Of Firelight and Courage

Sometimes, in the warmth of my complaisance, I sit, and his image comes to disturb my peace. At the edge of seeing, in fire’s light, he slides into my consciousness. A frost of grey traps light, an aura in his hair. His face is dark, and eyes reflect the fire’s light, but I can never see his face. Serene, he sits in lotus pose. Amidst the traveler’s tales of places been and seen and money spent and saved, he seemed so out of place. And yet this was his place, his park, his new emergent nation, and we the interlopers, the visitors, the guests. He came to share the ritual— of beer, spirits, ganja smoke— and listen to our tales. And who were we, rich beyond his imagining, to deny him this. He took but little of what came his way and passed it on. He spoke not, and I, uneasy with his presence, preserved the silence in the dark. In the dimness of the fire and my unease, eyes met. He broke our silence, “Jambo sir. Please, where are you from?” Awkwardly I answered “C Canada, we're from Canada” “Oh Canada, you have large salmon and much wheat,” the “l” in salmon vocalized. He sat, immobile, with legs crossed. Forfending a return to silence, I inquired, "How do you sit so long, cross legged and still?” The fire, reflecting from his smile he said, “It is not hard with legs like these.” Gnarled, deformed, just visible by fire’s light, the strangely beautiful terrain that was his knees cast light and shadow from the highs and lows of fused and knitted bone. White scars reflected smooth and sensual patterns. But not again would flex the rigid scar and sinew of those battered, ill-formed joints. Awareness came that he sat not upon a bench or stool but rather on a wheeled device, much like a child’s wagon lacking sides. He pushed himself with wooden sticks. So simple was his response I did not know what else to say so simply said, “I’m sorry.” “No need,” he said, “they are me.” and then, “Do you have child?” I told him no. “I’m sorry” was his sole response. “No need,” I said, “We’re young and do not yet have time.” Again, the same response, a tinge of pity, and then with pride, “I’ve two. They’ll graduate fifth-form, and that is how I know of Canada.” His pity for our childless state was clear and so to change the dialogue, I asked about his legs. When he was young, a village child, his parents broke and set them so. Stunned, not sure that I had understood so calmly had he said it. I asked, afraid, near disbelief— “Your parents did this thing to you?” With true compassion in his voice he said, “It was hard, for them, an act of courage.” They were poor and he, the youngest, would have no land, nor education, and begging was his only hope. He remembered little of the act. His father held him still, another smashed and set his knees. He lived as pampered guest until the bone had set and pain was gone. He learned to beg, raised two children with his trade, and they would graduate with options he had not, nor would they have to beg like him or maim a child to give it hope.