The Diachronic Barber Pole Observations of a Recovering Hockey Exile

Crypt and Puck III

February 6, 2012, by Homme De Sept-Iles

Crypt and Puck I
Crypt and Puck II
perhaps better to read them in the right order

Crypt and Puck III

Her face was heavier.  Copper sagged.  Her neck stiffened.

Iron waited.  And a jackal soothsayer.

The steps ended.

With it, language of the upper plates.

She’d descended nearly a year of stairs.  But time was uttered differently here.

She was copper limbs and torso now.

The puck was still in her pocket.

The cold was meaningless.

And the old scoreboard drew her.  She knew but it didn’t matter.  She knew why it was older than any man-object above.  And that things above were extensions, controlled by these sometime things below.  Buried here.  And elsewhere.

But she was here.  She was Copper.  And Iron shuffled slowly somewhere near.

Fourteen miles down, the sentry with long jackal muscles and a sheared face grin began its lope.

She knew.

The scoreboard was closer.  She stood still under it.  It jutted.  Its smashed countenance was a purposed, polished shape of its own.  Of wrecked millenia and memory though it was.

A different code echoed in her.  She remained still. The warped wood was something of this planet but much older than those above could know.

There were the great curves and letters.  Vocabulary of damned tree shards or leaf-water hope.  Those numbers slumbered, soft patternless blinking under nearly oaken closed eyes.  The word scoreboard was some other thought-entrail now.  All words.

She was a pure sunset metal colour.

And the flitter and spoof sentry was nearly near.

She waited for the old, blasted majesty above her to creak and turn.  Scoreboard.

Around her, a half-rink leered.  It was a cup, deep and it was an egg-circle, cold and large.

The scoreboard did crack and lean, finally and even as the sheared face appeared, a small loon light in the distance beyond the rink and board.

Iron wasn’t far.

And the jackal sentry smiled, its ancient yellow teeth, fraught powder and yellow clay under nature-made rubber lips.

There were no lights under here.

Some things proved light themselves.  And darkness wasn’t enough for eyes of these kind.

She saw the jackal sentry and absorbed the language of first woods above.

Her copper form turned to leave.

The jackal sentry lolled and paused for brief thought.

to be continued, Sheila

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