Forge of Stones
Page 1
Forge of Stones
by Vasileios Kalampakas
March 18, 2011
Published by Βασίλειος Καλαμπάκας, Vasileios Kalampakas
Copyright © 2011 Βασίλειος Καλαμπάκας, Vasileios Kalampakas
ISBN : 978-960-93-2924-8
Available in print by Amazon Inc. and other retailers
You can reach the author at this e-mail address:
kalampakas@stoneforger.com
Written and typeset with the LyX document processor from https://www.lyx.org
Cover made with the aid of the GNU Image Manipulation program from https://www.gimp.org
The painting on the cover is “Clytie”, from Lord Frederick Leighton.
Written under extreme pressure and varying temperatures.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
with special thanks to my editor
who should have acted more like the City of Pyr
Dedicated to my mother.
Contents
Ex Principia
Prologue
The dancer
The Curator
The jester
The boatman
The Pilgrim
The City of Pyr
Dangers of the trade
Inescapable Reality
Darkly lit night
The marble road
Under a livid sky
Fulcrum
A long and winding path
Of the Sun and Moon
Machina Segnis
The longest errand
Per Ardua
Wishes of the Unholy
Circumstance and happenstance
By the horns of the bull
Meetings and Greetings
Stirred Within
A fool’s resolve
Breaking point
Two steps beyond
Friend or foe
All in good time
Ad Veritas
The burial of the dead
Memory and desire
A dead tree gives no shelter
Fear in a handful of dust
The Sleeping Man
A game of chess
An unviolable voice
A sermon of fire and blood
The game board
Homeward
Epilogue
Ex Principia
Prologue
“It is by fortune alone that man maintains his bountiful existence, unhindered by the forces beyond his grasp, unaware of what lies beyond. Once that veil is lifted, who can foretell the future?”
-Hilderich D’Augnacy, Visions of The Aftermath
The dancer
She reveled in the darkly lit chambers, her form so very much like that of a swirling dervish. The locks of her hair mirrored the precious little light with a warm sheen of honey and brown. An ethereal smell of roses and lavender poured out of her skin, intoxicating the senses. She moved as if the ground was a mere illusion to be disregarded with her arms faintly bent upwards in prayer, a caress for the lithe forms of young gods. Her face had the impression of unborn awe, mesmerizing to see, inviolate to the touch.
She danced to the sounds of incessantly beating drums, in patterns and rhythms deep and rumbling that seemed to echo from the walls of her very soul. They seemed to follow behind a melody of strings as clear as an erupting mountain spring. Like a fresh dew that engulfed the chamber a band of flutes called out to unseen spirits, as if a ritual of old was being performed for her pleasure alone.
The music reached a crescendo, a ground-shaking climax. She became frenzied with passion, exhuming a mystical air of love, a beacon of a haven for all the ones who were unloved. An unseen pact with a muse beckoned behind each tempting gesture.
Her faint gossamer dress swirled, failing to contain her ethereal form in such a breathtaking way, that even the flames of the brazers around the chamber flickered in tune with her dancing form to cast shadows that seemed to have a life of their own.
The crowd around her was silent and still, wearing almost identical masks of brass, the few flames that illuminated the chamber adorning them with golden hues of honey and the distinctive glimmer of sunlight upon metal.
A single man stood at the edge of the dancing stage. He was robed in heavy linen, his face unmasked for everyone to see. Tears were running down his cheeks, welling under his chin in an unwavering steady flow. His face was a painful mix of sorrow and awe, his eyelids closed shut in a vain attempt to contain his tears.
At the climax of her dance, she laid her body down on the stone floor, and planted her feet and hands on the stage with her back forming an arc. She start to convulse in a familiar but never spoken way, the way of ecstasy. Her pelvis moved to the rhythm of the drums, faster and faster, as if an invisible lover was holding her aloft, their bodies mingling with lust.
The music came abruptly to a stop and utter silence filled the chamber. She springed herself on her knees, her hair concealing her face completely. The silence was almost deafening. Her ragged, fast breath was the only sound that could be heard. Then, the unmasked man spoke while bowing solemnly:
“Celia, I lack the words. The Chorus weeps in adoration. Let everyone be witness to this moment: Celia danced the Edichoros, and the Gods were pleased. So says the Chorus.”
In a transient moment of still time, the crowd of masks said in one voice:
“Aye.”
As soon as the word was spoken, the masked men dispersed as if answering to a silent summons and melted into the shadows, as if they were never really there, as if they had been a mirage, a background for this dance alone. The dancer and the unmasked man still remained.
He extended his arms, palms facing upwards, a gesture to the dancer or mayhap the Gods themselves. She stood up on her bare feet slowly, her hands touching her thighs over her gossamer dress, strands of her hair upon her bare shoulders. He spoke softly now, as if not to be overheard, even though there was not a living soul around in earshot.
“Celia, my love. Come.”
At his words, she touched his palms and drew closer to him. She looked upon his face, wet with tears and lit by flickering flames, her hazel eyes still glittering with ecstasy, alight with enthusiasm, and yet forming a wizened look that belied her years.
“Amonas.”
She uttered his name with a feeling of relief.
“It is done. You need not worry anymore. Men and Gods alike will remember this night for all time,” Amonas said sweetly while gently caressing her head.
“And you, will you cherish those tears?”
A faint smile formed on her mouth, a playful expression shone on her face and her eyes darted around his face with glee.
“Need you ask?”
His eyes ran all over her features, to her smooth hair, her sculpted nose, the lobes of her ears, her slender neck, her measured lips and back to her stare.
“I am only a woman, Amonas. I have to.”
She craned her neck to meet his lips, tall as he was.
“I’m not worthy of such a gift.”
Amonas told her as he stood still with black eyes peering at her closed eyelids.
“Speak no more.”
Celia hushed him by touching his lips with hers. She then embraced his neck with both hands, softly but steadfastly guiding him towards her. Afterwards, they made love on that very stage. The silence of the chamber was broken only by the sound of sputtering candles and flaming braziers.