tenebrae
The work of the eyes is done.
Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
~Rilke
Many come to be filled with awe at the turning of the island. They come to let their eyes feast upon the unearthly and its strange magic. Tenebrae remembers when he was last here, how the island was filled with mirrors that reflected for him an eternity of alternate lives he could have led. But now, he does not come to gawp and to admire. The monk comes to learn.
Brothers walk beside him on either side. Once he would have been ahead of them, the point of an arrow formation. A position of respect and authority. Now he moves in their midst, not trusted to be ahead or behind. Tenebrae is the monk who has erred from their paths of religion. They keep him close, despite his renewed vows and his subsequent punishment.
Tenebrae comes to learn how to walk - how to move. This land is strange, its geography unknown and too strange. The Disciples direct him, forcing him to listen and feel the map of the land beneath his limbs.
The monk trips and stumbles. He bangs his ankles and knees upon walls and stones and branches. Some of the brothers do not help as they should. Why would they trust him? He has shown them no respect when he broke his vows and dared to look at the forbidden. So the Order took his sight.
Tenebrae moves, locked in the eternal darkness of his sightlessness. The bandages wrapped over his eyes, about his head, are itchy and rough and dirty. His shadows press against the material, as if striving to lift the blindfold that he might see again. It is instinct alone. But Tenebrae’s body aches, it hurts from learning to navigate a world he can no longer see. He grows weary, frustrated. His brothers guide him to a spot to rest, a strange shop that is no shop at all.
All along the monk’s spine, his hairs lift, wary of the strange eeriness that lives in the air. A stone looms at his back, it reaches forward with limbs like spiders and a magic that tastes as festering flesh might. This is no idyll, even the soft glow light is not enough to turn this strange place beautiful. Tenebrae is relieved he cannot see it.
Footsteps sound beside him and he turns his head, tilting it to try and discern the noise. The steps are light, slow, thoughtful. Or so he thinks, how can he know for sure? “What does it look like?” Tenebrae asks the footsteps and longs for the owner’s sight. “Is it a thing of nightmares?” He asks with a rueful smile that never makes it to his eyes.
