The Hand Of Oberon

Steep and rocky now… The wind tugs at my cloak… Up… Up to where the rocks are streaked with silver and the trees have drawn their line… The grasses, green fires, die down in the rain… Up, to the craggy, sparkling, rain-washed heights, where the clouds rush and boil like a mud-gorged river at flood crest… The rain stings like buckshot and the wind clears its throat to sing… We rise and rise and the crest comes into view, like the head of a startled bull, horns guarding the trail… Lightnings twist about their tips, dance between them… The smell of ozone as we reach that place and rush on through, the rain suddenly blocked, the wind shunted away…

Emerging on the farther side… There is no rain, the air is still, the sky smoothed and darkened to a proper star-filled black… Meteors cut and burn, cut and burn, cauterizing to afterimage scars, fading, fading… Moons, cast like a handful of coins… Three bright dimes, a dull quarter, a pair of pennies, one of them tarnished and scarred… Down then, that long, winding way… Hoof clops clear and metallic in the night air… Somewhere, a catlike cough… A dark shape crossing a lesser moon, ragged and swift…

Downward… The land drops away at either hand… Darkness below… Moving along the top of an infinitely high, curved wall, the way itself bright with moonlight… The trail buckles, folds, grows transparent… Soon it drifts, gauzy, filamentous, stars beneath as well as above… Stars below on either side… There is no land… There is only the night, night and the thin, translucent trail I had to try to ride, to learn how it felt, against some future use…

It is absolutely silent now, and the illusion of slowness attaches to every movement… Shortly, the trail falls away, and we move as if swimming underwater at some enormous depth, the stars bright fish… It is freedom, it is the power of the hellride that brings an elation, like yet unlike the recklessness that sometimes comes in battle, the boldness of a risky feat well learned, the rush of rightness following the finding of the poem's proper word… It is these and the prospect itself, riding, riding, riding, from nowhere to nowhere perhaps, across and among the minerals and fires of the void, free of earth and air and water…

We race a great meteor, we touch upon its bulk… Speeding across its pitted surface, down, around, then up again… It stretches into a great plain, it lightens, it yellows…

It is sand, sand now beneath our movement… The stars fade out as the darkness is diluted to a morning full of sunrise… Swaths of shade ahead, desert trees within them… Ride for the dark… Crashing through… Bright birds burst forth, complain, resettle…

Among the thickening trees… Darker the ground, narrower the way… Palm fronds shrink to hand size, barks darken… A twist to the right, a widening of the way… Our hoofs striking sparks from cobblestones… The lane enlarges, becomes a tree-lined street… Tiny row houses flash by… Bright shutters, marble steps, painted screens, set back beyond flagged walks… Passing, a horse-drawn cart, loaded with fresh vegetables… Human pedestrians turning to stare… A small buzz of voices…

On… Passing beneath a bridge… Coursing the stream till it widens to river, taking it down to the sea…

Thudding along the beach beneath a lemon sky, blue clouds scudding… The salt, the wrack, the shells, the smooth anatomy of driftwood… White spray off the lime-colored sea…

Racing, to where the place of waters ends at a terrace… Mounting, each step crumbling and roaring down behind, losing its identity, joined with the boom of the surf… Up, up to the flattopped, tree-grown plain, a golden city shimmering, miragelike, at its end…

The city grows, darkens beneath a shadowy umbrella, its gray towers stretch upward, glass and metal flashing light through the murk… The towers begin to sway…

The city falls in upon itself, soundlessly, as we pass… Towers topple, dust boils, rises, is pinked by some lower glow… A gentle noise, as of a snuffed candle, drifting by…

A dust storm, quickly falling, giving place to fog… Through it, the sounds of automobile horns… A drift, a brief lift, a break in the gray-white, pearlwhite, shifting… Our hoofprints on a shoulder of highway… To the right, endless rows of unmoving vehicles… Pearl-white, gray-white, drifting again…

Directionless shrieks and wailings… Random flashes of light…

Rising once more… The fogs lower and ebb… Grass, grass, grass… Clear now the sky, and delicate blue… A sun racing to set… Birds… A cow in the field, chewing, staring and chewing…

Leaping a wooden fence to ride a country road… A sudden chill beyond the hill… The grasses are dry and snow's on the ground… Tin-roofed farmhouse atop a rise, curl of smoke above it…

On… The hills grow up, the sun rolls down, darkness dragged behind… A sprinkle of stars… Here a house, set far back… There another, long driveway wound among old trees… Headlights…

Off to the side of the road… Draw rein and let it pass…