Every night, until they turned eight, the mother wove stories, while tucking her children in.
But as they got older, her cough got harsher, and the tales got darker.
Her fables were now somber, and much more real. They were cautionary tales – the 'do's and the “don't”s. She lectured them on a danger, a menace always on the prowl. She told them to guard themselves, and never let up.
She spoke of The Roke.
“The Roke always was, and always will be. With red eyes, and tar skin. Woe to those it takes, and more woe to those it leaves behind. Just as you count on the setting of every sun, count on the Roke to come. Be ready my children!”
The middle child would often ask what he might do to beat The Roke. The mother told him her tricks, like eating well and regularly washing, but always ending with the disclaimer, “Your father thought he had The Roke beat, always alert, and 2 steps ahead. The Roke does not care, The Roke will take as many steps needed to reach you. In your father's case, The Roke came in a blink.”
The oldest would ask, “Mother, what if we stay here? I have not seen The Roke stray here by the water.”
“Just because you do not see The Roke, don't assume it doesn't see you. The Roke does not simply obstruct your path in life, it surrounds it. Pacing all around. Look back and it will devour you.”
The youngest never showed much emotion when his mother told him of The Roke. In fact, the only time he looked scared was when she would take her occasional pauses, and cough to clear her throat.
One terrible night, the mother sat on the foot of the porch to enjoy her pipe. The three boys (now young men) were preparing supper, when they heard what sounded like their mother's cough. This was common, so they let it be. Only when the pause for breathing never came did they start to wonder. It became disturbingly apparent that it was not their mother when the coughing evolved into a disturbing growl, causing the oldest to spring to the window.
He saw It there, with red eyes and tar skin. By the look of blood around the mother, she had apparently tried to fight the thing off. When her eyes met those of her gaping sons from the window, she threw her beaten body against the door, barring it. The Roke had enough, and swiftly took her into the dark wood that surrounded the cottage. They never saw her again.
It was now clear to the brothers that the cottage was not off limits to The Roke. The middle child packed his things and headed out to the next town. It was something he had been planning for a while actually. He had been saving the little bits of allowance his mother afforded him, and lived everyday for the next.
The oldest brother never left the cottage, deciding instead to erect a wall. It would secure him from the The Roke, or so he thought. He never got over his mother's death, and begged his brothers to stay with him, never leaving the cottage. He lived everyday for yesterday.
The youngest set off along an old forgotten path, not knowing where it went.
The Roke will take the middle child first. He'll laugh that evil cough, seeing the brother set traps against Him tomorrow. The Roke will not come tomorrow. The Roke comes now.
The Roke took his time with the eldest, slowly chipping away at the wall with Its claws. The brother didn't worry about the small ticking from behind the wall. He was confident in his past work, and in time tuned out the constant ticking like the hum of a fan. It was only when the ticking stopped did he notice it, but by then it was too late, and The Roke was upon him.
The youngest traveled the country, getting the most out of each day he could, The Roke never far behind. Confident after evading Him for many years, the brother settled down and had a daughter. The Roke appeared without warning, as It often did, and took the mother in front of the daughter. When things had calmed down, he told his daughter of The Roke.
“The Roke always was, and always will be. With red eyes, and tar skin. Woe to those it takes, and more woe to those it leaves behind. Just as you count on the setting of every sun, count on the Roke to come. Be ready for It my daughter.”
She cried, “But how?! What's the point if you can't win?”
The father hugged her and whispered in her ear, “The Roke always was, always will be, but never is. Live everyday like The Roke could take you tomorrow, and don't assume it won't because of yesterday. No one really knows where The Roke takes us, so go peacefully with it when it finally comes. Don't let The Roke's possible coming tomorrow ruin what was given to you today!”
http://waitbutwhy.com/2013/09/why-generation-y-yuppies-are-unhappy.html
"We're being taught to hate downwards"
"We're being taught to hate downwards"
