What exactly happened during those first few hazy hours of Isidro’s existence is unclear, first there was the explosion… or was he already there? Whatever the true sequence of events, there he was. It was almost as if he was created out of all the radioactive dust clouds, war-cries and half-formed, confused battle plans of the Great Battle – but he didn’t quite look the part, in fact, he was a young boy, dark haired and freckled with a smiling, if rather confused face and thoughtful, inquisitive eyes. Somehow, he seemed completely unpeturbed by the explosions and violence around him.
Clumsily, he clambered out of the crater, the sickly mushroom cloud rising about him as he stumbled over the smoking debris. There was innocence about him, yet at the same time, he seemed fully aware of the horror around him. Isidro walked through the shattered town as conflicting faiths rained down around, he didn’t understand – why were they all fighting? Shouldn’t the world seem the same to them all? To him, life was simple: he was Isidro, and he was alive, and that’s all there was to it.
Spurred on by his curiosity, he headed towards a large crowd that was shouting and chanting, on its edge was a thin man in a yellow robe, his arms flailing wildly as he screeched along with the group.
“What are you doing?” asked Isidro. The man didn’t seem to hear him and kept on shouting. Isidro tugged at his robe and asked him again.
“What? Oh, we’re preparing to die,” said the man rather absently and without turning round. Isidro was confused, how could someone so readily give up life? “Why,” he probed further, “are you going to die?” The man turned, he did not seem mad or troubled in any way and the beginnings of laughter lines on his face seemed to tell of a happy and contented life, yet his eyes gleamed with emotion.
“For peace, of course,” he cried, “don’t you understand? We are Sacrifists, we have conquered Moral Hill and the Ultimate Truth is among us.”
“So why must you die?” Interrupted Isidro.
“Because others won’t accept us,” said the man, “they say that we don’t hold the Ultimate Truth, that Moral Hill is beyond our reach – they call our beliefs myths because they have no faith – therefore we must die, that way we can show them that our beliefs are true, and prove to Fista that we remain loyal.”
“Who’s Fista?” The crowd was now on the move, with Isidro and the thin man following.
“He’s our leader,” explained the man proudly, “we must prove our loyalty to him by dying for him – or we would’ve died in vain. And we can’t show more people the true, Sacrifist way if we all die in vain now can we?” The crowd was now marching purposefully ahead towards sounds of loud explosions and gunfire. They were approaching the corner of a shattered block of buildings when they came to a halt and became silent. A woman in an orange cloak up ahead then turned to face the group and began to speak, “Fellow Sacrifists!” She cried, “we are gathered here today to fight and give our lives for the Sacrifist cause, to show our loyalty to the great Fista and to serve the Ultimate Truth, so that all may realise the true Sacrifist way!”
The crowd cheered, “So onwards!” they cried, “to victory!”
Isidro waved goodbye to the thin man and watched as they rounded the corner. Around the edge, he could see a barricade of khaki-clad soldiers armed with grenades and machine guns, and as each wave of Sacrifists advanced, they would immediately be mown down by a barrage of bullets. Explosions shook the earth.
How, thought Isidro, could people die for faith, to him the Sacrifists’ certainty seemed not only to be blind but foolhardy, yet he guessed that perhaps he didn’t yet know the whole story. Could people really be convinced by such an act of self-sacrifice? He headed towards the nearest khaki figure in the hope of finding out.
She was busy behind her machine gun post, spraying bullets into a crowd of oncoming Sacrifists. “Why are you killing them?” shouted Isidro above the noise.
“For peace!” Came the reply. Once more, Isidro was confused, “how,” he asked, “can there be peace if you kill people?” The khaki woman sighed and turned towards him, “we are not killing them because we want to,” she replied, “it’s for their own good.” “How can killing be right or good?” asked Isidro, he could think of no reason that would justify the taking of another’s life.
“We can kill them, because we are the Convertinians and we hold the Ultimate Truth with our victorious conquest of Moral Hill,” she said with pride. “But how does that help them?”
“To save them, of course,” she said, exasperated at the boy’s naďveté, “we must show them that the Convertinian way is the only way, or their lives will be without purpose.”
“But they say they are dying for Fista–“
“Fista is a myth!” shouted the woman, “Convertis, the leader of the Convertinians, is the true leader. Don’t you see, boy? We cannot allow people to live a lie when we know the truth, therefore it’s our responsibility to win this battle, so that those that are lost can be saved.”
“How do you know you are right?” Isidro asked, unconvinced by all this talk of killing.
“Don’t question Convertis!” exclaimed the woman, “how can our faith be true if it is not absolute? Of course we are right!” She seemed angry and pointed her gun at Isidro.
“You are not a Sacrifist are you?” her eyes were narrowed into suspicious slits. Isidro shook his head. “Good,” she said, putting her gun down, “or I would have to kill you to save you. Now go away, I have saving to do.” She rallied off another shower of bullets.
Isidro ran from the Convertinians, his mind reeling. There seemed to be a chilling balance to this, he thought – the Sacrifists and the Convertinians locked in unceasing battle, yet both felt that they were winning and both were certain of their faith. The problem, thought Isidro is that they were tied in an endless cycle of destruction, and all any of them wanted was peace.
He went on through the bombed-out streets until he spotted a large fleet of trucks ahead, he decided to go and investigate.
As he got closer, Isidro realised that there were many people queuing up by the trucks, both Sacrifists, Convertinians and many others, as well as some figures in suits who seemed to be distributing packages amongst them.
Isidro was surprised, why weren’t they fighting? And what were the suited people giving to them, that they seemed so eager to receive? With these puzzles in mind, he walked towards a fat man wearing a particularly expensive-looking business suit, who seemed to be overseeing the whole operation. “What are you giving them?” asked Isidro. The fat man looked down at him.
“Not giving,” he laughed scornfully, “selling – we’re selling them weapons.” Isidro didn’t understand, “but don’t you want peace,” he asked, “like the Sacrifists and Convertinians?”
“Of course I do!” grunted the man, “but they don’t,” he gestured towards the queues of people, “You see, I am a Verchant, Verchants always believe in peace!” “Then why are you selling them weapons?” asked Isidro. “Because we respect their beliefs,” exclaimed the man, “that’s how peaceful we are – we are willing to sacrifice our beliefs and ideals to help others.” “But why should you help them?” Isidro didn’t understand why the Verchants, who believe in peace, should encourage war.
“Because we are privileged,” said the man, “we are lucky enough to have reached Moral Hill, we have the Ultimate Truth, of course we should help those who are less privileged than we are – it is only right, and it is the teaching of Verchin, our–“
“Your leader?” suggested Isidro.
“Our great leader!” nodded the man.
“But if you believe in peace, why must you encourage them with weapons?”
“Is it our place to question other’s traditions, however misguided they may be? It wouldn’t be respectful. We are certain of the truth of our beliefs, but if others are not enlightened enough to accept it, then it is not our place to criticise them – they wouldn’t understand anyway, and how could they become true Verchants if they don’t understand our cause?” The man sniffed. “And anyway,” he added, “it means money for us to improve our lives and prove our power – everyone’s happy!”
Everyone’s happy. Thought Isidro, but are they? In this world of killing and tragedy – all of them want peace, don’t they? He began to wonder whether peace was really the real goal, whether the goal of mankind was just an endless cycle of greed, resentment, anger and blind stubbornness in beliefs that stopped all forms of discussion and prevented all hopes of a peaceful world. Isidro felt sad, does nobody else see? Does nobody else think? He felt that he needed to find someone who understands, someone who, like himself, could see the conflicts of the world for what they are – not a fight for peace, not a desperate struggle for truth, but a lack of understanding between groups of people who just can’t accept the possibility of any other belief other than their own. For many days, Isidro searched for such a person but all he talked to seemed to be either like the Sacrifists, Convertinians or Verchants, or seemed to follow nothing, believe in nothing.
When Isidro asked such people what they believed in, they would either ignore him, or change the subject, as if they wouldn’t, or didn’t want to think about it, so wrapped up were they in themselves and the gaining and losing of their possessions.
It is true that some of them, indeed many of them, claimed to be either Sacrifist, Convertinian, Verchant, or a whole multitude of other groups, but when questioned further on their reasoning they would stop, and wave him away.
Isidro was beginning to lose all hope in this world, and considering giving up himself when he met Asvoria. It was by luck that Isidro came across her humble home in the shell of a bombed out office, it had begun to rain, a black, sticky rain that stung the skin and stained everything black and reeking of smoke and blood. Isidro had run for shelter and there she was, impossibly old and wrinkled, with broken teeth and a welcoming smile. Isidro asked her his customary question, the expected answers running through his head as he flicked listlessly at a pebble.
“All things are possible,” came the reply. Isidro looked up in surprise and something of a recognition, though in no way physical, hit him – she understood. “And what,” he asked, his voice trembling, “do you think of the ultimate truth?”
“None of us can be sure that we hold it,” said she.
“And peace?” asked Isidro, “will there be peace?”
“If people can accept all possibilities, then peace may come.”
Suddenly, it was as if both Asvoria and Isidro had known each other for years, each broken free from the rut of the closed-minded world, so easily slipped into by so many.
Gas bombs were falling outside, the thick, yellow smoke enveloping everything.
“Let’s go,” said Isidro, and together, they walked out into the haze.
Copyright Sonya Hallett 2003
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