Endless
crunching across a plain of pristine brilliance
The crunch
reverberates in his mind. One crunch,
then another, and another. Endless
crunching across a plain of pristine brilliance, freshly fallen and not yet in
a state of decay. Slim shadows from
nearby gangly giants protect the surface, and keep it intact. Towering above all things, keeping watch,
older than the eldest memory conjured by the weak creations of flesh that seek
the safety of the giants. They see in no
visible spectrum, speak in no language known to exist. The audible signs of life a howl of the wind
through the myriad of appendages and a tired yawn of the bough. They tower over him and demonstrate their
power; he continues along slowly, aware that the pride of these mighty giants
can be felled with a swiftness as such elderly things are not aware of. As he crosses a chasm of what could have once
been flowing life he steps over a fallen giant, and plods along in silence save
for the jarring crunching of his boots.
He remains on the
path as it has been decided, marked by bright poles of ore and colorful woven flags
designed to catch the attention of passers by, marching onward to his
destination. It, the goal he seeks, lies
far ahead, though he is not certain for the frigid corners of the world are
unknown to him. He is of a different
place full of warmth and drying plains; a place between the lands in the sky
and the buried secrets beneath the vast bowls of wetness; a place no longer
wanted, nor needed, existing far behind and even further ahead. It is now in the pallid that he bears witness
to that which he has never seen, nor touched, nor truly ever dreamed. It is not as they write about, and images are
false when compared to such a scene as that which is the real thing. The sheer lack of flat, the unshaped beauty
of imperfection, it rolls down towards the valley lying thousands of feet
below. Sending all manner of fallen
things cascading down the cracks and crevasses between the amassing of frozen
life and death and the once-organic shale of stone that supported the creatures
that dwelled beneath a massive ocean. The man wonders of these things though he does not fully understand, for
although well-traveled is he, learned he is not. Like the rest he simply observes and is content
to see that which few men see.
He bares witness
to the haze of miles far ahead, jagged peaks discernable yet clearly not
true. The peaks rise high, higher than
the one on which he marches, and expand to fill the horizon with their gray and
misty visage. They fill the land, and
stand in a vigil over the lands to the West, once guardians now reduced to
silent witnesses to the end of the old times and the beginning of the new. They will remain there to the end, and will
continue to remain as new ages begin again. The hazy peaks will forever see that which even the old giants will miss
when they die and fall down, down to the valley below. They will exist now and forever. To observe, contemplate, process, and accept
such hazy peaks would be to accept that which is beyond him, grander than
him. There are decades of training to
undo before the hazy peaks may be seen as they are, rather than imagined as
faint illusion. He cannot fathom, nor
does he care to for he has not the time in his quest to pause and reflect on
such things. The hazy peaks are, at the
very least, contemplated.
Behind him lies
the center of all things civil. Vehicles, bright and shiny underneath the giants (“beautiful!” they
exclaim) and across the slippery black, march in unison as they search for a
place in which to stop. They looked,
they slowed, they saw a man and chased him down only to be turned away when he
revealed he did not plan to leave. The
great building, made up of strips of the giants' corpses, lay near the bare black square and provided a place
of temporary warmth and familiarity for those who cannot take the unfamiliar
cold and landscape draped in shadow. In
it are directories and helpful types, but only helpful when one knows what he
seeks. He did not know why he was there,
not truly, and they served no purpose other than provide a smile and a tangible
memory to be forgotten in a box (though some would argue that $7.99 for a
memory is quite the fair price). Outside, the blare of the search for a place in the civil world
continued, and he placed his memory in the pocket of his coat as he returned to
his own place in the line. He, too, did
not plan to leave, but merely to collect the bag of his belongings and
sustenance, for he would need these on his trek across the sharply angled
land. He waved the seekers away; they continued
along in silence to seek their place. As
he headed to the path a sharp sound, a rather hoarse cry, echoed to him. It was a familiar creature, although was
unlike any instance of the species that he had ever seen.
The white beast. Sharp ears erect, black glistening nose
twitching as it peered from side to side. The legs of the lanky body twitching, muscles rippling as it sat ready
to spring upon anything it beheld or flee, as the situation required. How it stared into the distance, regal,
almost, though clearly not as that is a quality not imagined by the white beast
but by his overseer. The blood memory in
the white beast, the rich history it held – it must have been a true sight to
behold. The white beast, ancestrally not
white at all but flecked with streaks of grays, browns, blacks, and all manner
of visually pleasing yet practical tones, once roamed across this land on which
it stands. The white beast once claimed
prey and ate the bleeding remains in the times before it waited patiently for
bowls of nourishment. It hid beneath the
land in wondrous dens that served their purpose and nothing more. It roamed from giant to giant, hazy peak to
hazy peak, never marveling (or perhaps it did, though it did not occur to the man)
at the land it passed through so freely. And free it ince was, for no creature guided the white beast. The instinct and blood memory of a thousand
generations served as its compass.
“Sitzen!” A fast and rather unattractive sound from
somewhere near the white beast. The man
glanced to the side to see a man in green; a seemingly affable one, this
green-man was the white beast’s director. The white beast’s head turned, and it sat upon the ground. Tongue waggling and eyes frantically darting
as it returned from its memory-state to the present time. It rolled, and leapt, and let out its hoarse
cry. Yelped, held the ball, lumbered
from corner to corner. A spectacle for
eyes to see, and how they did gather around to watch. The man did not see the white beast play, as
he was already walking to the path.
The memory of the
white beast comes to mind with every glance at the landscape and hazy peaks. The white and pure terrain, unknowing,
uncaring. The sun still shines brightly
upon him, as he does not dare attempt the quest when the sun is low in the West
and the moon threatens to rise. Such is
the time of dread and cold. Rare indeed
is the creature that would dare to face such horrors as those that occur when
the cold becomes too cold, and night too dark, and perhaps that is why there
are so few creatures of the night on the high peaks. They are built for such trials and have honed
the skills necessary only after generations behind them have struggled and
perished. He is not equipped, this man,
but someday perhaps he will. For now he
must be content to observe as the day wanderers did in their time before his
species.
The ground becomes harder, the grasses and sod giving
way to rocks and stone. The giants begin
to spread out and give him room. The
colored flags have disappeared; the steps of past trekkers long since vanished. Along his left side a grand cliff rises. The sheer rock of the peak exposed before
him, free of life and not encumbered by the vegetation of the low lands which
it originated from. As he stares at the
ever-rising cliff he feels his eyes water, struggling against the blowing winds
of the high peaks. The exposed patches
of skin across his face drying and growing pale. Onward!, he thinks to himself. His goal is close, he knows, for the air
grows colder and dryer with every step taken. It may seem agony to some, an annoyance to others, and a challenge to a
select few, such as this man. He is
encouraged to return to where he comes from, where he belongs. The man pays no mind (perhaps at the risk of
health and life, but such men that would continue on despite the danger are men
not to be argued with).
As he nears a rise
in the path growing narrower and narrower by the minute a distinct sound
rises. At first a whisper, then a
rustling, and eventually a loud echo, the sound does all it can to call the
man’s attention.
His attention it
has.
His pace quickens,
and his legs grow tired as the man ventures over the boulders that block his
view of the origin of the sound. Every
step taken and rock clamored over brings him closer, and upon reaching the top
of the boulders, before he has seen that which he knows is there, the sound
overtakes him. Nothing, not his boots on
the rocks nor his own labored breathing, are audible over the vast and overbearing
roar that flows past him, through a crag in the cliff and along to the right
where the peak has suddenly become steep and unmanageable by a body that has
experienced a lifetime of unnatural comfort. He stands upon the highest boulder overlooking the thunderous roar, his
back stooped low and hands resting upon the same boulder. He stands there.
Distracted by the impassable
wall in front, and shadowed by the wall to his left, the man allows himself to
remain still until at last he returns to the mind that brought him to this
place. His goal lies far ahead of this
place and higher than he cares to imagine, yet as he observes his surroundings
he knows that such a thought is a lie. He
looks in both directions; to the left there is the cliff, gaining altitude
still as it resumes past the crag from which the roar emanates and around
another bend in the path; to the right there is the sudden drop to the sides of
the peak below where the man once stepped, and even further still to the valley
below, where green fields and smoke dot the land from which he came; in front
of him is the roar itself. There is no
visible means of crossing the chasm of thunder. The man removes his pack, placing it on the boulder beneath him, and then
removes his gloves, one after the other. His hands are instantly stung, and no amount of warm air from between
his lips can warm them.
The goal ahead is
a lie indeed, for it can never be attained.