Sing me to Heaven

After you thought it was dead and buried....

8:01 AM, Wednesday, December 17, 2008 .. Posted in Writing .. 8 comments .. Link

...I've finally gotten around to posting part of this story thing again. (Surprise, surprise) It's been quite a while, I know. Even after writing and re-writing this, I am nowhere near satisfied, and have come to the conclusion that I don't know how to edit my own writing. As a matter of fact, I don't know how to write-- though I'll probably continue trying for my own pleasure. So anyhow, excuse the many amatuerish mistakes. They bother me more than they will you, I promise. ;-)

~~~

Two days of hard riding... Mountain meadows, monolithic boulders, aspens, rowans, pines, all these swept by, but Abigail saw only the blurred suggestions. Her world stood still, as one white horse galloped on, on... Hoofbeats pounded unceasingly in her ears, like a second heartbeat, and they still dully beat their relentless rhythm when Ablier halted for brief respites. A day, a night, another day, swirled together in Abigail's mind, accompanied by endless hoofbeats.

The shadows were growing long on the second day when Ablier reigned in his horse in a clearing. The golden twilight slowly ceased to spin, but the Abigail wondered dazedly why the hoofbeats only became louder. Suddenly from somewhere ahead in the forest a man's voice began to sing- and into his rich voice was spun a questioning, challenging tone.

"I come with liquid speech, on living wind I ride..."

It was over as soon as it had begun. But Abigail sat as a statue on the horse, straining her ears towards the sound. The pounding hoofbeats ceased to trouble her, for the wild beating of her heart silenced them. And then Ablier sang in reply.

"More alive than others, born with song and with horses..."

     His voice dipped and soared, as he breathed a river of joy and life into his words. "Liquid speech..." thought Abigail in wonder. But she puzzled over the prideful claim "More alive than others."

     Apparently, these lines were a sort of Lorfinian password. For another man rode up immediately, mounted on a copper horse, and in the warm and fading light she saw he was dressed as Ablier, though older. His auburn beard caught the last glittering gleams of sunlight, and scattered them as clouds piled up in the northern sky. He trotted towards them jovially.
     "Ablier, you always arrive exactly on time, my friend! The king does not name you among his most trusted horsemen withough good reason," said the man, with a smile in his voice.
     "How goes it, Shearmian? Has anything changed?" asked Ablier urgently. All his joy seemed to have vanished. His voice was powerful when he spoke, but Abigail preferred the flowing beauty and emotion in his song. She wondered why he seemed so anxious.
     "No change has come. We are waiting..." the man answered in a lower voice. He nodded at Ablier as if in apology for his vague explanation, and glanced sideways at Abigail. A low rumble of thunder echoed off the sleek mountainside.
     "It is She," Ablier said shortly. "Come, ride with me back to the fortress. I will not keep the king waiting." Then both men turned their horses and entered the forest as the first drops fell from the weeping sky.

Now that they were at a slower pace, Abigail fell into a sort of doze. The tangled branches of ancient trees formed a thick canopy, allowing only a few fat drops to fall whispering among the undergrowth. Exhausted as she was, Abigail would have fallen asleep, her head resting on the leather pack that Ablier kept slung over his back, but the forest abruptly ended, and the rain now drummed down on them in full force. Hunching her shoulders and wiping water off her face, Abigail gathered that they were in a very large valley, entirely bare of trees or brush. Through the deluge of rain, she could barely distinguish a smooth-faced hill rising in the middle of the valley. On the summit of this hill stood a massive structure of grey stone.

     They rode swiftly through the valley, pummeled by rain, and reached the gate of the fortress completely drenched. Abigail shivered. She wished she could clearly see this foreboding fortress that opened its yawning gate to receive her. They rode through a wide cobbled street, and children peeked out at them from behind doorways that sheltered them from the rain. Abigail envied those children, home and safe, and confident of a warm meal and a dry bed. Sputtering lanterns hung on stone walls, dancing with their reflections in rippling puddles. There were many of these streets, but most of the doorways were empty and the windows were dark.
      At last they came to the royal stables, or so announced the sign that hung proudly over the door. But this was a grand building wrought of polished stone, gleaming, even in this gloomy light. As she slid off Ahern, her feet landing lightly on a carpet of spotless sawdust, Abigail gazed in wonder up at the ceiling, far above. "What have I gotten myself into..?" she wondered, with wide eyes as she looked on such riches. "If the stables are so grand, think of the palace." She scarcely noticed the eager pages who led the horses away, carefully admonished by Ablier and Shearmian. As she stood gaping awkwardly, the latter came kindly to her side and led her away. Wet and disheveled as they were, Abigail was informed that they were headed to the royal palace and thence to the King's Hall. All her hopes that he had to be joking were in vain.

     Through the rain that had diminished to a dreary patter, they arrived at a pair of double doors, thrice the height of a man, yet wide enough only for two to pass abreast. The guards standing duty barred their way mechanically, but at a few words from Ablier, they suffered the threesome to pass. Abigail shivered again as the doors swung open silently; ominously, she thought. They opened onto a vast circular chamber, and every surface, naturally, was made of stone, but not the customary white or gray. These stones were red, flecked with glittering particles. The ceiling was much higher than the stables.
     Many doorways led from this anteroom, but Ablier led them immediately to the one directly opposite and signalled to the guard to open the door. He was a short man, but his eyes challenged Ablier and he said,
     "I haven't seen you here before, sir."
     "Neither have I seen you," answered Ablier softly, holding his gaze with slightly narrowed eyes.
     In the back of her mind, Abigail faintly realized that she was learning to read his expressions. But then, she felt she had to, since he surpressed all outward emotions.
     Apparantly, Shearmian knew Ablier well. Glancing from one man to the other, he left Abigail's side and stepped in.
     "You have seen me, Bron. I will vouch for us all. I will also tell you that he is one of the Renowned. Do not let your loyalty to the House make you overly suspicious." He nodded at the small man with a benevolent smile flicking at the corners of his mouth. The guard sheepishly apoligized, lightly touching his sword-hilt and gesturing towards Ablier in salute. Then he reached up and unbarred the door.
     Holding his head high, Ablier strode down the columned hall, towards the throne. After him came Shearmian. He was puffing a little after the vigorous ride, with water dripping from his beard, but his pride equaled Ablier's, even though the latter had the greater authority. Abigail was the last, and she nervously tried to match the long stride of the two men. Her eyes darted to and fro about the throne room, and she felt the eyes of all the court dwelling on her. She felt small and alone in this echoing stone hall; the only thing that seemed real and mortal was the carpet beneath her feet, its scarlet pattern worn by the tread of numberous Lorfinians.

GraceElizabeth

Grace is a 17 year old girl who is striving to follow God's leading, but would be constantly embracing failure if God didn't just sweep her off her feet, sometimes against her will. Music is her first love and expertise: specifically voice, but also piano. She has been trained classically, which is a good thing, most of the time, except when she wants to sing pop style... and can't. Her favorite genres of music are Celtic, Scottish and Irish folk songs/jigs, film music, and broadway show tunes. Grace also takes pleasure in the beautiful diversions of writing poetry, Ultimate Frisbee, sketching, dancing in the rain, Irish Step Dancing, speech and debate tournaments, scrapbooking, acting, reading, photography, standing outside at night while the wind whips the trees every which way, and talking about herself in the third person.