Simply Saturday: A Chapter Summary of The Butterfly Fields

Alone in the fortress, the dampness of the stones seep into the bones. The whole of the world lies just beyond the window ledge, yet my flesh cannot carry the bones away from this dreadful place.

The whole of the world. The very thing which has brought me asunder into this dwelling of darkness. Oh that I had not followed that which was not mine to have. Oh that all the times and occasions of life had not lead me down this trecherous path. Yet, here am I...alone.

The world carries on as though there were no gardens of regret planted on every hill and in every dale along the roadside. It carries on as though the Baal fires had never once burned upon the hillsides...as though the frenzied dances had never occured. How is it the world knows not of the misfortune lying in wait for those who have traveled this road into the abyss of nothingness?

Sleep shall not come to those who have traveled to the road's end. There is naught in the world but a endless writhing in pain and anguish...dreaming in the wake of a light that shines in the far off distance. This light with neither source nor end. Oh had I only stayed as she had begged with me all those years ago. Had my heart not been consumed with selfish desires, the Butterfly Fields would not lie in ruin. She would not be held captive in the arms of he who has imprisoned her in that which is not love, but deceit.

Her tender flesh would not be encased in the iciness of the longing for that which has not been seen in the lowlands for many a year. A longing for that which has not been seen since I had taken my leave, nay, since my abandonment. She reigns her lands with a heart of stone, as is common in the lowlands. She reigns without compassion...without mercy. Her loyal subjects, such as they are, carry out her wishes without question. They fear he who has captured her heart, and rules her mind.

What is this I have done? Is there naught that I can do to turn back the hands of time to the place where my journey had begun? If only the creek which leads to home would flow with laughter as it had when games and adventure were afoot. If only the Great River would feed the fields of grain as it had in the days of Seanmhathair's youth. If only the canyons would release the wild game which once roamed upon the rocky hills. If only...if only the Butterfly Fields were once again filled with the light and laughter of our days as children. What? What is this thing I have wrought upon the land, the village of my clan? Can they ever forgive me? Can I ever forgive myself? Nay, there is no forgiveness...from them, or from me.

As I have done, so too has been done unto me. My family has abandoned me. Left me to wander alone in the darkness, no longer welcome at the fires of Baal...no longer welcome in the circle. My clan has turned their faces away. They no longer recognize my visage. They no longer desire to engage in my conversation. They rightfully lay the blame for all that has been wrought upon them at the feet of the betrayer; at my feet.

The only hope for redemption lies in the center of the village, within the walls of the Daoine Realta. There is no way to find the path which leads to redemption. There is no one to lead the way through the wilderness. My only comfort comes from he who has stood by me from the beginning of this journey, the one who bears the wisdom to see that which cannot be seen. His daily knock upon my fortress door brings a comfort I have ne'er known. He speaks words of wisdom as though somehow he has discerned the very wisdom of the Daoine Realta; as though he has entered the walls and reaped all there is to glean from such a place.

I know not how this can be. There has ne'er been a single na hÉirean allowed beyond the gates of the Daoine Realta walls. He has not even the slightest likeness to that of a na hÉirean. When has it been he would have had chance for such an oppotunity. Nay, he is but a learned man with much wisdom and nothing more than this. How could it be more? There is naught in this world that has not been destined to occur. I have ne'er seen such a contenance such as his within the village. Yet, he bears a familiarity. Something or someone I should recall. There is naught to be done now, but to wither into the nothingness which I have become, only with the comforting words of one such as he. At the end of it all for me, there is naught to anticipate but the earth which shall cover the flesh and bones of this shell, the soul long departed.

Fractured Friday: Ten Thousand Hands Project

It was Saturday and James had been working in the chapel for several hours, since the early morning. He was nearly finished with the elevated flooring, and about to pound another nail, when a strong hand came down on his shoulder. Dropping the hammer to the floor with a clatter, James jerked around to see the face attached to the hand. 

A large man in his late forties, with an unkempt head of wiry gray hair and beard, peered down at him with sparkling blue eyes. His checkered, button down shirt, with a torn pocket, was covered with dirt. His crumpled khakis bore stains of food from several meals, spotting them from waist to cuff. He wore his brown loafers with srtark white socks.
“Freddy. My name is Freddy.” The man said with a broad smile that revealed missing front teeth – top and bottom.

James rose to his feet wiping his hands on his faded blue jeans. “Nice to meet you, Freddy,” he said reaching for Freddy’s hand.

Freddy emanated a light air about him with a true joyousness in his spirit. “Can I help you with that?  I don’t know a lot about carpentry, but I know the son of a carpenter. Used to hang out with him a lot back in the day. We helped his dad build boats, boxes, and buildings when he needed the extra hands.”

James smiled at Freddy and handed him the hammer from the floor. “Sure, I need all the help I can get. If you have questions just ask.”

James and Freddy laughed and joked through the rest of the morning stopping only to have lunch in the dining room with the rest of the homeless population. They sat at the table and as they ate Freddy began to speak.

“You know, I heard once that ‘where God builds a church, the devil builds a chapel next door’, what do you think about that?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that Freddy, but I don’t think that is so much true, in that it’s not the devil, himself, but people influenced by evil ways.”

“Well, I think it is true. I think that the devil is working his way through this place, and he’s not gonna stop until he has every last one of us on a chain.”

The conversation was getting a little weird and deep for James after expending all of his energy in the morning, nailing boards together and measuring for the carpet that would need to be laid overtop.  He was tired and his mind was not anywhere near the realm of philosophical or theological topics, but he asked anyway, “What do you mean by that, Freddy? What place? The shelter?”

“If only it was just the shelter. No, James, I mean this whole city. Nobody seems to care about anything, or anyone anymore.  It’s so devoid of all hope. Even the rich bastards that go to your church are feeling it. You’re feeling it too. You can’t deny it.”

What Freddy had said was very true. James was definitely feeling it, and was aware of the complete lack of care and concern in the community.  He felt it everyday with an increasing sense of despair in his own heart.  He prayed hard every day and night for understanding, strength of faith, and courage of spirit, but it never seemed to come.  He was slowly being worn down to a shell of the man he was in Los Angeles.  Los Angeles, the City of Angels.  How he missed her.

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Today's Fractured Friday is an excerpt from 'The Ten Thousand Hands Project', a work in progress.