“It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.” ― W.C. Fields
The drifting silt from the roof of the cave lingered throughout the torch-lit cavern like a legion of meandering spirits from a tomb. The grey mist distorted the image of the Dark Master’s magnified silhouette appearing as a colossus on the nearby stone wall. The flames of the torches inside the great cavern whipped wildly commanded by the swift draft from the distant opening to the alien world. Cato’s familiar scorn, directed at his son, echoed throughout the branching corridors of the expansive hollow until the sound of his madness died in the tenebrous passageway leading to the great room. This time, however, the ill-tempered fiend had reached his limit with his son setting in motion the destiny of all who are involved in this story.
Cankered by the son’s goodwill Cato scolded the youngster for leaving the dragon steeds’ enclosure open. Towering above his son he slammed his fist across his offspring’s face. “What is wrong with you! It will take the pantars more time than can be afforded to round up all of the steeds again. You are an imbecile,” the brute threatened once more.
The Dark Master viciously belted the youngster. The barrage levied on his defenseless victim culminated when he confronted the spectacle of his battered son before him in the same manner as one who examines an empty bottle amidst his stupor. Cato would have no-doubt continued the assault had he not been distracted by a murmur of compassion that refused to be suppressed. The impulse of empathy irritated him like a taunting tic. “Gurga,” he uttered. The Dark Master could not recall the last time he spoke the name. He ceased communicating with the youngster in the instant of the child’s infancy when the father had reconciled by the sting of shame his son’s identify. The child, at first sight, was a reminder to the father of the sire’s imperfection. Consequently he named his son Gurga, branding the child the most despised word in his species’ language.
The youngster bowed his head falling defenselessly to his knees. “You are useless. You are a moron. You are pitiful. You are an oaf, a fool, a simpleton, discharged here to humiliate me. Everything you do is an embarrassment. You wake up each day and prove all over again what a waste of life you are. What an accomplishment that is! My biggest mistake was that I did not eat you when you were born,” Cato leaned into his son’s face to emphasize his dominion over his offspring. I was wise to name you after the most cursed word in our language,” He peered closely into the almond-shaped eyes of his son. “You don’t even know why I named you such a cursed thing?” He exhaled his wretched breath in his son’s face, “Do you?” Cato leaned back in disgust examining the docile creature before him, “Of course not, you’re too stupid,” Cato walked away from his progeny before turning around with a final assault on the dispirited youngster. His anger fueled by impulse was like a wildfire conducted by a momentous breeze, “I couldn’t find another word to describe how useless you are that’s why, Gurga, I appointed you your wretched name.”
The son momentarily closed his eyes as the spit from Cato’s mouth sprayed across his face. “This is the last mistake that I will tolerate. You are exiled from here forever. If you return you will be fed to the pantars. Upon my command they will rip you apart,” Cato addressed four of the pantars who stood obediently at the side of the demoralized son. “Be off with him. If he attempts to return, carry out my order.”
Defined by the endurance of his torment the son’s ability to recognize his father’s misery reigned beyond reason. The imprint that abuse imposes on the sufferer is the design of the perpetrator. The victim’s ability to tolerate his suffering is ultimately determined by his spirit, in the most horrible situations, a spirit that surpasses comprehension. In this respect the son was uncommon. The disappointment revealed by the dreadful words that sprang from his father’s mouth was unbearable, more painful than the physical blows that he withstood. The son did not tolerate his father’s abuse because he was fearful, he withstood the attacks because those moments were the only time his father ever seemed to notice him.
The Dark Master possessed a disdain towards all life. His hatred misshaped his perception like an arthritic vine that overwhelms a garden. Running bold and deep, the roots of his malignancy were unyielding. There can be no confusion as to why Cato had such disregard for his son. The son did not inherit his father’s temerity. The son was a simple-minded creature whose capacity for kindness was incapable of being subdued by his father’s cruelty.
Life in the caverns always required the son to be vigilant. Creatures, who stole away in the darkest recesses of the caves, awaited the opportunity to prey on an unsuspecting victim. Cato had devised this existence for himself, and so he inveigled other like creatures to take up residence in his empire. The son was never suited for such a hostile environment. His eviction from the caverns in this respect spared him from the constant fear that shrouded his existence, but he had never traveled beyond the gloom of the Black Mountains. He, in fact, had never ventured beyond his father’s cavern.
The son, hindered by incomprehension, was terrified upon his banishment. Two hostile pantars escorted the son to the brink of the caverns and abruptly left him in solitude. Confronted by the choice to journey in opposite directions fate guided him as he wandered west to the land of the great forest. The land to the east of the Black Mountains where the wild and ancient beasts lurked would have proven too treacherous for his amicable nature. In near darkness he stumbled along the narrow path that formed the valley of the Black Mountains, approaching the edge of the great forest. He trudged along, his head downcast as he left the vapid gloom of the mountains behind him. He wandered in the grey land unaware of the constant mournful groan that heaved from his broken heart. In such a state he traipsed, a creature, heading towards his execution.
Downcast he turned a sharp bend where for the first time in his life he experienced the greeting of spectacular sunlight on his neck. Suddenly he was exposed to the effulgence of nature’s kindness, a contrast to his former world that offered perpetual shades of darkness. The son was mesmerized by the spectrum of hues that reigned on the border of the great forest. The lush plants and blossoming fruit trees greeted him with an explosion of color that he had never experienced before. As his vision adjusted to the bright light the son’s attention was captured by a bed of chrysanthemums. He drew close to one of the red blossoms. He was amazed by the pattern of the tiny yellow and orange florets that were otherwise overwhelmed by the chrysanthemums’ boastful scarlet appearance. The son’s fear was temporarily ushered away by the dazzling flower, the first beauty he had ever seen.
The sounds too were uplifting. The wind no longer brought cold, nor did it utter warnings. Instead the warm wind boasted about the openness of the sky. A variety of birds sang in joyful accompaniment, their song a symphony celebrating life. The air was filled with the aromatic collection of plants that coaxed the traveler’s head to rise so that he could inhale a world that had stewed in the warmth of benevolence.
The son’s curiosity at this moment was no longer triggered by fear and apprehension. Instead he marveled at a world that surpassed his imagination. The object that captivated his interest beyond all the other enchantments of this new world was the sun. Its warmth embraced him like a mother who lovingly fills her child’s life with security. Immediately the son understood why the birds sang so joyously, why the plants reached for the sky just as a child who stands tall to receive his adoring mother’s affection.
Still, he was alone. He could not conceal that terror. His fright returned to assail him.
Instinctively the son crouched, low to the ground, in an attempt to be undetected. His rapidly beating heart lifted and lowered his taut skin at his chest as his eyes nervously searched for those creatures who lurked in the darkness awaiting their opportunity to prey. Even this new world’s glory could not free him from the chains of a life-long vigilance. His agony raced faster than his heart rate. He couldn’t imagine a more malevolent existence. That desperation nearly buried him, yet at that crest of hopelessness the son’s capacity to rely upon himself was awakened.
While his eyes perpetually searched for an unforeseen threat, he comprehended what his father could never imagine, life that boasts of such fascination is to be celebrated not feared. At that ignition of enlightenment the son was astonished when he became aware that a creature was kneeling directly beside him. He crouched between the creature and the brilliant sun. He hesitated and then slowly looked in the creature’s direction. The creature looked away at that moment as well. The son placed his hand on the ground to help support himself. The creature mimicked his movement precisely. The son’s focus was momentarily stolen to the distant trees where a new unfamiliar sound sprang forth. The creature too looked to the trees. As the son rose to get a better vantage point of the sound’s source he noticed that the creature rose precisely in the same manner. The son slowly stepped towards the trees, as he watched the creature follow deliberately. After some time attempting to comprehend his predicament the son gained courage and spoke, “Who are you?” The creature did not respond. The son paused to think. Ashamed of his limited speech, he spoke again, “My name Gurga, well that is what father called me. He not nice. He mad all time. He yell at me and he hit me all time. He make me leave home.” The creature remained directly beside him, but it did not speak. Confused and out of wits the son was on the brink of sobbing. An unfathomed kindness stopped him. He suddenly understood how afraid the creature who followed him was as well. He was sure that the creature did not speak because he too was afraid. “You scare? I scare too. But I will not leaf you. You can stay wif me as long as you like. Come wif me we haf to fine place where we can live.”
The son entered into the brink of the trees. He saw monkeys high above peering curiously at him as he passed. He looked to see if the creature followed. From time to time as the son journeyed by a substantial tree he noticed that the creature would hide. As he stepped beyond the trees the creature reappeared walking next to him. “Sos, you like sun?” He waited for a response that he realized would not come. He understood that it was inconsiderate to presume anything from his new terrified companion. “I like the sun too. We can fine a home that is under the sun. Come, me thirsty. We fine water.”
As time passed the son and the creature found a home near the ravine where a fallen tree provided a bridge across the river of lava. The ever-flowing smoldering melted rock fed from the distant Black Mountains bullied its way through the landscape forming gorges and ravines until it emptied into the distant sea. The other side of the deep narrow canyon was a contrast to the rugged dark rock cliffs that abutted the lava river. The high sun shone brightly on the sloping landscape on the other side of the gorge. A stream of purified water, sprung from the forest, flowed near the fallen tree. The stream meandered along the sloping bank guided by a cut in the land until it was joined by another stream. Together the water’s force eroded the landscape forming a waterfall that fell several hundred feet dropping into the dominating liquid rock river.
The joining of the hot lava and the waterfall marveled the son as steam rose from their union. He would sit on a large warm rock with the creature always beside him a safe distance from the river of lava. He studied how the warm mist rose and expired in the air. The cool water from the forest stream engulfed by the flowing river of lava represented something important to the son, something inexplicable that he was drawn to. At the confrontation of their union the son was always impressed by how the inferior stream could provoke steam before it surrendered to the overwhelming lava. If he could reason as you and I can, he would perhaps have realized that love was the more powerful stream. Denied of this ability he wondered at what he could not grasp which is the same with all of us.
Much time passed, more than time itself could account for and with the passing of time the dispirited memory of his father expired as well. The imprint of abuse would always leave its stain, but amazingly the son found happiness. Still he had one last connection to his father that he reasoned he must get rid of.
One day as he sat on the rock. He looked at the sky as if he was trying to see beyond its depth of blue. He looked at his mute companion who seldom left his side. “You good butty. You always with me. You always listen to me.” He tilted his head in thought. “But you do not know my name,” he paused again rubbing his chin in thought. “For now on you can call me by your name. I like your name.” They sat for another long moment under the bragging sun–the object that defined for the son an identity. “Oh, that’s right, you do not know the name I made for you? Yessss, of course, I have never told you before. Well, for now on we are bof named Shadow.”