dannydmc

Things continue to go well around here; although damn am I tired. I feel like some battle scared warrior, limping off to his tent after the first day of war. I know that it will continue tomorrow, but I crave the comfort of my bed, a good mug of beer, and the company of others. Sadly the prospect of winning glory and honor by teaching are quiet a bit less; but I'm still rather proud of myself for having the power to stay as long as I have. Two weeks to go until break!
Anyway, thanks for the comments about my story so far. I'm going to post Part 5 of the prose rendition below; feel free to make comments (in fact, I demand it! ) this is the part that I'm feeling a bit less comfortable about. Mainly because its the section that I just wrote, and haven't had time to let it sink in yet and edit it over a dozen times. Also, it brings in the Chippewa, and I'm concerned about being as authentic as I can while still holding true to the vision of the story (it is a myth, after all, and not meant to be taken literally)
The funny thing is is that I know there is a lot of symbology is the story, but damned if I know what most of it means. I've just been writing it and certain images keep emerging to be put in but I can't always say exactly WHY they fit; simply that they do. *laughs* I think I'm putting way too much time and effort (three years now) into something which I highly doubt it going to catch fire in the public's imagination. Still, I think it does, somehow, say something about modern life. I just don't know what.

The Tree-Splitter Prose Rendition: Part 5

The wood warriors traveled for three times three days, panic filling their souls. It seemed to many that the world itself had abandonded them; snow and sleet fell continually, coating all in soul deadening ice and the winds wailed continiously. Meanwhile their warlord, brave Sigismund, lay in his sick bed; his wounds wept and he trashed about in hidden terrors which none could understand or comfort him from. They knew nothing except that he was in constant danger of death, and they had no way to cure the hurts which plagued his body and soul.
Fate, however, sometimes takes pity upon we mere mortal men. The journey of Sigismund, he who was to slay the demon dancer, was not over. Wounded though he was, the forces of weird wrapped themselves around him and found that comfort should be found.
On the morning of the 9th day the stormy weather which had so plagued the Lumberjacks broke; they awoke to find brilliant Life-Giver shining strongly in the sky. All about them was a virgin landscape, unsullied by the trodding foot of man or beast. A gentle breeze blew through the snow laden trees which creaked and cracked as the ice which had built upon their brances was loosened and fell to the earth. Snowbirds, having sought shelter against the ravages of the storm, returned once again to the sky and sang songs in glory of the gods and their world.
The Lumbermen pulled themselves from their weather beaten tents to this heavenly sight and immediately their hearts were lifted and hope returned once again to them. Far off in the distance they made out a tall pilar of ash grey smoke which rose steadily towards the heavens. The men let out a hearty cheer as they broke camp and lept upon the backs of their steeds and charged onward. So quickly did they travel that their sleighs left no imprint upon the snow; they soared above it, kicking up a billowing cloud of crystal in their wake.
They traveled in this way for nearly an hour until finally they came to the crest of a high hill and there they allowed their horses to come to a rest. Below them sat a bustling village; many wigways huddled together while the inhabitants of the small town traveled about in domestic bliss, unaware of the men who beheld them.
It was one of the hunters who had not yet traveled forth into the wood who first saw the Lumberjacks perched upon the hill. He let out a call of warning, and soon all of the men of the village had assembled, knowing not the intentions of the visitors.
Seeing the commotion below, one of the braver Lumbermen let out of a cry. "We mean you no harm", he called out, "we are simply weary travelers who had battled the devil and now seem shelter and succor for a time. We have wounded who need attention, for none of us are doctors. Please, we have traveled many dangerous miles and seen no other company; be their beast or man except ourselves. We beg you for help!"
Upon hearing this the men in the camp were moved by pity. They climbed the high hill and spoke to the Lumbermen. "We are but a small village", said the leader of the hunters, "we have little food or shelter to offer. But that which we have, we will give. Come, rest your bones by our fires and we shall attend to your wounded. Bring him forth; this is no land for strangers!"
Immediately the Lumbermen brought their sleighs to the village and the villagers gathered around. When they opened up the sled which contained Sigismund who slept uneasily, many recoiled in horror for they could tell that a great evil had been done to this man. Two old women, grandmothers to many present, opened up their house and bayed that the Pine Prince be brought into their shelter, and that a doctor be called.
Sigismund was carried into the hut and all present began a nervous watch. The great hero slipped in and out of his fever sleep; he thrashed about, screaming curses at the wind, snow and world with such vemenence that many screamed in fear and fled the room. But the two grandmothers refused to do so; they took rope and tied the man to his bed so that, in his thrashing, he would not injure himself further. They can called again for the Doctor and told him to make haste.
The Doctor arrived within the hour, his breath heavy from his hurrying and took one look at the patient and knew that a great tragedy had occured. "What has done such damage to this noble man", he demanded, "why does such a stalwart youth scream and moan in this fashion?"
The Lumbermen cast their eyed down, gilt ridden, as they told the tale of the slaughter of the camp and their leader's hellbent quest for revenge against the Wendigo.
At this the Doctor grew angry. "Just like the youth to run and war against forces they have no understanding of", he snapped, "this man might well die, and for what cause? To avenge himself against the world itself? Such a pity that this young fool and determined to suicide in this fashion! Heed me now; I am a great doctor, many of the men in this village will attest to my skills, but this is too much for me."
The Lumbermen wailed in lament when they heard this horrified news.
"Now, just wait", the Doctor ordered, "I did not say all hope was lost. I can bind his wounds and suck the poison from his blood and bones, but the damage to his soul is great indeed. Heavy sins have been piled upon this one, and they are set to break his spirit I may well cure his body, but am not great enough to do more. But there is another doctor to resides as La Pointe, Madaline Island as you would call it, and when summer comes he may well be able to do more. Now get thee from my sight you wretches, I have work to do!"
The Lumbermen left, leaving only the Doctor, Sigismund, and the two old women in the hut. The Doctor immediately began his work and did just as he said he would; all night he labored over Sigismund mending the hurts which he had experienced. By morning he had collapsed from exaustion, but Sigismund slept soundly for the first time since his epic battle against the Wendigo.
He slept as such for an entire day while the village went about its usual routine. On the second day he awoke with a heavy heart indeed. "Oh", Sigismund wept, "woe is me! I live yet, so does my enemy. I am unfit for this world, I should be resting below the earth now with my father and friends. Why has cruel fate saved me for this living hell?"
He continued unaware of the old man who sat at the foot of his bed and listened to the lament with bemusement. "Oh shut your mouth", the other man said with an acid tongue, "you have been saved from death and yet you sit here bemoaning that blessing? You are a child, and a whining insolent one at that! The Gods take pity on me for letting you stay; you will surely drive me deaf or mad!"
Sigismund sat straight up in bed, the old pains had all but dissapeared. "Who are you to harrass me soo cruely? I see you have two eyes, you old fiend, and have no right to speak to me as you do. Silence yourself now, you have no notion of the tragedy and sorrow which weighs down my soul! How could you?"
"Yes", the old man said, "I have never lost loved ones in my old age. My own parents live yet, though they be two hundred years old! None of my children have ever been wounded by the arrows of the Sioux with who we war against. Sickness has never carried away a wife of mine, nor laid low friends. How foolish of me to lecture you, young pup, when I know nothing."
"You mock me", Sigismund screamed, "You sit at the foot of my bed and mock me! The Wendigo slew my Father, he destroyed me band, and yet you mock me for trying to fulfill by god given duty to silence its screams forever! You are an evil man, an old wizard, who seeks to ensnare me with your tongue. Fool! I bet you would quiver and shake in mortal fear if you had seen half as much as I have."
"No", the man said, "I do not mock your pain. I mock your stupidity. You boldly stumbled from your home and ran towards the winds to deal a great blow against the wind itself. Such arrogance! So much hate boils your blood, that one could heat a lake by simply dunking your body into it. You have no notion of the forces you battle against, none what so ever. And for that I feel nothing but pity; you are a young child who has burnt himself and now thrashes about kicking and striking the fire which hurt you, and suffering needless pain in the process."
Sigismund's mouth shut tight and he stared at the Old Man in fascination and shock. The elder picked himself up and stood to his full hight and, though ancient, it was obvious to the Wood Knight that he had once been a strong warrior; battle scars criss crossed his body and he moved with the slow determination of one in great pain. "I am sorry", the wounded man said sullenly, "I let my tongue loose when I should not have. I beg your forgiveness. You have helped me, and I have shown myself to be a bad guest. My Father taught me better than that"
The other man smiled at those words, "Ah! So you do know humility when it comes to your elders Sigismund. Good, good, there is hope for you yet. My name is Cheif Buffalo, and this is my band; we are members of the great Chippewa nation. I bid you welcome here, and hope that your stay is a pleasent one".
Deep shame filled Sigismund. "I thank you for your kindness. Please, allow me to make up to you the inconvenience of our stay. Me and my men will stay here, feeding ourselves, and will help you in the village with labour until our debt has been repayed."
Chief Buffallo grinned "You speak well; I knew of your Father and can say that he would be proud of you now. The sad truth is that you have not been fully healed, and I would be a bad host indeed to send you off into the world, a wounded man. I Invite you to stay with us during this winter; when Summer comes we shall travel to La Pointe and find the man who will complete your cure. Then you may go on your way as you see fit."

And so the deal was made; Sigismund and his men lived amongst the Chippewa people of the village that winter. Each morning they would go out hunting alone and bring back great bounty to their hosts who were greatful for the help during that long hard winter. For the first time since that fateful day Sigismund felt something akin to happiness, as he felled his prey and brought it back, seeing the joy on the faces of those he helped.
One day, while on the hunt, a sudden hush fell over the forest which filled Sigismund with both wonder and unease. He walked along as if a ghost for an unknown time, when suddenly he heard a deep rustling within the brush ahead of him. Hunting instincts took hold of his body, which froze and he stood silent while a great white mist issued forth from his mouth and coated his blonde beard with a thin layer of frost.
Suddenly with a great commotion and great buck came bounding out from the thrush. The stag was magnificent; it stood as tall of Sigismund itself, and a great rack of 30 points came forth crowning its head like a celestial crown. The buck snorted, and the sound seemed to shake the world to its very core.
Sigismund stood enraptured, unable to move, unable to bring his gun up and fire. His eyes found those of that great forest god, and the two fixed upon one another. No one could say how long they stood, drinking one another's souls, when suddenly the stay lept gracefully through the air and dissapeared back into the thicket. Sigismund gasped the deep breath of one who resurfaces after nearly drowning in a pool, and gave chase.
Blond Beard was a mighty tracker, one of the greatestest that ever walked the Northern woods, and he followed the path of that deer for many miles, unwilling and unable to give heed to his aching muscles and rasping lungs. He was forever convinced that he was right behind that stag, but when ever he felt that he was about to see it again, he would crest a hill or round a bend and find nothing.
Finally, driven on by his passions, he put all of his energy into one last sprint, determined to capture the beast if it cost him his very life. He burst out of the brush and suddenly found himself in an immense glen. The air was warmer than that in the woods from wence he came and song birds flew blissfully through the air making their music. A woman stood at the banks of a small trick which bubbled happily as it ran through the sacred spot. The woman was washing clothes, and singing a beautifully innocent song which the birds themselves seemed to join in. Hearing the noise behind her, she calmly turned and looked into the face of the hunter.
Upon seeing the woman, Sigismund was immediately struck dumb, his tounge clove to the roof of his mouth, and he fell exausted to his knees before her. She was beautiful; the image of true beauty made flesh. So brilliant was the glow of her features that Sigismund momentarily feared that his very eyes would be burnt from it. She stood nearly as tall as Sigismund himself, and had a head of thick brown hair which fell gracefully to her wasit; her skin was the color of the soil of the river banks at which she sat to contently, but the most overpowering feature was her eyes which shone an emerald green which was not of this world.
"Ah, Sigismund", she hummed, walking towards the striken man, "So you have finally come to see me?"
His tongue finally free, Sigismund looked up at the living goddess before him, "How do you know my name, fair maid", he asked
"We all know your name here, and of your great battle with the Wind Walker. The trees sing of your glory often, and the birds themselves carry word of your adventures across this entire wood"
"You put me at a disadvantage my lady, for you know my name but I do not know yours. What may I call you?"
But the woman continued on as if he had never talked, "So, is it true what they say, hero. That you burn so hot from rage that you would war against the Winter itself? They you would seek to silence the ever present winds which race across the land."
"You have heard the truth", he replied, "I seek to slay the beast which has killed by Father and to free this land from its tyranny. Now, what is your name?"
"Noble words indeed, but do you mean them? Can you really strike out against the monster and wish only to save the poor souls who come after you, or are those just the smallest of poetry you use to mash your true intent. Does your anger drive you Sigismund, does hate consume your soul?"
At this Blond Beard sat deep in thought, "It is true that I desire revenge, m'lady, due I would be lying to claim that that is my only reason for striking out against the murdering beast. If I can not stop its bloody feast, than many more may perish in its jaws and their pain would haunt me until my dying day. No, I can not allow that to happen."
"Noble words indeed, sir. And they have earned you a boon. My name is Hurit, the beautiful, and my Father is none other than your host, Cheif Buffalo."
At this Sigismund puzzled, "And what does a woman such as yourself do in these woods; why deny yourself the company of your own kind, and live in these wilds?"
"I prefer the company of the pines to that of men", she replied, "the songs od the birds sooth my ears in ways which the voices of man could never do. The simple work of the wooded life strengthens my soul, while the drudgery of the village only saps its strength."
"A great woman, indeed!", Sigismund explained. "And I thank my stars that I have seen your face, for now I can truly die content. Had I fallen in battle before this, my shade would have walked the Earth forever, lonely and not knowing what caused its sorrow."
"Such kind words from a stranger", Hurit cooed, as she allowed her hands to rent gently upon the warrior's shoulders.
"Strangers", Sigismund asked, "we have never been strangers, because I have known and searched for you since the day of my birth! We are bound together, you and I, and have always known each other."
Hurit bowed her head, because she knew he had spoken the truth. "Sigismund", she began with a wavering voice, "I have been told that your quest means death. Stop it now, I beg you; I had never realized how very empty my life was until this very moment! Run away with me, and we can be bound in marraige; forget your quest and be my husband. The forests will be our playground and home, and none shall be able to rise up and disturb out happiness."
At this great tears began to run from Sigismund's eyes for he had a sudden vision of domestic bliss; the image of children playing and laughing, of the warm hearth fire burning, and the carcasss of freshly killed animals waiting to be cooked. But, at the same time, he heard also the terrible siren shreik of the Wendigo, and he felt the deep hatred within his own soul beginning to beat. The voices of his Father and the slain Lumbermen assailed him from all sides; and he screamed in sorrow. "I can not", he cried! "I simply can not. I have bound myself to a path and can not stop now until I have reached its end. Hurit, I beg you, wait for me! Wait until the demon has been slain, and I shall come back to you and we will be wed and it shall be just as you described."
Now tears were flowing from Hurit's eyes for she saw the great pain which weighed down the hero before her, and she also saw a glipse of his doom which confirmed her greatest fears. "I shall wait", he said, "but know this; it was been told to me by the trees themselves and the rivers, that should you continue on this quest that you will kill me. You will be my death; your claws shall tear the heart from my chest and leave me empty inside. "
"Never", Sigismund said, "my hands would never hurt you in anyway. Such foolishness! I would rather take a blade to my own throat than to ever harm you. You must know that."
And Hurit said that she did, even as she knew that she was telling a lie. "Go to my Father", he finally said, "and ask him of the Wendigo and give him my regards. He has met this creature before and knows its name. He will tell you how to slay it and give you the tools you need to complete the job. When you have done so and returned from La Pointe, find me; I will give you my blessing then."
"But how will I know where to find you", he asked.
"You simply will, our hearts are tied together as even you said; we will not be kept seperate for long. Now go, it grows late and you must not go hungry tonight."
Sigismund hesitated, but also felt the thruthfullness of her words. He turned backtowards the threshhold of the forest and dissapeared; the birds sang out loud laments as he did so.

To be continued....