Happy Friday one and all. I hope everyone had a great week and is anticipating a fabulous weekend. It is going to be a busy day today so let’s kick it off right with a writing prompt. Are you ready? then let’s begin.
I kind of like this one actually. Not sure where it is going, but it could be fun.
Friday, June 25th: The celebration had its roots deep in the past.
The celebration had its roots deep in the past. In fact it was so deeply rooted that most were unaware of the meanings of many of their symbols. They waved the first fronds from the Grolc tree in the air as they danced to the Moltav drums. One in every thousand realized that the fronds symbolized the rebirth of the ancient god Tolton. Even fewer realized that the steps they performed in the dance were part of an ancient form of ritual worship of that same god.
He watched from his perch in the tower as the crowds filled the streets, dancing, laughing and being joyous. It was the Spring Festival now. A celebration of the end of winter. Even though the mountains were still capped with snow and icy winds shivered down upon them, the grolc tree had unfurled the first of its fronds and new growth was beginning to push its way up through the still cold earth.
This winter had been harsh and long. It started early and crops were barely gathered before the heavy autumnal rains arrived. They were followed by the deepest snows on record and the coldest temperatures in the past hundred years.
It was a killing winter and death took a heavier toll than usual.
It was no wonder that spring was welcomed with such exuberant relief. Still it troubled him. He had lived a long time. Long enough to remember when Tolton was worshiped and the dances currently performed in the streets were considered secret rites. When the world collapsed with the arrival of the new comers, he left.
He lived many lives before then, realizing centuries before that death would not come to him as it did to others. He moved around so his unchanging face excited no comment. He saw the string of small communities grow into larger towns and the larger towns go to war with each other. He say the surviving towns grow to be cities and then city states. Still, there was a thread connecting them all. When the new comers arrived they wiped away all he knew. He was thought dead many times, and fought with those considered rebels by the newcomers until the last of the rebels were subdued.
Then he was given the choice to bow to change or leave. He chose to leave. There was nothing holding him here.
He was gone centuries. Time for the world to have changed greatly. He never planned to return, but circumstances were beyond his control. He had been in town three days, most thought he was here for the festival. He wandered a city he knew when it was a mere gathering of huts around the crossing of forest trails and marveled not at the changes, but of the vestiges of the past that poked through. They seemed to seep in around the corners. Many of them were given new names and ne reasons for being, but they were holdovers of things he once knew well. In a food stall he purchased a fretam roll. While some of the spices were strange, the basic taste and texture remained unchanged from the meal his mother once served him when he thought he was still a mortal.
Ten til Midnight 