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Posted on August 27, 2012 at 05:25:41 AM by Dyna Bowmore
 There was something strange with the way he told his story, something formal, and although Dyna was not certain what significance the story held, the formality was no less sacred for it being unintelligible. There is a love that equals in its power the love of man for woman and reaches inwards as deeply. It is the love of a man or of a woman for their world. For the world of their center where their lives burn genuinely and with a free flame. She felt as though the heat of such a flame came from small corner of him, some depth of which this story was but an echo. What Dyna wanted from a story, from a painting, from anything, was something unexpected. Something she had never thought of before. She had some vague recollection that Arthur had some sort of history in elsewhere, and this story seemed drawn from this well of otherness. Strange things seemed to happen wherever he went. In Shaman this would hardly have been an introduction to a story – strange things happened wherever most fairies went – but this was a story about people who didn’t know fairies, who didn’t know demons. These were people for whom her world was the ‘other world’. Where had Arthur found this story? Was he a part of it? Or was he, somehow, part them, a ‘changeling’ from their world? She held her breath as the boy’s life seemed to be in danger, her heart throbbing painfully with the excitement of her imaginings. Her attic was an imagined space. With what characters she had filled this lost stage of emptiness! It was here that she had seen the people of her imagination, the fierce figures of her making, as they strolled from corner to corner, brooded like monsters or flew through the air like seraphs with burning wings, or danced, or fought, or laughed, or cried. This was her attic of make-believe, where she would watch her mind's companions advancing or retreating across the dusty halls. And here she was again, but with another’s characters creeping insidiously into her heart, disappearing boys, dragons rising from writhing water, each image crystal clear to her, her pale hands and sensual features recording each emotion of the story, gathering her skirt into fists of apprehension, biting her lip as the characters’ lives were endangered. And then, quite suddenly, the story was over, and, as though awaking from a dream that she could not be sure had not been real, she blinked slowly, her eyes, which since he started the story had been smoldering, suavely sheathed themselves in curiosity. They moved about the room as though they were seeking in vain a resting place, but neither the fantastic ruins, nor the ingenuous patterns of the dust motes had the power to hold them. Did the boy shoot the arrow? It must have been the boy, if he was a fairy! She reached under her futon and haphazardly drew forth a dusty stoppered bottle, the glass quite gold from abandonment. She sniffed at it elegantly and beckoned to him, offering the bottle. Dandelion wine, a vintage of my childhood, so it will either be delicious or awful… Arthur, where did that story come from? DYNA BOWMORE
there's a bell in my ears... there's a wide white roar...
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Replies:
- I am always here - By arthur & pendragon August 27, 2012 at 11:20:38 PM
- but once you've known love how can you find it? - By Dyna Bowmore August 29, 2012 at 06:50:04 AM
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