time for an episode of dream theater
The spirits of destruction swirled around the boy, laughing in their mosquito-whine voices. He could have named them, were he trying; Famine, blue-grey, plump and eyeless, sleek as a cat; Plague, gaunt festering red with its dry, lolling tongue; and Despair, sweet-faced and small, its long claws dangling as it flew. Too late to fight. It had been too late when his feet slipped on the sodden moss of the fallen tree, sending him tumbling into the floodwaters. It had been too late when he'd run out the door of the temple, desperate to tell the sage what he'd realized.
He shut his eyes as the spirits descended.
---
"But the Horse carried the basket of fire," the girl said. She tried to make sense of the Beautiful Sage's tale. It seemed to go against all the god-stories she'd recited at her mother's knee.
"Oh," said the Sage, and his eyes went suddenly distant. "I see. The Golden Horse bore fire out of the graveyard, and the black flies saw him go - perhaps the Bone Horse - " He walked a while in silence, a frown furrowing the space between his brows. The shadows of leaves fell across his face, turning his expression vague and adult, beyond the girl's comprehension. She hunched her shoulders. The Sage made no sense; but she waited, aware that he might explain if she did not ask.
Three fairy elephants lay trampled into the dust of the path, half-eaten by scavengers. Their broad-leafed wings had been torn away.
As the girl and the Sage emerged from the occasional shade of the trees into the full sun of the crossroads, the Sage came back to himself with a shake. He turned kind black eyes down to her. "This is not," he said gently, "the Pony you know." He paused, thinking. "Perhaps if I start from the beginning. Maybe you are old enough to recall the summer the ruin began."
The girl nodded. She remembered, faintly; she had not yet been old enough to go to lessons. The sun had weighed more that year, bearing down on her bare shoulders with all the pompous intensity of the head priest. He was dead, now; dead some seven years.
The Sage paused to draw a fold of his robe over his pale hair, shading his face. "That was when the elephants ceased to travel," he said. "That summer, when the elephants came walking from the green darkness of the forest to cross the grassland, the ruin lay waiting for them. As the largest one set foot in the sunlight, the ruin sprang upon it; it withered like a corpse laid out in the desert, drying and tattering to bones even as it began to walk.
"But elephants are stubborn.
"The herd followed their elder, one by one; and one by one they dried to dust, bones falling in a clatter to lie in the grass. Only the last elephant stayed in the forest. It waited there a very long time; two full days. And then it turned and walked back into the forest. The elephants have not traveled since that year; nothing travels, for fear of the ruin. And so the Horse has not its due. The Horse you know, the Horse who protects and carries, who walks with the caravans, is the Golden Horse. But the Golden Horse has fire within. He angers easily, and once the Bone Horse has come in his place, he is not easily appeased." The Sage watched the girl expectantly.
"Oh," she said, in a very small voice. The sun burned hot in the sky; the ruin waited patiently in the grasslands; the world had changed beneath her feet, while nothing altered at all.
He shut his eyes as the spirits descended.
---
"But the Horse carried the basket of fire," the girl said. She tried to make sense of the Beautiful Sage's tale. It seemed to go against all the god-stories she'd recited at her mother's knee.
"Oh," said the Sage, and his eyes went suddenly distant. "I see. The Golden Horse bore fire out of the graveyard, and the black flies saw him go - perhaps the Bone Horse - " He walked a while in silence, a frown furrowing the space between his brows. The shadows of leaves fell across his face, turning his expression vague and adult, beyond the girl's comprehension. She hunched her shoulders. The Sage made no sense; but she waited, aware that he might explain if she did not ask.
Three fairy elephants lay trampled into the dust of the path, half-eaten by scavengers. Their broad-leafed wings had been torn away.
As the girl and the Sage emerged from the occasional shade of the trees into the full sun of the crossroads, the Sage came back to himself with a shake. He turned kind black eyes down to her. "This is not," he said gently, "the Pony you know." He paused, thinking. "Perhaps if I start from the beginning. Maybe you are old enough to recall the summer the ruin began."
The girl nodded. She remembered, faintly; she had not yet been old enough to go to lessons. The sun had weighed more that year, bearing down on her bare shoulders with all the pompous intensity of the head priest. He was dead, now; dead some seven years.
The Sage paused to draw a fold of his robe over his pale hair, shading his face. "That was when the elephants ceased to travel," he said. "That summer, when the elephants came walking from the green darkness of the forest to cross the grassland, the ruin lay waiting for them. As the largest one set foot in the sunlight, the ruin sprang upon it; it withered like a corpse laid out in the desert, drying and tattering to bones even as it began to walk.
"But elephants are stubborn.
"The herd followed their elder, one by one; and one by one they dried to dust, bones falling in a clatter to lie in the grass. Only the last elephant stayed in the forest. It waited there a very long time; two full days. And then it turned and walked back into the forest. The elephants have not traveled since that year; nothing travels, for fear of the ruin. And so the Horse has not its due. The Horse you know, the Horse who protects and carries, who walks with the caravans, is the Golden Horse. But the Golden Horse has fire within. He angers easily, and once the Bone Horse has come in his place, he is not easily appeased." The Sage watched the girl expectantly.
"Oh," she said, in a very small voice. The sun burned hot in the sky; the ruin waited patiently in the grasslands; the world had changed beneath her feet, while nothing altered at all.