the glory of story
As for The Visitation, stories abound in the tiny village. Some of the ancient sacks of skin and bones still murmur about having witnessed it in their febrile dreamoanings.
Brittledry and crustcracked, the spirits of the people were far more barren than the land that no longer provided them sustenance. It is said that a small family had gathered at the edge of the western bluffs to take their final steps together, to offer their last unanswered prayers over the jagged teeth of rock below.
A single verdant leaf was carried in by the hot (but didn't it almost seem cool?) autumn winds, a stark contrast to the withered badlands that surrounded them. This chlorophyll emerald hovered (no it danced not just any dance but pure dance welling from deep inside her, er, it) before them, both painfully shy and infinitely inviting. The only one who took notice of this tiny miracle was a small boy from the tribe, already savagely marked in the Ways of the Shades, strange enough to be lonely yet further ostracized by the fact that his shaman band had lost favor with the Great Earth Serpent, had let the village wither with the crops.
He HAD to experience this pulse of life before he went. HAD to...as he wrested his hand from his falling mother's grip, as the shouts of his father to the People of the Wind were cut startlingly short by the end of their descent. Still he stepped forward and reached out, the last hidden bit of love in his heart pouring out through outstretched hand, inviting the leaf into communion.
The leaf reached back out to him (how could that be but stilldeep the memories of a hand not a stem and beautiful hair made of vines and that smile...That Smile) and time stopped for them, the boy and his (if but for a moment) leafgoddess. Memory is a tricky thing on a normal day, but through the blur of altered recollection, he remembered an infinite compassion in its (her?) countenance, a laughter that was made of light summer rains. There was a lifetime in this insistent instant, long walks taken through the forest of themselves looking for things, but finding only contented wonder in the jungles of their souls. He inhaled her (yes it was a her it had to be nothing but a wombearer had capacity for this kind of worldlove) scent deeply, greedily, that he might become a part of her, she a part of him, that this never had to end. He took it in until he felt he would burst.
As he exhaled, liquidthoughts seeping through his dreamfingers, the leaf was blown away to work its miracles elsewhere. His mundane life, his suffering people, his family painting the rocks below red as the sea scrubbed them like a dutiful maid...all of this was nothing next to the adventures had with that spark of Divinity carried on the cool (but weren't all the winds hot now?) breeze.
He crumpled like a dying spider, and wept and wept and wept. He thought he was still lost in the comfortable fog of his memories, as everything was viewed through green tinted lenses. As he cleared his eyes, he realized that his tears were green, that singular shade of life that defined his private miracle. He HAD inhaled deeply enough - she was a part of him (and pleaseohplease let this humbled boy have left something of worth for her to retain) and tears welled afresh, this time of joy. So overcome by the knowledge that for whatever selfish sense of loss, there was a far greater gain, he initially didn't notice the the roots racing from the glimmering pools in the earth beneath his face. The roots exploding outwards and upwards, sweet fruit glistened (her eyes) from swelling branches, thick vines (her hair) spread to deliver water, to deliver life to the surrounding valley.
Some say the boy returned to the village and became the greatest SpiriTalker they had ever known. Others claim that, fulfilled, he joined his family below. The collective memory of the village had shifted away from the boy, though he was an integral part of their Myth, to the Emerald Angel. She was the mystery of kindness hidden in the hearts of evil men, of the wisdom in the words of our enemies, of water in the midst of a barren and dying land. The memory of hope flowing through the delicate veins of Her leafingers is celebrated to this very day in the most prosperous of all the villages.
[having pagination/HTML issues - i promise that there are proper paragraph breaks in the original...i guess that goes for most of my stuff since i started using openoffice]
Brittledry and crustcracked, the spirits of the people were far more barren than the land that no longer provided them sustenance. It is said that a small family had gathered at the edge of the western bluffs to take their final steps together, to offer their last unanswered prayers over the jagged teeth of rock below.
A single verdant leaf was carried in by the hot (but didn't it almost seem cool?) autumn winds, a stark contrast to the withered badlands that surrounded them. This chlorophyll emerald hovered (no it danced not just any dance but pure dance welling from deep inside her, er, it) before them, both painfully shy and infinitely inviting. The only one who took notice of this tiny miracle was a small boy from the tribe, already savagely marked in the Ways of the Shades, strange enough to be lonely yet further ostracized by the fact that his shaman band had lost favor with the Great Earth Serpent, had let the village wither with the crops.
He HAD to experience this pulse of life before he went. HAD to...as he wrested his hand from his falling mother's grip, as the shouts of his father to the People of the Wind were cut startlingly short by the end of their descent. Still he stepped forward and reached out, the last hidden bit of love in his heart pouring out through outstretched hand, inviting the leaf into communion.
The leaf reached back out to him (how could that be but stilldeep the memories of a hand not a stem and beautiful hair made of vines and that smile...That Smile) and time stopped for them, the boy and his (if but for a moment) leafgoddess. Memory is a tricky thing on a normal day, but through the blur of altered recollection, he remembered an infinite compassion in its (her?) countenance, a laughter that was made of light summer rains. There was a lifetime in this insistent instant, long walks taken through the forest of themselves looking for things, but finding only contented wonder in the jungles of their souls. He inhaled her (yes it was a her it had to be nothing but a wombearer had capacity for this kind of worldlove) scent deeply, greedily, that he might become a part of her, she a part of him, that this never had to end. He took it in until he felt he would burst.
As he exhaled, liquidthoughts seeping through his dreamfingers, the leaf was blown away to work its miracles elsewhere. His mundane life, his suffering people, his family painting the rocks below red as the sea scrubbed them like a dutiful maid...all of this was nothing next to the adventures had with that spark of Divinity carried on the cool (but weren't all the winds hot now?) breeze.
He crumpled like a dying spider, and wept and wept and wept. He thought he was still lost in the comfortable fog of his memories, as everything was viewed through green tinted lenses. As he cleared his eyes, he realized that his tears were green, that singular shade of life that defined his private miracle. He HAD inhaled deeply enough - she was a part of him (and pleaseohplease let this humbled boy have left something of worth for her to retain) and tears welled afresh, this time of joy. So overcome by the knowledge that for whatever selfish sense of loss, there was a far greater gain, he initially didn't notice the the roots racing from the glimmering pools in the earth beneath his face. The roots exploding outwards and upwards, sweet fruit glistened (her eyes) from swelling branches, thick vines (her hair) spread to deliver water, to deliver life to the surrounding valley.
Some say the boy returned to the village and became the greatest SpiriTalker they had ever known. Others claim that, fulfilled, he joined his family below. The collective memory of the village had shifted away from the boy, though he was an integral part of their Myth, to the Emerald Angel. She was the mystery of kindness hidden in the hearts of evil men, of the wisdom in the words of our enemies, of water in the midst of a barren and dying land. The memory of hope flowing through the delicate veins of Her leafingers is celebrated to this very day in the most prosperous of all the villages.
[having pagination/HTML issues - i promise that there are proper paragraph breaks in the original...i guess that goes for most of my stuff since i started using openoffice]