Ghyle
4th June 2005, 08:04 AM
Warmth and Firmness
Nomas dreamt that final night. While asleep, he could feel the warmth, and the beauty, but he quickly forgot when he woke. There was a gentle scene, pleasant, keeping him tied to an abundant land, safe and far from foreign ills. He did not need to go, to travel: all was where it ought to be, all was verdant, fecund and full of richness. And it was all a dream, a singular dream on that final night.
And he woke, as all must from dreams. It was still night. The room was black, and shadows filled the empty spaces with their bodiless darkness. Only the embers of the fire disturbed the night: they glowed, orange or red, dawning on Nomas' mind that they seemed to await his decision. Should he go? Should he leave in the morning, to travel? He still had to choose, though the encroaching deadline made it all the harder for him. He could not easily depart: his beloved, pressed here against him, deserved more than months of uncertainty and worry. Not all the seas were safe, and a foreign land was a foreign land, with attendant dangers.
But lying there, trying not to turn for fear of waking her, that was no answer. As she lay there, against him, pressed shoulder to shoulder and back to arm, she deserved her rest, and maybe he would not need to leave her.
The thought of the grain pots, void of almost all but shadows, gnawed upon him.
At last, he slid stealthily away. I will have to tell her, he thought, soon enough, but now, while the dawn approaches, I will think.
He crept out of the hut. The low door barely whispered behind him, and he braced himself in the chill air. Stepping out, he had looked back a moment, seeking his beloved's form, but she was lost to him in the darkness. I will have to tell her, he reminded himself.
The night was still dark, and the late stars filled their air in unforseen patterns. He made his way to the bench, upon the porch, and sat. The hills were still crowned with foxfire. The light played on the masts of the trees, yet illuminated nothing. The stars imperceptibly turned; it seemed that Nomas dozed in the darkness. The stars were comforting, but distracting: they held no answers.
So he sat there, thinking and waiting. Eventually, the sky began to pale by degrees, in the east. A thin band, at first, darkness below, over the land, and above, among the marooned clouds. A bond of light, then, tying heavens and earth, as his decision bound past poverty and future chance together. With the light came first one bird, then others. Their songs were chorusing from the trees by the time the skies had almost paled to a far lighter blueness. He had to decide.
Was he to stay, with his wife, and guide the farm onward? He could, but he needed money for grain, as the crops had failed before, due to the flood, and he needed a respite from failure. Was he, instead, to join the trading venture, go by sea to alien lands, and risk all on a throw of the dice? He could hardly believe the hope for profit lay elsewhere; he felt the warming breezes, and thought of what he should be able to speak as a result. But were the attendant risks-shipwreck, piracy, and whatever else-too much?
Suppose he were to stand, turn, go back inside; and suppose he were to wake his beloved, tell her his dilemma and his decision: what then? He could tell her he was to join the venture, take the ship overseas, and for possible gain. He could tell her he'd wait, stay, work upon the land, facing ruination but certainty in her love alone. But no, he waited for her to come yawning and woozy-eyed out, with a pitcher. He waited to kiss her, deeply, tenderly, unexpectedly. Then he would tell her of the night, the foxfire, the dawn chorus.
Would he tell her instead of his decision?
In a crowded mart, a manifold league and day away, where a babel of alien voices, sights and scents assail one, Nomas walked back to the shipyards. He was tired and weary. He tried not to let his yearning dwell in his face, but he remembered that final night, before the decision to leave and take the chance of money. He did not remember the dream: that was long forgotten. He did not remember the chill air, nor the stars. He did not remember the foxfire, the dawn or birdsongs. He remembered, instead, none of these, but he remembered the feel of her shoulder against his shoulder, and her back against his arm, warm and firm in the unseeing darkness. And he sighed, shouldered his burden, and proceeded, eventually, to his home.
Nomas dreamt that final night. While asleep, he could feel the warmth, and the beauty, but he quickly forgot when he woke. There was a gentle scene, pleasant, keeping him tied to an abundant land, safe and far from foreign ills. He did not need to go, to travel: all was where it ought to be, all was verdant, fecund and full of richness. And it was all a dream, a singular dream on that final night.
And he woke, as all must from dreams. It was still night. The room was black, and shadows filled the empty spaces with their bodiless darkness. Only the embers of the fire disturbed the night: they glowed, orange or red, dawning on Nomas' mind that they seemed to await his decision. Should he go? Should he leave in the morning, to travel? He still had to choose, though the encroaching deadline made it all the harder for him. He could not easily depart: his beloved, pressed here against him, deserved more than months of uncertainty and worry. Not all the seas were safe, and a foreign land was a foreign land, with attendant dangers.
But lying there, trying not to turn for fear of waking her, that was no answer. As she lay there, against him, pressed shoulder to shoulder and back to arm, she deserved her rest, and maybe he would not need to leave her.
The thought of the grain pots, void of almost all but shadows, gnawed upon him.
At last, he slid stealthily away. I will have to tell her, he thought, soon enough, but now, while the dawn approaches, I will think.
He crept out of the hut. The low door barely whispered behind him, and he braced himself in the chill air. Stepping out, he had looked back a moment, seeking his beloved's form, but she was lost to him in the darkness. I will have to tell her, he reminded himself.
The night was still dark, and the late stars filled their air in unforseen patterns. He made his way to the bench, upon the porch, and sat. The hills were still crowned with foxfire. The light played on the masts of the trees, yet illuminated nothing. The stars imperceptibly turned; it seemed that Nomas dozed in the darkness. The stars were comforting, but distracting: they held no answers.
So he sat there, thinking and waiting. Eventually, the sky began to pale by degrees, in the east. A thin band, at first, darkness below, over the land, and above, among the marooned clouds. A bond of light, then, tying heavens and earth, as his decision bound past poverty and future chance together. With the light came first one bird, then others. Their songs were chorusing from the trees by the time the skies had almost paled to a far lighter blueness. He had to decide.
Was he to stay, with his wife, and guide the farm onward? He could, but he needed money for grain, as the crops had failed before, due to the flood, and he needed a respite from failure. Was he, instead, to join the trading venture, go by sea to alien lands, and risk all on a throw of the dice? He could hardly believe the hope for profit lay elsewhere; he felt the warming breezes, and thought of what he should be able to speak as a result. But were the attendant risks-shipwreck, piracy, and whatever else-too much?
Suppose he were to stand, turn, go back inside; and suppose he were to wake his beloved, tell her his dilemma and his decision: what then? He could tell her he was to join the venture, take the ship overseas, and for possible gain. He could tell her he'd wait, stay, work upon the land, facing ruination but certainty in her love alone. But no, he waited for her to come yawning and woozy-eyed out, with a pitcher. He waited to kiss her, deeply, tenderly, unexpectedly. Then he would tell her of the night, the foxfire, the dawn chorus.
Would he tell her instead of his decision?
In a crowded mart, a manifold league and day away, where a babel of alien voices, sights and scents assail one, Nomas walked back to the shipyards. He was tired and weary. He tried not to let his yearning dwell in his face, but he remembered that final night, before the decision to leave and take the chance of money. He did not remember the dream: that was long forgotten. He did not remember the chill air, nor the stars. He did not remember the foxfire, the dawn or birdsongs. He remembered, instead, none of these, but he remembered the feel of her shoulder against his shoulder, and her back against his arm, warm and firm in the unseeing darkness. And he sighed, shouldered his burden, and proceeded, eventually, to his home.