angus
Corn and full moon bloom. It is a disparaging cry in the shadow of the manor house the servants aroused by scent and sound of an unfamiliar mass across the wooded lots and still farms. A light bristling across the stalk tops and the lowing of the cows changed to a plaintive lonely cry. The revelry, the mass was in honor of the passing of one of their kinsman. The unholiest of the rebel clans were mourning the loss of one of their own.
He was a man without fear nor hostility within his heart. He was the most feared and hostile man within the clan, on the battlefield or in the fields of corn. To every man he knew, he was not to be crossed for he would cross words as well as sword. he had no hatred within his heart, it did not gather soot as a dirty chimney would to one day betray its owner and catch fire in an attempt to burn itself clean. His was a clean burning fire that burned white hot white heat that burned away everything leaving no traces of whatsoever that began the original spark.
It reminded one of the spark oft considered the terminus for thought, for all his remaining thoughts, the spark of the flint that would light the fire from which the brand was heated and placed upon his face marking him the criminal. The criminal heir, a bastard would survive the torturer’s craft to spawn his own hapless brood of connivers. It is from this lineage that we find the unfortunate countryman, tethered about the ankle of their lord, hiding from the dark revenge. Hidden within the faces of their gods, their hatred lurked within the shadowy crevasses of their scowls and within this hatred lay a dark smouldering coal. it was within this coal that lay the dark recesses of charcoal black resentment. But like the white flax of corn silk, Angus’ anger burned far brighter. He first took flight from the land at the age of fourteen and was later branded for the cause of it. It burned him far deeper than a subcutaneous scar might the ordinary man. The next time that Angus left, he left for good. For good, without any resentment towards his fellow Norman villager displayed upon the surface excepting the scar left upon his forehead.
He would roam for a time and upon his visage he would bare the brunt of the scorn from that rune shaped mark, that scar, that hoary symbol of Kane, of shame. The living embodiment of torn flesh, angus allowed the world to form him anew as the savage man of arms. He knew now to kill. Not only to sow and reap corn and other living things, but flesh as well, in a harvest of warm, cut and scythed down life. Where was it that he had heard of that analogy before? Death as a reaper? The Roman bent of his Norman forefathers that he now so willingly cut down before him? It was in this heaving mound of cut down flesh that Angus heaped up the burning embers of the bellows driven raging hell fire that successfully camouflaged and burned out his succeeding hatred of all that lay before him in later years. Angus, was, in short, beyond reason and conquest/ contempt.
Cast down one full fathom from the lighted surface, Angus’ despair like the measure down that hidden well, hid the misdeeds he had undertook. It was with a guilty joy that he ate the hearts from his prey, roasted their toes and wore their bones about his neck like the talisman of the soiled ancients who tended the woods of his youth. He became that which he had once feared and proffered in secret their mysteries revealed. Part Shaman and part villain. But, where to find a boat? Under the earth. Angus turned, and there- a boat. A skiff sat moored on a shrouded coast. A man stood beneath robe and hood. He beckoned with finger. Angus shifted against his will, but what, then, was his will? His head shook. He clenched his enormous jawbone setting his red beard in determination. And then, turned. Towards the boatman he took a step. And another. The boatsman waited. And Angus moved towards him, what was the impetus that drove him forwards? There was something on the other side. That Angus knew. But what lay on the other side of the body of water? Distant bodies writhed, white shapes that moved within the blackness, but Angus could not see them, but from his peripheral vision.
In this peripheral view he caught the glimpse of something else, something squirming, a worm. There appeared, a worm, a vaguely set parasite affirmed quite plainly on the cat’s bottom. From this, his natural revulsions brought him back to the moment he had confided in the bearded man, the man from which his personal sense of fealty and obeisance is derived. the bearded man knew of the twisting axis on which these devotions lay. The laying down of the carcasses was the habit and they knew to conspire with him, for the food, the venison. The longevity of the foodstuffs had always been a point of contention amongst the sailors and Angus was now experiencing this anew, for he had come from so many generations before in the sea faring tradition. In this Vineland, Angus found the primitive man nurturing themselves upon the skeins of the seal and mistakenly took them for simpletons. In this moment of folly, he would prove no better than his descendants in categorizing these noble and benevolent aborigine as meely mouthed savage misbreds. So is the shame.
And it was with this shame that Angus hung his head. Hung his head, for he knew that he cast aspertions upon his fellow human beings and now they were as damned as he. he found that he could never hate and he still did not. It was merely black and white, right and wrong within Angus’ heart, but now he had cast sides and come up somewhere in between. And for having sat on the fence, Angus was damned. The boatsman turned his back upon him. In his head, his thoughts began to way heavily as so many gathering stones in a riverbed. Those stones began pulling his head and likewise, his body, ever forward. He was sinking now in that heavy feeling. He realized at last the frigid water upon his face through the hairs of face, across and over his breechings through to his bones. He was sinking now in the palish blue and icy surh beneath the departing keel of the boat. Down deeper and deeper, bubbles rose around his head and he watched it all in slow motion. He felt as though he were falling in slow motion, diving as he had watched hawks do as a child, rearing and then dropping like a stone into the field towards an unseen target. A stone in the field. How often had he watched his father tilling the fields and come across stones only to throw them angrily away with a curse and spit? The hawks had come down flying like a ragged dirty arrow let loose from a bow stained with age. The Northern men had done that to his father, split his face open while tilling the field for stone. he ran, he dove, he tried to curse, found that he could not, no breath, no air, no mind, nothing, blue, air, sky, no air.
Angus opened his eyes. He looked around. His hand darted to his forehead and found the scar. Fire burnt. But he had been beneath water? Fire vs. water?
Fire is as transient as water. They very often are symbols. They, like Angus have presented themselves as mysteries and are fleeting elements in change. His transformation is as natural as the kenan, as natural as the northern scream. It is unmistakenly primordial. And what better to do than scream? It was within these pale places that men learned how to scream. He had witnessed many men do it within his presence, forced others, and now without fear of repudiation, consequence or punishment he did scream himself. He could no longer hold himself to be fair, he had judged and was in the middle of atonement. He screamed and water poured in. Fire poured upon hot coals turns to steam and it was like that that Angus witnessed his soul? leave his body. It drifted away into the night sky, coal black and soot stained. His body was left behind to stare dumbly into the night sky. He stood within a cold, night fallen field. the wheat had been harvested. Stubs only remained. He shivered and heard horsehooves coming. He looked up and could see them, the horsemen were approaching. Angus stood calmly in field stubble and awaited them, as had his father before him, calmly, patiently and without any resentment nor judgment. He awaited.
He was a man without fear nor hostility within his heart. He was the most feared and hostile man within the clan, on the battlefield or in the fields of corn. To every man he knew, he was not to be crossed for he would cross words as well as sword. he had no hatred within his heart, it did not gather soot as a dirty chimney would to one day betray its owner and catch fire in an attempt to burn itself clean. His was a clean burning fire that burned white hot white heat that burned away everything leaving no traces of whatsoever that began the original spark.
It reminded one of the spark oft considered the terminus for thought, for all his remaining thoughts, the spark of the flint that would light the fire from which the brand was heated and placed upon his face marking him the criminal. The criminal heir, a bastard would survive the torturer’s craft to spawn his own hapless brood of connivers. It is from this lineage that we find the unfortunate countryman, tethered about the ankle of their lord, hiding from the dark revenge. Hidden within the faces of their gods, their hatred lurked within the shadowy crevasses of their scowls and within this hatred lay a dark smouldering coal. it was within this coal that lay the dark recesses of charcoal black resentment. But like the white flax of corn silk, Angus’ anger burned far brighter. He first took flight from the land at the age of fourteen and was later branded for the cause of it. It burned him far deeper than a subcutaneous scar might the ordinary man. The next time that Angus left, he left for good. For good, without any resentment towards his fellow Norman villager displayed upon the surface excepting the scar left upon his forehead.
He would roam for a time and upon his visage he would bare the brunt of the scorn from that rune shaped mark, that scar, that hoary symbol of Kane, of shame. The living embodiment of torn flesh, angus allowed the world to form him anew as the savage man of arms. He knew now to kill. Not only to sow and reap corn and other living things, but flesh as well, in a harvest of warm, cut and scythed down life. Where was it that he had heard of that analogy before? Death as a reaper? The Roman bent of his Norman forefathers that he now so willingly cut down before him? It was in this heaving mound of cut down flesh that Angus heaped up the burning embers of the bellows driven raging hell fire that successfully camouflaged and burned out his succeeding hatred of all that lay before him in later years. Angus, was, in short, beyond reason and conquest/ contempt.
Cast down one full fathom from the lighted surface, Angus’ despair like the measure down that hidden well, hid the misdeeds he had undertook. It was with a guilty joy that he ate the hearts from his prey, roasted their toes and wore their bones about his neck like the talisman of the soiled ancients who tended the woods of his youth. He became that which he had once feared and proffered in secret their mysteries revealed. Part Shaman and part villain. But, where to find a boat? Under the earth. Angus turned, and there- a boat. A skiff sat moored on a shrouded coast. A man stood beneath robe and hood. He beckoned with finger. Angus shifted against his will, but what, then, was his will? His head shook. He clenched his enormous jawbone setting his red beard in determination. And then, turned. Towards the boatman he took a step. And another. The boatsman waited. And Angus moved towards him, what was the impetus that drove him forwards? There was something on the other side. That Angus knew. But what lay on the other side of the body of water? Distant bodies writhed, white shapes that moved within the blackness, but Angus could not see them, but from his peripheral vision.
In this peripheral view he caught the glimpse of something else, something squirming, a worm. There appeared, a worm, a vaguely set parasite affirmed quite plainly on the cat’s bottom. From this, his natural revulsions brought him back to the moment he had confided in the bearded man, the man from which his personal sense of fealty and obeisance is derived. the bearded man knew of the twisting axis on which these devotions lay. The laying down of the carcasses was the habit and they knew to conspire with him, for the food, the venison. The longevity of the foodstuffs had always been a point of contention amongst the sailors and Angus was now experiencing this anew, for he had come from so many generations before in the sea faring tradition. In this Vineland, Angus found the primitive man nurturing themselves upon the skeins of the seal and mistakenly took them for simpletons. In this moment of folly, he would prove no better than his descendants in categorizing these noble and benevolent aborigine as meely mouthed savage misbreds. So is the shame.
And it was with this shame that Angus hung his head. Hung his head, for he knew that he cast aspertions upon his fellow human beings and now they were as damned as he. he found that he could never hate and he still did not. It was merely black and white, right and wrong within Angus’ heart, but now he had cast sides and come up somewhere in between. And for having sat on the fence, Angus was damned. The boatsman turned his back upon him. In his head, his thoughts began to way heavily as so many gathering stones in a riverbed. Those stones began pulling his head and likewise, his body, ever forward. He was sinking now in that heavy feeling. He realized at last the frigid water upon his face through the hairs of face, across and over his breechings through to his bones. He was sinking now in the palish blue and icy surh beneath the departing keel of the boat. Down deeper and deeper, bubbles rose around his head and he watched it all in slow motion. He felt as though he were falling in slow motion, diving as he had watched hawks do as a child, rearing and then dropping like a stone into the field towards an unseen target. A stone in the field. How often had he watched his father tilling the fields and come across stones only to throw them angrily away with a curse and spit? The hawks had come down flying like a ragged dirty arrow let loose from a bow stained with age. The Northern men had done that to his father, split his face open while tilling the field for stone. he ran, he dove, he tried to curse, found that he could not, no breath, no air, no mind, nothing, blue, air, sky, no air.
Angus opened his eyes. He looked around. His hand darted to his forehead and found the scar. Fire burnt. But he had been beneath water? Fire vs. water?
Fire is as transient as water. They very often are symbols. They, like Angus have presented themselves as mysteries and are fleeting elements in change. His transformation is as natural as the kenan, as natural as the northern scream. It is unmistakenly primordial. And what better to do than scream? It was within these pale places that men learned how to scream. He had witnessed many men do it within his presence, forced others, and now without fear of repudiation, consequence or punishment he did scream himself. He could no longer hold himself to be fair, he had judged and was in the middle of atonement. He screamed and water poured in. Fire poured upon hot coals turns to steam and it was like that that Angus witnessed his soul? leave his body. It drifted away into the night sky, coal black and soot stained. His body was left behind to stare dumbly into the night sky. He stood within a cold, night fallen field. the wheat had been harvested. Stubs only remained. He shivered and heard horsehooves coming. He looked up and could see them, the horsemen were approaching. Angus stood calmly in field stubble and awaited them, as had his father before him, calmly, patiently and without any resentment nor judgment. He awaited.
posted by BrenGun at 2:33 PM
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