He Is Risen!


Behold!  On the top of a wind swept hill a lone tree stands.  It’s knots and gnarled limbs make it seem cancerous and dead, but some life still yet lingers.

Look!  There!  In the twigs and branches, dark green pokes through clumps of dust and decay.

Track down the base, where dark holes and cracked fissures house spiders and other vermin.  Past those, gnarled roots dive in and out of the cracked earth like worms.  Around them, gifts and offerings languish, coated in inches of dust.  Their wrapping papers are browning and brittle flakes.

One lone supplicant kneels at the base of the tree, a young boy, no older than fourteen.  Dressed in peasant’s garb, he gently rests a single beer against the largest of the roots.

“This land is suffering,” he whispers to the tree, “the crops fail, bandits raid our storehouses, and pretenders rise to claim the throne.”  He looks down at the ground and, even more quietly, “some even openly mock your name.  The peasants, they laugh at you, have spun you into myth and legend.  A mockery of what you once were.  A stain on your tapestry, glory defiled.  How I hate them.”

He sniffs.  A tear falls, wetting the dirt below.

“Why are you crying, peasant?”

The boy turns and sees a grizzled crone watching him.  She wears a black cloak and a hood pulled low over her eyes.  It obscures her face, but does nothing to hide her large, hooked nose.

“Who are you?”  The boy asks, wiping a tear away.

“I?  I am but an old crone, feeble and decrepit.  Why are you crying?”

“Our lord has left us.”

“Who is that?”

“The great one,” the boy’s eyes sparkle, “the Corn Goblin.”

The crone gives a knowing smile.

“Ah,” she cackles, “the corn goblin.  I have heard tales.  Where has he gone?”

“No one knows, but the land… the land is dying without him.”

“Then I have good news.”  The boy looks up.  Hope crosses his face for the first time in months.

“What?”

“He can return again.”

“How?

The Crone grins.  “You have come here to his altar.  You see it here.  It is dry.  It needs to be watered.”

“But there is a drought!  We barely have enough water for the wheat!”

“Foolish boy.  It doesn’t need water.”  The crone pulls out a long, grizzled knife, and grins again.

The boy stares at the knife for a long time.  He turns around from the hill, and looks back at the countryside.  It’s dusk now, and the lights of the farm houses and barns glitter prettily in the growing dusk.

Brown pervades.  Brown and black.  Rot and drought.  Death.

He feels the presence of the crone behind him.

He bows his head.

The knife’s steel is cold against his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I am him, and you are him.  We are but his creation.  This blog once served a purpose, but now… now it decays.  No longer.”

“I’m scared”

“Don’t be, for you aren’t even real.”

A tug scrapes the knife across his bones.  He falls.  His blood pools around the roots.

The roots suck it up.

On a branch, a dark crimson flower blooms.

The crone sees it, and smiles.

A green hand punches through the dirt.  The fingers clinch into a fist.

The crone’s face lights with adulation.

“He is risen!”

THUluIq

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4 Comments

  1. A rather dark metaphor, but so well written!

    Reply
  2. rosemeadow

     /  August 31, 2015

    A bit cheesy, but Monty Python would be amused .

    Reply
  3. I wondered..you were quite for quite a while. All hail the return of the #CornGoblin

    Reply

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