Discover more from Raids on the Unspeakable
> … more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way.
Fingers danced the thread. Felt himself a constellation of events. The world hung loose from a belt above bound by hands below. See the man pause a while pick up dried leaves, cracked a palmful pressed to lips. Hands return to task. This his dying thread, no time remained to rest now. Time soon enough. Knots further fell precise into loose lines. An image wrought in space and times, not linear but branching here and there. Those coming could not read. This would be safe.
The lines fell together as they came, no plan first spoke this path. Hands felt the way only after. The whole flowed through him. Sometimes caught a moment in surprise at what his hands wrought, what was wrought thereby. Strange signs as familiar stories shifted into something new. Soon the narrative was all unknown. He paused less often now, though the shapes grew stranger still. Time for wondering after. The shadows felt here pressed upon him looming larger with each hour.
Sweat dripped or whipped away, dry wind. Threads flickered as they fell from hands dancing faster. Faster. This the last dance. An artist in his prime. All others fallen. Fled. He alone remained for this final piece. Darkness fell yet hands still danced. The man knew not this loss of light. Here the world wrought by hands likewise read by touch. Sight a distraction he had said. Sight would here have felt him fear. A dark room with hands dancing silently. Cold wind whipped through. He chewed leaves.
When he began the light was signed by birds. They saw what steady walked this way. Night perched now and silence reigned. The wind rustled outside trees and within which threads shifted softly. Threads fell about he who threw off forms. This dance the touch of hand and thread. Together lines spun out twirled and set.
He tied a final knot, ran his hands back up the thread to check. Waited a while. Silence. The dance was done. No further forms would come through these hands. He gathered the threads. Brought them together in a bundle. This the set for which his life was meant. This the purpose what for he remained behind. Now this the end.
He stepped outside. A waiting hand took his, together led to ready earth. This the way they were to go. The last lines told of this. A hand waiting. A place for him to rest. There he waits until they call. The sons of those coming would take these threads. They would be displayed openly but to true blind hands kept away by glass. Someday one would come to read what he had wrought. This the end of his last dance. The signs sent here told of things to come among the branching ways.