Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

VIII

Once more, crimson skies.

Blues are dominated by the blushing reds of sunset, the burning color drifting across the scape in a frayed manner, like the first drops of blood from a wound. The clouds catch fire and, set alight, burn the surrounding sky with their reflective silver linings. The holes in between, even in the portions of blue, are given a faint red glow, and the puffy white clouds are like a bandage, holding it together, just barely managing to keep it from bursting. The fiery light begins in the west, where a great disc begins its final descent.

Below the scarlet skies are verdant plains, broken up by bold mountains, though the mountain of color and many spires is no longer in sight. They are jagged, like sharp claws coming from the earth, slowly covered in rock and sand by the wind. At the bases, the fields of green make their approach, but are stopped short, disappointingly, in favor of a tan grey. The light of sunset tints these colors as well, making most of the plains seem aflame, and giving the mountains a cast of iron.

Running between the peaks is a small stream, cutting with time’s sharp razor through the mountains, and forming a winding pathway, which is easy enough to follow, and scenic enough to resemble a wonderful dream, running on at a continuous, quiet tempo to some far-off lake. A whole mountain range made merely as a pathway, all to sit still in a lake somewhere, or perhaps the ocean. The ocean is greater. One ocean sees many coasts, while a lake meets only one. A single ridge comes into focus in the foreground, over which can be seen the sun’s descent behind a far-off point. The backs of the mountains now seem an odd cast, unstruck by the full fire of sunset, left to their true colors, now unnatural. The passionate rays strike out, though it is not a reciprocal passion that fuels the sun.

On the far left of the ridge grows a small sapling, somewhat parched, unable to drink from the waters far below, but still blooming well with leaves. They are blown by a short gust, and the small tree leans just a bit, carried softly by the breath. Many shrubs also dot the ridge, more accustomed to the conditions, growing their small leaves in abundance, thriving on what little they have, waiting for the morn’s drops of dew to sustain them for the next day, and in the meantime surviving, merely surviving. The rest of the ridge is of stone, unmoving, unyielding, infertile. The rocks are painted a conspicuous red – once more – by the sunset.

The wayfarer sets up a bundle of blankets on a particularly large and smooth rock; large enough to sleep on, it seems. His body is bent over, head lowered down, teeth on the edge of a blanket, just in the middle of removing the last few folds. His eyes, however, are set on the mare. She sits down calmly, gazing as well as she can near the sunset, hoping to remember its beauty by the mere outlines, though she knows she must shield her eyes soon. How well her dark curls catch the crimson rays, how bright her smile is. She must be inspired, he thinks. She is truly remarkable when she is inspired.

What a sad light it is. It shines so brightly that it cannot accept a gaze, like a self-conscious beauty. Is it intended to shine so boldly? Is it a choice? Surely it wants her to see. Perhaps if she sees the color, she would understand its shine. She would understand the value of luster.

But it shines too bright. As always, the sun shines only for the sun. No other, no lesser. It enjoys the adoration, yet cares no more for the voices and thoughts of those on the planet than it cares about the specks of dust it illuminates in old buildings, or the cobwebs it marks gold, or the ice that it melts. Still, it casts its rays over the scene, hoping to glean a last bit of adoration before travelling to another space, for the cheer of its observers. It moves on and leaves only the moon and the stars. Only.

The couple feels the glow. Despite apathy, the sun has let it bloom just a bit more, a bit stronger. It leaves a soft smile on the artist’s face, and it drives the wayfarer to nothing but joy in his sacrifice. He loves the sunset, and is glad that she finds a similar happiness in it.

She feels the warm rays on her coat, a last burn before departure. It infuses her with more hope for tomorrow. There is life all about this stallion. She might paint him, if only to learn him, to discover what colors he is made of. There is much that can be seen when one models. They model not what they are, but what they want to be. They idealize themselves before they can pose, so much so that a good artist can see where their longing lies. The better artists can paint them as they are regardless, with their true colors. The models often do not appreciate it. Strange how many do not appreciate who they are, even though it is their own choice. Perhaps they think themselves to be weak, flawed.

He feels the cold breeze, and shivers not of the present cold, but in anticipation for the cold to come. He will love travelling with her. He loves it already. Although she speaks little, he enjoys silence long before conversation. She merely saves her words for when they matter. He appreciates that, and is perhaps even jealous of the trait. She has a brilliant shine, made even stranger by her dull coat. Could others, too, see it? Is she aware of it?

How many seek to attain the sun’s brilliance. How many are satisfied without.