Sunset

Dawn brought a breaking surf and a thin wash of sunlight that illuminated the beach, transforming it into a lustrous sheet of wet satin, pulled smooth by the retreating tide. In the frothy welter left behind by a departing wave, a small sheet of paper, covered with lines of blurred writing, swirled to the surface and danced in the backwash like the cape of a matador.

Above the surfline, and beyond the water-polished sand, where the waves could no longer reach, a ragged line of flotsam curled like dark lace to the seaward. In the fringe, Jude Tyler sprawled comfortably, his compact body stretched and loose, one sturdy arm pillowing his head. He lay deep in slumber, unaware that a muse called Fate had just rolled her loaded dice
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The sea pulled back to rally itself for another assault and drew with it the sodden note. For a moment it lay on the crest, waiting for the wave to gather enough strength to once again assail the shore.

At that moment, stillness came over the sea, and time slowed its inexorable march. For a heartbeat, gulls hushed their raucous calls, a distant fog-horn held its breath, and the restless mist thickened into a curtain of translucent pearl.

Fate smiled grimly at what she'd wrought and the wave rolled in, rumbling with determination. The instant of hushed expectation ended and time's forward rush resumed. A wave, frosted with creamy spume, charged up the beach carrying the scrap of paper, but lost momentum and ran out on the beach without enough power to reach the high-mark of the one before.

One small tendril, however, rushed on, and carried with it the flimsy inscription, tumbling like a leaf in a torpid breeze. The stream of foam paused, then rushed back to sea, leaving behind Fate's written proclamation, lying wet and slack near the back of Jude's hand. Faded letters faced the sky with a message that, for this moment, only the gods could read.

And still Jude slept. In repose, his sun-browned face, neither handsome nor ugly, had by virtue of some personal alchemy also managed to escape being ordinary. Clad in ragged shorts, little more than blue-jeans amputated above the knee, he slept easily, his heavy breath disturbing tiny insects that had gathered to feed among the nearby seaweed and debris.

A thick, red crescent sun pushed above the horizon and began to devour the warm mists that concealed the demarcation between sky and sea. Through a fissure in the mist, a beam of sunlight lanced down and touched Jude's face. His eyelids fluttered and he turned away from the light.

He opened his eyes and looked around without a hint of confusion. In late summer he often slept on the beach, where a cool onshore breeze lessened the effects of a hot summer night. Lethargic but rested, he sat up. Although he was thirty-three, the sweet bird of youth still fluttered at the edge of its nest, and the rigors of beach life had not yet become too difficult.

It's the parties that sap your strength, he thought. I've got to stay away from the parties. But it was an idle resolution and he knew it.

Indolent as a sated leopard, he stretched and yawned and licked his salt-encrusted lips. He started to rise and discovered the soggy note lying like a dead fish near his fingers. Words, painstakingly written in black ink, drew his attention with the same arresting power of a eulogy chiseled into a headstone. Carefully he picked up the sheet and spread it across his thigh. Crumple scars had damaged some of the letters, but the text remained legible. A poem.

Radiant light came out from me and in joy I wept.
Now the light is dim, a fading star on a foggy night.
Life once so sweet is now a curse I face with dread.
My courage, carefully hoarded against the gloom, is spent.
Oh God, if there be a God, take me instead.

No signature, just a heart-aching cry of pain, written on cheap bond and tossed into the sea. For a long time he stared at the scrawled words, his mind in turmoil. Why did this enigmatic verse bring such a penetrating chill to his soul? It wasn't great poetry, but it had surely been written from the heart, otherwise it would not have so profoundly touched a stranger. And it had touched him, deep where he thought the walls of indifference stood tall enough to protect him.

Oh God, if there be a God, take me instead. How many times had he also cried those words.
There had been a time when his life lay before him, a shining pathway that led to the stars and each step took him higher. He'd been joined in the journey by a gentle soul, her smile like sunlight after rain, her eyes as kind and ingenuous as a new-born fawn. Together they were stronger than each one alone, and their ascent swifter.

His mind recoiled from the recollection, for not long after came the Gray Time, a time when life had no love, no music, no laughter. The Gray Time eventually slipped away, but somewhere in its passage, he'd stepped off the rising path to take a way that led down into a shadowy land of indifference. But there he found peace. No one took his measure and no one tried to cross the dark moat around his heart.

Abruptly, the painful memories became too much to bear. He peeled the poem from his skin and was about to toss it back into the sea--but something stayed his hand. A tortured soul had composed those words, someone who at this moment knew the same agony he had once endured. It might even be one of his friends. With great care, he folded the note and slipped it into his shirt pocket.