At the Slaver's Association
The Fire This Time
At the Realm of Thorns
Dragonfly
Firefly
At the MorCon
Stumbling Blocks
At the ABYSS
Mook Jong
Bright-eyed Fancy,
hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her
pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe
and words that burn.
(Thomas Gray.
The Progress of Poesy.
III. 3, Line 2.)
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DRAGONFLY
Two wanderers trek to the south, through a land just gasping free of winter's grip, through a landscape lush and peacock green, rolling hills dappled with splashes of dirty white, dollops of tainted cream, and what remains visible of the meadows glistening like a treasure trove where the snow has melted. In a few hours, when the sun drops below the horizon line, all of that diamond-sparkling moisture will glaze over; now, though, the glowing orange ball hangs perilously low to the border between day and night, and what it does not lend in warmth, it makes up for in the apricot shine cast across the road. The road. Yes, there is a road, obligatory if there are to be travelers. It is a seldom-worn path, with no paving of which to speak but the spattering of gravel, kicked down from the hillside and kicked back up again by horses' hooves. A trace of a rut, the habit of old wooden wheels, gouges the hard-packed clay, though the rumble of the last carriage to pass through here is just a memory. This is not the only road to the south, and thus is partially explained its loneliness; its serpentine winding makes for a longer route, doubtless another reason for its unpopularity. But the most likely explanation for the forlorn howl of wind across the stretch of empty highway … is that the hillsides are equally barren - fresh grass blanketing the landscape for miles, overgrown and tangled with weeds during the summer months, then beaten down again each year by winter's bite. But there is neither bird nor beast, not another living thing in sight. A single rotting tree trunk stands sentinel on one of the hillsides, bereft of any shred of greenery. This tree has been dead for more seasons than anyone cares to remember, yet its brittle boughs bear the weight of winter snow year after year, and still it does not fall. It is on to this bleak scene that our two pilgrims arrive, wandering from the north at a turtle's pace. One is very tall; the other is shorter, and hunched further still by the weight of a large leather knapsack slung over one shoulder. Otherwise, they are identically attired, in cloaks of wild grey fur, with heavy cowls around their necks and hoods pulled over their heads, to hide their features. Their progress is slow. The tall one ambles with a lazy, unhurried gait, while the small one trudges, clearly beleaguered by the weight of his burden, and fleeting eruptions of mist escape both hoods at irregular intervals. With not a living thing about to disturb their peace, the grinding of footsteps in the gravel and the huff of labored breathing make for a jarring euphony. Father Sol hangs heavy in the sky, the sunset is chasing on their heels, but still they lope along; they are in no particular hurry to elude the darkness.
…silence black and soulless as the rotting belly of a demon… …parched desert air like dust in your throat chronically drunk on the perfume of cactus flowers and dry copper wire lightning… …a thrasher spirals down over the velvet painted darkness, the murmur of infidels, whispering subversion, every beat of his wings hissing blasphemies… …his warble like water over pebbles in a running brook a feeble beacon in the night… The bird circles down from a star-threaded sky, on no more sinister a mission than looking for scrub in which to nest. Down he plummets, towards a speck of light that has caught his attention, a winking amber eye on a field of kohl. Faster and faster he dives towards the earth, violin strings whining out of the silence, and his perspective tilts crazily (wire stretched and catgut sawed) as the figures below him take shape. There is fire; he knows that the flickering topaz light means hot and painful and fields of brush razed, taking the nests and the eggs and even the scorpions with them. There are also humans, far more deadly - but with a brain no larger than a pea, he can hardly reason why, only knows it to be so. His course takes him within feet of the top of the crackling flames, and at the last moment, he pulls up, angling his wings back and turning his head to the sky once more, ascending out of a tight arc. The maneuver takes him sweeping past the temple of a cherub, who is just then pushing a fur-lined cowl back over his golden curls. The boy rears back, blinking startlement, but the bird, with a shriek of alarm, has already disappeared. A pair of leatherclad legs melt into the circle of light cast by the campfire. Painfully lean, these legs seem to stretch for miles. It's an illusion, of course - a torso barely distinguishable as feminine follows just behind, flowing seamlessly into view. |