Dance of the Masks
By Kevin Lindsey
Mist. It always starts with mist. The world is fuzzy at the edges with the wet vapor.
Gossamer tendrils lick across the surface of the lake as he looks through the branches of a bush. It's fat green leaves brush his face as he pokes his head through a thin patch hoping to catch a glimpse of her. No word, no sound, he must be as quiet as the smoky wisps at the water's edge.
She stands alone in the water. Always the same she. Dark skin beads with water and her long chestnut hair clings to her wet body. The dripping shift she wears has turned translucent, and he can clearly see her large brown nipples standing erect against the fabric. The curve of her hips called to him. She turns her head and her dark green eyes star straight into the bush where he is hiding and he knows that the she can see him. The eyes pierce him, stir him with a small warm rush.
That's all there is to the dream. The dream never changes. He never changes. Qarl is 12 in the dream, thin as a reed, all arms and legs with an unruly mop of black hair. He is wearing nothing more than a breachclout. Yet he doesn't feel naked. He feels right.
Was it a truly a dream or a memory? Qarl doesn't know anymore. The fires of the masters had purged his memories and made him one with his masked brothers. That's what the priests of Jah'l told him and it was true. Besides his name, he did not remember anything about his life before the dance.
By Kevin Lindsey
Mist. It always starts with mist. The world is fuzzy at the edges with the wet vapor.
Gossamer tendrils lick across the surface of the lake as he looks through the branches of a bush. It's fat green leaves brush his face as he pokes his head through a thin patch hoping to catch a glimpse of her. No word, no sound, he must be as quiet as the smoky wisps at the water's edge.
She stands alone in the water. Always the same she. Dark skin beads with water and her long chestnut hair clings to her wet body. The dripping shift she wears has turned translucent, and he can clearly see her large brown nipples standing erect against the fabric. The curve of her hips called to him. She turns her head and her dark green eyes star straight into the bush where he is hiding and he knows that the she can see him. The eyes pierce him, stir him with a small warm rush.
That's all there is to the dream. The dream never changes. He never changes. Qarl is 12 in the dream, thin as a reed, all arms and legs with an unruly mop of black hair. He is wearing nothing more than a breachclout. Yet he doesn't feel naked. He feels right.
Was it a truly a dream or a memory? Qarl doesn't know anymore. The fires of the masters had purged his memories and made him one with his masked brothers. That's what the priests of Jah'l told him and it was true. Besides his name, he did not remember anything about his life before the dance.
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