07:29 Dec 12 2016
Times Read: 1,451
A story I wrote back in 2013 I Called Word of the Grandfathers. feedback welcomed:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sENM2wA_FTg
Wreathed in gold
The fires of Daylight licked
along the rounded edges
Strung upon corded silver chain
a single coin of shining ice
Adrift in the cool currents of Night
Winter lay down Her frozen mantle
Trailing crystal cobwebs beneath the eaves of forest nestled in dark recesses untouched
Delighting in the caress of moonlight when
like a game it found Her
Her musical laughter
lacing the air with stinging frost
Her breath the small sound of turning pages
Riches un-looked for lay in a fine powder at their feet. The ankle deep white dusted in pale blues, silver, and opal. A mirror for the vast winter sky that hung like gauzy strips of dark cloth pebbled with bright stones that had no names.
The snow choked forest hid a sleeping life that refused to stir while the wheel turned beneath this hour of the moon. Though natural, this icy tableau, the stars seemed too lonely, the clouds too thin. And while still vital, this world was locked in old secrets, and furtive when spied upon.
A season that did not suffer carelessness.
He has traveled so much in his years. Across the America's from his birthplace called White Mountains, soon after the Nebraska North. The latter was his favorite for hunting.
There was fewer bandits and whites, and the game was plentiful. It was there that he mastered the use of white man's guns and archery, not to mention the use of a shield.
A chilly wind blew about the lands.
Above, and beyond, the stars broke through the cover of the interlaced tops of evergreens, and past that, the silent range of mountains surrounding the Apache camp. Windswept peaks echoed the music from its roots where its children made nightly celebration with fire, song, and dance.
He sat cross-legged, and huddled on the ground at the edge of the world.
Eyes fixed upon his open hand, he collected a patter of rubies fallen from broken lips. Keeping count in barely a whisper at every drop.
"...you slept right here. Your head against the door, curled on the floor. I stood outside all night at the entrance, near the stable there. I watched all night."
"It wasn't a dream; it was just a long time ago."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was that elusive calm.
The tantalizing what-could-be he had been shown once, and then forcibly gifted with. Made to carry a vision, a feeling he seemed never to fully accept. Its path twisting and forked, and just past his ability to navigate.
It was this damned calm that ground its ill-fitting pieces so contentiously against the things he did have. Threatening to dislodge his firm footing. Cast down what he so loved and nurtured with the whispers of promise.
The eye of Day had closed, and by ones and twos, campfires were born in the Apache village. Its walls just past the sheltering tree line only yards away, but far enough removed so that Nah, motionless and alone in the gathering dark, could not be touched or colored by the glow. Every fire, every light source, a small, and largely unconscious ritual of welcoming a new Night.
The lights watched him. Kept him awake, but not at bay. Drove him away sometimes...but that too, was his own choice. It was just that in the gloom he saw clearly, he found calm.
And the not so subtle reminders on his hands.
And a song promised to him.
Freedom.
To live as his Grandfathers did.
The sky promised a midnight storm. Rolling purple clouds smeared over the Night's stars, nebulous and pregnant with thundering rains. The air charged with an anxious hesitation, as if creation held its breath.
He looked up at a tree. It was not the tree he normally had sought but it was tall and old.
Twigs fallen from above hung askew, and at odd angles to the natural growth - caught on lower branches before finding the ground, and their final rest. The breeze sent shivers through the odd geometry, and crackled through the dead leaves.
They seemed to him large insects caught, and twitching, but watchful in their last moments. They he knew where the white man who come upon their lands.
For hours Nah watched them back through his eyes, and ever did the scene shift and change. Sometimes to his delight, sometimes he felt very small, and afraid.
And sometimes some others stood with him and watched too, and they knew things.
And told them to him without mention of price, or promise.
Song burst upon him like a field of dreamed flowers suddenly sprung to life. Opening their petals to a sky and sun that could only exist here, in this right now, in fragrant, clamorous unison. Impossible to imitate. Redolent, and heavy with an emotion whose complexity, and bare honesty threatened to overwhelm...
Nah scrubbed his hands across the coarse hide of his breech cloth. They were both dirty. Sticky with sap. Bits of grass and dry soil clung to the heels of his palms where he had propped himself up when he needed to stand and gather more materials. Likewise, his knees were stained green from shifting position and perching in what seemed like supplication as he continued to work.
With the greatest of care, he wound single strands of ivy into one another until pliant vines became sturdy and retained a perfect shape. Using his thumb and forefinger as pincers, the plant's waxy leaves were pulled away from the tightening circle and set along the outside edges as adornment. They lay in such a way as to seem free and natural. The sharp angles of the ivy lending the garland a thorny look.
Vibrant.
A red so new as to stir the blood.
Where the smooth tangles of ivy gave way to grooves, and empty space, Nah fit the crimson leaves, slashing the crown in swathes of fire. The contrast drew the eye, and bid it to travel the circumference.
That was its secret, and its power.
His now, was in finding the courage to make it his gift.
He knew this vision was from the Grandfathers.
All around him he begun to hear the drums of war.
The strength of the place, however powerful, and out of reach, came in bright torrents from the ancient tree at its center. The magnitude left no room for question.
Thistledown, white and clean, caught the Night's breeze in wide swirls and eddies. Come to rest here and there to paint the green leaves and grass in cottony wisps of pure moonlit ivory.
A painting set alone, and out of time, come to life.
It was a beginning.
COMMENTS
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Liliancat
17:17 Dec 24 2016
Merry Christmas love "Hold a mistletoe over our head kissing you" hihihihihi. Im in christmas mood
MistressAngelique
21:57 Dec 24 2016
Merry Christmas!!
Daize
22:20 Dec 24 2016
merry christmas
MordrakusxMortalitas
01:08 Dec 26 2016
"Merry christmas"? Don't make me destroy you Private! No one will be celebrating at this barracks!! I think its enema time for you son! haha
Happy drinking and fighting day