25-03-2004, 05:38
The Sun, that golden harbinger of light and morning, reflected off of the blue, blue water of the rio, the river, as a white horse gracefully drank of its substance.
A boy, looking to be no more than thirteen, slowly picked through the rocks and weeds on the riverbank. He put his fingers to his mouth and blew.
No sound came from his mouth, not sound as man reckons it. The high-pitched noise rattled the rushes and jerked the horse from its reverie.
"Come on, we'll head past the desert this time," said the boy, in a thick patois mixing elements of Spanish and Arabic with words from the hundreds of outcasts and refugees that had found their way to the river.
He leaped onto the bare back of the horse and locked his arms around its neck. He nestled his face into the horse's mane and lifted his feet near its tail. A click of his heels sent it jogging away from the river.
The lush greenery of the riverbank spread for perhaps a mile away from the fast-flowing waters. Past that, the desert began abruptly, as if the land were paper, with one sheet placed atop another. But this may have been the only natural thing about the river and the desert, unreal though it seemed.
The horse stopped at the border. It snuffled and stamped.
The low-lying head of the horse suddenly came upright, and the boy with it. Now it wanted to gallop, and the boy could only hang on.
Oh, how it sprinted across that sandy desert! What joy in the way it ran, not caring for anything but the movement! A whoop of glee rose from the mouth of the boy, and a gloop of pee lower down.
The dunes rose, higher and higher, and then the rocks started. Some were pebbles, some man-sized, most the size of a house. They stood in an ordered line at the edge of the desert, and past that rose the mist.
Yellow sand, orange rock, gray mist, and blue sky - these were the only colors of the desert. Out here, near the rocks, no animals lived - it was not that they could not, but that there were so many better places to live.
The horse stopped at the rocks. Though the boy coaxed it, it would not move further than the closest boulder.
The boy sighed and swung off. He reached up and placed his palm on the air. It would not move past the boulder.
He swung at the invisible barrier. His hand reached it and stopped, not with force but rather a lack of it. All inertia was simply sucked into the swirling mist.
As he often did when alone, he spoke to himself. He thought aloud and addressed it to the horse.
"I've tried everything but singing to them! Will they open?"
With that he seemed to stop and think. Singing to them? Maybe he should try. They were magic stones, anyway.
He walked to the closest boulder, a huge rock twice the height of a man and as wide across as a baobab tree. With widely exaggerated arm movements, he waved the actions of a childhood bedtime song and slowly sung the words, his deepening voice sounding strangely right for the song.
As he sung, a singular thing happened. The rock began to glow. As he finished, it shivered, sighed, and cracked, straight down its height. With a sound almost like a moan, it fell apart.
The boy's mouth fell open. Slowly stepping forward, he waved a hand at the split.
And nothing happened.
It was as if a spell had been lifted from the boy. He ran to the horse and leaped on. Slowly, ever slowly, as every event worthy of eternal remembrance happens, he walked through the split in the stone and toward the mist.
Strange patterns flowed through the cloud. Some glowed blue, others green or red or other colors that the eye can not begin to describe. Some seemed to be ancient runes, the jagged blocky writing made to glow. Others flowed like snakes or were solid like later writing. Some were even cuneiform, wedge-shaped patterns showing some kind of message, to one who could read them.
The boy reached out to one, one that was in Roman letters mixed all wrong, consanants placed before one another in sounds incomprehensible to his mouth. His fingers seemed to be soaked immediately after theyentered the fog.
He felt nothing as he touched the letters, but the green forms shrunk to a point and then expanded. Within an instant they were just large enough to allow the boy and the horse in.
A savage grin came to the boy's face. He snapped his fingers and the horse shot forward.
The mist roiled around him and disappeared.
Moisture... thick, thick moisture, as if water was being dumped on him. Then less moisture in the air, but much much more than the humidity of the desert.
He was in a jungle. Not a thick, clinging jungle like he had envisioned, but a more tame place, that gave more of an impression of wildness.
Huge trees rose above him to cover all view of the sky. Roots stirred up the dirt, and loud noises echoed among the natural wall.
At first he thought that the noises came from animals, but no animals made sounds like that. Booms and crashes and screams came from nothing in that kingdom. This was war.
A tree near him shattered, startling his horse. Splinters flew through the air, one cutting deep into his thigh.
They turned around and ran back. Mist enveloped them, and they were in the desert once more.
To be continued...
A boy, looking to be no more than thirteen, slowly picked through the rocks and weeds on the riverbank. He put his fingers to his mouth and blew.
No sound came from his mouth, not sound as man reckons it. The high-pitched noise rattled the rushes and jerked the horse from its reverie.
"Come on, we'll head past the desert this time," said the boy, in a thick patois mixing elements of Spanish and Arabic with words from the hundreds of outcasts and refugees that had found their way to the river.
He leaped onto the bare back of the horse and locked his arms around its neck. He nestled his face into the horse's mane and lifted his feet near its tail. A click of his heels sent it jogging away from the river.
The lush greenery of the riverbank spread for perhaps a mile away from the fast-flowing waters. Past that, the desert began abruptly, as if the land were paper, with one sheet placed atop another. But this may have been the only natural thing about the river and the desert, unreal though it seemed.
The horse stopped at the border. It snuffled and stamped.
The low-lying head of the horse suddenly came upright, and the boy with it. Now it wanted to gallop, and the boy could only hang on.
Oh, how it sprinted across that sandy desert! What joy in the way it ran, not caring for anything but the movement! A whoop of glee rose from the mouth of the boy, and a gloop of pee lower down.
The dunes rose, higher and higher, and then the rocks started. Some were pebbles, some man-sized, most the size of a house. They stood in an ordered line at the edge of the desert, and past that rose the mist.
Yellow sand, orange rock, gray mist, and blue sky - these were the only colors of the desert. Out here, near the rocks, no animals lived - it was not that they could not, but that there were so many better places to live.
The horse stopped at the rocks. Though the boy coaxed it, it would not move further than the closest boulder.
The boy sighed and swung off. He reached up and placed his palm on the air. It would not move past the boulder.
He swung at the invisible barrier. His hand reached it and stopped, not with force but rather a lack of it. All inertia was simply sucked into the swirling mist.
As he often did when alone, he spoke to himself. He thought aloud and addressed it to the horse.
"I've tried everything but singing to them! Will they open?"
With that he seemed to stop and think. Singing to them? Maybe he should try. They were magic stones, anyway.
He walked to the closest boulder, a huge rock twice the height of a man and as wide across as a baobab tree. With widely exaggerated arm movements, he waved the actions of a childhood bedtime song and slowly sung the words, his deepening voice sounding strangely right for the song.
As he sung, a singular thing happened. The rock began to glow. As he finished, it shivered, sighed, and cracked, straight down its height. With a sound almost like a moan, it fell apart.
The boy's mouth fell open. Slowly stepping forward, he waved a hand at the split.
And nothing happened.
It was as if a spell had been lifted from the boy. He ran to the horse and leaped on. Slowly, ever slowly, as every event worthy of eternal remembrance happens, he walked through the split in the stone and toward the mist.
Strange patterns flowed through the cloud. Some glowed blue, others green or red or other colors that the eye can not begin to describe. Some seemed to be ancient runes, the jagged blocky writing made to glow. Others flowed like snakes or were solid like later writing. Some were even cuneiform, wedge-shaped patterns showing some kind of message, to one who could read them.
The boy reached out to one, one that was in Roman letters mixed all wrong, consanants placed before one another in sounds incomprehensible to his mouth. His fingers seemed to be soaked immediately after theyentered the fog.
He felt nothing as he touched the letters, but the green forms shrunk to a point and then expanded. Within an instant they were just large enough to allow the boy and the horse in.
A savage grin came to the boy's face. He snapped his fingers and the horse shot forward.
The mist roiled around him and disappeared.
Moisture... thick, thick moisture, as if water was being dumped on him. Then less moisture in the air, but much much more than the humidity of the desert.
He was in a jungle. Not a thick, clinging jungle like he had envisioned, but a more tame place, that gave more of an impression of wildness.
Huge trees rose above him to cover all view of the sky. Roots stirred up the dirt, and loud noises echoed among the natural wall.
At first he thought that the noises came from animals, but no animals made sounds like that. Booms and crashes and screams came from nothing in that kingdom. This was war.
A tree near him shattered, startling his horse. Splinters flew through the air, one cutting deep into his thigh.
They turned around and ran back. Mist enveloped them, and they were in the desert once more.
To be continued...