Post by Mirabella on Jun 6, 2011 13:45:18 GMT -5
She'd come at dusk; the sea's waves seemed to unfold at her approach and for a moment, all was silent. No noise from the tract of woods behind her, no mournful-sounding seabirds above her…only the rushing wind and water below the rock on which she stood. Swelling, coursing, thrashing perpetually against the black cliffs' jagged teeth, those waves were rich with rolling colors. Like a moving mosaic of deep blue and dark violet, they hissed and foamed out beyond the lip of the slick outcrop...the place to which she'd come to watch the night rise over the sea.
The serpentine stretch of beach glinting below rimmed an inlet no more than two or three miles across; a favorite haven for escape and one frequented since she could remember, this secret, sheltered place had harbored many tear-soaked fits of fury and many, many unsettling fogs of depression. Massive, dark, worn smooth by the rushing of countless tides, the rocky backdrop was both somber and inspiring. Whether resting in a leeward nest of wind-polished rocks or slipping down the one thin, snaking path to the beach below, she felt freer near the sea—freer and wilder and more in tune with those mysteries she’d heard of as a child.
Storms broke in that place. Imagination ran unbridled in that place. Red threads of fledgling magic trickled across sand and rock in that place. In fact, it was these little threads that had first called him to her secret beach, to her secret savage garden in which he now slept. He had come three summers prior—“called,” as he said—here, to a place where years and nights and winters ago she had burned candles and dreamed behind half-closed eyes. Now, he breathed deep there in sleep. And if she ventured too close, she suspected his pulse would persuade her to rouse him again.
And she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. Of all the things she'd found under wet rock and beach debris, he was the most interesting—the most puzzling and beautiful and, without a doubt, heartbreaking...
The serpentine stretch of beach glinting below rimmed an inlet no more than two or three miles across; a favorite haven for escape and one frequented since she could remember, this secret, sheltered place had harbored many tear-soaked fits of fury and many, many unsettling fogs of depression. Massive, dark, worn smooth by the rushing of countless tides, the rocky backdrop was both somber and inspiring. Whether resting in a leeward nest of wind-polished rocks or slipping down the one thin, snaking path to the beach below, she felt freer near the sea—freer and wilder and more in tune with those mysteries she’d heard of as a child.
Storms broke in that place. Imagination ran unbridled in that place. Red threads of fledgling magic trickled across sand and rock in that place. In fact, it was these little threads that had first called him to her secret beach, to her secret savage garden in which he now slept. He had come three summers prior—“called,” as he said—here, to a place where years and nights and winters ago she had burned candles and dreamed behind half-closed eyes. Now, he breathed deep there in sleep. And if she ventured too close, she suspected his pulse would persuade her to rouse him again.
And she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. Of all the things she'd found under wet rock and beach debris, he was the most interesting—the most puzzling and beautiful and, without a doubt, heartbreaking...