Far below, the grey waves bashed monotonously against
the grey cliffs. Grey skies, grey water, grey mood – it all fitted the
skin-clad band, skins grey with wear and grime, standing glumly at the top,
looking at each other. Finally one spoke, one unassuming, not at all like a
leader, but with an authority in his voice that belied his appearance.
“Then we are all agreed. It is not yet time – this
place is not yet ready?”
The others nodded, slowly, and reluctantly.
“Very well. We know what that means: we see out these
lives, and join together again some time henceforth, in another time, another
life.”
One young male started weeping; another spoke with
anguish in his voice.
“These people, these lives, they’re so primitive! We
didn’t come back to …”
“I know”, the leader replied. “We came back to bring a
better life, and now we’re going to have to share their miserable existences,
share their … lack of hygiene” he sniffed with disdain “– of medicine. … We’ll
suffer their same risks and fears, and … eventually, we’ll die like them. And
then, we’ll be reborn – although we’ll be scattered to the winds, until the
time is right – really right, this
next time, and we’ll be together again, and ready to help lift this world into
a new light.”
The oldest there, an unkempt, grey-bearded figure,
shook his head and spoke:
“It’s such a shame, such a shame. All those thousands
of years – tens of thousands - of needless suffering and pain …”
“True, Alberr, but we cannot override their free will,
and the chance of abuse of our teachings is too close to certain. Do you want
to make the suffering and pain greater?”
Alberr shook his head, and their leader nodded.
“OK. You were all trained on this possibility. Now go!
Return to your tribes – we shall not see each other again in this lifetime, and
shall not see each other altogether for many thousands of years.”
Slowly, reluctantly, carrying their sorrows and fears
as best they could, the figures left, travelling in different directions, some
sharing part of the journey, pondering the years of risk and pain and turmoil
to come, none of them to die of old age.
And the world turned on, and they waited ...
(the poems Cro-Magnon and The Idea Whose Time Has Not Yet Come were written as part of me trying out ideas for this story, which I was originally, way back then, going to work up into a fuller length story.The genesis was a very vivid dream I had :) )
© Kayleen White, 2012 I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)
