Herb scented smoke.
He inhales deeply of
the sacred herb. He keeps a pouch of it with him always, as well as his
sculpted sea-shell pipe. He holds in the smoke in and feels a wave of joy rush
out from his lungs and through his mind. Thoughts become fluid.
He buries his toes in
the warm sand, feeling the setting sun wash over him like a blanket. He adjusts
his blue robes around his waist, and the straps around his shoulders.
The elder speaks.
He follows the old
turtle, with the holy face carved on its shell along the white sanded beach.
His search for guidance has not been in vain.
The message enters his
mind not as sounds but as images. The elder speaks of the past, and the future.
He speaks of little things of tremendous brilliance, and of big things with
subtle effects. He speaks of the coming darkness.
The turtle slips back
into the surf and he is left on the sand, trying to piece together all that he
was told, holding on to the fleeting thoughts before they become lost forever.
He uses his old swordspear
as a cane, and the mystical runes carved into the ironwood glow.
He will need
to inform the Council. He will travel to the Monastery tonight, and as the
children sing the hymns of longing, and as they eat a plentiful meal of raw
fish wrapped in seaweed and vinegared rice, basking in red lamp-light, he will
tell them of the preparations they’ve been instructed to make.
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