ichigaara
11-11-2007, 10:50 AM
The photographer stopped for a few minutes. He looked at the old, ramshackle house with an insecure feeling.
He saw that since his same time (the time that passed since he stopped to look at that house) a few peasants were also watching him.
He turned his head into a way which inspired him insecurity. The peasants had misplaced faces, quite confused. They were dirty and smelled like mud, but this was because they have just come from the salt mines, a little down the hill, from the village.
The photographer sighed. He was in the middle of nowhere, and he felt like writing a book about the southern states of the USA?! It was pure madness! He was a photographer, not a writer!
The house in front of him had almost become a ruin. It was once an inn, as he had heard, an inn which belonged to a man called Clive Sheenan.
His grandmother told him a lot of stories about this village, Credence, but he never could believe his eyes that after more than 50 years, the village had passed through a heavy war such as the one in '39.
Yes. Credence was still there. Still surviving... or maybe not... but it was still there. That was important.
When he looked behind him, the peasants weren't there anymore. They had disappeared.
The photographer looked around him quite confused.
Then, he bumped fakery:
'You’re a fool, man! You’re dreaming! There have been many years since then. You were still a kid...'
Suddenly, he stood silent. A cold breeze was felt around. It whipped his face gently. He had the impression that he had heard steps...
The dead garden in front of the old house seemed to have lifted its leaves and roots. The ground was heard pierced by the roots.
The photographer watched everything mutely.
Behind the hill, there was a cemetery. It sheltered all the villagers.
The breeze of a corpse was felt in the air. Then, the photographer looked towards the road from which he saw those peasants.
There was a shadow... a shadow grabbing life... it had come towards him... the dress was gamboling on its way to the photographer.
The man turned stupefied. It must've been a phantom. A hollow... she had a pale face, wearing a crown of rose-spines on the white forehead, wrinkled by threads of blood. She had wide eyes, golden and bright. They often changed into a reddish or blue-green color. The photographer thought that this was the way the light of the sun hit her eyes.
Her dress was from a black, delicate, transparent, light silk, which revealed the perfect forms of a young body which wasn't even of 16. Her walk seemed to have had a slight rhythm, but precise. She looked straight ahead and something told the photographer that everything would've stepped aside from her way. In absence of her dark dress, she would've been void.
Her long, playful hair was dancing in the cold wind.
She wore chains at her ankles. Chains through which the flesh was often torn apart. The look on her face had told him that she sinned through suicide. Her fingers were half hidden under silk; darken gloves, with delicate lace.
She stopped at a few considerable steps away from the photographer. He looked at her silently.
'So, you have come...' she whispered. 'After all these years, you have come at last...'
It was all he could hear. His mind refused afterwards to believe that he was talking to a phantom, a girl who had died almost 50 years ago... yet, and a part of his mind, mixed with his fine manners made his mouth open and get out sounds which took the shape of words:
'Yes, of course I came! Did you think I would loose my time on other things than my village of birth?! And who are you?'
She didn't smile. Her eyes turned from golden, as they were before, into a pale reddish color, like blood from her forehead.
'You should know better... this house was mined... who am I...?'
'You're Sheen an, aren't you?'
The photographer finally made the choice of speaking to this hollow as if it were a normal person. That made him feels somewhat relaxed. Suddenly, he came up with a word which he had forgotten long ago, at the time when he was indeed just a young boy of only 6 or 7. He remembered it because... yes, of course... he remembered it because he had remembered the girl...
'Hello, Beowulf...'
She drew her pale face down.
'I didn't think you'd remember, boy... I used to call you boy... peasant kind, you were... never laid a hand to help your father...'
'I did in the end. Father died in peace'
The photographer answered that in an arrogant way.
She smiled vaguely:
'Are you certain...? Boy...?'
He startled:
'You’re calling me a liar?!'
'No... I am not calling you a liar... boy... just a fool who speaks to the dead...'
He saw that since his same time (the time that passed since he stopped to look at that house) a few peasants were also watching him.
He turned his head into a way which inspired him insecurity. The peasants had misplaced faces, quite confused. They were dirty and smelled like mud, but this was because they have just come from the salt mines, a little down the hill, from the village.
The photographer sighed. He was in the middle of nowhere, and he felt like writing a book about the southern states of the USA?! It was pure madness! He was a photographer, not a writer!
The house in front of him had almost become a ruin. It was once an inn, as he had heard, an inn which belonged to a man called Clive Sheenan.
His grandmother told him a lot of stories about this village, Credence, but he never could believe his eyes that after more than 50 years, the village had passed through a heavy war such as the one in '39.
Yes. Credence was still there. Still surviving... or maybe not... but it was still there. That was important.
When he looked behind him, the peasants weren't there anymore. They had disappeared.
The photographer looked around him quite confused.
Then, he bumped fakery:
'You’re a fool, man! You’re dreaming! There have been many years since then. You were still a kid...'
Suddenly, he stood silent. A cold breeze was felt around. It whipped his face gently. He had the impression that he had heard steps...
The dead garden in front of the old house seemed to have lifted its leaves and roots. The ground was heard pierced by the roots.
The photographer watched everything mutely.
Behind the hill, there was a cemetery. It sheltered all the villagers.
The breeze of a corpse was felt in the air. Then, the photographer looked towards the road from which he saw those peasants.
There was a shadow... a shadow grabbing life... it had come towards him... the dress was gamboling on its way to the photographer.
The man turned stupefied. It must've been a phantom. A hollow... she had a pale face, wearing a crown of rose-spines on the white forehead, wrinkled by threads of blood. She had wide eyes, golden and bright. They often changed into a reddish or blue-green color. The photographer thought that this was the way the light of the sun hit her eyes.
Her dress was from a black, delicate, transparent, light silk, which revealed the perfect forms of a young body which wasn't even of 16. Her walk seemed to have had a slight rhythm, but precise. She looked straight ahead and something told the photographer that everything would've stepped aside from her way. In absence of her dark dress, she would've been void.
Her long, playful hair was dancing in the cold wind.
She wore chains at her ankles. Chains through which the flesh was often torn apart. The look on her face had told him that she sinned through suicide. Her fingers were half hidden under silk; darken gloves, with delicate lace.
She stopped at a few considerable steps away from the photographer. He looked at her silently.
'So, you have come...' she whispered. 'After all these years, you have come at last...'
It was all he could hear. His mind refused afterwards to believe that he was talking to a phantom, a girl who had died almost 50 years ago... yet, and a part of his mind, mixed with his fine manners made his mouth open and get out sounds which took the shape of words:
'Yes, of course I came! Did you think I would loose my time on other things than my village of birth?! And who are you?'
She didn't smile. Her eyes turned from golden, as they were before, into a pale reddish color, like blood from her forehead.
'You should know better... this house was mined... who am I...?'
'You're Sheen an, aren't you?'
The photographer finally made the choice of speaking to this hollow as if it were a normal person. That made him feels somewhat relaxed. Suddenly, he came up with a word which he had forgotten long ago, at the time when he was indeed just a young boy of only 6 or 7. He remembered it because... yes, of course... he remembered it because he had remembered the girl...
'Hello, Beowulf...'
She drew her pale face down.
'I didn't think you'd remember, boy... I used to call you boy... peasant kind, you were... never laid a hand to help your father...'
'I did in the end. Father died in peace'
The photographer answered that in an arrogant way.
She smiled vaguely:
'Are you certain...? Boy...?'
He startled:
'You’re calling me a liar?!'
'No... I am not calling you a liar... boy... just a fool who speaks to the dead...'