03 // FLASH FICTION // THE VEIL OF CIVILIZATION

The Veil of Civilization

It had been like a peal of thunder, a deep rage from beneath the earth that had swept up all the horrors of the world and tossed them to and fro, upending great swathes of terrain. In the path of mother nature's fury, all the vices and protections of man were little more than footsteps in sand—impermenant and easily eroded. Only some were unfortunate enough to survive, and many of those Unfortunate Few were sentenced to an even worse fate than a quick death.

When the terrible shaking finally came to an end and the  earth seemed to settle, any semblance of civilization had come crashing down. It was in a poor, shaken town, atop a shifted hill, inside a crumbled manor that the first of the Unfortunate Few awoke.

The Baker was a humble old man, a wisened fellow of great spirit and caring. He had been in the manor to petition the lord and his council for additional time on his taxation—it had been a long and rough year. Not that it mattered now, the bakery was little more than dust and the king was now quite flat, but The Baker didn't know this. He instead found himself quite deep underground.

The second to awaken was The Merchant. The Merchant was young, ambitious, and considered himself to be of equal or greater spirit and caring to any around him (though in truth he was not). His head full of clever ideas and his body charged with youthful vigor, his appearance in the manor had been in regards to a trade dispute that he intended to resolve in his favour. His rival merchant was now somewhere under several tons of earth, but far worse things than a trade dispute awaited him.

The third awake was The Advisor. The second eldest of the group, he had lived a pampered life of great prestige due to his silver tongue and quick wit. He considered himself to be an amicable and charming fellow (though in truth he was largely disliked and spoken about behind his back). His place in the manor had been fairly self-explanatory, serving as counsel for the lord, who was now communing instead with the spirits of the afterlife. He would find that his experience in management was sorely lacking in these unique circumstances.

The fourth awake was The Seamstress. A humble young woman with more worldly experience than one her age should have had to suffer through, her path had been unfortunate from the beginning. However, she had kept her wits about her and survived in an unforgiving environment, becoming a caring and beloved staple of her community. She had just been finishing a job for the lord of the manor, a beautiful tapestry honoring the man's noble family lineage. A lineage, it would seem, that had just ended. All that remained was her and the tapestry, thrust down into the darkness by an unlucky twist of fate.

The fifth and final to awaken was The Vagrant. A wanderer by nature, distrusted by all, none truly knew the man better than he knew himself. Dishevelled and world-weary, he had approached the manor looking for a job or some rest, anything to escape the dreary weather that had proceeded the sudden upheaval of earth. 

These Unfortunate Few awoke in the manor, but not as it had been. Their world had been through a great upheaval, both spiritually and physically. The five found themselves on a slanted stone floor, sore and scared, but otherwise alive and unharmed. Part of the manor, its spacious stone cellar, had survived the tremors, being made of stone strong enough to remain firm where the rest had crumbled. However, this room (and it's five occupants) was all that remained—nothing so much as a chimney or trapdoor remained functional beneath the crushing weight of the earth. Stale air flowed in and out of the space through minute cracks in the masonry, but it was a meagre blessing, all things considered.

The first hours were spent attempting escape—twice the group nearly found themselves killed by falling debris before digging out was deemed too risky. As the only option became waiting and hoping (two things that can be difficult in uncertain times) the group began to understand that this was well and truly a Crisis.

The Baker knew Crisis: his shop, his only home, had once nearly burned to the ground in an oven fire. However, he found it difficult to smother his own anxiety like he had the flames, or to douse the gathering desperation in his heart.

The Merchant knew Crisis: his buggy had once been robbed at knifepoint, but he had been clever enough to only bestow the least expensive supplies on his thieving guests, convincing them they were making off with a fortune. However, the cold, impartial stone was difficult to trick.

The Advisor knew Crisis: the lord of the manor had once been set upon by an ambitious and cunning fellow nobleman, a duel that had graciously been avoided by talking down both parties. However, a sharp wit did not have the benefits of a sharp spade.

The Seamstress knew Crisis: to manage oneself alone from such a young age was a world of hard lessons and difficult truths—to succeed despite this was even more difficult. However, her independence and strength of will could only move metaphorical mountains.

The Vagrant knew Crisis. But more importantly, he knew Society from a perspective like no other. As the others spoke to pass the time, trading stories, he remained silent. Distrusted by all and disliked by many, he knew that here and now his speech was without benefit.

Hours passed and the civil conversation dried up. It was impossible to tell the time, but the grand clock that is the body marched onward.

The first to feel the urge was the Advisor—before the tremors he had eaten well, as he always did, and thus the second half of the process suddenly became very important. In such a confined space, privacy was almost non-existent. However, the biological march was not to be halted, and thus a solution was required.

Through all this, the Vagrant remained silent.

The group bickered for some time, as groups tend to do, before the Seamstress came to a conclusion herself. Taking the ornate tapestry that still remained on her person, she inserted the edge of the fabric into the cracked ceiling, allowing it to hang down over one corner like some kind of curtain. (The tapestry, she found, was rather long, and thus it was folded once in the middle to prevent it touching the floor).

With the corner of the room veiled off from the rest, those who felt the urge were free to answer the call of nature. Though it did little to help the smell, being unable to see the refuse made it easier to ignore. There was no denying what was occuring, but each of the Unfortunate Few found it far easier to pretend that it was not, and that their lives continued on without the messiness of truth.

Through all this, the Vagrant remained silent.

Much more time passed. As it did, it became increasingly apparent that the Crisis at hand was not one to be easily resolved—for all their digging and waiting, there had been no changes to circumstances for quite some time. It was here that the five were at last forced to confront one of the oldest and strongest of mankind's enemies: hopelessness. A sense of finality and permeance had settled over the group and remained there for a few hours before the next biological need of the group became apparent. 

Hunger.

The cellar was barren, as useless for nourishmen as it was for escape. Though most had given in to the idea that the end was imminent, The Baker remained a bulwark against that dark tide. His hopeful soul led him to consider one simple idea—perhaps some of the group (who were physically better off) could survive long enough for salvation to arrive. As well-intentioned as it was, the man did fail to consider the implications of the thought. Sharing it aloud was his last mistake.

Through all this, the Vagrant remained silent.

The idea was like a virus—it began slowly, subtly, but as the pangs of hunger grew it took root and spread, something horrible, unthinkable, yet unstoppable. The lives of the few traded for the lives of the many—a currency of blood. At first it was opposed by all, too awful to even consider, but as the hunger grew, so too did the quiet contemplation. Desperation stoked it like a fire, growing until it could not be ignored any longer.

At first it was decided to draw straws, but does any person wish to leave their life to a game of chance? The bickering resumed intensely, then fighting, rationale collapsible under the weight of the human urge to keep on living. Finally, the Advisor's silver tongue cut through the mess and struck true its first victim—the Baker, the kindest, the eldest. To discuss the deed was one thing, but to commit it was another—the taking of a life, even a kindly one ultimately accepting of this fate—was an unbearable weight. However, on the scale of human survival, it soon became little more than a feather weighed against the tons of stone that separated the group from safety.

Through all of this, the Vagrant remained silent.

Finally, the Merchant was decided to be the one to commit the act—he was young and strong and trusted far more than the Vagrant, who had said nothing thus far. However, where there were no words, instead there was sudden action—the Vagrant stood, approached the tapestry, and tore one half of it away, hanging it in the opposite corner. 

With what little courage could be provided by the obstruction of the thin veil, at last the Merchant took up a heavy stone—and the number of Unfortunate Few became four. 

At first, hunger, desperation and relief outweighed any other feelings—the remainder had ensured that they would live another day, a little bit closer to the rescue that was surely coming, but as stomachs settled so too did the scale. Though it did little to help what had occured, being unable to see what remained in the second corner made it easier to ignore. There was no denying what had occured, but each of the Unfortunate Few found it far easier to pretend that it had not, and that their lives continued on without the messiness of truth.

Through all of this, the Vagrant remained silent.

However, that truth, too, was in itself a virus, eating away at the soul. Guilt tugged at the edges of each psyche, fraying them like the torn tapestry. At long last, it was too much—one fateful night (or morning, by now time had lost all meaning) the Seamstress stood and wondered aloud what it had all been for. The pangs of hunger had returned, all present felt it, so who was to say this would be the last time their numbers would shrink? Who could say that rescue would ever arrive? 

The Merchant, hands still stained, answered with a question of his own—what use was the tapestry in the corner if they all knew exactly what had occured? Who could say that it made anything better, pretending that nothing had gone on behind it?

And at last, the Vagrant spoke. 

"That," he said, "is the veil of civilization. We need it more than you know."

But grief is a powerful tool, and anger moreso. The Advisor pushed the Vagrant aside and the Merchant approached the tapestry, a worn thing that had once been so frivolous and beautiful. With a swift pull he tore it away, and all present beheld the stained stone, the floors, the walls, the savage remnants of a life cut short. All at once, the guilt became unbearable, more crushing than the earth above their heads, and survival was little more than a forgotten dream. At this, the Vagrant spoke one final time.

"Now we are truly lost."