((Posted by Turncutt))
Well before dawn, I followed a little game trail that threaded its way through scarp and crag to the high ground, broke my fast there on salt herring, soft tac and coffee. The coffee was the prize, and I took great care in this little pleasure, first filling a fire-shovel with berries and setting them over the coals until they sweat; then I ground them fine. The water I brought up fresh and cold from the stream, having filled my skin in the darkness. I boiled it quickly and poured it over the grounds. I find this raises the better spirit of the berry, making a coffee that is good and strong. As I finished, the new sun was a finger’s breadth over the mountains, and the morning star--the war-star--was dim in the north. In the far west: darkness. There was the provenance of the strange and brooding wind, touched with the scent of far rains. The weather in the barrens reminded me of sea weather, alike in their capricious temper; mischievous, and rich for contraries; sunshine in the rain, warm gusts and cold stillness, little black storms that rode in the distance throwing bright blue judgement upon the earth. In youth, I made a God of the wind, came to worship her. I witnessed, in her sublime power, the tumult and the tremor; how gently she prints her whisper on the sea and gives nod to summer flowers, but in her passion she can blow the heavens black, such is her sway.
This morning the wind blew fair upon the highlands, it sifted through the waist high sedges and swept low over the valley; the grasses shimmering in waves, falling and rebounding. I moved to the top of the spur, trained my glass over the valley below and panned over the deep grey horizon. Beyond the red scar in the earth was good ground for battle and this day was proving, by all appearance, to be made for battle. It was a vast plain with little crops of grass and no horse!@#$ variables to give advantage to a lesser foe. It was a habit I couldn’t shake, always marking land for its worth in violence. I raised the glass, filling the lense with dark obscurity and ragged clouds, one black vulture turning on the wind. Unfortunately, here was where our mission would take place, in this ragged and unruly sky, where variables abound . . .
. . .With luck, the zeppelin would not have a following wind. It may look easy enough from below, but a zeppelin under full sail on a true line would make for a hard landing, if the birds and dragons didn’t shy first. With luck, she’d be against the wind, beating tac upon tac. With luck, all of our intelligence was good, or at least, good enough. With luck, the demonstration at the gates would draw most of the defenders away.
I couldn’t help a smile, thinking that was more than a due share of luck to ask for.
I looked over to Gentyl, she’d left the fire a moment before dawn to pray. There she remained for more than an hour, steadfast, her hands folded over one another, her back straight, looking west where the darkness gathered. I knew that the task at hand weighed heavily upon her, but like all great leaders I’d known, she gave no countenance to anxiety. Over time I have kept close quarter and counsel with the most motley congress of fighting men any poet could imagine; man of war’s men, sellswords, gladiators, pirates, the Tenth Legion of the Witch Wood, to name a few. None of which prepared me for time with Gentyl; her grace was one thing, but it was her piety that caused a strange sort of malaise for me.
Twice I poured her coffee, only to watch it go cool and pour it back into the pot. I straightened the camp repeatedly, suffering from the mariner’s curse of keeping my material surrounding in perfect order. I paced. I hummed old ballads (louder than usual), I cleared my throat a few hundred times. It was a sad thing to behold; a man versed in war, accustomed to all manner of perilous circumstance, so undone by the proximity of a woman duly engaged to her God. But so it is for a man with no divine intercourse, a man who believes his words would never make way to heaven.
The next moment the world changed, the wind grew warm and lifted and the red sun rose behind a band of thin grey cloud and lit the east in a fan of rose petal light. The height of the heavens remained stark and grey, and the world was suddenly cast in a peculiar roseate twilight--painter’s light. Many times had I longed for the gift of the artist, but never more than now. I studied Gentyl, she remained at the edge of the cliff––constant, focused. An artist I was not, but the vision of her in this moment was burned upon my mind. At last, she pushed a long tress of hair from her face and stood. I watched her as she returned to to sit by the fire, never regarding my unabashed stare.
After a moment, she said, “You’re an old dog, Commander, will you not share your coffee?”
Well before dawn, I followed a little game trail that threaded its way through scarp and crag to the high ground, broke my fast there on salt herring, soft tac and coffee. The coffee was the prize, and I took great care in this little pleasure, first filling a fire-shovel with berries and setting them over the coals until they sweat; then I ground them fine. The water I brought up fresh and cold from the stream, having filled my skin in the darkness. I boiled it quickly and poured it over the grounds. I find this raises the better spirit of the berry, making a coffee that is good and strong. As I finished, the new sun was a finger’s breadth over the mountains, and the morning star--the war-star--was dim in the north. In the far west: darkness. There was the provenance of the strange and brooding wind, touched with the scent of far rains. The weather in the barrens reminded me of sea weather, alike in their capricious temper; mischievous, and rich for contraries; sunshine in the rain, warm gusts and cold stillness, little black storms that rode in the distance throwing bright blue judgement upon the earth. In youth, I made a God of the wind, came to worship her. I witnessed, in her sublime power, the tumult and the tremor; how gently she prints her whisper on the sea and gives nod to summer flowers, but in her passion she can blow the heavens black, such is her sway.
This morning the wind blew fair upon the highlands, it sifted through the waist high sedges and swept low over the valley; the grasses shimmering in waves, falling and rebounding. I moved to the top of the spur, trained my glass over the valley below and panned over the deep grey horizon. Beyond the red scar in the earth was good ground for battle and this day was proving, by all appearance, to be made for battle. It was a vast plain with little crops of grass and no horse!@#$ variables to give advantage to a lesser foe. It was a habit I couldn’t shake, always marking land for its worth in violence. I raised the glass, filling the lense with dark obscurity and ragged clouds, one black vulture turning on the wind. Unfortunately, here was where our mission would take place, in this ragged and unruly sky, where variables abound . . .
. . .With luck, the zeppelin would not have a following wind. It may look easy enough from below, but a zeppelin under full sail on a true line would make for a hard landing, if the birds and dragons didn’t shy first. With luck, she’d be against the wind, beating tac upon tac. With luck, all of our intelligence was good, or at least, good enough. With luck, the demonstration at the gates would draw most of the defenders away.
I couldn’t help a smile, thinking that was more than a due share of luck to ask for.
I looked over to Gentyl, she’d left the fire a moment before dawn to pray. There she remained for more than an hour, steadfast, her hands folded over one another, her back straight, looking west where the darkness gathered. I knew that the task at hand weighed heavily upon her, but like all great leaders I’d known, she gave no countenance to anxiety. Over time I have kept close quarter and counsel with the most motley congress of fighting men any poet could imagine; man of war’s men, sellswords, gladiators, pirates, the Tenth Legion of the Witch Wood, to name a few. None of which prepared me for time with Gentyl; her grace was one thing, but it was her piety that caused a strange sort of malaise for me.
Twice I poured her coffee, only to watch it go cool and pour it back into the pot. I straightened the camp repeatedly, suffering from the mariner’s curse of keeping my material surrounding in perfect order. I paced. I hummed old ballads (louder than usual), I cleared my throat a few hundred times. It was a sad thing to behold; a man versed in war, accustomed to all manner of perilous circumstance, so undone by the proximity of a woman duly engaged to her God. But so it is for a man with no divine intercourse, a man who believes his words would never make way to heaven.
The next moment the world changed, the wind grew warm and lifted and the red sun rose behind a band of thin grey cloud and lit the east in a fan of rose petal light. The height of the heavens remained stark and grey, and the world was suddenly cast in a peculiar roseate twilight--painter’s light. Many times had I longed for the gift of the artist, but never more than now. I studied Gentyl, she remained at the edge of the cliff––constant, focused. An artist I was not, but the vision of her in this moment was burned upon my mind. At last, she pushed a long tress of hair from her face and stood. I watched her as she returned to to sit by the fire, never regarding my unabashed stare.
After a moment, she said, “You’re an old dog, Commander, will you not share your coffee?”
Edited by Gentyl on 7/24/2011 4:33 PM PDT
