The Keeper

Everyone else has left the village. The women and children left first, then the men. Only I remained behind, to keep the temple’s flame alive for a few more days.

From the courtyard, I watched them leave along the road, a procession of carts and mules and grey faces, floating past like corpses on a river. They were the ones who would live on, yet they looked dead. Few turned to acknowledge me, mostly children. Astonished, confused, they whispered to their mothers—Why can’t we stay, like him? Why must we leave? Their mothers hushed them, without answering.

It has been one day now since the last man left. The village is empty, except for me. Even the animals have wandered off, sensing the coming violence. Strangely, I do not miss them, though I cherished their company. Many of them relied on me. I used to set out bowls of milk for the cats, and scraps of meat for the stray dogs. Unlike men, animals do not expect you to miss them when they leave, and I don’t resent them for abandoning me.

With the animals and men gone, the hours stretch on and on. Feeding the flame requires very little time, and what food I need is found quickly, amongst the gardens and fields. Though they scrambled back and forth, gathering all the food they could, the villagers missed an apple here, a carrot there. What remains will be enough to see me through.

I pass most of the day on the temple steps, looking out over the valley as it slopes away from the village. But I am not keeping watch. Rather, I am enjoying the silence and the landscape spread out before me. My mind is empty, and I doze often. There is no one who needs me, no reason to feel guilty for my idleness. The flame will not go out in the matter of an hour or two.

Once night falls, I spend my time in front of the fire. It is not a raging fire, yet its heat and light are enough to fill the temple. Eight logs should burn at all times, no more or less. When a log begins to crumble into ash, it should be removed and replaced. The cinders are then tossed into the ash bin, where they smolder until being poured into the river, first thing in the morning.

But enough about the rituals. In fact, they are not so important. As long as one tends the fire with respect and diligence, the rituals are secondary. After all, I did not stay behind out of any love for the rituals. Nor did I stay behind out of a sense of duty, or reverence. I stayed behind because to do otherwise was unimaginable. There is no joy in it, or honor, or satisfaction. In fact, each time I remove and replace another log, I feel nothing, only the pain in my fingers and the smoke in my eyes. In the same way, I feel nothing as I stare into the flame, for I am not the type to search for meaning, there or anywhere.

In truth, I do not even know the name of the god for whom this temple was built, and I do not care. When we first heard of the army’s approach, my first thought was of the flame. What would happen to it? The elders and the monks did not even discuss it. Their concerns were of evacuation, of survival. That was when I knew I would stay—no one else was willing to mention the flame, even though they knew in their hearts how important it is. The flame in our village’s temple has been kept for longer than anyone can remember, yet no one spoke up for it. But I bear the others no ill-will. Perhaps they knew all along that a keeper would present himself. 

On the morning of the third day, I spotted the army on the horizon, at the far end of the valley. The sight did not startle me, and I continued down to the river with the ash bin, in the knowledge that the army would reach the village by nightfall.

I foraged what food I could find—a handful of apples—then sat down on the temple steps to look out at the landscape one last time. The sky was not radiant or gloomy, and the mountains in the distance were barely visible behind countless layers of thin clouds. As the sun slowly arced overhead, the army drew closer, following the path of the river, the spears and armor gleaming brighter than the river itself, whose color was dull, like potter’s clay.

At mid-day, I ate my apples and tended the fire. The flame was steady, unmoving in the stillness of the temple. As I tossed the morning’s cinders into the ash bin, I felt a sadness. Who would empty these ashes into the water tomorrow? There was no answer, so I returned to the temple steps, and soon after dozed off.

When I awoke, I sat up and looked into the distance. The army was nearing the farmland at the outskirts of the village. They were marching faster than I had imagined, and would soon arrive. The thought did not disturb me, but it did rouse me to action—there was work yet to be done before their arrival.

I set to sweeping the temple floor, until not a leaf or speck of dirt remained. Then I wiped the stone floor and walls with fresh water from the morning’s trip to the river. Lastly, I chopped what wood remained in the courtyard, to prepare it for the fire.

By the end of all this work, I was drenched with sweat, and wanted to cleanse myself in the river. But it was too late—I could hear the thunderous steps of the army marching through the village. I had yet to bring the chopped wood inside the temple, so I set upon this final task, realizing with satisfaction that I did not smell at all, as a man normally would after such toil. In fact, I felt as if I had been washed clean, and there was just enough water left to rinse my hands of the dirt and grime of my efforts.

It was in this act that the soldiers found me. A group of them marched through the open gate and into the courtyard where I stood. They were led by a man wearing decorated armor and a spotless cloak, which floated behind him like a specter. Before they reached me, he called out to his men in a foreign tongue, whereupon they dispersed and spread out across the courtyard. I began to worry—I hoped the soldiers wouldn’t wander into the temple and extinguish the fire. The thought of the flame going out while I was alive was too much to bear.

The decorated man approached, unafraid. He addressed me in my own tongue.

—What are you doing here? Everyone else has left. Why did you stay behind? You are unarmed, and clearly neither monk nor soldier.

I felt ashamed of my rags and half-nakedness, yet he did not seem to judge me. Rather, his eyes shone with curiosity, so I answered him.

—I stayed to keep the flame alive. It has burned for longer than anyone can remember.

—Yet everyone else abandoned it. Are you a pious man, or a madman? Perhaps both. Surely you knew that to stay here was to die. I have strict orders to leave none alive.

—I am not pious or mad. I am a simple man, well-suited to tending the fire. That is why I stayed. The work suits me, and it needs doing.

—Do you not fear death? he asked, a challenge in the words, yet a softness in his tone.

I did not reply. Instead, I turned around, anxious about the fire. To my relief, the soldiers had not entered the temple. After exploring the courtyard, they had returned to form a semi-circle behind me. They stood at ease, relaxed yet attentive.

—You are a strange man, the decorated man continued. I would like to speak to you further, yet our time is short. As I said, I have strict orders.

He drew the sword at his waist, and held it beside him in the dwindling light.

—Nevertheless, you have moved me. I will post a man here, to keep this temple’s flame alive, until such time that people return to this place. Is there anything he should know, any customs to uphold?

—Eight logs should burn at all times, no more or less. Each morning, yesterday’s ashes should be emptied into the river.

—Very well. Have you any last prayers or rites?

I shook my head. The temple had been cleaned, and the wood prepared. All was done, and night had fallen.

The decorated man nodded, and as he lifted the sword, he looked past me towards the temple. All was dark, yet something flickered in his eyes, something familiar yet indistinct, something which made me feel nothing, even as the sword came down.

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