I listen to the sound of the cascade, and to the birds and other creatures, deep in the woods. Time flows, as if diluted in the icy waters of the stream. Is it an illusion? Or the harsh reality of our impermanence? Will I remember this instant, on the other side, beyond time, when I myself have returned to the primordial dust? Or is there nothing, just the blank canvas of another story, as yet to be written?
Over the years I learned to love this place, its calm, the view over the plain, and the mesa. There is a roof above my head, not that I mind the rain, or the snow, mind you. I have no other visitors than birds and small rodents, the occasional fox. Once or twice a year, I guess, an eagle flies over, perhaps to check if anything alive lies here.
I sense the changing seasons here, by the scents in the air, the colour of the rocks, the way the mist lifts as the sun rises.
Silence reigns. Other ghosts prefer small inhabited villages, empty houses. I know the value of solitude, of peace, of the veiled, soft voices of those who, like me, took refuge here, from war, from the plague, for millennia.
“This brings back memories…”
“Do you mean when we were young?”
“O yes, younger in any case, and then so was the world…”
“If I were bue…”
“like Edward Hopper’s afternoon
lift the sash to air the breeze
let my summer flush your cheek
lie supine beneath the soft and gentle season…”
Subdued, we wonder: is this a new dawn, the beginning of our futures?
Or is it merely our memory, our longing, for how beautiful it was, long ago,
Before we arrived…
Now is the time. We must face the test, and tell the Truth. The Truth we remember.
Then it’s out of our hands. We must pray our memory does not fail us.
We will stand between the boulders, small creatures we are, bowed in awe. The Ancient may look down on us, or not. We will not know.
For, if we pass, we’ll only know the other side. If we fail it will be the end. To dust and to ashes.
It’s lonely up here, one doesn’t meet humans too often, mostly the locals are ravens and rabbits and moles, and the occasional eagle. But I like it, this is my place, where I dream, and remember. There are sweet memories, and also dark and stormy ones.
Yes, there is a storm coming this way now. I love it, the low clouds, a drop of rain here and there, I can feel the strong winds already, snaking through my empty eye sockets, resonating in my skull. “The Old One”, used to call me the villagers, when there was still a village nearby, long ago.
Nowadays the Old One merely enjoys the peace, and the storm.
Time has now come. I expect her, I have long expected her, and, now, I know she’s there, close to the gates. She bears the chalice. From it, I will drink, to the last drop.
And so, the prophecy will be fulfilled, the order restored, the gods appeased.
Do I regret anything? I had a long life, known many winters, and so many springs: so much ice, so much sand, I hear the sound of bells.
She’s there, at my door, they tell me.
I know she’s beautiful, their messengers always are. I take a last look, out of the window of my room, at the far away hills, just touched by moonlight.
So many seas, so many mountains.
Time has come.
In this blinding light, on such a bright morning, I seek your smile, a sign, even a shard of memory.
Where are you, in this, or another world?
Do the rays of our star still caress your skin?
Or are you now so far beyond, perhaps on an alien shore, watching another sun rise?
I have lost your trace, your scent, the feeling of your existence.
Night will come.
“Is it a signal?” she said softly, “or is it for us?” It is both, I thought in silence, this is to warn, and prepare. I took my friend’s hand and we walked away. We knew we were not wanted. The warning was clear. Everywhere we would go in the country, it would be the same, and one evening…
None of us was amnesiac. We knew full well how it would end. There was a long tradition. From time to time we would lit a bonfire, but most of the time the fires were lit to burn us. Us, witches.
Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him – only the antlers prevent me to say “her” – is another story: precisely.
Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag will soon disappear, absorbed by the shadows, by the blank page. Alone, the white flakes of memory will, briefly, lit our darkness.
