A Voice from the Hills

Invitation Songs - The Cave Singers

Droplets form, hold and fall through the dew of the daybreak. They start from the brow, curve past the eye and run quick down the bone to the beard. The taste is sour and salty like the ocean to the far east. The air is no longer frozen and the sweat reminds him of days that have been and the work to come. The lord has blessed these hills he walks and his good will brings hope of a strong season and crop.

The thicket has grown and tangled upon itself, passing through has grown unbearable as it pokes, grabs and tears. The thorns dig and pull drops of blood. The whiskey to his breath sends shivers down his mind, numb. A branch takes hold and punctures the black, soaked wool overcoat. Footing gives way and the moist of the soil leaves no bearing.

Torn now and tattered he’ll pry to break free of the thorns and the guilt. “Lord, save me from this and lead me away from these troubled hills, for too many memories haunt me here. I cannot be freed of them, rid of their ways.”

Exhaustion is setting in. Heart races, the seat flows stronger.

On his back in the muck he closes his eyes once more to focus. His hair falls about his face, wet, dirty and clumping. It slows his breathing. A tear breaks free.

Those hills know a secret, a darkness. The night has been long and he has only to cross over to the open to walk anew. He must forever escape their knowing eyes.

Clarity. A strength given to him and he rises to his feet. Slashing his arms he breaches the tangle and emerges; a free man.

The socks cling to the cold feet and the boots turned brown, soiled with clay and splattered with blood stand mighty in the soil of his forefathers.

Sounds of a household at daybreak meanders across the field. Sun creeps to the heavens. A pluck of banjo and caw of a blackbird.

He pauses and looks upon his hands.

Wilted, blue of cold, battered, stained from the night and strong as ever.

Wiping the frays of hair to the side, he sees clearly now; as clearly as he ever has.

His heart aches for the duty but his mind steadies with purpose and righteousness.

The lord works in mysterious ways.

He is a Sheppard of the hills. A tiller of the earth. A brother to his fellow man. A disciple of his Lord. A father to his sons.

He sheds his burdensome coat to the ground, piled high to his calves. His shirt bears the wounds suffered the night prior by way of crimson, dampness and despair.

He raises his arms upwards, eyes sharp and bold, jaw brut, chest broad.

She brought this upon herself. She is the darkness. She is the sinner and the way of evil. She will forever remain in those hills.

He begins to sing aloud.

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