Critical Thunder

(The Uninvited Guest - Marillion.) 

All of a sudden, the dance abruptly ended with an ominous sound

of loud drumbeats that seemed to reverberate all

over the Island, an unmistakeable warning.  The visions of the clearing

quickly vanished, the wonderful bard, the spinners and weavers,

as Faerie Wren and I were grabbed by

the scruff of our necks, by rough, giant hands we

couldn’t see because our eyes were closed.  Our glasses

had vanished, and all we could see when we opened

them was the still water of a cove miles down from the cliff we

we hanging over.  And two rocks, one big, one small. 

“One for each of us,” said Faerie Wren, grinning darkly, having

remembered an experience like this in another incarnation,

as Belenus the donkey, only that time the force wasn’t so big…

“It’s that sky, that dark sky, it’s angry at us for looking at the

mysteries, I didn’t realise it was a trick.  Now look at us,” I whispered,

about to perish on the rocks of our own curiosity…no wonder the

Gods are angry with us.”

“No more dancing,” said Faerie Wren, “no future, no more joy…”

“It was so lovely, what cruel trick is this, to steal our joy from us as soon

as we’ve seen it for the first time.”

Thunder rumbled heavily, clashing and bashing in the sky, like

tumbling rocks in a huge, echoing chamber.   Rain started to pour down

on the water below, making dancing patterns we thought we

would never see again. 

“Remember,” said Faerie Wren, staring hard at the raindrops,

“it’s what we focus on, it gets bigger.  That damned intellect running

unbridled without his bride…havoc in the heavens and below.”

We could feel the massive hands on our necks squeezing harder,

making us choke. 

“Change, remember the dance, the unicorn,” I said, “and stare at the

raindrops playing on the water, it has to be true, what we saw…

doesn’t it?  Or was it all a dream?”

“I know it was real,” said Faerie Wren, “but this feels more real.”

 

We were frightened, shaking — all our magic was gone, and

terror was all that remained in the iron grip of the Giant who shattered

the quiet peace of the idyllic island.  Where was the Triton?  Where

were the magical women of the Island?  Our journey had been

for nothing, but to taste briefly the possibilities of the future, only to

be harrowed and brought close to annihilation by critical thunder.

“I can’t do this anymore,” said Faerie Wren, panic stricken,

“If there are any more adventures like this, I’m not going.”

“Shut up, I can hardly breathe with your bleating and narrow mindedness,

think about the dancing raindrops on the water…”

“But none of our magic works in this darkness, with the critical

Giant at our throats.  And that booming voice, telling us how

wretched, lowly and worthless we are.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” I said, wriggling and struggling,  “And how guilty we are,

“it’s ugly, yet none of it true.  It’s as if we were intruders in the mysteries, when I

can remember distinctly being invited on this journey by the

Great Enchanteur herself, and welcomed by the Old Woman.”

“It’s the Giant that’s not welcome, not invited,” said Faerie Wren,  “We mustn’t listen.

We mustn’t be crushed on the rocks below.”

Amid the constant rumbling and ground shaking, the sound of a wooden

spoon banging on a saucepan was heard.  It was almost as loud as the

thunder, and stirred the Giant, at once diverting his attention.

Another giant, a woman, was running across the top of the cliff,

calling out that someone had stolen their golden goose, bidding

her husband come and chase the villain, a young boy racing across the

land and disappearing into the pine tree forest.  It took the Giant

only a moment to decide Faerie Wren and I were of no value

compared to his golden goose.  We were shaken free of the iron grip

so abruptly we almost tumbled over the cliff edge, but glad to be breathing again,

relieved by the unexpected magic of diversion and what could

only be seen as divine intervention.   The boy would be safe, and the trees

would never let the giant find him, but that was something we’d

keep to ourselves.

We were bruised and shaken, and did not know when the magic

would return, the land was still dark but the thunder abated.

We could only wait.  We would wait and dream and sleep, watched

over by the moon, with the hope of the sun rising.  Our magical

bags were laid out by the light of the full moon to be made enchanted

again.  It was too frightening to think of what might have been, and

we remembered to trust in hope, and then something else

we couldn’t see…

(Thanks You Tube for “Uninvited Guest” clip by the brilliant Marillion.)

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)