wold

Art by N. C. Wyeth

The low-borne sun touched the mottled wold with its last warmth, calling the evening’s chill to take up home. The yellowed swaying grass nestled resting creatures preparing for the dark. A gentle bowl in the slopes bore a slim pond where a wren family bathed in gentle solitude. Thriving silence pervaded the amber hillscape.

Yet, as the sun touched land, the peace was ruptured by a growing clash. Breathe and metal drummed a rhythm to which every beast perked. A crescendo built to tensing animal audience until a man crested the wold. A man wracked and ripped ran in clapping armor pieces. Every of his breaths came as spittle and blood. His helm was lost, thus his long sable hair grasped for air. His eyes were as sightless things that saw some other world.

While a stumble accompanied each pace, his speed was profound. Arms kept him upright in their unconscious battle for balance. Fauna fled his invasion in their panic: giving madness its berth. The man’s flight pervaded like the mountain’s echo. He was the actor for this pastoral stage with a doleful monologue.

As he came to the downward angle toward the water’s rest, his feet failed and he fell. Crushing reed, he came rolling down. Before his body could come to rest, he seemed unable to bear the stop and he seamless shifted to a crawl. Transformed into a beast, he thrust himself through the grassy walls. At last he came to fall and rest upon the muddy shore.

A count of three breaths left him still, eyes shut. Until they opened to the battle of gaining once more his tremulous feet. His struggle brought him splashing to the shallows, teetering about. Finally he stood, heaving with the effort. 

A new silence came upon the land. Understanding seemed to grow in the wanderer’s eyes. He returned to the world of field and wind, blinking in its falling light. He began to seek the truth, turning about to know the what and where of things. Then he cast his sight upon his person and it was as if his body was a mystery. Finally he found his tabard banner, a verdant beast of might. Claws upraised to fight for land and lady. Teeth bared to tear for honor and lord.

A cry of all passion burst as the man rent the clothic heraldry from his chest. He offered the banner up to the winds and began again to run, as if to keep it from falling upon his head. His troubled pace splashed along the shore, fighting the grabbing mud. But it was a mindless route, again seeing nought of this earth. Despite a few falls, he kept his feet and after too long broke the water. Climbing up out from the bowl, a despairing cry accompanied his panting air. 

The sun hid its face to the man being lost to another hill. The animals of the wold slowly began to forget the interruption. Entering into their schedule of night activities. The fox as if it had not just despaired, returned with every evening hope.

Yet in the East a newborn sun failed to rise; a dancing glow cast the hills a silhouette. And a distant quiet cacophony crept.