Roz Liddle 28/9/17

BLACKNESS

Roz Liddle
Aug 28, 2017 · 5 min read

Vanta gently ran her fingers over the markings again, struggling to feel — well — anything. She shook her head. Damn. She knew — she was too old — just too old. Despairingly, she sat on the cold ground with a bump. Well, that wasn’t too bright — how on earth was she going to get up again?

Rubbing her two hands, Vanta felt the roughness and swelling that beset them. How could she hope to feel any of the ancient markings? From her green — but — unseeing eyes, a tear trickled down her weathered face. What could she do?

“Good morrow, o’ wise and knowing mystic,” a young voice sang out. Vanta raised her head and smiled.

The voice came closer, “What are you doing out here? Oh — the stones …” the voice petered off.

“Baynun? Is that you? What are you doing this far out from the ramparts?” Vanta asked — although — she already knew the answer.

“Well, I was practising my tracking and found yours — and then — I followed them.” Baynun ran his fingers over the indentations on the stones.

“And how did you know they were mine?”

“You don’t walk like anyone else and you have your stick — your feeling stick — and that leaves very interesting marks.” Baynun nodded towards the sitting Vanta, but kept his eyes and fingers on the fascinating stones.

Vanta waved her arms, “Come on, and help me.” Baynun turned and was soon assisting the old woman to her feet. He smiled at her and she touched his young face with her rough fingers.

“Can you understand these markings?” He stared at the shapes that had been cut into the stones. They were no longer clear and precise, but worn and indistinct. Even if they had been newly carved, Baynun could not have recognised them. The written way was no longer followed — and had not been for many munas — moons.

Only Vanta remembered and only then in her mind’s eye — her sight had diminished many years before. Now, even her memory was fading, along with the icons on the stones.

Baynun knew all the stories. He loved all the tales of adventure, bravery and how his clan had survived over the many munas. He looked towards the sky and their shining Kunoll — lastly — at all their munas; there were seven of these bodies — all named — all with different natures, travelling around their world.

He squinted, somehow the sky seemed different. The moons looked darker — more dangerous. He shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Baynun recalled all the tales of the Dira Kunoll and Nocto Kunoll. Vanta had narrated them all to their clan countless times over the years. Baynun stared at her. She was very old and shrivelled, but he held a soft spot for her in his heart. Only Vanta knew of the long distant past, the clan’s leaders thought only about the days ahead. He considered what had gone before — the tales that were told — what might be to come.

Baynun shivered again.

Vanta heard him, “What is wrong, my strong young man?” She fumbled for his arm, “Can you sense something?” She shuddered too.

Baynun eyes were glued to the sky. Everything was definitely gloomier. The munas seemed to be merging. He rubbed his eyes. Vanta missed his arm and fell into his side — he caught her — just in time.

“Tell me what you see.” She spoke with great urgency now and he tried to describe the sun and moons in the dimming sky.

“The Kunoll — the Kunoll — it’s going Nocto,” he replied, wincing as Vanta squeezed his arm with her long fingernails. “The Munas are becoming one …”

The old woman clutched his arm again. “Quick the stones. Tell me the shapes … here,” she said and pointed at one end of a long slender stone. There were several roundish shapes and some lines emanating from them — towards — nothing. Baynun gasped.

“Vanta, there is a piece missing. Someone has smashed that part…” The young man sounded scared.

“Quick, don’t delay look around for it.” The old woman struggled to feel the stone, as Baynun ran between the other stones and fumbled through bushes with his hands and feet — but — nothing.

Everywhere around him was turning black, he looked skywards. The shining Kunoll was partly covered by — it seemed to him — one large Muna. All the seven had become one. It was very cold now and extremely black, Baynun strained to see Vanta, even though she was not that far away.

Vanta continued to feel the shapes and tried to recall. The encroaching murkiness meant nothing to her, but she did feel the cold on her hands and face. Turning her face skyward, she regretted — for a split second — not being able to observe the impending events. No time for all that.

“Baynun,” she shouted, “what is this shape — here?” Vanta pointed to a symbol in the middle of the stone.

“I can’t see — anything …” he answered in a rather panicked voice, “Ow! What was that for?” He had been soundly walloped around his head.

Vanta smiled, “You do not need to see, just use your fingers to feel.” She took his hands and placed them on the symbol she could not decipher. “My fingers do not sense well enough.”

Around the stone was total darkness now. Everywhere was quiet and still — no birds — no animals. Nothing, except — perhaps — a few distant cries and screams. Soon, even they stopped.

The strange pair continued to work — Vanta guiding — Baynun describing. A long time had passed during the Nocto Kunoll.

Suddenly, the old mystic cackled. The young man snatched his hands away from hers, but the laughing continued.

“Well, well — not this time — not today.” Vanta was suddenly silent too.

Baynun considered the darkness all around him — was this how she saw all the time? It was very cold now and the young man was very frightened. He tried to recall the old tales. Everything must have returned as it was — mustn’t it? The old stories were passed on — so people must have lived? He could still see nothing. The sky — what sky? What was sky and what was everything else? It was just all blackness.

In the silence, he could hear Vanta’s steady breathing — slow and rhythmic. She was calm and at peace. Baynun tried to calm himself too. He would ask Vanta to show him how to understand those scratches on the sacred stones — he had to.

)

Roz Liddle

Written by

Writer, mother, wife, helper, giver, gardener, handicrafter — in no particular order. The time for procrastinating has passed.

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