Archives for posts with tag: The Endless Plains

There was a soothing, very familiar atmosphere of sound and movement as they rode. The padding of the horses’ hooves on the snowstruck ground; an occasional clink of gear; the soft, heavy wrapped-up noises the riders themselves made as they changed position; even Akzasosan’s cough, painful as it sometimes sounded: all of these intimate, close-hung noises, belonging to the riders, were intensified in their intimacy a thousandfold by the sense of the surrounding emptiness of the great forest of the MerZirvora. The riders carried their sounds with them as a firefly carries its light, and in the immense, passive wilderness, the act of riding impressed Zy as being at once reassuringly humdrum, and yet also weird, spectacular – the small scale of people on this wild earth made their feelings at once very unimportant, and yet also precious, somehow, and essential.


Excerpt from Dustless, Volume 10, Mask [ii]

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Zy didn’t know quite why he felt so moved. But there was something about the juxtaposition of the lonely tower in the moonlight, high up there, above them, the small fire burning on the summit, and the bareness of the landscape in the frozen winter quiet, which caused a glowing shift in his understanding of the world. Through the long days and nights of the ride, plunged into distances, his eye had grown practised in measuring space, and he could gauge that the tower was about half an hour away, up the undemanding slope. There was a great stillness about everything at that moment: the night sky was still, the snowy terrain was still, and the air, and the moon, and the tower. Only the riders were moving – the riders, and the fire, burning, glimmering, beckoning to them.

Excerpt from Fire House, Volume 6 of Dustless

Please remain vigilant…

•DUSTLESS-FIN6


Re-post | Original post December 2014

After the milling crowds of the centre of BerKur, and the hissing, sighing, panting locomotive device, and then the bright colours and unusual sights of the Maruki Theatre compound, this trudging across the more or less empty field (there were a few other people dotted about, but none close) made Zy feel relaxed and reflective. Having been pelted almost uninterruptedly with sensations, the boy rather welcomed this lull within these unexciting surroundings. The frozen, nondescript piece of ground opened up around them, offering nothing but glimmering blue-grey snow and shadowy space.

And then the sound of Berensota’s footsteps had ceased. Zy, still holding the shion’s hand, was forced to stop: the RoMayZine lord, apparently just becoming conscious of the night sky above him, now stood quite still, impelled by some instinct or desire, and looked up into the stars.

Zy, too, glanced upwards. What was the lord looking for? Did he think he would find something up there, in the chill, star-dusted RezIsimgrian darkness?

Zy could see nothing out of the ordinary: there were just stars, the waning moon and the darkness of empty space, visible through the circular hole in the grey clouds. There was just the night.

Still, the wild young lord peered upwards, right up, craning his neck, his mouth slightly open as if he were gasping, his gaze inspecting, and perhaps interrogating, those cold heavens. Wrapped up in his riding cloak, but with the hilts of weapons and the collar of his armoured jackolets glittering, the bearded, unconventional warrior – usually so swaggering, so proud, so full of himself (as the common people said) – possessed a kind of ardour, perhaps even an innocence. He seemed to be stretching to make himself as aware as he possibly could be. He was bathing himself in the darkness, and opening himself up to the gigantic, star-salted void of the universe.

What did he expect? Did he think the night sky would speak to him? He was attentive in that way – just as if he thought the night would somehow bend down and put its face close to his, and whisper to him.

It did not, of course. Or, if it did, Zy didn’t hear what it said. Yet, when Berensota looked down at Zy, the lord smiled, and his gaze was somehow very pure, as if there was nothing of the warrior left in it at all. Berensota was looking at the boy now just as, a moment before, he had been gazing into the stars. For a few instants, it seemed as if the wild young lord had been told something – as if the night had revealed a secret to him.

Then, giving Zy’s hand a little squeeze to signal they should move on again, Berensota gave two brief nods of his head, and the riders began walking, heading for the centre of BerKur.


Excerpt from Mask [iv], Volume 12 of Dustless

Please enter, and never leave…

Dustless | Volume 1

The sun is hot, and the fields are wide.
I walk, head bowed, towards my village.
The path is hard, the earth is dry.
There is dust on the road, but no horses.
I am thirsty, but the well is far away.
The plains stretch on towards the horizon,
where my way goes.
This is all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.

The man I loved did not love me.
And the years pass, with dust on the road
but no horses.
The sky is a scorched blue, sometimes,
sometimes there are stars.
The windmill turns and the grain is ground.
The sails turn when the wind blows.
This is all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.

My babe lies sleeping in her cot,
muslin nets ward off summer flies.
I was a babe like my babe once.
A few clouds drift, too few for shade.
For a while, a cuckoo sings in the woods
and then falls quiet.
My babe turns in her sheets and sighs.
This all there is –
and all there is, they say,
fits in a hawk’s eye.


From The Dwellings [ii] | Volume 5 of Dustless

•DUSTLESS-FIN5

re-posted | original post December 2013

Zy didn’t know quite why he felt so moved. But there was something about the juxtaposition of the lonely tower in the moonlight, high up there, above them, the small fire burning on the summit, and the bareness of the landscape in the frozen winter quiet, which caused a glowing shift in his understanding of the world. Through the long days and nights of the ride, plunged into distances, his eye had grown practised in measuring space, and he could gauge that the tower was about half an hour away, up the undemanding slope. There was a great stillness about everything at that moment: the night sky was still, the snowy terrain was still, and the air, and the moon, and the tower. Only the riders were moving – the riders, and the fire, burning, glimmering, beckoning to them.

Excerpt from Fire House, Volume 6 of Dustless