"He’s the last one." That is what the elders said.
"The last of what?" My father asked. They spoke no word. My mother repeated the query. A profound silence filled the room.
That’s how they recounted that experience during family gatherings. I don’t remember that moment. I have a vivid image of that scene in my head, but I know it's a reconstruction of the event that my mind created. Even if I could recall it, it wouldn’t add much value. I was born with a significant hearing loss, so that important declaration made by the elders would have been entertaining mumbles in the ears of my infant self.
The first time I heard rain, I felt fear. It happened after a surgery that allowed me to hear better. The noise of raindrops hitting plants' leaves and the ground was too loud for me, unbearable. The overwhelming frequencies hurt my cochlea; it was actually painful. It was then when I first realized about the voice. Amidst all that terrible sensation, I heard a soothing voice telling me to remain calm. “That water is the essence of life and that rain is life pouring from the skies.” The voice said.
It was just what I needed. Then I recognized that it was a familiar voice, I had heard it before. That voice hummed lullabies, soothing me to sleep with its gentle melody when I was younger. Now I enjoy listening to the rain. It dives me into a contemplative state, and many times, during that state, I wonder about what the elders said: “he is the last one.”
The last one of what?
I left my village 30 years ago and I haven’t returned since. The journey is long, and I always felt that there would be a point in my life when I wanted to return. I really didn’t feel a need to return. I felt comfortable in the urban environment.
“The bright dragon flies above my head, I can feel his might.
Blessed spirit flying above me.
My bare feet on the ground, my wondering head in the sky.
I accept the strength, kindle my fire within.
The path leads to the mountain.”
That’s how the voice whispers. It is soft, soothing, and wise. It has led me through challenging moments in my life, especially when the great collapse occurred.
It all happened in slow motion. Civilizational decay came just after I finished my master's degree; what an absurd coincidence. I was in my mid-thirties, living in the capital city of what used to be a country. Now that I think about it, it is hard to say when it actually started. Some said the main catalyst was the pandemic of 2020; others say before, others quote the beginning of the Eurasian war. Long story short, armed conflicts started popping everywhere on the planet: nations vs nations, genocide, gang wars, corporate militias; you name it, it happened. Governments did what they do best: be incompetent, just feed violence with more violence. They sent troops to restore peace and order, but frankly, it only worsened the situation. Soon, armies started to split into rival factions. Conflict was everywhere.
I fled the city and went back to the mountains the moment that the gang wars took over my neighborhood. I truly never thought that I would see that during my lifetime. The confrontation between the military and gangs was still far from the city. But the voice told me it was time to leave, time to return to the mountains. I ignored it. I was in a state of denial because I was afraid to lose all that I had built in the city. I liked my neighborhood, my friends; I was starting a project I really liked. But the voice grew louder and louder, until a big storm came. A torrential rain fell over the city. I was laying on my bed staring through the window, pondering the dark sky when I heard it loud and clear:
“Silent words to he who won’t listen, ashes filling your lungs, corpses filling the street.
The time is now, the way leads to the mountain.”
Then I heard a big explosion. I stood up and saw a big smoke column rising. It seemed like it came from the northern side of the city. I realized I could no longer ignore the messages. I had to leave.
I told my friends I was leaving the city. They told me I was being ridiculous. That we lived in the capital city and the government was not going to allow the war to take over. The news stated that the explosion was an isolated event and that the police had found the people who were behind the attack. Nevertheless, my voice and my instinct were certain that I had to go back to my territory. So, I packed everything and left.
My hometown is located deep in the mountains, between valleys, rivers, and deep canyons. I couldn’t take much with me because it takes a long grip to get home. In order to access the community, the final three days are done by foot, traversing muddy paths, rainforests, and rivers. But once you get there, it is a mystical place.
The moment I got there, I immediately wondered why did it take me so long to return. The village is located at the sides of a volcano in the middle of the Amazon. It is a sacred mountain. The elders say that there were years where it would snow at the peak. It has the most strategic and beautiful panorama of the rainforest. The houses were intact. Everything looked the same as the moment I had left, as if it was frozen in time. I ran to my house; I was so excited that I dropped my bag. I just ran; I wanted to drink the tea my mother always made, I wanted to hug them, so I ran even harder. Finally, I saw the wooden house, perfectly standing next to the ceiba tree. Just as I remembered it. I went for the door and called for my mother and father. Nobody was home. Maybe they went to my aunt's house. That's the moment I realized that I didn’t see anyone on the way there. I ran to my aunt's house; it was also empty. I ran looking for someone at the other houses. All of them were intact but with none inside. It made no sense; all their belongings were there. I was alone. I was the last one.