3 comments/ 19695 views/ 1 favorites Tenderness Echoes By: jthserra I The men slammed the gate, trapping the dog inside. It paced angrily along the fence, snarling at any movement on the other side. Foam dripped from its mouth like froth from stormy seas. "Someone should call the vet," I shouted to the men. "Jacob is the vet," he replied, pointing at a gray haired man in a plaid jacket. I watched him slowly shake his head; the gray flowed over his jacket like a waterfall. "There's nothing you can do?" I asked, walking up to the group. "No, it's too far gone," the old man replied. While I talked with the men, I realized the dog was suddenly quieter. It stopped pacing and stood motionless, looking through the fence. A man in dark clothes walked slowly toward the gate. His jet-black hair shrouded his face so, even in the bright sun, he appeared to be in shadow. Without a word, he stepped through the gate and walked up to the dog. He kneeled. The dog lay down, resting its head on the man's legs. The man leaned forward, reaching both hands over the dog. Then, with an infinite tenderness he stroked it, once, then again. He moved the dog's head off his legs and slowly stood up. The crowd of people, who'd gathered to watch the excitement, opened a path for the dark man to pass, fearing his touch. I looked at Jacob. The old vet stared into his hands, as a tear rolled down his face. II He was water, he was sky, he was darkness and he was light. Some called him "The Killer," others thought him an angel. I watched him soothe the rabid dog as it died and then he silently walked away. That completely baffled me. I'm not what you'd call a religious man, but what I saw that afternoon was a spiritual thing. It was either something pristine and pure, or something altogether evil. I just wasn't sure which. "I heard he killed his parents as a baby. He jus' touched 'em an' they slipped away, jus' like that dog," Emma said freshening my coffee. "He's not from around here. He just walked into town one day," replied Deputy Ben. "He's been doing that since he got here, putting animals down like that." "Has anyone ever talked to him?" I asked. Emma shook her head no. "I never had occasion to." Ben said, "He's always been just a quiet, gentle man. Everything I seen him kill, was dyin' anyway." "You say he kills them? It just looked to me like he held that dog as it died." "No, I seen rabies before. That dog would've run around nuts like that for another day. No, he held that dog and drew the life right outa him," Ben explained. "But he was so gentle, so tender." "They say he touches them with God's fingers," Emma added. "God's fingers . . . infinite," I replied. I wandered out of the café without even saying goodbye. III His house was everything I expected; yet it was totally unexpected. Though small, there was a sense of order. The house and fence were all perfectly maintained and the grounds finely raked. It was beautiful, but so very odd. Nothing around the house was living, no plants, no grass and no trees. The yard was a fine gravel and sand, and boulders lined the edge of the house. As I walked toward his door, I noticed movement at his window. I expected him not to answer, but when I knocked he quietly opened the door. "Hello," he whispered, "I've been expecting you." Stunned by the first words I heard him speak, so soft, so gentle, I stood at the threshold motionless. "Please come in," he said extending his hand to motion me in. "I saw you with the dog yesterday," I finally said. "I'm John Jackson, a writer." Instinctively I grabbed his hand to shake. Suddenly I felt bathed in light, warm and pulsing. Darkness then splashed me, cold and damp. Then I felt the warmth again as a voice beckoned me. Soft, melodious words, like poetry, then harsh cutting words from a deep abyss. I felt torn, back and forth, then swirling, swirling . . . I opened my eyes and saw his face. "You mustn't touch me, again. I will talk to you, but you cannot write about me." His words caressed me as I'd never been touched before: so soft . . . so tender. IV . . . So soft . . . so tender. I felt warmth in my heart as I re-read the magazine. My story of Destin, the gentle man with a gift, started in his youth and ended with our meeting, a meeting that almost killed me. His touch eased pain and brought serenity. His touch brought softness and an infinitely tender death. He spent his life in a small town, helping farmers and townspeople mercifully treat hopelessly injured animals. He lived off small payments the people gave him for his "services." Now, he'd be famous, thanks to my article. He could relieve terminally ill patients, he could provide a truly merciful means for state executions, and he could be rich. I finished my coffee, picked up the magazine and went to meet him. Deputy Ben said he heard that Destin was at the Old Gorge Bridge. I saw him on the bridge, where he gently held a raccoon that had been injured by a car. He laid its head down and looked toward me. "I asked you not to write about me." His words, spoken so gently, felt like a slap. "But you'll be famous now. Imagine all the good you can do," I replied. "Good? Everything I touch dies. How can that be good? When they die, I hurt." Before I could say anything more, he silently slipped over the rail, falling to the rocks below. "But, you could have been famous." My words echoed off the rock walls. Tenderness Echoes Ch. 1.5 Tenderness Echoes Part 1-1/2 He Needed Space Destin looked down at his bare feet. He wiggled his toes trying to ward off the needles he felt shooting through them. He had been busy that morning reclaiming his space from the forest. He noticed a squirrel approach the far corner of his square. It paused at the boundary between the living forest and the dead patch of ground Destin called his own. "You step in my space and I'll do you too," he shouted at the squirrel. The squirrel wandered off, avoiding the square of dead foliage in the middle of the forest. Since his mother died, Destin needed space, more space than he got in the foster homes and orphanages. He bounced from home to home as he frightened his foster parents with his "gift." Usually it was only a plant he killed, but occasionally, if he landed with a particularly patient family, he would do a pet or two. Although it hurt when he did it, it was really quite simple. Once he touched anything living, it would just fade away. There was no pain, no struggle, whatever he touched softly died. Finally, when he was twelve, he broke away from the system. No more foster homes, no more people to stare at him in horror, no more family "closeness." His mother was gone, she was the only person he ever wanted to be close to. But he never could, he never could get close to her, until that final day. He remembered that day so vividly: Even in sleep, her face wracked with pain, the same pain he saw each time she moved. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, but was afraid. He knew that with even the slightest touch she would go, never to return. He feared living without her. At nine, he knew of his darkness. His mother tried to explain his "gift" to him. He reached a finger to one of the plants in his mother's hospital room. The green leaf shined in the dim fluorescent light. At his touch, it suddenly yellowed. Destin felt the needles of pain spread through his finger as the plant drooped to a limp brown. He looked back at his mother, the one person he loved most in this world, the one person who didn't shy from him, who didn't stare at him, who didn't fear him. The one person he knew he could never hold, or kiss, or even touch. She moaned in pain. Her eyes opened. In those eyes he saw her pleading and knew what he must do. He gently climbed into the bed beside her. Watching her shallow, labored breaths, he did something he never remembered doing before: he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. As the needles rolled though his body, he felt her relax. In the tenderness of his embrace her breathing calmed. He whispered, "I love you." Her head eased onto his arm. He kissed her forehead and silently said, "Goodbye." Since that day he needed space, no matter the cost. After running away, he found an abandoned shack in the forest and moved in. He would sneak into town to steal a few items here and there. By now most people knew of him, so they tried their best to avoid him. The forest had started to reclaim the shack, so Destin cleared back the vegetation. He would simply remove his shoes and walk about touching the branches with his hands, and dragging his feet through the undergrowth. The forest was pervasive, so he had to do this every few weeks. He maintained a comfortable distance between the forest and his shack. Destin survived, but as time passed he realized he could not continue living this way. His mother taught him that stealing was wrong. He had learned to capture and painlessly kill some of the small animals around his shack, he knew he needed more than that to keep going. The shot echoed through the forest, a loud crack, like a pine tree splitting in the winter cold. Destin crouched low in his yard afraid of a stray bullet. But he heard no more shooting. He figured the hunter missed the deer and decided to go home. In a few moments he went back to clearing his yard when he heard a stumbling. He looked up to see a young doe roll into his square. The doe tried to get up and run, but it couldn't. The hunter had not missed, the shot shattered both front legs. The doe struggled to get away for a moment. Then looking into Destin's eyes, it got very calm. It lay on its side motionless, quietly moaning. Destin gently reached out and touched the doe's flank. Its breathing immediately calmed, then slowed to nothing. Destin watched its eyes slowly cloud. Needing the food, he cleaned the deer, hoping that his use of the deer made its death a bit less senseless. He remembered the shock of seeing the deer trying to escape with the shattered legs. A tear tumbled down his cheek when he thought of the pain. Remembering the deer, remembering his mother, Destin realized what he must do. The next morning he walked into town. He avoided the crowded streets, but still drew some stares. He tried to tell himself that it was just his dark clothes and hair, but he knew why they stared. Towards the far end of town he saw the sign: Dr. Jacob Ives, DVM. He knew most of the animals the doctor treated would recover, but he knew others would not. As he knocked on the door he knew he could help.