Wandering Spirit

I am called by a voice of olde,
a wandering Gusari spirit,
brought to the present by
Gypsi thoughts and such.
He walked the Varengian River routes
in the wake of the Golden Horde,
alone but never lonely --
and he would have found the Abbey,
might be just over tomorrow's hill.

papa
.................................................................
REEDS

Kiyan appeared lost in deep meditation. His corpulent frame crested the grassy hummock beneath his folded legs and his open hands rested upon his knees. His eyes were closed, but that may have been to shield from the glint of morning rays off the still waters of the marsh. His lips were parted as if in a sigh, the better to draw in the blend of sweet blossom perfume and the fetid waft of decay. His ears reached out to the cacophony of birdcalls, insect hum and scurried scratching of the small. But part of his yearning senses were wary of the possible approach of strangers. Not that they would not be welcome. After all, he had added damp wood chips to his cooking fire such that even now smoke rose finger- like to the low clouds. His sword, staff and fresh sapling now stood in a lashed tripod of welcome in the way of his ancestors. The partially drawn blade warned of preparedness, but also bade strangers to lay their own weapons within the stance and enter unafraid.
No one came.

This did not surprise the Gusari, as most preferred the longer road to Thuringia that avoided the unpredictable marshlands. Such a chosen passage across the barren steppes was quite and safe, but somehow devoid of life and awareness. This damp arena teamed with life, but danger too of snake and hidden bog. Also here were hidden areas of delight! “I would prefer to be alone here in adventure than in dreary companionship in the dust,” mused the aging knight. He marveled again how the Sanok River found birth in the high snows of the Alps to the west, tumbled in anger down impassable crevasse, slowed to pleasant feeding of small peasant worked fields, to die here in the marsh only 60 miles complete. But even here was found life anew. Succulent frog legs would provide a uniquely anticipated repast.

Kiyan was in no haste to arrive early for his meeting with the Landgrave. His time was better spent in prayerful appreciation here than in the squalling marketplace. True, the need was greater there, but occasionally he fed his own internal calling instead. “I do not have to pray alone,” he whispered aloud. "I will call upon the spirits of the wind.”

Near the camp grew a stretch of stiffened reed. Red reed they were called in response to varied rusty hues that hinted of unseen minerals in the earth. The strands seemed identical to the casual eye, but experience told that each was special in girth, wall thickness and flexibility. With practiced hand, Kiyan cut across the vertical grain with an angled slash of scramasax blade. The severed ends were quickly bound into a switch of spiny points. The afternoon breeze breathed warm in anticipation and growing intensity.

Each hollow reed became a flute that sang in pitch from moan to whistle, dependent on its special nature and drift of the wind. The switch beat and swished against shield, mailed mantle and buckskin thigh in mimicked rhyme. “Wee-oh-tick-whomp. Shish-woo-plock-ooh. Sheenickmooree.”

His is soul began to sing.