A PATRIOT DIRGE: The Dying Man

The Tyranny of Time
A Man without Restraint
Darkness and Light

In old age, John Sinclair discovered the tyranny of time. It was measured by the heartbeat of death, the relentless rites of passage, a long night’s journey of endless mourning and the sorrow of being alone.

It was more than being alone in the literal sense. It was more than the absence of a life partner. That was as much a lifestyle choice as the cruel fate of chance. It was more than being abandoned by a family that did not share his values, his thirst for knowledge and his ambition. That too was a choice. One did not have to be lonely being alone.

It was rather the sense of being isolated from the world at large, from the society that molded his mental landscape, that inspired him to engage it on his own terms, and that left him in his twilight years utterly indifferent.

Sinclair was a dying man. It was not a medical diagnosis. To his knowledge, the only crippling disease he had was life itself. Still, he was dying. He felt it – the decay, the rust, the disintegration – in every movement of his aging body, in every thought and perception. It crept into his bones and shadowed him for a decade. In time, he came to welcome it as a blessing that freed him from the normal restraints of living.

Before death became his constant companion, Sinclair was a maker and breaker of kings, princes and the power brokers that pulled their strings behind the curtains of American politics. With death on his shoulder, he realized that everything he had accomplished in his career as a politico, everything for which he had been well compensated, was destructive of everything he believed.

With death as his brother, he had no need to please the eternal other. He had no need to appease the demons that curse lesser men. The dying man is above reproach. He is the ultimate weapon of good and evil. His only master is time and time is a cruel master.

There are times in a man’s life – any man or any woman – when he could do almost anything – rape, murder, things too horrible to pull from the pit of unconscious thought – in order to realize his desires. Most men never gaze into the catacombs and never glimpse the dark side of the moon.

Sinclair was not like other men; he not only glimpsed the dark side, he held a microscope to it; he not only gazed into the catacombs, he lived there – with the rats and ghosts and skulls stacked from floor to ceiling, tomb after endless tomb.

There were times in Sinclair’s life that he could have done almost anything from bankrupting a nation to the assassination of a president. He could have killed or been killed and he no longer cared.

Roman Mason was not the only one to drop down a hole after the election. Sinclair dropped out and came to terms with his only surviving nemesis: death. He realized that everything he ever did was wrong. The sum total of his life on earth was a persistent burden on human kind, a force not unlike a tidal wave or tsunami, a clear and present danger to every living thing.

He was a carrier of the seed of death, a plague that contaminated everything he touched. Knowing that he was dying, a victim of his own disease, and that he could never hope to undo the damage, he swore that if he had a chance he would do whatever he could.

In his dying days, Sinclair was determined to strike a balance. If he could somehow accomplish a great good, he could avenge his former life and leave this wretched earth no better and no worse for his existence.

He had moved beyond the normal constraints of moral upbringing, social values or the tenets of religion. He had moved beyond guilt and pleasure to the cold, calculated equation of cause and effect. All that mattered now was how the world changed.

From the moment he heard the news that Mason was back in the field of play, the air grew cleaner, the colors of life more vibrant, and the music sweeter. Rome was a man of ambition, a dreamer, a seeker of dreams, and a man who did not settle for less than all he could achieve.

The essential difference between Mason and Sinclair was that Mason was constrained by virtue. His strength was his weakness. He could be counted on to do the right thing – save the girl, rescue the child or climb the tree to pull down the crying cat. If not for that most singular flaw, reflected Sinclair, Mason could have ruled the world.

Their last project ended in failure but even failure was sweet when it reached for the heavens. If Rome was back, hope was alive. The universe of possibilities was expanding and no man or woman, however powerful or protected, was secure. At the very least, there was a promise of drama that would breathe momentary life into his dying limbs.

Sinclair leaned back in his easy chair, took a drag on his Cuban cigar, sipped his exquisite French red wine and allowed the music of Tchaikovsky to wash over him. The chessboard was set, the opening moves planned and plotted, and the players in their respective places. He watched the smoke circle hover and settle like a cloud of foreboding. He saw the shadow of death and allowed a contented smile to invade his sullen mood.

"You will have your revenge," he said.

"Come what may, time and the hour run through the roughest day."

He felt the darkness surrounding him. Outside his palatial estate overlooking greater Seattle, a storm was brewing, the darkness within joining the darkness without, and the dark knight, comforted in his darkened, fire lit room, yielded to the sweet temptation of sleep. He succumbed and let himself fall into the web of dreams.

He closed his eyes and saw a light. Fighting an impulse that had ruled his conduct through decades of political machinations, in-fighting, vendetta campaigns, character assassinations, smears and deceptions, he moved forward toward the light and what he saw buried him in shame:

He saw himself dying…alone.