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The Sentinel
Jun. 6th, 2006 06:49 pmThere is a shelf in the Vault of Memories, one of those few small spaces that escapes the constant roil of the icons around it. On this shelf perch a few small baubles: a dessicated spider, a dusty dried rose, and a cluster of small glass globes. Each globe sits on a tiny pedestal, a tiny frozen world contained within a grapefruit sized sphere. The girl stands nearby, quietly contemplating the collection.
One globe is a welter of light and brightly colored rose petals, of soft green grasses and fuzzy blankets – those first few frozen memories of childhood.
Another sits nearby, flurries of snow, ancient German pines, and flashes of summers spent riding and working with horses.
Nearby, a third globe reflects the dusty golden brown of scorched hills in shimmering heat, splashes of color and texture and the shade of venerable old oaks and walnuts.
It is the fourth that holds her attention now. Unlike the other three, there is movement still in this one: a silvery gray fog twists among giant redwoods, and a strand of golden beach sand twinkles against the deep blue of the Pacific.
The girl picks up the still living memory, cupping it protectively against her. Her cheeks are wet as she looks at it, and she is enveloped in a palpable cloud of nostalgia. Nearby, another globe stands twirling, empty, still forming.
"The Land of the Sainted Cross... I will miss it." She addresses nobody in particular, though at her first words Eddie appears preternaturally at her elbow. A cave forms inside the globe, then a twirling circle of fire, then a glimmer of moonlight on ocean waves appears, followed by the sun on hawk's wings, the dappling of bay leaves, spring jasmine and...
Underneath her clenched fingers the glass grows warm, then hot, then begins slightly to glow as the pressure of so many memories heats and tests the glass. A shimmer begins behind the girl, and it is not until Death's cold fingers are on her elbow that she opens her tight-shut eyes. Her hands are burning on the glass as Death looks silently on at her, but she cannot release them.
"Let go" Death whispers, grasping the girl's wrist. "It's over now."
All at once the girls hands unclench, and she drops the still hot globe, collapsing into a pile of sobbing skirts and bleeding hands before the shelf. Death nimbly catches the globe, shakes something gently from it, and sets it back in place on its stand.
Stooping, She places one cool white hand around the girl's reddened burnt ones, and places something inside them.
It is a redwood cone, small and dark and shriveled against her bleeding palm; no bigger than a thimble, but containing all the potential of its giant parent. It swells and greens as she watches it, the redness and burnt flesh of her hands healing underneath it. Death shoots her a significant look and vanishes.
Still sniffling, the girl walks through her palace to the Great Hall. The hall is silent, empty marble breathing softly the slow pace of the deities that reside there, but the tiny cone takes on an urgent golden glow in her hands. Her eyebrows rise, and she hurries out.
Outside in the garden she stoops, Calling a patch of bare red earth up from underneath the marble paving stones. The earth spills out in a wide circle around her then darkens with her call to Air and Water. Gently, she places the tiny cone within the circle's center and pushes both palms down over it in prayer. There is a rumble, and she turns and walks the few paces to the edge of the circle in the stones.
The tree towers above her by the time she reaches the edge of the circle. It is thick as a carriage, and the branches do not begin until fifteen feet up the red, scraggly-barked trunk. A soft sigh of fog appears around the lower branches, as if it was not so much the fog that grew redwoods, but the redwoods that grew fog. And who could really tell in the City anyway? She looks up at the twinkling of stars between the branches.
"You are my promise, you are my sentry, you are my reminder. I have left it, but I will not forget what I learned in your kingdom."
She takes a breath, inhaling the scent of redwood and remembering the forests she once haunted. And then she turns, and softly returns to her Palace.
One globe is a welter of light and brightly colored rose petals, of soft green grasses and fuzzy blankets – those first few frozen memories of childhood.
Another sits nearby, flurries of snow, ancient German pines, and flashes of summers spent riding and working with horses.
Nearby, a third globe reflects the dusty golden brown of scorched hills in shimmering heat, splashes of color and texture and the shade of venerable old oaks and walnuts.
It is the fourth that holds her attention now. Unlike the other three, there is movement still in this one: a silvery gray fog twists among giant redwoods, and a strand of golden beach sand twinkles against the deep blue of the Pacific.
The girl picks up the still living memory, cupping it protectively against her. Her cheeks are wet as she looks at it, and she is enveloped in a palpable cloud of nostalgia. Nearby, another globe stands twirling, empty, still forming.
"The Land of the Sainted Cross... I will miss it." She addresses nobody in particular, though at her first words Eddie appears preternaturally at her elbow. A cave forms inside the globe, then a twirling circle of fire, then a glimmer of moonlight on ocean waves appears, followed by the sun on hawk's wings, the dappling of bay leaves, spring jasmine and...
Underneath her clenched fingers the glass grows warm, then hot, then begins slightly to glow as the pressure of so many memories heats and tests the glass. A shimmer begins behind the girl, and it is not until Death's cold fingers are on her elbow that she opens her tight-shut eyes. Her hands are burning on the glass as Death looks silently on at her, but she cannot release them.
"Let go" Death whispers, grasping the girl's wrist. "It's over now."
All at once the girls hands unclench, and she drops the still hot globe, collapsing into a pile of sobbing skirts and bleeding hands before the shelf. Death nimbly catches the globe, shakes something gently from it, and sets it back in place on its stand.
Stooping, She places one cool white hand around the girl's reddened burnt ones, and places something inside them.
It is a redwood cone, small and dark and shriveled against her bleeding palm; no bigger than a thimble, but containing all the potential of its giant parent. It swells and greens as she watches it, the redness and burnt flesh of her hands healing underneath it. Death shoots her a significant look and vanishes.
Still sniffling, the girl walks through her palace to the Great Hall. The hall is silent, empty marble breathing softly the slow pace of the deities that reside there, but the tiny cone takes on an urgent golden glow in her hands. Her eyebrows rise, and she hurries out.
Outside in the garden she stoops, Calling a patch of bare red earth up from underneath the marble paving stones. The earth spills out in a wide circle around her then darkens with her call to Air and Water. Gently, she places the tiny cone within the circle's center and pushes both palms down over it in prayer. There is a rumble, and she turns and walks the few paces to the edge of the circle in the stones.
The tree towers above her by the time she reaches the edge of the circle. It is thick as a carriage, and the branches do not begin until fifteen feet up the red, scraggly-barked trunk. A soft sigh of fog appears around the lower branches, as if it was not so much the fog that grew redwoods, but the redwoods that grew fog. And who could really tell in the City anyway? She looks up at the twinkling of stars between the branches.
"You are my promise, you are my sentry, you are my reminder. I have left it, but I will not forget what I learned in your kingdom."
She takes a breath, inhaling the scent of redwood and remembering the forests she once haunted. And then she turns, and softly returns to her Palace.
