Beyond The Veil

CHAPTER 1 
Catastrophe 


“Oh no, I can’t believe this. This can’t be real. No, it can’t…” Jerome, a painter complained in anguish, as his work of art lay torn in the rubbish. “Will the world be destroyed by humans…who knew not how it was created?” 
An agonized mother ran past him, resting her weak hands on her head and wailing in pains, “My four sons are lost in the flood; my husband is stolen by the storm; my house is destroyed by fallen trees.” 
The painter took his mind completely away from the woman’s trauma and from the devastating state of his environment. His heart was on his lost work of art. 
“She mourns her sons as though she suffered as much to produce them as I suffered to create my lost portrait.” This was indeed ironic, for he did feel that childbirth pains and child nurture were child’s play. 
He was so buried in his miseries that he could not think of the problems of others, of which some were far greater than his. The world had come to a time when one had to mind one’s business. There was no better time to live such a self-centered life than now, for the land of Sapienland was experiencing the worst of its moments. 
Jerome had, within a twinkle of an eye, lost all for which he had labored and lived—his works of art, his family, and his house. But his art was dearer to him than any other thing. After all, he was not a diligent husband and father, nor was his house of any importance apart from sheltering his precious works. His children were important to him as long as they kept assisting him in his workshop, so was his wife, as long as she did not stop the children from running the errands that freed his creative energies. 
Stormy winds and crashing trees felled his house. Now, the house was at rest…a heap of rubble on the ground. He did not know the whereabouts of his two daughters and wife after the disastrous hurricane, but he knew where his now-spoilt artworks were. He almost saved one—the portrait of his younger daughter—and very nearly lost his life in the process. 
Now, he had located a part of that beautiful portrait. He knelt in front of the broken piece, lamenting and recounting the cost. 
At that moment, a beautiful lady walked in his direction, a pensive frown marring her radiant face. She was Ella, a popular singer who frequented the royal theater to perform for the noblemen of Sapienland, especially the King, Gordon, who admired her voice so much that his wife, the queen, began to become uncomfortable about the singer’s presence in the castle. Ella was famous, and if not for the current misfortune in the land, would have been accompanied by guards and some maidens who would not only announce her presence but pave her path with lovely flowers. 
Jerome’s attention was caught by the mood of the once radiant damsel, the disheveled nature of her hair, and the dirt that besmirched her dress. This was one of the strangest sights Jerome had witnessed since the disaster had passed two days back. 
Ella was a highly placed citizen, and holding a conversation with her was impossible unless the second party was equally highly placed. 
Jerome was just an artist of no particular repute, but the disaster had stripped men of ranks and honors. Anyone could speak with anyone, provided he or she had survived the wreckage. 
Ella reached where he knelt and seemed about to walk past him, when Jerome decided to talk to her. “My star,” he called in a humble tone. “What ails you so that you frown this much?” 
At first, the sorrowful lady said nothing, but when she realized the vanity of her silence, she had to say something. “Has art taken over your consciousness that you no longer recognize a disaster when it strikes? Have you lost touch completely with events in your environment?” 
“Yes, I have lost my consciousness as long as my artworks remain lost. Yet, I doubt if my question was unreasonable” 
“Thank God you lost only your consciousness and a few colorful boards. I have lost everything—I mean…everything.” Tears floated in her succulent eyes. “I have lost my voice, my guards, and my sponsors. My great name dwindles even as I stand here, for the theater is torn apart and only pillars remain. My fame is gone.” 
“No one, when once truly famous, stops remaining famous, somehow, as long as one is still alive,” Jerome argued lightly, though not helping matters. 
“What are you saying? That I can still be famous somehow when there are no people to sing my praises? Do you mean that this disorganized Sapienland can give a listening ear to my songs? My musicians and fans are dead—their dead bodies adorn the land. The few survivors are too sad and too concerned with personal resuscitations to pay attention to me. No one greets me, and many people have by virtue of agony even forgotten my name.” 
“Start the process afresh,” Jerome advised idly, brushing aside her concerns. 
“You are indeed a confused soul,” she huffed. 
Just then, a whisper emanated from a nearby pile of objects, scattered then gathered and kept there by the violent wind. The whisper became louder, and Jerome would have concluded that someone was buried beneath the huge pile, but Ella realized that the voice actually came from the other side, where their eyes could not reach. With a little research, they found that the voice came from a human being, a man named Richens, the wealthiest man in Sapienland before the flood. He wore only knickers and carried in his hand a small bottle. 
What could have brought such a soul into the midst of rubbish? “Sir, you?” Jerome asked in utter incredulity, “What is wrong?” 
“I know your problem, gentleman,” Ella said, referring to Jerome, “You don’t know the right questions to ask. Don’t you already know that all is wrong?” 
Richens turned to them with a grimace. “What ails the two of you? Mind your own businesses and leave me to die in peace.” 
“Why do you want to die? You are the wealthiest man in the land! And, thank God, you survived the dreadful day. Your miraculous survival should be a source of motivation for further living, not death,” said Jerome. 
Visibly ruffled by such statements, Richens was stirred to try to stand. Indeed, he would have given Jerome the slap of his life, if not for the weight of his sorrows. In the end, however, he plopped back down amid his painful memories. “Leave my presence! Let me drink this poison and die. My wealth is buried in the sand and scattered abroad by the storm. My investments are gone. The fruits of my labor are scattered into the thin air. I am alone, sharing the same fate as the man who did and had nothing, who was not useful with his life. I have no reason to live now.”