MELITA
Between the starwhale’s song, exultant joy in its splendor, in its decorum, and Amalia’s intonations, a foreboding, extended warning, Melita’s grin was hazardous, treacherous, as dangerous as the woods she was supposed to fear. A portion of her had once been numbed to primal, innate terror and trepidation; she’d seen, experienced, and learned too much in the threads of the Rift, bending and barbaric, chasing down demons before they could get her, her family, her friends. “What lurks here?” She wondered aloud, pondering if Amalia would answer forthrightly or not; or if Melita was doomed to another visit, another exploration, later on, wrapped in those curious, inquisitive, audacious gestures, following curiosity because fortune once favored the bold, and the elemental fire in her soul never threatened to dim, to extinguish, beneath the push and shove of life. But then there was basket making to be had, same purposes caught along roots and tree-limbs, and there was no hesitation left in her body, no more nuances holding or tethering her behind. With one last slide of her fingers along Jyoti’s star-dusted skin, she maneuvered, she advanced, Fangorn left at the bottom of the mighty tree, as she clambered and climbed, experienced in the art of shifting from bark to bark, from bough to bough. “Yes!” She ascertained with an obvious grin when she was nearly there, branches, bramble, and wood in hand, several reeds collected in there in hopes of garnishing or garnering something worthwhile. It might have been a tower, a colossus, this mighty monolith in the forest, but she paid it no mind, gave it homage in gentle footsteps and coaxing, petal soft movements; light and airy, ethereal and beneficent. When she finally arrived, she chose a spot close to Amalia, sundry kinship, before unloading her wares along the broader contortions of an upraised root. “How do we start?”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
