stick clatters to the ground out of my reach and lands beside the television set.
I know when I’m beat. I start saying the prayer for the dead shaking like a leaf – he stands by.
He raises his curved dagger to stab me in the heart, that’s their way – then they roast the hearts of the warriors of my clan and eat it too – along with a newly dead sparrow. I raise my hand in an effort to stop him. A pathetic cowardly gesture, unbecoming of the warrior of the moon clan.He looks down at me with a piercing gaze - his yellow glowing eyes are dull embers now. He smiles sadly.
He places both his gnarly hands on my lifeless legs, the ancient text on the wrapping cloth sears into his skin, he is chanting the forbidden primordial verses that come out as hisses. His tongue swells, the chants reach a crescendo of a prolonged hiss. It stops abruptly.
I am scared that my heart will explode – but then I’ve committed an act of cowardice – ultimate cowardice.
It’s the first day of the waning moon, I watch him eat mounds of starchy rice off the broken clay pots - they were meant as offerings for the departed souls of our ancestors. He doesn’t even look up knowing it’s me. The offerings are scattered all over the patio, my mother – she ignores both of us.
I walk towards the Deodar trees in the back garden by the new swimming pool I had built before my legs stopped working – I long for a swim.
I sit down cross legged, trying to tear away the sparrow shaped scabs on my legs with my teeth.
Because the warriors of the moon clan do not touch with hands what’s been touched by the sparrow eaters.
Even the damned ones.