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Outcast, Ch. 6
Epic
 Created on 7-14-07
 Views(105)
 Story Rating G
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It is the voice of a man. It rises above the stretches of the golden wheat, a single sound amidst the grey silence. Frightening at first, I feel my nerves and muscles start to ease as I soak in the gentle and powerful song. Music…I have not listened to music in a very long time.
“He-ah, he-ah, he-ah-tah,” it begins. He is alone in his song, but not for long. He shouts- “Notae aba ju tokdono!”
There comes a chorus. Loud, powerful, it strikes my mind as curious. What sort of people are these? In a swift flood come the women, many women. More than I can count, more than I can see. Within their eyes contain the life of a thousand stars as the vibrant colors of their dresses swirl about the wind as if a gathering of a triumphant river sent to destroy a lifetime of evil. They carry giant baskets on their heads, twirling about to their jubilant song.
“Nota aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju shundaz,
Hebada s’que geat,
Notae s’ta ju rotes,
Embat fle k choo,
Two by two.”
I know not what they sing. I know not their purpose, but their symphony is soothing as the wind. What are they doing? Why? I watch as they gather their wheat, placing it gently in their interwoven baskets. Such grace, such beauty. There is no voice that strikes the great storm, no crackling for every voice rides the along Earth. An overwhelming array-no-composition…peace of mind that…
We walk along the fields, curious as a dog. Watching…observing, noting their foreign and alien culture unfold before our eyes. We come to a city, intertwined amidst the trees. The men are here. They join in.
“Notae aba ju sou.
Notae aba ju shundadas.
Hebaba s’que ju tenta,
Obtae s’ta ju worlda,
Embat fle k choo,
Three by three.”
The women-
“Notae aba ju nam’sou,
Notae aba ju tenquas,
Hebasta s’que geat,
Comqua s’ta weant,
Embat fle k choo,
Four by four.”
A man, his incredible voice-
“Notae aba ju sou!”
All-
“Notae aba ju shundadas!”
A woman-
“Notae aba ju tokdono!”
They all work, every one. Yet, strangely enough, no tears, no sadness. Every worker seems to fit, has a place in society. They work together with no quarrel, no darkness. There is no pain in their faces, no sorrow nor hurt. Who are they? What sort of society thrives on those perfect souls? Perfection, the mask of imperfection…do they hide a secret? What sort of silence lies beyond the walls? But yet, there appears nothing suspicious of their whereabouts, for song fills the air and lifts even nature herself up.
The center of the village lies a magnificent tree. I have seen nothing like it in my life, nor my brother. It looms over the great village like some sort of god watching his people. Thousands of ropes strut out among the city, as if to connect even the trees to the core of this place.
But my brother is knocked off his course. A woman drops her basket, yet frantically attempts to rescue her precious wheat. My brother bends down to help. Their hands meet. An instant feel of electricity, as if lightning just sliced the night sky. Their eyes meet. They are still while the world around them rejoices.
All-
“Notae aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju tokdono!”
She leaves. He looks after her, a total abandonment of reality detached from his senses. I can tell.
Their song continues. Not in their voices, but in their hands, their work, the swinging of the hammer, the picking of the wheat. There is a strange rhythm about the city, about the people, as if all were at peace with the world and their minds.
“You are de men, yes?” comes a voice. It is deep, powerful and joyful, soft and brilliant. We turn. There is a tall man, muscular, smiling like a thousand years past. “Meh uncle told meh of yar comin.”
“Yes,” my brother says.
“Welcome to de Ta-at nease village. You have come to seek de words of Masta Oueah, have yeh not?”
“Yes,” my brother speaks. “I suppose.”
“To-night,” he replies, looking upon us two with great satisfaction. “Far it is as he tells us, each night you must know tings, each day you will act on dem.” He smiles down at us. Cheerful, bright, as if all were at peace. Such a peaceful place, for here, even the citizens trust the world. “Come,” he says. “Let us celebrate yar arrival.”
We follow him.
“He-ah, he-ah, he-ah-tah,” it begins. He is alone in his song, but not for long. He shouts- “Notae aba ju tokdono!”
There comes a chorus. Loud, powerful, it strikes my mind as curious. What sort of people are these? In a swift flood come the women, many women. More than I can count, more than I can see. Within their eyes contain the life of a thousand stars as the vibrant colors of their dresses swirl about the wind as if a gathering of a triumphant river sent to destroy a lifetime of evil. They carry giant baskets on their heads, twirling about to their jubilant song.
“Nota aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju shundaz,
Hebada s’que geat,
Notae s’ta ju rotes,
Embat fle k choo,
Two by two.”
I know not what they sing. I know not their purpose, but their symphony is soothing as the wind. What are they doing? Why? I watch as they gather their wheat, placing it gently in their interwoven baskets. Such grace, such beauty. There is no voice that strikes the great storm, no crackling for every voice rides the along Earth. An overwhelming array-no-composition…peace of mind that…
We walk along the fields, curious as a dog. Watching…observing, noting their foreign and alien culture unfold before our eyes. We come to a city, intertwined amidst the trees. The men are here. They join in.
“Notae aba ju sou.
Notae aba ju shundadas.
Hebaba s’que ju tenta,
Obtae s’ta ju worlda,
Embat fle k choo,
Three by three.”
The women-
“Notae aba ju nam’sou,
Notae aba ju tenquas,
Hebasta s’que geat,
Comqua s’ta weant,
Embat fle k choo,
Four by four.”
A man, his incredible voice-
“Notae aba ju sou!”
All-
“Notae aba ju shundadas!”
A woman-
“Notae aba ju tokdono!”
They all work, every one. Yet, strangely enough, no tears, no sadness. Every worker seems to fit, has a place in society. They work together with no quarrel, no darkness. There is no pain in their faces, no sorrow nor hurt. Who are they? What sort of society thrives on those perfect souls? Perfection, the mask of imperfection…do they hide a secret? What sort of silence lies beyond the walls? But yet, there appears nothing suspicious of their whereabouts, for song fills the air and lifts even nature herself up.
The center of the village lies a magnificent tree. I have seen nothing like it in my life, nor my brother. It looms over the great village like some sort of god watching his people. Thousands of ropes strut out among the city, as if to connect even the trees to the core of this place.
But my brother is knocked off his course. A woman drops her basket, yet frantically attempts to rescue her precious wheat. My brother bends down to help. Their hands meet. An instant feel of electricity, as if lightning just sliced the night sky. Their eyes meet. They are still while the world around them rejoices.
All-
“Notae aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju tokdono!
Notae aba ju tokdono!”
She leaves. He looks after her, a total abandonment of reality detached from his senses. I can tell.
Their song continues. Not in their voices, but in their hands, their work, the swinging of the hammer, the picking of the wheat. There is a strange rhythm about the city, about the people, as if all were at peace with the world and their minds.
“You are de men, yes?” comes a voice. It is deep, powerful and joyful, soft and brilliant. We turn. There is a tall man, muscular, smiling like a thousand years past. “Meh uncle told meh of yar comin.”
“Yes,” my brother says.
“Welcome to de Ta-at nease village. You have come to seek de words of Masta Oueah, have yeh not?”
“Yes,” my brother speaks. “I suppose.”
“To-night,” he replies, looking upon us two with great satisfaction. “Far it is as he tells us, each night you must know tings, each day you will act on dem.” He smiles down at us. Cheerful, bright, as if all were at peace. Such a peaceful place, for here, even the citizens trust the world. “Come,” he says. “Let us celebrate yar arrival.”
We follow him.
Comments
Please Login to post comments| On July 20th 2007 peterzshadow Said : | |
|
Better! A continuation of the story. The place sounds beautiful. And I love how you made the man speak. "De men.." : ) This is a really good line- "Far it is as he tells us, each night you must know tings, each day you will act on dem." : ) |
| On July 14th 2007 krista32890 Said : | |
|
haha. This is good writin'! |
