He measured the underpass of the blue manor, trying to fit in through a beaten hole; curtailed by everything he had passed through - sharpened ends of shred planks; nail-like stones withstand everything with a pitch dark aura of the tube place.
The other end concealed by heights of the surrounding wall revealed a spectacle that pursued amazement and nausea. Poles, rolled with pointed chicken wires brightened the surroundings through the dresses hanging were of greens and oranges. The sky and wind conspired that made his breathing more profound and steady.
He made a crunching sound because of the bushes and trunks were scattered all over; yawning of a cat made him startle as he walked stealthily through a beaten path that was headed to uncertainty with scarcity of light source. The moon was at its dimness form; clouds were everywhere like ashes into solid form.
The place he was into occurred in the late era of his ancestral domain - rumored to be owned by him some time until it was taken by the English Monarchs, oppressed his race, and expatriated to some part of Asia, and the whereabouts of them was still unknown to him. Thunders came in series of cat-calls, bushes were twirling as if dancing in the air as the wind as its partner. “Storm’s comin’,” he murmured. Flashes of light filled the above sight, creating images that evoked visions to his mind.
As he advanced over a wooden fence, screeching of some parts of the house could be heard: windows banging, door’s grunting sound.
The beaten path to where he was glancing was emblazoned with bushes, dimmed by the nocturnal parades happened were of patched-plum like of a thin-haired pillars; touching of it would enact considerable forms of anxiety with great thoughts aggravated. The sand - with rubble all over - was hard to step into for he was just wearing a sandal-like footwear of strings and wood mounted. Patches of blood were dripping from his wounds, procuring mud that could wear-off tissues as healthy ones - for the irons scathed them. A piece of shroud was lying on the steps as he had seen it through keen blinking. The steps of the front door bore a carpet-like covering for its furs were considerably blemished with thorns of nylon-dried threading.
The knob, as he approached it, shone through the moonlight of the evening, aligned directly to the moon from the knob itself; the threshold made from wood carried the rigid wall that support the upper and the lower integrals of the abode; the knob, as it constitute to the structure of the door looked auspicious for the engravings of the wooden part of the latter promulgate the intrinsic property of a genuine, Asian type of home: amulets, alibata scriptures, ying-yang stamps, Chinese formulas that made it stand among the houses of pale features.
He marveled on the instincts that played his mind, suggesting a command of entering the house without proper probing around its vicinity, which was classified unethical in his principle. Starting at the rooftop, he glanced to it with grief of not witnessing its glory days, giving him affirmations in his visions of how it looks like before the intrusion of the monarchs. The alignment of the parquets as the components of the roof were characterized with horizontally placed positioning; encrypted with alpha-shaped letters written on parchments and attached in the very block of the parquet.
“I believe in the markings of great purpose," he murmured.
The adversity of climbing to it was seen as a challenge; completing it without touching the palpable exteriors of the house was a trick to be taken as regardless completion, making it a quiet clamor of aspiration. To reach the peak of the abode without rendering devastating steps of stratagem was the main category of the problem, seeing the much quivering steps to take when arms were clasped in the very weak parts of the said edifice. The night continued to showcase its peril atrocities: pitch-dark image, shivering cold dusk, stale air streaming. Moments of silence preceded the features that made his decisions more of a reverie; murmurs from all corners of his mind started to flourish, blurring the needed thought as an oasis encapsulated by a sandstorm.
“Drew back, mister.”
“Non-sense of continuing.”
“Mama wants you back.”
“Pick-prick-trick-thick. “
He followed the voices within as it controlled the buttons and levers of his frail mental state. The blood rushing through the healthy neurons were slowly hindered by the thoughts of unseen beings; the stark of breathing was established, came in consecutives for him to fall in the dry pavement, face first. Losing of conscience was at stake, endeavored to be parted by the visions of an unknown place: it was characterized with eaves of low heights; chairs were scattered with broken foot one by one; the floor was carpeted with Arabic notes and other dialects that was unknown to his knowledge. His hearing was devoured by mute thumps like a head continuously struck at the temple.
The scenery reproached his eyes with the rustic wash of the walls; the bulbs mounted near the eaves were tinted of green and blue, sparking as if the connection wires were rat-eaten; tables, along with the deteriorated chairs, were trimmed to perfect cylindrical shape showing the middle hole of it as the main attraction, as if finished with a poke of a sharpened lance. The columns that support the lower parcel of the edifice were breaking on every attempt of him to stand and establish a well-balanced stance.
“A place for praying purpose,” he thought.
As he resort for the last option, he sat on the carpeted floor while trying to decipher the signs and symbols below his eyes. He had decided to take this position to keep the columns from creaking. His eyes probed the internal quality of the room, seeing a couple of altars stood solid against the wall of rustic features, he be-lowered his eyelids to keenly observe the objects and assessed its place as a tabernacle: the mattresses piled were of brown complexion, as if kindled in the fireplace and placed again for certain purpose; a wand-like rod stood at both sides with woody features, golden strings rounded to cover it wholly; the cross on the center was crowded with withered flowers apt to be disposed.
Seeing this spectacle of solemnity, he slowly rise from seating and groped from his pocket a piece of stone he got on the road while trudging towards the place. He aimed and threw it to one of the columns at his right to check its stability. It made no sound of affirmation by its weakness, though the exterior of it was softened by termites and moisture and other kinds of wood antagonist. The column started to secrete battalions of termite through the hole he made of the throw.
“Pick, pack, pow,” he murmured.
The support of the first level started to give in for the dust above begun to fall like of a snowdrop alighting down on the grey meadows; the nails were trembling as a sign of frailty, that made him crawl in a wandering movement. The creaking sound made a resonance into his mind - a feverish piece of the soul.
The movement of crawling from every signs and symbols of the carpeted floor, corner after corner, supine like a blind - met by a bestial figure: it had eyes of grief, nose of a parson, mouth of an ogre. Behind this, a rectangular hole was seen.
“By gawd!” he exclaimed.
The loud crash soon preceded, flooded his ears and clouds of dust on his eyes that resulted his body to rummage in the pitch dark hole he fitted into.
A lump of numbness was felt by his hand as he discovered it on his head; blood trickling down on his face full of scratches and dusts out of the wooden pillars. His body was quivering: every muscle suffered torn ligaments, leaving his soul unscathed. Voices from the dark, he heard:
“Leave it be.”
“Stars aren’t here.”
“In vitam eternam.”
Fatigue wholly occupied his bodily spirit, clearing his mind from the voices that aggravated his lucid sanity. His eyes began to blur, preceded by series of blinking that ended to a swoon of rest.
Falling grits were seen in the corner of his mind, uncertain if genuine or out of reverie. The scent of jasmine awaken his spirit, transferring his view of the room to its original position. The bricks and pieces of plank blocked the now square-like hole, causing him to agitate in a state of ferocity. His eyes were flooded with tears from the irritation by the wood husks of the crash. The possibility of assessing the room’s current state was blurred by the russet hue-fog of the bricks, made him hanker for the view of the altars.
He was confronted by the concern he had towards the altars, consecrating his mind hastily, unearthed his thoughts of concubines, wives, sons, and daughters. His part commissions of various immoralities were lifted body, parading within his thoughts, streaming along positive mirages. The secretion trial of his past, mournful state paused in points of gravity events, made him shiver with dripping perspiration running down from his temple; the side of his leg quiver; thoughts of anointing liquid from cup to cup made his body lay on the ground askance.
The light as it occupied the hole revealed inscriptions of different dialects; symbols from the bottom as he looked at it, traced by his eyes upward, revealed a dot of light, but looked far; he couldn’t reach. His breathing changed into impulses as he inhaled ashes of the russet bricks. Moments of touching the sides of the hole, he felt some watery substances in one of the sides, groped in the fist-size hole, and a stream of heavy water soon flooded his space. A grotesque feeling of dying struck his plan of escaping, concluding the mutilation of the subterfuge, “all hope is gone.”
The stream of heaviness - accompanied by excrement, scum, clothes patched with blood, girdles full of stabbed-like holes - hasten the rise of water by centimeters to meters, transformed the dot-like hole to a volcanic-size cylinder. A spark of bliss strangled the curled veins of his mind, through the hope seen on the view of the light source; preceded by muttering of novenas, peculiar voices, sermons from preachers to priests, and voices of distinguished accent as if his father and another man on a conversation:
“The beauty of our family was consumed by the berserk anger of the Golden Arbiters, judged the center of our chastity; strangled each of our women; forked the very heads of our ancestors; making jokes of claiming kinship to us; smothered the breasts of my wife until sliced in half in honor of their ruler; tied the old ones in the poles of their ship, with cloisters of crabs, left to meander amid the waves of the ocean, as if heading in some part of Asia, as though the wind as the appointed captain.”
The clear vision of the scenery was concealed in the eyes of the bearer, asserted the heavy gratuitous escape through the grasses of plum-like pillars, amid the poles with rounded chicken wires, along with dresses hanging were of greens and oranges.
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