This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: ‘no’ – by itself, as part of a word, or a number post, because no. = number.
I missed exploring the stream-of-consciousness waters last week. I was away with the kids, visiting friends who live a five hour drive from us, with a side trip to the Museum of Natural History in New York City. Eventually, I’ll download my camera, and share some of the yum. But, for now, I’ve got an excerpt, freshly written, from my CampNaNoWriMo novel, A Rising Tide. I introduce you to…
Caution: Rated R post today. Suggestive themes.
Again he sees them, in the water. Water, in the water, with Wilma, face to face, forehead to forehead, whispering secrets in their ferny grotto place. Sees them bathing one another, caressing, hands on breasts. Even now, with the trickster playing with his life, gnarling fingers and legs, the thought of those four hands and four breasts stirs him, and his hand goes to the front of his trousers, before he remembers the unnatural shadowy wrongness of what he had seen, and refuses to give the trickster the pleasure of knowing he could be so tempted.
Wilma. The trickster in his life. Always with the smiling, and the laughing. Always the hundred-snake hair whipping about when she laughed. Wasn’t there something, some Greek myth – Medusa? Was that it? Snakes for hair, and could turn a man to stone if it looked at him? Or was it a pillar of salt? No, that one came from the Bible, didn’t it?
She was a trickster. She thought to distract him into trying to name her, so that she could confuse his mind, so that he wouldn’t learn where she had brought him, where he was, or how to get back home, to the welcome embrace of stone. Now, he would even settle for Water’s stony silence; it would be an embrace of another type, but even more welcome, if he could but find his way home with his peace offerings, and have the time he needed, alone in their bed, with their door closed against the trickster Water said must live with them. Time. And touch.
Without the walls of the canyon, or the flat scrub of the desert, he knew not which way to go, not at first. But there was a path that ran along as though it would chase that ribbon of strange flat blue-green water, and from here, it tracked off into wild places.
The trickster had gnarled his legs. Maybe she thought him too crippled now for wild places. Yes. She meant to force him to the path, where she could watch. How she could watch, and still be with Water, he didn’t know. No, there was no need to know. That, too, was a trick.
All meant to sway him to the path, where he could be watched. But even with gnarled bowed legs, and no horse or mule to carry him, he was still Young Antelope. He’d forgotten; she’d made him forget, with her gnarling trickery. But now he remembered, and he wouldn’t be tricked or watched again.
Young Antelope turned from the path, careful to step only in those places where his feet would leave no mark, and began to descend to a sheltered ledge below.
He might find a snake hidden along this path, preparing for the coming storm. But, so long as they weren’t in hundreds on Wilma’s shadowy head, they would be only natural things, things he understood the nature of better than he did this strange Outside place, tiny living horses, gnarled legs, and flat lands.
Young Antelope found his way to the lower, sheltered path, and, after assuring himself that there were no snakes here, settled on creaking gnarled haunches to decide what he would do next, and to keep a watch lest the trickster Wilma came for him.