(via wetouchedonit)
precise and proportional geometric sections of the moon were cut and placed into the earth. large cubical sections of grey lunar strata, we came across one by accident one day. great grey square in the ground. the elder shaman, he just pointed to another section of earth, a valley which had been carved two miles down, somewhere beyond the horizon. vultures soared over it. he said it was a newly prepared section. open, ready, begging. the moon was coming into the earth, a debt repaid from long ago. he was not worried. the wolves still travelled through elongated cocoons crafted of lightning dust through the northern snows. the elderly women from other tribes still placed flowers and dead birds on the balustrades. the insects still danced in response to the call of his rune drum. yet we drove through the alfalfa fields. soil fertile and soft, barricaded into concrete mazes. near the southern mountains, the construction was not finished. the soft fields were sponge-like, workers hanged on precipices exposed to starlit space, the face of the earth thousands of feet below. he had reasons to worry. the boundaries of the world were folding.
a wayward youth was dragged through town yesterday between two horses. he was a thief, an outcast at best. they say he had built a greenhouse on a raft moored in the nearby river. that he had stolen into town late at night and stolen the sylvan cup. he filled it with the blackest blood of the sacred mare, a grave offense. they say the horse was found in a cloud born of a cavern in the holy mountain, that the old tribes were the ones who had encased it in metal and hung it from the great tree. that it was pyewacket, that witch of widgets, who had turned it into a mechanical fountain for the seasonal feast. old pyewacket, and his house of orbs. orbs of water. orbs of fish. orbs of fireflies. orbs of gold. the thief, he was seeking the cup to feed the strangest plants. plants which grew inverted gears, who had clockwork in their seeds. flowers which terminated in miniature televisions, each showing their own color. he grew plants in his bed, he grew plants in his bathtub, he grew plants in his kitchen. each spoon housed a sprout of moss. each jar a succulent and a lightning bug. love. eternal mineral bliss. alchemical matrimony. earths, worlds, interlacing cycles in containers. laughing water nymphs would come and go, taking these. sometimes as gifts. sometimes as theft of a thief. announced by a flutter of white shrouds in late afternoon sun. he was ever more part of their world than the one which would keep dragging him, hook and sinker, into that town. every time the elders would do it they would take him to the great treee, surround him in a circle. then the priest would arrive, bow his head low and sad, so that his prodigious beard would strike the ground. he would then whisper something about him someday becoming king. and the elders would angrily walk off. leaving the thief with a mad smile beneath his river-soaked black hair.
