Grit in Your Eye
Roary stumbled from the pub, bottle in hand. He had enjoyed a fine night out with friends, the rousing and not quite family-appropriate songs still cheerily whistling through his head. It was a fine group of local musicians and not a bad lot of singers the village boasted. He suspected that his own voice was not one that many would find all that rousing, but once the group was good and going all were welcome to join in. And join in he had, with complete relish. It was well past time that he spent a night doing nothing but enjoying himself. He wove a gentle swaying path down the middle of the street, as the sidewalk seemed just a bit too constraining for his needs. It must be later than he had thought as there were very few folk out to witness his lack of concern for vehicular travelers.
Looking up he noticed a gloriously orange full moon. "That," he said to himself, "is a beautiful sight." Pondering the moon he found himself making his way down the path that led from the village and twisted its way toward the shore. He managed to clamber over a few rocks to sit, legs tucked to his chest in the rocky sands just shy of the waves. "Beautiful, indeed," he mumbled.
He sat there in humbled silence, occasionally tipping the remains of the bottle of whiskey he held until he found it to be empty. Gradually he let himself slide to the side and curl up on the shore staring out at the orange moonlight as it broke against the waves. He listened to the natural heartbeat of the sea and felt his own heart beat steady to match it. The rise and fall of the waves flowed with the rise and fall of his breathing and soon he was fast asleep on the shore, his bottle tucked up under his chin.
They were made of shadow and light and yet also of flesh and bone. A tall man with red and gold hair that glinted in the waning light of the sun. He wore garb that was clearly not of this time: a long robe and a jerkin with a belt encrusted with what looked like jewels, a heavy sword hanging at his side. His face looked ravaged with pain. The woman was old and haggard, yet still somehow surreally beautiful. She wore a dress that shimmered in the light, with long trains that hung from the elbows in a magnificent emerald green that matched her eyes. Her hands were outstretched. In one there was something small and silver and in the other, held higher almost over her head, there were three lengths of silk. The silks were wrapped around her palm, the ends snapping in the winds that had her long grey locks wildly whipping around her face and body. The man angrily tore the small object from her hand - it looked almost as if he were going to slap her with it - then he turned from her. She spoke but Roary could not make out the words. She opened her hand and pulled the silks apart, walking toward the man as if pleading to be heard. Finally, when she was just ten paces away he turned to her. The look on his face was akin to a look of hope. He started toward her. She raised her hands as if to embrace him. The winds lifted in intensity and one of the silks was dragged from her grasp. The man turned to grab it, but it sailed past him as if the wind had taken it for itself. The woman seemed to be howling. She turned toward the rock and tried to scale it, to reach where the silk hung tenuously in a dance above their heads. It looked as if she would be able to reach it, if only just. She pressed one hand down on a rock and heaved her back upward, arching as high as she could to reach the silk. As she did so the wind swept behind her making an almost human sound, so close to laughter it made Roary's spine clench. Then the silk she held in her grasping hand was wrenched from around her palm and joined the one suspended. There in the air the two silks spun and danced as the pair watched the unfolding tragedy of their eventual disappearance into the arms of the wind. The woman turned from her rocky hold to look at the man, fear and anxiety in her eyes. He held the small silver item to his lips, looked at her with a depth of pain that even Roary could feel, and then turned and walked into the sea. He just walked into the sea. He did not look back, the waves did not stagger him. The press and thrall of the crashing sea did not hinder him at all. It seemed that the sea just welcomed his intrusion. Roary watched as the man just disappeared under the water. When he lifted his gaze back to the beach and the rock, the woman and her one lone silk was gone.
A blinding shaft of light greeted Roary as he woke the next morning. He moved to block the light and only succeeded in knocking himself in the head with the bottle he still held in his fist. Carefully moving himself to an upright position he noted the grit in his eyes and the taste of salt and sand in his mouth. Ruefully, he looked about at where he was. He brushed his hands down his jacket only to find them no cleaner given the amount of debris on the garment. He rolled up his sleeve and used his arm to scrub at his eyes and face. "What a night I must have had to end up here," he thought. He looked at the empty bottle. "Well, at least I know what not to drink if I want to avoid a crusty morning and wild dreams," he said to himself.
He managed to get to his feet. He definitely had put too much time in at the pub. His head hurt, either from the light or from hitting himself in the head with the bottle. Ether way, he surmised, it was the bottle's fault. With a grim laugh at his own folly, he set off on what was sure to be a laborious trek back to his shop.
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