she was an ancient soul...
so was i, but she was much, much older than i could even imagine. i was there when the seas were split by the rising of the living stone, and the night was cleaved by the birth of the light of day. she was ancient then... she once told me that she remembered when the void was all there was, save her and the breath of the gods that she was borne upon as she traveled through the time before time... and i knew that was true, for i had seen it in her eyes... her eyes, so easy to get lost there, in those eyes...
all the mirrors filled with smoke, and when the dance began, the true dancers just stood and stared and let the fools gavotte...
sometimes, in a Summer's twilight, we would walk through the woods by her home to a hill that looked toward the West, over a small river and the tilled fields and wild chase beyond, and watch the sun makes it's departure from our coil and be bathed in the aura of that world where the fairies doth dwell, the blue betwixt the day and the night, where all things are vapors and the earth sighs and the few adventurous stars play at being the heralds of the night... she would rid herself of her clothes, lay back upon the edge of the forest floor and i would come to her... her scent would mingle with that of the world, her quickened breathing would join the chorus of the night, and the dark would wrap itself around us as we fell apart and then joined again in simple embrace and asleep we would fall...
at midnight, the revelry reached it's peak... upon the last of the bell, the dancers did remove their masques, yet, they did but still be who they were all along and would ever be, and the master did call to start the last dance of the night... upon the first note, they joined in dance again and, like moths around some unseen flame, they did turn...
other times we would sit all night on the floor of her living room, before the fire, she between my legs, her back against my chest, and we'd stare into the flames and share a bottle back and forth until all the ancient and mystical things would join us, dancing in the flickering light, just in the shadows, just seen out of the corners of our eyes... we would breath in unison, and sway to some unheard and old tune that was written not by men, but by creatures that came long before, when the world was wet and dark and the only light was from the glow of their large and yellow and unblinking eyes... slow and low, it's cadence the sure and steady turn of the earth, it's words heard, but not spoken...
so would we sit as the fire died and she would trace circles with her fingers in the palms of my hands, tracing the circles that all things travel, be they of the earth or celestial, be they wild thing, be they woman or man... and i would understand and in the dark, i would trace all the curves of her body, my finger tips barely touching her skin, like a map of some special land, seen only in my mind's eye... journeys in the dark...
at the end of the last dance, the master of the house would take the stage, and all would be still as he raised the last glass, bidding them thanks for filling his hall with their joy, with their laughter, then wish them good night. after they were gone and the performers had left, save their leader, one last glass would be shared between the two. and then, upon the stroke of one, they would part, the master mounting the stairs to his chambers, candle stick in hand illuminating his ascent, the leader of the band mounting his old and tired mare, taking the reins from the stable man, clopping off into the night, with but the moon to light his way home...
we might have been gods...
the band leader slowly traveled through the dark forest, until he saw in the near distance, the glow of a fire and heard the strains of an unknown tune... he guided his dappled gray off the path and into the wood to a clearing, where a small band of gypsies had parked their caravans for the night. here they sat around the fire, men in their vests and feathered hats pulling on their pipes, women with children in their arms or in their laps, all with eyes half closed, all slowly nodding and swaying to the strain of a lone violin, played by a man who appeared to be a thousand years old, gray hair to his waist, gray beard touching the ground as it fell between his knees, as he played some quiet plaint on strings tuned to some scale not known to any earthly men... the band leader climbed down off his horse, walked slowly over to the ring of folk around the fire, stood with is eyes closed, listening to the tune... for an eternity it went on, until he, too, nodded and swayed in time. and when the song was done, he opened his eyes, walked into the circle of still quiet souls, pulled his leaders baton from his coat pocket and carefully placed it into the fire. he turned away from the flames, sat on the ground next to the old violinist, rested his back against the wheel of one of the wagons and, as the next tune started, closed his eyes and died...
we might have been gods...
Labels: i wander...
