What this is all about.
Here is the fifth part to a short story being written for The 13th Floor Paradigm, Mythology Workshop #1, hosted by Oloriel. It’s a little on the overtime side due to the busy world outside
Everything here has been a little slow the last few weeks, a few hardware issues, and much day work has been curbing the writing toll, so feel free to have a read of the below (it’s only a thousand words), or follow the link above to find out more about the workshop, and what others are writing for their unique prompt from, Oloriel
The unique prompt gifted to me for the tale:
Luna – a key, a canvas, vanilla milkshake, a ghost of a dead gambler, a scimitar.
“I told you the pack first, Boy!” when the owner of the voice brings down a scimitar severing the rope to return Reid once more to the darkness of what in now becoming a case of endless despair, and possibly his grave.
Moments pass, time slows, only silence fills Reid’s ears, once more sitting afloat his pack in the waters of the well. Looking down, tired of looking up, but a small noise, and as a little stone falls from on high to land in the water with a splash next to him. He looks up to see a scimitar raised above in the last light before the night.
Reid yells, shouting with his head facing the keyhole to the sky, “Go away! Leave me be, I do not need such help from the likes of you, a thief, and a con. You’re only after the remnants of the living ancient world I’ve gathered over the last ten years of my life. I’ve been warned to avoid your kind, and I’ll not be heeding to your demands.
“But child,” floats the soft voice of a woman above. “I would never seek to do such acts, though I may steel away from my home, and duties once in a while, I shalt never take from another unless it is given freely, and in goodwill.”
The end of another rope cascades down into the darkness of the well, as the scimitar moves from the opening. “You best hang on if you wish to feel solid ground again, drifts her voice on the stale air of the dark hole.
Without thinking twice, Reid throws the backpack on around his shoulders once more, and wraps the rope around his body, and arms, when he hears the words shouted, “Vade, vade, venerint, vade.”
As if on a zip line, Reid hangs on for all life as he rifles up from the well’s deep at a astonishing speed to exit the keyhole to survival in such a harsh place. His pack catches the top of the rock lining as he launches out backwards, high up into the air, with the release of a yell sounding for miles around.
Soaring across the sky in a spray of seeds venting from the pack (raining down like meteorites in a storm), gravity remains unannounced to Reid’s body as it flips under the forces on exiting the well, until he catches sight upon his rescuer. a young woman in the blue ink light of approaching night. Her head tilted up as she laughs, while her feet stand firm upon a cut down Volkswagen chariot, reins in her hands, a flowing scarf caught on the wind. As Reid’s arc diminishes, two Scimitar Oryx come into sight at the end of the reins
Reid panics for a moment on being now earth bound as he clips the horns of one Oryx, knocking him unconscious as he plunges, skidding along the mix of earth, and sand. Drawing up alongside the young woman dismounts from her urbanesque chariot, and drags him on to the back of her desert wheels, propping him up beneath a crescent moon motif above their heads, when…
Out of the dark, the man with a scimitar, “I don’t want to fight Luna, I’ve only come for the canvas, and the key, he can keep those ancient seeds. Hand them over now.” Luna moves from the chariot, and stands bare feet on the seasonal earth next in front of the Scimitar Oryx.
“Now why would you need such a canvas, the stars are above, the sands of this land beneath your feet. You tell your friend, that if he wants the chart and the key, then he best come himself to ask for such a wealth of knowledge.” Luna draws a horn from each Oryx, transforming them into blue moon crescents, scimitars of blue light, and as she raises them from above her head, to then touch the sand of the earth. The sands quicken, turning into a raging sea as if water, and like a rip, the now present dunes take the intruders feet from beneath him in the undertow, removing him from Luna’s sight.
Reid still out cold, Luna replaces the Oryx horns, climbs aloft her chariot, and sets off into the north east leaving the fringe of the Sahel, while slow, but sure. Seeds soaked from the cold waters of the well, one by one escape from Reid’s backpack, to burrow their way into the desert sands, and to wait.
Many years pass here in the 21st century, and now the crescent forest of the Sahara grows strong since its planting in the new moon phase. Some say, when the forest becomes full, Reid Jasper will emerge to return home to the southern land of forest, and ice, until then we’ll have to ponder. “What of the canvas, and the key?”
Sahel to sea
Through the microcosm of his world
Always on the move these last ten years
Yet still to return home to the Antarctic Peninsula
Where the young forests survive unscathed, now
Reid Jasper waits beneath a Hunter’s Moon
A nomad, orphan, collector, hunter on far fringes
For, and of the many lost, these ancient seeds, buried
Across the continents in time, gathering, quicken pace
Both all waiting, on the hunter beyond the forest, and ice
Young, and old in past, just seeds biding their time
In the company of the hunter, the collector from afar
Until the moment of escape to find in good measure
Where the moon soon does to dwindle in a coming season
To sow from the Sahel to sea, a crescent forest of the east..
Well that’s it for a first draft for “The Crescent of the East”