02-01-2020, 02:44 PM
HE DON'T LOOK
A THING LIKE JESUS
He’s been gone so long that he wouldn’t recognize Beqanna even if it hadn’t changed.
He remembers nothing of the once-kingdoms or their rulers.
He remembers precious little of his life here or how unceremoniously he had taken his leave.
Beqanna has its magic, but so do so many other places.
And he’s hardly aged at all. At least, on the surface.
And isn’t that all that matters?
But he meanders into the meadow now and he knows where he is. He does not recognize it, necessarily, because even it has changed. But there is something unmistakable in the air here, the magic here (unlike so many other places) is palpable. It sits like a marble on his tongue, catches in his teeth, gathers like rust in the long column of his windpipe.
This is Beqanna. This is where it all began, isn’t it? Wars have been fought and lives have been lost and there has been so much bitter suffering. He can taste the sadness in the grass when he takes it into his mouth and chews it slow. An acquired taste, to be sure. He wonders if he’ll be here long enough to acquire a taste for it, wonders briefly why he’s here at all.
He has never been nostalgic, Flee. Perhaps because he has had so little in his life worth missing and the heart has never been a sentimental muscle. At least, not for him. Maybe he had loved something – or perhaps even someone – once but those days have been gone so long he doesn’t recognize them either. Not that he would want to.
He has never been nostalgic and so he studies the meadow with an air of indifference that borders on boredom. ‘I needed a change of scenery,’ he’ll say, should someone ask what brought him to Beqanna. Or to the meadow, in particular. As if it’s any of their business. As if he owes any of them anything at all.
He chews their bitter grass and studies their strange bodies and thinks maybe, if he leaves now, he’ll be able to make it back before sundown.
He remembers nothing of the once-kingdoms or their rulers.
He remembers precious little of his life here or how unceremoniously he had taken his leave.
Beqanna has its magic, but so do so many other places.
And he’s hardly aged at all. At least, on the surface.
And isn’t that all that matters?
But he meanders into the meadow now and he knows where he is. He does not recognize it, necessarily, because even it has changed. But there is something unmistakable in the air here, the magic here (unlike so many other places) is palpable. It sits like a marble on his tongue, catches in his teeth, gathers like rust in the long column of his windpipe.
This is Beqanna. This is where it all began, isn’t it? Wars have been fought and lives have been lost and there has been so much bitter suffering. He can taste the sadness in the grass when he takes it into his mouth and chews it slow. An acquired taste, to be sure. He wonders if he’ll be here long enough to acquire a taste for it, wonders briefly why he’s here at all.
He has never been nostalgic, Flee. Perhaps because he has had so little in his life worth missing and the heart has never been a sentimental muscle. At least, not for him. Maybe he had loved something – or perhaps even someone – once but those days have been gone so long he doesn’t recognize them either. Not that he would want to.
He has never been nostalgic and so he studies the meadow with an air of indifference that borders on boredom. ‘I needed a change of scenery,’ he’ll say, should someone ask what brought him to Beqanna. Or to the meadow, in particular. As if it’s any of their business. As if he owes any of them anything at all.
He chews their bitter grass and studies their strange bodies and thinks maybe, if he leaves now, he’ll be able to make it back before sundown.
F L E E
