Thursday, January 05, 2006

SKREE - 3 (end)

So while the Cuins forged their will into solidity of being, and weaved magick from threads of Currents and Creation's notes and special gifts of perception; the park lost its identity and purpose and the skree return to Mother Earth. Which was fine by the Throng, for in truth they harbored secret fears and some lack of trust in what they did not understand. They accepted one and all the powers and domains, and price to pay for the love found there in these wonders of stone and magick -- and they needed these Cuin as much as the Cuin existed only by their will -- and this was magick too.

And finally the work was done -- at least this tested part. The Throng came to within the Meadow to see and learn and wonder, and by their sway of change of heart and mind that day, would forge themselves the meaning of the Cuin Arts. The children were excluded though, which bothered them not a lick, and they were left in safety at the Park. The ancient one would keep out a wary eye for scrape and tear and unlikely stranger -- of this there was no doubt. And no one questioned why this one alone did not care to see the wonders of the Cuin, and would prefer the innocence of little ones at play. He and they belonged there, I guess, as comfortable as the stones and the lessons of the trees and songs of the grass.

At dusk the Throng left the Meadow in silence, as there seemed nothing to be said. They went home to hearth and field and shop as before, though struck by awe and wonder of the magick they had seen. The children joined the journey with tiny hands 'round fingers and flowers in their hair; and the Throng dissolved into families and couples and ones who walked alone. Some were changed, of course, in great and hidden ways, and in doing cast a vote; and the Cuin came to learn that none of them had really made much difference, thought that alone was magickal enough. The meadow is a myth, of course -- or so it seems this day, and the Cuin returned to chosen place and name, where they can be found right now -- if you choose to seek and listen with soul instead of mind.

Of the Meadow there is nothing left now but a shimmering lake, formed as the stream pressed ever against the Skree and brought down the soft sands and pebbles of lost hopes from above and all. And through and of this changing the old man sat and watched the passing of the Cuin, and they in turn bowed a bit and smiled -- for they too were children, and some even tarried a bit to eat some stew and whistle with the birds.

And there are those who would say there is no such thing as Magick;
and none of the Throng ever asked his name,
but you know where to find him
just the same.
I do!

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