1 1/2.
His instructions are to move to an outpost far
from the lands I know. It is said that
this place of low cover and sparse population is brown most of the year. The only water its inhabitants get is brought
from miles away, in buckets leaking, cracked, broken, or chipped. Supplies are limited – wood is a luxury. I wonder what I’m going to sleep on; I worry
about what I’m going to eat. Some
questions, I think, are necessary.
When I approach his tousled bedding
under the ancient terebinth tree, he looks up.
He’s just been packing up everything he owns- which is not much, since
he does not abide much by material objects.
In his clear eyes I see reflected his sword, his sleeping implements, a
napkin with a crust of bread, a skin of wine, and his book. All are stacked on top of one another.
“I’m
going to prepare a place for you,” he says, by way of explanation. Then he says, “Go out and wait for my instructions.”
I know what he’s told me. It was the last set of instructions he left
me. Still, I ask, “My Lord, where is it
that you are going?”
“Beloved,” he says. He stands, pulling his possessions into a
neat sack with one fluid motion. “You
already know, or have you not seen? Do
you not know why we fight these battles?”
I mumble something. His eyes pierce, though they are sharp they
are smooth. Clear cut ocean waves wash
through my being. I speak, though I know
not how. “The light. We are the light.”
He smiles at me, and the waves
roll over me, enwrapping me in the right blend of warmth and coolness. “For the light, we must be present, dear
one. It is the presence that matters.”
Now as I recall his words my
trek seems not as long or laborious.
Safe green scenes have been far gone.
My feet scuff the dry grey earth.
The sun beats down upon my neck, the light and heat pressing to my
bones. Inside of me resides the only
liquid for miles.
I have arrived. The house has sprung from the ground, wanting
and empty. One wool blanket lies on the
middle of the floor. Some packages of
food follow the curve of the walls.
Darkness now. No wood means no fire, which means no light,
and no presence. What did he say,
though? We are the light. Light is more easily seen when all else is
dark. My eyes shine across the horizon,
searching for a spark anywhere, but nowhere is there a flame except the slight
shine of the blade resting upon my knee in the new moon. Even it reflects blackness.
Weeks encompass days. I hear no visitors, no enemies. It seems I am alone in this desolation. There are no inhabitants. No fights occur, except the carrion so far on
the horizon’s flat blue ceiling. I watch
them circle low, fight, occasionally dive, and as I sharpen my keen blade its
grinding scratches on the block set words to the dance.
No word comes to me. I stop looking for anyone. Sitting inside day after day, I sharpen the
blade. The food supply is running down. Sometimes I cut open the boxes, just to make
my own small city, where fallen bits of rice or crumbs serve as people. These characters have lives that I
control. They go where I want. They look to me for their next decision.
I figure they need things:
food, water, bedding, transportation.
Dried grass or gravel bits are purposed for most objects, but I think it
is not enough.
Our food is getting low. I cannot wait for another day. In the waning sun’s light I steal away from
the hut born of earth, towards the rising moon.
Under its rays I wander far and wide, until I can no longer recognize
where I am.
By a weed I discover a
rabbit. It becomes my food when I burn
the bush for fuel and skin its furs from its scrawny flesh. That wasn’t nearly enough.
Farther into darkness I
travel, stepping along the broadest path I can find. There is a deer. It’s wounded already. When it sees me it panics, shrieking in
almost intelligible utterances. I
understand what it’s saying: “End it.
End it now. I cannot wait in
agony.” I comply with its wishes.
It may be the darkest part of
the night. I hear whispers. Crackling twigs turn my head. Glowing eyes stare at me from nowhere, the
air, it seems. I start choking as a line
is drawn across my neck. My hands are
tied, my body bound, and I am thrown over something hard. It is a wooden beam.
There are many of them; I can
hear them talking as we walk. I have
tried to see them clearly, but someone has placed a bag over my head. From what I can understand, they are debating
whether to kill me now, or to keep me.
They have decided to keep me
tied up for the time being. I am blindly thrown into a wall connected to some
other walls. A sharp clang tells me I am
imprisoned behind steel and stone.
I have found an enemy, but I
have no weapon. They took my blade. They took everything. Only time they leave me, which roars against
me with no little fury.
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