The war had
raged for thousands of years, and nobody remembered how it began. Some
said it started with the Great Slaughter, thousands of years ago. That
is what some of Us say. I do not know what the Them think. Until last
winter, I had never met one of Them.
The Them are always here, yet somehow hidden. They are always around
Us, yet never with us. They are different from Us. I had thought they
are demons until that long, dark winter. She told me she had thought
the same, that the Them all did.
“They would kill me if they knew,” she whispered the first night.
I kissed her soft, scented hair, black curls in my fingers. Her hair
is midnight waves, mine sunrise. Her eyes are starless dusk, mine
morning sky. In the moonlight, we were shadow and milk, holding each
other, whispering.
“They will not hurt you.” My hands held her. She was soft against me.
“They cannot find wrong with this.”
She cast her eyes aside, lashes like a veil. “Everything is wrong
here. You are of the Others. They would kill us without thought, yours
or mine.”
I lowered my eyes, for I knew she spoke truth. Dark purple night
seemed to fill me. Who in this land, where graves grew like olive
groves, where every family mourned, could bear to see such love?
But then anger filled me. No--rage. Like hatred, but different. I
cupped her chin, raised her face to mine.
“No,” I said. “No! We cannot fear them. We will do this.”
Fear filled her huge, black eyes, that dark face like Beauty carved of
night. She trembled, shook her head. “We can never love like they
hate.”
I clutched her wrists. “But we can show them this. We can show them a
difference.”
She rested her head against my chest, silent. Finally she kissed me,
her lips milk and honey. “For my beloved I will show them. To be with
you--all.”
So young I was, filled with grand thoughts, dreams of youth. I paraded
her before the city. Down the ancient alleys we walked. On her ancient
walls we trumpeted our love. Look at us! An Us and Other--we love! So
many empty words, meaning everything. So proud I was with my discarded
shame, my forgotten secrecy.
I do not know who sent the killer, the Them or Us. I know only that
she had expected him. When little red poppies bloomed on her body, she
only smiled, fell--no, flowed like myrrh--into my arms. I stared
numbly, then howled, diamonds falling into midnight waves.
I raised her in my arms. The crowds spread below us, all the children
of this land, covering the ancient stones of this city, Us and
Them--watching.
“See your hatred!” I cried, but they could not mourn. Not after so
many graves. Every soul below had lost a beloved; they saw mourners
every day.
But not mourners like this--an Us for Other. No, this was new, and
though they could not grieve, we could make a difference. We could
show them a new kind of mourning; I think we had been waiting for this
one.
When her roots began to spread, feeding on her pooling blood, I held
her, wrapping my branches around her. Into the ancient soil we sent
roots, spreading them underneath the bones and buried metal. Our love,
then our grief had been different; our end would be, too.
Perhaps someday they will hew what we grew together. Perhaps--Us or
Them--would not tolerate its legacy, would fell it to forget it. But
perhaps--this I hoped as leaves opened and olives ripened--perhaps
they would hold it sacred. Perhaps here, on earth, We would have only
a tree.
“They cannot not hurt you,” I whispered into her, entwined. “They
cannot find wrong with this.”