Sylphs

Rivers and Rest

Another sylph soon visits him in this parched place. A young thing. It's small wings carry it lazily through the sky as it floats along. The journeyer finds it amusing how the sylphs freeze and let the wind blow them like the cirrus when he cast his glance in their direction. The sylphs are light-hearted creatures that will play and roam their whole lives if they can. This one follows the traveler a day. When he walks straight on, it swirls and runs behind him; but when he turns to look, it always freezes as if he did not know of the spirit behind the cloud-cast being. It saddens him some to find the sylph gone after he awakes the following morning.

On his ninth day alone, the pangs of hunger and thirst begin to make themselves well known. Though he has been suppressing this requirement with his power over energy, such a thing will only delay his need for sustenance, never replace it. Energy is only an airy thing borrowed before it must be used or returned to the earth, he would have to work in order to earn himself physical means to carry on.

It was about this time he saw something large breaking the horizon. As he approaches the curious thing he sees it to be a ring of old trees. The branches of the sandy brown woods splay out randomly adorned with deep green leaves. Bushes and shrubbery grow under them in the shade. It seems ominous-- strange and out of place.

When he comes to stand at its base, no birds flee from the trees nearest him as is expected. His curiosity piked, he sends a call out through the patched undergrove. Again, nature gives him no response. A small stream flows from somewhere within the trees; its course made by its own mind, it flows out into the Prairie, cutting through the grass and following no reasonable path. None of the trees from the Grove follow this water's course, only the golden grass. It is a strange occurrence that makes his hair stand on end. The wind seems to stop caressing the grass and the young man's long hair. He hesitates to enter this place, for it feels sacred and it seems common knowledge to leave this place be.

The water, however, seems to be aloof from the spell which lies over patch of trees. The young man runs to it and dips his hands into the refreshing life sustainer. He drinks his fill and more for fear of not knowing when he might find another source like this. Though it excites the senses and tingles his tongue, the cool water provides relief from the endless sun of this place. As he sips, his mind conjures images of a superstitious people, to which even the water is a sacred thing. His memory flows down the water's bed, fast with the stream, where he imagines a group of people that give more than special reverence to this place.

He decides he must not stay. A people that worships an odd occurrence such as this are not a people he feels understand the strange things of the world; for who that worships the earth can also cast his head to the sky? At the very least, he picks a cord of wood from the dry branches and sticks that had fallen to the grass that rings the trees. It will serve as a blaze to prepare his later-caught meat. With the wood in tow, the young man breaks from his walking to try and catch one of the jackrabbits that before teased him on the plain. Their coats are sabled shades of brown and sand that hide them well in the golden stalks. With his knife, he hunts after these creatures for an hour with no success. Just when he begins to believe he has wasted more energy than it is worth, he chances upon a ground-running bird. The gray feathers catch the wind as he holds it up, his knife having proven itself useful.

That evening the young man forges himself a fire using the strange wood, having found a scab of barren rock amongst the plain to help keep the flame in check. He eats like a scavenger, tearing at the skin and meat on the bones of the once proud animal. He is filled.

The young man lies upon the rock, warmed next to his fire. His body is heavy and groggy, both from the meal and drink. His eyes are cast to the sky, where he counts the stars that are visible between the patchy gaps of rolling cloud. The sky is vast, and give home to such heavenly lights. He knows of the divinity it holds, as if it was ingrained in him. His mind knows many things it refuses to share with him. For a moment his eyes try to close. Forcefully, he opens them again only to end up fighting the same losing battle.

Such lead weighs him down! The hard stone beneath him seems to meld with his body. The fruitless battle lost, sleep overtakes him, drowning his form in a torrent of night and rest.