A cold chill hangs over the night. Dawn is approaching, but for the moment the mountain is still, the few forms of life able to withstand its elevated climate still hiding in their dwellings for a final few minutes. One such creature rises just before the rest, its dwelling built not of mud or sticks, but of wood and pelt by worn hands in the days prior. It was a temporary shelter, to vanish from its place on the flank of the mountain in the coming days. The builder of this shelter, a wandering nomad, steps outside and makes a small attempt to pierce the darkness that engulfs the world, to no avail. Carrying an instrument, two-stringed and hand-crafted, they set down on the ground, facing out towards sky above and forest below, both of which as black as pitch. Legs crossed with the instrument on their lap, the nomad is silent for a moment, feeling for the movement of the Earth as they prepare to begin the show. The ears of the world wait in an expectant silence.
Slowly, a rough thumb falls and finds itself resting against those many tightly bound hairs that make up the second string. A slight bit of force, and the pervasive silence of the world is split in two by a single sound, so strong it seems the darkness too is pierced by the vibration rising into the sky, to be met by the day's first ray of light. The single sounds joins with the single drop of light somewhere beyond sight, the only two in apparent existence until another note is played, rising to join the day's second ray. As the song is played the thumb quickens its pace, working with great care in tandem with the other hand to create a rolling change in notes, each to go with the others into the heavens to meet another new ray of light. Before the nomad now lies a darkened world of silhouettes, a forest still asleep as the sky begins to wake. The next finger joins in the game, bringing with it the next string of the instrument, as the first muted splashes of color fall from the sky, forcing the silhouettes to flatten in long stretches across the ground.
Morning has arrived, and the nomad is now found within a painting, a beautiful still of unparalleled color, detail and grace. It is a remarkable sight, but only the nomad is there to see it. There seems to be no movement for miles; even the air is stagnant. The only air to move is that which the nomad breathes, coming for most of the morning in slow steady swings, but now that the painting is finished a greater rush of air is pulled. The nomad's lungs are near filled, air that is held for a moment before being released. As it leaves, the muscles surrounding it contract, until the air passing through them causes a new vibration to be made, first exiting through the nose, then the mouth. This vibration is not pure; it is rough and textured, almost granular as it travels not up into the sky but into the ground, a low rumble that shakes the body of the nomad and the grass that surrounds them. Blades move in small waves, perking up to meet the new day as the soil shifts and churns with life. A leaf, too, turns, though not as it is hit by this new wave of sound, but as it is brushed against by an animal rising from its den. The earth has come alive, as did the sky, and along with it all of its inhabitants. The animals wake in search of food; the plants dive their roots deep to reach for water and nutrients; and the streams high in the mountains trickle in their slow descent.
The nomad, in this low textured voice, sings to the world of its people; of the other nomads, of the warriors they've produced, the battles they've fought. It is a ballad of victory, a celebration of efforts. When it ends, the voice comes to rest, and focus returns to the world around, and the music being played. Another moment where the world is only taken in. It is awake, but it is tired. Its muscles are stiff, its bones ached, its movements slowed. The nomad's right hand calms, the notes softening. It is time for the world to come alive. The next breath drawn, held, and released through the throat as new muscles tense. This time, the sound has no texture, no grain; it is pure, exiting from the nose as a single note for the world. A tongue contorts and curls, lips protrude and purse, and as the air is released through the mouth a second note joins the first. The first note being steady, maintained, this one dances with life and joy, reaching as high as it can in its pitch. Together, the notes fly from the nomad, rushing new life into the world. As the burbling streams trickle down the mountain they become rapids, as the air shifts in sections it moves with force, bringing down leaves and branches. No longer in tepid morning steps, feet fly in great strides to the beat of the earth, some in sets of four, some in pairs. As the wind surges, it is broken by an object that travels even faster, headed by a piece of metal, shaped and sharpened. It flies with the music, flies with the new day and with all the life in the world, flies straight into a form incapable of knowing what was to come, burrowing itself deep into flesh. As the two notes of life and haste run with water, they too run with blood. But the song goes on; it takes no sides in nature's game, only encourages those who wish to play.
The nomad feels the sun's warmth as it floats in full glory, having cleared the jagged line of the horizon. They once again return to only playing their instrument, but that too fades into silence. The day has begun, its creatures falling into rhythm, keeping the beat going in their hearts, in their strides, in the rushing of water and wind, until the rhythm falters and darkness closes in once more. Satisfied, the nomad takes a last look at the forest, the sky, the mountains, takes a final breath of chilled mountain air, and returns to their home, until it is time for tomorrow's song.
Slowly, a rough thumb falls and finds itself resting against those many tightly bound hairs that make up the second string. A slight bit of force, and the pervasive silence of the world is split in two by a single sound, so strong it seems the darkness too is pierced by the vibration rising into the sky, to be met by the day's first ray of light. The single sounds joins with the single drop of light somewhere beyond sight, the only two in apparent existence until another note is played, rising to join the day's second ray. As the song is played the thumb quickens its pace, working with great care in tandem with the other hand to create a rolling change in notes, each to go with the others into the heavens to meet another new ray of light. Before the nomad now lies a darkened world of silhouettes, a forest still asleep as the sky begins to wake. The next finger joins in the game, bringing with it the next string of the instrument, as the first muted splashes of color fall from the sky, forcing the silhouettes to flatten in long stretches across the ground.
Morning has arrived, and the nomad is now found within a painting, a beautiful still of unparalleled color, detail and grace. It is a remarkable sight, but only the nomad is there to see it. There seems to be no movement for miles; even the air is stagnant. The only air to move is that which the nomad breathes, coming for most of the morning in slow steady swings, but now that the painting is finished a greater rush of air is pulled. The nomad's lungs are near filled, air that is held for a moment before being released. As it leaves, the muscles surrounding it contract, until the air passing through them causes a new vibration to be made, first exiting through the nose, then the mouth. This vibration is not pure; it is rough and textured, almost granular as it travels not up into the sky but into the ground, a low rumble that shakes the body of the nomad and the grass that surrounds them. Blades move in small waves, perking up to meet the new day as the soil shifts and churns with life. A leaf, too, turns, though not as it is hit by this new wave of sound, but as it is brushed against by an animal rising from its den. The earth has come alive, as did the sky, and along with it all of its inhabitants. The animals wake in search of food; the plants dive their roots deep to reach for water and nutrients; and the streams high in the mountains trickle in their slow descent.
The nomad, in this low textured voice, sings to the world of its people; of the other nomads, of the warriors they've produced, the battles they've fought. It is a ballad of victory, a celebration of efforts. When it ends, the voice comes to rest, and focus returns to the world around, and the music being played. Another moment where the world is only taken in. It is awake, but it is tired. Its muscles are stiff, its bones ached, its movements slowed. The nomad's right hand calms, the notes softening. It is time for the world to come alive. The next breath drawn, held, and released through the throat as new muscles tense. This time, the sound has no texture, no grain; it is pure, exiting from the nose as a single note for the world. A tongue contorts and curls, lips protrude and purse, and as the air is released through the mouth a second note joins the first. The first note being steady, maintained, this one dances with life and joy, reaching as high as it can in its pitch. Together, the notes fly from the nomad, rushing new life into the world. As the burbling streams trickle down the mountain they become rapids, as the air shifts in sections it moves with force, bringing down leaves and branches. No longer in tepid morning steps, feet fly in great strides to the beat of the earth, some in sets of four, some in pairs. As the wind surges, it is broken by an object that travels even faster, headed by a piece of metal, shaped and sharpened. It flies with the music, flies with the new day and with all the life in the world, flies straight into a form incapable of knowing what was to come, burrowing itself deep into flesh. As the two notes of life and haste run with water, they too run with blood. But the song goes on; it takes no sides in nature's game, only encourages those who wish to play.
The nomad feels the sun's warmth as it floats in full glory, having cleared the jagged line of the horizon. They once again return to only playing their instrument, but that too fades into silence. The day has begun, its creatures falling into rhythm, keeping the beat going in their hearts, in their strides, in the rushing of water and wind, until the rhythm falters and darkness closes in once more. Satisfied, the nomad takes a last look at the forest, the sky, the mountains, takes a final breath of chilled mountain air, and returns to their home, until it is time for tomorrow's song.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.