The day was long departed, and the night

Was coming to adulthood. Outside slept

The night breeze, snoring soft among the grass.

Inside, the boxer felt the darkness close

As if it were a change in temperature

He had not noticed. “Hold on," he spoke up,

“This Old Man, did he have a proper name?

Was he called only Old Man, and no more?"

“I know not," said the warrior, “we heard but

'Old Man' from him, and if we wanted more

There was not time nor breath to ask it him.

We thought this not unusual; indeed,

The little that we knew for sure was that

We little knew. The only clue was thus:

He often would roam muttering throughout

Whatever halls were empty, seeming blind

And speaking not to any who were near.

One evening, weary from the training drills,

I came into the dim shade of the hall

Seeking the coolness, when I overheard

The Old Man saying to an empty room:

'They told the truth. There is no hope at all.'

But what he meant by that I cannot guess."

“Cannot you?" said the boxer, “your tale rings

Like something I remember from the years

When, as a boy, I listened to old songs

Whose ending I cannot entire recall

From those who did not credit them." “In truth,"

Varr answered, “Some did hold he spoke the truth:

That we were dead, and held all these fair lands

The country of the gods. I held not so.

My people once told tales of Valhalla;

Of endless feast with hero gods of old

All in a hall of luxury. But here

Is peril dark, just as the Old Man said.

Here there are enemies. Here there is war.

Why else would he have need of warriors?

The country of the gods should have no war.

The country of the gods should be without

Night terrors in the day. What place is there,

In such a pristine and platonic world,

For those like me, who nothing know but war?

Would that I were made other than I am,

Then truly might this heaven be, and I

Might yet acquire an appetite for peace.

We may not be among the living, Shane,

But we are not in heaven. I have seen

Things here more fit for hell." The silence filled

The darkness with unasked conjectures of

Insectoid, technological, mythic,

Colossal, fear infused, unstoppable,

Undead, undying foes. The air soon weighed

Far more than mountains. “Do you mean the foes

Of whom the Old Man spoke? What horrors dire

Are they?" Shane said, to wash the silence off.

“Whatsoever they are, they cannot be

As horrible as I imagine from

The hints you drop. In any case, they soon

Will find they fear me more than I fear them."

“You would not feel so eager," answered Varr,

“If you had seen them. Words cannot convey

The way their being warps and wastes the world

Wherever they set foot. No matter. You

Shall doubtless see enough of them too soon.

When first I saw them-" but he stopped, and held

One hand for silence up. Shane heard no sound.

The wind outside had gone as still as death.

For half a moment Varr stood listening

While Shane blinked stupidly, in puzzlement,

And all the while, the fireflies grew dim.

The last Shane saw before their light went out

Were horrors realized upon Varr's face.

He made to ask, but felt the warrior's hand

Clamped tight across his mouth. The embers now

Were all the light they had, not near enough

To see eachother, or to move, or arm.

In silence sat they, waiting for Shane knew

Not what, but steeped in tension, like the sweat

Of dynamite, that only needs a touch

To blossom into fire and sudden death.

Then came a subtle sound, not softened with

Great distance, but so softened that it might

Have come from infinitely. If he had

To name it, Shane would say it was the sound

Of bacon. Of raw flesh touching some iron

And flameless heat, and withering in pain

Too dire intense to scream more than a sigh.

It echoed, as if trapped within a cask

All hollow, like the belly of a viol

Or like the empty buzz within a shell

Held up against the ear. Laid under that

Were shuffling footsteps, rustling of the grass,

The moan of metal rusted all but through,

And with the sound there came a smell, as if

A heap of rancid trash were set ablaze,

Burned down to dust, then smothered with the tide,

Leaving grey sodden ash and brackish cloud.

Varr had no need Shane's silence to compel.

The sound and smell and that which was their source

Came almost to the door, and there they stopped.

The smell wormed through the darkness, and the fire

Shot indigo and purple tongues of flame

From embers that seemed smothered by the stench.

How long they crouched, like rabbits in a hedge

Who watch a sleeping snake and dare not move,

Shane could not say, but all at once the air

Was breathable. The sound of sizzling steps

Was fading, muffled, then completely gone.

The fireflies shone again, and Varr released

The boxer, saying, “Now you know our foe.

Where they stand, grasses brown and shrivel up.

Where they pass, infant animals go blind.

I do not know their name, if name they have.

We called them Soot. Come morning, you'll see why.

They grow far deadlier by night." Shane spoke,

“I fear no men of soot, by day or night.

I will not cower at their coming, nor

Will I change course to skirt their ashy scent.

What came of all the Old Man's noble words?

Wherefore are these foul creatures suffered still?

Have you not still your sword, Varr Last-to-flee?

Can I not testify its edge yet bites?

Have you not still the heart, brother in blood,

That quickened at the sight of battle-dawn?

When next these flies go dim, my gloves and I

Will stand outside this door, and wait, and win!"

Varr smiled, but shook his head, and said, “Brave words,

Shane, Champion Indeed, not brave too much

But wise too little. Know you what you say?

I do not count a man of less renown

Because he leaps not into raging seas,

Nor does it wound the name, that one refrains

From laying bare his breast to thunderstrike.

Fret not upon your honor. When you hear

How my tale ended is, you will not think

That I do deem you coward, or esteem

Your manhood little worth. To go at night

Against the Soot is stupid and not brave.

When once the day has dazzled and confused

Our fetid friend, we will acquit our might.

He will not be too difficult to track.

But now attend again, and you shall hear,

How these, like you, are more than they appear."

In mingled light of hearth and firefly

Again the boxer rapt in listening sat,

Again the warrior spoke of glory gone.

Outside, the lightless night cascaded on.