The Scaled Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans by Raymond St. Elmo

Author:Raymond St. Elmo [St. Elmo, Raymond]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-16T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

What Dreams May Come

In the king’s dungeon, I’d taken time to enjoy life. That is, enjoy the memories of life. It’s much the same. Pleasures pass quick as candle’s snuffing; it is in the recalling that life is mostly lived. Crouched in chain against cold stone, I declared myself king of all recollections within the realm of my head. And so anointed I summoned before the throne such courtier memories as pleased our royal self. Pretty women and sunny days, beautiful music and tavern laughter. Friends shouting greeting at battle’s end. Else quiet mornings of bird song choiring the holy procession of dawn, mist rising from dew-silvered fields like smoke of gypsy camps. Even stormy nights when I’d lain abed alone or warm embraced, shivering in delight for blanket and roof. Of books I recalled not just the joy of the words, but even the texture of the pages. Traced memory’s finger across the spines, lined up neat upon a shelf as bottles of fine liquor.

Chained in defeat, I numbered all my past victories, and stared at the sum astounded. By God, I was a man searching pockets for farthings, only to find bank notes declaring fortunes to his name. But from boyhood street fights to formal duels at dawn, from battle-field moments of musket and saber, I’d amassed a dragon hoard of scars and victories.

Music? I shivered, not from stone’s chill but the recollection of the Great Cathedral organ declaring Bach exact as math, alive as fire. Fugues and melodies weaving arches of glory, windows of light. One felt the mere stone cathedral shake as a beast come alive, a creature of light and sound and thunder. That music was God singing sternly to Himself, sleeves rolled up, busy about the business of running existence.

Not to ignore the quiet tunes in friends’ houses, as flutes and violas were shyly produced, the reluctant musicians testing note, testing breath, beginning, halting, then laying forth a song that became a conversation about friendship and laughter, wine and years, and all the day’s doings.

Of lovers, I exiled all sad memories from the Court of Recollection. No hot quarrels, no cold farewells. Beheld only the delights of touch and amaze, the smiles of satisfaction upon pillow and blanket. At least, when pillow and blanket were present in the particular scene. The first woman I desired (but never possessed): Swan, my aunts’ scullery maid. Daintily built, and so lacking in mind one might contemplate her without shame, as a statue set walking about. Emerald the Baker’s daughter; agreeable and compliant, disinterested in what I fondled so long as I nodded to her chatter. Camp followers in the war, such as Rabbit. A born vixen, she seemed to carry the war within her. Between her legs, perhaps.

Elspeth… her alone I had no heart to summon before memory’s throne. Nor did she come rushing through the dance of recalled lovers, waving scarlet hair as battle flag against all rival shades of love. No, she lurked in shadow, face turned away.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.