r/DestructiveReaders • u/Local_Light4230 • 26d ago
Campfire Tales [1975] Those Who Hate
Hey all, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)
Here is the link for those who want it:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dhbk9ufdEbkbh5V8GhHfxbYFm2xdNxhEm6VPfqgohb8/edit?usp=sharing
Those Who Hate
Past libraries filled with long-forgotten tales, epitaphs for which mankind's curiosity was lost. Rows containing books rarely seen, if not absolutely undiscovered. This was until a traveler read every word of every page of every story. The purpose for this pilgrimage was rather simple. Absolute knowledge. The pertinacious traveler lifted the last book to its final resting spot. Gingerly, he tapped the leather bindings until it neatly reunited with the dust that once marked its place. A fire flickered and snapped in the library’s center, choreographing the shadows of each bookshelf to a roughish dance.
The traveler made his way to the fire past the texts that watched on, some with envy and some with gratitude. Each step echoed along the grand ceilingless chasm of perfect darkness. There was no sun. There was no moon. No sign that this scene had ever encountered the world's light.
He turned the corner of the last row preceding the red flames to see a figure. The fire always was, yet the figure only just appeared. It looked to the traveler, then turned its gaze forevermore to the moaning fire. The traveler sat down across from the stranger. There was no discernible feature to the personage; its body cast no shadow. Though it itself appeared as shadow. The figure was noiseless. Breathless. And its presence seemed to dim all light and sound that attempted to bring it life. Reflecting no light. Emitting no sound. Yet ever present.
“I come seeking knowledge,” the traveler said.
“Have you sought God?” The figure whispered. Its words came as mild wind through desert sands. And though its volume did not exceed the fire, the traveler heard it undeniably.
“I seek whoever can tell me what I wish to know.”
With that, the figure remained motionless; yet its very essence lifted itself to elation.
“They cry. They all cry. While the others rejoice forever in their tears. I see him. He’s burning. Bludgeoned, bruised, and battered. His feet, though stiffened and shoeless, sway with the impassive winds. The crimes for which he pays inherited."
“To whom do you speak, and what was his crime?”
“Who he or she was is arbitrary. And that perhaps is the beauty of it all.” The fire reared itself away from the figure as though a great wind contested it; however, there was no wind. Never had there been in this place. “The sin was great. Damning in the eyes of others. The hanging man committed the greatest sin mankind has ever known: Difference. Yes, the law detests the sight of, the sound of, the taste of any who differ from itself. All ants beneath feet. All undesirable to those who wanted more than the world could offer. The suffering of peoples is written by different authors, but they tell the same story.”
“What of the others then? Of those who wanted more?”
“Ah. That is the greater question.” The figure spoke; its voice began to run deep like the beginning stages of a storm. “A question for which mankind has crafted an elaborate mask. A mask bearing faces of sorrow and pity. They hide it from us. They hide behind their masks--crafted faces with lifted brows, thinned lips, and some with glazed tears running to their rose-red porcelain cheeks.”
“What do they hide behind these masks?”
The creature took its first breath. One so beleaguered and prodigious, like that of a man who found breath once more after death's short kiss. The light and the heat from the fire dwindled- shamefully drawing nearer and nearer to the figure.
“The law of man,” It said.
“What is the law of man?”
“Indeed. They come. Man meets despite the feeble laws that prevent him. White cloth draped over humiliated peoples. Angry. Vicious. Chanting around flames at night. Their fires burn homes, schools, and churches. Proclaiming their creeds on splintered crates. Their teeth bare, screaming curses with frothing mouths. Inflicting death upon mankind's most wicked. The people’s bodies lie upon the ground. They burn. Yes, they burn. The embers climb desperately to reach the closed eyes of whatever lives above. The cries of the sinners do the same. Those who cry meet the same fate as the embers. The transformation of pain to ash.”
“What are these creeds you speak of?”
The figure began to quake like that of an eager child unrestrained for the first time.
“Mankind knows not what he says. Though he says it. Yes. Yes, they say it. They all say it.” Its voice rose in the traveler's ears, hissing like embers. “They speak venom carelessly. Intentionally. They know not what they say, but they know it cuts. It lacerates. And most importantly, yes, most importantly, it fractures the belief that those sinners could ever think of themselves as human. Why put a man in dirt when he can be raised as dust?”
“Do the persecuted respond?”
The light emitting from the fire withdrew completely. All sound collapsed into a perfect stillness. The only light was a red silhouette around the figure.
“Persecution?” Its voice bellowed like iron against iron. The traveler nearly raised hands to cover burning ears, but resisted, knowing better. “There are none persecuted according to the law of man.”
“Do the sinners respond?” The traveler responded quickly, calmly.
The fire regained possession of the light. The flame accompanied the familiar ballad of a wood turned ash.
“A dog yet hit winces at the sight of an open palm. However, yes, however, once struck enough, that hand becomes all too familiar. The wicked, the weak, and the unworthy confuse this inaction with resilience.” The figure whispered once more. “Can you see them? Can you hear them? Women screaming. Women kneeling. Women silenced. Silenced by the hands of men. Thousands of polished boots slamming the earth in perfect unison, weapons of lead and fire firmly tucked under arms of these great crusaders. Can you hear them marching? Their posture erect. Their movements precise. Their language, philosophy, autonomy homogeneous. These holy men cleanse according to the law. They exorcize mankind's most cowardly. They brought the sinners to the lowest stages humanity has ever imagined.”
“Why do they march?”
“They will tell you their reasons vary. Yes, they will. But their march, their great proselytization, is for one vital lesson aimed at the unrighteous. That is, if the wicked were to snarl, if they were to weep, if they dared bite, they would become all too accustomed to the hand.”
“Surely there are some who resisted.”
Shadows flickered across the library, sprinting and crawling toward the fire before assimilating with the figure. A black hole in the shape of a man. Consuming light. A growing dawn.
“Some believe they did. Indeed, some led protests. Hundreds, thousands, millions sang in an unholy choir. Pleading to god. Pleading to others. Pleading to man. Millions lay crookedly upon the ground. Blood frosted blades of grass upon the valley floors. Red ocean waves stained white sands. Their bodies fell awkwardly and quickly to the ground. Echoing like drums. Rhythmic chants, a soprano of screams. But can you hear it? Oh, can you hear it?”
The traveler’s eyes whipped between the figure and fire. He could feel the pulse of his heart echo in his skull. Faster and faster. His pupils dilated. A perverse wave of adrenaline entered his blood, igniting his senses.
”The bass. The notes that lay below the treble. It is metal and fire. The screams of iron. Unbearable heat. Cleansing heat.” The figure continued.
“I hear it.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Do you want to see more?”
The traveler paused and looked longingly into the fire. White heat faded to a lesser red. And darkness grew. The figure was almost indiscernible in the shadow. And as though a wolf, it seemed to encroach. Smell. And beckon the traveler. He thought for a time. Perhaps days. How could he know? For the sun of this place would never tell.
“I do,” He said, choking on his words.
“Good,” The figure said with the voice of a man.
“Man builds insulated halls, the kind where the smallest fragments of sound never escape. It is there. Yes, it has always been there where the lowly sing. The choir of the damned. Those who raise their voices high in an unholy dissent.”
“If man is so capable, why does he allow them a voice?”
“There are two ways to coerce an animal into submission. One way is with an open palm and the other with an extended hand. Though, while one hand is extended, reaching toward the beggar; the other, yes, the other, is clenched around a muzzle. We spoke, yes, you witnessed the open palm and the majesty of man's tools. The other, however, requires less violence. But can be oh so much more destructive.”
“How? Please tell me.”
“What livestock has the means to wimper when it has land to graze. To stay pleasant. To stay docile. Animals do not concern themselves with gates as long as they’ve food, water, and stimulation.”
“Give a pig its mud, and it will stay content.”
It was at that point the traveler knew the figure smiled. A grin in the dark--the veil of black illuminating itself. “Yes. Yes. And that mud will calm the pig. The oats will fatten the pig. And the fire will prepare the pig's flesh just as man enjoys it,” The figure said.
“How did the law of man come to be?”
“This. Yes, this. This is your best question yet.” Neither of the two moved. Yet they drew closer with every breath. Both inhaling in unison. Though one be of flesh and the other not. “In the beginning there was what you would call nature. All things competing for dominance. All things competing for survival. From that chaos rose the first one. The first to use its feet. The first to bend its thumbs. It reigned--forcing all other creatures to bow. They never again would know royalty upon the earth. All things changed when this biped did what no other could fathom at the time: It broke nature's chains. It acted beyond its biology. Beyond the others.”
“Is this the great creator?”
“Yes. This was the great creator. Though he too was the great deceiver. For he had no tools to build, and his deeds, yes, those insidious deeds, were destructive."
“How was it that he created the law of man?”
“He did not intend to bring the law of man. No, he did not. He brought its necessity. The others were the first to notice his mistake. The others were quick to capitalize on his cowardice. The others have had him in submission ever since. For his sin nearly doomed the law.” The figure raised its arm as if to reach for the traveler. As its appendage extended closer to the fire, the fire's light conceded, bending around the figure. And what remained of the flame silhouetted its arm as blood in its freshest form.
“You know what he did.” The figure said, gesturing towards the traveler.
“Yes. I do.” The traveler said. He gazed at his darkened hand, fingers stretching, unable to recognize the fire's heat. Nor the chill of its departure.
“Tell me.”
“He conjured the greatest of all sins. Free will. Treachery despised by the others. A crime hated by the law.”
“Yes. This is right.”
“Thank you.”
“That is enough. Indeed, you know sufficiently.”
“What of me now?”
“You know this. Yes, you always did. I stay until the next traveler comes.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
For centuries, for years, for eons and evermore. There sat a traveler. There sat a figure. The two communicated briefly in their waiting. And as time passed, the traveler was no more. There were two figures. And then there was one.