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Outcast, Ch. 4
Epic
 Created on 6-17-07
 Views(76)
 Story Rating G
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It has not been so long since our revival, only but a few hours. Yet we have been deceived by an illusion for it seems as if we just left. The sounds of the forest echo their sweet music through the twining branches of the luscious trees. Today it is a song of celebration, for even the rocks and trees cannot surrender to the beauty of the winds, the rushing sounds of the sparkling water. Even the rays of the sun dance across the wooden waters, the green fields waltz with the calming breeze. Total piece…total and utter peace.
I turn to my brother. I can see it in his eyes. There is no darkness for his soul remains uncorrupted by worries of trouble and tedious chores of everyday life. I can never fathom how he feels the way he can, how, like the wind, music can flow through him and leave him in a state of total awareness. Awareness of his eyes, his hands, his soul, for his soul is what makes his mind function. I will never fathom his comprehension of beauty.
I stop. Something strange…the ground here is soft, a low rumble of wind surrounds this place. Ahead of us is a pathway formed by the passing of time. Yet it stops, as sudden as the cry of the thunder. We walk forward, cautious and curious, an odd combination for one usually comes before the other.
“Go no further,” calls a deep voice, deeper and stranger than the creatures of the deep.
We look around, eyes darting and bodies unmoving.
“What was that?” I whisper to my brother, crouching as if hunting prey.
“I do not know,” he answers quietly.
“What are we to do?”
A still silence. Another silent moment. The song has faded, the winds have stopped.
I look up. Behold, there is a man clothed in white, his eyes like a blazing fire of a thousand souls. They cry out, reaching for the light withheld in the intensity of his eyes…his blazing eyes.
“Go no further,” he calls.
Overcome with curiosity, we stare at him…at his robes of white, his hair flowing like a twister across his skin of pearl.
“What is this place?” my brother asks.
“It is the cliff of the king,” the man replies. “Holy is the ground he walks upon.”
“King?” my brother laughs at this thought, a laugh of delight though clouded in darkness. “What king is this? I serve no king.”
“As sure as rock is stone,” the white figure calls. “You will. Go no further.”
In his hands he holds a blade, resting it’s tip on the soft soil. It begins to steam, to set ablaze. Fire swirls around the rustic metal, reaching their arms toward the heavens. Intensity fills my eyes, fear it may be called. The hellish heat whips across my face, creating the sweat that is suddenly crawling across my rough skin.
I rise and leave, quickly followed by my brother. The icy chill of rejection calms my damp face, a sense of humiliation overwhelming my senses. My brother does as well. Silence.
King? What king? If he exists, why have we found no home yet? Why is there no safety, no comfort? Why are the problems of the world senseless and overwhelming? No, there is no king.
It has been silent for a while, a sort of depressed anger stirring within my soul. Why did he send us away if there is no king? The fool…a blind Puritanical fool, following in the ridiculous footsteps of a mystic character. Fool.
It is night. The stars blanket the moon, stirring the heartstrings of the noblest savage. The warm air, far greater than the death-like rain before. The full moon shines brightly, glorious, as if an angel smiling down upon us. A southern wind blows, stirring the winding branches of the luscious trees of emerald. Utter peace. Tonight, none shall harm us. No great worries, no great fears. No rejection, no king. Utter peace.
I watch my brother carve a piece of wood. What skill. So sweet, almost senseless. He seems earnest, determined, focused. The moonlight shimmers through him, like the sunrise in a clear stream. Calm, utterly at peace. His knife slivers the wood as they fall to the ground motionless, to ease into the soft soil.
“What is it?” I ask him, trying to ignite a fire.
“Guitar,” he answers. “Like a fawn’s.”
I smile. “But can you play it?”
“Listen,” he whispers.
Success! A small fire burns the earth, it’s heat calming my tranquil nerves.
He puts the instrument within his lap and plucks the stings (perhaps it’s best not known where he got them). He sings, a soft voice as if a symphony of spirits shrouded within mysteries left unto the wind.
“Will you listen?” he sings.
Can she hear,
Of a fantasy unsung .
Can I fall,
Answer call
Of adventure n’er begun.
Surrenders her mind,
To the darkness of the blind,
And in the night I will be there.
Can she see
Can she know
Of her untold grace.
Shadow now,
Shadows bow,
o her purest face.”
I turn to my brother. I can see it in his eyes. There is no darkness for his soul remains uncorrupted by worries of trouble and tedious chores of everyday life. I can never fathom how he feels the way he can, how, like the wind, music can flow through him and leave him in a state of total awareness. Awareness of his eyes, his hands, his soul, for his soul is what makes his mind function. I will never fathom his comprehension of beauty.
I stop. Something strange…the ground here is soft, a low rumble of wind surrounds this place. Ahead of us is a pathway formed by the passing of time. Yet it stops, as sudden as the cry of the thunder. We walk forward, cautious and curious, an odd combination for one usually comes before the other.
“Go no further,” calls a deep voice, deeper and stranger than the creatures of the deep.
We look around, eyes darting and bodies unmoving.
“What was that?” I whisper to my brother, crouching as if hunting prey.
“I do not know,” he answers quietly.
“What are we to do?”
A still silence. Another silent moment. The song has faded, the winds have stopped.
I look up. Behold, there is a man clothed in white, his eyes like a blazing fire of a thousand souls. They cry out, reaching for the light withheld in the intensity of his eyes…his blazing eyes.
“Go no further,” he calls.
Overcome with curiosity, we stare at him…at his robes of white, his hair flowing like a twister across his skin of pearl.
“What is this place?” my brother asks.
“It is the cliff of the king,” the man replies. “Holy is the ground he walks upon.”
“King?” my brother laughs at this thought, a laugh of delight though clouded in darkness. “What king is this? I serve no king.”
“As sure as rock is stone,” the white figure calls. “You will. Go no further.”
In his hands he holds a blade, resting it’s tip on the soft soil. It begins to steam, to set ablaze. Fire swirls around the rustic metal, reaching their arms toward the heavens. Intensity fills my eyes, fear it may be called. The hellish heat whips across my face, creating the sweat that is suddenly crawling across my rough skin.
I rise and leave, quickly followed by my brother. The icy chill of rejection calms my damp face, a sense of humiliation overwhelming my senses. My brother does as well. Silence.
King? What king? If he exists, why have we found no home yet? Why is there no safety, no comfort? Why are the problems of the world senseless and overwhelming? No, there is no king.
It has been silent for a while, a sort of depressed anger stirring within my soul. Why did he send us away if there is no king? The fool…a blind Puritanical fool, following in the ridiculous footsteps of a mystic character. Fool.
It is night. The stars blanket the moon, stirring the heartstrings of the noblest savage. The warm air, far greater than the death-like rain before. The full moon shines brightly, glorious, as if an angel smiling down upon us. A southern wind blows, stirring the winding branches of the luscious trees of emerald. Utter peace. Tonight, none shall harm us. No great worries, no great fears. No rejection, no king. Utter peace.
I watch my brother carve a piece of wood. What skill. So sweet, almost senseless. He seems earnest, determined, focused. The moonlight shimmers through him, like the sunrise in a clear stream. Calm, utterly at peace. His knife slivers the wood as they fall to the ground motionless, to ease into the soft soil.
“What is it?” I ask him, trying to ignite a fire.
“Guitar,” he answers. “Like a fawn’s.”
I smile. “But can you play it?”
“Listen,” he whispers.
Success! A small fire burns the earth, it’s heat calming my tranquil nerves.
He puts the instrument within his lap and plucks the stings (perhaps it’s best not known where he got them). He sings, a soft voice as if a symphony of spirits shrouded within mysteries left unto the wind.
“Will you listen?” he sings.
Can she hear,
Of a fantasy unsung .
Can I fall,
Answer call
Of adventure n’er begun.
Surrenders her mind,
To the darkness of the blind,
And in the night I will be there.
Can she see
Can she know
Of her untold grace.
Shadow now,
Shadows bow,
o her purest face.”
Comments
Please Login to post comments| On June 18th 2007 peterzshadow Said : | |
|
A little bit more of new stuff here. And I really like the song at the end. |
