Tantalus Paradiso (A Short Story)

A story of lofty hopes and the dreadful realization of war, he who is recruited never returns. To find peace in those times, however brief or simple, is a treasure more dear than all else.

Tantalus Paradiso

            A warm, green blanket enfolded me, comforted me, spreading around me in an expanse only cut by the soft, azure flow of the rivulet. My mutilated coat lay alongside me, and my worn, iron cane lay propped up against a fruiting tree. Should an imaginary soldier stumble upon such a sight, he would, without a doubt, pass me by, deciding upon sight that I was simply another fatality of one side or the other. He would never think that a person could be so content and unmoving within such a rural and uncharted area, so devoid of action and the immediacies of a social presence.

            I smiled at the image. The image of a man so steeped in violence and hate that he couldn’t even recognize serenity anymore; something about that image was so ironic, it was amusing. I embellished the scene a bit further.

 

            I saw the soldier. He was a man- no, a boy, who was no more than fourteen years old- with dirt on his face and holes in his shoes. His left leg was impaired in some fashion, due to his long marches and rough battles. A battle-hardened mask superimposed upon a soft, teary-eyed face; a face that he had forsaken at the draft long ago, along with foolish adolescent joys and childish worries. The scarlet coat in which he adorned himself was practically in tatters, appearing mutant and multicolored from its haphazard tailoring. I looked further, to the time where the soldier began his career. That time was a long time ago. A long, long time ago.

            When the soldier boy had volunteered, he had wished to fight, not caring for the cause. He had cut his hair short, for he had often fought other boys as a kid, winning and losing pocket change and glory among the local combatants. Now, he wished to fight with against even more boys, to win or lose pocket change and glory among international combatants. It was a brilliant way to play. Such a celebration of manliness and bravado must be far more fascinating than any dull game of local street boxing.

            And, at that time, the powers that had been gave him his very first volatile, iron toy. The young soldier-to-be received the plaything with joy, testing the heavy metal’s weight happily.

            He then learned the art of international street boxing. First, and most importantly, were the rules, the very ones to be inevitably broken. There were many, but a young and excited boy such as the soldier wouldn’t ever bother himself with such technicalities. Rather, he decided to learn to use his volatile, iron toy. And he did, and made friends with the other young street boxers who felt much the same way about rules as him. And then news came that a new tournament was to commence, on an international playground and using God-given pocket change. How joyous the news, and how brilliant an occasion!

            All the boys were itching to start the game, and they did, for, as the mighty pawns they were, they were always the first gambit. And so, they were told to march. And they marched. And some thought they couldn’t make it to the playground. Some were right.

            And yet, most made it, including the young soldier boy, who now had holes in his shoes and fire in his heart, because, at that night’s solemn camp-out, the pawns could see the smoke of an approaching force. It was a blue-gray amalgamation that plumed in the near distance, blotting out the night stars. The soldier waited impatiently for the next day.

            The soldier boy dropped down to the ground. His face was hollow and florid. The international combatants had cheated! Two, no, three dozen dishonorable cheaters had flanked the boy and his troupe. The cheaters were disorganized, savage, and occasionally armed with nothing more than devil’s pikes and fishing spears. The look upon their faces as they fell upon the pawns, and that fear from the responding force, it was mortifying. The soldier and his army had fought to the end, and the ruffian ambush was quickly dispersed. But, the pawns were now few- fifteen, in precise numbers, and only barely so. They never won, and from then on they felt that they never could.

The soldier boy, the street boxer, and even the young troublemaker all died that day. The young boy underneath the mask forgot those titles and became, just as anyone else, a lost kid. A thoroughly lost kid.

So, the lost kid wandered to the scarlet rivulet, the one that lay littered with fallen pawns. He used his volatile, iron toy as a cane, one that would support his wounded leg. He wrapped his mutant and multicolor coat around him, and walked downstream, away from his friends and his troupe. Both never bothered to look for him again.

 

            Far downstream, the lost kid found a house. One that was abandoned and likely only housed rats and vermin. But it was tranquil, languid. Outside of it, the lost kid saw a ripe peach tree, which he could imagine himself taking refuge under. And he did, for days.

            The lost boy eventually noticed that, every morning, a clear bottle with dregs of golden material within it floated to the shore of the rivulet, and next to the peach tree. The boy paid it no mind for a while; he felt neither thirst, nor hunger. Only exhaustion.

            But then, on the third day underneath the peach tree, the boy felt both hungry and thirsty, yet the fruit would not drop, and the rivulet was impure. The bottles were just within a few steps, and, even in his emptiness, curiosity still took hold. The lost kid forgot his catharsis for just that moment and moved to pick up a bottle.

            The glass distorted the lost boy’s reflection. Inside the container was a popular ambrosia, a form of distilled this-and-that. The dregs from upstream were significant portions, enough to drink a healthy amount from and sustain the boy, if for only a little while longer.

            But, rather, instead of consuming the life-saving item, the boy in the tattered coat tossed it aside, back to the stream, and went back underneath the peaches.

            The soldier was at peace then. He lay down, relaxed. In his mutant and multicolor coat, and with his volatile iron cane propped along the tree, the lost boy felt simple, embraced. The boy felt surrounded by a warm, green blanket, broken only by the azure, gentle rivulet. He wondered how ironic it would be, if an imaginary soldier should see him, for the soldier would pass him by, counting him among the many fatalities, and almost comically mistaking tranquility for casualty.

            The lost boy smiled at the image.

Author's Note

Please do comment- I wrote this for a competition, and I usually don't write fiction like this. Any suggestions would be appreciated. Thank you!

Reviews

[Benjamin Kroeger]

I think the switch from a first-person to a third-person point of view in the beginning of the story is a little confusing, I am not sure if the narrator who speaks in the beginning is supposed to be the soldier boy or another person(?) However, I do like how the end of the story comes back to the beginning.

"He had cut his hair short, for he had often fought other boys as a kid, winning and losing pocket change and glory among the local combatants." - It sounds like he decided to cut his hair short because he fought other boys as a kid, but I'm not sure I see the connection? It seems like he would decide to cut his hair short because he's a soldier now, not because of what he did in past.

"instead of consume" - typo, change to "consuming"

I like the way you call the soldier boy's weapon his "iron toy" at first because it brings to mind how a boy might view war as a "game", at least before it starts, and then in the end it is his "iron cane", as if to symbolize how he went from a boy to an old man. Very clever!

I think some of the symbolism in this story is vague, which works well because it leaves several concepts open for interpretation and also makes it easier to focus on the soldier boy's experience which could otherwise get lost in too many details and explanations.

I felt a sense of coldness and emptiness throughout the story, and the at the end an added sense of relief when the soldier boy had finally found a little peace under the tree. I think you did well to show, through creative language, how the boy's perspective changes after the war (going from being eager to fight to simply appreciating peace.) Well done!