The life of a messenger [archive].

The world is never still or simple for those who dare to be a messenger. It is far more than going from here to there with spoken word or sealed letter. It is a world that more people would only glance as we shoot by as quick as an arrow on the backs of horses. Horses bred for a sprint which lasts only until the next stable gives another horse to drum its hooves into the ground and beat its rhythm for urgent words.

Between the hills [archive]

It was a bright and stormy morning, lit by flashes of thunder among the gloom, as rain poured down the hills as one to carve through the sandy soil. The earth was almost lost beneath the streams and growing muddied pools of rain, as only long blades of grass and trees showed it was there. The trees too were burdened more than with their roots beneath the water, as their leaves beaten from above and branches weighted by the rain.

Beating the drum [archived].

There’s something primordial about it, the banging of the drum. As thunder wrought down from Gods and spirits to shake both the heavens and the earth. All else between reverberates with it blunt majesty, as the drummers play and spur on all those about. It sits in the ear, each beat, as the next comes to take its place. And a deafening silence remains when the drummers stop playing their beat.

Between, below.

Between the reeds which cover the ancient path is a whisper heard by few. Guarded by time and inconvenience, it sits quietly out of the way.

About the green.

It is a fickle thing, the green of the world over the inevitable winter.