for
the whereabouts of the Anarchist. “It has been three days now that I have not
heard or seen that Anarchist” as he wipes the streams of sweat off his brow.
The
Loner peers into the trembling shimmering of the plains.
“Today
is not the day to be out in this inclement sun” scowls the Cave-Dweller.
“What
can he be up to?”
With
an explosive vindictiveness the Prehistoric Postal Agent bursts out “I have
heard that he is looking for his own cool cave. Seeing that you have
appropriated the cave for yourself, no one else has such a refreshing time in
these sweltering days as you!”
The
Cave-Dweller clearly taken by utter surprise at this new news, replies “This is
the first I hear of an interest in my cave. If there was anyone who would have
vocalised his desire to share the cave with me, I would have offered. People
forget there is language to communicate these desires with.”
As
the Prehistoric Postal Agent started retorting, the Carillon sounds a
discordant cord that pierces through everyone’s teeth. “Oh no, this heat is
making my bells play up! I can not stand these high temperatures anymore!”
The
Prehistoric Postal Agent still clinging onto his retort grabs his chance and
blurts out “See, now is your chance, Mister Pro-Communicative Cave-Dweller,
that you should offer the cool chambers of your cave to Madame Carillon.”
Instead
of being provoked, as is usually the case, the Cave-Dweller utters a response
that stupefies the Cross Roads into the longest silence it has ever heard. “Please,
do move into my Cave, Madame. Mi casa es su casa.” This he pronounced with such
unaffected sincerity that even the Carillon could not chime for a good part of
that sizzling afternoon.
The
Loner has taken off his shirt and shoes and started to climb to the top of the overhang
of trees. With such intensity of concentrated eyes, he peers all over the
plains. “We have to find the Anarchist – he can not miss out on this
opportunity to witness the Cave-Dweller’s uncharacteristic hospitality.”
From
under the scant little shadow of the cairn of stones the mumbling of the Wretch
could be heard.
“Speak
up boy!” the Prehistoric Postal Agent shouts out to the Wretch.
Only
more mumbling could be heard, this time with a more throaty quality.
“I
fear he might be suffering from sunstroke?” pipes in the Loner. “We should move
him into the New Hospitable Atmosphere of the Cave.”
The
Prehistoric Postal Agent always deeming himself as the carrier of parcels,
thought that the carrying of a person will not be out of place in this new and
exciting chain of events. He aimed straight for the cairn of stones.
As
the Prehistoric Postal Agent drew closer to the Wretch, the cairn of stones
started toppling. “Do not come any closer!” the gruff voice of the Anarchist
could be heard from the interior of the cairn. The Wretch, completely
debilitated, uttered with great effort “I told you not to worry about me. But
you didn’t hear. Three days ago the Anarchist has made his home in the confines
of the cairn. He asked me to be his gatekeeper and not to let anyone in.”
The links to the previous eight Cross Roads poems >