Category: Daily

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Day 125: A Son’s Father’s Love

From Day 117: Conner’s Son’s Father

Conner’s Son thought his father was foolish for leading them to this dilapidated oasis on the open prairie.  Surely the beast that tracked them would turn it’s attention here–even if he didn’t think they were that stupid.  A flock of crows startled at their unstealthy approach, rose like a flare, then dove back to their perches and cawed loudly.  Nothing Conner’s son could imagine would announce their location more plainly.  He hoped that in his death book they wrote, “Not the crows nor the beast that killed Conner’s Son but Conner’s Son’s Father.”

Conner’s Son’s Father, Conner, smiled at the crows.  “There’s been just enough rain that this should work.  Follow the trail along the stream like you are hiding.  Make sure you cross through the water several times.  Come back when you hear my call.  Come back through the stream only.  Not on the path.”

Conner’s Son nodded.

As soon as Conner’s Son was away Conner began meticulously uncovering the entrance to a cave.  Stone by stone he exposed the slim hole.  Each stone within arms reach of the entrance and neatly laid to avoid disturbing the secret over much.

“Son!  Come back quickly.”

Conner made a hasty and obvious trail opposite his son’s that ended in an expanse of rock and hard scrabble earth to obscure his path.  He removed his boots and turned back to the hidden escape walking swiftly but with as much craft as he could to conceal his trail.

The beast would arrive soon [but].  Conner’s Son had not returned.

Conner was bad at farming; his son good at reminding him.  Since the first delicate sign of the beast Conner ceased farming and became a warrior again.  It filled him with joy to be hunted.  He didn’t regret thinking that the boy would need to fend for himself for not returning quickly enough–that was a warrior’s instinct–he regretted that it took him so long to resist the urge to leave him behind.

“Protection; not punishment.”  He repeated his wife’s dying words.  He’d spoken them out loud so often as a reminder in these past three years his son taunted him with them when they’d get into a fight.  “The things I fucking do for you.”

Conner sprinted down the ravine in the direction of his son.

Rounding two bends of the stream he came upon his son hobbled by a twisted ankle.  Tears streamed down Conner’s Son’s face as he stumbled over the wet stones.  He sobbed as quietly as any fallen compatriot Conner had ever heard.  Pride calmed his panting heart, but did not inspire his tongue: “Shit, Son.  Now you’ve fucked us.”

Immediately he wanted to apologize.  Immediately he wanted to rend the beast by hand and eat it whole to show his love.  Instead simply knelt in the running water in front of his son and said, “Get on.  Grab my neck.”

Pile some more on them; but not tonight.

Word count: 235

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Day 124: A Prayer for Circuitry

This entry relates to previous material tagged as solex.

Gane placed three fresh saffron leaves in a small clay mortar and added a pinch of pure silica sand. He muddled the mixture. Before the aroma and scant juice could soak into the clay he sprinkled the mixture onto the circuit board. Gane injected a brief thanks-prayer that the herbs spread evenly over the surface. Even a veteran monk could botch an install with clumps. He attached the leads and dialed up a test current.

He placed that board aside and repeated the maneuvers for five more boards. The utility room warmed with the gentle aroma of saffron honey and circuitry.

Next, Gane collected the seven hexagonal solex panels from the balcony–two were hot from exposure to the sun, the other five cool. He put one of the hot ones on the floor at his feet and attached the mahogany spacers at each of the six corners. Kneeling with a cool one in his lap, he mounted it to the first, quickly added a joiner to the one in his lap, and mounted a third to the first two. He rotated the group one panel clockwise and added a fourth. In this manner he joined six panels to the first to form something of a strange bowl.

The spacers acted as jumpers between the panels so he could now pass a current through all seven. He did this.

Gane checked his watch. Ten or so more minutes to steep the boards in saffron.

Rather than taking a moment to eat, Gane strengthened this minor hres with prayer.

I should probably define hres somewhere–since I haven’t.

Word count: 280

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Day 123: Scars Played Like Music

Consecutive numbers day. w00t!

Jansa closes her eyes to better inhale the music. Listeners talk of letting the notes flow over them like water, but she’d rather inhale them like air, mixing the melody with her soul then releasing it to the rest–if she releases it at all. This Onsals’ Eve tune grants her the sensation of deciding to cry and then not following through.

The quick tune shouldn’t. It’s brightly played on the wood flute and an easy one to dance. It’s Winter, not a season of sadness. Not Spring.

To her right her mother sits as upright as seventy years will allow her. The old woman’s hands rest in her lap as if abandoned. Jansa snatches one up and holds it closely. She warms her mother’s cool skin with her own, rubbing lightly over the papery surface. Like a page from an ancient text it proclaims no more life will be written here and, soon, no more read. Jansa looks at her mother. She doesn’t steal a glance or polite familial moment, she looks at her and doesn’t turn away.

Juena’s experience reads like the stones of a shallow stream, but her thoughts pass like the water flowing over, always coming, always going. Never. Right. There.

Augur’s scars too close and too many to count, most to old to discern from the wrinkles of age, line her mother’s cheeks like the delicate bipinnate pattern of a honey locust leaf–rough and smooth at the same time. She looks foreign, almost unreal, with her hair shorn.

I’ll have to come back to this. It’s not going where I’d expected.

Word count: 280