To Rise

A short of three perspectives...

 

The End

 

I wonder at the origin of words. There are days, to be sure, that life goes beyond boring and obscure. Then there are those rare times when it could almost be called bearable or, even, agreeable. All that notwithstanding, I simply cannot fathom the existence of things such as joyful or exciting. Adventurous or dangerous. They are just words from a dictionary. Written, for all I know, by men of indeterminate intelligence. Whose minds, no doubt warped by ale and strongweed, can conjure images and visions of grandeur beyond the stone walls of their monasteries, universities and asylums.

Were it only that I could be imprisoned in those places instead of they. Free to explore, if only in the confines of my mind. As it is, my imagination has not the strength to venture forth into the unknown. I read books of great deeds and exploits, but they have become little more than letters thrown askew on the pages.

“You must expand your horizons, daughter,” my father chides daily, “Learn of new things and new places.”

But why? I can not see the horizon beyond this prison of painted glass and gilded chain. A palace, they call it. Nothing more than a dungeon to me. To live life as if you were never born. Stuck forever in a protective, suffocating womb. Is there any hope? Any consolation in such a life?

I pray for the others that share this malady. Sparrows never given flight. Perchance the day shall come when they shall be freed. May it be a joyful letting, a valiant escape or the rending of a gentle creature from its home, only to be cast into an unknown world. For all of you, I wish only the best. But I will not see you there. This sparrow was never given wings.

Limbs twisted and brittle from birth, the common actions of civilized men are my greatest challenge. I read of children, running through fertile fields. To run? I have never walked, much less ran. Great knights wield massive swords. Yet, for me to move a spoon from bowl to mouth is as monumental a feat. Sunsets flood the sky with crimson and gold, but all I see is gray. Even sleep affords me no comfort. For if dreams are real, they either do not find me or leave no tidings at their departure. I am the child that slipped through hell and fell to earth. I am the child that death forgot to take.

 

* * *

 

Gliding through the darkness. The air lifts her aloft. Feathers of satin and midnight ruffle softly. Her wings stretch forth, gathering the wind. She is searching. Has searched a dozen years and near half again. Time has run thin as ice in false winter. Her task incomplete, she grows anxious. Years tapered to months and now only days remain. And the days are too few. With the death of the sun and the birth of the stars she takes flight. But the evenings are far too short. The sun rises, a phoenix from the ashes of night, and she fades.

 

* * *

 

Mary stepped into Valka’s room. The morning sun tried in vain to pierce the heavy drapes. She did not aide in its plight, but pulled the velvet dressing tighter, snuffing out the smallest rays. The Mistress’s pallid skin burned too easily. Valka lay in bed, knees pulled tight to her chest. Lank, lifeless hair clung to the sweat on her neck and face.

Mary watched her sadly, hating the pity she could not help but feel. When the Lady of the House died birthing, Mary became Valka’s wet nurse. But the sickly child would not take to her breast. Nor the bosom of any other. Two days passed before the baby finally accepted the milk of goat. No one expected her to live. As the years moved on and her fragile body knotted and bent, no one wished life upon her. Death, it seems, has little use for fancies such as whishes.

Mary loved the child as no other. It was a love grown over time and not from fondness or the return of such sentiment. Valka aspired to show no emotion. Perhaps, Mary thought, she simply could not. In almost eighteen years, the girl never angered or lashed out for spite. Nor did she show happiness or, even, contentment. Valka was a shell. A half-soul, the gods found unfit to wander the earth.

 

* * *

 

I had no compulsion to rise this morn. While that is hardly extraordinary, the desire to remain abed was unusually strong. The reasoning behind the yearning eludes me. Another insignificant addition to the perplexities of life. Life that I will never be given privilege to understand.

This afternoon I am to learn the art of the stringed villone. Or, more accurately, the appreciation of said instrument. The art of playing itself will forever be “beyond my ability”. A phrase dripping with bitter years of redundancy.

I know not where this wash of self-pity spawns from. It is unlike me to linger on thoughts of what might have been, but I find my mind digressing nonetheless. Thinking such nonsense gives my head an evil ache. Perhaps it is best if I retire early this day.

 

* * *

 

She sails across a cool breeze. Ever searching. A thread of excitement courses through her. She feels it. The darkness. The emptiness. The one Death touched, but did not take. The hole within quivers. Calling out to the darkness. Looking for the light. A great fortress lies below. She finds the black window. Draped against the life that lingers without. It does nothing to hinder her passage. She finds the husk. A shell. Growing only to die. She settles on the chest which rises faintly, only to fall again. Sharp talons pass through the weak flesh. Her body sinks. She finds the light. Lost eighteen years past. She finds herself. The sun rises, a phoenix from the ashes of night, and she is born.

 

* * *

 

Mary slipped into the room. Feet gliding soundless over the cobbled floor, she moved to the fireplace and banked the lingering embers. The Doctor and his Lordship remained without, awaiting Valka’s readiness before her monthly examination. She moved to the bed. The sheet was pulled high and Mary gently made to draw it back. The cry could not be stifled as she fell to her knees. Behind her, the door flung open and both men rushed in. They froze in unison at the sight before them.

Slowly, Mary rose and timidly reached into the pile of ash at the center of the bed. Turning, she lifted her hand to the Lord and Doctor. Held aloft, in trembling fingers, a single feather shone. The colors of sunrise, sunset and shadow.

 

* * *

 

The Beginning

 

Reviews

[Richard McLin]

Everything apryl says goes triple for me, this was great.

[Apryl K V]

From the first sentence, I was glued to this...great beginning.... as well as middle, and end...hehe. I believe you've tapped into an area of your writing that is truly part of you, and can only be described as soulful.

[Kaitlyn M.]

Absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, thought-provoking imagry. Keep it up, seriously. I wouldn't change a thing.