Hosting (Part 10) by Hazar Worth
One room, two rooms; Three Rooms Four….’
Observed and exiled by those vague debts of time, she patiently sat confined to the assuring promises of her wheelchair.
She thought she had heard the playful musings of her cat, who loved to sit nestle between bookshelf and books arranged on the bookshelf beneath and below. The pain in her legs were telling her how long her day was going to be. The noise was somewhere and the noise was anywhere and the noise was nowhere she could reach, or pinpoint from the haze that was gnawing into her nerves.
Abruptly now, she saw his sweaty flushed smoothly careful dark-skinned face parched by the slight glow of scattered moonlight from between the branches. Her Daughter had a significant crush on him. He was a stable hand. His clothes always smelling like outdoors, and stable dust.
She tasted his large strong hand over her mouth. His hips were moving against her like the gait of her Father’s horses. He had spent much of his hours involved with the horses for her Father.
How her Daughter absolutely worshiped him …….
‘One horse, two birds; Three Stones Four…’
The pain in her legs wasn’t going to abandon her anytime soon. The wheelchair felt oddly inept as her fingers struggled to find the wheelchair’s Activation Mode. Sharp and invisible sensors immediately moved the wheelchair across the irregularly large room towards the waiting dining room table.
When her Daughter had reached Level 17, there was concern by her Grandfather that she would fall into the same sinking sands that had contributed that last stone to her Grandmother’s demise. Like her Grandmother, she had an eerie sense to her. Level 17 had grown very notorious for the minds destroyed by the rigors, and by the pressures; and by the demands thrown at each prospective individual.
But that was shattered when her Daughter emerged from Level 17, and stepped into the centre of the Hosts of the Hosting Church. And many Autumns would pass before her Grandfather would break down and cry his annoited tears for her Grandmother, her body never properly recovered from the waters that received her and her need to be dissolved, discarded, devoured.
‘He suffers because he has no other way to love than to suffer….’, the stable-hand mentioned to her, as if he was talking about yesterday’s and tomorrow’s weather.
‘One hand, two hands, Three Hands Four….’
The wheelchair carried her body to the dining room table where tall bottles of vanquished Year’s End stood like vacant soldiers. Against the repeated recommendations of her Holistic Engineer, she exposed her system to the black market bounty of Year’s End as often as possible. At the back of her throat, thirst raged hot and indifferent like a sandstorm.
She would watch her Mother with the horses. She would never ride any of them. She felt their kinship was beyond that. Instead, her Mother would spend much of her hours walking with each horse. A rather sickly horse birthed during a strange star-configuration had become a constant companion to her Mother.
Watching her Mother with this constant companion, she observed the understanding of this relationship as shared by and among and between the other horses.
She was an only child (she would recognize shortly) only because her competition had required so much more attention than she did after a certain age.
‘Horses do cry but very few people want to hear them…’ , her Mother told her during a drive through one of Winter’s many tantrums.
The pain in her legs felt no remorse, and didn’t ask for any regrets. Her hand and her fingers gained a distinct vantage point, locating the latest bottle of Year’s End. Her fingers grew militant and capable, removing the precisely designed seal that was akin to the valve of the heart. She heard the seal’s release, and she sat patiently in her wheelchair.
Her Daughter grew deeply within the Hosts of the Hosting Church. No greater cornerstone could be found. When the first accident occurred, her Daughter tended to her Grandfather. As he neared his lasting breaths, his eyes were shown the neither answers nor solutions.
‘…your grandmother…..your grandmother told me about you….told me about you in a dream…’
She held his hand but not in worship no longer……
At the back of her throat, the sandstorm had grown into the mysterious algebra of a spider. The tall, long bottle of Year’s End had become an impending prayer without God and without a need for God. The temperature of the bottle was starting to rise. The warmth of the bottle in her hands and fingers continued to offer her more than an excuse to forget. How long had she chosen to remember?
‘One word, two words, Three Words Four…’
The Holistic Engineer was a very patient and understanding woman. More than anything, the two women were able to connect on some level that often reminded her of watching her Mother with the horses.
‘These legs want to heal. We are too easy to dismiss the power of our bodies. These legs want to heal, as long as you are willing to work with these legs.’
The face of the Holistic Engineer wasn’t spectacularly beautiful. Her skin was without blemish, and her eyes had the sort of clarity that one would see in older people in the midst of their lives.
‘These legs are no more a problem than a very bad tooth-ache.’
The touch of her hands on her bare legs after the second accident felt promising. Her Daughter had been away. The Hosts of the Hosting Church was doing workings with other international Nation-States. The depths of the Hosts of the Hosting Church was growing deeper. Her Daughter’s works had grown more vital, and more necessary.
‘We are going to start you out with a small amount of Dox, and from there we are going to start you on a series of important Integrational Works.’
The Holistic Engineer’s voice had a slight accent that her ears couldn’t place.
Their sessions grew important. Her legs wanted to heal. Their sessions grew vital. Her legs wanted to heal. Their sessions grew more profound.
The Seasons rose and overcame. Her legs grew stronger. Her mind felt better; her thoughts moved sharper. The memories took their seat around her like the meaningful blanket to a newborn’s sleep.
‘Have you heard from your Daughter yet…?
The smile of the Holistic Engineer felt reassuring and knowing. They were sitting outside on a day that was commonly pleasant. The sunlight bathing their faces. She moved her long hair from her eyes as a kind breeze swept across her face.
Tremendous heat was biting into the palms of her hand. She allowed one hand to relinquish the tall, long bottle. A small, calm bag she lifted from the wheelchair’s slender side-compartment that held the notes and recommendations of her Holistic Engineer.
The notes and recommendations smelled like her Holistic Engineer, of cinnamon and warm butter.
When she had returned home from one of her times with her Father’s stable-hand (his voice made her thoughts ache; his scent was everywhere on her and she wanted her bed to wear him well into the days approaching), she found her Daughter sitting on the porch. She was cradling something that late nights enjoyed obscuring, or misshaping.
She placed her dry lips to the tall, long bottle’s end. The heat was sweet; the heat made her body tremble. Tremble like the way his touch would create new lines and coordinates that could only come from his countless experiences with horses.
He told her a wonderful story once.
‘The stars themselves…..’, he started and then built inside of her, ‘The stars that moves all around us exists to visit the dreams of horses as they sleep. If you look carefully into the eyes of the horse, you can hear everything there is. The stars were created to teach horses how to sing….’
His handsome, serene, alluring features were on the mind of her Daughter when the Sniper’s bullet shattered her Daughter’s beautiful face. Several weeks earlier, her Daughter had a most wonderful dream about her Grandfather’s stable-hand. When she awoke from this dream, she immediately felt his curious words given to her in the form of a song, crafted and known by Reason itself.
Her thumb moved over the bottle of Dox’s miniature Eye-Cap. With fierce determination, she hoisted the tall, long bottle of Year’s End to her lips. The syrupy heat unfurled battle flags along her throat. The campaign seeking the fortress of her stomach.
In the sudden thrust of realization, she stood on the porch observing the hands of her Daughter petting and soothing the blood-ridden fur of their cat. Her face filled with a calm, unspoken understanding radiating like the debris from a burning building.
The breath of her Father’s stable-hand tasted full on her lips as he spoke to her intently; his movements inside of her filled with the uncharted destiny of wild horses………
‘One man, one woman, Two Hearts More…..’
© 2010, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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