FRIENDLY LITTLE ABSENCE
Friendly Little Absence untucked
her flute from her bag and began to play. As she did children began to appear,
sneaking in around the fire near her, some tucking nearer and nearer to her,
some straying so close as to lay their heads on her lap. Friendly Little
Absence did not mind. The early evening sun lowering slowly as she sweetly
whistled through the carved wooden tube. She loved these moments of serenity,
children coming in, the smaller ones nearer the fire, the elder children
standing further back, some holding each other's hands, others fondling each
other lovingly, though trying to keep their fondness secret. The scent of young
love filled the spring air, as much as the poplar frost covered their clothing
with an inescapable yellow hue. Adults followed, when their chores finished, or
delayed for the morrow, as the ascent of the moon climbed past the near
mountain peaks. The sky darkened, the stars alit across the heavens, and
Friendly Little Absence filled the air with her love.
The darkness which hung over them
was more than mere night. She swayed as she played, the music reaching the
heavens like a hymn to unknown gods, whispering their names, the names of all
who had gathered to listen, the names of the children, their ancenstors, and
all who had passed millenia before them. Her song reached the heights and
depths of love, sadness, and all experiences that had come, or will come, if
the universe would have its way. Friendly Little Absence knew that she was not
the first to raise the heart to spires of heaven, nor would she be the last.
Even stones, seemingly dead to the quick lives of seasons, knew their
harmonies. All things that existed had a sort of life ,even the untended sand
beneath their feet. Her song honored all this, and all that would ever be. And
all listened, even the stars long expired, whose light lived on to tell their
tale. Nothing truly ended. Nothing truly left its mark, except as heaven would
have it. That was the nature of suns and the dark spaces between.
Friendly Little Absence played as
babies fell into the depths of dream, and the moon passed above, parents
lifting them caringly, tucked over shoulders and cuddled to soft embraces. Off
into the darkness they would leave, packed into their shelters, hastenly
erected upon the shores of the ice cold mountain river.
Those who remained curled into a
solomn, quiet whisper of quietude, passion, joy, fear, and some slept, while
others made love in private places or openly, for even the storms of oceans,
the violent thrashing of storms, the grumbling of earth, nor the cascade of
fire could not dissuade the passions of the living. Their song joined hers,
their whispers sonnets to the heavens, their cries welcoming the spirits to
join the next generation of creatures, they who will again join the short days
ahead, past those her own generations would know.
As the fire died, nearly all
would find their ways to their blankets, some small heat grew in bellies, some
old torrents lived on in aged raggedness. Friendly Little Absence's breath
spent, she put away her instrument, folded herself into the embrace of sleep,
the coals before her keeping glowing company as she fell into her own darkness.
The night was one of peace, though even the darkness kept its own company, for
her, the dangers of the moment could be ignored, if only for a single brief
span. As are all lives. As are all nights. No moment is without death's
presence.
Beyond the sight of this simple
blissful peace, Raised By Wolves crept closer, seeking. Songs of darkness.
Songs of light. The sweeter the music, the sweeter the Silence. He heeded, and
wept. Once is Nonce, he thought, as he crept past the slumbering bodies, their
last moments of this day spent.