tales from the bog

The damp is second only to the dark, the sun long faded into memory, if there were only someone here to remember it. The ruin stands lonely on the horizon as silent guard (there is nothing to guard), its once-ornate windows the closest thing to color in this place, the cracked faces of forgotten saints speak warning to wandering souls (there is no one to warn).

From the sea spray comes a mist, rising over the cliffs, over the hill, to hover in the air, its feeble glow in the grey cloud-light the closest thing to wonder in this place. It rises over the cliffs and settles on the cobbles and stones, on the iron gates and the glass, frosting the place with a fine dew as if the towers themselves wept. The crying echoes have long since died, even the ghosts have left. 

The wind used to sing, to laugh, to joke and purr in the ears of passersby.

It told stories to those who’d listen, of faraway places, and it would bring gifts of sand to the frozen north from the desert through which it’d flown, and it would bring gifts of rain from the jungles to the arid east. The wind would say no, thank you, for letting me pass through your city. Through your village. Through your house. It is an honor to be welcomed through your windows and alleys and to rustle your curtains and the leaves of the grand oaks along the roads.

The wind does not say this anymore. The wind howls at closed doors and shuttered windows, and shrieks at the walls erected at the places it’d once breezed through, bringing a song from the jovial south to newborn west. The wind sobs, and drops its gifts at borders to fade under the sun.

The wind cries, and begs. It promises. 

And they leave ruins. 

Statues of the whitest marble lie fallen among the weeds, heads rolling into the grass. Columns teeter and wave, as if mocking the wheat tossed by the wind. Mosaics once grand, intricate portraits of emperors and senators, now indistinguishable. The tiles lie on the ground, as if playing the parts of pebbles and beetles. 

The art remains, to remember and reproduce, to forge and falsify. The ruins a model for modern, look at what we did, what you could be.

The bed beside the window, the sun behind your head, you are crowned in light, an angel. 

Bright and white and blinding, the first snow of the year lies on the ground in a thick skin of crystal, it looks cold, and it hurts to look. I look to you instead. 

Bed beside the window, the sunlight streaming in. You are warm. 

Colored pale and golden, the first snow of the year is painted by the sunset. It is soft, it is still, it is quiet. 

Still, space is not at all crowded. Dust clouds large enough to swaddle our planet like a babe in blankets float through the endless stretches between objects. One could come across a solitary star and not find another trace of matter for as many lightyears as there are hairs on your head. It would take several lifetimes to travel just within our own neighborhood. The distance between our world, and anything else out there, is incomprehensible.

They say sound can’t travel in space. It’s true, sort of. If you were to put on a suit and step out into the void, you wouldn’t hear the collision of debris, or the hum of burning plasma, but it would not be quiet. It would be silent.

The damp is second only to the dark, the sun long faded into memory, if there were only someone here to remember it. The ruin stands lonely on the horizon as silent guard (there is nothing to guard), its once-ornate windows the closest thing to color in this place, the cracked faces of forgotten saints speak warning to wandering souls (there is no one to warn).

From the sea spray comes a mist, rising over the cliffs, over the hill, to hover in the air, its feeble glow in the grey cloud-light the closest thing to wonder in this place. It rises over the cliffs and settles on the cobbles and stones, on the iron gates and the glass, frosting the place with a fine dew as if the towers themselves wept. The crying echoes have long since died, even the ghosts have left. 

At the first point, a king with a cup held to his lips. Setting it down, he spoke with a smooth voice around wine-stained teeth, “My people complain of flooded lands, the crops are growing in more water than soil, and they fear the harvest this season will be too meager for the cold months ahead. My docks are flooded, there is nowhere for your ships to land to bring goods from abroad. My country is struggling to breathe. And yet, my brother complains his storms are more severe.” He shot a look to his left, and sipped again from his cup with a coldness in his eyes like that of rushing rivers after the winter snowmelts.

At the second point, his thin brother king, with an empty gaze and a frail look as if the wind were blowing straight through his ribs. His voice was harsh and dry. “Brother dear, the storms that plague my country blow fierce and hard. My people’s villages lay in shambles on the ground, the trees are swept out from the ground as if mere weeds from the dirt. And yet, you are too full of drink and arrogance to see my people are in more danger than yours.” 

The red-lipped king did not deign to respond to his brother’s jab, but instead faced ahead at the king sitting at the third point. “What say you, my friend?” This king had ashen skin and furious eyes, his hands marked with scars like lightning. 

“My land is burning,” he said simply. “The crop-fields, the towns, the trees. None have seen mercy from the flames.” He paused, to watch the king across set down his glass, his face a vision of shock. “It amuses me that you bicker so violently, when it is I who has so little left to bicker about.” He turned to the last king. 

At the final point, this one sat fat and healthy in his chair, his robes a silky green. “You have much to give, my kind brother,” the scarred king said. “Will you send aid to the hedon of the flooded north? Or to the petty one in the windswept east, who would likely spend your gift on gaudy displays to flaunt against his brother?” 

“What have you to gain from taunting your allies?” The fat king asked. “Is it not enough for you to remain bitter on your own losses?” 

“I have nothing to lose,” he responded. “My losses are none that you can fix with your wealth or surplus grain.” 

A hearty chuckle sounded from the other king’s throat, warm and kind despite his furious brother king’s furious words. “Fine, then. Have it your way, my aid will certainly not fall into your hands.” He looked around the table, surveying his brother, his friends, allies. They all had their own merit, their own need. 

He faced straight across at the thin king. “Your felled trees will make fine lumber, and plentiful. Fill your coffers with my coin—I should say one hundred thousand is enough.”

The recipient outstretched a bony hand, the move gracious, but the hunger in his eyes sparkled clear for the gift-giver to see. 

“But, friend, I offer a single condition with my gold.”

“Yes, of course, anything—what is it?”

“Build a canal.” 

“Pardon? Dear friend, my country, as you know, has aquifers aplenty, we have no need-”

The fat king raised a hand to silence him, fingers each glittering with jeweled rings.

“From the north to the south, carrying your brother’s floodwaters to quench my brother’s flames.” He turned to the king with the stained mouth. “Will you allow such a structure to be built in your land?” 

“Most certainly,” he responded, though he eyed his brother warily. 

“And you, my brother with nothing left. Will you allow the opportunity to rebuild?”

“Of course,” he responded, though he appeared to be in shock. He’d never considered that his brother would take pity on him, harsh and scarred and bitter as he was.

“Then one hundred thousand coins to you, friend. When next we meet, I shall look forward to hearing of your growth.” 

The king lifted himself from his chair, and the others followed suit.