Re: the Urbane and the Weird
The Fourth Sermon: Into the Roses
A formless, grey fog rolled in off the sea. The thick miasma was quick; the coast was blanketed in little over a minute. Here and there, the mist was interrupted by torches that hissed in the moisture of the atmosphere. The ground was coated in a soft, luscious grass, each blade lined with dew. There were roses planted randomly, scattered along the coast in irregular clumps of red and white.
The silence was cracked by the muffled footsteps of a barefoot figure. It lumbered slowly across the ground, as if in search of something it had lost. Every so often, it would lift its face to the sullen sky and sniff the air, which was salty and warm.
Eventually, the form stopped in the centre of a circle of roses and fires, its person awash in the golden light. It was a man, in his mid thirties, of surly make and gentle face. His hair was a dark auburn, curled in circles that looked almost perfect. Green eyes stared out from under heavy brows, with a gleam in them that appeared unnatural. His nose gave him the likeness of a hawk, perched and ready to hunt. A spear was strapped to his back, its rusted point gleaming the in the light. He possessed a pair of rather broad shoulders, and towered well over six feet. It was strange that his steps were so light; it was obvious that he was a heavy man.
He knelt down, running his scarred hand over the ground. Cautiously, as if there was something waiting to remove his hand from behind his back, he reach around his shoulder and unlatched his spear, bringing it to bear in a well-practiced position. Without a noise, he rose to both feet and spread them, achieving a lower centre of gravity. A second later, he arched his back and prepared the shaft in his palm for throwing. He flung it with extraordinary velocity into the murky brume.
Steven smiled as he was answered with a thud and a sharp squeal. The man walked without hesitation towards his catch, the water in the air sluicing about his legs. It was a fox, only small, and the spear hand landed in its neck, fracturing its spine and cutting off its blood-flow. He left the carcass on the ground; it was insufficient. He slipped his weapon back into its straps and continued on his walk.
As he cantered on, the frequency of the roses around him increased until he was flanked by the blossoms. Their bark was dry, green and cracked, its surface bending into knife-point thorns. The leaves were of deep jade, with spines to line their edges. The flowers themselves, however, were as if they were made of snow, stained with blood. The spaces between the branches evidently tightened as Steven neared his destination.
He arrived only a minute later, and stared through the mists towards the small, wooden house that was perched at the edge of the cliff, its windows open. Through the gaping holes in the building, Steven caught glances of a woman, her silhouette (created by the light of a candle within) embedded on the linen blinds.
“Samantha.” Steven’s voice was loud, yet not aggressive. It carried easily to the threshold of the hut.
The woman stepped through the door and onto the grass, a few meters from the man’s position. Her person was clouded by a shift, although Steven could see the curves of her hourglass-shaped body. Her hair was jet and straight, brushing over her shoulders. Her eyes were dark brown and, like the onlooker’s, possessed that weird sheen, like crystal glazing.
Her words were mumbled, but Steven knew what she said. “Did you catch anything?” said her face, as wells as her lips.
“Yes.”
“Then where is it, little man?”
Steven laughed. “Does it matter?”