Just rambling through the forest of life.

The Scribe

THE SCRIBE

He scribes ruthlessly on the paper in a fever of words and sentences. He tells stories of long ago, of loves lost and loves found. Of battles, heroes and villains. He tells of adventures long and short, of meeting friends, and killing evil. By his eyes he has seen many wonders, visited strange lands, heard strange tongues. He has many stories to tell but only a short time to write them, he continues feverishly as the hours tick on, by the clock on the wall.

The candle on his desk, he thinks is his only friend, on this dark winters night. However a spider wanders aimlessly across the floor seeking high ground in which to build his web, his tools and his larder, he seeks a ledge up high by the window and climbs. He begins building as the drought through the window from the harsh gale outside swings him back and forth until he anchors the web.

The rain tapping on the window causes the man some distraction. He stops, lowers his pen, and replaces it with the candle. He walks over to the large window and peers out side. The clouds chase dramatically across the sky, first exposing the full moon then covering her back up in a blanket. Looking out he strains to see the long road pass by his front gate down and out across the dark moors. The horizon is broken by two large hills as the road appears to disappear between them.

Suddenly the moon breaks free and shines down in all her glory, he sees a lone horsed figure on the road ahead. All in black and heavy clothes to protect the rider from the storm. He finds it hard to recognize the rider. The horse rears up as if in a challenge,or to protest against the weather. The rider controls him, stares into the window, and into the eyes of the man looking out. The man feels his soul has been touched and shivers, before the rider gallops past the house. The man just makes out the noise of the hooves between the tapping of the rain on his window as it passes by.

The man is left alone to continue his work. He returns back to the desk, swaps the candle for the pen and begins again. He has reached the end of the story, the end of his life history, he has written it down, preserved it he hopes forever. Putting the pen down and leaning back in the chair, he notices the spider now above his desk, he watches it spin its web across the beams in the roof. The shadows born from the flickering candle dancing across the walls, as the man sits and watches. The storm outside battering his tired lonesome house has moved over towards the west chasing the lone rider. Peace surrounds his house as night moves forever forward.

The scribe has slowly fallen asleep, his head nodding until finally resting on his chin, while he sits and dreams new stories. The candle burns down, down until it burns itself out. The last thing to be seen by the light was a busy spider still building.

Slowly dawns early light creeps up from between the hills in a baptism of fire upon the earth. The scribe once hard at work, sleeps peacefully in his world.

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