Through a still pool an oar cut gently, sending ripples too weak to bounce from distant walls. They touched pillars posted at the edge of a small flame which hung at the canoe’s cutting nose. Its tiny plume rose gently out of sight preserved, finding places beyond its light.
Ripples searched the other side, and found the same. Only ahead the darkness cracked, where more light spilled from above. At its center stood a figure, freed from a great slab. His beard reached his chest, braided in beads to match his hair. Wild of eye a lion choked within his arm.
In time the oar resumed. Around the one the next appeared, shrunk with distance. A speck, the falling light did grow, across the next figure captured there, between two pillars risen close. Bald he stood, chained and braced against the nervous pair.
After was a man, yes, but not quite so, with long snout and pointed ears to speak of something different. He looked elsewhere, a brutal staff gripped tight in hand. The canoe nearly met a pointing foot before setting to drift past.
At the dog’s back waited feathers, of a mantle wrapped round one with helm of horns, whose eye searched opposite a scar what no pair might. The wrinkled face tracked all before it, and held to what went swiftly out of sight.
Rings of crown wound over a lifted smile, above strings bent through dancing fingers. This one played to none, or nothing here, his gaze fixed to a height. But anger rested there, at the creased brow held in much strain.
From far it shone, a brilliant man toying his bow. Tall and slim he appeared, with arrow radiant to surpass what fell upon it. A loose clutch kept it from the pool, which caught the likeness proudly.
That light was long to dull, before a seat of boulders carved from stone. He who sat in earnest held a meal, and in his other hand a reaching offer. In robes, in a stare gentle as penetrating, was prescience in excess. The canoe seized, so odd was this humble scene amongst them.
Then on to more much as before. Long straight hair draped over a rounded table, and mighty sword thrust deep into it. Another knelt, stern of countenance with laurels and a coin about his feet. Curls held a strong stare, twisted in conflict if resolved, with gladius well gripped. Scepter and structure in his hands a bearded man ornately donned in armor stands united.
From a great pot a lively face stares grinning. Pinned against a block a head rests with conviction, by the axe. Things of the wood, flora and fauna skirt robes sitting atop a rock.
He cranes in study, and sketched there at the wall a perfect man. Records lay strewn across the floor about his feet, of myriad theory. A mushroomed hat holds hair rivaling beard.
Wildly a cape flows from arched shoulders under fingers pointing skyward. A horse raises beneath on bucking limbs, with chasing mane.
Pale in composition stands a figure, captured at a cliff in a dark smirk largely obscured for straight thin trails of hair. He steps with sword extended, in barbed armor behind a cloak.
The oar cut soft, passing from light to light. Broad is he, who crests a mound of flesh pierced with the blade whose pommel hides clutched in a fist. Beauty hangs at his feet, lain across carnage.
Wrinkles went from the canoe. The calm darkened, slowly, but never ceased, until it was just dark beyond the flame. Wind slashed at first, from on ahead, once, twice, and strong enough to slay the plume. Howling it filled the void, drawing all breath from any sight. The dark choked all, sending its wind which beat the waters.
Back, where a speck still shone a wave spun the canoe. ‘I must go back.’