The dream is of a forest clearing, gloomy and overhung with green.
A single golden shaft of sun slices down through the shadow, looking
solid enough to touch.
It shines upon a sword, razor-sharp point resting on a carpet of moss, hilts leaning against the furrowed bark of an ancient and towering tree.
A gypsy man, looking somehow older than his years, steps into the
clearing. His forearms are heavily tattooed with skulls and looping
arrows, and he carries two short swords.
Behind him, a long line of men and women stretches into the distance, nearly hidden in the shadowy pillars of the trees. They all seem to have the same tattooed arms, and they all hold swords. The blades seem somehow to hang poised, balanced between muscle and empty air, as though the tiniest shift of their wielders’ posture would send them flickering forward through shadow, sun, or flesh, alike.
A grey-haired gypsy at the front of the line speaks to the man in the
clearing:
“You’ve rested long enough , Teo,” he says. “Pass on what I
taught you.”
The man in the clearing looks back affectionately at the older man.
“Yes, Master Vanya,” he says. Then he walks slowly to stand beside
the sword by the tree, and stares searchingly out into the trees, as if
looking for someone.
A single golden shaft of sun slices down through the shadow, looking
solid enough to touch.
It shines upon a sword, razor-sharp point resting on a carpet of moss, hilts leaning against the furrowed bark of an ancient and towering tree.
A gypsy man, looking somehow older than his years, steps into the
clearing. His forearms are heavily tattooed with skulls and looping
arrows, and he carries two short swords.
Behind him, a long line of men and women stretches into the distance, nearly hidden in the shadowy pillars of the trees. They all seem to have the same tattooed arms, and they all hold swords. The blades seem somehow to hang poised, balanced between muscle and empty air, as though the tiniest shift of their wielders’ posture would send them flickering forward through shadow, sun, or flesh, alike.
A grey-haired gypsy at the front of the line speaks to the man in the
clearing:
“You’ve rested long enough , Teo,” he says. “Pass on what I
taught you.”
The man in the clearing looks back affectionately at the older man.
“Yes, Master Vanya,” he says. Then he walks slowly to stand beside
the sword by the tree, and stares searchingly out into the trees, as if
looking for someone.