The Silence, the Darkness

By Rutger Middelburg

I can’t remember ever being really afraid of anything. There was never any reason to, I guess. Not to fear for my actual physical safety at least. I don’t come from a neighborhood where every time you step outside is essentially a gamble against the quite considerable odds of being shot or stabbed to death for your phone, or even for your sneakers. As a teenager, I got beat up a few times, but never so badly it required actual professional medical attention. The worst I had to fear growing-up was a bruised ego or a damaged reputation.

Not having any experience to the contrary, I always assumed the correct way to terrify me would indeed be to hold me at knife- or gunpoint. It turned out to be a little different, though.

It had been an utterly uneventful day. The only thing remarkable about it was the sweltering heat that had tormented me continuously. It had started from the moment I woke up, and only gotten worse and worse as the day dragged on. At night, I sat in a cheap lawn chair in my backyard. Actually, I think I might have reclined. I’m not normally given to describing myself as reclining, but at those temperatures, normal sitting was simply too much of an effort. The sun was already setting, but without any wind to help it along, the encroaching dark brought hardly any relief from the heat of the day.

I was still trying to cool down by drinking yet another ice-cold beer, and frankly was starting to feel a little woozy, when a hedgehog decided to disturb the peace.

I never understand how hedgehogs can even exist; they’re slow, noisy, and small. It would seem like any half-decent predator couldn’t possibly have much trouble exterminating them. People often assume it’s the spikes that keep them safe, but I happen to know for sure that they don’t. See, I used to have a slightly stupid dog, who would try to bite a hedgehog, get stung in the mouth, get mad about getting stung in the mouth, and only bite the hedgehog harder, causing worse stinging in the mouth, and consequently more anger. He actually got so enraged by the hedgehogs, that he wouldn’t listen to me at all anymore once he was involved with one, and there would be no way to get him off the poor things. He killed quite a few hedgehogs in his days, proving rather convincingly that the spikes are next to worthless as a defense mechanism. All it takes, really, is a little determination.

Still, in spite of their apparent ill-adaptedness, I rather like hedgehogs, and I’m particularly fond of the incredible amount of noise they make just scurrying around the backyard. You always hear them coming, long before you can even see the plants starting to shake, which itself is often quite a while before the cause of all that racket itself finally emerges from the bushes.

That night too, I heard the hedgehog coming long before it finally made its way onto the lawn where I could actually see it. Then, it scurried across the lawn in its typical, short-legged hedgehog style, waving its pointy little nose from side to side as it went. I watched it with mild amusement, as that’s what hedgehogs are: mildly amusing. Even on the lawn, where it couldn’t rustle any leaves or branches anymore, it still managed to produce quite a racket with its constant snorting and grunting.

Suddenly, a large, pitch-black crow landed on the roof of the shed. It walked over to the edge and sat there looking down, staring intently at the hedgehog. I like almost any kind of animal, and the crow was no exception. It was a magnificent specimen; its feathers gleaming subtly in the fading light, and its yellow eyes piercing with the force of real intelligence. Then, it tilted its head, first left, then right, as if it was considering something about the hedgehog and was having trouble making up its mind about it. I found myself involuntarily mimicking the great bird, looking at the hedgehog again, tilting my head this way and that. As I did, the hedgehog fell completely quiet under our gaze, turned to face me, lifted its little head, and looked me straight in the eyes.

I looked back up at the crow, to see if it was seeing this too. It raised its head in perfect synchronization with mine and looked straight at me, its yellow eyes ablaze.

‘Crows have black eyes.’ A little voice inside my head volunteered.

Frowning at the crow, I considered the potential relevance of this new information.

The crow frowned back at me. This wasn’t going at all as expected.

I turned back to the hedgehog for support. It just shrugged and walked away.

I blamed the heat and the beer, closed my eyes, and lay back, expecting all to be normal when I opened them again. After a few moments, something heavy landed on my knee. Peering through my lashes, not daring to open my eyes any further, the only thing I could be sure of was that there was a huge bird sitting on my knee, a huge bird with impossibly yellow, piercing eyes.

I was going to have to deal with this sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.

‘What do you want?’ I asked the bird, trying to sound brave, but immediately realizing that ship sailed on the wind of my trembling voice, as soon as I opened my mouth.

‘I’m just here to ask you the exact same.’ The bird answered in a voice that was warm and round and didn’t screech the least little bit. Which, I guess, was hardly even surprising, considering all the rest.

‘There are rules, of course.’ The bird continued. ‘It can’t be anything that you would ask of another human. Otherwise, there’s no point, really, is there? Also, you must feel it burn in your heart. Otherwise, it’s hardly worth the trouble, really, is it? Finally, I’m fairly certain there was a third point I was supposed to make at this time, but I can’t seem to remember it. So, any questions, or can we go straight to your request?’

‘Ain’t I supposed to get three wishes?’

‘Do I look like a bloody genie?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever met one before.’

‘Well, in that case, you still haven’t.’

So, I got one wish. I thought briefly about the girl three houses down from me. She was probably somewhere in her early twenties. Which would make her about half my age, but she was definitely something to wish for. I tried to think of something else, but having thought of that girl, I couldn’t really focus on anything else anymore.

‘I’d like that beautiful girl three houses over there to fall madly and everlastingly in love with me.’ I told the crow, while nodding in the right direction.

‘Ah…’ The crow responded, clearly relieved about something. ‘Now I remember the third rule: it can’t affect another person’s free will. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair, really, would it?’

‘Then I don’t know.’ I quickly blurted out.

‘You have everything your heart desires?’

‘I… guess…’ I answered, more cautious now.

The crow cocked its head again, and I felt like it could see right through me. I thought feverishly. There had to be something, right?

‘I’d like to be famous.’ I finally decided.

‘Sure! Anything specific you’d like to be famous for?’

‘A famous writer!’

‘Consider it done!’ The crow told me, and I could swear I saw it grin evilly at me, before it took off.

How does a crow’s beak grin?

I don’t know.

How does a hedgehog shrug?

It was just one of those nights, I guess.

So, now I’m a famous writer and I’m sitting here, typing away. One story after another pours out of me. My fingers spread it all out over the keyboard, sending it to the large screens in front of me.

I’m surrounded by silence. It’s the kind of silence that you could proverbially describe as deafening, if you were at all inclined to recycle a tired old, overused cliché like that. Writing, it turns out, is typically one of those activities best done alone; very, very alone.

I’m rich now, insanely so.

I’m lonely too, insanely so.

You’d think I would just stop writing and spend the rest of my life enjoying spending all that money. I can’t, though. I’m too full of stories.

They want out… They need out!

So, I sit here, examining human nature and writing books about it. Books which are equally literary masterpieces and commercial success stories. So, I sit here, wondering: if I can write about the essence of what it means to be human, and what it takes to be happy, why can’t I live it?

I know I made the wrong request of the crow. I don’t know how to undo it, though.

And the silence, it falls over me, it covers and envelopes me, like a darkness that makes me cold to the bone.

I used to be happy. I did whatever pleased me. I dreamed of one day becoming a famous writer and then went on with everyday life. I met people and talked to them. I hung out with friends, doing nothing much at all.

I would probably have classified myself as being largely useless. I lived a life without any real goals and ambitions, at least, without any real effort towards reaching them. And I was happy. I lived in the moment and enjoyed every single day.

Despite the little voice at the back of my head, which kept insisting it would be great to be a famous writer, I was fine being a nobody. The little voice made me sit down and write something every now and then, but only whenever I felt like it. I did everything whenever I felt like it.

Now, all I do is write. The only person I have any kind of regular contact with is my editor. I’m lonely, miserable, and tired.

The darkness I feel cannot be seen any more than the silence can be heard.

Yet, I know they will always be with me. Every day will be another day of writing. Of setting the stories free. Of feeling the cold of the darkness and the pressure of the silence upon me, as my fingers still dance across the keyboard, pouring the words into the waiting world.

And it terrifies me more, so much more, than knives and guns ever could.

Rutger Middelburg is a writer, editor, and epidemiologist. He lives in the Netherlands with his wife and two children. He writes both short fiction, and novel length works. His short fiction has been published in several literary journals.