Spitting At Eternity

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

The storm roils above me. Swirling icy chaos. But in all chaos, there is calculation.

“What are you playing at?”

My mutter goes unanswered but it won’t have been unheard.

I sigh and plant my staff more firmly. The rocks up here are slippery and slanted. And I’m too old for this shit. Should’ve had an apprentice twenty years ago. Or perhaps we should’ve given up on this island altogether. Left it to the chaos beasts. Fled for as long as it held their attention, however long it took them to smash and decay all order until nought remained but dust washing over rocks.

Legends claim that they’d have ground all the rocks down by now, if life hadn’t arisen to give them proper toys. Our very existence infuriates and fascinates them. We march against entropy fully aware it’s a fight we cannot win. It’s simply our nature.

Rather like it’s their nature to try and unwind anything which moves against that inexorable current.

We’ve done well here, considering. Most places have to give up and move every generation. Perhaps being so out of the way is what shelters us. Though it also makes fleeing more dangerous.

The scales tip one way and then the other…

Finally I reach the top of the mountain. The natural plateau was expanded and smoothed out to create an appropriate spot for the rituals. I groan with relief as the carpet drops from my back, taking a moment to stretch and wince before counting the pegs.

Fifteen. I alway pack spares.

Chaos beasts are darting closer now. Snatches of nihilistic whispers tease my ears.

“Yes, yes. I’m too old, you’re too powerful, nothing lasts, I might as well jump off. Honestly. For being forces of change you utterly lack creativity.”

Perhaps that’s another reason why they hate us. Our inherent order births remarkable change and shifts, whereas they are left blowing sand one way and then the other. Forever.

Setting their sneers aside I put the pegs in place, check the inscriptions carved deep by each hole, and get the first corner of the carpet fastened. All without untying the roll; you never leave it vulnerable like that.

Only once I’m confident that they can’t intercede (an estimate I suspect they share, given how the wind is spitting in my face) do I unwrap the carpet and swiftly fasten it down.

It is a thing of utilitarian beauty, the glyphs crisp and proud, the colours vibrant. Even after all these years I feel sorrow as I douse it in naphtha. How do the weavers produce such fine work knowing its a sacrifice? Perhaps they console themselves with the importance of what we’re sacrificing for.

The town is fully visible from here. Shrunken to a child’s toy, precarious and fragile.

I turn my gaze up to the swirling storm and plant my feet, then sketch FIRE in the air, the gesture of defiance redoubling their howls.

“One day, yes. But not today.”

Such is life.

Prompt was "But in all chaos, there is calculation….”