|
|
Penny's Work in Progress: Two people sent me continuances of this story. So you can read both, and when you have you could continue with either. Kind of like a choose-your-own-adventure story!
The bright music filled the room, the rhythmic beat of the drums pounding like a heartbeat, invigorating the listeners with its vibrant sound. The bright, brassy instruments called and fanfared, creating a swirling rhythm of joy and hidden intricacy. The music was filled with life, life it gave to the room around it and the dancers within it.
On either side of a slightly raised portion of floor the musicians played, lost in the intensity of their music. Cradled by the music, and swept up in it, the dancers - all female- swirled and jumped. The rest of the room was filled with merrymakers, feasting, joking and gossiping. Their clothes were of silk, satin, and even the occasional softly gleaming velvet. On their backs or draped over their chairs were cloaks of rank, richly embroidered with their badges and symbols of rank. Not a single cloak was unadorned, and a few were so fully covered one could not tell the original color of the cloak. The dancers leapt and swirled in loose pants and tight shirts of soft, silky materials, veils and shawls flashing in time to the rhythm.
Finally, the music faded and the dancers stopped, bowing. The few actually paying attention clapped or whistled, and even fewer rewarded them with a thrown coins. Others clapped politely, while some made no pretense of noticing the performance or its end. The dancers bowed again and stepped back through a curtain, which no doubt hid a door to a performers' room.
The music continued to be silent, and the next act did not step forward. Those who had been watching soon began to call for the next act, yelling for the musicians to start up. Others wondered idly what was going on, but most continued their petty conversations, perhaps with a word about the poorness of entertainers these days.
Soon however, even those who had not been making any pretense at paying attention were looking at the stage, wondering what was going on. When every last one of those pretentious nobles was watching, I signaled my musicians. My power instruments- the brass and drums to the right of the stage- stayed silent. It was to those on the left of the stage- crystal flutes and strings- that I gave the sign to begin..
The melody began, a single flute's clear notes slicing through the silence. It was a melody to tug at the heartstrings, to yank even on the hard hearts of that audience. As its poignancy grew, others joined in, slowly swelling the melody, and adding harmony. Finally, it grew to a point of almost unbearable bittersweet strength. I held it there for a few seconds, and then with gestured to the right of the stage. A single trumpet sung out a quiet fanfare and held the final note, which became part of a final chord. The chord died away slowly, by infinitesimal increments..
After a moment of silence I signaled again and the next "act" stepped out from behind the curtains. She wore what the dancers of a moment ago had been wearing- or more accurately, what their sensual costumes had been parodying- for she was a Princess of the Bow, and truer royalty than any who sat gawking at her.
Her boots rose almost knee-high, of supple leather decorated in knots of rank in blue, green, and purple. The tops folded over and hung fringed, with soft bells that jingled sweetly as she walked. Above the boots her pants, slightly loose, belled out, drawn in at the waist. They were of purple velvet, and decorated in knot-work of braided gold cord. Her shirtcoat hung as low as her knees, fringed and belled. The sleeves followed tradition, tight until the mid-forearm, and then belled out, to reveal a golden-colored satin lining. The shirtcoat itself was of blue-green silk, with a v-neck, and a flattering fit that flared at the hips. Just below the breasts it opened up, an upside-down v which revealed her golden satin undershirt. Her hair- such a deep reddish-brown as to seem black- was elaborately braided and coifed, decorated with ribbons. Hanging from her shoulders was a shawl of rank, with her house knot in the center, bordered by elaborate knots of rank.
It was none of this that startled the people in the room. These were normal things to see on a royal member of the race they called the People of the Bow, much as those people called them People of the Sword, or igkaskiute, in their tongue. What surprised them was that she wore no belt burdened by a dagger blade, or quiver full of deadly arrows. Nor did she wear a shoulder mounted quiver or hang a bow on her shoulder. Her apparent lack of weapons was astonishing to them, who had never seen one her people weaponless. And her face was clear, unadorned by paint. The People of the Bow only wear face paint for war or certain rituals, but as these were the only times that they encountered igkaskiute, the People of the Sword had come to think of them as living in their face paint, which, to my eye, was far prettier than the face paint their noble women tried to enhance their complexions with. True, this Princess was here for a ritual, but it wasn't the sort that needed face paint. And I was the one to orchestrate it!
The surprise of seeing a Princess of the Bow on their entertaining stage began to wear off all too quickly, like anything does on these perpetually jaded people. Soft conversations had started up, and soon they would become loud ones. Now, before they lost sight of her, I signaled to the Princess, and to my musicians. A soft melody, drums telling of trotting horses, began. It was accompanied by her beautiful voice.
She did not sing. She spoke, to the crowd assembled, who had gone silent with wonder again, their noble blasé fading away.
* * *It is the false dawn. The time when light creeps ahead of the sun, lighting the world without the warmth of the sun. This light lacks the vibrancy, the warm chaos that characterizes the orange light of the sun. Instead, it is cool white and grey. In the light of false dawn, the world is sharper, more focused, and yet the light is shadowy and soft.
It is the time of magick. Though many believe that in the darkest hour of midnight magic flows the strongest, they are wrong. It is now, when the light is clear and revealing that the magickal veins of the world lie closest to the surface. In this light magicians can see the workings of their craft more clearly. The only other time the magick of the world flows so freely is in the misty time of twilight.
It is the time of true dreams. Those who dream before awakening lie now, dreaming. As the revealing light of false dawn flits over them many dreams turn to truth. Secrets lying in the unconscious reveal themselves, prophesies are dreamed and separated lovers know each other. The cool light illuminates their dreams, casting as many shadows as it empties.
This light creeps through the windows that surround one tower room, lighting one sleeper's face. She lies in the soft slumber before dawn, her eyelids' flickering betraying the movement of her dreams. Her left hand beats a soft tempo on her bed. The power of a dream holds her.
The sun peaks over the horizon, beginning the dawn. The cool light is pushed away, ahead of the chaotically vibrant glow of the orange sun. The world begins to warm, rejoicing in the sun's arrival. The sunlight turns the clouds pink, tearing color from them.
As a single sun ray stabs in through an eastern window in the tower room, it warms the sleeper's face. She wakes suddenly, coming fully awake in a few seconds. The warm sunlight on her face shoos away the dream, blinding her prophetic eye as it shows the world to her physical ones. Still, the memory of the dream is clear, not suffering from any of the fuzziness of most dreams. Even in the dawn it has not lost its reality.
She dresses quickly, merely changing into a simple white robe. She then hurries down the stairs of her tower to the baths. Huge rooms, entirely full of steaming water, shared by all of this temple's inhabitants, male and female alike. At this early hour a few are up and bathing, enjoying the lack of crowding soon to come. She steps into the bath, and swims over to where one man is floating.
He looks up and raises one delicately arched eyebrow slightly, questioningly. "I had a true dream." she begins, without any preamble. The eyebrow raises higher, intrigued.
"You are sure?" he asks, in a deep baritone that betrays no excitement.
"Yes. It has to be one."
A flicker of a smile crosses his darkly handsome face. "And how do you know this?"
"Well, three reasons. Firstly, I dreamt it during false dawn, as the dawn is what awoke me, right in the middle of it. Secondly, there was none of the fuzziness or strangeness of most dreams- it was perfectly plausible. Thirdly, when I awoke, it was still there, as real in the back of my mind as a memory. That good enough for you?"
The eyebrow goes down, but the intrigued amusement remains on his face. "What sort of true dream? A prophesy? Foreshadowing? A riddle for you to solve?"
She shrugs, undaunted. "I have no idea what it means. Perhaps you could help?"
He nods. "Tell me your dream."
She leans back in the water until she is floating, and goes into a memory trance. From there she can recite the dream as it happened, no waking changes or interpretations creeping in. She recites the dream, her voice distant as she experiences it again. When she finishes, he looks at her quizzically.
"And what was this machalaskimuthe princess saying that caught their notice?" he asks, his tongue not even hesitating over the foreign word, the Bow People's word for themselves.
"I don't know. That's where it ended. It got odd and discordant there, in the way of most dreams. I knew that she was talking in a beautiful voice and that her message, whatever it was, was important, but I didn't actually hear a word she said. And then I woke up, with the sun." She is puzzled now, by something which had eluded her upon waking. What was that princess saying? "Can you help me interpret it?"
He shrugs, noncommittally. His long, curly, black hair swishes through the water as he shakes his head in confusion. "I think this a matter for more than idle reflection, Tara."
Now it is her turn to raise an eyebrow quizzically. She is apprentice in even this, though, and must add words. "Meaning?"
"A memory trance in the tower, with appropriate prayer for guidance." His voice is matter-of-fact and everyday.
Tara is startled, and evidently so. "You really think it needs that much? It doesn't seem all that weighty."
Now both eyebrows are raised, momentarily. "And who is the apprentice who is here to learn how to tell when things are important? As opposed to the master who knows these things."
She bows her head briefly, acknowledging defeat. They leave the baths together, wrapped in fluffy white towels and smelling of steam and perfumed water. The tower stairs they ascend are not those of her tower, but of another, far older and heigher, where important things are done. The top room -which can only be reached through magic performed in the room below it- is perfectly circular, centered on a clear pool of water.
Chose your path:
The Story Continues... By Steve or By Paul
Any ideas? Email me at helenaplaid@yahoo.com
Background by:
WARNING:
THIS PAGE IS ALWAYS UNDER CONSTRUCTION. USE OF A HARD HAT IS ADVISED.
