5 Jan 2009 :: A Tale (Tall-ish)
And so every hero must at some point return home. Through peril and suffering, home twinkles like the Evening Star on a clear, black night. Then, this is such a tale and one that tells of repeated bravery against time, elements and the unforeseen.
Our hero yearns for home. He is weary and cold, hungry and without a place to rest his head. What he can prepare for he prepares for; soft cloth to take the bite from Winter, hard shell to take away the sting of rain. Upon his brow a star brightly shines, pointing the way home and illuminating the path.
Tethered to the post is his faithful steed. It is unglamorous, but reliable, called Karate Monkey. It is without pedigree, save the name Surly, which is known to some.
The night is cold and lonely. The path is known to the hero, but many invitations beckon, threatening to take him from his chosen path and to ruin, so he stays focused and by will alone, keeps temptation and the cold at bay. Karate Monkey is willing, and they fly through the night.
When the clouds briefly part the pale eye of the moon stares solemnly down and the turbulence about the poor traveler. The river has risen with fury and the steel colored waves froth violently in the night, a chill reminder not to stray. Then the moon is gone and the surrounding fade into the shadows.
Ever and anon other rider will be seen, soulless, going nowhere in the night. These the hero does greet; they pass in silence, the understanding of a crueler fate whispers. Long ago these men lost their path and the hero will not bring calamity down on his head willingly.
Yet trouble is unavoidable; a monster strikes into the path and the rider only avoids a worse fate through practiced dexterity. His heart pounds, but the danger is already gone. Now his steed has become weary, and the rider lends it his energy to continue the violent plunge through the night. It taxes him, but the danger only grows as the night grows deeper and cold creeps towards his very bones.
The great river has overthrown the banks that hope to retain it, and now wait to pull the rider into the freezing embrace of the swirling currents. He stops to survey, for the river has blocked the path. He looks through the trees and seeks out a path in the darkness, but worries he will be lost in the tangle forever. And so he travels through the night, walls of vines and trees rising high on both sides, taking a path that has never seen the baleful eye of the moon, nor the fiery passion of the sun.
He knows what it feels to be forlorn.
As his energy reserves flag, he finds the path again and is not so distant from home. A final sprint, breath laboring in his throat, he climbs out of the forest, then rides on a better known route and sees the warm light of home cascading from the windows into the unforgiving darkness. |
