Eyeless (2018-2019)

 

 

 

When the blind man arrived in the city, he claimed that he had traveled across a desert of living sand. He sat on the corner of the busiest intersection. Most people, busy people, passed him by, paying him no mind. A few who stopped to flick a coin in his sorry direction would stop and listen to his story. No one believed it. There was no desert around here. These were the babblings of a madman, nothing more. However, there was a young boy who did understand the man’s story. He also was blind.
 
Twenty years later that boy — now a man — walks the streets of that same city. He moves in the dark of night, keeping himself concealed within the shadows. From within their dark embrace, he listens. Thanks to the story and the teachings of that old, blind, "madman" he had learned to see with his ears not his eyes, seeing and feeling the living sand as it animated the sounds around him. More importantly, he learned to focus. He could hear the noises coming from every tavern in town. The cackling clamor of the plastered patrons, the tumult of tolling tankards as mindless toasts was made, and the thrum of the bards’ lonely lute as he plays a ditty for the drunks.

The man could not concern himself with all this racket though, he needed to be mindful. After all, he had a job to do. He started to focus on each individual conversation. He was not listening for a certain word, phrase, or topic. He was listening for a specific voice. For those who had not learned to listen like he did, this voice would not stand out. But to him, it was like no other. He had heard it first earlier in the day and already committed it to memory. A male voice, it was harsh, but not too deep. A slight lisp, unnoticeable to the average ear, escaped with every "s" sound. He listened. Coarse, grating voices came from every direction. He forced himself into deeper concentration.
 
Suddenly, a raucous commotion right in front of him nudged him out of his center. He quickly ducked into an alleyway to avoid being seen. The yelling and shouting that accompanied the screeching of the swinging tavern door was filled with indecent expletives. A thud sent subtle vibrations through the ground beneath his feet. The tremor told him that the man being thrown from the tavern was a portly one, probably pushing three hundred pounds. The tavern door slammed shut. He was now completely focused on the man who was laid out in the empty, midnight streets. He stayed concealed within the alleyway, just listening. He could hear the wobbling of the man’s sozzled limbs as he made attempt after attempt to pick himself up off the cobblestones. Mumbled obscenities growled into the ground. The voice was gruff, and the inebriation made it a bit croaky. There it was! That seemingly insignificant lisp escaped the man’s lips. This was the man he was looking for.

 

Slipping out from the alleyway, he slunk up behind the stumbling sot who couldn’t manage to find the right direction to walk in. Just as he came up, the drunken fool fell backwards into his arms.

 

"Wha? Who are you?" the man exclaimed, immediately jumping up, not expecting to be caught.

"I’m sorry sir. I don’t want any trouble." ‘

"Well whaddya know, a blind man," said the man with some strange excitement upon seeing the eye wrap.

"Please, I could really use some help. I think I’ve gotten myself lost."
 
"Lost?" he shouted, scratching the top of his bloated beer gut. "Coming to think of it," he looked around, eyes glazed over. "I’m not really sure where I am m’self," he slurred.

"Say… maybe we can help each other out. What’s your name?"

"Eogan. What’s yours?"

"Damned if I know," garbled the thoughtless guzzler.

The drunk followed Eogan aimlessly, stumbling through the streets, but Eogan felt every grain of sand beneath his feet. He knew exactly where the final destination was and what was going to happen once they arrived.
 
He led the drunk down an alley and into an open courtyard. This was Eogan’s favorite place to do his work. The chirping of hundreds of crickets bathed the courtyard in light. Eogan could see everything in vivid detail as the sand danced around him.
 

The stumbling drunk haphazardly hobbled into the courtyard and nearly tumbled over.

"Ah, I knew I shouldn’a let ya lead the way blind man. Look where we ended up."

 
"I’m sorry," Eogan began.

 
"You should be, I’ll never get home now."

 
"No, I’m afraid you won’t, because someone wants you gone."

 
"Gone?" the drunkard laughed uproariously, "You sound like my wife."

 
"Perhaps," Eogan drew two daggers from beneath his cloak. Before the stupid sot even knew what was going on, Eogan struck. Swinging both daggers horizontally, he cut deep into the man’s sagging gut and even deeper into his throat. The man’s eyes widened. His inebriated mind couldn’t process the pain. He knew he was going to die all the same. He grasped at his severed stomach. Choking on his own blood made gargling sounds as he gasped for one more breath. Eogan sheathed one dagger. The crickets, sounding off louder than ever as if to call for help, revealed to Eogan the dying man before him in full detail. Eogan stepped forward. Grabbing the back of the man’s neck. He steadied the stumbling, dying drunk. Then he plunged the dagger into his chest one final time. Eogan twisted the blade to make sure he pierced the heart. Then he ripped it out with a fervor that slung streaks of blood across the pale courtyard. Eogan felt the ground rattle as the man dropped. Dead.
 

Eogan cleaned off his blade before returning it to its sheath, but he never had to worry about cleaning up the bodies of his victims. He was only the assassin, his employer had cleaners to take care of the messes Eogan left. The only thing left to do now was to wait for the payment.

The next morning, Eogan sat on his favorite corner. He traded in his studded leather and pitch-black cloak for raggedy cloth. He didn’t beg, he didn’t need to. Nevertheless, overly kind people would throw a coin or two his way every so often. Any morning after he killed a target, around noon, a man would come and drop a coin purse into Eogan’s lap. The weight of the purse varied depending on who Eogan had dispatched the night before.
 
As Eogan basked in the warmth of the late morning sun, the footsteps and conversations of the passersby all blended together and covered Eogan in a droning white noise. It was peaceful and somewhat meditative. However, the purposed footsteps of the courier sent to pay him always managed to break him out of his trance.

 
Eogan could hear the chime of coins as the courier tossed the felt pouch into the air. It took an awfully long time to fall into Eogan’s lap. Something wasn’t right. Eogan picked up the pouch. There were three, maybe four coins within.
 

"What the fuck is this?" Eogan asked, holding up the pouch, ruffling his nose in disgust.

 
"There’s been a complication," answered the courier, stopping before Eogan, "We have a new employer, and he wishes to meet with you. Tonight."
 
"What happened to our former employer?" Eogan asked.
 

"He’s dead."
 
"Dead? How?" Eogan inquired.
 

"Well it all happened last night. You killed him."
 

No. That was impossible. Eogan would have known. He would have sensed it. Even though it had been many years since they last met, Eogan remembered the way the man’s voice sounded, and the way sand fell upon his face, outlining his features.
 
"Funny," said the courier with a chuckle. Eogan cocked his head to the side. "You never met with him directly. No one did. You were merely speaking to an emissary. One of many, meant to help him preserve anonymity."

 
"If it makes you feel any better, he was removed weeks ago. The man you dispatched was no longer our employer. He was nothing more than a dejected drunk," the courier said reassuringly, "The meeting will be at midnight, in your favorite courtyard."  

 
With that the courier walked away. His favorite courtyard? How could this new employer know about that? No one knew about that. Except for…
 

Eogan leapt to his feet. He took off. Chasing the courier. The conviction had not left his feet. It allowed Eogan to track him down easily. He could hear his steps, despite the noise of the noonday streets. Eogan always kept one of his daggers with him, concealing it beneath his tattered tunic. He darted towards the courier. Coming up from behind, Eogan grabbed him and covered his mouth. He pulled him into a dark back alley. His dagger placed firmly at the courier’s back.

 
"Who is this new employer of ours?" Eogan hissed, slowly removing his hand, allowing the man a chance to speak.
 

"I do not know. I am just the messenger," the courier’s voice shook. "Unhand me, or I’ll call the guards." The courier thrashed about within Eogan’s grip, unable to escape.
 

"Call them if you dare—dog! You know what I’m capable of. I’ll rip your innards out through your back and slaughter every last one of them before they even draw their swords. Tell me what you know. Now!"

 
Eogan could hear the courier gulp down the nervous lump in his throat. "I know not the man’s name—"

 
"What do you know?" Eogan demanded, exerting just enough pressure upon the blade to draw the slightest bit of blood.

 
"I—I know he is an old man. His skin, pale, with deep wrinkles. His hair is white, and he has the slightest hint of a beard."

"And is he,... like me?" Eogan questioned.
 
"I’m not sure what you mean."
 
Eogan made a quick move. Spinning around the courier and throwing him up against a wall. The courier squirmed, trying to wriggle away from the icy steel blade upon his neck. Eogan held the man in place. He ripped the piece of cloth off his head, revealing his glassy, dead eyes.

"Is he like me?" Eogan commanded an answer.

"B—Blind? Yes, I believe so."

Eogan swiftly slid the blade across the courier’s throat before returning it to its sheath. The man froze up. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Expecting to bleed out in a matter of moments, tears streamed down the courier’s face as he whimpered and whined.
 
Eogan took him by the collar and tossed him to the ground. On his hands and knees, the courier clasped his throat. As soon as he saw there was no blood the tears of terror stopped. He looked up at Eogan, petrified, and scampered away like the rat that he was.

Eogan awaited midnight atop a lonely temple spire. To any man of sight, the way the city sprawled out before him would have been a magnificent spectacle to behold. Eogan, however, came here for the silence and the solace. The bustling noise of the streets didn’t travel this far up. Only the ruffling of his cloak in the wind and the caw of the roving raven could be heard.
 
When midnight arrived, Eogan knew it. He just did, ever since he was a boy. It was something about the air. Even in the middle of summer, the arrival of midnight never failed to send a shivering breeze through his bones. The rotting stench that the city was saturated in dissipated, even if only for a moment. Sometimes the very ground beneath his feet seemed to shift, as if the city had to reconstitute itself for the day to come.
 
Eogan strategically used a series of jutted bricks and window sills to descend the side of the temple, returning himself to the streets below. It was eerily quiet tonight. Eogan could only hear dull murmurs and scampering rats. Eogan could feel the viscid mist that filled the air as he walked his way through it.
 

For the first time in years Eogan felt his heart jump into his throat. It was such a foreign feeling he almost forgot how to combat it. He balled his hands into a fist, trying to stop the shaking. They were so clammy. He snarled, angry with himself. Mindless milksop. He took a deep breath in one final attempt to calm himself. Tonight was sure to be the final confrontation.

Eogan entered the courtyard. The crickets sounded off. Eogan was not alone. What was going on?

"There you are."  
 
The voice was unmistakable, flat and guttural, void of any tone. This was the voice of Cormac. The man that taught Eogan The Way of the Living Sand all those years ago.
 
"I knew it had to be you," Eogan said, making an attempt to steady himself.
 
"Why are you so nervous?" Cormac asked, mockingly.
 
Even though the old man was speaking, and the crickets were chirping, the courtyard still looked empty to Eogan. It wasn’t until the old man punishingly planted his walking stick into the ground that Eogan could see his mentor. Eogan could hear the wood reverberate. It was the same staff he had used back then.
 
"Why are you here?" Eogan asked, his words now steadied.

"You have failed me," Cormac began, "I taught you The Way of the Living Sand, and now you use it for evil."
 
"I use it how I must!"
 

"False! You use it to take life when it was intended to give life to people like us!" Cormac’s roar silenced the crickets.
 

The two stood there for a moment. Silent. They examined the sand as it moved around them, studying all the features it outlined before them.

"You have come here to stop me I suppose? Too bad you will have to kill me if you wish to accomplish that," Eogan asserted.

 "Then I will do what I must," the old man took up a defensive stance. His staff was held out in front of him, horizontally. His feet were wide, and his head was down.
 

Eogan snickered to himself, "Foolish old man. You cannot beat me. You know not how strong I have become in the years since you left my side."

 "Only the foolish master teaches the apprentice all of their tricks."

 With that Cormac rushed toward Eogan. Eogan ripped his sword from its sheath. There was no time to parry the oncoming attack. Eogan sprang up into the air, completely hurdling over Cormac. Avoiding the attack. Eogan gave his sword a few swings. It was not to be flashy. This was simply not his preferred weapon, and it had been so long since he had used it last.

 

"If you are so confident, then why run from me?" Cormac asked, mockingly.
 

Eogan wasn’t running, he was simply biding his time. He rushed forward. He parried a sideways swipe from Cormac’s staff. Eogan returned with a strike of his own, driving his blade downward. Cormac blocked it. He pushed Eogan back and caught him off balance. Eogan could hear Cormac’s staff pushing the air away as it rushed toward him. Eogan had just enough of a footing to jump back, avoiding the strike. Eogan came back. He swung his sword upward. Cormac deflected the attack and reciprocated by giving Eogan a hard whack on his collarbone. Eogan fell backwards, staggered. He lost his footing on a small stone and fell on his face. Eogan was laid out and defenseless. This was the end.

 
"Get up Eogan!" Cormac shouted, much to Eogan’s surprise. "You may have betrayed me, but I will not let a stone defeat you. I fight with honor."

 
Eogan rose to his feet. Before he even set himself, Eogan darted toward Cormac. In one great thrust, he plunged his blade into Cormac’s chest. No! Cormac scarcely managed to skirt to the side. Now he held Eogan’s sword, pressing it between his bicep and his torso. In one swift move, Cormac smashed Eogan’s grip with his forearm. Eogan released his blade, and it dropped to the ground with a clang. The vibrations of the steel shook the courtyard that laid before Eogan and Cormac.

 
Despite having the opportunity to end it, Cormac pushed Eogan away. "I know you’re not finished. Draw those daggers you have there, under your cloak," Cormac gestured with his staff.

 
Before Eogan did so, he threw off his cloak. It was stifling. He also removed his eye_wrap. What was the point, with two blind_men? Eogan looked on as the sand fell upon Cormac’s face. It outlined a trace of a smirk as it slid across Cormac’s face.

 
"Good. Free yourself, so that I may be privy to witness your unbridled abilities," Cormac said, as he waited for Eogan’s next move. Cormac took up his staff holding it with both hands close to the middle. He gave a slight twist. A snapping sound rang through the courtyard. Cormac pulled the two halves of the staff apart, revealing a thin but razor-sharp blade.

 
This time both men rushed towards one another, simultaneously. A flurry of strikes, one after the other, each of them responding to one another’s movements in perfectly synchronized time. Finally, Eogan gained the upper hand. Beating Cormac back, he parried parallel strikes from Cormac, but the old man was too strong. They were both knocked off balance. Before Eogan fell to the ground he managed to hurl his elbow in Cormac’s direction and struck him right on the bridge of his nose. Both men reeled off to the side.

 
Despite the searing pain that now afflicted his face, Cormac was laughing, "It is time that I show you the true power of The Way of the Living Sand."

Eogan awaited Cormac’s next move, but suddenly, the sand around him stopped. It was like it had all just froze. It no longer fell upon the sounds with in the courtyard. The features around him were all solid like the artwork of a master sculptor. One thing was missing. Cormac. He had disappeared. No matter how much sound was emitted around him, Eogan could no longer see the old man. Where did he go? The crickets were sounding off, but the sand didn’t respond.
 

Then in an eruption before him, Cormac appeared. Before Eogan had time to react, a piercing pain afflicted his chest. Cormac had won. Pushing his blade through Eogan’s heart and out of his back. Eogan gasped for a breath that he knew would never come.
 

"Any fool can see the sand, but only a true master can disappear within it," Cormac whispered into Eogan’s ear, before extracting the blade. "It’s a shame, really. You were one of my most promising apprentices, but you threw it all away. For what? Some blood-soaked gold?"
 

Eogan tried to respond, but all he could manage was a bloody, gargled gag.

"You learned to see the sand in the most intricate ways, just as I taught you. However, you failed to learn the one true teaching of The Way of the Living Sand, and that is seeing how your actions affect others."

 

Cormac tore the blade out of Eogan’s chest.,"That is my final teaching."  

 

Eogan could feel his life pouring out of him.
 

"I hope you find some use for such a lesson in the afterlife."

 
The vibrant, red-yellow sand around Eogan began to turn black. It fell. Grain by grain, it fell. Eogan looked down. His last sight was the sand that had, for so long, shown him the way. It fell into the empty dark abyss at his feet. Guiding him one last time.