The old man lay in his bed, but he was anything but peaceful. A son held each of his legs and his wife and daughter held his arms. No one could stop him speaking. It wasnt speaking, though, he was screaming. Yelling incoherently. There were no words, just noise. The kind of screaming that cuts through you and causes pain. The family knew it was only a matter of time before they would have to let go and let him throw himself across the room again.
As the family gave up their hold on the old man, a wafting scent filled the room. A fragrant, yet severe, smell, it seemed to come from everywhere all at once. Everyone knew what it was immediately and everyone except the old man quickly pulled their shirts up over their noses and mouths. As they made for the only door in and out of the room, they passed by a priest, waving a thurible in front of him. Streams of smoke issued from its vents and the priest, with a small mask covering his lower face, was chanting something quietly.
On the other side of the door, the priests assistant, the old mans nephew, handed them each masks and gave them an apologetic look over his own.
“It took us some time to compose the material,” he said in a thick accent, gained from far too many years in the monastery in the heart of the mountain forest.
“He may be too far gone,” the elder son mused, after his mask was firmly attached.
“Perhaps,” the nephew nodded. “But,” he peered through the door. “He doesnt have long for anything as it is.”
The old mans wife shot a look at the nephew. She was not of their faith, and found no joy in the way the drug eased her husbands pain. To her, the pain was needed; motivation, she called it, to cross over and be in a place where pain no longer existed. She went to say something, but stopped short. She had had all the arguments and then some over the years with that family and nothing had changed. It was not going to change now. “It will calm him?” she asked instead.
“It should,” the nephew replied, pulling the door wide open and allowing the family in before him. “It has always helped in the past.”
“And it helps again,” the priest said, after hanging the thurible on the wall and letting it swing like a pendulum slowly. “My friends,” he said warmly, grasping the hands of the two sons and bowing at the neck towards the women. “I trust no faith has been lost due to our delay?”
“Of course not,” one of the sons insisted. “We knew you would make it.”
“We almost didnt,” the priest said solemnly. “The weather in the hills is not beneficial for growing the herb. This is the last of our batch for the year.”
“He would laugh at that,” the old mans daughter said. “He never did like the people out there.”
“No,” the priest laughed. “No, he did not. But that didnt stop him from returning, nor from helping. He may not have had the best view of me, and poaching his family for our convent was almost a bridge too far for him, but he kept to his faith.”
“Until the end,” one of the sons said.
“Unfortunately,” the wife muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.
“We should let him rest,” the priest said. “He will sleep and perhaps he will be calm when he wakes.”
Each of the family members took another look at the now still, aside from a few twitches here and there, old man and followed the other two out. As they closed the door, the younger son turned and held it open slightly.
“You all go down to the hall, I think I want to stay here. Just,” he paused, “you know.”
“Of course,” the priest said. The old mans wife looked like she wanted to say something again, but decided against it again and simply nodded. His brother and sister were already another fifteen yards down the hall and werent going to say anything, so he let himself back into the room and slid the door shut behind him.
“Ah, Dad,” he said, taking a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs next to the bed. “Sometimes I wonder if its worth holding on like this.”
The younger man watched, and waited, to see if the old man replied or reacted at all. When nothing happened, he slid down in the chair in an attempt to make himself comfortable. Like his father, he closed his eyes and let his breathing slow. He wouldnt sleep, but he could finally relax.
At the end of the hallway was a small communal lounge. Branching off from it were three other halls, all with several rooms just like the hall they had left. In the middle of the communal area was a small nurses station. Currently only two nurses were there, any others that were on duty would be in any of the halls dealing with their patients. The two in the station looked up without curiosity at the family and the religious figures and went back to what they were doing before when they figured out they werent anything they had to deal with.
“What happened this time?” the nephew asked as they each took a seat on identical chairs to the ones in the room. “What brought him here?”
This hospital was not the old mans usual. For a little over ten years now, he had been suffering from a strange illness that no one could identify. Each time he showed symptoms, he would be brought into his regular hospital, they would treat him as best they could and slowly his symptoms would abate and he would be allowed to leave. There was no underlying condition to treat, so they just treated the symptoms. No one could say what particular treatment was the one helping to relieve the symptoms, but as soon as it started to work, he was sent home.
This hospital was something different. You didnt come here for treatment, per se. There was no diagnoses delivered here or medication prescribed. This hospital was where you came when you were on the final path of your life. Between here and the end, there were no branches. Just the inevitable, no matter how long that was.
“Their treatments stopped working about a year ago,” the son said when no one else spoke. “None of the effective combinations of medications or any treatments did anything. It was like he became immune to them. The doctors said that this was not uncommon and it was a sign of something deeper. Something more malignant.”
“And they told you to bring him here?”
“He did,” the wife said with evident frustration. “In a lucid spell about two months back. He said he couldnt stand the back and forth of their ineffective medicine. That he wanted to come here and just get it all over with.”
The priest nodded sadly. “I have seen reactions like that before. The mind, when its lucid, never loses its edge. Ive seen people become sane enough to wish to be moved to a place like this. Once here, they go back to their nonsense. They never last long after that.”
“The seizures, thats what they call them,” the wife said, flinging a finger at the nurses, “have become more frequent. More severe.”
“He doesnt have long,” the daughter said. Her voice was quiet, but it was definite. Like her father, she was one to be listened to when she spoke.
“And you brought us here for the ceremony?” the nephew asked.
For a moment none of the family spoke and then they all nodded at once.
“You must understand that such a ceremony is the end of his ties to this place, yes?” the priest asked. “Once completed, no one may interact with him. The nurses here will not intervene if he starts to seize again. You will not see him again. His body will be burned under the watchful eye of our order and only a memorial icon will be present at the memorial service. After this, you will be without a father and a husband. Spiritually, religiously, and in some cases, legally. Being that you are the last of his family, you all need to agree.”
“We arent all here,” the daughter said, and stood. “We’re missing our brother.” She started walking down the hall. “Wait here.”
No one stopped her as she left.
The old mans nose twitched. Then his face. And his whole head rocked on his neck as he let out a loud sneeze.
“Ugh,” he groaned. He tried to take a breath in, but his body was wracked by two more sneezes. He then coughed a bit and tried to sit up.
“Easy there, Dad,” the son said, standing and reaching out to help the old man.
“I can do it, I can do it,” the old man retorted, flapping his hands uselessly at the younger man. He tried to push himself up again, but slipped. His son caught him and he reluctantly let him help him up. “That fucking smell woke me up,” he said.
“The priest and his assistant are here,” the son revealed, pointing at the still smoking incense swinger.
“Why?” the old man asked, taking a deep breath in and falling lightly back onto his bed. “I dont need them.” As he finished talking, his lips moved as if speaking some more.
“What was that, Dad?” the son asked, leaning over to put his ear closer to the old mans mouth.
“At the edge of the dog,” the old man intoned in a breathless voice. “When the sun is gone and the sea is high, look toward the peak of peaks and tremble in its glory. There, atop the forgotten one, will be revealed the truth beyond truth or the emptiness that accompanies only one thing. Should the right person, that stout hero of old, born of myth and raised in steam, hear the words spoken on that night, and then again, five nights hence, may the end of everything be averted. But lest the hero consider this a mere task, five challenges lay in his path. At the end of each, a key is to be secured and five doors, scattered across the desert, opened. Look through the keyholes. Look through the doors. But always remember that nothing looks back more than your own reflection.”
The old man slumped on his bed, his breathing heavy and laboured. The son, looking dumbfounded at what he just heard, reached for a notepad on the table and started writing everything he could remember down.
“I heard it too,” his sisters voice said from the door. “Our father was a prophet.”