☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
Ishak agrees, of course. Right on both accounts.
My acknowledgement comes as nothing but silence and a slow nod of my head; the howl of the wind fills in the space where my words could be, a sudden mix of chill and moisture suggestive of the coming storm. I think there’s a cave not far ahead, if I read that marker right. I didn’t even notice it. I nod again and keep walking, winding precariously thin bends. I don’t look down at the dizzyingly steep slope below, but I know – from experience – that it is there.
I would estimate that it takes a quarter of a mile to reach the cave. There are markers, but I have disregarded them almost entirely, so it is hard to say for shore. The indentation appears shallow at first, but that is only the entryway; the cave itself is broader, with the entryway little more than a bottleneck. (It should keep the wind out, somewhat.) There are some tattered blankets on the cold floor, and some dry wood (plenty enough to keep a fire going for a while, fortunately) in the far corner, sheltered from the elements by the cavern’s indentation. I pluck a log from the pile, then another, then another, until I’ve put together a small pile near the blankets. After all – I am the one with the matches.
Outside, the sky has turned grey. A few flurries leak in through the entrance; the wind howls a whispy accompaniment.
“It feels strange to come here alone,” I say. Of course, I don’t mean really alone, not at all – but Ishak is such a constant in my life that his presence barely warrants mentioning. By alone, I mean the two of us; not myself. That is how it has been for years, now, and I can only imagine that he thinks the same way.
On previous trips to Veneror, I had often accompanied one or more of my siblings. I have always thought that Adonai is the most religious among us, and I still do, but I do not know if he can make the pilgrimage, sick as he is. Perhaps I should take him, in spring, or try. It would be the right thing to do. It would be the sisterly thing to do. Besides, I am the one in the house with medical training. I could – probably – keep him alive on the trip.
(Of course: he is dying. I know it from a glance. There is no way to ensure his safety.)
I run the match to spark, and I press it to the dry wood. It takes time to catch, but soon I’ve coaxed it to a small, but spreading, blaze.
“Ishak. Do you think that we should come back, when spring comes?”
It’s good as ritual, by now. But it always has been, even if I have never been well-attuned with sacred things; I just didn’t notice. I’m not sure if I have been rendered more or less religious by the appearance of the gods, by Raum, by familial tragedy. I’m not sure that I have changed at all.
I am not sure what good it will do to pray to gods who may well not be listening. You might as well be praying to empty stone.
But. I have always clung to familiarity. It is another way of keeping my eyes closed. When I pray to the gods, I close my eyes, and I tell myself that I do not know the truth of their nature.
@Ishak || I have a feeling I know what Ishak is going to say, &, unfortunately for him, I do believe that I already have thread plans. || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
My acknowledgement comes as nothing but silence and a slow nod of my head; the howl of the wind fills in the space where my words could be, a sudden mix of chill and moisture suggestive of the coming storm. I think there’s a cave not far ahead, if I read that marker right. I didn’t even notice it. I nod again and keep walking, winding precariously thin bends. I don’t look down at the dizzyingly steep slope below, but I know – from experience – that it is there.
I would estimate that it takes a quarter of a mile to reach the cave. There are markers, but I have disregarded them almost entirely, so it is hard to say for shore. The indentation appears shallow at first, but that is only the entryway; the cave itself is broader, with the entryway little more than a bottleneck. (It should keep the wind out, somewhat.) There are some tattered blankets on the cold floor, and some dry wood (plenty enough to keep a fire going for a while, fortunately) in the far corner, sheltered from the elements by the cavern’s indentation. I pluck a log from the pile, then another, then another, until I’ve put together a small pile near the blankets. After all – I am the one with the matches.
Outside, the sky has turned grey. A few flurries leak in through the entrance; the wind howls a whispy accompaniment.
“It feels strange to come here alone,” I say. Of course, I don’t mean really alone, not at all – but Ishak is such a constant in my life that his presence barely warrants mentioning. By alone, I mean the two of us; not myself. That is how it has been for years, now, and I can only imagine that he thinks the same way.
On previous trips to Veneror, I had often accompanied one or more of my siblings. I have always thought that Adonai is the most religious among us, and I still do, but I do not know if he can make the pilgrimage, sick as he is. Perhaps I should take him, in spring, or try. It would be the right thing to do. It would be the sisterly thing to do. Besides, I am the one in the house with medical training. I could – probably – keep him alive on the trip.
(Of course: he is dying. I know it from a glance. There is no way to ensure his safety.)
I run the match to spark, and I press it to the dry wood. It takes time to catch, but soon I’ve coaxed it to a small, but spreading, blaze.
“Ishak. Do you think that we should come back, when spring comes?”
It’s good as ritual, by now. But it always has been, even if I have never been well-attuned with sacred things; I just didn’t notice. I’m not sure if I have been rendered more or less religious by the appearance of the gods, by Raum, by familial tragedy. I’m not sure that I have changed at all.
I am not sure what good it will do to pray to gods who may well not be listening. You might as well be praying to empty stone.
But. I have always clung to familiarity. It is another way of keeping my eyes closed. When I pray to the gods, I close my eyes, and I tell myself that I do not know the truth of their nature.
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HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
