The Hollow Man

The Hollow Man
by Aaron Michael Dove
18 March 2014

                I was sojourning in the hinterlands east of a land that was once called Eden when I came upon two young men; one was tending his crops, and the other tending his to his flock. It was the heat of the day, so I stopped and sat down upon a flat rock. As I watched the young man bundling his harvest efforts, I idly traced circles in the char that seemed to cover a portion of the stone upon which I rested. The young man, finally taking notice of me, stopped his work, and came to where I sat. “Good day,” I said by way of greeting. “Hot day,” he replied by way of observation. “Short day,” I answered, by way of prophesy. “What’s that?” the young man replied, “It is still summer for one more day,” he mused questioningly. “The day will be longer for some than others,” I finished, definitively. I looked over his shoulder at his herdsman companion, and a dark cloud passed overhead. Its shade brought relief to one, scorn and accusation to another. I kicked the dry dirt at the base of the stone where I sat, and knew that the next time I sat on this rock, the ground would be wet, with rain… or something worse.

As the afternoon wore on, I watched the two men go about their tasks. As I watched the young farmer go about his daily task of pruning and reaping, and picking and bundling, he seemed to take pride and joy in the day and in the work, despite the mid-day heat. The herder by contrast, sat sullenly under the summer sun, watching he his sheep and goats without interest as they grazed lazily on the hill. He seemed to take no joy from either the quality of his livestock, nor the ease of his chore. I wandered over to where he sat, and offered him the wineskin that I had earlier been offered by his companion. He took it and drank healthily from it. “Easy there friend,” I warned, “It might be that your companion will want this back more full than empty.” At the announcement of the wine’s origins, he spat it out on the ground. “I would rather die of thirst than drink the fruits of my brother’s hand.” He hissed vehemently. He kicked dirt over the wine as it soaked into the ground. The deep ruby wine, mixed with the dust, then mud, and for a moment, looked like blood. Another dark cloud passed overhead.

Smoke rose up from the other side of the field, from the area near the rock that I had sat on earlier in the day. I called it to the goatherd’s attention, but he shrugged his shoulders and made a gruff sound. “Just my brother offering his precious sacrifices,” he sneered sarcastically. “All of his offerings burn and burn, till they are nothing but dust on the wind. But not mine. No, no, no. They smolder and burn until they are a charred mess, not even suitable for the common table, much less for the festival tables.” He sulked off a ways “God curse you brother!” he shouted. “I wish you were dead,” he mumbled as he walked off and sat on a low pile of loose stones, kicking one to the ground. “Be careful what you wish for my friend,” I said softly to myself. The air turned chill as the sky darkened.

The summer thunderstorm passed as the sun went down. I had retreated to the nearby village for shelter, knowing that I would find no peace with the two brothers. The night was quiet. Too quiet. As if all of the people were afraid to dream, and all of the creatures of the land were made mute. I sat, looking out the window toward the east, toward where the brothers had been. The dark seemed darker in that direction, and an infinite sadness fell across my thoughts.

A number of years later, on the road to Damascus, I met a hollow man. He walked alone and in silence. The kind of silence that follows a summer thunderstorm at dusk. The kind of silence that fills your memories with sadness. I noticed a mark on his head, as though he had been burned. He carried a stone in one hand, idly thumbing a dark brown stain on it as he walked. Other travellers, both those going our way, and the opposite, seemed to steer away from the man; not in the way of one repulsed by someone, but as one compelled by instinct simply to give something else a wide berth. I walked alongside the man in silence for some time, heading east. The sun hung low in the sky, and it would be time to rest soon. But not for this man. No, some days are longer for some than others, I mused, and for this man, this hollow, hollow man, it was a very long day indeed.