Day 79: The Mother’s Foot

Inspired by this photo.

The granite of Qard Fell rises improbably above the teeming tent-city. Selith’s thinks that were he atop that monster he’d finally be alone, not that he could see for weeks in every direction. It would be quiet too.

People gather in places of natural resource: bay towns where the fishing is good, mountain villages near the useful metals, or river camps along convenient causeways. Even simple farmers congregate on the edges of wide fertile fields. The only natural resource here is curiosity.

bleh

Too many distractions this morning. I’ll try to come back tot his because I love where it’s going so far. Elements I was hoping to capture were: visuals of the tents as ants, the tight smells of food and flesh, and the incessant sounds of merchants and tinkers. I also wanted to paint the ignorance of the origin of the Qard Fell (mother’s foot to the locals).

Word count: 147

…the only natural resource is curiosity.

On my map it’s a large square in the middle of nothing surrounded closely by little dots.  The notation is ‘Qard Fell…unknown’, ‘tents…seasonal’.  Judging from the remainder of the map it must be the founding year that is unknown.  The separate designators would seem to indicate that ‘Qard Fell’ and ‘tents’ are not the same entity.  Looking out from the scrabble crusted edge of this dune above the tents, I’d say it was true.  The curious monument is very much out of place.  In the tales of the long timers it really is mother’s foot put down from the sky.

All the merchants here and many of the regular travelers has been atop the plinth.  It could be reached by ladder if anyone bothered to bring or make one, but you couldn’t sell it so why bother.  They’ve been up there when the wind flows hard drifting sand up the base.  Sitting up there is something of a rite of passage for the veterans.

As tall as the plinth is top to bottom the width is greater still.  Accounting for the drifting sand, I imagine the proportions to measure half a golden rectangle.  While others want to climb, I will begin digging at the base in the morning to be sure.

Word count:  374

Day 58: Tarry No More Tonight

Johnathan replaces the cover on the lens and looks at the scene once more.  The golden glow of lights overwhelms him–it’s why he took the time to make the picture.  The spell he’d been making all evening, the one he started the moment he stepped out of the keep, the one he’d been building on the long walk over the bridge, the one he’d nearly finished walking the shore to this spot, he sacrificed on this last moment.

The village at the base f the keep was alive with floats and revelers in the lamplight.  Fireworks splattered the lower walls of the keep with brightly colored spots the way sunlight through the trees spritzes the grass below.

[build up to this location]

Without the spell Johnathan Goffe would be exposed and hungry.  He hushed the camera and removed it from the tripod.  The tripod he left.  Let them find that.  Let them know he’d stopped here.  They would know soon enough where to find him.  Now he had a record of the moment he started being a hero.

Word count: 175 

Day 54: The Second Approach to Epiphany

In the previous “The Approach to Epiphany” I wanted to describe Johnathan Goffe’s walk up to his sister’s home.  The narrative spun of topic and did not return well even once I noticed, made note, and tacked the other direction.

In this I’m am going to take the same photograph and apply it to entirely different characters.  Should be a fun exercise.

Wednesday Walk was strange.  High branching trees colonnaded the narrow lane emphatically.  Icy fog obscured the leafless canopy making it seem even more lofty, more universal, than Sophia already imagined.

The wet winter air held mysteries from her nose.  The Walk smelled clean as far as Sophia could sniff it out–and maybe it was–but she knew the world outside this oaken corridor hid pungent wounds needing healing.  The limp day-old snow helped hide them too.

But mornings like these couldn’t muffle sounds.  A spoken word, a closing gate, a toe catching on a stone would all rush to her on the moist air and she’d hear them as precisely as her own thoughts.  She could be the perfect eavesdropper finding out lovers and holding their secrets secret–or not.  She could spy on honest men and thieves alike.  She could hunt up twittering mice like an owl.  She could do all these things if only there were sounds sounding.  Even the couple ahead was quiet.

Sophia knew she was coming to something too quickly.  The blind sky and the mute fields compelled her patience.  Even her numb fingers told her to to wait–to be not hasty.  If she arrived too early, too unprepared, this thing would not yet be, might even cease to be able to be.

In defiance Sophia picked up her pace.

Word count:  278