I am an aboriginal being. I come from quitea distance, actually. My mother brought me here in her automobile. It’s big,this city, a labyrinth of leaden streets, winding this way and that.
The elderly man, sitting opposite the brownboy noted these odd utterances, shaking his head, admiring the fluidity of thechild’s speaking (for one does not tend to speak English in The Saway);glittering rays smile over the huts, the stream trickles on, nothing bites atthe soul more than the hard antithesis between two worlds: the status struggleof the city and the tranquil serenity of the countryside. For that, Gregorycould account for.
I want to help. I can change things – stalewords. Stale, cold, undeniably false words. I know where the power lies, whatreally lies beneath the silt of the world; but they had after all brought thisupon themselves, it was their transgressions, their obstinacy which evoked thetar of the soul, the Maelstrom. Twisting and untwisting, the pale blue smoke,inhaled by the darkbeaters palpitates around the room. Mr Clark seems to beunaware and continuous looking on with admiration at the wonderfully rare,bronzed child in front of him.
Of course, of course, Gregory. His eyes,mismatching, both light brown, but the left, spiced with yellow flecks, staredahead, statuary and determined; this is the Son of the Souls, thought Mr Clark,scribbling a conclusion conveying the maturity and conscientiousness of theboy. He was glad that the youthappreciated the severity of the situation, for he was their only hope.
They stood, exchanging handshakes, theyoungster managing a smile through the air of hefty silence, tentativelyretrieved the satchel and left.
Copyright © JRFB 2012
Copyright © JRFB 2012
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