mojo
06-19-2010, 10:31 PM
Michael often wandered along the lake shore looking for the perfect pebble. He liked the mornings when the frost still crackled under his feet and a light mist floated serenely atop the waters surface, a ghostly blanket.
Occasionally he would stoop and pick up a pebble, weigh it momentarily in his palm then hold it between thumb and forefinger gently rubbing it's surface, feeling for smooth perfection. He rarely skipped them, only the very best would do. The best one he'd ever found had been yesterday and had skipped across the lakes surface eighteen times, a new record. But he kept looking for that one pebble that would skip forever, sending out little ripples that would touch and then disperse. He knew with all his heart that if he found that one pebble, that one moment of perfection, that then everything would be alright once more.
The lake and its surrounding forest had been his home for the past two years since his mother had died, the shack nestled between the pines on the ridge was the place he slept and ate because he had to. He felt nauseous whenever he had to return, the stench of stale whisky and cigarette smoke made his eye's water, and his fathers blank stare burnt his soul. He loved his father but hated what he'd become, withdrawn and sullen, prone to violent fits of rage. He had never struck Michael, instead taken out his anger on the furniture and whatever lay near at hand, but it was only a matter of time he knew before that could change.
He hadn't been to school since his Mothers funeral, that day that seemed a lifetime ago. Relatives and friends of the family making noise's and looking knowingly at one another whenever they thought he wasn't looking, tussling his hair, hugging him in their arms, and all the while knowing that soon they would leave, while he never could.
Someone from the school had even come out once, months ago to speak to his father, he had been out on the lake fishing and had seen them arrive. He'd quickly rowed the dinghy into the reeds by the waters edge so that he couldn't be seen. His father had told them that he'd gone to live with relatives and that he wouldn't be back. He'd been glad of the lie, he didn't want to go back to school, to face the other children again, face their taunts and whispered jibes.
This day he'd crept out of bed early, before the sun had breached the forest canopy, leaving his father wallowing in self pity and vomit. There was something in the air today, he could almost feel it's presence. The frost was crisp, the cool air invigorating, he felt almost happy.
He walked further and further, only stopping to examine the odd pebble here and there. Soon the shack was no longer visible, only an oily stretch of smoke reminded him of where it was. And even that would soon die down, his father too drunk to replenish the hearth.
Momentarily lost in his thoughts he stumbled and almost fell then quickly regained his balance. Looking down he saw the neck of a bottle protruding from sand at the waters edge, tiny waves lapping at it curiously. He bent and dug it out.
It seemed old, dark green and stoppered with cork and a waxy seal. The glass was smooth and milky, as though the water had been rubbing away at it for a thousand years.
Michael wandered over to a stand of pines away from the waters edge where an old fir had fallen, its base burnt and scored, testament to it's demise by lightning ages ago. He sat down and removed his pocketknife, a birthday present from his parents from a time when life seemed easy and every day was a gift.
He worked away at the wax and cork with the blade until it came away or crumbled, like old mortar. There was no liquid inside but there was something, barely discernable, a scrap of paper. He tried prising it out with a stick, tapping it on the trunk of the tree, sucking it out with his mouth, none of which worked. Eventually he gathered up a large rock and placing the bottle on the ground stood back and smashed it. Carefully clearing away the shattered remains of the bottle he picked up the paper and opened it out. A short note was scrawled on it's surface, the ink in places patchy and the writing difficult to read. Eventually he made it all out and sat pondering it's meaning.
Here i lie my time is near ended i tire too much death near the biggest tree small stream empties into lake reward for who can save me feb12th 1862
Scenario's of what may have occured swept through Michaels mind, whatever it was that had happened was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Perhaps an old trapper or woodsman caught in a trap or felled by a tree, or fallen down one of the many small ravines that littered the hills and valley's surrounding the lake. Michael seemed to remember a spot on the other side of the lake where a small stream emptied itself into the placid waters.
Decision made he stood once more and started off, a purpose clear in his mind, to find whoever had sent the message in the bottle, or at least to find their bones. And then what, he wasn't sure, perhaps a burial. That seemed like the right thing to do. Of course his bones could have long since been scavenged by the creatures that lived within the forest and nothing at all would remain, but for now, just having a purpose other than finding the perfect pebble meant something to him.
The day drifted on and soon the sun had passed overhead and was making its solemn journey westward. Michael strode on, still on the lookout for the perfect pebble but not even bothering to stop and look at the ones he could tell from a glance were not fit for purpose.
At last he came to the spot where the small stream leaked into the waters edge and Michael looked up the hill from whence it came. Stooping to slake his thirst from the cool clear water first then trudging up along the edge of the stream into the forest.
Up ahead he could make out the shape of a huge pine tree, bigger than all the rest, it's base twice as wide around as he was tall, it's highest branches lost to sight above the canopy. With an almost palpable sense of anticipation he quickened his step and clambered forward.
Around the tree the forest floor was clear except for a spongy carpet of needles and forest detritus. And there laying against the tree, held together by blackened rags that were once possibly clothes sat a skeleton. Michael hesitated for only a moment then walked forward and knelt before the dead man, the skull staring at him as though in surprise, the mouth open and the empty sockets like huge noughts.
By his hand lay a leather bound book and by his other hand a a small black pouch, tightened by a rawhide drawstring.
Reverently he picked up the pouch and undid the binding, and tipped the contents onto the earth. A pebble the size of his palm fell from within, perfectly round and smoothed by time. He picked it up and hefted it's weight within his hand, he slid it between thumb and forefinger, it seemed to flow between his skin, not so much touching him as breathing gently, rolling the molecules of the air across it's surface. He held it for an eternity, just staring at it's ageless beauty.
Later Michael picked up the book, amazed that it had not rotted away or been scattered by the years, the beasts and the weather, much like the surprise he felt that the skeleton still appeared to be untouched by man, beast or nature.
He opened the book and beagn to read what was within, absorbed he never noticed that the sun had begun to set.
Michaels father sat before a cold hearth, shivering, an empty bottle lay on the floor by his foot. Some part of him knew that Michael hadn't been home for days, desperate despair engulfed him and merciless tears cascaded from his eyes, sobs racked his chest. He knew he had failed his wife, had failed himself and his child. Miserable, cold, defeated he rose unsteadily from the chair and wandered over to the mantle above the hearth and took down the shotgun.
A cacophony of sound resonated across the lake, birds shrieked and exploded from the tree's, then slowly silence returned.
Michael walked slowly around the waters edge until the shack was in sight, in his hand he held the book, and snug in his pocket lay the stone, rubbing gently against his thigh.
He walked into the shack and looked around, he could see his father sitting in the chair by the hearth, his head tilted back oddly. He walked over and stood before him, not surprised at what sat there. Half his face missing his father sat and stared at the charcoal within the hearth, the embers as cold and as dead as he.
Michael stood very still and listened, the wood of the shack creaked and moaned, an owl hooted from far away, the water whispered it's promise.
Down by the waters edge Michael removed the pebble from his pocket and stood with his legs slightly apart and bent at the waist. He slid the stone between his fingers fondly and arced his arm back straight from his waist and then snapped it forward. The pebble whistled from his grasp and flew slightly downward with a last minute flick of his wrist, perpendicular to the waters surface it hung then dipped and kissed and skipped and flew and dipped and kissed and skipped and the ripples from the pebble and waters embrace drifted slowly towards one another and merged then dissipated. The pebble bounded endlessly across the lake until it was eventually lost from view, but Michael knew it still flew, on and on and on.
He opened the book to the very last page, and read the words that described to him his reward.
Death strode silently through the crowd, unseen, unheard, but known by all. Some part of him remembered another time when he had been as these ants scurrying about, a time when he was but a boy called Michael. Within his skeletal hands he held a leather bound book, and in his other hand a sickle, the blade of which had been honed by an endless tide of ripples upon a lakes surface.
Occasionally he would stoop and pick up a pebble, weigh it momentarily in his palm then hold it between thumb and forefinger gently rubbing it's surface, feeling for smooth perfection. He rarely skipped them, only the very best would do. The best one he'd ever found had been yesterday and had skipped across the lakes surface eighteen times, a new record. But he kept looking for that one pebble that would skip forever, sending out little ripples that would touch and then disperse. He knew with all his heart that if he found that one pebble, that one moment of perfection, that then everything would be alright once more.
The lake and its surrounding forest had been his home for the past two years since his mother had died, the shack nestled between the pines on the ridge was the place he slept and ate because he had to. He felt nauseous whenever he had to return, the stench of stale whisky and cigarette smoke made his eye's water, and his fathers blank stare burnt his soul. He loved his father but hated what he'd become, withdrawn and sullen, prone to violent fits of rage. He had never struck Michael, instead taken out his anger on the furniture and whatever lay near at hand, but it was only a matter of time he knew before that could change.
He hadn't been to school since his Mothers funeral, that day that seemed a lifetime ago. Relatives and friends of the family making noise's and looking knowingly at one another whenever they thought he wasn't looking, tussling his hair, hugging him in their arms, and all the while knowing that soon they would leave, while he never could.
Someone from the school had even come out once, months ago to speak to his father, he had been out on the lake fishing and had seen them arrive. He'd quickly rowed the dinghy into the reeds by the waters edge so that he couldn't be seen. His father had told them that he'd gone to live with relatives and that he wouldn't be back. He'd been glad of the lie, he didn't want to go back to school, to face the other children again, face their taunts and whispered jibes.
This day he'd crept out of bed early, before the sun had breached the forest canopy, leaving his father wallowing in self pity and vomit. There was something in the air today, he could almost feel it's presence. The frost was crisp, the cool air invigorating, he felt almost happy.
He walked further and further, only stopping to examine the odd pebble here and there. Soon the shack was no longer visible, only an oily stretch of smoke reminded him of where it was. And even that would soon die down, his father too drunk to replenish the hearth.
Momentarily lost in his thoughts he stumbled and almost fell then quickly regained his balance. Looking down he saw the neck of a bottle protruding from sand at the waters edge, tiny waves lapping at it curiously. He bent and dug it out.
It seemed old, dark green and stoppered with cork and a waxy seal. The glass was smooth and milky, as though the water had been rubbing away at it for a thousand years.
Michael wandered over to a stand of pines away from the waters edge where an old fir had fallen, its base burnt and scored, testament to it's demise by lightning ages ago. He sat down and removed his pocketknife, a birthday present from his parents from a time when life seemed easy and every day was a gift.
He worked away at the wax and cork with the blade until it came away or crumbled, like old mortar. There was no liquid inside but there was something, barely discernable, a scrap of paper. He tried prising it out with a stick, tapping it on the trunk of the tree, sucking it out with his mouth, none of which worked. Eventually he gathered up a large rock and placing the bottle on the ground stood back and smashed it. Carefully clearing away the shattered remains of the bottle he picked up the paper and opened it out. A short note was scrawled on it's surface, the ink in places patchy and the writing difficult to read. Eventually he made it all out and sat pondering it's meaning.
Here i lie my time is near ended i tire too much death near the biggest tree small stream empties into lake reward for who can save me feb12th 1862
Scenario's of what may have occured swept through Michaels mind, whatever it was that had happened was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Perhaps an old trapper or woodsman caught in a trap or felled by a tree, or fallen down one of the many small ravines that littered the hills and valley's surrounding the lake. Michael seemed to remember a spot on the other side of the lake where a small stream emptied itself into the placid waters.
Decision made he stood once more and started off, a purpose clear in his mind, to find whoever had sent the message in the bottle, or at least to find their bones. And then what, he wasn't sure, perhaps a burial. That seemed like the right thing to do. Of course his bones could have long since been scavenged by the creatures that lived within the forest and nothing at all would remain, but for now, just having a purpose other than finding the perfect pebble meant something to him.
The day drifted on and soon the sun had passed overhead and was making its solemn journey westward. Michael strode on, still on the lookout for the perfect pebble but not even bothering to stop and look at the ones he could tell from a glance were not fit for purpose.
At last he came to the spot where the small stream leaked into the waters edge and Michael looked up the hill from whence it came. Stooping to slake his thirst from the cool clear water first then trudging up along the edge of the stream into the forest.
Up ahead he could make out the shape of a huge pine tree, bigger than all the rest, it's base twice as wide around as he was tall, it's highest branches lost to sight above the canopy. With an almost palpable sense of anticipation he quickened his step and clambered forward.
Around the tree the forest floor was clear except for a spongy carpet of needles and forest detritus. And there laying against the tree, held together by blackened rags that were once possibly clothes sat a skeleton. Michael hesitated for only a moment then walked forward and knelt before the dead man, the skull staring at him as though in surprise, the mouth open and the empty sockets like huge noughts.
By his hand lay a leather bound book and by his other hand a a small black pouch, tightened by a rawhide drawstring.
Reverently he picked up the pouch and undid the binding, and tipped the contents onto the earth. A pebble the size of his palm fell from within, perfectly round and smoothed by time. He picked it up and hefted it's weight within his hand, he slid it between thumb and forefinger, it seemed to flow between his skin, not so much touching him as breathing gently, rolling the molecules of the air across it's surface. He held it for an eternity, just staring at it's ageless beauty.
Later Michael picked up the book, amazed that it had not rotted away or been scattered by the years, the beasts and the weather, much like the surprise he felt that the skeleton still appeared to be untouched by man, beast or nature.
He opened the book and beagn to read what was within, absorbed he never noticed that the sun had begun to set.
Michaels father sat before a cold hearth, shivering, an empty bottle lay on the floor by his foot. Some part of him knew that Michael hadn't been home for days, desperate despair engulfed him and merciless tears cascaded from his eyes, sobs racked his chest. He knew he had failed his wife, had failed himself and his child. Miserable, cold, defeated he rose unsteadily from the chair and wandered over to the mantle above the hearth and took down the shotgun.
A cacophony of sound resonated across the lake, birds shrieked and exploded from the tree's, then slowly silence returned.
Michael walked slowly around the waters edge until the shack was in sight, in his hand he held the book, and snug in his pocket lay the stone, rubbing gently against his thigh.
He walked into the shack and looked around, he could see his father sitting in the chair by the hearth, his head tilted back oddly. He walked over and stood before him, not surprised at what sat there. Half his face missing his father sat and stared at the charcoal within the hearth, the embers as cold and as dead as he.
Michael stood very still and listened, the wood of the shack creaked and moaned, an owl hooted from far away, the water whispered it's promise.
Down by the waters edge Michael removed the pebble from his pocket and stood with his legs slightly apart and bent at the waist. He slid the stone between his fingers fondly and arced his arm back straight from his waist and then snapped it forward. The pebble whistled from his grasp and flew slightly downward with a last minute flick of his wrist, perpendicular to the waters surface it hung then dipped and kissed and skipped and flew and dipped and kissed and skipped and the ripples from the pebble and waters embrace drifted slowly towards one another and merged then dissipated. The pebble bounded endlessly across the lake until it was eventually lost from view, but Michael knew it still flew, on and on and on.
He opened the book to the very last page, and read the words that described to him his reward.
Death strode silently through the crowd, unseen, unheard, but known by all. Some part of him remembered another time when he had been as these ants scurrying about, a time when he was but a boy called Michael. Within his skeletal hands he held a leather bound book, and in his other hand a sickle, the blade of which had been honed by an endless tide of ripples upon a lakes surface.