Holy shit! We're back, with more of the random and not so random ranting we do. Today that ranting takes the form of another slap-dashing adventure of Brennan & Smythe, brought to us this week by the ramblings of a disturbed mind. Well, I mean this week and every other week.
The village was the starkest possible contrast to the grove surrounding it. The sinister stench and gruesome statuary encircled the most beautiful, peaceful village I've ever encountered. Lush gardens and clean, vibrantly decorated houses where happy goats and chickens stood guard. There where children dancing and singing, though they stopped abruptly at our intrusion. As the boy led us deeper into town adults started to gather in doorways, clapping each other on the back and smiling at us. At last we came to a great tree in what appeared to be the town square, carved like the ones that had warmed our welcome. It was every bit as handsome as they were grotesque. The wounded tree bore the shape of a stern old man's bearded face wreathed in waves. The putrid blush of the groves wood was replaced by a rich rosewood, carved that the man wept clear, golden sap.
Before the great tree stood a smiling elderly fellow in a brightly colored tunic who patted the boy as we approached. He welcomed us with songs and roasted meats and, over the course of an evening shared with us not just his plans to improve the lot of his people with the proposed rubber factory, but how he intended to expose the insidious Cult that had so long ruled the other villages of the island. The locals claimed that "The Lord of The Great Deep", whom the tree in the square was the likeness of, had taught them how to carve the perverse wood to protect themselves from the evil intents of their neighbors and their gods. The villagers showed us idols and icons, ritualistically defaced of course, that had been recovered from wars and raids past. A few we found uncomfortably familiar as old scars ached and protective tattoos hummed in recognition.
By the time the moon had risen, pale and pregnant against the black sky, the story that had led us here came into focus. Mr. Portfeld had been quite obviously attempting to fleece the villagers, so they took the opportunity to reverse the roles, whilst using the influx of foreign interest to illuminate the wicked doings on the island. I didn't share their optimism but, until Portfeld had disappeared in the night, they may have very well pulled it off. They had even managed to hold out some hope until Silas's defiled corpse had been found lashed to a tree outside of their protective grove. Our mystery had been solved, but I found I couldn't let it rest there.
No comments:
Post a Comment