In The Beginning
In The Beginning
Chip chip chip.
Splinters and chunks fly, haphazard; the head of the chisel disclosing a smoother curve set into the grainy, tan stone. He stops then, to mop the sweat. And decides that it’s finally time.
Gently placing the copper implement in a smooth of hide; he wraps it; this way, that way. Alternating his other clutch of tools within the layers, before tying the whole thing off with a leather thong.
He admires his handiwork.
They’d requested the fine curves of an uncoiled serpent set into the stonework here. A wave of serpent, like the sea was fashioned.
But, he has seen her waiting; at the end of a row of houses wearing a look that warns the short nature of such attendance upon him.
And he tucks away his tools into a sack; which he slings across his shoulder, rising.
The truth is, he’d follow her just about anywhere.
She’s the only person in this whole world who’s ever told him anything interesting.
And now she is learning new things.
Things that only the High Priestess teaches, in the nearby Temple.
Learning to write.
And also about the Mysteries.
Whatever that meant.
They’d known each other since childhood; his father made her own’s first olive press.
And she’d been clever even then;
providing him the only stimulation; while nothing much else happened, when the settlement was much smaller.
She was so imaginative.
But now they are building a huge wall. Enclosing all the people, and the granaries and houses.
And the work carried on is vigorous everywhere.
The piled stone ramparts rise slowly; scaffolded in timber, and thriving with activity.
So many more people, than there ever was before.
So many more mouths to feed. And now food, to protect, from outsiders; with a wall.
His own skills are much in demand with the passing of his father.
They are building a shrine too. With pillars to be finished, and squared off; not rough, like the houses.
And with relief carvings.
He’s one of the few people who can do that.
But his interests lie elsewhere, and has now reached the very edge of the houses.
“Your work looks good.” She observes, turning, for him to follow.
“How can you tell?” He chuckles. “You were so far away.”
She stops then.
“I just complimented your work.” she says, looking at him directly. “I didn’t say which piece.”
“Alright then. I’m grateful.” he says. “Where are we going?”
“There is a thing I would show you. You said that you want to learn something of what I’m learning. I’m going to teach you a very important lesson.”
That gives him hope. Lately, she’s become so much more challenging and oblique.
More aloof. He misses the easy intimacy of childhood.
They have come now, to the very edge of the settlement. The ground rises gently away to one side. A mottled hill of trees; spaced loosely in the rocky soil. Branches generous with olives.
In the other direction, a line of woods, gradually deepens into a series of green folds.
They are headed that way; downhill to the forest. It is mid afternoon; and the air is warm, and buzzing with insects.
“Would you see the world in a completely new way?” She has taken hold of his hands. “If I were to show you?”
His mind is caught in a criss-cross of messages.
“I would,” he says eventually, as lightly as he is able.
“Then you must trust me.”
Shortly, they break into the trees; all bent, and leaning, forcing them to skirt a path, which zig zags, and doubles back, dodging the huddled branches.
He has no choice but to follow. He’s not aware of any path that she’s following.
Eventually it opens up into a clearing; a short patch of grass, surrounded by a verge of trees. There is a trickle of creek, bubbling past down the hill. She turns and halts him there, with a hand to his chest.
“Wait,” she walks over to the water.
A broken log thrusts out; hollow, and she reaches within. Squatting on her haunches, he can only see what looks like a small sack, removed, and sitting now at her feet. He can see her untying it.
She rises now, her back turned, before looking coyly over her shoulder, the hint of a smile.
“This will open your eyes.”
“Catch!” She says, tossing him something; a coil of belt. Or rope. He thrusts his hands out reflexively, and wonders why it seems his hand was struck a blow. The pain is like the smack of a hammer. Hard.
Sharp pain.
It smarts, to the exclusion of everything else.
Looking down, he notes, dumbly; the trickles of red, welling beneath his thumb. The meat of his hand is ruptured there.
He sees twin holes.
Puncture wounds.
He glances up, as she is leaving; and then down at the snake; coiled and retracting itself beneath a rock.
“What have you done to me?” he asks her rapidly vanishing back.
“Why have you done this??”