The future is ever a misted landscape, no man foreknows it, but at
cyclical turns
There is a change felt in the rhythm of events:
-Prescription of Painful Ends (l. 3?4). Robinson Jeffers (1887?1962), U.S. poet.
Clouds overhead shared their light showers in a beautiful sparkle where sunlight beamed between them. In spite of the cryptic rain, people were still in the Marketplace to buy and sell. Canvas and plastics, methods natural to each merchant in his or her own way, kept near at hand to cover and protect the more delicate wares when the clouds would have the notion to tease out some rain upon the city again.
Sylvia was taking advantage of the younger children?s naptime and Cian?s lessons to find hidden treasures of the Mecca that was the Rhydin Marketplace. She was not much of a shopper by nature, and because of this tended to visit when the weather was unpredictable. It kept people moving.
This day was just as she expected. Few hesitated or wandered and looked to the sky as often as they looked to the long rows of carts and stands. Sylvia ignored her own appearance, which by now meant unruly black hair fighting against the windbraids that kept her hair back from her face. The shoulders and upper arms of her linen tunic was still translucent with the last soaking and clung to the skin it hinted beneath that layer. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger belted at her hip out of habit and no real sense of danger.
The sun was having its turn in the sky pounding its powerful warmth on her head and drawing her eyes to slits against the glares of puddles on the cobblestones and droplets that clung to every surface. A turn around the end of a row, she started down the other where a nut vendor was being exuberant in the selling of his bounty to the point of reaching far out into the flow of people. Sylvia moved to avoid the aggressive salesman and was forced to wait her steps for an opportunity in the opposite flow of people.
A trio of notes stopped short of her lips, caught in her mouth when she looked down the length of the slow moving crowd. The figure of a man had turned from the row of vendors, hidden by the fluttering canvas and wooden caps of the mobile structures. Defying the heat of the sun, a chill slithered down her spine and along the backs of her arms. She had not seen the face, but there was something peculiar about that person. It was familiar and strange in one like one senses rain in the air without the sign of clouds. The hair had been an unremarkable brown, the shoulders broad, the clothes a well cut dark green. It was a profile in the instant of a blink that faded from her mind?s eye in its particulars though kept resonating to her like a long ago melody.
Mind countered instinct; logic railed its reason that it was a trick of light and shadow from the mischief of clouds and sun. It was just a person as any other person. She had stayed out in the tremblings of rain too much today.
Sylvia shook her head, but her attention was incapable of focusing on the task at hand. There were few items that the manor required, and to those she set her mind and gave up the wandering exploration of the market for that day. It was, she reasoned, likely she was more tired from all the travel than she had anticipated, and a rest would serve her well. She would see to the market tomorrow.
cyclical turns
There is a change felt in the rhythm of events:
-Prescription of Painful Ends (l. 3?4). Robinson Jeffers (1887?1962), U.S. poet.
Clouds overhead shared their light showers in a beautiful sparkle where sunlight beamed between them. In spite of the cryptic rain, people were still in the Marketplace to buy and sell. Canvas and plastics, methods natural to each merchant in his or her own way, kept near at hand to cover and protect the more delicate wares when the clouds would have the notion to tease out some rain upon the city again.
Sylvia was taking advantage of the younger children?s naptime and Cian?s lessons to find hidden treasures of the Mecca that was the Rhydin Marketplace. She was not much of a shopper by nature, and because of this tended to visit when the weather was unpredictable. It kept people moving.
This day was just as she expected. Few hesitated or wandered and looked to the sky as often as they looked to the long rows of carts and stands. Sylvia ignored her own appearance, which by now meant unruly black hair fighting against the windbraids that kept her hair back from her face. The shoulders and upper arms of her linen tunic was still translucent with the last soaking and clung to the skin it hinted beneath that layer. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger belted at her hip out of habit and no real sense of danger.
The sun was having its turn in the sky pounding its powerful warmth on her head and drawing her eyes to slits against the glares of puddles on the cobblestones and droplets that clung to every surface. A turn around the end of a row, she started down the other where a nut vendor was being exuberant in the selling of his bounty to the point of reaching far out into the flow of people. Sylvia moved to avoid the aggressive salesman and was forced to wait her steps for an opportunity in the opposite flow of people.
A trio of notes stopped short of her lips, caught in her mouth when she looked down the length of the slow moving crowd. The figure of a man had turned from the row of vendors, hidden by the fluttering canvas and wooden caps of the mobile structures. Defying the heat of the sun, a chill slithered down her spine and along the backs of her arms. She had not seen the face, but there was something peculiar about that person. It was familiar and strange in one like one senses rain in the air without the sign of clouds. The hair had been an unremarkable brown, the shoulders broad, the clothes a well cut dark green. It was a profile in the instant of a blink that faded from her mind?s eye in its particulars though kept resonating to her like a long ago melody.
Mind countered instinct; logic railed its reason that it was a trick of light and shadow from the mischief of clouds and sun. It was just a person as any other person. She had stayed out in the tremblings of rain too much today.
Sylvia shook her head, but her attention was incapable of focusing on the task at hand. There were few items that the manor required, and to those she set her mind and gave up the wandering exploration of the market for that day. It was, she reasoned, likely she was more tired from all the travel than she had anticipated, and a rest would serve her well. She would see to the market tomorrow.