Harland of the Winter

It was March. The drabness of winter droned on. The sky stayed gray, the air cold, the grass a yellow-brown. The extended weather report looked grim. His body ached for lack of muscle movement, exercise, freedom. He longed for the embrace of a balmy warmth. But that didn’t seem to be in the cards, not for a while at least.

 

The government mess also droned on. The cure was at hand, always at hand. Saboteurs were everywhere, groaning and whining and making us feel heavy with their fantasy drivel. He longed for a lull in the snivel-bag lolly jargon, but that too would have to wait.

 

A prayer, uttered in low tones, went out; a bow to the unseen power that is the ever-present origin. A body, too Earth-laden to feel the subtle energies, stayed in its ethereal presence; yearning, hoping. Faith remained hitched to interiority. The optimistic aura, imbued with a golden hue, arranged itself like a coif, secured by a wimple. A plaintive mew ascended, descended, as a tincture of grace might do.

 

And the morning light had not yet manifested. This was the hour, the monk’s hour, of less brainwave interference and chatter to impede the spirit. It was the morning that re-calibrated the mind, complementing a restive sleep recharge. In waves of devotion, alpha-delta-gamma-theta; curative frequencies came to the rescue.

 

Harland had barely recovered from yesterday’s ennui. Yet here he was, back at it again. The battle raged daily. The bottle sat down on the floor by the corner of his desk, a snort to be had in case of snake bite. It didn’t phase him in the least to think that the unseen war would be fought yet again. His battleground was his private study, wherein he laid the snares and hooked riders from their horses before they could joust. It was a game, but it was serious too.

 

Harland mused, How mysterious are the Middle Ages. They’re called the “Dark Ages.” And yet, he thought, there was lots of good stuff happening then, wasn’t there? Harland made a note to investigate further. Wouldn’t it just be like the usual hijinks of the System to cover up the most fertile phase of our Western past? Yes, I will have to look into the so-called “Dark Ages”; the Roundtable of King Arthur and all that.

 

It was complete, for now; his early rumination. The trap was set to snare the unwary forest gremlins and human soul-forms that wanted to know, who need more info-wisdom. And he, perhaps the least worthy among them.

 

Harland looked at the time. The cycle of time came in micro-bursts and made daily routine what it was. Still, the greater story lay in the macro-bigland cycles of time, covered up but there none-the-less.

 

The poet-warrior’s duty is to make everything known; to unwrap it all like a birthday or Christmas present—such thoughts scuttered about. It was a gift and as gladly given as received.

 

He scratched his head and gave it a rest. There would be more to say, more to tell…and there was time, at least for now, to tease it all apart. 

  

[NOTE: This post was copied and the remaining six parts of the story were moved and reposted to Wyman Wicket's domain at jsuss.blogspot.com]