End The LightCatcher

Prologue

  End

  But in a lonely part of the City of Lions, in the last cell, of the last prison-like hallway of the Institute of Salvation, (a holding house for kids deemed useless by society economically or otherwise), a young boy, aged 13, writhes in his bed and felt the suffocating embrace of loneliness. He had the curly hair of the adventurous cupid, the face of an angel and the sparkling eyes of a thousand moonlit nights. Those innocent blue eyes were meant to inspire purity and goodness, to preach to others to have fun and that life was to be enjoyed. But there he was, twisting in pain, struggling in agony, unable to sleep. Little lines of moonlight crept in through the tiny cell window smaller than a rat hole, and gently scarred his face. The little light made his nervous sweat sparkle, hinting that not on this night, nor on any other night in his life, had he ever experienced the concept of a good night’s rest.

  His name is End.

  So who is he? And how exactly did our hero end up in this predicament?

  End Cloud was born on the 11th October 3000 in Cow House hospital situated on 100 Tin Hill Road in the City of Lions. He was the son of two renowned Cloud painters, J Cloud and A Cloud, who owned the most prestigious Cloud Painting company in the City of Lions known as Cloud Link Pte Ltd, founded in November 2988. But what was Cloud Painting you might ask?

  Well, Cloud Painting was an occupation that arose somewhere in the year 2988, when the massive popularity of the City meant that there was a tremendous strain for the city to fork out more land to build housing. J, End’s father, had proposed to the Garment that the solution of this problem was the clouds. Together with the famous “All Star Research Labs” owned by the Garment, he produced a miracle, the ability to build residential and commercial buildings on clouds. Building a city in the sky was a lucrative business, and how J wished that his son would stop being ignorant and lazy, and one day inherit his Cloud Painting business. But Alas the stubborn End, who still did not seem to know what he wanted to do in life, knew exactly what he did not want to do in life.

  He did not want to become another over worked Cloud Painter.

  Sigh. What a silly Boy.

  And so, the boy came of age, and had to face the Systematic Affiliation Destiny test. The S.A.Ds is really just a very simple test. It comprised of a hundred questions, each question pertaining to a specific field of expertise, from nuclear physics to professional cat-rescuing from trees. Each question was an extremely difficult and advanced question that only an expert in that field could possibly answer, for example, ‘How do you build a Hadron collider in your basement?’, or “What method of psychology must you use to approach a petrified cat on a tree such that it does not plunge to a sudden and premature death?” The system seemed like a genius means of evaluating the destiny of a child, but unfortunately there was just one little major setback.

  There were no questions pertaining to the field of arts.

  But why was it so? Well, there were two reasons. Firstly, art in its purest form has no true means of evaluation. For example, if you asked me if a Vincent Van Gogh was worth more than a Leonardo Da Vinci, I would ask you in which year you were referring to, and even if there was a particular year, whoever said that price determined the value of art? And what value were we talking about? Were we talking about money or value to society? Thus it presented a real headache to the people setting the S.A.D test papers at the education ministries of Nation Earth. Believe me, they did go through that terrible headache, all one hour of it, before realizing that it was time to knock off, and that it was not a question worth pursuing because of the pain it brought to their heads.

  Secondly, the governing body of Nation Earth could not be bothered with something as trivia as a painting or a the ability to write a good song when there was big money to be made in other fields such as science, or mining, or agriculture. What good was the ability to dance, if the society had become a place where nobody was interested in watching you? Everyone was too busy making money to survive, as costs went up so high that some millionaires in certain cities were professional beggars.

  Thus begun society’s mad struggle.

  With rising cost of living, almost all parents in the City of Lions made sure their children were tutored for almost twenty four hours a day, so that they could become a lawyer, doctor, whichever the field that made the most money. It was a mad scramble for their kids to master a field of expertise, let’s say law, just so that they can answer that one question correctly, and be sent into law school by the S.A.Ds system. Some parents forced their kids to master eight fields of expertise as a precautionary measure in case they are unable to answer that one question. There are also rumors of parents who wanted their child to master twenty. In life, there were no excuses when a child failed to survive in a tough city. And so, under such heart pounding circumstances, End managed to do the one thing that frightened his parents into absolute fear.

  He managed to get zero on his SADs.

  His parents were frantic, laughing hysterically, angry, sad, and hopeless. The slew of angry words left the lips of J, and entered the ears of End. But why was End such a silly boy? And was he a silly boy to begin with?

  Well the stubborn character of End began the moment he was born. In the beginning, he aced every subject he studied. The heaps of praises came flowing in, and so did presents. But as time went by, he felt a strange feeling that something was amiss about everything. He felt a kind of unexplainable emptiness. Watching his peers around him, he was not content that this was all there was to a kid’s life. There were times he just wanted to draw, sing, or paint something somewhere for no more than the reason of wanting to do so, but there was just no time. He realized that a kid in the City of Lions simply had no time. As he prepared to master two fields of expertise, someone else was mastering ten. And then, there was the rumor that even if you answered that one question in the S.A.Ds correctly in your field, there was still a quota for any occupation, especially the ones in high demand like lawyers or doctors.

  Ridiculously, there was even an online underground stock market, where you could enquire, buy, sell and trade information about the current market salary for any occupation, as well as the quota for the occupations. The industry of “sample past year test papers” of the SADs was booming, even though they were irrelevant, because no question was ever repeated. But you have got to understand parents here, as they were normal human beings. They too needed the maximum assurance of their child’s survival, or at least something like a solid piece of rock to hold on to, while falling off a cliff.

  And so with such high stakes, it is no wonder that every parent virtually made a time-table for their child to ensure that not even a second of their child’s life is unplanned or wasted. Kids grew up to become parents, who had kids, who became parents, and the cycle goes on. And so, life for kids, as End realized early, became a systematic list of things to do. No randomness, no time for play and fun. And as days went by, End grew tired of this life. His initial thirst for knowledge was doused like a pile of sand on a matchstick fire. Because his parents felt the fear of his imminent doom of possibly failing the SADs, they piled even more pressure on him. The harsh pressure added to his depression, the depression added to his negligence, and his negligence invited even more pressure from his parents. Yes, a vicious cycle.

  All in all, the episodes in his life finally cemented End’s belief that studying was pointless, and that life was meaningless. But this was neither a wise or practical belief. For when a child failed the SADs, he will be brought before a machine called the Sphere of Influence. No one knew for sure, who invented the Sphere of Influence. Some said that it was designed in the City of Eagles and made in the City of Dragons, (also nicknamed the City of Pandas) But that could be a rumor. I could not tell for sure, but the last time I checked, the machine did have a sticker underneath that wrote “Made in Panda”.

  But none of this was relevant. What’s important was that the Sphere was a cruel device where the subject’s entire so
ul would basically be erased, his body be given brute strength, and his mind be converted to one which simply followed instructions. The Sphere was the perfect Zombie making device, and it was introduced to every city in 2965, as a mandatory punishment device for children who were underperforming in their city.

  And so, it was amidst a hurricane storm of tears that End’s parents had to endure the sight of police officers dragging End away. He would be housed in the Institute of Salvation where he would dwell until his appointment date with the Sphere of Influence could be secured. But something was wrong with End. You would be amazed to know that there was no expression on End’s face as he was dragged away. The pressures of being a young man in the city had already frozen his heart to a degree below zero. No longer able was he, to care for anything in the world since he felt that no one in the world understood or cared about his feelings. He was also too young and naïve, as he believed that the Sphere of influence or death for that matter would not frighten him. He was right, the Sphere of Influence is nothing like death. It was much worse.

  All these memories flashed past End’s mind, as he laid there in his cell, still with the same defiant expression on his face on the night before his date with the Sphere of Influence.

  An old Indian janitor snored just outside End’s cell. He was mostly bald but had short white-grey hair at his sideburns and a large round-rimmed pair of glasses. A distinctive moustache and a walking stick just next to him was his trademark.

  Suddenly, the sound of footsteps drew near. A young guard with a face of a natural born nitwit came down the spiral staircase. He had one of those faces that you could immediately laugh at or mistake for a silly looking villain who thought too highly of himself. He came down and shook the snoozing old janitor with some degree of rudeness. But the old janitor with his kind face did not mind. It’s about how you look at the things that life threw at you, as he saw it as a sign that it was time for him to go home for dinner. The old janitor picked himself up and began to pack his things.

  “Is that the boy who is completely useless?” whispered the young guard. Talking behind someone’s back had a way of not coming off as a whisper. Poor End heard everything with crystal clear clarity. The janitor smiled. He did not answer, but simply went about packing up his things to be on his way. The young guard went on rambling.

  “How can anyone fail the Systematic affiliation Destiny, (S.A.Ds) test? I tell you what, it is probably written in his destiny that he will never amount to anything in life,” laughed the young guard.

  A tear rolled down the cheek of End. Of course he had heard that one before. Teachers and adults repeated it like a nursery rhyme to him. But just like wasabi in the eye, no matter how many times you have experienced it before, it still stung the next time.

  “Poor kid. So sad to see him die tomorrow at such a young age.”

  “He is not dying tomorrow,” murmured the janitor

  “Yeah? But after the reformatting of his brain by the Sphere, he will just be a muscular brain-dead person doing manual labor for the rest of his life. Isn’t that a fate worst than dying?”

  The young guard looked around. The janitor had disappeared. The young guard shrugged his shoulders and noticed a cup of coffee that sat on the table. It was still warm and seemed to be untouched. The young guard devoured the coffee. The caffeine relaxed him, as he began to cross his legs and lean back in his chair with an arrogant smile. He gave the boy a know it all, British-spy suave look and continued his ramblings.

  “I just can’t imagine myself failing all my academics and ending up like a mindless freak like you,” he said, while enjoying his coffee, “I mean unlike you, some of us actually work hard to keep this society going.” The young guard put his hands behind his head and fell asleep seconds after he said those lines.

  “I’m sorry I forgot my teeth,” said the janitor, who had appeared out of nowhere. The young guard jumped. He looked on in disgust as the janitor reached his hand into the coffee cup and took out his false teeth. The janitor apologized with a slight bow, and went up the stairs again. The young guard dashed to the nearby basin and rinsed his mouth like he was trying to wash the white off his teeth. End could feel him leave from the distancing sound of his boots. At least the guard’s rambling kept him company. Now that the scorn was gone, so was the company.

  Although sometimes it may seem that people are without talent, it is often in their quieter or more desperate times that they show who they really are. Left completely alone, End made two little cute shadowy men with his fingers for company. One might think at first glance that the light from the candles and his fingers were responsible for these two shadow men appearing. That is until the shadow men came alive of course, pulling away from the shadow of his fingers.

  “Good evening Bob and Rob.” Said End.

  The two shadow men did a little polite bow on their own. They were identical and completely black, complete with round heads and no expression. One of them, assumedly Bob, seemed so happy to be alive that he began dancing on his own.

  “What shall we do today? Shall we do Shakespeare?”

  Bob and Rob shook their heads in fierce protest.

  “Macbeth maybe?”

  Bob and Rob slumped to the ground, and held their heads with both hands in disinterest.

  “Alright, then what would you like to do?”

  Bob and Rob began fighting.

  “You want to do a Kungfu movie?”

  Bob and Rob jumped up and down in glee. Yes! They exclaimed! Yes!

  “This is what I get when I let the two of you watch too much kungfu movies. No. Too much kungfu!”

  But the ever-accommodating End did Kungfu with them nonetheless.

  “I don’t know what is it with actors and kungfu! Why do you guys get so childish when you hear that word? Alright, you play the Shaolin monk and you play the modern day Kungfu master.”

  Rob was unhappy. Using only body gestures, he hinted “Why do I always have to be the shaolin monk?”

  “Because your head is rounder,” replied End.

  Rob looked at Bob. Bob looked back. They examined each other’s head for roundness. They looked identical, so they didn’t have the slightest clue of what End was implying.

  “Hey, I had you guys since I…first cried. I know whose head is rounder!”

  After some deliberation, rehearsals started.

  “No, no, no! When Rob kicks you, dodge that way, then you repel him with both fists! Bob, remember to duck, I don’t want anyone hurt during this rehearsal you hear me?” commanded End.

  Rob and Bob nodded, and they enjoyed their sessions with End. End should be happy in this moment, but it didn’t show. His face still featured the same frowning depressed expression that had become his face. But he treated this little activity with such passion and professionalism that you would have thought he was working. One of the cute shadowy men accidentally slipped and smacked the other in the face while doing a complicated dance routine.

  “Now what did I just say?” asked End.

  The one that fell down placed both hands on his hips in anger. The second one put his hand to his own head in a gesture of apology. End wanted to laugh, but his emotions won’t let him. His heart was still frozen.

  Just then, one of the shadow man tugged at End’s shirt and pointed at someone behind him. Rob and Bob disappeared. End turned his head. In the cell across his, was a man with disheveled wild hair. He was a remarkably small man, very thin and pale. He had large intense eyes, but his face was otherwise rather plain, and spelt no hint of his true hidden talents. He was trying to sit upright, but was sick. Without turning his neck, his eyes moved the same way the eyes of Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa would have moved, if the painting were alive. People always said that the eyes of the Mona Lisa followed you no matter the angle with which you glanced the painting from, and the look of this man was no different. The man observed End. Then quickly, his eyes shifted back to their comfortable position for sta
ring into empty space. End thought that he really looked like a painting.

  “Hi.” Said End.

  “Are you not afraid of talking to a traitor to your city?” asked the man. When he spoke, his voice was tenor, and rather soft and delicate.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just because other people do not know our talents doesn’t mean we are useless to the world.” Said the man. End paused for a moment.

  “I have no talent,” said End.

  “Everyone has talent.”

  “Not me.”

  “I saw what you did with the shadow men.”

  “That’s not talent.”

  “It is. Anything is a talent and everyone has one. And you know what’s the funny thing about talent?”

  “What?”

  “No matter how hard you try to hide them, like bubbles, they will always come to the surface.”

  “What is your talent then?” asked End. In that very moment, when that question was asked, it was as if a surge of electricity penetrated the man’s spine and brought him to life. As he began to speak again, it was as if his voice changed into something so powerful and moving, like he was a person who was enthusiastic about everything in life. He plucked out a violin from underneath his bed, and steadied his chin on it, ready to play.

  “Where did that come from?” asked End.

  “The springs and wood from my bed. Would you like me to play you a song?”

  “That would be lovely,” said End with an uninterested look on his face.

  The man with the wild hair raised his bow. He looked at End like he was a proud king.

  “Music is the key to soothing my emotions.”

  He steadied his proud chin on the violin, and froze like the Thinker Statue for a second. It was as if a minute passed by, or maybe an hour. Maybe the man wanted his audience to experience the silence before the commencement of his supposed award-winning performance. End waited. Even the wind in the room was still. A fly, which had been moon-bathing in the moon, froze and paid attention.

  Suddenly, the man began jerking his head around with break-neck speed like he was playing a hundred year old classical masterpiece. The only trouble is, no sound came out. End stared at him for the longest time. It was always terrible when you had to tell someone who seemed so enthusiastic that he was no good in the very thing that he thought he was good at. It was that same feeling that the judges on the panel of reality singing shows sometimes felt when they saw someone making a fool of themselves. I take that back, it was actually easy for some judges, and even sometimes, easy for the contestants because attention was what they wanted.

  The man continued on and on as if he was enjoying every second of it. His hands and fingers were moving way faster than any musician on the planet. But still, that one major unresolved problem remained. No sound came out. It was a long and strange concert for End, and finally after what seemed to be a finale, the man stopped, and took a breath. The way he took his breath was as if he was very proud of what he had done, and a million people had applauded him. The fly that had been moon-bathing in moon-light, left, rather disappointed. End thought that if the man were attempting to be a mime playing a violin, he would have been the greatest show on earth.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Erm, yes.”

  “Did you understand it?”

  End paused for the longest time. To lie or not to lie, that was the question.

  “Not really, but it was enjoyable.”

  A Half-lie. Typical of End. Always accommodating and compromising.

  “It was my latest piece. Well, a portion of it. To be more precise, my favorite portion from a longer piece. It is called “Dies Ire”. Don’t be modest. Unleash your sharp knives of criticism and bleed me. That is the only way art can grow. Tell me, did you enjoy it?”

  End was speechless. See. You should never drag a lie. You would then need another lie to cover that first one, and another to cover the one you used to cover the first one.

  “What did it mean?” End opted for a straightforward truth. Good choice.

  The man squinted his eyes. He didn’t like it that End didn’t know a thing about his music. But he was also glad that End was honest.

  “One day perhaps you can tell me.” Said the man with a smile.

  “What is your name?” asked End.

  “If you know not of my music, what good is my name?”

  “I just want to make a new friend before I die.” Said End.

  The man smiled.

  “I am Amadeus. And you are?”

  “End,” replied End, “Nice to meet the last of you.”

  “Haha. Deadpan humor I see. Nice to meet the last of you too. I am sorry to have to say this, and this may come off as a little crude, but, has anyone told you that with a name like that, it’s going to be rather difficult for you to make it through life?”

  End laughed with sarcasm directed at him.

  “I won’t have to worry about that very soon would I?”

  “Oh, but maybe you do. You were born to do great things.”

  “Oh, not again.” Said End.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I have been hearing all my life.”

  “Then you must indeed be very talented.”

  “No! It is from people who expect too much from me. This entire city expects too much of me. In fact that is the most over-used phrase I have ever heard in my life, and any attempt by me to do anything is immediately met with the instantaneous comment that ‘Not bad, ninety-nine upon hundred is good, but you were born to do greater things. I am tired of that phrase. Why can’t people ever be satisfied?”

  Amadeus seemed to understand every word the boy was saying. End took his time to study the face of Amadeus. The wrinkles of this man Amadeus, spelt that perhaps he had been through much more than End had. Amadeus closed his eyes in some sort of meditation and took a deep breath. He began to listen. What was he listening to? End didn’t understand this. It was a good minute before Amadeus said something again. As he ended his meditation, he did so with a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” asked End.

  “That I am absolutely right about you. You were born to do great things.” End shook his head. Another adult that didn’t understand him, he thought. But he looked back at Amadeus. He noticed that as Amadeus said those words, he was grooving his neck to an imaginary song as if it was the greatest tune ever played. This crazy man must be full of imaginary sounds, thought End.

  “Look, I told you…” asked End.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret!” interjected Amadeus with a whispering voice, “Our souls are actually symphonies. I can hear them! And sometimes I can see them! Your emotions are the notes and scales. Your character is the style of the piece, but the most interesting of course is your destiny. A person’s destiny will always be his or her unfinished piece of music that is begging the author to make meaning of, begging the person to continue, to finish. That, my friend, is actually the beauty of life.”

  End didn’t understand a word he said.

  “In time you will understand. But just remember one thing. Beware the poison.”

  “What Poison?” asked End.

  “For instance, I have been poisoned.” said Amadeus with a strange and sad expression on his face.

  “By what?”

  Amadeus pointed to his own head, and then he looked at End with understanding eyes. He touched his own chest.

  “I know that all you are feeling right now is pain and anguish at everyone, because no one listened to you. But every difficulty you face, are but trials that help guide you as you write your own symphony. They are but opening overtures of the beautiful melody that is your destiny. And my oh my, your adventure will be one of the greatest symphonies ever written.”

  End was really sick of hearing people say that to him. Thankfully for him, before Amadeus could say any more, some guards led by the young guard who drank false-teeth brewed coffee cam
e down the stairs. They were looking at Amadeus. Amadeus saw them and felt uneasy. End knew that Amadeus’s time was up.

  “Beware the poison.” Said Amadeus as he prepared himself for his departure.

  “What poison?” asked End.

  The guards unlocked the doors of Amadeus’s cell. Amadeus actually struggled a little, but he stopped. Like a man who knew he was dying, he decided to look at End with a face filled with hope instead of fear.

  “I like your symphony. Unlike mine, yours will not end tomorrow,” said Amadeus, as the guards came to escort him. Amadeus seemed ready. Amadeus came past the bars of End’s cell.

  “Tomorrow, your symphony begins. But only if you want to. Learn to nurture your talents before it is too late.” continued Amadeus.

  The guards led him out and escorted him away. Amadeus took one last look at End before he was escorted out of the long hallway of the cell. End did not know what the confusing man was rambling about. He couldn’t care about nurturing any talent at this point of time because all he felt was fear. As Amadeus disappeared into the dark alleys, End knew that it would be his own turn tomorrow. He tried to get some sleep, but it was impossible.