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| Friday, November 25, 2005 |
| Tell me a story #1 |
Today, Ata did nothing terribly interesting. In lieu of an action-packed real-life drama, there is this instead. Gather 'round.
The Weather Girl
Once upon a time there was born a girl. Very soon after she took her first breath, it became evident that this girl was unlike any born before her or after her. As she screamed in outrage, dark clouds gathered in the skies above, and as she settled to contented nursing the clouds melted to let clear sunshine through. Through some strange interference of Fate, or Destiny, or simple Luck, this girl and the weather could not be separated.
She was born the third child of wealthy parents, and resided in a manor house outside a village in a sheltered valley. As she grew, her parents and the people of the village came to see her as a blessing on their land. When the sun shone too long and the crops began to wilt, the girl would sit in the parlour of the manor house and listen to a band of minstrels play their most tearful ballads, until rain fell to quench the drying soil. If not enough sun shone, the minstrels would play dancing tunes until the glad light of a warming sun kissed the cheeks of the children playing outside. The girl was, by and large, a cheerful child, and the villagers were glad of this. When her temper was raised, however, scorching winds swept through the valley, sapping moisture from the skin and desiccating the very earth, and dry lightening snapped from the sky.
As time went by in the valley, the people prospered. The girl, aided by the music, measured the weather so that crops grew thick, feeding even the poorest citizen with plenty left to sell to neighbouring villages. Her doting parents smiled on their youngest child, and watched her grow from infant to toddler to young woman. And one day, as the ways of humans are and always have been, the girl met a boy, and fell in love.
For the people of the valley, this was a glad time. The minstrels living at the manor house smiled in the warm sunshine and played only to please themselves, as the joy of love kept a gently sun glowing. Teasing breezes ruffled the hair and skirts of the village maids, and blessings of fond rain fell. If one minstrel - the youngest and most recent arrival to the manor house – declined the company of his fellow musicians and wandered alone instead, playing sorrowing melodies on his pipes under the shade of the sympathetic willows, no-one noticed. On the day the couple wed by the curve in the river, decked in wildflowers and smiles, the villagers did not notice this one minstrel who did not play in the wedding band or dance to the joyful tunes.
For the people of the valley, this was also a glad time. The spring of new love embraced the valley. In the perfect evenings, the clouds of gathering storms were welcomed, and parents put their children to bed early, shuttering the windows against the swift winds and passionate thunder outside before locking their own chamber doors, laughing like children themselves.
But all seasons end, and for the young bride this spring was too short. It was no comfort to her that the accident took her love quickly, without pain. Her grief poured from the heavens and did not stop. The villagers stayed indoors, worried about their flocks, and felt their own hearts break with the sorrow of the young widow in the manor house. For days the rain laved the village as if the very sky felt her grief and sought to wash the stain of loss from the valley. When the rains finally broke, the villagers sighed in relief and returned to their work, anticipating the return of the sun.
As the rains cleared, however, the skies did not. The rains were replaced by a dank mist, through which only the feeblest light glowed, barely as bright as a single candle. After a month of waiting and worrying, with food stores spoiling in the damp conditions, an exodus began. After three months, no-one remained in the village. The parents of the widow sent her brother and sister to stay with friends in the next town. Over time, they ceased trying to lighten the spirit of their youngest child. The minstrels, too, packed up their instruments. On the day the final carriage rolled away from the front steps of the manor house, the youngest minstrel stood in the doorway to witness their departure. His own instruments succumbed to the damp, their wood swelling and splitting. Metal fittings rusted and stuck, and mildew crawled steadily across the pages of his music. Even his voice fell flat in the damp, unmoving air, its resonance swallowed and smothered by the heavy grey mist.
The four of them lost count of the weeks and months passing. In time, most of the world outside the valley forgot them – with the exception of the son and daughter, who arranged deliveries of food and firewood. Visitors passing through the valley did not stop and visit the manor house, but passed through as quickly as they could. The grey mist seemed to settle into their very souls, and it was with relief that they travelled out of the valley and into the natural weather – be it rain or shine. The four remaining residents of the manor house fell into their own grey routines, often eating together but rarely talking. The widow spent most of her time in her own quarters, gazing unseeing over the misted fields. The minstrel wandered about the manor house and grounds, at first wondering if he would ever play music again, then forgetting that he ever did. It seemed that time stood still in the grey valley.
It was a day as damp and unhappy as any other, when the minstrel climbed the spiral staircase to sit in the tower room, from where the view stretched on all sides over the manor grounds. As he stared, listless and aimless, a memory leapt unbidden to the front of his mind. It was of himself, as a child, playing with water filled bottles – his first instrument, long since abandoned in favour of more sophisticated tools with more silvered voices. As this memory played itself for him, he began to desire again the simple pleasure of hearing sounds other than his own footsteps and the unceasing drip of water. From the kitchens – now barely used – he retrieved a number of glass bottles in varying size and shape. He took them back to the tower room and, arraying them on the floor, filled each with a different quantity of water. As he blew on the tops to test the notes, it seemed that a small part of him breathed more deeply, and the gloomy damp sat less heavily on his heart. With time and patience, he learned to play simple tunes on this unwieldy instrument. Most often he would play lullabies or gentle, sorrowing melodies, playing until he could no longer hold enough breath. Then he lay on the floor and gazed at the mouldering ceiling until he fell asleep.
On a rare foray from her quarters one afternoon, the widow happened to overhear a haunting melody whispering through the halls. Following the sound, she stood at the bottom of the staircase and listened. As she listened, the mourning in the tune seemed a balm to her heart. She climbed the stairs a little way to listen some more, and the peace offered in the melody seemed to comfort her spirit. She climbed the stairs a little further, leaning into the music as a vine leans toward sunshine, and when the music finally stopped she was standing in the doorway, bidding the minstrel to play again. For many days, this became the routine. They would meet in the bare tower room, and she would seek the comfort of his gentle, echoing tunes. Then they would lie silently on the floor and gaze at the patterns of mildew on the ceiling until healing sleep claimed them both.
No-one can be certain how many days it was, but one day, the mist seemed a little lighter. The widow’s parents looked at each other as if waking from a dream and wondered how long they had been walking in this waking sleep. As each day passed, the damp lifted and the mist melted from the valley. On the day the minstrel dared attempt a brighter, quicker tune on the ungraceful water bottles, a smile broke through the greyness and pale sunlight shone for the first time in a long time. The sunshine grew and strengthened, and plants began to grow strong and green. On the day the valley greeted a bright, glowing dawn, the parents sent word to their older children. The son and daughter returned to the valley, bringing with them their own families so the children’s voices would echo through the manor halls. As the flowers began to bloom and the trees put out new growth, so too the village welcomed the return of citizens to its streets. And on the day the widow again became a bride, the people of the valley gathered again with flowers and smiles to congratulate the happy couple.
For the people of the valley, glad times came again, and the village prospered. In the manor house, the woman and her husband lived in joyous contentment. The sun shone just enough and the rain fell just enough, and children lay in bed listening to the gentle thunder as their parents, smiling, clasped hands and retreated to their own chambers.
When the grey mist settled on the valley – as it sometimes did, in the early mornings or late afternoons – the woman and her husband sat in the high tower. He played for her on the glass pipes, specially made, while her heart remembered and sorrowed, and she again made peace with her past. At those times, she looked on her husband with special love, knowing that his love for her was as constant as the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon, enduring her many moods as the earth endures the seasons. |
posted by Ata @ 7:10 pm  |
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| 5 Comments: |
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Okaaay ... well that story is just fine and dandy. But but but. What happened to my next installment of the Ata and Mr Ata serial?
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Wow. *eyes wide* I don't think I've ever read any of your writing before, Ata. It's brilliant! *glotzes* Wow.
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Darnit. Now I can never post any stories again, in case they don't live up to Emma's expectations.
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You can and will, Ata! *beams* Consider the expectations to be thrown outta the window.
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Okaaay ... well that story is just fine and dandy. But but but. What happened to my next installment of the Ata and Mr Ata serial?