Petraverdian Scribblage

[Petraverd]

I put up one of these threads eventually on every iteration of our forums... might as well keep the tradition alive.

Anyway, I'm starting off with a piece I've posted before, at the request of the illustrious Lil. It came about while listening to Loreena McKennitt at the same time I was working on my 'pet project,' as I am wont to do. "Night Ride Across the Caucasus" came on, I paused to listen to the lyrics, and it kind of fit as an afterthought to the end of that story. So it eventually turned into this. (Kinda long, so I'm posting it in two parts.)

~~~~~~

Night Ride

Silvery moonlight.
Rustling in the boughs of the forest trees.
Wisps of mist winding through their branches.
And a dark horse, plodding through the night.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on...

The horse's rider glances skyward, apprehension in his eyes. He sits tall in the saddle, the picture of a steady man, were it not the trace of boyishness still present in his features. The scene unsettles him, though he does not know the reason. He is not sure of his direction, uncertain of the lands surrounding. He stands in the borderlands, a path he has never travelled before, to a fallen kingdom spoken of only in legend. He steps into a world he knows nothing of, and he knows it.

The night is quiet, even the wind barely more than a whisper. The rider casts a look over his shoulder, to the mounted man behind him. Even with his still impaired vision, his brother seems alert and aware as ever. He, too, is a mystery now - he has changed. He is still the brother he has loved and respected and looked up to - but there is something more, now. The brother has tried many times to explain it to him, to draw him into the world he has touched, but he still understands little.

He is honored that his brother has asked him to join him on this ride to fallen Errapel, to help him take his first steps into raising it from the ashes, but a part of him feels it is a lost cause. He trusts his brother, however - whatever his doubts, he knows his brother sees farther than he does.

And so he rides on.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on...

He does not know how his brother has managed this far. He can barely see through the mist and the darkness himself - and yet his brother follows unfailingly, as if sensing his way through something surpassing sight. This uncanny forest, this misty murk - it is as if his brother knows his way in it, even though he too has not come this way.

He presses his own mount forward, knowing the chestnut just behind him will remain close at hand. Both the chestnut and the archer - no, the musician now - he bears have matched his loyalty with their own. His brother has asked much of him - but never demanded. Always asked.

He does not know why his brother asked to take this leg of the journey by night. His brother knows the lands ahead of them, he the lands behind - but this in-between place, this netherregion that is neither Alurean nor Errapelish, is unknown to them both. Yet still his brother insists on making their way through it in the darkness of night, only the pale moonlight guiding their path.

He hesitated. His common sense told him not to, and their father has always taught them to be sensible people. Yet his brother is a thoughtful man, a contemplative one, never content to let something rest until he has probed its depths. His brother's instincts have often proven trustworthy - how could he fail to trust the brother who had never guided him wrong yet?

And so he rides on.

There are visions...

A movement in the mist ahead.

He lets out a soft gasp, sure it is nothing more than a trick of the night. The mist seems to undulate before him, confusing him all the more. As it pulses, he thinks he sees glimpses of other Things in the night - precisely what, he cannot tell, and that makes them all the more fearsome.

His apprehension slowly shifts to fright. The forest is more than it seems, that is now certain. Puzzlingly, his mount seems calm and placid, but he knows there is something uncanny within these woods, and the tingle in his spine is not a pleasant one.

There are memories...

A soft touch jerks him out of his mental cage, and he barely surpresses a cry. Fearful eyes seek the cause, and they relax immediately as they fall upon the clouded eyes of his brother, now astride him rather than behind. His brother gives a small nod of reassurance, the touch meant to do the same. There is something written in the features of his brother's face - it is almost recognition. No... reminiscence. He knows this place, remembers it, even though he himself admitted otherwise before departing. It is what led his brother to ask him to come along on the journey - a second set of senses to discern the path before.

Now, though, it is clear his brother is familiar with this realm of in between.

There are echoes of thundering hooves...

Both he and his brother turn their heads at an unmistakeable sound - a fierce whinny, accompanied by the pound of hooves, tearing up the turf. He looks every which way, but cannot see it. His brother, however, has fixated on a single point, and he knows that his brother's sharp ears have pinpointed the direction. Every fiber in him tells him to turn back. The sounds are familiar, and yet there is something not quite the same about them. They possess an underlying tone that speaks of something unearthly, stretching into something beyond his own senses.

Yet his brother presses his chestnut stallion forward, and he follows without a word of protest.

There are fires...

They press through the ever-shifting mist, his sense of direction now completely lost. Through the vapors, he perceives the twinkling lights of fires, the tufts of smoke rising toward the canopy above them, smells the scent wafting toward him on the wind.

There is laughter...

Another sound drifts toward him, and he knows that he and his brother are not alone - it is the sound of laughter, of happy stories told around fires, of joy and celebration of an age past. Their laughter, too, is familiar and yet not. He feels he has stepped into a true netherworld - out of his beloved Alurea, out of Reartu entirely, into a realm shrouded in the mist thick about him.

There's the sound of a thousand doves...

The flapping of wings falls upon his ears, and he urges his midnight mare forward, wanting to keep close to his brother, the brother that seems far more comfortable in the ethereal mists they find themselves enveloped in.
Still he trusts his brother knows what he is doing.

And still he rides on.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on.
Ride on... Through the night... ride on.

~~~

In the velvet of the darkness...

The darkness still presses in about them from all sides, yet there seems to be more than just moonlight piercing through it now. Something from within as well as without the wood, and it is not the light of the fires.

By the silhouette of silent trees...

The shadows of the trees are all the more stark from the moonlight without and the unknown light from within. Spindly fingers stretch skyward, stately trunks stand tall and firm and solid, all bathed in shadow and murk. And yet... and yet, there is more there...

They are watching...

He suddenly perceives faces amid the trees, in the mist... no, /of/ the mist. There are indeed People - people that seem formless and solid all at once, their faces unearthly, the trails of their robes melting once again into the mist they are formed from.

Their eyes - if they could truly be called that - follow him and his brother as they ride through the forest. He becomes aware of a pulsating rhythm beneath it all, a pulse mirrored by the movements of the People, even by the hooves of his horse.

They are waiting...

The more he stares at them, the more he senses that they have been waiting for the pair of them. Expecting them, almost. Their faces are not unkind nor threatening, yet they are still intimidating - who cannot help but be somewhat startled by a face not just peering at them from behind the mist, but from within the mist itself?

They are witnessing life's mysteries...

What is this place, he wonders. Who are these people, and why have they been waiting? He senses from the look on his brother's face that he holds the answers, but he is left to ponder the mysteries for himself, watched by these People of the Mist, as he rides on.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on.
Ride on... Through the night... ride on.

~~~

[Petraverd]

(Continued)

Cascading stars on the slumbering hills...

Another sound resounds through the woods, breaking the almost palpable silence, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and the People of the Mist turn their gaze skyward. His brother soon follows suit, and so does he. The stars twinkle brightly, and he has the wild idea that the sound is the sound of their singing - and yet, stars cannot sing, can they?

Then he remembers - according his brother, they can and they do. And he has no reason to doubt him. Perhaps now he is finally getting a glimpse into the world his brother touched during that battle, if only in part.

They are dancing as far as the sea...

The stars above shining through the mist seem to shift, and he does not know whether it is the mist or the stars themselves causing the sight. And yet, he feels that either way, their song echoes across the realm, unheard by most ears - all save their own, on this night.

Riding o'er the land, you can feel its gentle hand...

With another fierce whinny, the mist above settles into the figure of a regal war-horse, gilt in all the trappings of battle, streaking across the sky, the mist of its hooves indiscernable from the wisps it leaves in its wake.

And riding tall in the saddle of the mist-horse sits a figure even more regal, a man with a noble radiance, the mist making up his long hair mingling with the mist of his horse's mane. His incorporeal cape billows behind him, and all eyes cannot help but follow him on his ride across the skies.

Soon he descends from the skies, to come to a rest directly before him and his brother. The nobleman's attentions seem fixated on his brother, as does his brother's on the nobleman. The two exchange something unspoken in their glance, and the nobleman beckons, turning his horse and moving it deeper into the forest.

Leading on to its destiny...

He notes a similarity between his brother and the nobleman before the nobleman turns away, something in the face, and he feels he is guiding them not just along the path, but to something far more important. Something tied to the heart of their journey, and not just the journey itself.

And still he rides on.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on.
Ride on... Through the night... ride on.

~~~

Take me with you on this journey...

His brother directs him to ride beside him, at his right. He hastens to comply, and it is only now that he remembers his brother's impaired sight. And yet his brother seems to understand the situation before them better than he. He considers the fact he may be seeing all the clearer simply because they are in some sort of nether-place, seeing something beyond the fabric of the tangible - is that not what led to his brother's loss in the first place? At least, to hear him tell it.

The People of the Mist step out from behind the trees as they make their way forward, following the noble before them. He notes that the horse ahead of him, while made of mist, still leaves marks in the floor of the forest, and he wonders.

Where the boundaries of time are now tossed...

He has sudden memories of the words of his brother - that he held a burden greater than the lordship of Sherard, that he could not explain fully, that he had a duty to fallen Errapel. He has a wild thought that these are the people of fallen Errapel - lost to time, lost to memory, lost to all save this strange in between.

In cathedrals of the forest...

The nobleman of the Mist leads them to a large clearing, a circle in the midst of trees so tall their tops are obscured by the murk - and yet still the moonlight shines brightly through it, bathing them all in a ghostly glow. He senses that this is not just a clearing - that somehow, it is a place of honor, a place sacred to these People of the Mist, these spirits lost in the tumble of time.

In the words of the tongues now lost...

The mounted man of the Mist turns to face them again, and the People file in along the sides. His brother urges his mount forward, and he hesitates, a feeling within him telling him that this moment is for his brother, that he is meant to be a spectator. But his brother beckons him forward as well, and he nudges his own horse forward as well, uncertain but with his brother to the last. The mounted shade looks over the crowd, then raises his hands and speaks.

He does not understand the words. They are much like his own, and yet not - they hold a weight, an import, unknown to his own language. Yet even though he does not understand, he finds he knows the meaning behind them - the medium is unknown, but the message is yet conveyed.

His brother, however, seems to understand perfectly.

Find the answers... ask the questions...

Unasked questions suddenly find their answers as the Man of the Mist dismounts, as does his brother. This is a ceremony, a ritual - and though his brother did not know the exact details, he knew it was to happen this night, and that he must be present for it. He dismounts as well, wondering what he is meant to do, but somehow, he knows when the time is right, he will know what he is to do.

Find the roots of an ancient tree...

The Man of the Mist moves to the largest and what looks to be the oldest tree in the clearing, and from the spaces in its roots and its trunk, produces an ornate circlet - a circlet that seems to be made of air and water, an object pulled straight out of a dream-world, of the pages of a lost book of ancient lore, and yet there it was. Fluid and solid at once, sheer impossibility - but its import and significance are made all the more stunning through its contradictions.

The Man carries it with obvious respect and decorum, and his brother steps forward. He stands tall, and seeing the two of them in such close proximity, he sees the similarity he barely noted earlier - the same regality, the same air of nobility, the same quiet dignity. And now, he knows.

This is more than just a ceremony.

This is a coronation.

A coronation for a kingdom long lost, now set on the path to rebirth.

Take me dancing, take me singing...

The Man sets the circlet upon his brother's head, where it shines for a moment in the moonlight, then melts into the mist again. And yet, it has not disappeared - its mark is left in the traces of his brother's features. The Man bows deeply, and the People around follow suit. And he finds that he, too, desires to honor his brother in such a manner, demonstrate the respect he has for the man - but before he can move to do so, his brother moves to put a hand on his shoulder, smiling faintly - his brother already knows. There is no need.

The People let loose their songs, mingling with the stars, and celebrations are made - but there is little time for the newly crowned.

I'll ride on till the Moon meets the sea...

His brother mounts again, and he follows suit. The Man gestures, and the mist parts to reveal a pathway, and his brother sets his horse upon it, his own mount just behind.

On they travel, the misty wood, the nether-place, the realm between, fading behind them. He reflects that his brother has been the in-between since that battle, the link between the tangible and the Music that lay beneath it. And he now reflects that somehow, he too is an in-between - an in-between for Alurea, of whom he will now be a lord, and Errapel, the realm his brother now rightly calls his own.

The Moon casts her glow upon them as they travel, and not a word is spoken between them.

The crash of the waves upon the shores of lost Errapel begin to reach their ears.

And still, they ride on.

Ride on... Through the night... ride on.
Ride on... Through the night... ride on.

[Lil]

Thank You so much, Petra!

Every time I read this it comes alive in my mind as if I were really there. It is really inspiring!

[Petraverd]

Scribblage that came about during a train ride as a result of a sermon from a couple months ago.
~~~~~

The Blind Leading the Blind

Why is it that some have such difficulty accepting things on faith?

It is something that I have never really been able to understand. Science must explain everything. I need proof before I can believe that. Logic and evidence and method and the like prevail over everything. Faith is unnecessary, illogical, only the hopeless dreaming of a cock-eyed optimist. How many times have I heard things like this, either directly or implied? How many more must I before those who say such realize the irony in saying such things to me? How can they not see what is in front of their own face?

I suppose that is hardly a fair question, coming from me, though. I have never been able to see what is in front of my own face, after all, at least in the literal sense. I've been blind since birth. And yet, despite the fact I sometimes have difficulties in getting about and doing what many people take for granted, I can't help but feel that sometimes I have them at the advantage.

Matters of faith, for instance.

There is so much that I need to take on faith, things that I have no experience of, no way of even beginning to conceive of, and yet everyone around me tells me that they are so, and would likely boggle at me to hear me say that I thought otherwise. Things like clouds. Stars. The moon. Color. What reference point do I have for any of them? Can you explain color to a man who barely knows light? Can you paint the night sky for one with no canvas to lay it on?

People have tried, of course. They always falter. Sooner or later they try to describe what they are by how they look. The moon is much like the sun, they say. Only paler and smaller, and sometimes it changes shape. What does 'paler' mean to me anyway? I don't think in such terms. Can you tell me how the moon feels? How it sounds? What does the heat, the warmth, the fire that I feel from the sun have to do with the moon? I feel nothing of the sort at night. How can you tell me that the moon is much like the sun and expect me to comprehend that?

And yet, I am expected to believe their existence despite the fact I have no reference point for them. The sky is filled with thousands, even millions, of stars, I am told. And the sun is a star as well. Then why is the night not hotter? If there are millions of stars in the sky, and the only star I do have some idea of gives off heat, then why is the night, when there are so many more of them, so cold? Because the other stars are so much farther away, they tell me. What difference is that from there not being any stars at all, though? Yet they would look at me oddly if I said so.

But then they scoff at the possibility that there is something beyond their senses. That some things simply cannot be explained, let alone comprehended. The are bewildered by my inability to know what they take for granted, but cannot accept what I take for granted - that a God exists, that His love surpasses understanding, that He is in control even when times are difficult. They theorize and hypothesize and postulate and explain and debate, but refuse to accept what I know to be the truth.

Perhaps it is because I lack one of my senses that I do not consider them the be-all end-all that these types do. But can they not see what it is to walk in my shoes, to realize that I must face things that I do not understand, have no experience of, every day? That even the mundane is unknowable to me in some respects? Is it really so hard to extend that reasoning out to the numinous?

All I can do is hope to help them see things the way I do, understand my perspective, and perhaps shed a little light in the process. They are so blind to what I see so clearly...

I suppose we will all have to fumble around a bit while the blind attempts to lead the blind.

[Ariel.of.Narnia]

Ooh, I like! Very insightful (pun not intended) and so true!

[Swanwhite]

Nice piece of work, Pointy. Some typos and such, but a great concept. I really like that idea of a person blind in one way being able to lead those blind in another way. It reminds me of Caspian among the Old Narnians believing in Old Narnia more than the old Narnians did. It was because growing up he hadn't been able to see the reality of Dwarfs and talking animals that finding them to be real reinforced his belief in Aslan as well.

[Lil]

This is beautiful Petra! I really enjoyed reading it. Thank you for posting this and sharing it with us!

[Petraverd]

Just Beneath

On the eastern shore of the lake, there is a pier. It's a little weather-worn, but sturdy enough. It does not even seem like it is used much anymore, perhaps because it's so small. On the surface, it is little more than your average wooden pier, jutting out into the lake.

And yet, it was to this unremarkable place that I found myself wandering that evening.

I cannot say exactly why, for I do not truly know. All I know is that I sought a bit of solitude, and whether it was a calling or a pulling or something of that sort of nature, who can say? I found my steps taking me to the pier, and it was there that I sat and spent a while. Simple as that.

The day had been a warm one, spent among friends doing what it was we enjoyed best - taking some time in each other's company. Whether that was from an expedition into the rocky hills near the lake, a stretch spent in quiet companionship with our noses in a good book, or just the joy of conversation, it had been a day well seized.

Yet as the day marched onward and began to give way to night, it was a moment to myself that I wanted. Though after a time, I began to wonder whether I was not really spending time in the company of another companion - that of the world around me.

It began with the sunset. As the sun began to dip beneath the waterline that served as the horizon, the clouds that had been drifting lazily across the sky all day suddenly caught fire, blazing bright against a lavender backdrop, becoming forges pouring out streams of light that pooled into the disc of burnished gold the sun had become. Sunsets over the water were always a spectacular sight - but this, this was dazzling. Every shade was deeper, more meaningful, as if it stretched outside the spectrum into the very depths of color itself. No stroke of a brush, no flash from a camera, could ever hope to match those colors, for their presence was too much to be captured in a mere reflection.

As if taking the display as a cue of some sort, I became aware of the percussive beat of the waves, lapping at the pier and striking a strangely rhythmic beat, a subtle yet strong undertone to the silent fireworks blooming above them. Steadier than any drum, more resounding than any trumpet, the sound filled my ears, and reluctant as I was to tear my gaze from the scene in the skies, I closed my eyes in order to hear it better. There was something in the sound, something that was meant to be heard, and I strained to discern what it was. It felt that it was only the prelude to something more, and in that I was not wrong.

For in the next moment, the wind picked up. It buffeted at me without biting, the chill it brought with it the perfect counterpoint to the heat of the day. I felt it swirling around me, so aware of it that I was conscious of the way it pressed my clothing closer to my skin and wound its way through my hair - and somehow, in a way I could not hope to explain, it was doing so in perfect time to the rhythm of the waves. It whispered in my ears just above the beat of the water, wind and waves entwined together in an overture beneath the herald of the skies, declaring the coming presence of--

Of what?

For just when I expected the song being woven around me to crest - it stopped.

The rhythm of the waves became nothing more than the splash of water again. The wind was no longer a fervent dance of joy, simply a near-soundless facet of the cooling eve. Even the sunset had dimmed its intensity when I opened my eyes again, no longer the matchless blaze - merely another paint-splashed canvas. The opening strains of the symphony played by sea and sky had faded before the first movement had even properly begun.

And it left me puzzled.

I wanted it to come back. For the barest of moments, here at a place where land met sea, at a time when night met day, I - myself a creature of flesh crossed with spirit - could feel the earth touch that which lay just beneath its surface. I could have reached out and grasped it, but before I could have the thought to do so - the chance was lost. If I had held my breath for one more heartbeat, if I had reached out just a hair's breadth further, would it have made a difference? What would have fallen upon my ears? Would I have been able to even contain it?

Or even understand it, for that matter? I was scrambling for words to put to the experience, but none came - I was not sure they even existed. I, who wraps myself in language and music - simply language without words - could not think of a way to adequately describe what I had just nearly been able to touch. What good are earthly words, mundane notes, when compared to the song of praise sung by Creation itself, that melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above?

And where did I fit into that song?

Questions I did not have the answers to, but I yearned to find out. Longed to know what it was that I had just barely missed out on. Ached to hear just one single chord of that grand concerto, to have my heart tuned to truly sing His grace and be a part of it myself.

But perhaps, I found myself thinking, it was enough for me to have the reminder that there was more to this life than what the surface declared. The reminder of what lay just beneath, just beyond, just around the corner, if only I could learn how to see, how to hear. The reminder that there was something there worth telling, if only I could learn how to tell it.

And that however short my words, my chords, and my understanding may come - so long as I let them be guided by the great Author Himself, perhaps there may be something worthwhile and meaningful found beneath them, too.

Heartened by this thought, I rose. Though my heart wanted to stay in the presence of what I could not sense anymore but what I knew to be there, it was growing late, and I needed rest.

As I turned to go, another breath of wind drifted by my ear, and I could have sworn it carried with it a single, silvery note, the sound of chimes in a breeze, or the trill of a flute from a distance.

Yet when I looked back, all I saw was the glitter of moonlight on the water.

[Ariel.of.Narnia]

Where's the "favourite" button when you need it?! This was pure poetry, Petra!

[Lil]

What she said. I really felt it and saw it, Petra! Thanks so so much for sharing!