The Sorrow of Raetheos
Lyndon Perry
Spring, finally.
The
funeral drizzle of the previous season gave way reluctantly, yet
inevitably, to the lighter, more airy elements of the year, which toil
like unseen stage hands changing scenes for self-absorbed actors who
wait impatiently for their cue, ready to take their turn upon the
freshly-prepped set.
In
the vale, the first to light the stage, as she does every spring, is
the Chickadee, who in truth, never leaves when winter pushes its way
over the mountains and into the valley below. She flits and hides and
bides her time until her friends appear to join her once again in a
chorus that, they believe, displaces the fading dirge that, impossibly
now it seems, held them at bay these many months.
Among
her fellow actors: the badger, opossum, raccoon, skunk, and rabbit.
They, and other lesser animals, arrive tentatively at first, then with
ever more assurance until they shed all care and frolic together with
abandon, rehearsing while performing their joyous song and dance,
celebrating the dawn of a new season.
A
troupe of greater beasts thereafter ventures into the vale and resumes
their perennial roles as principals in this predetermined yet ever new
rendition of spring's advent. The horse, the elk, the panther, the bear
all return for this festive rite, delighting in their varied yet
consonant parts, to the amusement and mirth of their companions.
Lastly,
the magical beasts of myth and legend arrive to witness the
festivities; the greatest of God's creatures, stately yet shimmering
with an exuberance that hints of their secret, benevolent power.
Centaurs, Griffins, Unicorns, Pegasi, along with a certain few
others--the limiting qualification essential--including Giants, and
Sprites, and Dragons, friends all and all veteran actors who mostly
applaud, but occasionally join in their lesser brothers' production.
All
but the Centaur Raetheos--Light of God--who arrives alone and with a
quizzical countenance, having traversed the valley in vain search for
his paramour and partner Celeste, a superior beauty among the superior
creatures. They were to meet at the fountainhead in the mountain pass
the day following the Chickadee's inaugural song, when the spring's
water breaks free of winter's icy grasp and gushes once more toward the
valley floor.
Raetheos
had lingered beside the spring an additional sun's rising and setting,
waving on those excited companions who were returning to their seasonal
home, inviting him to join them, assuring him that Celeste would surely
be waiting, as their friends were, for him below. But the Centaur knew
these were but sympathetic words, without thought or knowledge of their
covenant to enter gaily together as Lord and Lady of the Vale.
As
Raetheos ponders this unforeseen happenstance, a creature who rarely
announces its presence and is as rarely acknowledged, creeps its way to
the Centaur and coils itself before the mighty beast. “O Light of God,”
the Serpent breathes, “your humble servant is ever before you to honor
your will and carry out your commands. I am but a willing instrument in
your…”
“Yes,
yes,” Raetheos responds, pounding his hooves impatiently, inching his
powerful and imposing forelegs forward, threatening to crush whatever
lay in his path. The Serpent, content in its despised role and
accustomed to such maneuvers, confidently certain that no harm will
come its way, seems to bow in obeisance and continues.
“My
lord, I bring you word from beyond the mountain pass concerning the
Daughter of Stars which might interest you, as I am well aware of
your...”
“Enough!
What of Celeste, what of my bride? Speak quickly or that long-throated,
unholy tongue of yours will cease to conjure another spoken word.”
The
Serpent nods and speaks, although without urgency and with feigned
concern. “It is with great sadness that I must announce to you that
your fair and honorable beloved has fallen in a brutal and vicious
attack, an ambush of such a nature that no one is left to tell of its
details. I happened upon the deathly scene within a day or two of its
occurrence, too late to render aid, and the only service I know to
provide is that of a herald, albeit one that is reluctant to proffer
his message.”
At
this the great Centaur cries out in an anguished shout that echoes
throughout the valley, interrupting the ignorant levity and bliss of
the rest of the animals caught up in spring's celebration. Raetheos
demands that the Serpent disseminate the exact location, time, and any
further details concerning the circumstances of Celeste's demise. Upon
extracting everything pertinent from the ill-received messenger,
Raetheos gathers a band of trusted advisers and friends and sets out to
determine the veracity of his soul mate's fate.
They
arrive upon the scene and it is as was described by the Serpent--the
stiff and pale body of the Centaur slashed through and splayed upon a
dark and muddy patch of ground; a lifeless mass that, without the
privilege of foreknowledge of who lies before him, is unrecognizable to
Raetheos. The compatriots silently gather around the body, circling
their hearts against the fear and grief they know must come, but
shielding, for now, the immediate shock of despair.
The
land is deserted except for patches of snow and the lingering of
winter's shade that slowly reaches out to blanket the forlorn assembly
in one last act of cruelty. The funeral drizzle returns in brief
defiance of the changing seasons, but for Raetheos, it could well last
forever.
}
~~~~~ <~
}
Lyndon
Perry is a father of two and husband of one and enjoys reading,
writing, and arithmetic...well, two out of three anyway, which is why
he has sworn off math and has focused on writing, reviewing, editing,
and publishing a variety of spec fic literature. His online zine,
Residential Aliens (http://www.resaliens.com)
- with its focus on spiritually infused speculative fiction - was a Top
10 Finisher in the 2010 Preditors & Editors Readers Poll. You can
also catch Lyn at ResAliens Blog (http://residentialaliens.blogspot.com/) and on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=57275059755).
