Friday, November 30, 2012
read Musta Iluduse nr 2 klahvideklõbinast
Oh seda elu :) See kulgev nädal algas lilledega ja tõotab lõppeda leeriga, sinna vahele on juba saanud roheliste pioneeride koosistumine, viimasest bussist maha jäämine ning armastav tähelepanu 4 hurdalt Ehk paras muinasjutt.. v lausa ulme? XD
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
"Hirottast"
Teen just sellele vigadeparandust ehk vabandan kõigi ees, et ta sellisena oli-on üleval. Kuid mõne sõnaga selle loo saamisloost. Seda on küll raske teha ilma mu eraelust rääkimata, kuna tegu on omamoodi päevikuga või õigemini selle, mis oleks päevikusse kirja saanud, tasakaalustajaga. "Hirotta" kirjutamist alustasin ja enamiku sellest kirjutasin ma ühes kõige ebastabiilsemas või õigemini stabiilselt ebamugavaimas olukorras viibides, koodnimetus sellele oleks "ElfTown" :P :D ja püüd selles sassis olukorras ellu jääda vormus, sai "Hirotta" kuju. Samas on "Hirotta" ka pöördumine ja tänukiri, viimast siis STKB XD ja Nurulaste pihta, kes on pakkunud mulle ulualust ja fantastilisi elamusi, mis on mind taas elule turgutanud - ehk aitäh, südamest.
Lõpetuseks lisan, et nagu teinegi "Novembri" lugu pole "Hirotta" tõenäoliselt valmis, ehk ... ;) :D
Lõpetuseks lisan, et nagu teinegi "Novembri" lugu pole "Hirotta" tõenäoliselt valmis, ehk ... ;) :D
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Pisike käik
vaatan ümberringi
käin ringi tänavail
vilistaks, kuid ei oska
laulan, olgugi, et ei oska
varblased ja varesed
raagus puud ja veel roheline rohi
hall taevas siniste aukudega
mahe valgus, talve algus
vaatan ümberringi
käin ringi tänavail
tuul on jahe, kuid valgus mahe
sooja annab, hingel on hea
nähes akende juures
linnutoitu
käin ringi tänavail
vilistaks, kuid ei oska
laulan, olgugi, et ei oska
varblased ja varesed
raagus puud ja veel roheline rohi
hall taevas siniste aukudega
mahe valgus, talve algus
vaatan ümberringi
käin ringi tänavail
tuul on jahe, kuid valgus mahe
sooja annab, hingel on hea
nähes akende juures
linnutoitu
Teo tapja
Üks ulmetoas (selle nädala neljapäeval) kirjutatud lugu. Siin pole küll nimesid ja mõni näeb ka teistmoodi välja ja üldse on tundelaad teine, kuid kas tunnete ära? ;) Muidu sain parajalt kriitikat, st ma olevat kirjutanud väga ähmase telliskivi ehk ma vist vahel tõesti kirjutan nagu ma joonistan :D
Mõttejätk katkes. Vaikiv tühjus laotus üle silmade, kõrvade ja külmas ära südame, mis kukkus õhku rippuma jäänd käte vahelt vastu maad kildudeks. Päevi, nädalaid vaatasin end nendest veripunastest kildudest – mind oli saanud nii palju ja nii vähe, olin kui hävinud.
Lõke. Ta tegeles põlvedele toetatud mõõgaga, õigemini selle käepidemega. Tema naha ja tera vahel oli pargitud hirvenahk, mis vastavalt tema liigutustele krudises. Metsamuusika, lõkke praksumine ja see krudin, metsahääled kui olla lubav taust. Kuulsin sel ööl rahu, üle pika aja ei lõiganud vaikus mu olemist – ehk polnud ma enam nii habras. Olin loobunud valedest, ehk sellest nüüd see rahu. Tõstsin oma pilgu maast, et vaadata tuld ning märkasin, kuidas ta mind silmitses.Ta näol mänglesid varjud, ta tundus kasvavat välja sellest ajast ja kohast – metsik kui mets. Hakkasin temaga rääkima. Mingi aeg võttis ta välja tubaka ja piibu, andis seda ka mulle popsutada. Unele me ei mõelnud. Vahel me vaikisime ja vaatasime tähti. Taevas oli selge.
Ma ei mäleta millal ja mille peale, kuid sel ööl üles ta mulle miskit, mis jäi minuga ja on seda praegugi. “Lihahaav paraneb. Tõsi, sellega võib kaasneda vaimne trauma, kuid haav ise paraneb. Hinge löödud haav aga jääb, jääb verisema ja värskeks. Needki paranevad, neidki saab ravida, kuid tarkust selleks on vähestel. Seega miks peaksin ma lõikama liha? Mõõka aga ei saa elus hoidma igaüks, kuid keegi imbetsill on kõigile andud tera, mis lõikab hinge ja seega nad taplevadki, surres ja surmates enne hauda lugematuid kordi. See annab neile küll võmaluse ka mitmeid kordi sündida, kuid see on teise aja teema,”ja ta vaikis. Me rääkisime sel ööl küll veel, kuid enam mitte sellest. Ta oli mõõga käepideme korda saanud, vahetanud ära selle narmendanud ja kulunud naha, nüüd puhkasid ta põlvedel ta käed.
Klaas oli tumenenud. Verest vein. Vaatasin veel kilde, kuid olin juba mujal. Kuskil olid killud taas liitunud, kuskil olin ma taas olemas. Vaatasin kilde, kuid teadsin, et lähedal on hetk, kui pean tõusma ja minema; minema sinna, kus leian eest end. Teadsin, et kui see peab nii juhtuma, tunnen end ära ja leppisin ära ka võimalusega, et jäängi ekslema. Olen ka esklemises, olen kõigest hoolimata. Metsa rahu. Öö pimedus ei himutanud mind enam nagu varem. Olin kartnud ebaselgust, vastuste puudumist, kindluse puudumist omaenese näos; seda, et peeglist nägin ka teda, valu, piina. Meie mõlema oma. Nägin seda ka siis, kui enne toast väljumist tahtmatult end peeglist vaatasin – hetkeks, juba olin ma tänaval, teel. Mu silmad olid tumedamad, kildude karva ja muigasin, et olgu siis nii. Sirutasin käe välja, tajusin maailma lõimi, neid arvukaid, mis olid mu kätte antud ja haaranud ühest, tundsin jõu ja kiiruse lisandumist oma sammudesse.
Märkasin, et ma polnud enam üksi. Mu kõrval mööda silla käsipuud käis minuga ühes sammus must panter, kes varsti käis mu kõrval mustapäise naisterahvana. Üks hetk võttis ta justkui muuseas põuest miskit valget ja jälle nägin silmanurgast käsipuul pantrit. Seekord oli see valge. Laternate kumas kiirgas ta kuldselt. Nautisin tema ilu ja graatsiat, kui äkki ta käik paisus jooksuks ja siis lennuks valgete tiibade toel. Hetke ma seisatasin üllatatuna ning juba tõmbas naine mustas naeratades mind kaasa. Polnud peatumise aeg, kuid seegi tuleb, andis ta nii mõista.
Teine öö. Teistmoodi pimedus. Linn. Inimtühi tänav, parkimisplats. Kaklus. Ta rusikas möödus mu näost paari millimeetri kauguselt. Vist inertsist püüdsin tabada temagi nägu, ta blokkeeris mu hoobi edukalt. Hetk hiljem olin hüpanud õhku justkui animates ette ta katset niita mind jalust. Leidsin end õhust, tühjusest. Tegutsedes selles tühjuses haarasin ta õlast ja temast toetatuna lõin jalaga teda teise õlga ning lasin temast kohe lahti. Laskusin maha ja nägin teda eemal lamamas. Juba olin tema kohal, käed ta kõril. Järgnev oli lihtne, liigagi lihtne ja juba see juhtuski. Söed. Tema silmades. Nägin taas lõket, end öö silme ees. Lasin lahti, eemaldusin, pilk temal, ta veel hingitsevatel silmadel – veel hetke nägin ma teda ja juba ma pöörasin selja. Tühjus, vaikus, tumedad killud ja tee. Pidin minema. “Vabandust. Ma pean liikuma”. Vihma hakkas sadama, kuid kassidki suudavad harjuda.
Mõttejätk katkes. Vaikiv tühjus laotus üle silmade, kõrvade ja külmas ära südame, mis kukkus õhku rippuma jäänd käte vahelt vastu maad kildudeks. Päevi, nädalaid vaatasin end nendest veripunastest kildudest – mind oli saanud nii palju ja nii vähe, olin kui hävinud.
Lõke. Ta tegeles põlvedele toetatud mõõgaga, õigemini selle käepidemega. Tema naha ja tera vahel oli pargitud hirvenahk, mis vastavalt tema liigutustele krudises. Metsamuusika, lõkke praksumine ja see krudin, metsahääled kui olla lubav taust. Kuulsin sel ööl rahu, üle pika aja ei lõiganud vaikus mu olemist – ehk polnud ma enam nii habras. Olin loobunud valedest, ehk sellest nüüd see rahu. Tõstsin oma pilgu maast, et vaadata tuld ning märkasin, kuidas ta mind silmitses.Ta näol mänglesid varjud, ta tundus kasvavat välja sellest ajast ja kohast – metsik kui mets. Hakkasin temaga rääkima. Mingi aeg võttis ta välja tubaka ja piibu, andis seda ka mulle popsutada. Unele me ei mõelnud. Vahel me vaikisime ja vaatasime tähti. Taevas oli selge.
Ma ei mäleta millal ja mille peale, kuid sel ööl üles ta mulle miskit, mis jäi minuga ja on seda praegugi. “Lihahaav paraneb. Tõsi, sellega võib kaasneda vaimne trauma, kuid haav ise paraneb. Hinge löödud haav aga jääb, jääb verisema ja värskeks. Needki paranevad, neidki saab ravida, kuid tarkust selleks on vähestel. Seega miks peaksin ma lõikama liha? Mõõka aga ei saa elus hoidma igaüks, kuid keegi imbetsill on kõigile andud tera, mis lõikab hinge ja seega nad taplevadki, surres ja surmates enne hauda lugematuid kordi. See annab neile küll võmaluse ka mitmeid kordi sündida, kuid see on teise aja teema,”ja ta vaikis. Me rääkisime sel ööl küll veel, kuid enam mitte sellest. Ta oli mõõga käepideme korda saanud, vahetanud ära selle narmendanud ja kulunud naha, nüüd puhkasid ta põlvedel ta käed.
Klaas oli tumenenud. Verest vein. Vaatasin veel kilde, kuid olin juba mujal. Kuskil olid killud taas liitunud, kuskil olin ma taas olemas. Vaatasin kilde, kuid teadsin, et lähedal on hetk, kui pean tõusma ja minema; minema sinna, kus leian eest end. Teadsin, et kui see peab nii juhtuma, tunnen end ära ja leppisin ära ka võimalusega, et jäängi ekslema. Olen ka esklemises, olen kõigest hoolimata. Metsa rahu. Öö pimedus ei himutanud mind enam nagu varem. Olin kartnud ebaselgust, vastuste puudumist, kindluse puudumist omaenese näos; seda, et peeglist nägin ka teda, valu, piina. Meie mõlema oma. Nägin seda ka siis, kui enne toast väljumist tahtmatult end peeglist vaatasin – hetkeks, juba olin ma tänaval, teel. Mu silmad olid tumedamad, kildude karva ja muigasin, et olgu siis nii. Sirutasin käe välja, tajusin maailma lõimi, neid arvukaid, mis olid mu kätte antud ja haaranud ühest, tundsin jõu ja kiiruse lisandumist oma sammudesse.
Märkasin, et ma polnud enam üksi. Mu kõrval mööda silla käsipuud käis minuga ühes sammus must panter, kes varsti käis mu kõrval mustapäise naisterahvana. Üks hetk võttis ta justkui muuseas põuest miskit valget ja jälle nägin silmanurgast käsipuul pantrit. Seekord oli see valge. Laternate kumas kiirgas ta kuldselt. Nautisin tema ilu ja graatsiat, kui äkki ta käik paisus jooksuks ja siis lennuks valgete tiibade toel. Hetke ma seisatasin üllatatuna ning juba tõmbas naine mustas naeratades mind kaasa. Polnud peatumise aeg, kuid seegi tuleb, andis ta nii mõista.
Teine öö. Teistmoodi pimedus. Linn. Inimtühi tänav, parkimisplats. Kaklus. Ta rusikas möödus mu näost paari millimeetri kauguselt. Vist inertsist püüdsin tabada temagi nägu, ta blokkeeris mu hoobi edukalt. Hetk hiljem olin hüpanud õhku justkui animates ette ta katset niita mind jalust. Leidsin end õhust, tühjusest. Tegutsedes selles tühjuses haarasin ta õlast ja temast toetatuna lõin jalaga teda teise õlga ning lasin temast kohe lahti. Laskusin maha ja nägin teda eemal lamamas. Juba olin tema kohal, käed ta kõril. Järgnev oli lihtne, liigagi lihtne ja juba see juhtuski. Söed. Tema silmades. Nägin taas lõket, end öö silme ees. Lasin lahti, eemaldusin, pilk temal, ta veel hingitsevatel silmadel – veel hetke nägin ma teda ja juba ma pöörasin selja. Tühjus, vaikus, tumedad killud ja tee. Pidin minema. “Vabandust. Ma pean liikuma”. Vihma hakkas sadama, kuid kassidki suudavad harjuda.
The Army Of The Damned. The White Mother ~~ The Dream Trilogy. *The frequently edited version*
Dark soil crumbles from one´s fingers - dark, full of life and dry, light as dust. These plains are ever windy, thus the soil is whisked from one´s fingers and gone it is. The only thing that roots down this land is grass, wind and strong. It rains seldom, yet this grass grows. Never is it lush and green, it is dry and brownish and alive. These barren grasslands bare no trees nor streams and yet, they are home. Home of the horse and home of the man. The man travelled, for they were merchants. To those rooted they brought riches of other like them, people of villages, towns and cities. They were like the wind, with no home, unbound. Yet this nation, proud of their freedom, settled down.
The travelling men roamed these dry grasslands, being the few to know it, to see it. They knew the springs and there they built wells and thus only they knew how to survive in this barren land. They, the travelling men and the horses. Mustangs, that is. The wild horse too travelled, travelled to survive, to feed. By faith these plains connected the wild lands, where they could feed and breed, live. Two times a year they migrated trough the barren fields, the air filled with dust and the sound of thousands of hooves. Till came the rooted men looking for sport, to pass time and cruel were their ways for they killed the horse. Many mustangs were slaughtered until a hand was raised. In the house of their guild a merkaani, for thus the travelling man was called, spoke, spoke on the behalf of the horse. For they had seen the magnificent sight of those fields, of death blooming to life as the mustangs ran across the plains. Their forefathers and them, they were connected by the moments in awe of that sight and thus they understood, on the brink of losing it for good – their brotherhood with the horse. It was not as if they had not known it it was more like waking from a dream and then years after remembering the message of that dream. They did what their forefathers would have done, for this feeling was the red string of their hearts – they asked for a patch of land, dry and useless. Land and all, what´s there.
The king of their land revered the merkaani and in his heart revered the horse. As a man of power he could speak the first: “You all, that are before me. I have known your fathers and mothers and have heard tales of those before them. Nothing bad has ever been spoken of you, for you are honest people. Free as the wind, yet thy honor is set in stone. Thus I see no reason not to grant thy wish” and added in half voice: “it would be nice to see a pommele again”. So the merkaani left the great halls as settled men and that night in the guild house mead foamed and flowed and toasts were sang, toasts for the heart, the kings heart beating in tune with theirs – in the beat of the drum of hooves in the grass of Roskulg.
Thus came a country, a nation. The man who raised his hand was voted king. Thus were a kingdom and a king, a kingdom of dry grass and crumbling soil and a nation of wondering people. The king looked at his land, breathed in the cool air, looked at it´s cloudy sky. He squatted down, picked up the dirt and rubbed it between his fingers. "Dark, almost black ... I haven´t seen anything like this elsewhere..." he mumbled and stood up, went to his company and rode off. On that day, the moment of feeling that soil between his fingers a decision was born. At the beginning it was a dream, a wild dream. He needed something, this place needed something and that something was the bringer of the miracle of life, water. There was water in the wells, yet it seldom rained. The wells were investigated and an underground water vein big as a river was found and in time irrigation systems were built and thus could come villages and towns and a central, where under tree a statue can be found of the first king with soil in his hand. The central was called "raven earth", R´deawen in their tongue. The crops were never grand, but they were enough to support the merkaani. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families could now gather there, in their home, their land, kingdom what they called by this land´s ancient name, Roskulg, the road of the horse.
They had been given by the king a patch of dry land and all what´s there and that patch had bean Roskulg and all what´s there had meant the horses, that migrate trough there. The Roskulg territory given to them by the king had always been an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave merkaani the power to stop the senseless killing and grant the horses´ safety wherever the mustangs roamed. Because now they were marked by the protecting word, they carried the mark of the brother, the mark of the sister of the merkaani. In time this bond took new forms, the merkaani became horsemen known for extraordinary skill and mindset, they came to be known as people who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.
Centuries passed and the land of merkaani bred many stories. The most beloved tale was a tale the first king was fond of too, the tale of The War. The story tells that once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace in the hearts of people. He spoke of light and dark, light and dark being embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord. Those two gods led the forces of these two opposites in an eternal battle of fighting without hate, but with respect, because one could not be without the other. Also, he said, without the fight of those two forces could not be the all, the world. Thus their swords were crossed, but with no ill will. Telling of this eternal fight he added, that he dreams, that someday a different way will be found for all to be, a way without bloodshed and battle. In the midst of battles raging, nights lit with flames people felt the touch of eternity in those words, in that dream salvation. The prophet´s words and the tale of the protecting Mark of the first king fused in the tides of time, the protecting spirit of Roskulg grew together with the concept of the White Mother and thus came to be a religion honouring her as the embodiment of eternal kindness and encompassing love, the caring home, the protecting mother. Too was born was the tradition of The Marking. The people, horses and homes of Roskulg came to carry the Mark, that embodied the tale of the hateless eternal fight and the will to protect and care for one´s beloved. It became to be believed, that The Mark could only be drawn by a wise one called the Marker and if that Marker was found, he or she was granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker. Such privilege were granted for them, because the role of the Marker meant carrying a weight many could not bare and one could not share. The Marker was kin to the prophet, like the prophet had been the Marker too was a seer, the one with the sight beyond this time and realm. The Great Hall of Roskulg saw taking care of these seers as an honouring commitment and many of their kings had Markers serving in their courts as advisors.
One of The Markers of Roskulg of whom many tales were told, this one being one of them, was a young woman with fair skin and hair. Her eyes were calm and no one had seen them laugh nor cry. She seldom spoke and before and after being made The Marker spent her days walking in the grasslands. They said that she was like the sky above Roskulg, ever gray. It rained and cleared so seldom, that people there forgot both sun and rain. Before she was found as a Marker she was an outcast for even for the people of the land under that gray sky her calmness felt uneasing, but after the Hall of the King told the people that she was their Marker she was no longer shunned out and in time people grew to respect her.
Talking to her he started to feel, that there is something, that he hadn´t noticed before. First, he was in awe of the woman in front of him. So clear and solid was she in her words and presence, it was as it was giving her an air of nobility. The more of her presence he felt the closer creeped an understanding, till it hit him as he had remembered something he had forgotten long ago. He noticed that the Mark was different from before. Slightly, but strongly darker and heavier, much resembling the being of the stranger´s nation. Before the Mark had been light and airy like the wind over Roskulg, now there was black soil and starless nights in that as well and that new Mark was on every house, horse and man he could see. She had changed the Tale. She noticed what had happened to the man, started to speak, but stopped. He realized her power, a power greater than the Tale. He bowed and left without uttering a word.
The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked up into the sky and thought: "silence", then wrapped her cape tight around her and set off, "the fields are more honest in their silence for they do not speak, because they can not speak words, unlike man, who speaks or stays silent based on choice". She had noticed how the merchant had connected with her, the connection had happened because she had let her presence unfold beyond the usual for she wanted words, even angry ones she would have wanted to listen. The sky above Roskulg doesn´t rain nor is there sunshine. "Winter is nearing", thought she, making her way into the open.
As always she walked far without resting, just walking on toward the next mark, that being a rock or a lighter spot on the horizon or a road mark. Walking. As always she had no food nor drink with her and as always she could feel no famine nor thirst. This day her walk was interrupted by a troop of soldiers. "We have come to you, our Marker. The King beseeches your counsel. We´ve brought you a horse". She mounted without a word and in the same manner took off towards the town.
She rode fast, not slowing down before she reached the Hall, there she dismounted and rushed inside. A man watched her dash, the way she didn´t slow down even when reaching the town´s gates. True, the streets of Roskulg were never busy and the risk of anyone getting hurt was low. He went and took the reins of the horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the horse from him and he could breathe at ease for he was not used to handling horses. At his homeland were only stories of horses and even now, when he had started to feel like one of the merkaani he had never rode a horse and most of the time he avoided being around them. Big creatures, something about them made him shiver. He raised his hand and petted the horse´s warm and soft forehead, down, the nose and the horse rubbed his nose against his hand, thus the bond was born He was pretty surprised himself that he had actually got near this horse, maybe, because it was her horse he thought. He, like his fellow merchants felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. The air around her was sharp as a blade and sometimes when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a breeze in the shape of a sword gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skilfully, not drawing blood. Just in the middle of remembering this he suddenly felt it. She ran past him, to the stable boy and after getting a fresh horse, rode out of the stable, nearly running him over. Out of sight, away from the town in the ripping wind she screamed a silent scream, her horse on his hide legs, her dress flapping and the hooves of the forelegs touched ground gently and on they rode. Dusk darkened into night, following the stars she made her way. Peace had grown frail. She knew that there was years till the next battle, but this was the beginning and she knew that again she had to remain silent, swallow down another deadly bite and again she had to remain alive when wanting to die with every shred of her being. She burned in her pain, brewed dark and cold and rotted on the inside, withering away and on the outside her eyes stayed calm, gray like the ever cloudy sky. She cursed her heart for existing and hated herself for feeling this feeling, this love. She let go of the reins, she let herself fall and in the dark she laid, covering her eyes with her arm. Not to see the sky, the stars and the silver crescent - the ever being peace above screams, the static chaotically burning being of All. She moved her arm and read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unravelling her dark storms she read him. She again turned every page of his being and all was as she had always known. Her cross to bear, only her. She again tried to open her own book, but it remained shut no matter how hard she tore the covers. She calmed and laughed at herself thinking that she has not grown at all in all these years, still she is that stupid, so immature. The Marker, who not only reads the Tale, but who for some reason has a power greater than power of the Tale itself and for some reason a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how much and knowing that made her life a living hell. Her anger and love, twin flames mingled and away breathed it all, she, the girl gazing at the stars. Still on most occasions she could not restrain herself and if near him she could not stay calm and her intent to kill him, the embodiment of her pain slashed trough air, cutting the fabrics of All, nearly bleeding his throat.
A hand touched her side and she could feel the warmth of the other. Not afar, but close, so warm. Burning, that she pulled away and so... that she returned. So they danced around the fires among others sharing this air filled to the brim and like all others they drank it to the bitter end, before dawn drowning in the flows of each other. He watched her closed peaceful eyes after, pressed nearer and she opened her eyes and too, diving head first neared him. Someone not him, someone warm and gentle and with soft gentle lips speaking words. She listened, pressing her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, his warmth spreading and she wanted to be closer and closer. She allowed this flame to grow calmer, to build walls around her and in her she bore life born from him. The emptiness she had known now twice brimming over with all she thought she´d never know and every little piece of her lifted by arms and carried to the bed chamber... .
The next battle, the third and a war unfolded. The Marker´s name spread far and wide for was known, that Roskulg was victorious because they had The Seer. The king`s faith in her was unshakable and thus the kingdom stood strong. In the third year of the war the king was severely wounded in battle, losing the ability to walk. An infection ravaged his body, shackling him to bed and in time robbing him of his senses. Before the deterioration of his mind he handed his sword to The Marker, not his brother, who had wanted the throne and that was the beginning of the skild what lead to the fall of the Hall of Roskulg. The side of the king´s brother stated, that the king had already lost his mind when he gave the ruling of the country to the Marker and that it rightfully belongs to the king´s brother, next in line to come to throne. And there was he side of the Marker. She did nothing to legitimize her rule besides taking that sword and grasping it strong and wielding it, leading the armies of Roskulg in battles. She changed. It echoed in her appearance, if before she had worn clothes in colours kind to dust and earth, then now she bore white robes with clear markings of her high status. She refused to wear regalia besides the king´s sword and even that only in battle. On the eve of battle she went to the throne, on what it rested and after the battle wiped it clean of blood and returned it to the chair´s red cushion. And after a year passed the Roskulg army bore a new flag, a white silhouette of a woman on a dark blue background - it looked as if there was the moon behind the woman, making her radiate. "With light...", she thought when she saw herself depicted, she herself felt that she was lost in the darkness of the night. She had known the Tale, but now she had become involved and intervened with it to the point of controlling it, thus the Marker became a mere title for her for she no longer knew nor feel the Tale. She no longer kept distance nor did she bind herself to a strict frame of being asked then telling, rather she no longer spoke, she acted. The men serving under her command did not see a woman nor a Marker in her, but a brilliant leader, the master strategist and brave warrior she had turned out to be. She was the kind of leader that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus she was honoured amongst her army.
The Marker battled in the front lines, she battled for the people, but she was distant from them. The side of the king´s brother sought source for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kin in battles and to whom the tales of the Brave White Warrior, before known as the Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields, many did not know if their loved ones were alive or not. The soldiers and her knew the course of war, of all at stake and gave their all to protect their all, their homes, families and country and to them it meant following her, anywhere. The party wishing to overthrow the Marker took advantage of the gap between her and the people.
The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. R´deawen was intact, but the air between the yet safe walls smelt of destruction for the wind carried there ash from burned fields, villages and cities and at times too often reeked of blood. The stranger had lost his place in the guild, the war fed stigma and fear and he felt homeless for he no longer belonged. He was not the only one. Many felt lost and forlorn, many despaired in their loss of loved ones, many lost homes, the place to belong to. The blades of war cut trough the roots and many rootless people were born. Their hearts were hurt beyond pain and life did not grant them the mercy of death. Winged by the success of the Marker of Roskulg many prophets new arose, here and there souls were caught. Many gathered seeking something to rely on, to follow something, to lose themselves, many wanted to forget. There were ones who sought to gather others, some for power, some in faith, that they can serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some in the name of demons. One of the latter was The Dark Guild, what gathered men wishing to bear arms - men, unwilling to bow to kings for the skild of the Hall and the gap between the power and the people had left them leaderless. They were the one on the other side of the gap, the ones in the dark and the moonlight didn´t reach them for there were clouds thick hiding it´s shine. And the clouds got thicker, the winds colder and stronger, now carrying not only the smell of death, but death itself. Plague roamed the lands, breaking the broken.
Thus came they day darkest of them all. Afront the leader of one of the fractions of the Dark Guild, who was called king by his men, a woman was brought. He did not turn his head, being lost in his own thoughts, but another was drawn near by the ruckus. There was shouting like "look, how fair she was " and "look at those lovely clothes, she must be a rich lady", but the first thing he noticed, was the Mark on her dress and with horror he looked up to find eyes meeting his. Held up by only the hands of the men who had brought her, was a bloody bundle reminiscent to a human. Her clothes were torn and one could tell, that she had been beaten, violated, abused. He looked at her trying only not to let the truth reach him, he did not want to recognize her and yet he did. A moment after their eyes had locked a bright red tiny trickle of blood flowed from her mouth to her chin, her head lowered and the hair what had shown her face covered it. The little tension remained in her body disappeared. The men didn´t toss her aside, instead they treated her now dead body like a toy. He watched it, unable to move, to think. At one moment, he didn´t know when he collapsed to the ground silently crying. The next day a soldier approached the king with a dagger in his hand. He spoke and then pressed the blade to his veins. The king rushed to him and wrapped his cape around the wounded arm of the soldier as tightly as he could, then he shouted out for help, sent men to get the medicine man. Later that evening he went out from the caves. The night was cold and clear.
The Dark Guild lived in large caves in the mountains and the king spent all his days in them, in the dark silence of his lair. Now he was out breathing in the cold autumn air. Then he walked to the ledge, where dead bodies were kept before burial or burning. He walked up to the body of the Marker, bowed over her and kissed her blue lifeless lips. "They have killed The White Mother" had shattered his silence. The soldier had cut himself, because he was speaking out of line and rank and of such that would be considered nonsense - but this was the time, where there were words no more truer and appropriate than these. When the king was young he had been foretold of a great love. A love so unimaginable - to be loved by the White Mother. It was known, that gods incarnate and this woman before him.. he knew in his heart, that it was her. He grasped her hands and cried. He cried out his very heart. Till he was empty and then in his void he heard and felt and knew.. that she had come to him. She spoke and he was given the knowledge. When she left he looked into the sky as if waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon too, but could not find it. "Yes, she is not there", he walked back to the caves, "but she is in me".
In the cave he had the men be gathered and before his men he spoke and he spoke of all truthfully. Thus he became a prophet and in history he was given the name The Second. The men who killed her were marauders, who at first were spared of death for even them were counted as brothers and thus given a second chance, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed, but in an honourable manner. Then came the time his words came true. As he had told, the old sun meaning the White Mother´s incarnation had been killed, but the being continues, for there is a new sun - a weak light growing stronger and the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead the White Mother, there must be a sacrifice. Trough his heart this sacrifice was him and trough the hearts of men, who honoured him followed him and as he had told, there came a day when they were no longer alive nor dead, they became the damned and in time their being shifted from one level to an other and as damned ones they were placed among the Dark Force in the eternal battle of Light and Dark.
There they stood out. The king´s love for The White Mother had with years transcended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and each and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackles, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him, but because he had come by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will as well, they too were free to choose the battles they wanted to fight. At first the men made their own choices, but in time they all returned, making the choice to once again follow him and only him. And when he fought, they all fought and they were the mightiest of all for their blade cut seldom, but if it did, their swords weighed down with the weight of the heart.
In the grassy plains winds blew, were winters and summers, was even rain. Horses passed trough Roskulg again. Wars ended and peace arrived. People built homes and again one could hear children laughing. In the grass sat three children, two boys and a girl. They played with animals make belief. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other by played, that a piece of grass is an eagle and flew over the herds and the girl played to be running trough the fields as the wild mustangs. Then one day the boy with the farm invited them to stay at his place, so the eagle could rest his wings and the horse could eat oats and drink fresh water. The evening before he had talked to his father, who told him to be kinder to those kids, because they have a hard life. The next year the boy´s mother gave the two kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens and a rooster too. The two siblings worked hard on their small field and with the help of their playmates family they strived.
One night a man snuck in the children´s house, made way to the kitchen and sat down in the corner of the room and there waited for the sunrise. He woke up when the bright morning light shone straight at him, just as he had planned. It used to be her favourite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. Coal had been used on the ships to protect men from sirens and even pirates like him feared the sirens, the enticement of the dark depths. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and then he turned around to return to his seat in the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms, so calling her and she walked, then ran up to him, to his embrace and cried. She thought, that he was never going to return and now... she pressed herself against him and he held her tight, petting her head. "I´ll go wake up Corin" she suddenly said and went to the bedchamber, where her brother was sleeping or so she thought. He was holding his blanket tight over his eyes. She talked to him in a gentle voice and the boy loosened his grip. The man too came to the bedchamber and sat on the side of the boy´s bed. The boy was still too afraid to look.. he was so afraid, that this is a dream. The man stroke his head and the boy recognized his touch - it really was him, he thought and started sobbing, still under the blanket. The man took the boy, wrapped blanket around him and held him in his lap. The girl too sat besides them and leaned on his shoulder. Thus began the days together. Their father had returned to stay.
He started to work at their playmates farm, who in exchange helped him with the work around their home. Life was peaceful and even the sky cleared. The children and rest of the grasslands´ people learned to know the blue and the sun. Years passed and these days became beautiful memories. Corin left the farm in search of his father, who had left some time before. He travelled trough the fields, saw the mossy forests and finally stood, seeing and smelling the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the towns. Countless days passed becoming countless years. All changed, but she remained, until one day she met someone she knew in a town´s bustling streets. The next morning he found the streets empty and her waiting for him. She invited him to follow her with the wave of her hand and not knowing why, he followed her.
At one moment he noticed that they were not alone. He started to see people around them, ghosts, soldiers going the same way. He walked in that crowd and suddenly saw, that he was by the seaside. Before him was a bay, afar straight ahead from him was the mouth of it and beyond there.. the open sea. The soldiers passed him, they went into the water, every one of them and when the last one was in the waves, it started to rain. The girl was by his side, she gently took his hand. "You never were a stranger to me, my dear Raven", she said and he started to cry. Trough his tears he saw people on the water, their silhouettes drawn by the falling rain. All of the water of the bay was like floor, all of the floor was full of soldiers and before them was he, their king and he and all behind him had something on their backs... Do you know where angels came from?
The travelling men roamed these dry grasslands, being the few to know it, to see it. They knew the springs and there they built wells and thus only they knew how to survive in this barren land. They, the travelling men and the horses. Mustangs, that is. The wild horse too travelled, travelled to survive, to feed. By faith these plains connected the wild lands, where they could feed and breed, live. Two times a year they migrated trough the barren fields, the air filled with dust and the sound of thousands of hooves. Till came the rooted men looking for sport, to pass time and cruel were their ways for they killed the horse. Many mustangs were slaughtered until a hand was raised. In the house of their guild a merkaani, for thus the travelling man was called, spoke, spoke on the behalf of the horse. For they had seen the magnificent sight of those fields, of death blooming to life as the mustangs ran across the plains. Their forefathers and them, they were connected by the moments in awe of that sight and thus they understood, on the brink of losing it for good – their brotherhood with the horse. It was not as if they had not known it it was more like waking from a dream and then years after remembering the message of that dream. They did what their forefathers would have done, for this feeling was the red string of their hearts – they asked for a patch of land, dry and useless. Land and all, what´s there.
The king of their land revered the merkaani and in his heart revered the horse. As a man of power he could speak the first: “You all, that are before me. I have known your fathers and mothers and have heard tales of those before them. Nothing bad has ever been spoken of you, for you are honest people. Free as the wind, yet thy honor is set in stone. Thus I see no reason not to grant thy wish” and added in half voice: “it would be nice to see a pommele again”. So the merkaani left the great halls as settled men and that night in the guild house mead foamed and flowed and toasts were sang, toasts for the heart, the kings heart beating in tune with theirs – in the beat of the drum of hooves in the grass of Roskulg.
Thus came a country, a nation. The man who raised his hand was voted king. Thus were a kingdom and a king, a kingdom of dry grass and crumbling soil and a nation of wondering people. The king looked at his land, breathed in the cool air, looked at it´s cloudy sky. He squatted down, picked up the dirt and rubbed it between his fingers. "Dark, almost black ... I haven´t seen anything like this elsewhere..." he mumbled and stood up, went to his company and rode off. On that day, the moment of feeling that soil between his fingers a decision was born. At the beginning it was a dream, a wild dream. He needed something, this place needed something and that something was the bringer of the miracle of life, water. There was water in the wells, yet it seldom rained. The wells were investigated and an underground water vein big as a river was found and in time irrigation systems were built and thus could come villages and towns and a central, where under tree a statue can be found of the first king with soil in his hand. The central was called "raven earth", R´deawen in their tongue. The crops were never grand, but they were enough to support the merkaani. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families could now gather there, in their home, their land, kingdom what they called by this land´s ancient name, Roskulg, the road of the horse.
They had been given by the king a patch of dry land and all what´s there and that patch had bean Roskulg and all what´s there had meant the horses, that migrate trough there. The Roskulg territory given to them by the king had always been an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave merkaani the power to stop the senseless killing and grant the horses´ safety wherever the mustangs roamed. Because now they were marked by the protecting word, they carried the mark of the brother, the mark of the sister of the merkaani. In time this bond took new forms, the merkaani became horsemen known for extraordinary skill and mindset, they came to be known as people who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.
Centuries passed and the land of merkaani bred many stories. The most beloved tale was a tale the first king was fond of too, the tale of The War. The story tells that once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace in the hearts of people. He spoke of light and dark, light and dark being embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord. Those two gods led the forces of these two opposites in an eternal battle of fighting without hate, but with respect, because one could not be without the other. Also, he said, without the fight of those two forces could not be the all, the world. Thus their swords were crossed, but with no ill will. Telling of this eternal fight he added, that he dreams, that someday a different way will be found for all to be, a way without bloodshed and battle. In the midst of battles raging, nights lit with flames people felt the touch of eternity in those words, in that dream salvation. The prophet´s words and the tale of the protecting Mark of the first king fused in the tides of time, the protecting spirit of Roskulg grew together with the concept of the White Mother and thus came to be a religion honouring her as the embodiment of eternal kindness and encompassing love, the caring home, the protecting mother. Too was born was the tradition of The Marking. The people, horses and homes of Roskulg came to carry the Mark, that embodied the tale of the hateless eternal fight and the will to protect and care for one´s beloved. It became to be believed, that The Mark could only be drawn by a wise one called the Marker and if that Marker was found, he or she was granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker. Such privilege were granted for them, because the role of the Marker meant carrying a weight many could not bare and one could not share. The Marker was kin to the prophet, like the prophet had been the Marker too was a seer, the one with the sight beyond this time and realm. The Great Hall of Roskulg saw taking care of these seers as an honouring commitment and many of their kings had Markers serving in their courts as advisors.
One of The Markers of Roskulg of whom many tales were told, this one being one of them, was a young woman with fair skin and hair. Her eyes were calm and no one had seen them laugh nor cry. She seldom spoke and before and after being made The Marker spent her days walking in the grasslands. They said that she was like the sky above Roskulg, ever gray. It rained and cleared so seldom, that people there forgot both sun and rain. Before she was found as a Marker she was an outcast for even for the people of the land under that gray sky her calmness felt uneasing, but after the Hall of the King told the people that she was their Marker she was no longer shunned out and in time people grew to respect her.
Talking to her he started to feel, that there is something, that he hadn´t noticed before. First, he was in awe of the woman in front of him. So clear and solid was she in her words and presence, it was as it was giving her an air of nobility. The more of her presence he felt the closer creeped an understanding, till it hit him as he had remembered something he had forgotten long ago. He noticed that the Mark was different from before. Slightly, but strongly darker and heavier, much resembling the being of the stranger´s nation. Before the Mark had been light and airy like the wind over Roskulg, now there was black soil and starless nights in that as well and that new Mark was on every house, horse and man he could see. She had changed the Tale. She noticed what had happened to the man, started to speak, but stopped. He realized her power, a power greater than the Tale. He bowed and left without uttering a word.
The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked up into the sky and thought: "silence", then wrapped her cape tight around her and set off, "the fields are more honest in their silence for they do not speak, because they can not speak words, unlike man, who speaks or stays silent based on choice". She had noticed how the merchant had connected with her, the connection had happened because she had let her presence unfold beyond the usual for she wanted words, even angry ones she would have wanted to listen. The sky above Roskulg doesn´t rain nor is there sunshine. "Winter is nearing", thought she, making her way into the open.
As always she walked far without resting, just walking on toward the next mark, that being a rock or a lighter spot on the horizon or a road mark. Walking. As always she had no food nor drink with her and as always she could feel no famine nor thirst. This day her walk was interrupted by a troop of soldiers. "We have come to you, our Marker. The King beseeches your counsel. We´ve brought you a horse". She mounted without a word and in the same manner took off towards the town.
She rode fast, not slowing down before she reached the Hall, there she dismounted and rushed inside. A man watched her dash, the way she didn´t slow down even when reaching the town´s gates. True, the streets of Roskulg were never busy and the risk of anyone getting hurt was low. He went and took the reins of the horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the horse from him and he could breathe at ease for he was not used to handling horses. At his homeland were only stories of horses and even now, when he had started to feel like one of the merkaani he had never rode a horse and most of the time he avoided being around them. Big creatures, something about them made him shiver. He raised his hand and petted the horse´s warm and soft forehead, down, the nose and the horse rubbed his nose against his hand, thus the bond was born He was pretty surprised himself that he had actually got near this horse, maybe, because it was her horse he thought. He, like his fellow merchants felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. The air around her was sharp as a blade and sometimes when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a breeze in the shape of a sword gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skilfully, not drawing blood. Just in the middle of remembering this he suddenly felt it. She ran past him, to the stable boy and after getting a fresh horse, rode out of the stable, nearly running him over. Out of sight, away from the town in the ripping wind she screamed a silent scream, her horse on his hide legs, her dress flapping and the hooves of the forelegs touched ground gently and on they rode. Dusk darkened into night, following the stars she made her way. Peace had grown frail. She knew that there was years till the next battle, but this was the beginning and she knew that again she had to remain silent, swallow down another deadly bite and again she had to remain alive when wanting to die with every shred of her being. She burned in her pain, brewed dark and cold and rotted on the inside, withering away and on the outside her eyes stayed calm, gray like the ever cloudy sky. She cursed her heart for existing and hated herself for feeling this feeling, this love. She let go of the reins, she let herself fall and in the dark she laid, covering her eyes with her arm. Not to see the sky, the stars and the silver crescent - the ever being peace above screams, the static chaotically burning being of All. She moved her arm and read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unravelling her dark storms she read him. She again turned every page of his being and all was as she had always known. Her cross to bear, only her. She again tried to open her own book, but it remained shut no matter how hard she tore the covers. She calmed and laughed at herself thinking that she has not grown at all in all these years, still she is that stupid, so immature. The Marker, who not only reads the Tale, but who for some reason has a power greater than power of the Tale itself and for some reason a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how much and knowing that made her life a living hell. Her anger and love, twin flames mingled and away breathed it all, she, the girl gazing at the stars. Still on most occasions she could not restrain herself and if near him she could not stay calm and her intent to kill him, the embodiment of her pain slashed trough air, cutting the fabrics of All, nearly bleeding his throat.
A hand touched her side and she could feel the warmth of the other. Not afar, but close, so warm. Burning, that she pulled away and so... that she returned. So they danced around the fires among others sharing this air filled to the brim and like all others they drank it to the bitter end, before dawn drowning in the flows of each other. He watched her closed peaceful eyes after, pressed nearer and she opened her eyes and too, diving head first neared him. Someone not him, someone warm and gentle and with soft gentle lips speaking words. She listened, pressing her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, his warmth spreading and she wanted to be closer and closer. She allowed this flame to grow calmer, to build walls around her and in her she bore life born from him. The emptiness she had known now twice brimming over with all she thought she´d never know and every little piece of her lifted by arms and carried to the bed chamber... .
The next battle, the third and a war unfolded. The Marker´s name spread far and wide for was known, that Roskulg was victorious because they had The Seer. The king`s faith in her was unshakable and thus the kingdom stood strong. In the third year of the war the king was severely wounded in battle, losing the ability to walk. An infection ravaged his body, shackling him to bed and in time robbing him of his senses. Before the deterioration of his mind he handed his sword to The Marker, not his brother, who had wanted the throne and that was the beginning of the skild what lead to the fall of the Hall of Roskulg. The side of the king´s brother stated, that the king had already lost his mind when he gave the ruling of the country to the Marker and that it rightfully belongs to the king´s brother, next in line to come to throne. And there was he side of the Marker. She did nothing to legitimize her rule besides taking that sword and grasping it strong and wielding it, leading the armies of Roskulg in battles. She changed. It echoed in her appearance, if before she had worn clothes in colours kind to dust and earth, then now she bore white robes with clear markings of her high status. She refused to wear regalia besides the king´s sword and even that only in battle. On the eve of battle she went to the throne, on what it rested and after the battle wiped it clean of blood and returned it to the chair´s red cushion. And after a year passed the Roskulg army bore a new flag, a white silhouette of a woman on a dark blue background - it looked as if there was the moon behind the woman, making her radiate. "With light...", she thought when she saw herself depicted, she herself felt that she was lost in the darkness of the night. She had known the Tale, but now she had become involved and intervened with it to the point of controlling it, thus the Marker became a mere title for her for she no longer knew nor feel the Tale. She no longer kept distance nor did she bind herself to a strict frame of being asked then telling, rather she no longer spoke, she acted. The men serving under her command did not see a woman nor a Marker in her, but a brilliant leader, the master strategist and brave warrior she had turned out to be. She was the kind of leader that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus she was honoured amongst her army.
The Marker battled in the front lines, she battled for the people, but she was distant from them. The side of the king´s brother sought source for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kin in battles and to whom the tales of the Brave White Warrior, before known as the Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields, many did not know if their loved ones were alive or not. The soldiers and her knew the course of war, of all at stake and gave their all to protect their all, their homes, families and country and to them it meant following her, anywhere. The party wishing to overthrow the Marker took advantage of the gap between her and the people.
The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. R´deawen was intact, but the air between the yet safe walls smelt of destruction for the wind carried there ash from burned fields, villages and cities and at times too often reeked of blood. The stranger had lost his place in the guild, the war fed stigma and fear and he felt homeless for he no longer belonged. He was not the only one. Many felt lost and forlorn, many despaired in their loss of loved ones, many lost homes, the place to belong to. The blades of war cut trough the roots and many rootless people were born. Their hearts were hurt beyond pain and life did not grant them the mercy of death. Winged by the success of the Marker of Roskulg many prophets new arose, here and there souls were caught. Many gathered seeking something to rely on, to follow something, to lose themselves, many wanted to forget. There were ones who sought to gather others, some for power, some in faith, that they can serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some in the name of demons. One of the latter was The Dark Guild, what gathered men wishing to bear arms - men, unwilling to bow to kings for the skild of the Hall and the gap between the power and the people had left them leaderless. They were the one on the other side of the gap, the ones in the dark and the moonlight didn´t reach them for there were clouds thick hiding it´s shine. And the clouds got thicker, the winds colder and stronger, now carrying not only the smell of death, but death itself. Plague roamed the lands, breaking the broken.
Thus came they day darkest of them all. Afront the leader of one of the fractions of the Dark Guild, who was called king by his men, a woman was brought. He did not turn his head, being lost in his own thoughts, but another was drawn near by the ruckus. There was shouting like "look, how fair she was " and "look at those lovely clothes, she must be a rich lady", but the first thing he noticed, was the Mark on her dress and with horror he looked up to find eyes meeting his. Held up by only the hands of the men who had brought her, was a bloody bundle reminiscent to a human. Her clothes were torn and one could tell, that she had been beaten, violated, abused. He looked at her trying only not to let the truth reach him, he did not want to recognize her and yet he did. A moment after their eyes had locked a bright red tiny trickle of blood flowed from her mouth to her chin, her head lowered and the hair what had shown her face covered it. The little tension remained in her body disappeared. The men didn´t toss her aside, instead they treated her now dead body like a toy. He watched it, unable to move, to think. At one moment, he didn´t know when he collapsed to the ground silently crying. The next day a soldier approached the king with a dagger in his hand. He spoke and then pressed the blade to his veins. The king rushed to him and wrapped his cape around the wounded arm of the soldier as tightly as he could, then he shouted out for help, sent men to get the medicine man. Later that evening he went out from the caves. The night was cold and clear.
The Dark Guild lived in large caves in the mountains and the king spent all his days in them, in the dark silence of his lair. Now he was out breathing in the cold autumn air. Then he walked to the ledge, where dead bodies were kept before burial or burning. He walked up to the body of the Marker, bowed over her and kissed her blue lifeless lips. "They have killed The White Mother" had shattered his silence. The soldier had cut himself, because he was speaking out of line and rank and of such that would be considered nonsense - but this was the time, where there were words no more truer and appropriate than these. When the king was young he had been foretold of a great love. A love so unimaginable - to be loved by the White Mother. It was known, that gods incarnate and this woman before him.. he knew in his heart, that it was her. He grasped her hands and cried. He cried out his very heart. Till he was empty and then in his void he heard and felt and knew.. that she had come to him. She spoke and he was given the knowledge. When she left he looked into the sky as if waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon too, but could not find it. "Yes, she is not there", he walked back to the caves, "but she is in me".
In the cave he had the men be gathered and before his men he spoke and he spoke of all truthfully. Thus he became a prophet and in history he was given the name The Second. The men who killed her were marauders, who at first were spared of death for even them were counted as brothers and thus given a second chance, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed, but in an honourable manner. Then came the time his words came true. As he had told, the old sun meaning the White Mother´s incarnation had been killed, but the being continues, for there is a new sun - a weak light growing stronger and the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead the White Mother, there must be a sacrifice. Trough his heart this sacrifice was him and trough the hearts of men, who honoured him followed him and as he had told, there came a day when they were no longer alive nor dead, they became the damned and in time their being shifted from one level to an other and as damned ones they were placed among the Dark Force in the eternal battle of Light and Dark.
There they stood out. The king´s love for The White Mother had with years transcended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and each and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackles, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him, but because he had come by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will as well, they too were free to choose the battles they wanted to fight. At first the men made their own choices, but in time they all returned, making the choice to once again follow him and only him. And when he fought, they all fought and they were the mightiest of all for their blade cut seldom, but if it did, their swords weighed down with the weight of the heart.
In the grassy plains winds blew, were winters and summers, was even rain. Horses passed trough Roskulg again. Wars ended and peace arrived. People built homes and again one could hear children laughing. In the grass sat three children, two boys and a girl. They played with animals make belief. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other by played, that a piece of grass is an eagle and flew over the herds and the girl played to be running trough the fields as the wild mustangs. Then one day the boy with the farm invited them to stay at his place, so the eagle could rest his wings and the horse could eat oats and drink fresh water. The evening before he had talked to his father, who told him to be kinder to those kids, because they have a hard life. The next year the boy´s mother gave the two kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens and a rooster too. The two siblings worked hard on their small field and with the help of their playmates family they strived.
One night a man snuck in the children´s house, made way to the kitchen and sat down in the corner of the room and there waited for the sunrise. He woke up when the bright morning light shone straight at him, just as he had planned. It used to be her favourite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. Coal had been used on the ships to protect men from sirens and even pirates like him feared the sirens, the enticement of the dark depths. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and then he turned around to return to his seat in the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms, so calling her and she walked, then ran up to him, to his embrace and cried. She thought, that he was never going to return and now... she pressed herself against him and he held her tight, petting her head. "I´ll go wake up Corin" she suddenly said and went to the bedchamber, where her brother was sleeping or so she thought. He was holding his blanket tight over his eyes. She talked to him in a gentle voice and the boy loosened his grip. The man too came to the bedchamber and sat on the side of the boy´s bed. The boy was still too afraid to look.. he was so afraid, that this is a dream. The man stroke his head and the boy recognized his touch - it really was him, he thought and started sobbing, still under the blanket. The man took the boy, wrapped blanket around him and held him in his lap. The girl too sat besides them and leaned on his shoulder. Thus began the days together. Their father had returned to stay.
He started to work at their playmates farm, who in exchange helped him with the work around their home. Life was peaceful and even the sky cleared. The children and rest of the grasslands´ people learned to know the blue and the sun. Years passed and these days became beautiful memories. Corin left the farm in search of his father, who had left some time before. He travelled trough the fields, saw the mossy forests and finally stood, seeing and smelling the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the towns. Countless days passed becoming countless years. All changed, but she remained, until one day she met someone she knew in a town´s bustling streets. The next morning he found the streets empty and her waiting for him. She invited him to follow her with the wave of her hand and not knowing why, he followed her.
At one moment he noticed that they were not alone. He started to see people around them, ghosts, soldiers going the same way. He walked in that crowd and suddenly saw, that he was by the seaside. Before him was a bay, afar straight ahead from him was the mouth of it and beyond there.. the open sea. The soldiers passed him, they went into the water, every one of them and when the last one was in the waves, it started to rain. The girl was by his side, she gently took his hand. "You never were a stranger to me, my dear Raven", she said and he started to cry. Trough his tears he saw people on the water, their silhouettes drawn by the falling rain. All of the water of the bay was like floor, all of the floor was full of soldiers and before them was he, their king and he and all behind him had something on their backs... Do you know where angels came from?
Saturday, November 24, 2012
About The Dream Trilogy written in November
I planned to open up the concentrate I had written years ago, but ended up adding new scenes to it - anyways, it remained as a concentrate. I personally think that the main reason besides the nature of the month I wrote it (too little words spoken) is the nature of the character of The Marker. The thing of knowing everything, yet not one´s part - when younger she lacks the courage to act and speak and because this story is told from her point of view.. there isn´t many dialogues, but mostly descriptions. Maybe someday I´ll be able to crack this meaning that this is by no chance the last version of The Dream Trilogy. :D
Hirotta koneko no byoudou ~~ Hüljatud kassikeste võrdsus
Oled sa kunagi olnud kohas, kust ei saa enam edasi ega tagasi? Mitte, et teed oleksid kinni või lahti, vaid tee jalge alt on kadunud. Põrgu ja taevas ehk all ja ülal on samuti läinud, õigemini saanud millegiks, mida vaid sina saad defineerida ja seega luua. Just seal ma olengi ja sealt vaatan sulle otsa. Kus oled sina? Ma ei tea. See on väljaspool minu piire ehk ma veel pean neist piiridest kinni, loon neid meie vahele. Vaatan, kuni enam ei suuda - su vaatamine teeb mulle haiget, kui sa seda veel ei tea - ja tõstan käe ning kerkivad müürid. Minu valdused. Mõttes ehitan endale maja, milles väikesed ja hubased toad ja akendest paistmas avarus, millest lapike on minu - minu oma aed. Sinna, oma väikesesse kodukesse kolib minu pere, mu sisemine segadus kõigi oma nägude, kujude ja tujudega. See pole minu lava - lava on see, kus oled sina, kus keerleb see tants - see siin on mu tagala, mu kindel kants ja varjupaik. Kodu, mis on ka kodutul. Siinne ei ole lavastus, vaid kurblik tõsielumäng, kus nutetakse häbi tundmata ja läbi pisarate vaadatakse päikest. Siin vastutatakse, sest siin on pisarad vihm ja rõõm päike. Siinne variseb ja siinset ehitatakse taas üles.. õrn on mu kindlus väliste tormide ees, kuid veel pole ma andnud alla ja kütan tube, harin aeda ja joon teed, hammustades kõrvale koduaia marjadega plaadikooki. Sa oled eemal, saates siia torme ning tuuli, mis vahel ajavad pilved päikese eest. Mina, me kõik, kes oleme siin oleme andnud sulle võimu kontrollida siinset ilma. Mõni meist leplikumalt, mõni ei ole lõpetanud kirumist, et kuidas nii üldse saab ja siin on üks, kes on laotanud kogu selle maailma su jalge ette üheskoos oma hinge ja südamega..... "kui juba nii, siis olgu", tunnistab kõrgimgi oma kaotust ning vaatab kardinate vahelt taas tuulisele väljale, kus sügismaru ei säästa ühtki lehte.
"Kuule, pätakas! Mis siin toimub! Appike, sinu kööki laskmine võrdub sinna uputuse kutsumisega." - "... . Juba koristan!" - "Oh teid küll". Ronkmustade juustega teismeline patsutab väikese linalaka pead ja lokkis helepruunide juustega naine vaatab neid köögiukse vahelt, näol emalik naeratus. "Hei, Pähkel, sa üleval", ütles mustajuukseline Ronk ja läks Pähkliks kutsutud köögiuksel seisja juurde, "kuidas su enesetunne on? Sa oled päevi omas toas olnud... krt egas sa öösel ringi hiili?" Pähkel naeratas küsijale oma tavapärast naeratust ja naeratades ütles: "Kõik on hästi". Ronk tundis, kuidas ta viha keeb üle, kuid hoidis end tagasi - aga oli näha, kuidas ta silmad leegitsesid, kui ta rahuliku häälega ütles: "Tore. Söök on pliidiserval soojas. Kannus on teed, saad lahjendada. Piparmünt, nõmmeliivatee ja metsmaasikas. Elvin Pähklike, chanto tabenasai kudasai," ja läks ära suurde tuppa, pani telka käima ja kadus oma maailma. Ta tundis, et ta lihtsalt ei suuda rohkem, ta mõtles... kui mitmendat kord ta seda mõtles? Ta mõtles,ta surus nuukseid tagasi, neelas pisaraid alla, ta mõttetes keerlesid vaid sõnad: "Kui kaua veel? Kui kaua?" - "Näe, sa unustasid enne magustoidu", kuulis Ronk äkki kesk oma tumedat olemist ja vaatas hääle suunas. Linalakk Valgeke istus ta kõrval, käed ettesirutatud koos taldrikuga, millel oli vaarikate ja maasikatega pirukas, kaks jäätisekuuli otsas. Igaüks saab ühe kuuli, ta teadis.. st Valgeke oli oma kuuli talle andnud. Seepeale Ronk naeratas ja tõusis üles: "Sööme koos", jooksis siis kööki ja naasis sealt teise tordikahvliga ühes käes ja teises taldrik teise pirukatükiga. Ta veeretas teise jäätisekuuli oma õigele kohale ja ulatas selle Valgekesele, kes seepeale andis Ronga kätte enda käes olnud taldriku. Ronk vajutas teleka kinni ja koos sõid nad magustoitu, vahepeal jutustades, vahel naerdes, kilgates.
Jääger oli koju jõudnud, sättis kuurist toodud küttepuid pliida kõrvale ja alla orvadesse. Siis tõusis, võttis vihmamärja vammuse seljast ja pannud selle pliida kõrvale nagisse, seadis sammud kohe toidu ja tee poole. "Tore, metsamari ka sees. Kas meepurk on tühjaks saanud või on seal veel?", küsis ta köögilaua taga istuvalt ja õhtueinet söövalt Pähklilt, kellel oli hetkel just suu täis ja seega ta lihtsalt võttis laualt meepurgi ja näitas, et seal sees mett veel küllaga. "Tore. Aaa, sain mesinikult ka purgi", ja ta tõstis oma seljakotist lauale purgi kanarbikumett. "Ja," lisas ta, "tõin sulle uued värvid ka", ning asetas Pähklikese ette lauale karbi guaššidega, mille külge oli kummivõruga kinnitatud kolm eri suurusega pintslit. Pähkel võttis pinstlid karbi küljest ja avas selle. Võttis sealt välja rohelise värvi ja nuusutas seda. "Need on need värvid", mõtles ta, "need ainsamad", ja jäi pisarateni liigutatuna, nii õnnelikuna vaatama seda tumerohelist värvi, millest levis tuppa magusrohelist õunalõhna... .
Neiu vaatas oma varbaid, lasi siis jalal taas vette kukkuda. Varasemast õppust võtnuna tegi ta seda piisavalt vaikselt, niiet vett üle vanniserva ei pritsinudki. Siis aga laskis ta endal vee alla vajuda, puhus sealt mulle üles ja vaatas. Kõik tundus talle sealt erinev. Sellepärast ta armastas õhunappust trotsides vee seest üles vaadata kas suvel meres vee all päikese järel ujudes või basseinis päikselaiku jälitades või siis üle vanniserva värelevaid küünlaleeke vaadates. Mingi hetk saab õhk otsa ja peab naasma kuiva maailma, kuid õhtutel nagu see ei kiirusta keegi tagant ja saab kordi veel naasta veealusesse vaikusesse ja olla eemal, peidus, varjatud.
Ronk viis diivanile magama jäänud Valgekese süles voodisse ja uinus ise tüdruku kõrval, pea Valgekese voodiserval. Jääger laotas teki üle Ronga õlgade ja läks heitis ise riidest lahti võtmata kõrvalvoodisse ja jäi ka kohe magama. Elvin oli üles seadnud molberti ja maalis, unustades ära aja ja ruumigi. Neiu pani hommikumantlile villase teki üll ning, jalad pliida ees soojas, avas oma sülearvuti ja kirjutas blogisse tänase päeva kirje.
Hommik. Praemunad, pannkoogid ja kirsimoos. Lõuna kakao ja muffinitega. Ikka on hea, kui mitu naist ühe katuse all elavad, kihistasid nad lõunalaua ääres muffinipabereid hammustusejagu eest tõmmates. Elvini öine šedööver rippus juba köögi seinal ja selle kuldsed toonid tõid hallil päeval tuppa päiksesära.
Kahe päeva pärast ei väljunud Pähklike enam enda toast ja nädala pärast ta lahkus, jättes oma majanurgakese tühjaks. Maal köögis jäi alles teda meenutama nagu ka perepilt konjakikapil: kelmikalt üht silma kinni pigistav Pähklike, pulgakomm suus, naeratamas - siis veel siiralt ja tõeliselt. Sama naeratus oli ka selles maalis. Majja jäänud tüdrukud mõistsid, et oma viimase naeratuse oli Pähklike neile, just nende jaoks! sellele maalile kandnud ja kuna tema pisarad - ainsam, mis talle oli jäänud - olid neile liig valusad vaadata, oli ta läinud. Rongale meenus pilt kohvikus, mis oli Pähklikesele väga meeldinud - naine, kes hoidis revolvrit oma oimukohal - ja hirmuvärin käis tal läbi keha. Jääger märkas seda ja mõistis, kuid uskudes ja lootes parimat ajas selle tondi eemale ja pani Rongale käe ümber, kes see peale toetas oma pea Jäägri tugevale õlale. Jäägrile andis kindlust juurde tõik, et Pähklike oli värvid kaasa võtnud. Sellest teadmisest lihtsalt õhkus rahu ja see jäi talle jõuandjaks päris pikaks ajaks. Kui kõrvale jätta see, et üks neist oli teadmata ajaks lahkunud, möödus elu Kassimajas nagu see oli olnud enne - võibolla jah.. käidi tihedamini postkasti kontrollimas kui varem.
Neiu vaatas vee alt üles. Küünalde kuma. Öösel peksis vihm vastu akent. Õunad olid puudelt korjatud. Kõik oli vaikne, külm ja kõle. Lehed olid läinud ja jätnud avara raagus ruumi, mille hõivas nüüd taevas, mis oli alatihti hall. Erinevad hallid. Tulid päevad, kui halli sekka värvis päike maale, mis võtsid ta hinge kinni. Esimene päev, teine ja need ei lakanud. Ta vaatas ja imestas - okas rinnus, kuid südamest tänulik, neelas ta pisaraid ja naeratas taevale vastu.
Jääger rääkis kamina ees sokkude pulmast ja kartustest, et talv saab olema karm. Kassimajaski tehti suvel vihtasid ja korralik olnud õunaaia saak ootas hangi ja härma. Tulidki esimesed lumed, lindude toidumajja pandi rohkem teri kui varem ja pekkki riputati välja. Enda tarbeks võeti panipaikadest välja käpikud ja karvamütsid, villased sokid ja vildid ning pikkadeks talveõhtuteks säeti valmis kõik aja täitmiseks tarvilik, lõngadest klaasivärvideni, head raamatud ka. Nii nad tulid, kõledad hinge matva taevaga päevad. Üha tihedamini oli üks või teine kadunud, jõuluaeg ju lähenemas ning Kassimaja kitsukusest hoolimata taheti ja tehti üllatusi. Pimedasse aega helgust toomaks põletati tihti küünlaid ja ehiti kodutehtud ehetega ära maja ja seda kaitsvad kuused. Sel õnnistatud päeval viidi metsalastele head-paremat ning anti kätte jõulukingid. Metsa varjust vaadati, kuidas linnas saabus tulede säras uus aasta ja kuulatati, kuidas pärast seda vaikus taas maad võttis.
Metsaretkedel käidi läbi ka soost ja rabast, kuulati ja vaadati. Lasti talvel end vallutada, valgel end matta, jääl end katta. Räägiti vähe, aga peeti vana kombe järgi videvikku ja ses valges vaikuses tundus vana nii lähedal ja oma. Raagus puudel ja lumel askeldasid talvelinnud. Lindude söögimaja kees elust, mis sealt kestma jäämiseks abi otsis ja sauna lähedal õue ja metsa piiril käisid metskitsed vihtasi söömas ning haavikuemandad ei hoidnud eemale õunapuudest. Nähti langevaid tähti ja virmalisi ning niimõnelgi müstilisel ööl istuti maja ees verandal, tekid ümber ja kuulati, kuis ulgusid hundid. Mets elab.
Jõulumaiust, hea ja paremaga glögi joodi palju ja tihti tehti seda oma aia õunamahlale vürtse ja pähkleid-rosinaid lisades. Saia sisse pandi rohkem kardemoni ja safranit ning ei koonerdatud ka rosinatega. Talvine kaamos tehti seega tasa lõunamaa vürtside tulisusega, neisse kätketud päikeselõõsaga. Kaaned keerati hoidistelt, kompottidelt ja moosidelt, küpsetati ise saia ja leiba. Vahel käidi linnas varusi täiendamas, alati oli laual kauss mandariinidega ja vahel ka vaas lilledega, hoidmaks elus teadmist suvest.
Ühel õhtul istus Neiu taas akna ees. Ta vaatas aknaklaasi peegelduselt, kuidas Valgeke ja Ronk Memoriid mängisid ning avatud ukse vahelt nägi, kuidas Jääger köögis askeldas. Ta nägi ka Pähklikese maali ja vaatas siis pilti selle kõrval. Nad ostsid ära Pähklikesele meeldinud pildi ja riputasid selle, tema ahastuse ta viimase naeratuse kõrvale. Valgeke oli esimesel õhtul seda oranži taustaga pilti vaatama jäänud ja sel ööl ka nutnud, kuid päevade möödudes harjus ta selle olemasoluga ja nüüd ei teinud ta sellest enam väljagi. Võibolla teeskleski ta, et pilti pole, kuid ... aga Ronk oli hakanud temaga väga palju aega veetma ja ehk unustas Valgeke pildi tänu sellele. Neiu vaatas välja öhhe ja kuulas kõrvaklappidest U2 "Stuck in a moment"-it ning mõtles talle: kui kaua aega on möödas sellest, kui ta nad tänavale jättis? Hetkeks naeratas, lahkelt käe ulatas, kuid selle kohe ka tagasi tõmbas ja edasi tõttas. See hetk oli ilus ja valus, kuna hetkeks andis see lootuse, hetkeks oli kõik olemas ja juba oli see läinud. Keegi ei teadnud, miks see hetk kestma ei jäänud ja samas tundsid nad kõik, et see kestab ja seda päikese soojuses, tuule vihinas ja lume säras. Ta vaatas jäälilli ja tõmbas pikki neid näpuga mööda klaasi, lauldes ise üht armastatud laulu. Pühkis siis silma sinna vargsi ilmunud pisara, tõusis äkki üles ja tõttas Jäägri juurde kööki.
Taevasse oli ilmunud teinegi päike, vana selja tagant näitas ta end ja nii, kuidas vana taandus, näitas ta end üha rohkem. See uus päike oli võõras, kuid tema sära oli pehme ja lahke. Nad ei teadnud, kas sellest noorest päikesest või vanast või hoopis kevade saabumise ootusest ja teadmisest, et see kindlasti tuleb .. oli valgus tihti kullakarva, meekarva ja kõik justkui helises maagiast ja võlujõust. Nad justkui kuulsid juba lillede tärkamist, ojade nirinat, lindude laule, pungade pakatamist ja nägid suvist valgust voogamas läbi tiheda metsa, tundsid suus kirsside maitset ja jalge all lehtede krõbisevat kuivust, kuulsid hirvesokkude mõirgeid. Kõik oli, kõik oli korraga. Aeg ei möödunud päevade kulumisest hoolimata, taevas langesid tähed ja oli nii kuu- kui ka päikesevarjutusi, kuid oli vaid see hetk. Noor päike vana varjust, miski värske kiirgamas. Miski noor ja võõras. Neiu muretses endale teleskoobi ning unustas mõneks ajaks klaviatuuri ja kui ta selle juurde naases, tõi kaasa salapärase laotuse sära ja pimedust.
Ma jään siia, Kassimajja - mul on siin hea. Ei, ma ei oota. Soovin sulle siiralt edu ja vabandan oma rumaluse pärast, mu kalleim sõber. Mul on siin tööd teha, maid avastada ja sinulgi on teod, mida teha. Mu valduste väravad on sulle valla, kuid kutseid välja ma ei saada. Võibolla kuuled neid tuules.. kui kuuled, siis tule.
"Kuule, pätakas! Mis siin toimub! Appike, sinu kööki laskmine võrdub sinna uputuse kutsumisega." - "... . Juba koristan!" - "Oh teid küll". Ronkmustade juustega teismeline patsutab väikese linalaka pead ja lokkis helepruunide juustega naine vaatab neid köögiukse vahelt, näol emalik naeratus. "Hei, Pähkel, sa üleval", ütles mustajuukseline Ronk ja läks Pähkliks kutsutud köögiuksel seisja juurde, "kuidas su enesetunne on? Sa oled päevi omas toas olnud... krt egas sa öösel ringi hiili?" Pähkel naeratas küsijale oma tavapärast naeratust ja naeratades ütles: "Kõik on hästi". Ronk tundis, kuidas ta viha keeb üle, kuid hoidis end tagasi - aga oli näha, kuidas ta silmad leegitsesid, kui ta rahuliku häälega ütles: "Tore. Söök on pliidiserval soojas. Kannus on teed, saad lahjendada. Piparmünt, nõmmeliivatee ja metsmaasikas. Elvin Pähklike, chanto tabenasai kudasai," ja läks ära suurde tuppa, pani telka käima ja kadus oma maailma. Ta tundis, et ta lihtsalt ei suuda rohkem, ta mõtles... kui mitmendat kord ta seda mõtles? Ta mõtles,ta surus nuukseid tagasi, neelas pisaraid alla, ta mõttetes keerlesid vaid sõnad: "Kui kaua veel? Kui kaua?" - "Näe, sa unustasid enne magustoidu", kuulis Ronk äkki kesk oma tumedat olemist ja vaatas hääle suunas. Linalakk Valgeke istus ta kõrval, käed ettesirutatud koos taldrikuga, millel oli vaarikate ja maasikatega pirukas, kaks jäätisekuuli otsas. Igaüks saab ühe kuuli, ta teadis.. st Valgeke oli oma kuuli talle andnud. Seepeale Ronk naeratas ja tõusis üles: "Sööme koos", jooksis siis kööki ja naasis sealt teise tordikahvliga ühes käes ja teises taldrik teise pirukatükiga. Ta veeretas teise jäätisekuuli oma õigele kohale ja ulatas selle Valgekesele, kes seepeale andis Ronga kätte enda käes olnud taldriku. Ronk vajutas teleka kinni ja koos sõid nad magustoitu, vahepeal jutustades, vahel naerdes, kilgates.
Jääger oli koju jõudnud, sättis kuurist toodud küttepuid pliida kõrvale ja alla orvadesse. Siis tõusis, võttis vihmamärja vammuse seljast ja pannud selle pliida kõrvale nagisse, seadis sammud kohe toidu ja tee poole. "Tore, metsamari ka sees. Kas meepurk on tühjaks saanud või on seal veel?", küsis ta köögilaua taga istuvalt ja õhtueinet söövalt Pähklilt, kellel oli hetkel just suu täis ja seega ta lihtsalt võttis laualt meepurgi ja näitas, et seal sees mett veel küllaga. "Tore. Aaa, sain mesinikult ka purgi", ja ta tõstis oma seljakotist lauale purgi kanarbikumett. "Ja," lisas ta, "tõin sulle uued värvid ka", ning asetas Pähklikese ette lauale karbi guaššidega, mille külge oli kummivõruga kinnitatud kolm eri suurusega pintslit. Pähkel võttis pinstlid karbi küljest ja avas selle. Võttis sealt välja rohelise värvi ja nuusutas seda. "Need on need värvid", mõtles ta, "need ainsamad", ja jäi pisarateni liigutatuna, nii õnnelikuna vaatama seda tumerohelist värvi, millest levis tuppa magusrohelist õunalõhna... .
Neiu vaatas oma varbaid, lasi siis jalal taas vette kukkuda. Varasemast õppust võtnuna tegi ta seda piisavalt vaikselt, niiet vett üle vanniserva ei pritsinudki. Siis aga laskis ta endal vee alla vajuda, puhus sealt mulle üles ja vaatas. Kõik tundus talle sealt erinev. Sellepärast ta armastas õhunappust trotsides vee seest üles vaadata kas suvel meres vee all päikese järel ujudes või basseinis päikselaiku jälitades või siis üle vanniserva värelevaid küünlaleeke vaadates. Mingi hetk saab õhk otsa ja peab naasma kuiva maailma, kuid õhtutel nagu see ei kiirusta keegi tagant ja saab kordi veel naasta veealusesse vaikusesse ja olla eemal, peidus, varjatud.
Ronk viis diivanile magama jäänud Valgekese süles voodisse ja uinus ise tüdruku kõrval, pea Valgekese voodiserval. Jääger laotas teki üle Ronga õlgade ja läks heitis ise riidest lahti võtmata kõrvalvoodisse ja jäi ka kohe magama. Elvin oli üles seadnud molberti ja maalis, unustades ära aja ja ruumigi. Neiu pani hommikumantlile villase teki üll ning, jalad pliida ees soojas, avas oma sülearvuti ja kirjutas blogisse tänase päeva kirje.
Hommik. Praemunad, pannkoogid ja kirsimoos. Lõuna kakao ja muffinitega. Ikka on hea, kui mitu naist ühe katuse all elavad, kihistasid nad lõunalaua ääres muffinipabereid hammustusejagu eest tõmmates. Elvini öine šedööver rippus juba köögi seinal ja selle kuldsed toonid tõid hallil päeval tuppa päiksesära.
Kahe päeva pärast ei väljunud Pähklike enam enda toast ja nädala pärast ta lahkus, jättes oma majanurgakese tühjaks. Maal köögis jäi alles teda meenutama nagu ka perepilt konjakikapil: kelmikalt üht silma kinni pigistav Pähklike, pulgakomm suus, naeratamas - siis veel siiralt ja tõeliselt. Sama naeratus oli ka selles maalis. Majja jäänud tüdrukud mõistsid, et oma viimase naeratuse oli Pähklike neile, just nende jaoks! sellele maalile kandnud ja kuna tema pisarad - ainsam, mis talle oli jäänud - olid neile liig valusad vaadata, oli ta läinud. Rongale meenus pilt kohvikus, mis oli Pähklikesele väga meeldinud - naine, kes hoidis revolvrit oma oimukohal - ja hirmuvärin käis tal läbi keha. Jääger märkas seda ja mõistis, kuid uskudes ja lootes parimat ajas selle tondi eemale ja pani Rongale käe ümber, kes see peale toetas oma pea Jäägri tugevale õlale. Jäägrile andis kindlust juurde tõik, et Pähklike oli värvid kaasa võtnud. Sellest teadmisest lihtsalt õhkus rahu ja see jäi talle jõuandjaks päris pikaks ajaks. Kui kõrvale jätta see, et üks neist oli teadmata ajaks lahkunud, möödus elu Kassimajas nagu see oli olnud enne - võibolla jah.. käidi tihedamini postkasti kontrollimas kui varem.
Neiu vaatas vee alt üles. Küünalde kuma. Öösel peksis vihm vastu akent. Õunad olid puudelt korjatud. Kõik oli vaikne, külm ja kõle. Lehed olid läinud ja jätnud avara raagus ruumi, mille hõivas nüüd taevas, mis oli alatihti hall. Erinevad hallid. Tulid päevad, kui halli sekka värvis päike maale, mis võtsid ta hinge kinni. Esimene päev, teine ja need ei lakanud. Ta vaatas ja imestas - okas rinnus, kuid südamest tänulik, neelas ta pisaraid ja naeratas taevale vastu.
Jääger rääkis kamina ees sokkude pulmast ja kartustest, et talv saab olema karm. Kassimajaski tehti suvel vihtasid ja korralik olnud õunaaia saak ootas hangi ja härma. Tulidki esimesed lumed, lindude toidumajja pandi rohkem teri kui varem ja pekkki riputati välja. Enda tarbeks võeti panipaikadest välja käpikud ja karvamütsid, villased sokid ja vildid ning pikkadeks talveõhtuteks säeti valmis kõik aja täitmiseks tarvilik, lõngadest klaasivärvideni, head raamatud ka. Nii nad tulid, kõledad hinge matva taevaga päevad. Üha tihedamini oli üks või teine kadunud, jõuluaeg ju lähenemas ning Kassimaja kitsukusest hoolimata taheti ja tehti üllatusi. Pimedasse aega helgust toomaks põletati tihti küünlaid ja ehiti kodutehtud ehetega ära maja ja seda kaitsvad kuused. Sel õnnistatud päeval viidi metsalastele head-paremat ning anti kätte jõulukingid. Metsa varjust vaadati, kuidas linnas saabus tulede säras uus aasta ja kuulatati, kuidas pärast seda vaikus taas maad võttis.
Metsaretkedel käidi läbi ka soost ja rabast, kuulati ja vaadati. Lasti talvel end vallutada, valgel end matta, jääl end katta. Räägiti vähe, aga peeti vana kombe järgi videvikku ja ses valges vaikuses tundus vana nii lähedal ja oma. Raagus puudel ja lumel askeldasid talvelinnud. Lindude söögimaja kees elust, mis sealt kestma jäämiseks abi otsis ja sauna lähedal õue ja metsa piiril käisid metskitsed vihtasi söömas ning haavikuemandad ei hoidnud eemale õunapuudest. Nähti langevaid tähti ja virmalisi ning niimõnelgi müstilisel ööl istuti maja ees verandal, tekid ümber ja kuulati, kuis ulgusid hundid. Mets elab.
Jõulumaiust, hea ja paremaga glögi joodi palju ja tihti tehti seda oma aia õunamahlale vürtse ja pähkleid-rosinaid lisades. Saia sisse pandi rohkem kardemoni ja safranit ning ei koonerdatud ka rosinatega. Talvine kaamos tehti seega tasa lõunamaa vürtside tulisusega, neisse kätketud päikeselõõsaga. Kaaned keerati hoidistelt, kompottidelt ja moosidelt, küpsetati ise saia ja leiba. Vahel käidi linnas varusi täiendamas, alati oli laual kauss mandariinidega ja vahel ka vaas lilledega, hoidmaks elus teadmist suvest.
Ühel õhtul istus Neiu taas akna ees. Ta vaatas aknaklaasi peegelduselt, kuidas Valgeke ja Ronk Memoriid mängisid ning avatud ukse vahelt nägi, kuidas Jääger köögis askeldas. Ta nägi ka Pähklikese maali ja vaatas siis pilti selle kõrval. Nad ostsid ära Pähklikesele meeldinud pildi ja riputasid selle, tema ahastuse ta viimase naeratuse kõrvale. Valgeke oli esimesel õhtul seda oranži taustaga pilti vaatama jäänud ja sel ööl ka nutnud, kuid päevade möödudes harjus ta selle olemasoluga ja nüüd ei teinud ta sellest enam väljagi. Võibolla teeskleski ta, et pilti pole, kuid ... aga Ronk oli hakanud temaga väga palju aega veetma ja ehk unustas Valgeke pildi tänu sellele. Neiu vaatas välja öhhe ja kuulas kõrvaklappidest U2 "Stuck in a moment"-it ning mõtles talle: kui kaua aega on möödas sellest, kui ta nad tänavale jättis? Hetkeks naeratas, lahkelt käe ulatas, kuid selle kohe ka tagasi tõmbas ja edasi tõttas. See hetk oli ilus ja valus, kuna hetkeks andis see lootuse, hetkeks oli kõik olemas ja juba oli see läinud. Keegi ei teadnud, miks see hetk kestma ei jäänud ja samas tundsid nad kõik, et see kestab ja seda päikese soojuses, tuule vihinas ja lume säras. Ta vaatas jäälilli ja tõmbas pikki neid näpuga mööda klaasi, lauldes ise üht armastatud laulu. Pühkis siis silma sinna vargsi ilmunud pisara, tõusis äkki üles ja tõttas Jäägri juurde kööki.
Taevasse oli ilmunud teinegi päike, vana selja tagant näitas ta end ja nii, kuidas vana taandus, näitas ta end üha rohkem. See uus päike oli võõras, kuid tema sära oli pehme ja lahke. Nad ei teadnud, kas sellest noorest päikesest või vanast või hoopis kevade saabumise ootusest ja teadmisest, et see kindlasti tuleb .. oli valgus tihti kullakarva, meekarva ja kõik justkui helises maagiast ja võlujõust. Nad justkui kuulsid juba lillede tärkamist, ojade nirinat, lindude laule, pungade pakatamist ja nägid suvist valgust voogamas läbi tiheda metsa, tundsid suus kirsside maitset ja jalge all lehtede krõbisevat kuivust, kuulsid hirvesokkude mõirgeid. Kõik oli, kõik oli korraga. Aeg ei möödunud päevade kulumisest hoolimata, taevas langesid tähed ja oli nii kuu- kui ka päikesevarjutusi, kuid oli vaid see hetk. Noor päike vana varjust, miski värske kiirgamas. Miski noor ja võõras. Neiu muretses endale teleskoobi ning unustas mõneks ajaks klaviatuuri ja kui ta selle juurde naases, tõi kaasa salapärase laotuse sära ja pimedust.
Ma jään siia, Kassimajja - mul on siin hea. Ei, ma ei oota. Soovin sulle siiralt edu ja vabandan oma rumaluse pärast, mu kalleim sõber. Mul on siin tööd teha, maid avastada ja sinulgi on teod, mida teha. Mu valduste väravad on sulle valla, kuid kutseid välja ma ei saada. Võibolla kuuled neid tuules.. kui kuuled, siis tule.
The Army Of The Damned. The White Mother ~~ The Dream Trilogy
Dark soil crumbles from one´s fingers - dark, full of life and dry, light as dust. These plains are ever windy, thus the soil is whisked from one´s fingers and gone it is. The only thing that roots down this land is grass, wild and strong. It rains seldom, yet this grass grows. Never is it lush and green, it is dry and brownish and alive. These barren grasslands bare no trees nor streams and yet, they are home. Home of the horse and home of the man. The man travelled, for they were merchants. To those rooted they brought riches of of other like them, people of villages, towns and cities. They were like the wind, with no home, unbound. Yet this nation, proud of their freedom, settled down.
The travelling men roamed these dry grasslands, being the few to know it, to see it. They knew the springs and there they built wells and thus only they knew how to survive in this barren land. They, the travelling men and the horses. Mustangs, that is.
The wild horse too travelled, travelled to survive, to feed. By faith these plains connected the wild lands, where they could feed and breed, live. Two times a year they migrated trough the barren fields, the air filled with dust and the sound of thousands of hooves.
Till came the rooted men looking for sport, to pass time and cruel were their ways for they killed the horse. Many mustangs were slaughtered until a hand was raised. In the house of their guild a merkaani, for thus the travelling man was called spoke, spoke on the behalf of the horse. For they had seen the magnificent sight of those fields of death blooming to life as the mustangs ran across the plains. Their forefathers and them, they were connected by the moments in awe of that sight and thus they understood, on the brink of losing it for good – their brotherhood with the horse.
It was not as if they had not known it it was more like waking from a dream and then years after remembering the message of that dream. They did what their forefathers would have done, for this feeling was the red string of their hearts – they asked for a patch of land, dry and useless. Land and all, what´s there.
The king of their land revered the merkaani and in his heart revered the horse. As a man of power he could speak the first: “You all, that are before me. I have known your fathers and mothers and those before them. Nothing bad has ever been spoken of you, for you are honest people. Free as the wind, yet thy honor is set in stone. Thus I see no reason not to grant thy wish” and added in half voice: “it would be nice to see a pommelé again”
So the merkaani left the great halls as settled men and that night in the guild house mead foamed and flowed and toasts were sang, toasts for the heart, the kings heart beating in tune with theirs – in the beat of the drum of hooves in the grass of Roskulg.
Thus came a country, a nation. The man who raised his hand was voted king and not long from then a town was built. Water was scarce, but an undeground vein was found and irrigation systems were built, that became a basis for a town small, but strong. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families now gathered there, in R´deawen.
They had been given by the king a patch of dry land and all what´s there and that patch had bean Roskulg and all what´s there had meant the horses, that migrate trough there. The Roskulg territory given to them by the king was also an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave them the power to stop the sensless killing and grant their safety wherever the mustangs roamed. In time merkaani became horsemen known for skill and mindset, people, who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.
In time stories were born and those stories grew timeless and with stories came The Mark. The Mark as the embodiment of The Tale and thus the soul of the place and the people of what it had sprung from or were they born from The Tale, which came first. People believed in tales for tales gave them their pride, identity and a sort of peace of mind for the world was set in those tales. Their stories told not only of brave men and women, but of light and dark as well for once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace. From the prophet´s words grew legends and myths, what in time fused with the old stories and to those who know those tales the prophet´s words felt more ancient than those stories, for those words took them to the core of all, much like to the spring the stories. From that awe was born the tradition of The Marking. All what embodied the tale of the merkaani was marked with The One Mark, connecting the present to the past and that with the eternal. The One Mark could only be drawn by a wise one, the true teller and if that person was found, they were granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker.
The Marker not only knew The Tale, but was kind to the prophet for not only they knew it, they could feel it, feel the source of the stories. That source was called The One Story and that spoke of the eternal battle of light and dark, an honorable battle, where both sides respected each other. A battle which´s sole purpose was to be the basis of existence of all. Those opposite sides fought, because they had not yet found a way to sustain that basis without the fight, they crossed blades but did it in solid faith, that one day they will find it and there could be peace. Light and Dark were embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord, who were also the leaders of the battling forces. Both of these deities had followers, the main part of merkaani and The Marker of Roskulg were followers of The White Mother, who embodied care, warmth of home and encompassing love. The Dark Lord on the other hand embodied war and right for hatred. The believers of the two deities followed The One Story respecting each other as did the two battling forces.
One of The Markers was a young woman with fair skin and hair. Her eyes were calm and no one had seen them laugh nor cry. She seldom spoke and before and after being made The Marker spent her days walking in the grasslands. They said that she was like the sky above Roskulg, ever gray. It rained and cleared so seldom, that people there forgot both sun and rain. Before she was found as A Marker she was an outcast for even for the people of the land under that gray sky her calmness felt uneasing, but after the Hall of the King told the people that she was The Marker she was no longer shunned out and people grew to respect her.
Talking to her he started to feel, that there is something, that he hadn´t noticed before. First, he was in awe of the woman in front of him. So clear and solid was she in her words and presence, it was as it was giving her an air of nobility. The more of her her presence he felt the closer creeped an understanding, till it hit him as he had remembered something he had forgotten long ago. He noticed that the Mark was different from before. Slightly, but strongly darker and heavier, much resembling the being of the stranger´s nation. Before the Mark had been light and airy like the wind over Roskulg, now there was black soil and starless nights in that as well and that Mark was on every house, horse and man he could see. She had changed the Tale. She noticed what had happened to the man, started to speak, but stopped. He realized her power, a power greater than The Tale. He bowed and left without uttering a word.
The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked up into the sky and thought: "silence," then wrapped her cape tight around her and set off, "the fields are more honest in their silence for they do not speak, because they can not speak words unlike man, who speaks or stays silent based on choice". She had noticed how the merchant had connected with her, the connection had happened because she had let her presence unfold beyond the usual for she wanted words, even angry ones she would have wanted to listen. The sky above Roskulg doesn´t rain nor is there sunshine. "Winter is nearing", thought she, making her way into the open.
As always she walked far without resting, just walking on toward the next mark, that being a rock or a lighter spot on the horizon or a road mark. Walking. As always she had no food nor drink with her and as always she could feel no famine nor thirst. This day her walk was interrupted by a troop of soldiers. "We have come to you, our Marker. The King beseeches your counsel. We´ve brought you a horse". She mounted without a word and in the same manner took off towards the town.
She rode fast, not slowing down before she reached the Hall, there she dismounted and rushed inside. A man watched her dash, the way she didn´t slow down even when reaching the town´s gates. True, the streets of Roskulg were never busy and the risk of anyone getting hurt was low. He went and took the reins of her horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the it from him and he could breathe at ease for he was not used to handling horses. At his homeland were only stories of horses and even now, when he had started to feel like one of the merkaani he had never rode a horse and most of the time he avoided being around them. Big creatures, something about them made him shiver. He raised his hand and petted the horse´s warm and soft forehead, down, the nose and the horse rubbed his nose against his hand, thus the bond was born He was pretty surprised himself that he had actually got near this horse, maybe, because it was her horse he thought. He, like his fellow merchant felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. Her´s was sharp as a blade and sometimes, when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a sword in the shape of a breeze gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skillfully, not drawing blood. Just in the middle of remembering this he suddenly felt it. She ran past him, to the stable boy and after getting a fresh horse, rode out of the stable, nearly running him over. Out of sight, away from the town in the ripping wind she screamed a silent scream, her horse on his hide legs, her dress flapping and the hooves of the forelegs touched ground gently and on they rode. Dusk darkened into night, following the stars she made her way. Peace had grown frail. She knew that there was years till the next battle, but this was the beginning and she knew that again she had to remain silent, swallow down another deadly bite and again she had to remain alive when wanting to die with every shred of her being. She burned in her pain, brewed dark and cold and rotted on the inside, withering away and on the outside her eyes stayed calm, gray like the ever cloudy sky. She cursed her heart for existing and hated herself for feeling this feeling, this love. She let go of the reins, she let herself fall and in the dark she laid, covering her eyes with her arm. Not to see the sky, the stars and the silver crescent - the ever being peace above screams, the static chaotically burning, burning being of All. She read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unraveling her dark storms she read him. She again turned every page of his being and all was as she had always known. Her cross to bear, only hers. She again tried to open her own book, but it remained shut no matter how hard she tore the covers. She calmed and laughed at herself thinking that she has not grown in all of these years, still she is that stupid, immature. The Marker, who not only reads the Tale, but who for some reason has a power greater than power of The Tale itself and for some reason shen this Marker among Markers was possessed by a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how many and what made her life a living hell. Her anger and love, twin flames mingled and away breathed it all, she, the girl gazing at the stars. Still on most occasions she could not restrain herself and if near him she could not stay calm and her intent to kill him, the embodiment of her pain slashed trough air, cutting the fabrics of All, nearly bleeding his throat.
A hand touched her side and she could feel the warmth of the other. Not afar, but close, so warm. Burning, that she pulled away and so... that she returned. So they danced around the fires among others sharing this air filled to the brim and like all others they drank it to the bitter end, before dawn drowning in the flows of each other. He watched her closed peaceful eyes after, pressed nearer and she opened her eyes and too, diving head first neared him. Someone not him, someone warm and gentle and with soft gentle lips speaking words. She listened, pressing her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, his warmth spreading and she wanted to be closer and closer. She allowed this flame to grow calmer, to build walls around her and in her she bore life born from him. The emptiness she had known now twice brimming over with all she thought she´d never know and every little piece of her lifted by arms and carried to the bed chamber... .
The next battle, the third and a war unfolded. The Marker´s name spread far and wide for was known, that Roskulg was victorious because they had The Seer. The king`s faith in her was unshakable and thus the people stood strong. In the third year of the war the king was severely wounded in battle, losing the ability to walk. An infection ravaged his body, shackling him to bed and in time robbing him of his senses. Before the deterioration of his mind he handed his sword to The Marker, not his brother, who had wanted the throne and that was the skild what lead to the fall of the Hall of Roskulg. The side of the king´s brother stated, that the king had already lost his mind when he gave the ruling of the country to The Marker and that it rightfully belongs to the king´s brother, next in line to come to throne. And there was he side of The Marker. She did nothing to legitimize her rule besides taking that sword and grasping it strong and wielding it, leading the armies of Roskulg in battles. She changed. It echoed in her appearance, if before she had worn clothes in colors kind to dust and earth, then now for battle she bore white robes with clear markings of her high status. She refused to wear regalia besides the king´s sword and even that only in battle. On the eve of battle she went to the throne, on what it rested and after the battle wiped it clean of blood and returned it to the red chair´s cushion. After a year the forces of Roskulg bore a new flag, a white silhouette of a woman on a dark blue background - it looked as if there was the moon behind the woman, that making her radiate. She herself felt that she was lost in the night. She had known The Tale, but now she had become involved and intervened with it to the point of controlling it, thus The Marker became a mere title for her for she no longer knew nor feel The Tale. She no longer kept distance nor bound her to a strict frame of asked then tell, rather she no longer spoke, she acted. The men serving under her command did not see a woman nor a Marker in her, but a brilliant leader - a master strategist she had become, the kind that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus as a leader she was honored.
The Marker battled in the front lines, she battled for the people, but she was distant from them. The side of the king´s brother seeked for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kind in battles and to whom the tales of The Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields. The warriors knew the course of war, of all at stake and gave their all to protect their all, their homes, families and country and to them it meant following her, anywhere. The party wishing to overthrow The Marker took advantage of the gap between her, her men and the people.
The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. The town was intact, but the air between the yet safe walls smelt of destruction for the wind carried there ash from burned fields, villages and cities and at times too often reeked of blood. The stranger had lost his place in the guild, the war fed stigma and fear and he felt homeless for he no longer belonged. He was not the only one. Many felt lost and forlorn, many despaired in their loss of loved ones, many lost homes, the place to belong to. The blades of war cut trough the roots and many rootless people were born. Their hearts were hurt beyond pain and life did not grant them the mercy of death. Winged by the success of The Marker of Roskulg many prophets new arose, here and there souls were caught. Many gathered seeking something to rely on, to lose themselves, to follow something, many wanted to forget. There were ones who seeked to gather others, some for power, some in faith, so they could serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some of demons. One of the latter was The Dark Guild, what gathered men wishing to bear arms - men, unwilling to bow to kings for the skild of the Hall had left them leaderless. They were the one on the other side of the gap, the ones in the dark and the moonlight didn´t reach them for there were clouds thick hiding it´s shine. And the clouds got thicker, the winds colder and stronger, now carrying not only the smell of death, but death itself. Plague roamed the lands, breaking the broken.
Thus came they day darkest of them all. Afront the leader of one of the fractions, called king by his followers of the Dark Guild a woman was brought. He did not turn his head, being lost in his own thoughts, but another was drawn near by the ruckus. There were shouting like "look, how fair she was " and "look at those lovely clothes, she must be a rich lady", but the first thing he noticed, was the Mark on her dress and with horror he looked up to find eyes meeting his. Held up by only the hands of the men, who had brought her was a bloody bundle reminiscent to a human. Her clothes were torn and one could tell, that she had been beaten and abused. He looked at her trying only not to let the truth reach him, he did not want to recognize her and yet he did. A moment after their eyes had locked a bright red tiny trickle of blood flowed from her mouth to her chin, her head lowered and the hair what had shown her face now covered it. The little tension remained in her body disappeared. The men didn´t toss her aside, instead they treated her now dead body like a toy. He watched it, unable to move, to think. At one moment he collapsed to the ground silently crying. The next day a soldier approached the king with a dagger in his hand. He spoke and then pressed the blade to his veins. The king rushed to him and wrapped his cape around the wounded arm as tightly as he could, then he shouted out for help, sent men to get the medicine man. Later that evening he went out from the caves. The night was cold and clear.
The Dark Guild lived in large caves in the mountains and the king spent all his days in them, in the dark silence of his lair. Now he was out breathing in the cold autumn air. Then he walked to the ledge, where dead bodies were kept before burial. He walked up to the body of The Marker, bowed over her and kissed her blue lifeless lips. "They have killed The White Mother", had shattered his silence. The soldier had cut himself, because he was speaking out of line and rank and of such that would be considered nonsense - but this was the time, where there were words no more truer and appropriate than these. When the king was young he had been told of a great love. A love so unimaginable - to be loved by the White Mother. It was known, that gods incarnate and this woman before him.. he knew in his heart, that it was her. He grasped her hands and cried. He cried out his very heart. Till he was empty and then in his void he heard and felt and knew.. that she had come to him. She spoke and he was given the knowledge. When she left he looked into the sky as waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon, but could not find it. "Yes, she is not there", he walked back to the caves, "but she is in me".
In the cave he had the men be gathered and before his men he spoke and he spoke of all truthfully. Thus he became A Prophet and in history he was given the name The Second. The men who killed her were marauders, who at first were spared of death, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed in an honourable manner. Then came the time his words came true. As he had told, the old sun meaning the White Mother´s incarnation had been killed, but the being continues, for there is a new sun - a weak light growing stronger, still the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead of the White Mother, there must be a sacrifice. Trough his heart this sacrifice was him and trough the hearts of men, who honoured him followed him and as he had told, there came a day when they were no longer alive nor dead. They became the damned and in time their being shifted from one level to an other and as damned ones they were placed among the Dark Force in the eternal battle of Light and Dark.
There they stood out. The king´s love for The White Mother had with years trancended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackels, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him. As he had came by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will, they too were free to choose the battles they wanted to fight. At first the men made their own choices, but in time they all returned, making the choice to once again follow him and only him. And when he fought, they all fought and they were the mightest of all for their blade cut seldom, but when it did, their swords weighed down with the weight of the heart.
In the grassy plains winds blew, were winters and summers, was even rain. Horses passed trough Roskulg again. Wars ended and peace arrived. People built homes and again one could hear children laughing. In the grass sat three children, two boys and a girl. They played with animals make belief, stone sheep and horses, cows and oxen. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other boy played, that a piece of grass is an eagle and flew over the herds and the girl played to be running trough the fields as the wild mustangs. Then one day the boy with the farm invite them to stay at his place, so the eagle could rest his wings and the horse could eat oats and drink fresh water. The evening before he had talked to his father, who told him to be kinder to those kids, because they have a hard life. The next year the boy´s mother gave the to kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens with a rooster. Their father, who had been at sea did not return anymore that year. The two siblings kept on working on their small field and with the help of their playmates family the children strived.
One night a man snuck into the children´s house, made way to the kitchen and sat down in the corner of the room and there waited for the sunrise. He woke up when the bright morning light shone straight at him, just as he had planned. It used to be her favorite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and when he turned around to return to the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms calling her and she walked up to him, to his embrace and cried. She thought, that he was never going to return and now... she pressed herself against him and he held her tight, petting her head. "I´ll go wake up Corin" she suddenly said and went to the bedchamber, where her brother was sleeping or so she thought. He was holding his blanket tight over his eyes. She talked to him in a gentle voice and the boy loosened his grip. The man too came to the bedchamber and sat on the side of the boy´s bed. The boy was still too afraid to look.. he was so afraid, that this was a dream. The man stroke his head and the boy recognized his touch - it really was him, he thought and started sobbing, still under the blanket. The man took the boy, wrapped the blanket around him and held him in his lap. The girl too sat besides them and leaned on his shoulder. Thus began the days together. Their father had returned to stay.
He started to work at their playmates farm, who in exchange helped him with the work around their home. Life was peaceful and even the sky cleared. The children and rest of the grasslands´ people learned to know the blue and the sun. Years passed and these days became beautiful memories. Corin left the farm in search of his father, who had left some time before. He travelled trough the fields, saw the mossy forests and finally stood, seeing the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the town. One day she met someone she knew on it´s bustling streets. The next morning he found the streets empty and her waiting for him. She invited him to follow her with the wave of her hand and not knowing why, he followed her.
At one moment he noticed that they were not alone. He started to see people around them, ghosts, soldiers going the same way. He walked in that crowd and suddenly saw, that he was by the seaside. Before him was a bay, afar straight ahead from him was the mouth of it and beyond there.. the open sea. The soldiers passed him, they went into the water, every one of them and when the last one was in the waves, it started to rain. The girl was by his side, she gently took his hand. "You never were a stranger to me", she said and he started to cry. Trough his tears he saw people on the water, their silhouettes drawn by the falling rain. All of the water was like floor, all of the floor was full and before them was he and him and all behind him had something on their backs. Do you know where angels came from?
The travelling men roamed these dry grasslands, being the few to know it, to see it. They knew the springs and there they built wells and thus only they knew how to survive in this barren land. They, the travelling men and the horses. Mustangs, that is.
The wild horse too travelled, travelled to survive, to feed. By faith these plains connected the wild lands, where they could feed and breed, live. Two times a year they migrated trough the barren fields, the air filled with dust and the sound of thousands of hooves.
Till came the rooted men looking for sport, to pass time and cruel were their ways for they killed the horse. Many mustangs were slaughtered until a hand was raised. In the house of their guild a merkaani, for thus the travelling man was called spoke, spoke on the behalf of the horse. For they had seen the magnificent sight of those fields of death blooming to life as the mustangs ran across the plains. Their forefathers and them, they were connected by the moments in awe of that sight and thus they understood, on the brink of losing it for good – their brotherhood with the horse.
It was not as if they had not known it it was more like waking from a dream and then years after remembering the message of that dream. They did what their forefathers would have done, for this feeling was the red string of their hearts – they asked for a patch of land, dry and useless. Land and all, what´s there.
The king of their land revered the merkaani and in his heart revered the horse. As a man of power he could speak the first: “You all, that are before me. I have known your fathers and mothers and those before them. Nothing bad has ever been spoken of you, for you are honest people. Free as the wind, yet thy honor is set in stone. Thus I see no reason not to grant thy wish” and added in half voice: “it would be nice to see a pommelé again”
So the merkaani left the great halls as settled men and that night in the guild house mead foamed and flowed and toasts were sang, toasts for the heart, the kings heart beating in tune with theirs – in the beat of the drum of hooves in the grass of Roskulg.
Thus came a country, a nation. The man who raised his hand was voted king and not long from then a town was built. Water was scarce, but an undeground vein was found and irrigation systems were built, that became a basis for a town small, but strong. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families now gathered there, in R´deawen.
They had been given by the king a patch of dry land and all what´s there and that patch had bean Roskulg and all what´s there had meant the horses, that migrate trough there. The Roskulg territory given to them by the king was also an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave them the power to stop the sensless killing and grant their safety wherever the mustangs roamed. In time merkaani became horsemen known for skill and mindset, people, who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.
In time stories were born and those stories grew timeless and with stories came The Mark. The Mark as the embodiment of The Tale and thus the soul of the place and the people of what it had sprung from or were they born from The Tale, which came first. People believed in tales for tales gave them their pride, identity and a sort of peace of mind for the world was set in those tales. Their stories told not only of brave men and women, but of light and dark as well for once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace. From the prophet´s words grew legends and myths, what in time fused with the old stories and to those who know those tales the prophet´s words felt more ancient than those stories, for those words took them to the core of all, much like to the spring the stories. From that awe was born the tradition of The Marking. All what embodied the tale of the merkaani was marked with The One Mark, connecting the present to the past and that with the eternal. The One Mark could only be drawn by a wise one, the true teller and if that person was found, they were granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker.
The Marker not only knew The Tale, but was kind to the prophet for not only they knew it, they could feel it, feel the source of the stories. That source was called The One Story and that spoke of the eternal battle of light and dark, an honorable battle, where both sides respected each other. A battle which´s sole purpose was to be the basis of existence of all. Those opposite sides fought, because they had not yet found a way to sustain that basis without the fight, they crossed blades but did it in solid faith, that one day they will find it and there could be peace. Light and Dark were embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord, who were also the leaders of the battling forces. Both of these deities had followers, the main part of merkaani and The Marker of Roskulg were followers of The White Mother, who embodied care, warmth of home and encompassing love. The Dark Lord on the other hand embodied war and right for hatred. The believers of the two deities followed The One Story respecting each other as did the two battling forces.
One of The Markers was a young woman with fair skin and hair. Her eyes were calm and no one had seen them laugh nor cry. She seldom spoke and before and after being made The Marker spent her days walking in the grasslands. They said that she was like the sky above Roskulg, ever gray. It rained and cleared so seldom, that people there forgot both sun and rain. Before she was found as A Marker she was an outcast for even for the people of the land under that gray sky her calmness felt uneasing, but after the Hall of the King told the people that she was The Marker she was no longer shunned out and people grew to respect her.
Talking to her he started to feel, that there is something, that he hadn´t noticed before. First, he was in awe of the woman in front of him. So clear and solid was she in her words and presence, it was as it was giving her an air of nobility. The more of her her presence he felt the closer creeped an understanding, till it hit him as he had remembered something he had forgotten long ago. He noticed that the Mark was different from before. Slightly, but strongly darker and heavier, much resembling the being of the stranger´s nation. Before the Mark had been light and airy like the wind over Roskulg, now there was black soil and starless nights in that as well and that Mark was on every house, horse and man he could see. She had changed the Tale. She noticed what had happened to the man, started to speak, but stopped. He realized her power, a power greater than The Tale. He bowed and left without uttering a word.
The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked up into the sky and thought: "silence," then wrapped her cape tight around her and set off, "the fields are more honest in their silence for they do not speak, because they can not speak words unlike man, who speaks or stays silent based on choice". She had noticed how the merchant had connected with her, the connection had happened because she had let her presence unfold beyond the usual for she wanted words, even angry ones she would have wanted to listen. The sky above Roskulg doesn´t rain nor is there sunshine. "Winter is nearing", thought she, making her way into the open.
As always she walked far without resting, just walking on toward the next mark, that being a rock or a lighter spot on the horizon or a road mark. Walking. As always she had no food nor drink with her and as always she could feel no famine nor thirst. This day her walk was interrupted by a troop of soldiers. "We have come to you, our Marker. The King beseeches your counsel. We´ve brought you a horse". She mounted without a word and in the same manner took off towards the town.
She rode fast, not slowing down before she reached the Hall, there she dismounted and rushed inside. A man watched her dash, the way she didn´t slow down even when reaching the town´s gates. True, the streets of Roskulg were never busy and the risk of anyone getting hurt was low. He went and took the reins of her horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the it from him and he could breathe at ease for he was not used to handling horses. At his homeland were only stories of horses and even now, when he had started to feel like one of the merkaani he had never rode a horse and most of the time he avoided being around them. Big creatures, something about them made him shiver. He raised his hand and petted the horse´s warm and soft forehead, down, the nose and the horse rubbed his nose against his hand, thus the bond was born He was pretty surprised himself that he had actually got near this horse, maybe, because it was her horse he thought. He, like his fellow merchant felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. Her´s was sharp as a blade and sometimes, when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a sword in the shape of a breeze gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skillfully, not drawing blood. Just in the middle of remembering this he suddenly felt it. She ran past him, to the stable boy and after getting a fresh horse, rode out of the stable, nearly running him over. Out of sight, away from the town in the ripping wind she screamed a silent scream, her horse on his hide legs, her dress flapping and the hooves of the forelegs touched ground gently and on they rode. Dusk darkened into night, following the stars she made her way. Peace had grown frail. She knew that there was years till the next battle, but this was the beginning and she knew that again she had to remain silent, swallow down another deadly bite and again she had to remain alive when wanting to die with every shred of her being. She burned in her pain, brewed dark and cold and rotted on the inside, withering away and on the outside her eyes stayed calm, gray like the ever cloudy sky. She cursed her heart for existing and hated herself for feeling this feeling, this love. She let go of the reins, she let herself fall and in the dark she laid, covering her eyes with her arm. Not to see the sky, the stars and the silver crescent - the ever being peace above screams, the static chaotically burning, burning being of All. She read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unraveling her dark storms she read him. She again turned every page of his being and all was as she had always known. Her cross to bear, only hers. She again tried to open her own book, but it remained shut no matter how hard she tore the covers. She calmed and laughed at herself thinking that she has not grown in all of these years, still she is that stupid, immature. The Marker, who not only reads the Tale, but who for some reason has a power greater than power of The Tale itself and for some reason shen this Marker among Markers was possessed by a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how many and what made her life a living hell. Her anger and love, twin flames mingled and away breathed it all, she, the girl gazing at the stars. Still on most occasions she could not restrain herself and if near him she could not stay calm and her intent to kill him, the embodiment of her pain slashed trough air, cutting the fabrics of All, nearly bleeding his throat.
A hand touched her side and she could feel the warmth of the other. Not afar, but close, so warm. Burning, that she pulled away and so... that she returned. So they danced around the fires among others sharing this air filled to the brim and like all others they drank it to the bitter end, before dawn drowning in the flows of each other. He watched her closed peaceful eyes after, pressed nearer and she opened her eyes and too, diving head first neared him. Someone not him, someone warm and gentle and with soft gentle lips speaking words. She listened, pressing her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, his warmth spreading and she wanted to be closer and closer. She allowed this flame to grow calmer, to build walls around her and in her she bore life born from him. The emptiness she had known now twice brimming over with all she thought she´d never know and every little piece of her lifted by arms and carried to the bed chamber... .
The next battle, the third and a war unfolded. The Marker´s name spread far and wide for was known, that Roskulg was victorious because they had The Seer. The king`s faith in her was unshakable and thus the people stood strong. In the third year of the war the king was severely wounded in battle, losing the ability to walk. An infection ravaged his body, shackling him to bed and in time robbing him of his senses. Before the deterioration of his mind he handed his sword to The Marker, not his brother, who had wanted the throne and that was the skild what lead to the fall of the Hall of Roskulg. The side of the king´s brother stated, that the king had already lost his mind when he gave the ruling of the country to The Marker and that it rightfully belongs to the king´s brother, next in line to come to throne. And there was he side of The Marker. She did nothing to legitimize her rule besides taking that sword and grasping it strong and wielding it, leading the armies of Roskulg in battles. She changed. It echoed in her appearance, if before she had worn clothes in colors kind to dust and earth, then now for battle she bore white robes with clear markings of her high status. She refused to wear regalia besides the king´s sword and even that only in battle. On the eve of battle she went to the throne, on what it rested and after the battle wiped it clean of blood and returned it to the red chair´s cushion. After a year the forces of Roskulg bore a new flag, a white silhouette of a woman on a dark blue background - it looked as if there was the moon behind the woman, that making her radiate. She herself felt that she was lost in the night. She had known The Tale, but now she had become involved and intervened with it to the point of controlling it, thus The Marker became a mere title for her for she no longer knew nor feel The Tale. She no longer kept distance nor bound her to a strict frame of asked then tell, rather she no longer spoke, she acted. The men serving under her command did not see a woman nor a Marker in her, but a brilliant leader - a master strategist she had become, the kind that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus as a leader she was honored.
The Marker battled in the front lines, she battled for the people, but she was distant from them. The side of the king´s brother seeked for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kind in battles and to whom the tales of The Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields. The warriors knew the course of war, of all at stake and gave their all to protect their all, their homes, families and country and to them it meant following her, anywhere. The party wishing to overthrow The Marker took advantage of the gap between her, her men and the people.
The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. The town was intact, but the air between the yet safe walls smelt of destruction for the wind carried there ash from burned fields, villages and cities and at times too often reeked of blood. The stranger had lost his place in the guild, the war fed stigma and fear and he felt homeless for he no longer belonged. He was not the only one. Many felt lost and forlorn, many despaired in their loss of loved ones, many lost homes, the place to belong to. The blades of war cut trough the roots and many rootless people were born. Their hearts were hurt beyond pain and life did not grant them the mercy of death. Winged by the success of The Marker of Roskulg many prophets new arose, here and there souls were caught. Many gathered seeking something to rely on, to lose themselves, to follow something, many wanted to forget. There were ones who seeked to gather others, some for power, some in faith, so they could serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some of demons. One of the latter was The Dark Guild, what gathered men wishing to bear arms - men, unwilling to bow to kings for the skild of the Hall had left them leaderless. They were the one on the other side of the gap, the ones in the dark and the moonlight didn´t reach them for there were clouds thick hiding it´s shine. And the clouds got thicker, the winds colder and stronger, now carrying not only the smell of death, but death itself. Plague roamed the lands, breaking the broken.
Thus came they day darkest of them all. Afront the leader of one of the fractions, called king by his followers of the Dark Guild a woman was brought. He did not turn his head, being lost in his own thoughts, but another was drawn near by the ruckus. There were shouting like "look, how fair she was " and "look at those lovely clothes, she must be a rich lady", but the first thing he noticed, was the Mark on her dress and with horror he looked up to find eyes meeting his. Held up by only the hands of the men, who had brought her was a bloody bundle reminiscent to a human. Her clothes were torn and one could tell, that she had been beaten and abused. He looked at her trying only not to let the truth reach him, he did not want to recognize her and yet he did. A moment after their eyes had locked a bright red tiny trickle of blood flowed from her mouth to her chin, her head lowered and the hair what had shown her face now covered it. The little tension remained in her body disappeared. The men didn´t toss her aside, instead they treated her now dead body like a toy. He watched it, unable to move, to think. At one moment he collapsed to the ground silently crying. The next day a soldier approached the king with a dagger in his hand. He spoke and then pressed the blade to his veins. The king rushed to him and wrapped his cape around the wounded arm as tightly as he could, then he shouted out for help, sent men to get the medicine man. Later that evening he went out from the caves. The night was cold and clear.
The Dark Guild lived in large caves in the mountains and the king spent all his days in them, in the dark silence of his lair. Now he was out breathing in the cold autumn air. Then he walked to the ledge, where dead bodies were kept before burial. He walked up to the body of The Marker, bowed over her and kissed her blue lifeless lips. "They have killed The White Mother", had shattered his silence. The soldier had cut himself, because he was speaking out of line and rank and of such that would be considered nonsense - but this was the time, where there were words no more truer and appropriate than these. When the king was young he had been told of a great love. A love so unimaginable - to be loved by the White Mother. It was known, that gods incarnate and this woman before him.. he knew in his heart, that it was her. He grasped her hands and cried. He cried out his very heart. Till he was empty and then in his void he heard and felt and knew.. that she had come to him. She spoke and he was given the knowledge. When she left he looked into the sky as waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon, but could not find it. "Yes, she is not there", he walked back to the caves, "but she is in me".
In the cave he had the men be gathered and before his men he spoke and he spoke of all truthfully. Thus he became A Prophet and in history he was given the name The Second. The men who killed her were marauders, who at first were spared of death, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed in an honourable manner. Then came the time his words came true. As he had told, the old sun meaning the White Mother´s incarnation had been killed, but the being continues, for there is a new sun - a weak light growing stronger, still the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead of the White Mother, there must be a sacrifice. Trough his heart this sacrifice was him and trough the hearts of men, who honoured him followed him and as he had told, there came a day when they were no longer alive nor dead. They became the damned and in time their being shifted from one level to an other and as damned ones they were placed among the Dark Force in the eternal battle of Light and Dark.
There they stood out. The king´s love for The White Mother had with years trancended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackels, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him. As he had came by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will, they too were free to choose the battles they wanted to fight. At first the men made their own choices, but in time they all returned, making the choice to once again follow him and only him. And when he fought, they all fought and they were the mightest of all for their blade cut seldom, but when it did, their swords weighed down with the weight of the heart.
In the grassy plains winds blew, were winters and summers, was even rain. Horses passed trough Roskulg again. Wars ended and peace arrived. People built homes and again one could hear children laughing. In the grass sat three children, two boys and a girl. They played with animals make belief, stone sheep and horses, cows and oxen. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other boy played, that a piece of grass is an eagle and flew over the herds and the girl played to be running trough the fields as the wild mustangs. Then one day the boy with the farm invite them to stay at his place, so the eagle could rest his wings and the horse could eat oats and drink fresh water. The evening before he had talked to his father, who told him to be kinder to those kids, because they have a hard life. The next year the boy´s mother gave the to kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens with a rooster. Their father, who had been at sea did not return anymore that year. The two siblings kept on working on their small field and with the help of their playmates family the children strived.
One night a man snuck into the children´s house, made way to the kitchen and sat down in the corner of the room and there waited for the sunrise. He woke up when the bright morning light shone straight at him, just as he had planned. It used to be her favorite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and when he turned around to return to the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms calling her and she walked up to him, to his embrace and cried. She thought, that he was never going to return and now... she pressed herself against him and he held her tight, petting her head. "I´ll go wake up Corin" she suddenly said and went to the bedchamber, where her brother was sleeping or so she thought. He was holding his blanket tight over his eyes. She talked to him in a gentle voice and the boy loosened his grip. The man too came to the bedchamber and sat on the side of the boy´s bed. The boy was still too afraid to look.. he was so afraid, that this was a dream. The man stroke his head and the boy recognized his touch - it really was him, he thought and started sobbing, still under the blanket. The man took the boy, wrapped the blanket around him and held him in his lap. The girl too sat besides them and leaned on his shoulder. Thus began the days together. Their father had returned to stay.
He started to work at their playmates farm, who in exchange helped him with the work around their home. Life was peaceful and even the sky cleared. The children and rest of the grasslands´ people learned to know the blue and the sun. Years passed and these days became beautiful memories. Corin left the farm in search of his father, who had left some time before. He travelled trough the fields, saw the mossy forests and finally stood, seeing the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the town. One day she met someone she knew on it´s bustling streets. The next morning he found the streets empty and her waiting for him. She invited him to follow her with the wave of her hand and not knowing why, he followed her.
At one moment he noticed that they were not alone. He started to see people around them, ghosts, soldiers going the same way. He walked in that crowd and suddenly saw, that he was by the seaside. Before him was a bay, afar straight ahead from him was the mouth of it and beyond there.. the open sea. The soldiers passed him, they went into the water, every one of them and when the last one was in the waves, it started to rain. The girl was by his side, she gently took his hand. "You never were a stranger to me", she said and he started to cry. Trough his tears he saw people on the water, their silhouettes drawn by the falling rain. All of the water was like floor, all of the floor was full and before them was he and him and all behind him had something on their backs. Do you know where angels came from?
Hi, life happened ~~ A and B
Mostly because my reluctance to write old style (paper and pencil) and lack of functioning computers and lots of messy sad and funny and crazy stuff = life I think I´ve by now failed to fill NaNoWriMo´s goal of a novel of 50 000 words. Anyways, I did try and I think it is OK for me to share here now what I´ve written.
The Dream Trilogy I´ve mentioned, but I wrote another story too (called nano rebelling :) ) and it´s called Hirotta koneko no byoudou. In English it means The Equality of Abandoned Cats and it is written in Estonian. It is about a young woman struggling to stay calm by trying to create an eye of a storm by herself and than in herself there a story, where almost nothing ever happens unfolds. The nothing happening makes it like a complimentary side to TOD, where big stuff like wars happen so I´ve called those 2 stories the A and B side of the same thing.. at this moment called by a code name: "November". :D
So.. here they are, with less edit so be merciful and forgive me the roughness & I hope You still can enjoy in spite of all of that :D
The Dream Trilogy I´ve mentioned, but I wrote another story too (called nano rebelling :) ) and it´s called Hirotta koneko no byoudou. In English it means The Equality of Abandoned Cats and it is written in Estonian. It is about a young woman struggling to stay calm by trying to create an eye of a storm by herself and than in herself there a story, where almost nothing ever happens unfolds. The nothing happening makes it like a complimentary side to TOD, where big stuff like wars happen so I´ve called those 2 stories the A and B side of the same thing.. at this moment called by a code name: "November". :D
So.. here they are, with less edit so be merciful and forgive me the roughness & I hope You still can enjoy in spite of all of that :D
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
murekurrust vurruga üle
käis mustvalge kass
tuli krokodill ja alla neelas
mälestused valusad
tehes minnes sabaga jalale pai
ning rumalate küünte vahelt
päästsid ära lahked
mitme maskiga näod
õhku jäi mõõkade helk
ja tiibade vuhin
ja kõik on maagiat tulvil
ning ma naeran nagu ikka
olgugi, et lumme
jäävad vast jäljed
ühed
käis mustvalge kass
tuli krokodill ja alla neelas
mälestused valusad
tehes minnes sabaga jalale pai
ning rumalate küünte vahelt
päästsid ära lahked
mitme maskiga näod
õhku jäi mõõkade helk
ja tiibade vuhin
ja kõik on maagiat tulvil
ning ma naeran nagu ikka
olgugi, et lumme
jäävad vast jäljed
ühed
a hand inviting
returned to fist
autumns´ riches once again
paled to grey November skies
leaving me
with nothing to hold on to
and everything to be grateful for
the summer´s chance,
poison taken
took all, even death
and left me at zero
under skies vast and kind
i shiver in the cold
my passion the winter embraces
with calm quiet beauty
so i stand and shiver
my dreams drawn in the sky
the lost heart given home
in the hope of windows lit
and warm
returned to fist
autumns´ riches once again
paled to grey November skies
leaving me
with nothing to hold on to
and everything to be grateful for
the summer´s chance,
poison taken
took all, even death
and left me at zero
under skies vast and kind
i shiver in the cold
my passion the winter embraces
with calm quiet beauty
so i stand and shiver
my dreams drawn in the sky
the lost heart given home
in the hope of windows lit
and warm
Friday, November 2, 2012
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