Under the Volcano

An Introduction

With a light so seldom seen in the sky as to appear artificial, a storm rushed in and wiped out what remained of the day. Water gathered in growing pools under the windowsills and the sound of the heavy drops of rain on the tin covered ledges drowned out the music that had been quietly playing. He felt like there was someone with him, brought in by the storms, perhaps. But he did not bother to think of who it was, or what they had come for. Simply, the person was there.

Regret and dream tossed about like children overheard in another room while he watched two crows seeking cover in the branches of the swaying tree, their heavy bodies causing the soaked branches to dip and sway even deeper. He watched the lightning reflected in his neighbor’s windows as the storm passed, and with the heaviest of the downpour over, the slight and weightless bat began its cheerful ascent into what had become night. What ghost had come in with the storm stayed with him as he settled in with a novel. “I must remember not to close the windows when a storm breaks” he thought, and was happy for the company.

The next morning he awoke alone. Along with the papers needed to show the authorities he brought the novel he had begun reading, and headed out on his bicycle for the subway station. It was in these two blocks that the letters of the book re arranged themselves into the form of an introduction, which he read as the subway sped forward to the authorities. The company ushered in by the evening storm was a ghost written into existence in the 1940s to accompany a British Consul who was then living the last day of his life in the shadow of a volcano, high in the mountains of Mexico.

Then, the ghost had in vain attempted to leave some parting words to his charge, as even in the last few seconds of human consciousness our minds and souls are ripe for illumination, even at the risk that such disclosures might flood an unfortunate soul from this life in a deluge of sorrow. As the Consul lay dying, drunk and exposed to the stars, he could not feel the hand of the ghost on his own, nor could he hear the words the ghost spoke on the wind to his ears.

“You have lived within an illusion of choices,” the ghost said. “You have allowed yourself to be chosen by your desires, rather than you choosing them yourself,” He continued, “By allowing this to happen you have delayed in your heart the choice of damnation or salvation within yourself. By not choosing desire, but letting it choose you, love has forever been denied you” This is how the letters had recomposed themselves as an introduction, because in reading them the ghost had been given to another charge, many years later.

Having been granted admission to the country once again, he rode his bicycle to the park. The ground was still soft from the previous evening’s storm, and drops of water glistened brightly on the leaves as he rode on through fields of wilting flowers and hopping crows, thinking of how to describe the ghost. At a small public square known for its use by hustlers, he parked his bike and began to describe the ghost. Looking up after some time a hustler adorned in desolation approached him for a light. As he lit the cigarette still damp with saliva, the hustler cupped his own hands around the hands holding the lighter that the fire might not go out. With this touch the ghost stepped back until evening.