Pre-History
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TITLE (EDIT)
Pre-History |
DESCRIPTION
One day there comes a time when your younger years begin to speak the truth to you.
[592 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Fable |
AUTHOR
Kevin Hadley |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I live in Warsaw and like the music that time plays in the quiet moments. I dream a lot, dreaming dreams of dreamers dreaming dreams.
[May 2024] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (4)
Eclipses And Popes (Essays) All of the talk in these quarters of late has been of eclipses and the way they appear like flagpoles upon which great events fly. [647 words] [Spiritual]
Orlando Flores Is Dead (Short Stories) The enigmatic Orlando Flores links two moments in a couple's life. [3,321 words] [Spiritual]
The Comet Cometh (Short Stories) Who can resist the mystery of a comet? [572 words] [Romance]
Trapdoors (Short Stories) Always, somewhere in the darkness of my memory, the one-armed man is patiently waiting [1,766 words] [Spiritual]
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Pre-History
Kevin Hadley
You appear small to those looking on, but know nothing of it yourself, as you sit in your heavily-bastioned fortress aged five or six, oblivious to what is out there beyond the walls waiting for you.
The borders of your country are heavily-guarded, with legionnaires stationed so that if they look left or right they can make eye contact with a comrade. Even so your territory is porous beneath those gazes. From time to time somebody worms his way in, slipping deep into your lands, although never making it quite far enough that you might hear the sound of his shouting, coming at you through the open window as a whisper.
You have your emissaries, your diplomats, and your foot soldiers. They do their jobs. Whatever your generals report back to you from their expeditions to the border or their sorties into enemy lands, whatever your sappers have to relate about painstaking forays through mined fields and woods, whatever your truce makers have to dangle in front of you, you remain oblivious. It is not that you don�t trust these people that line up before you, simply that they speak a different language.
And yet, all of the time foreign forces are massing at the borders, and as time goes by they begin leaking across the frontiers. Your forces withdraw, redeploying closer to home, creating newer frontiers to a smaller land, scenting on the breeze that a change is coming. And behind your polygonal redoubts you remain oblivious.
Then one day the massed forces have grown to sufficient strength that they are able to make that decisive push. They get close. Very close. You do not hear them of course. Neither can you see them or the smoke from their excitable guns and vehicles. But that night your sleep presents you with dreams the like of which you have never had before. The faces are different. No more hostile, simply different. They have a realism about them that is new. They are more colourful and they more resemble yourself than that blurred mass of humanity that had previously ghosted by in the dark hours of your nightly excursions. And you are captivated by the fact that you can finally understand their words.
All these years later you realize what your emissaries, your diplomats, and your foot soldiers had been saying. You finally understand their urges to caution, their pleading with you to celebrate victories, and even their simple requests to recognize that which is valuable before it slips from your grasp. Now you can begin to assemble the history of your kingdom. To gather up the pages of the books that have scattered far and wide on the winds. In dark forests crisscrossed by streams, in the gutters of dusty city streets, on deserted beaches containing only your footprints, you find evidence, words, faces. You can set about recording the great battles, the sly victories, the glorious defeats. You can detail the lands that you have wandered through in dreams, the beasts hissing and growling from the undergrowth whose eyes are the only thing you can see.
There is no greater pleasure in life than crossing a threshold over which you know you are not obliged to return and looking back over your shoulder to see a simple scene, bathed in the brightness of a solar flare, in which all of the colours and sounds and voices are distilled. As you glimpse it for the last time and turn to look off into the distance to where you are heading you realize that the myth has begun.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2005 Kevin Hadley |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
May 2024 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2243
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