Wednesday, July 03, 2013
Worlds within Worlds #2.5
My instinct is to stick close to the shoreline, but witnessing the pained, deranged man has reminded me that I have yet to see any of my gangmates. Their absence is ... strange.
More importantly, the ache in my stomach is growing harder. Have I poisoned myself by eating those berries? The wound in my thigh also shouts at me, and probably needs attention.
When I reach an avenue of grass between the trees I take a few breaths and consider my choices. To move downhill will lead me to the cliffs, to the realms of men. I do not recognise this avenue, but I feel confident that, properly approached, no gang will refuse to aid me – they might even adopt me, given the dereliction of my brothers.
I look along the avenue, seawards and then landwards. There are no sounds to announce the coming of walkers; the sky is cast wrong for a procession. As the trail moves away from the land's skirts, it curves slowly around the bulge of the closest hill.
To walk landwards without the support and protection of my gang ... but women are far better skilled at the easement arts.
'Which clan lives behind this hill?'
I cast the words into the air in the hope that they will bring me a haul of knowledge ... but I can't remember: I cannot find a memory of this avenue within me, nor does the hill's shape spark thoughts. Even the healing pools – I have no recollection of walking across those rocks before.
I search the skies above me for a guardian. Nothing appears.
To approach a woman-clan naked and unmarked ... it is the act of a man begging for the attention of darts and knives, ropes and flames.
I need to find black mud. I need to paint gang patterns on my skin. Only then will I risk walking into the foreboding hills.