A. R. Duncan

Six-Hundred years had passed since the second to last of the men of flesh had gone from upon the face of the Earth. Now there was none left for the last of the speakers of the tongue to converse with. And this was all he had ever known. Why the Lord had apportioned him this fate he was not sure but it was the life he must live. He still lived within the city of giants but what was once vast and life-giving now seemed only a museum inhabited by a new order of men. They lived in ruins they did not understand, translated tales, and hymns, and poetry that they could never embody, and talked of ideals that they were not fit for. The lone man of flesh, whose name could not be said with the vulgar tongue of stone, spent his days walking around a city long bent beyond its purpose and wept water over the remnants of an age he never knew. The men of stone treated him with reverence and the giant would help the smaller men where he could. He would tell them stories and translate the symbols and words when he was called to and the men would talk up to him with their gravelly, guttural attempts at the greater tongue. He would smile an empty smile with despondently hollow eyes and thank them for their patronage, then he would respond with the full glory of his voice and the men of stone would stand agape and murmur amongst one another. Truly it was a beautiful language and they must devote more of their time to grasping it fully. The naïveté of a young race! He could not dislike the men of stone but he longed to speak with his own and chose not to speak with those of his people. He would reduce his voice to their level and speak words of stone. It pained him but it kept him from saying too much. The man of flesh read the great tales, and sang the sacred hymns, and breathed the poems but he spoke, sang, and breathed alone.

Within the great dome of the cathedral that towered over the city of arches and spires, he would spend days pouring back and forth across the friezes and carvings that told the story of the world’s founding and his people’s history. He would ascend to the top of the dome to observe the setting of the sun and as the deluge of rose light swept over him, only the beauty of the tongue could suffice in describing its majesty. He would whisper of it to himself as there was none to hear of it. For a period he had been stuck by visions of a knife being thrust into his body and tearing a wound from side to side across his abdomen, a knife he wielded. He did not know from where the visions came: whether from within himself or thrust into his mind by foreign source, but they were not of God. He knew that he did not want to die but he simply did not want it to continue on like this. He screamed for life fully lived but was only granted a shadow between light and dark.

The great marble city lined in red sat tiered against the cliffside as it had done for thousands of years, its creators gone but its life not diminished. The last of his kind watched as the hooded procession followed by the unadorned mass proceeded up the spiralling main street to the cathedral of silken marble that he sat atop, a statue of an archaic age. The priests loosed cries of reverence as they went and the crowd sang dirges in response. Those tongues of stone spoke phrases of flesh that should not have been uttered and could not be understood, but to protest was as futile as their use. Outside the great dome they stopped and raised their symbols and icons to the air. When he had been younger he had attended these ceremonies with excitement. The priests were taught the tongues of the old language and as new high priests came from distant lands to lead the festivities, the possibility of someone who understood, somebody with whom he may be able to communicate the depth he felt, was too animating a prospect to be denied. But none lived up to the promises he had made for them. None fulfilled their potential. Time and time again they would address the congregation in words only fitting for the ears of men of stone. And the congregation would laugh and cry and feel the call of the spirit in their bones and the high priest would refresh and renew them, entrusting them into his companions’ care. The high priests served honourably and dutifully and left the city enriched as it had not been before. But for him it was only disappointment. At one time the high priest had spoken with a clarity that stirred joy within the man’s beating and abused heart. The priest’s words signified an understanding he had only glimpsed in the ancient texts. Maybe this would all be at an end. But it was for naught. They would talk and truth would be revealed. Stones are stones and not flesh. There exists a barrier that cannot be breached and a destiny that cannot be explained. The priest would go his way with the world and the man would remain apart from it. For all the high priest’s words, and signs, and acts, he was no different from any of the other men of stone. Perfectly kind, honourable, and loving.

Far down below, beneath the cliffs and beyond the amaranthine walls, the land stretched out to a flat horizon crowned by the dying sun and coming darkness. The straight and narrow road ran off and beyond the horizon, never erring from its uncompromisingly perfect way. Once, many years ago, he had walked that road and ventured off beyond that exotic horizon to see all of the grand creation he had been place in. He could not believe that he was alone in this world. His people must be out there somewhere. But they were not. He journeyed for many years but found no men of flesh to welcome him. He saw many sights he could only have dreamed of and people the likes of which he had never imagined. In deep valleys rimmed with mountains of bright red stone he found men who lived in trees, and by azure seas and crystal sands he met men who lived upon their boats, never setting a foot upon land. He tried to talk of his home and his people and of all that he had seen, done, and felt, but though people would travel for days to see this traveller from a remote land, he was only entertainment. A performer from a far off land. He was a foreigner in a foreign land and he would learn nothing so far from his people’s home. To return to the friezes and poems and icons of his people was as close as he would come to belonging.

The crowd beneath the cathedral then swarmed out of the vast doors and into the streets. The ceremony was complete and the elated horde descended to their homes to celebrate. The city lit up with joy and paper lanterns flew from squares, and gardens, and housetops. Screams of excitement made their way from the streets to the top of the dome and he felt nothing. The people of stone ate, drank, and were merry. They sang, danced, and made love. The man of flesh sat as still as stone and let himself be lost in dreams and memories.

In the city of burning gold he had met the lady of fire. From the golden buildings that ringed the sides of the city’s market the men on stone stayed in the shade and watched with regular bemusement as she danced her way across the square to the point where they first met. Stones cannot move as a fire can move and so she played alone. As with the man of flesh, her people too had left this land and she lived alone with the tongue and passions of fire in a land of stone hearts. She had suffered as he had, surely he would finally be understood. She was as beautiful as any woman in this world could be, with auburn hair and a body like the dancing leaping flames of the sacred conflagrations. The merest glance from her emerald eyes would impassion even the most sedate of men and from her crimson lips poured forth an unending blaze of fervent ecstasy that filled the soul of all who would listen. It seemed they could lack for nothing. Together they talked and sang and sat to watch the goodness of a creation they would never feel. They both cried out unto the Lord with praise for their blessing and pleas for help but only spoke to their own soul. Reality caught them in the end. They took to companionship with one another with the ease of two desperate strangers and both poured all their hopes and anguish onto the other, but blood and flame are not made for one another. The Lord had not appointed it. For all the other knew of their suffering there were a thousand words that could not be understood and many thousands more that could be said. All the depth and the beauty of the world to be left unspoken.

Descending from the cathedral top, the lone man of flesh returned to his home. He would sleep, wake, and rise again. Each and every day in this place of half life between two worlds, he would continue this part-lived existence for all the days the Lord had allotted him upon this Earth and continue to suffer the anguish of silence. To try to speak was a worse fate. He was entirely alone and would remain this way all his days. But one day, the Lord will descend and shall bring about the death of death and he shall wipe away the tears from every eye. The new Heaven and the new Earth will be brought forth in their true form and once more tongues of flesh will be heard as they cry out in adoration of the Lord. They will join with tongues of fire, tongues of stone, and all else that can be found upon the face of the Earth as they never cease to rejoice.

Andrew is a watcher and writer from Edinburgh, Scotland. An observer of decline and decay; a witness to the end and rebirth. Writes the Stories of Winter.