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Statues and Cliffsides

Started by Eater of Clowns, January 12, 2010, 08:37:02 PM

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Eater of Clowns

Back in October my girlfriend asked me to write and orate a short story for her for our anniversary (yesterday).  Now that she's officially the first to have seen it, I'll post it here:

    In the Traveler's world no place has a name.  Destinations are necessary as beginnings and ends to journeys, for resting or restocking his supplies, for anxious leisure while not feeding insatiable desires for new sights.  Home and place of birth exist separately, the latter forgotten to decades of wandering and seeming eons without speaking, the languages of men and other blended to ambiance of new surroundings, both brick and mortar to empires raised on words, some hollow and some awesome.  And the former is where the pack rests beside him that night, the sky perpetually taunting him with its infinity above.  Tonight they would offer no such humiliations, their merry eyes and innumerable grins, their hints of grander meaning falling on the uncaring tiles of a standard fare inn.

    His road ended shortly ahead at walls that seemed to dance in the waning sunlight.  They rose tauntingly before him, covering only the half of the city not resting upon sheer cliff side.  Rumors told him to arrive at twilight while others claimed twilight never ceased so long as the sun fell on the city, the beautiful city, its irrelevant name etched as the only mark upon the high walls.  There was no welcome in addition to the name, no title or claim to supremacy, merely a declaration of its being.  With similar function the guards stared at this path worn man, the filth of his lengthy wanderings seemingly more than the accumulated filth of the entire city could be.  They watched him pass and watched the soles of feet that seemed to have seen more miles than the world has seen years disappear on cobbled streets more immaculately tended than most palaces.

    Business of the denizens appeared to be dwindling with the hour, the city's squares emanating a foreknowledge of desertion.  Men and women were perfect here the Traveler saw.  As his gaze rested from face to face in awe a plethora of the same passed by without his notice, each attractive in unique ways.  Looks began to be thrown at him of concern and distaste and in his shame he realized how he much look to these people.  With effort he averted his eyes to the architecture of the place.

    Nothing about the place was uniform, no two buildings alike nor even very many symmetrical, yet it was all so perfect.  He sat for a moment on a bench that clearly belonged precisely where it stood to find the breath pulled from him by his shock.  Shocking eyes that had seen so much he marveled briefly, the thought interrupted by his notice of a pristine fountain his seat faced.  A child with clever eyes knelt on a stone pedestal with a smile hinted on her lips as her arms lifted a circlet to place upon her brow.  It was a snake engulfing its own tail.  Clear water cascaded from the serpent and splashed to the rest of the pool with a shifting chime.

    After marveling from his spot for some time he rose on tired legs with excitement, the exploration of a new place at hand.  He mastered the skill of finding the shy sights, the ones which hid themselves from prying eyes and appeared only if one knew they were there.  In cities they were discovered only by following the kind of person who looked as though they might find themselves where one wishes to go, a skill that takes a keen eye.  But he found none like this here.  Instead he set to his life's work of letting his whims guide him.

    Darkness fell before long, marked by moonlight shimmering on the streets and none to see it but him.  His footsteps echoed across the lonely alleys in an ethereal music.  Down one street or another he might find flickering light playing upon the edges of a closed door, laughter inside like any other tavern in any other city.  But the tones were richer and the light more pure somehow.  Eventually he found one such doorway from which slow music drifted and the light seemed feeble and the laughter was not real but only an idea that had once been there, a memory imprinted on the spot by those who would frequent it.  Here he stepped inside.

    Lovely people sat dejectedly about the place, their features no less striking for the almost determinedly sullen mood.  He sat at a bar of oily wood, rich smelling and spotless.  A mug was set down before him in a silent gesture from the rough looking man tending to the customers.  With a nod he turned to a woman crooning before a fire, her voice sounding as though it might catch aflame by the sparks popping intermittently.  He became slowly infatuated as her tune carried him through histories and tragedies.  These were not the words of a mortal, or if they were they were not meant for mortal ears.

    His drink was sweet and heady and as he turned for another the bar man lingered a moment longer, the act so foreign to the man as to make him visibly uncomfortable.  As though he knew the question forthcoming.

"What does the lady sing?" the Traveler asked.  It was the first he'd spoken since arriving; he awaited the reply nervously.  Thus far his beaten appearance had made no impact on the folk but he feared to be ostracized.

"The day's events, in town at least," came the reply.  The man's tones lilted in gruff song not unlike the lady's own.

    The Traveler listened more closely, catching the rhythm and understanding her at last.  Expecting to hear of thefts and politics, of deaths and religious figures he instead learned gossip.  The grocery boy was in love with a nobleman's daughter; a visitor had entered the city gates and has been seen exploring its streets.  He perked up at what might be about him, but there was no more.  His presence was known and evidently unremarkable.  He motioned to the barkeep.

"Do you have rooms available?"

"We do, and baths and food if you'd like more than drink."

"I'll have the lot of them," he said.

    The man showed him to the upper floors of the building, where narrow halls belied spacious rooms and opulent beds.  His own was decorated with flowers.  He laughed a little, unnoticed by the exiting innkeeper.  It made him forget a disturbing image while he left the basement lounge, a slight vision that chilled him.  On the railing leading upstairs his hand passed over a gouge in the wood otherwise polished smooth by both care and years.  It was the first imperfection he'd seen since arriving, but with those delicate flowers in view it seemed a mistake of his own senses.

    A bath was drawn shortly after, happy looking attendants filled it swiftly without seeming to break their own paces.  In it he washed the filth of miles, the dust of roads caked so firmly upon him it seemed a part of him.  It stayed there in the basin, now a cloudy unsavory stew that drew his mind again to that rough spot on the railing.  He fell asleep with it in mind.
Quote from: Pippa Twiddleton on December 22, 2012, 01:06:36 AM
EoC, you are the bane of my existence.

Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 07, 2014, 01:18:23 AM
EoC doesn't make creepy.

EoC makes creepy worse.

Quote
the afflicted persons get hold of and consume carrots even in socially quite unacceptable situations.

Eater of Clowns

    A gentle ray of sunlight found its way to his resting eyes then opening to a second day in the city.  The quality of the day was unmatched already, he could tell, and he bounded from his rest in eagerness to further look upon this strange place.  The thought that he might find the streets paved in clouds or gold passed him briefly, but going down the stairs his mind turned back to the railing.  Slowing, he let his hand rest lightly on its surface, focusing his efforts on letting his calloused and leathery palm detect that groove again.  It was there.  And more accompanied it.

    The door to the inn was open, light pouring through it and catching on a heavy dust in the place.  The innkeeper nodded to him from the bar, his face a little more careworn than the Traveler could remember, the lines of age a little more pronounced.  The bar was stained and scratched in places.

    He left the place behind, anxious to see the remainder of the city that day in a light unlike his previous explorations.  This time of the day shops were open, their doors ajar to welcome the cool air and the sounds of the sea far below.                              Looking down the cliff side of the far side of the city was an experience he'd saved for daylight, the eerie moon of the previous night not being adequate to see to the very bottom.  Residents were walking about between stalls and shops seemingly delighted and he saw they suffered the same degeneration as the innkeeper, their appearances no longer beautiful as the night before but marred slightly as though years of age came upon them as they slept.  Or perhaps his fascination with the new place clouded his vision, that and the twilight sun.  Surely that must be it.

    Spray from the sea grew thick as he neared the far end of town.  The cliff was terrifying in its height, the city a risk-taking child playing upon the edges unaware of the death waiting below.  He wanted to pull it by its gates, its hands, and drag it further from the drop to safety.  The Traveler reassured himself of his footing and peered down to see deep blue waves crashing on the rocks, spraying and foaming as though in jubilation of their freedom.  There was no railing here, no caution of any sort, nor were the city folk loitering about.  He was alone and he pondered briefly jumping, the air inviting him and assuring him he could fly.  This was, after all, the perfect city.  He shuddered and stepped back to the safety of land but even that was precarious, a weighty few bodies away from crumbling into the hungry ocean.

    The first steps back to the city proper were light at first, as though unsure they would fall on firm ground.  The feeling departed after some time and before he jaunted almost merrily as he had at the day's beginning.  No people were along the road back to town.  He wanted to run until he saw one, the thought manifesting itself in a hastier stride while he looked about anxiously.  The road ended at the cliffs again.

    This time the breaking waters sounded like music and the air felt more invigorating, the mist looked solid enough to step on and walk across, an ethereal bridge to, well, somewhere even more beautiful than this place.  Perhaps it was the city closest to the heavens.  He could find out if he climbed the stair that he was now sure solidified before him; it would carry him to gods and their ilk, a whole new realm to explore unhindered by the dust of roads he'd come to know.  His feet were so weary from the years but he could not stop, maybe this bridge would cure his sore heels.  One foot hovered just above the first stair, one short gesture shy of shifting his weight to trust the vapor.

    Bells rang in the distance, the mid day signal from the city square.  Their ringing was drowned and hushed at first, his ears following the sound to bring clarity with each successive clang.  It was foreign to start but grew into reality and regularity.  Finally he understood their meaning and their origin, regaining his senses, becoming suddenly aware of his foot hovering above the sheer drop.  Rational thought would have told him to ease back slowly, let his foot touch ground again.  But it was so far down and he was so close, he leaned the wrong way, his solidly planted foot shifted dangerously, the other foot flying about wildly, joining his arms in the struggle for balance.  It ended an eternity later, with his eyes wide and his back against the street.  Reveling in the feeling of ground beneath him for some time, he turned and kept his wits about arriving back in the city proper, pushing the cliff from his mind lest he find himself facing it again.  The remainder of his wandering he did with trepidation for fear of losing his way and arriving at that dreaded end of the town.

    He found himself again at the fountain of the young girl.  Small chips of the stone had worn away, leaving the girl pocked and, as it occurred to the Traveler seems to happen, hollow around the eyes.  Her smile was faded.  The water seemed cloudy, dirty like the bath water of the previous night.  And the snake had unfurled.
    He hastened back to the inn, trusting the man at the bar more than any other in the city.  Few others had spoken to him.  There he was stationed, behind the bar now more marred with the day's passing, as much a piece of the room as the fireplace.  A rag dragged futilely about against the onslaught of dust so absent the previous day.  He looked old, now, not just older than the night before but old.  The Traveler sat at the bar, directly across from him.  He was handed a drink without requesting it.

"You seem unnerved," the man said to him.

"Tell me about the cliffs," he said immediately, relieved to be able to ask.

"What about them?"

"They seemed to be calling me over.  The first time was a pull but when I walked away they brought me back and I stood ready to step over the edge when I heard the bells."

    The man seemed to ponder this for a while, a darkness playing with his features while every piece of that information came together for him.  "I don't know what you mean," he lied at last.

"How many are lost over those cliffs?  Why isn't there something to stop people from going over them?"

"Only seems to be the occasional foolhardy visitor.  None of the city folk bother with them much and when we do we know better than to skip about their edges.  I don't suppose such sense is ingrained in all."

    The Traveler ignored the comment.  This man would not be giving him any more information he wanted.  And he knew the kinds of attitudes outsiders would bring in places like this.  He drained his glass and settled his drinks and room with the innkeeper before meeting the remainder of the day.  Exploration previously so important to him was now forgotten, he only sought to know about the cliffs, but he dared not investigate them once more.  He found a bench along the street leading to them as close as he dared to go, and he waited, taking in the city as the sun drifted low in the sky.  None came to the cliffs.

    Not wanting to return to his room and trying to avoid the innkeeper he decided upon another place shortly into the evening.  The air here was merrier, the song less a lament but still informing them of the day's events.  He listened more closely to this now.  Little concerned him but the small gem nestled in the center.  Yesterday's visitor narrowly escaped a fall over the edge of the cliffs on the far side of the city.  Now he knew there were several ways that information could be around.  People talked in this city, to each other if not to outsiders.  The innkeeper might have passed the news on following his earlier visit.  Someone might have seen his ordeal, meaning someone neglected to help him in the moments before he was able to stop himself.  Or the city simply knew.

Quote from: Pippa Twiddleton on December 22, 2012, 01:06:36 AM
EoC, you are the bane of my existence.

Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 07, 2014, 01:18:23 AM
EoC doesn't make creepy.

EoC makes creepy worse.

Quote
the afflicted persons get hold of and consume carrots even in socially quite unacceptable situations.

Eater of Clowns

    Not wanting to return to his room and trying to avoid the innkeeper he decided upon another place shortly into the evening.  The air here was merrier, the song less a lament but still informing them of the day's events.  He listened more closely to this now.  Little concerned him but the small gem nestled in the center.  Yesterday's visitor narrowly escaped a fall over the edge of the cliffs on the far side of the city.  Now he knew there were several ways that information could be around.  People talked in this city, to each other if not to outsiders.  The innkeeper might have passed the news on following his earlier visit.  Someone might have seen his ordeal, meaning someone neglected to help him in the moments before he was able to stop himself.  Or the city simply knew.

    Not a single patron looked to him while the song played though they all must have known of whom the news regarded.  They resolutely watched the singer, looking dirty to him now, thinner and almost sickly pale.  Things were changing here as he stayed.  The buildings were worn, the people were worn, and that statue.  It had shifted somehow.  Dancing flames in the fireplace were more ominous, the sun even at its zenith harsh in its light but cold in its effect.

"Another visitor to the city came through the gates," came the next line he heard.

He motioned to a woman serving drinks.  The stuff here was not crisp and sweet like the night before, it was muddier, harsher.  She attended to him with an air of discomfort.

"When did the other visitor come in?"

"Twilight," she responded.

"Where might I find him?"

"She is at the fountain right now," the server told him.

    The Traveler decided he didn't much like the people in this city.  They were cold.  He paid and left the place, ignoring the remainder of the day's song, instead walking to the fountain.  Like the previous night, none were on the streets.  His footsteps echoed across seemingly the entire city.

    She sat at the same bench upon which he pondered the fountain the day previous.  She was young, pretty, and seemed to be composed entirely of eyes.  They were a delicate green that seemed to shine in the moonlight, made more vibrant by the vague semblance of shadows attempting to cross them.  She smiled at his approach, at peace in this city where he could only find dread.  He sat beside her.

"You and I seem to be the only outsiders here," he informed her, gazing at the fountain.  Had the statue's features changed?

"I could tell, you don't look like you're one of the city people," she replied.

"They do have a presence about them, don't they?"

"Not just a presence, no.  They all share similar features.  Look at their noses, I notice noses, they're practically the same.  Even this statue.  And their eyes.  Not the color but the shape.  What brought you here anyway?"

"I go everywhere I can.  It's been my whole life.  What about you?  You seem too young for such curiosities."

"I like new places, too.  But mostly it's because I'm a baker, I like finding new recipes so I come to strange places for them."

    It occurred to him to warn her of the cliffs just then, and just as quickly it left his mind.  He'd forgotten why he sought her out at all, really, other than to converse with someone willing to talk back.  His visits to civilization were rare, and one part of it that he missed was easy conversation.  Sitting next to this girl, though, in silence for several minutes, he began to think it was the city that killed talking.

"Well it was a pleasure meeting you, young lady, but I'm off to the inn.  Perhaps I'll see you about town tomorrow," he said.

"You very well might," she smiled, watching him return from where he came before paying close attention to the statue.

    He stopped at the bar before going to his room, looking directly to the innkeeper behind it, saying nothing.  He studied the face he'd come to know more closely than the others in his two days here.  His nose matched that of the rest of the patrons, and the baker was right, the eyes did as well.  Now the Traveler knew his gaze did not deceive him in the bar man's features having degraded.  His age was more pronounced, his hair grayer and wilder.  The bones seemed less sharp and he'd grown sickly spots.  The Traveler said nothing and went upstairs.

    His room overlooked an alley and the ocean side of the city.  Behind the hundreds of houses and other buildings, which now looked decrepit and neglected, were the cliffs.  Even knowing they were there, they seemed to call to him.  He stared for some time.

    The sun was high when he woke up.  He had no recollection how or when he got to bed.  The shutters were drawn but filled with holes.  They hung loosely from their hinges on rotted wood, the curtains on them tattered and yellowed from neglect.  He hesitantly opened one side, afraid the wood would crumble from his lightest touch.  It opened, squealing like death along the way.  Sickly light poured in, throwing itself on thick dust inside.   Rooftops of the city were before him now, with shingles missing and shredded as though by clawed by the icy fingers of winters.

    His room, nor the bar upon his leaving it, fared much better through the night.  Were the mirror less smudged he would have checked his reflection to see if the effect carried over to him.  With great reluctance he looked to the man behind the bar.  He was still strong, still clearly the same man, but his degeneration was wretched.  He was thin and pale enough to look dead, skin hanging from his bones in a similar fashion.  The few remaining wisps of his hair drifted in some breeze he could not feel.  If he was aware of his transformation he gave no sign, moving along the frail bar just as though it were the rich wood of two days ago.  The man nodded to the Traveler as he passed into the sick day.

Quote from: Pippa Twiddleton on December 22, 2012, 01:06:36 AM
EoC, you are the bane of my existence.

Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 07, 2014, 01:18:23 AM
EoC doesn't make creepy.

EoC makes creepy worse.

Quote
the afflicted persons get hold of and consume carrots even in socially quite unacceptable situations.

Eater of Clowns

    Perhaps this place declined in his vision along with his estimation of its character.  Where he once thought it warm and pretty it had been, now where he thought it dying in insular it has become so.  But then there was the cliff; it came back to the cliff somehow.  Shortly after it he had been afraid, very much so, not only of the seductive pull of the place but of the people's hiding of its true nature.  There was danger there, yet following his experience the city did not become more frightening.  Its people remained cold and polite as always, their features degrading, though never changing overtly.  He wondered if he watched them, would they change before his eyes?

    Dirt and refuse were caked between the stones of the street, replacing the ones that were missing and making his walk less than comfortable.  Still the people went about as though nothing had changed.  In some time he arrived at the city square before the fountain, the fountain spouting brown and stinking water.  The young girl had changed little as far as the quality of the stone.  Her face was still pocked and all pieces of the statue chipped as before but her expression had altered.  The circlet of serpent was not a gift, she did not eagerly anticipate being crowned.  Her mouth was wide with silent fright and her eyes frozen open, unable to fight the snake's strength.  Its fangs were drawn, sharper than stone could possibly be, its mouth open and so close to her face.  She held it back now, as best she could, but she was so young and it was so wild and unpredictable.

    The Traveler did not intend to stay the following day to discover whether the snake would strike.  He set to fill his pack and restock before moving from this place, perhaps forever like so many places before it, though not always under such distressing circumstances.  He felt like the little statue girl felt; he struggled to fight the snake from poisoning him but with time it was inevitable.  Time was something he did not intend to give it.

    As he left the grocer he saw the young baker woman walking about, hunched over as though in ward of something.  He met her stride and she slowed to allow him nearer.

"So you've noticed the people, then," he said to her.

"How could I not?  I saw the city was a bit worn when I arrived yesterday but there's been a huge change.  Not just the people, the buildings, I mean, have you seen the buildings?"

"Of course I have.  You know when I arrived the day before you I'd never seen such splendor.  It was so rich here, the people so beautiful, the streets shining as though made of gold.  I felt hideous by contrast, an aging man beaten by heavy skies.  But now..." he trailed off.

"I'm glad to know it isn't just me.  I have what I came for, or at least I know I won't be employing any new techniques at my own shop.  I intend to leave today, as soon as I explore a bit.  I haven't seen the cliffs yet."

    The cliffs.  There was something about them, something so clear, something he knew instinctively.  He struggled for it vainly, a fleeting feeling so much like deja vu that could not be caught again. 

"I'll be leaving myself today.  I hesitate to think what the city will look like tomorrow," he thought of the snake, the little girl, "with how quickly it's all deteriorating.  We might very well wake up in rubble."

    Their path took them closer to the cliff.  Dread filled the Traveler just as wonder filled his companion, though neither could think why.  He broke from her side. 

"I have a few more things to do before I can leave the city.  Perhaps I'll see you again before I go," he told her.

"Maybe I'll join you," she said hopefully.  "I'd like to see a little more before I return home, to come back at least with new ingredients if not a new technique."

"I think I'd like that," her told her in earnest.  Companions were not foreign to him, but they were rare.  Those whose interests were struck by his life were at first enthralled by the seeming romance of it all.  They also became quickly tired of such a living.  The unsure, the discomfort, the loneliness, the weather, and the walking.  The endless walking with no destination.  The Traveler was rare in that case, in not needing a destination.

    They parted on this idea.  She drew nearer to the cliffs while he meandered away.  It seemed with each step the severity of her investigation came back to him.  Cliffs, he thought, stairways of vapor, promises of other worlds, danger, death.  He froze, now in the city square.  How did he get here so quickly?  In turning to race where he came did he see the statue again?  Had the serpent finally struck the girl?

    It was rare that he ran but he did now, his strides great and heedless of the uneven road.  The forever long road, stretching before him to the cliffs.  He seemed to go nowhere even in his great speed, to be running against a steep slope or swift waters.  Onlookers paid him no mind, nor did they determinedly ignore him.  They faded to nothingness behind him, voices silenced by his footfalls and deteriorated faces blurring in his vision.

    The cliffs were in sight now, the woman's back to him, her hair whipping wildly in the sea winds.  She was so close to the edge, and he was so close to her.  He thought to reach her; to pull her back like none pulled him back days ago.  He thought to shout, having no name by which to call to her he tried to say stop or wait or anything but his breath was suddenly gone from him, stolen by the thick ocean spray.  She was an arm's length away now but seemed to be getting further, further outward and so quickly.

    Briefly he thought he saw her foot land on something solid, as though that stair of mist held fast beneath her.  If it had, it did not for long.  She fell forward, turning with her other foot as though to grasp onto something.  His hand perhaps.  He reached for hers, their fingertips touching for what seemed like forever before they slipped away.  She did not scream; he did not cry out.  He collapsed on the solid ground, his forehead in the soil in a bow to her loss.  Somehow he expected to look below and not see any trace of her but the risk of what he would see was too great.

    Dimly aware now of his need to leave the cliffs behind lest they sway his own mind again, he turned his back to the tragedy.  His pack.  He needed his pack, now filled, dropped in the town center while he broke for his run.  The road was short again, time swift again.  He was by the inseparable piece of equipment in such a short time, eyes never peeling from the horizon.  A horizon he intended to meet that day, out of the city, with the stars above him again.

    Were they to have faltered from that spot he may have noticed the seemingly pristine stones in the road, the conspicuous absence of grime citywide.  He may have noticed the buildings in such a lovely state, catching the light and playing with it just as they had that first day, every house and shop, the walls all undamaged.  He may have seen the people changed, again beautiful but without the noses and eyes the young baker woman pointed out to him.  They would be young, pretty, and composed almost entirely of delicate green eyes that would appear to shine in the moonlight, made more vibrant by vague semblances of shadows attempting to cross them.  He may have caught the fountain, the girl humbled again in placing the circlet upon her brow, again a snake engulfing its tail.

    But his eyes were frozen to that horizon.

******

So that's it.  Sorry if there's formatting issues, I just copy/pasted it from Google Docs.
Quote from: Pippa Twiddleton on December 22, 2012, 01:06:36 AM
EoC, you are the bane of my existence.

Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 07, 2014, 01:18:23 AM
EoC doesn't make creepy.

EoC makes creepy worse.

Quote
the afflicted persons get hold of and consume carrots even in socially quite unacceptable situations.