Xenia

It is a bad night. Moonless, cold, wind like a knife. You know the kind. The rain beats heavy against the slate roofs of the houses in your village. Through the deluge comes a hooded figure. He walks slowly, rolling with the blasts of wind that catch his cloak and whip it around his legs. He spies a house with golden candlelight pouring from its windows, spilling out onto the dark street like a sweet mist. As he approaches the curtains are drawn quickly, the light hidden. When he knocks on the door with a heavy fist there is no response. He waits stilly in the rain and dark for a few moments before turning away. He makes his way to the next home; larger, with warm, thick smoke streaming sideways from the stone chimney. Again he beats his fist against the door. Again there is no response. A face appears in an upstairs window, slyly trying to catch a look of the hooded stranger. But as the man’s eyes snap towards the movement the face vanishes.

He continues through the village, buffeted by the wind and rain, but the door of every home is barred to him. Each time he knocks and waits; waits as the conversation within ceases, waits as those within hold their breath, waits as the heavy rain continues to fall. Eventually he moves on, re-entering the night with his steady pace. As his footsteps fade the sounds within the dry homes resume, tinged with relief, and sometimes nervous laughter.

As he walks the houses get poorer. After trying dozens of locked doors he finds himself at a modest, sturdy home built close to the village outskirts. Once more he knocks and waits. No curtains twitch this time, no conversation ceases. Rather, it sparks; a man and woman’s voices rise in furious debate. The hooded man leans forward slowly, turning his head and inclining his ear towards the sounds until it hovers a hairsbreadth from the wooden door. The voices within battle awhile until the man’s prevails, uttering a final barked exclamation that silences the woman. Heavy footsteps march toward the entranceway and halt. Separated only by the wood of the door each man waits in silence. The stranger hears the heavy beating of the rain upon the roof and the heavy breathing of the man on the other side. He seems to be gathering his courage. A moment later the stranger snatches his head back and stands up straight. The latch clicks, the bolt is drawn and the door swings open revealing a dark-haired and heavyset man. He wears simple clothes and carries himself with the air of someone who earns his bread with the labour of his body. He bears an arrow-straight scar down the left side of his face, bisecting his eye in two.

‘Welcome, Stranger,’ he says.

The hooded man looks past the man deeper into his home. ‘May I enter?’ he asks. His voice is soft and rumbling with an undertone of gravel, like that of a predatory beast on its best behaviour.

The man nods, his face pale, and steps aside. The stranger enters, his cloak loosing heavy drops of water onto the bare stone floor. He moves through the entryway into where the warmth and light of the hearth glow, the kitchen-heart of the home. A woman stands there, tense, angry and fearful. The stranger meets her eyes and she nervously fingers the angry scar on the side of her neck, not quite hidden by the high collar of her rough-woven dress. He walks past her, dripping more water onto her floor. Slowing pulling out a chair he sits at their kitchen table and waits.

‘We can offer you bread and ale, maybe some broth. We have little else I’m afraid,’ says the man. The stranger nods. The man fixes his wife with a stern look. With furious eyes and sharp movements she serves the stranger; a mug of ale, a bowl of soup and bread made with her own hands, each utensil slammed onto the tabletop with a bang. The stranger nods his thanks. The man takes a seat at the table with him while the woman stands, arms-folded, eyes smouldering. The stranger does not touch his food. The three stay there a while, suffused in the hearth-light, listening to the rain.

After a time the stranger inclines his hooded head to the man.

‘Bring out the children,’ he says simply.

The woman opens her mouth but her husband is faster.

‘Maria.’ He says quickly. ‘Fetch them.’ Behind the sternness there is a note of pleading in his voice.

She looks at him defiantly for a moment before striding out of the room. The man observes the stranger, his face still hidden by his hood, only the tip of his nose touched by the light of the fire. Water pools on the floor around his chair. The stranger himself sits straight-backed, breathing deeply and evenly.

Maria returns holding the hands of two children, a boy of seven and a younger girl, maybe three years old. When they see the stranger sat at their kitchen table they freeze, wide-eyed. He gestures to the chairs opposite him.

‘Little ones. Sit with me.’

They look to their mother and she nods. Cautiously the boy approaches the table and takes his seat. His little sister follows. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, sluggishly moving around the room seeking her mother. But the boys eyes are fixed on this fascinating dark stranger. With the blunt curiosity of a child he asks, ‘Who are you?’

The stranger makes an appreciative noise.

‘Ah. A good question. The people of this village have not seen fit to name me. Though I am well-known to them.’ As he speaks the stranger reaches inside his cloak and produces a bowl made of some dark metal. The boy stares at it, suddenly interested. The stranger places it carefully on the table. It makes a heavy thud that belies its small size. The boy sees ancient engravings on its rim, worn away to near-illegibility.

‘Who am I? I am a giver of gifts.’

The stranger reaches inside his cloak again. This time he produces a small filigreed bottle stoppered with a twine-wrapped cork. With his customary slow, theatrical movements he places this on the table next to the bowl. The boy follows each movement as if hypnotised.

‘I am a teacher of the deep learnings. The forgotten magic.’

Next to the bottle he places a finely-woven cloth; midnight blue and tightly folded.

‘I am that which guards the boundaried spaces, and that which splits them.’

With these words a knife appears in his hands. It seems to shimmer and somewhere far on the edge of his hearing there is a sound; something between a scrape and a beguiling whisper. The knife itself is long and thin, slightly curved and held in a well-oiled sheathe.

From behind him the boy feels his mother stir but his father places a heavy hand on her shoulder. His little sister yawns, widely and openly.

Finally the stranger produces a fine whetstone, bone-white and smooth from long use. As he speaks he pulls the knife from its scabbard and begins to sharpen it with long, whispery scrapes, as if he were shaving off seconds off a man’s life.

‘Your parents are among the wise old ones of this village. They have invited me in. Others lock their doors, draw their curtains, perform their strange, useless little rituals to keep me at bay. None of it works. It just forces me to adopt more insidious methods.’

Holding the knife aloft he turns it so the firelight glints blood red along its blade. As he examines it he speaks to the boy.

‘Fetch me an ember from the fire.’

Dumbly the boy nods and scarpers down from his chair. Moving to the hearth he takes the iron tongs and reaches them into the leaping flames. The tongs are heavy and he needs both hands to hold them steady. His tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on his task. With an ember ensnared he retracts the tool and ever-so-carefully turns and walks back to the table. While he does this the hooded man unstoppers the bottle and pours a little of the liquid onto the fine cloth. The rest he tips into the dark metal bowl. Seeing the boy return he holds out his hand. The boy stares at it. The strangers palm is covered in scores of burn scars. He looks questioningly to the man’s shadow-held eyes. The stranger gives a small nod and the boy drops the ember into his bare palm. It sizzles against his skin. With a rapid movement he transfers the glowing ember into the bowl. Immediately blue flames leap up from it and the room is filled with a dizzying, acrid scent.

The boy retakes his seat. The hooded man holds the knife in the flame, turning it slowly so the blade catches the heat. The boy asks another question.

‘Did you give my mother and father their scars?’

‘I brought forth their scars,’ the man corrects him. ‘Your mother and father made a brave choice; to wear their marks publicly, in a land where such things are feared and judged. The slow-witted among the villagers think scars to be marks of ineptitude, or failure, or misfortune.’

The blade of the knife turns to red. Deep within the darkness of the hood two glints of light appear, the glow reflected in the stranger’s eyes.

‘The foolish believe scars are something we acquire. But I will tell you the truth boy; our scars are within us always. They grow as we grow, lying dormant until it is their time to bloom. We cannot avoid them. We can only deny them. And even that only for so long. Sooner or later, they make themselves known.’

The stranger removes the knife from the flame and rests his hand on the table. The blade, now white-hot, lies within a hairsbreadth of the surface, close enough to make the stranger’s spilled raindrops hiss against the wood.

‘Place you hands flat on the table,’ instructs the stranger. The boy does so.

‘This is the gift I offer you boy. Truth, for all to see. Pain no longer hidden but shining splendid in the light. The death of fear. The birth of experience. The old magic. Transformation. What say you?’

‘I’m frightened.’ The boy’s voice quivers. He looks over to the man of the house. His father’s eyes are filled with tears. This frightens him even more. He begins to shuffle. The stranger raps on the table to draw his attention.

‘Your father. Do you remember him without a scar?’

The boy thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.

Somewhere inside the hood the stranger’s lip twitches in the slightest of smiles. ‘I do’, he says. ‘But the unscarred man I knew was not your father. Only this man is.’

‘Do I have to choose?’ asks the boy, staring at the knife.

‘No. Your scar will come. There is no choice in this. Only surrender.’

‘What does surrender mean?’ There is a note of anxiety in the child’s voice.

‘The deepest part of healing is transformation, and the deepest part of transformation is surrender.’

Something in these words soothes the child. He stops shuffling.

‘What choose you, boy?’ rumbles the man.

‘Surrender.’ The boy speaks quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Lightning fast the hooded man strikes, drawing his blade across the fingertips of the boy’s right hand. Before he can cry out the stranger has pressed the finely-woven cloth to the wound. It happened so quickly the boy didn’t feel the cut, only the light sting of healing herbs against his skin. The boy’s eyes fill with tears, more of surprise than pain, but the hooded man holds his hands and his gaze until it passes. When he withdraws the cloth there is no blood, but the boy’s four fingertips are neatly bisected by a deep cut.

As he examines his new digits, wincing as he flexes them, the hooded man reheats the knife blade. His sister’s turn comes quickly; as she turns her sleepy head to yawn again the stranger leans across the table and swipes, neatly splitting her ear down the middle and quickly pressing the cloth to the wound. She begins to howl in surprise and her mother rushes forward to comfort her. Pulling away the cloth she sees the damage to her child and now she herself wails, holding her daughter and rocking back and forth.

With brisk efficiency the stranger packs away his tools and stands. With a final nod to the boy he strides out of the room. The man of the house rises and follows him to the entrance. There he lifts the heavy latch, sliding the great bolt sideways with a solid clunk and pushing the heavy door open. The night pours back in; stout-black and heavy. The stranger moves out into the rain. There he pauses a moment. Turning back to the man, he asks:

‘What profession have you found, boy?’

‘I’m a smith.’

‘Ah. Honest work. Show me your hands.’

The man obliges. The stranger takes the man’s hands in his own. They are strong; powerful and deeply pockmarked from years of working red-hot metal.

‘What make you? Tools, weapons?’

‘Locks,’ says the man simply.

Within the shadows of his hood there is a low wheezing sound that could be the stranger chuckling. He gestures past the man to the warm glow of the hearth.

‘I will return.’

He turns away and is swallowed by the night.

In a room at the back of the house the boy reaches for his favourite toy, a cloth rabbit his mother sewed for him, but as his wounded fingers touch it they scream in pain. Quickly he withdraws his hand. He will never touch the world the same way again. In the bed next to him his sister sleeps uneasily, wincing when she turns onto her wounded ear.

The sky is turning to light as the hooded man leaves the village. His passing is noted by all, for none could sleep that night knowing he was nearby. They watch him from darkened windows, to be sure that he has departed. For those not brave enough to bring their scars into the light their scars sink deeper into their bodies becoming more insidious knives. In one man’s gut is kindled a sense of unease that will never again allow him peace. Another rubs worriedly at a tightening feeling in his chest that marks each beat. Another women begins to feel the stiff pain of heat in her knuckles as she anxiously wrings her hands. The insidious knife takes something from each of them; sleep, love, peace, joy, connection, independence.

By the time the sun rises above the horizon the hooded man has left to ply his gifts elsewhere.