Antiphony Between Recording Angels

" I see that the night is falling rapidly."

"Yon Architect is stacking his winter fuel!  May it be a blessing to him, for sooth, Friend!  For the season is drear indeed.  The year has turned again on its ancient axle." 

❄

"Having neither wife nor bairn, he must suit himself!"

❆

"Mankind is a weary beastie, indeed, Friend.  His work and striving is never ending!  Observe his struggles!  He gathers his food from I know not where.  He cannot fly. He moves about in a strange arcane contrivance on wheels.  He is weak, though perhaps wise.  He must have fire."

❅

(Cacophony of laughing is heard,

almost sounding like jeering.)

❄

"Soon the snow will come, Brother."

❆

(The architect sighs and stands upright.  He stretches his back.  He removes his gloves and stuffs them in the pockets of his older jacket. His hat still on his head, he hops into the driver's seat of his pickup, starts it up and drives it to its normal parking place further down the driveway.  The load is unloaded and stacked.)

*

❅

"Come dawn, he will go ariding with his gun. Let us follow and see

what he will do, and who he will meet."

(Some Little Ones in green velvet are watching.)

*

(Into his house the architect goes.  Many lights are lit.  He makes a fire.  The house begins to radiate warmth and light.  He is heard to play music.  He makes a fine meal of venison and onions.  To his worthy bed he goes, whispering his prayers as he falls asleep.)

"Wake ye, all.  A brisk morning is upon us all,

Man and beast and bird.

The Little Ones do as they wish, for I know not

if, indeed, they sleep at all!"

*

(The architect comes out his front door, coated, hatted, and booted, rifle in hand.  He has a bag with him also.  He scans the sky and grins to himself.  It is a warm day for January.  A good day for a long wander into the woods. )

(He drives out into the country side.  He walks a mile or five and he is a little tired now.  He finds a dry fallen log and has a nice sit, opening his bag and drawing out the sandwiches and the bottle of tea.  He eats and is content.  

Our man is no respecter of Little Ones at all.  This they know.)

⚔ 

A wicked, cruel, ensorcelling breeze begins to blow.  It smells of love and loss and spicy sweetness.  The architect tries to remember, and as he searches his heart, his eyelids droop.....

Many are the eyes upon him as he lies stretched upon his log.  His rifle falls from the lax hand.

There is laughing at his expense.  The Little Ones contrive a plan.  They dance, for faeries do dance.

"Come let us confound this mortal as we may!" A bag of miry clay is brought forth and a wee white flower.  Small strong hands pack the barrel with clay.  Snickering, they push the flower's stem down the same barrel.  Then the dream begins to blow away.)

💀

(Our man awakes and sits up. He doesn't know why he fell asleep here in the deep forest.  A whiff of dream tugs at his mind, and is forgotten. He gathers up his bag and his rifle and begins the long walk back to his parked pickup, down by the highway.)

*

"Let us give ourselves over to mercy Brother!

These Little Ones go too far!

Should he find need to fire,

he may be killed!"

*

"Yes, Friend, they exceed their right.  This is sin.  Let us fly over and see if there is not a remedy."

(Two ravens fly above him.  Circling, they call in their harsh voices. Down they fly, and then upward.  Once again, and again.  Over and over they fly around the architect.

They seem agitated.  Something seems wrong.  They fly toward his face, calling and calling!  The sound echoes among the tall evergreens.

Now, he is not a stolid man.  He is a curious fellow.  He looks about himself.  He glances at the forest floor.  It seems ok.  He checks his boots.  He sees that he still has his bag from lunch.  He looks at his rifle. Oh!  There is a little white flower hanging from the barrel!  Why?  What can this mean he wonders. And then he sees the clay. Oh!)

!!!

"Brother, all is well.  We may fly home now. 

The man is spared.

And we have done a mercy to him."

*

"In truth we have.  Let him go to his house in peace. Let him clean his gun. Let him say his prayers in quiet and be thankful.  For through our eyes the great ONE who sees all, has blessed him this day!"

❤

So then, nevermore call the great black bird a harbinger of sorrow.  For he may be a gift of God to you.  He sees all as he flies, and he gives consideration to mercy.

Though he be a spy, praise him.