Enemy

A loner. A harlot. A lunatic.

‘Benoni’, he thought to himself. ‘What sort of a name is Benoni?’ Well now that he couldn’t do much about it, he drove on. The night was not very well lit- he was recently bespectacled and that unassuming sliver of moon that peeped from behind the silver firs did not help much. Nor did the street lights, which were very few in number, and more than half of them only flickered once or twice, as if trying to prove to the young man that they were still half alive.

 

Benoni smirked. The last time someone had tried to prove such a point was five years ago, when he was still in high school. His ex-girlfriend Renee, yes he remembered her name- that modest s**t. She called him up almost every half hour, under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or both, as if letting him know that she needs his immediate care and comforting skills. And Benoni gave in too. Later of course, he came to know about how she got into that state in the first place. It all happened so long ago, and frankly, Benoni didn’t care. He was older now, and more mature than to spend his time thinking about Renee. He now had a different goal to build his world around.

 

The young man was a ‘science fiction and religuion author’- or so he called himself. He wasn’t rich enough to get his works published, but he was pretty sure he would do well being an unpublished writer. But that unfortunately wouldn’t fetch him anything to buy beef lasagne with- ‘bread and butter’ were old school.

 

He remembered telling his mother that he’ll soon be back from his short journey to the outskirts of St. Agnes. Many great writers and poets of his time had flowered from the town’s wintry shacks and nooks, but he knew that not everyone can become a great author, but a great author can come from anywhere.

 

Benoni streamlined his thoughts. He hadn’t even the slightest thought of an idea to begin with. He laid his trust fully in the city of St. Agnes, and its few dwellers and the modest buildings. He in stead diverted his concentration to the driving of his father’s car. He would have to bring it back in perfect order for the old man to think any better of him- truly, he seemed to care more about the car than his son- but Benoni knew the falsity of that claim. Mr. Whyte was a good man. Quite like his son, in many ways- he could never show his love or praise for someone, but inside, his near ones knew he was beaming. No matter how strong he looked from outside, inside he was weak. Very weak.

 

‘Peppery Eyes’- they might as well have named it ‘Cheese and Toenails’, but the inn was the only one in St. Agnes that accommodated to his budget- the others, honestly looked like red light areas, and Benoni was not the kind of man who would be even remotely interested.

 

“Sir?” he questioned the sleeping old man at the reception, “Can you…um… help me out here please?”

 

The old man opened his eyes slowly and nodded, “Wha’ di’ya say aga’in lad?”

“Can you please help me out,” Benoni enunciated.

“I.D.,” said the old man, matter-of-factly.

 

Benoni took out his identity card and handed it to the man who snatched it from him in a strangely polite manner.

 

“Whyte, Benunny,” said the man, “Wha’ sor’ o’ a name is Whyte Benunny?”

“It’s Benoni, sir,” said the young man, “Benoni Whyte. I’m new here, in St. Agnes.”

“Room double o’ seven,” said the man, clearly not wanting to know any more, “Ya’ll foin’ the room keys on th’ wall.”

 

Benoni thanked the old man, took the small bronze key that hung on the wall, and made his way up the stairs to room ‘double o’ seven’.

 

The moment he got in, he turned on the light and collapsed on the bed. ‘How boring,’he thought. He expected the room to be a Number 13, or a number something-that-would-add-up-to-thirteen. But it wasn’t anything of that sort. Number seven, according to numerology, is contrarily said to be a sacred, or a mystic number. Nothing ‘interesting’ would happen to him, no matter how hard he tried. But what really bothered him were the two zeroes that came before it. James Bond certainly wasn’t his thing.

 

The loner that Benoni was came out best when he went to places like this- he would talk little, if at all, and would solely concentrate on his work getting done. He sat up at the thought of this and arched his back as he muttered the name of Lakshmi, the Indian goddess of luck. He then placed his rosary on the desk in front of a picture of his parents, and sat down to write.

 

It was midnight. All the sounds of the surrounding hills seemed to cease at once. Benoni drowsed as he sat before a diary that had never been written on. He was almost going to fall into a deep slumber when he heard the creaking of a window. His grey eyes opened up and he was petrified as he caught the gaze of what seemed to be a young woman sitting on the windowsill.

 

“No, no!” she whispered, “Do fall asleep, Ben, I like it when you sleep.”

Being a man of both rationale and belief, Benoni handled the situation in his own way. He lay his head on the desk and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the woman.

“That’s not going to help, you know,” said the woman, “you know you are only pretending. And yes, I am a ghost, in case you are still wondering- which I doubt you are.”

 

Benoni stood up and shut his diary and capped his pen.

 

“Why don’t you talk?” said the woman.

“I only speak when I am spoken to,” said Benoni in a low voice.

“But you are being spoken to, aren’t you?”

“You do not count.”

“Well that was rude,” said the woman as she flipped her hair, “And why not?”

“Because you are from a world which most humans don’t believe in.”

“I know you believe in me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

 

The woman laughed. “The living world is unaware of the lives of the dead.”

“That is not true,” said Benoni.

“You can argue with me all night, Ben, but I have little time. Besides, I only come to convey- a warning.”

“Of what kind?”

“Of the living kind,” replied the woman. “Your works are in danger.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have seen you working hard on your novel for the past five odd years-”

“Really? Then how come I haven’t seen you?”

“You see, but you do not remember.”

“Don’t bluff me,” laughed Benoni walking up to the spirit, “If you really are my guardian angel, then you must be someone I know, even remotely.”

 

There was a sudden knock on the door.

 

“Great, now you’ve made grandpa think that I’m schizophrenic.”

“I haven’t much time, Ben,” said the woman, “I have men to entice- in their sleep! Your works are in danger. And so are you. Charles Ludwig has shown your magazine entry to some people. The whole thing-“

“Yes, the whole thing about how science explains religion and religion explains science, my new book, yes, what about it?”

“Yes, that,” said the woman hesitantly, “The Church. They’re after you, Benoni. They want to kill you.”

“What? How did they know what exactly I was writing?”

“I do not know, Benoni, but I say sooth.”

“That book wasn’t even meant for publishing! That was just…just an idea I had… and maybe wanted to publish later on, edited. After the consent of the Church or something.”

 

There was a second knock. This time, it was louder.

 

“I’M COMING!” shouted Benoni and hushed his voice again, “What’s your name? Tell me what you know.”

“I can’t. I have to go now. They’re coming for you, Ben. Beware.”

“No, you stay here you s**t! You can entice men later!”

 

The woman did not say anything. She just disappeared into thin air.

 

“I know you’re there,” said Benoni, “Why don’t you speak?”

“I only speak when I am spoken to,” the answer came.

Benoni looked around the room for signs of the woman, but there were none. He realized that he should open the door.

 

“Yes?” he said as he saw a teenaged boy dressed in a green tunic and bright green tights. He wore a handmade green elf-cap and smiled widely at Benoni.

“Do you know your enemy?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know your enemy, or are you merely well informed?”

“I’m sorry, you must be at the wrong door,” replied Benoni.

“Do you know your enemy,

Or are you merely well informed?

Will you be rewarded,

Or will you just be scorned?”

“You look like Peter Pan, kid, get out of here. Halloween’s over.”

“Sir, I beg for a moment,” said the boy, “Do come with me, Christmas is nearing, and I haven’t a place to live in. Will you come with me?”

 

Something inside Benoni pleaded him to stay, but the other side of him pleaded to go with the boy. And so, he did.

 

“Christmas is nearing!” said the boy, “What joy, what joy!”

“So where are we off to, kid?” questioned Benoni, wondering how the boy managed to stay warm in that torn tunic of his.

“Christmas is nearing! What joy, what joy!

Harlots all around, but I am just a boy.”

“What?” cried Benoni, “How could you even say something like that, young man? Have you no shame?”

“There is no shame,” said the boy, “Only that we put our names to stake. But I have no shame, sir. What shame have I?”

 

They walked till they reached a big silver oak that stood in the middle of the footpath.

 

“And why are we here, o great one?” said Benoni, folding his arms and smiling at the boy.
“’Tis time for the mermaids to come.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Mind, sir?”

“Yes, MIND. You knocked on my door at one in the morning dressed like Peter Pan, brought me to this oak, and now you’re talking about mermaids?”

 

The boy burst into maniacal laughter, “Isn’t that a co-incidence!”

 

Suddenly, the door next to the churchyard opened.

 

‘The Church’! thought Benoni, “Shut up! Quiet you little twerp! It’s the ‘enemy’! You’ve killed us both!”

 

A bearded man came out with a long axe. Benoni gulped. The boy looked at the man with fear in his eyes, and ran away. Benoni stood there, motionless.

 

“So you are the one, trying to poison mind with thoughts of religion, superstition and paranormal existence!”

“Yes, sir, I am the one,” said Benoni fearlessly, “And what bloody business is it of yours? Aren’t you one with the church?”

“No,” said the man, his eyes reddening, “The church has no place for me. I, am a non believer.”

“I see,” replied Benoni, slowly taking steps backwards.

“And I have been appointed to kill you.”

 

Benoni made a run for it. The man ran after him, until he couldn’t run anymore. Benoni had vanished. The man turned back and made his way to the churchyard.

 

Benoni went back to the inn, and thumped his fist against the hard wooden desk of the reception. The old man woke up with a start.

 

“I.D!” he shouted.

 

‘Oh not again,’ thought Benoni and handed him his identity card.

 

“Whyte, Benunny. Wha’ sor’ o’ a name is Benunny?”

“It’s Benoni,” enunciated the young man, “Benoni Whyte sir. The keys.”

“On the wall. Room double o’ seven.”

 

As if he didn’t know. That man really had a bad memory, but Benoni had other things to think about. All that happened in that short span of time messed with his mind. He was being hunted down by both the Church and everyone else there was. He had to get out of St. Agnes at dawn. But he couldn’t. He had to kill himself. Like other great authors of his time. Now, he knew why.

 

He locked the door and packed his things. Suddenly, someone outside the door cleared his throat. Benoni took his Swiss knife and opened the door slowly. He almost would have struck the teenaged boy, who was back.

 

“Do you know your enemy,

Do you know them like your skin?”

“No I don’t,” said the man, “They are all around me, kid. Now get out.”

“Christmas is nearing sir, may I-?”

“No,” said Benoni sternly, “Not again. Get out.”

“Do you know your enemy?

Do you know them like your skin?

Fret not for you know the enemy-”

 

And Benoni shut the door on his face.

 

Benoni went to the bathroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Over the past hundred years, the feud between Science and Religion has claimed the lives of many. And soon, he was going to be victim to the same history. He went back to his suitcase and opened the diary, to list down the things that happened to him that night, before committing the final sin. To his surprise, there was not a single page left unwritten.

 

“Dear Ben,” it said, “I am sorry, but enticing men is what I do. It’s part of my character. That is how I like to live. Amongst the attention of many men, for otherwise I feel unimportant, inferior. Take the morning train back to your city, and all will be well…”

 

 

It went on and on. Benoni put the diary back in his suitcase and grimaced at the window.

‘A common s**t for a guardian angel,’ he thought. He opened the diary again, but soon fell asleep. When he woke up, he found himself on a train back to his city. He hurriedly opened the diary and read till the very last page, and for the first time, Benoni Whyte had tears in his eyes.

 

“Forgive me for everything my dear. I didn’t mean to be unfaithful. ‘Twas in my nature. I had many enemies, but only one killed me that September night. You haven’t heard of it, I know. But that is how I died. I decided to come back in a different form, because I had unfinished work. I had to warn you, Ben, that you must always be true to yourself, and stand up for whatever you believe in. Just make sure that what you believe in does not hurt others. You’re a good man, Ben. Take care. God bless.

 

                                                    -Renee”

 

Somewhere in the little town of St. Agnes, a boy in a tattered green tunic and tights sings as he walks down the alley:

 

“Do you know your enemy,

Do you know them like your skin?

Fret not for you know the enemy

Lies somewhere deep within.”

 

“Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.”

- Sun Tzu.

 

Author's Note

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Reviews

[KurKota]

Once again, as this is the last in order of my reading all of your entries here, you impress me with your writing ability. Your style and the treatment of your subject matter is so wonderfully unique, it just draws the reader into it. I honestly, do not read many stories on this site, because frankly, they generally are rather predictable, but I am glad that I read yours. You have a very cherished and unique writing talent. I look forward to your future writings. I have read all of yours here now. I wish there were more.