The Oracle's Prologue
In the days of scrivening, a frosty morning near the river, the Oracle of the Wood begins our journey with an account of his own mysterious origins.
Book One: Sight Out of Time
This is the very beginning of the entire Eyes of the Oracle Series.
[This series is rated “Mature” for thematic elements, sensuality, and violence.]
_+ in the days of scrivening, a frosty morning near the river
All names are forgotten, and the tears of the world tear down your monuments.
Death is inevitable as the soul is surely immortal.
Children’s children’s children will dance on your bones.
That is all I know for sure.
Though, no folk believe the Truth or dare to profess it but me. Thus, Nature hides from herself. Folk say I hide in the wood, afraid of their pitchforks and torches. My location is widely known by every midwife and herbalist from the cities to the hamlets. They hide from me in their judgement and muttering of madman of the wood beneath their breath. They disbelieve that I was not born here, but awoke naked and blank on the forest floor to the kiss of shedded leaves on my body, naught to my person but a piece of lazuli in my hand the size of a peppercorn. I never lie, and yet, they refuse to believe. So, what use is it to folk if I strive to undo the words of my mouth from the knots of riddle? In this life, they have forgotten the language of Soul, poor sprigs of the Infinite. On the very emerging edge of Destiny, there is no pity or cushion—it is all blind, dark, and sharp before the Circle takes you to the Next Place.
My truth (which I suppose you could call beginning) is that I found myself in this thick and ancient wood. She is quiet and breathing, most generous to have accepted me as one of her own. She has always felt safe since the moment I awoke without a memory of how I arrived. I have asked her many times how a full-grown young man with a precious pebble in his hand came to appear in her belly so suddenly. She has never answered, and I have stopped asking. It is enough that she has allowed me to use her body for shelter, food, and raiment. It is enough that I have lived through mid-age without severe illness or injury. It is enough that I know just enough for the to-and-fro of the life I live at the moment. It is enough.
Perhaps my previous identity was cleared so that I could, as I do, remember all other facets of time. No matter. I will not labor in vain to explain myself to you. It is not germane to the purpose of this artifact. What matters is for you to understand that my memory is like the flowing water of this river before me, in that she carries memory of her ascent to the sky, her fall from heaven to the mountains of the south, and her journey past my feet to the Middle Sea as if one moment. What we call different forms is still herself; what you call different time is one time to me. Constantly, the river babbles to me of her destiny—to make the journey endlessly, as forest after forest germinates and sheds, as little critters break nuts for their babies and folk break off more of the mountain to replace the castles that had come before. The river tells me, the season of castles is coming to an end. To this end, I write this artifact.
Eyes of the Oracle: Sight Out of Time © 2021 kmCarter (Krista M. Carter) all rights reserved. Properly-attributed quotes of less than 200 words (print, digital, etc.) may be used for criticism, reporting, or sharing to social media. Direct Message for media, publication, or collaboration inquiries.
