She Moved In Worlds - Part 4

By JP Mihok

In weary daze, Laia went on, distraught, destroyed... and now we find that Nancy comes to life somewhere... though not where we had thought. Other characters we encounter set wheels within wheels in motion. Part 4 of an adventure in verse. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: JP Mihok
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994030849

Book preview

She Moved In Worlds

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Part Four   

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by J.Pierre Mihok

"Within a jungle of disdain, 

Our agon slavery of the brain."

(The Jungle, P.M.) 

Chapter Twenty Eight

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A spirit, yet a woman, too."

(Wordsworth)

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Old Ivor woke, and tried to rise;

raised only eyes.  Could only groan.

He strove again, in sideways-wise,

his fingers clutching at the stone

he'd huddled near before the dawn

had warmed the spot he lay upon.

He'd had a dream like a surprise;

a faerie elf, a sunny thing,

had risen, outlined in sunrise,

with flutters of her lovely wings,

to smile upon him as he curled

his wounded back towards the world.

And now he was awake, at noon, 

in pain, and feeling like a churl.

The sleep he'd had, had been no boon

—forget the floating faerie girl!

He swore, in feeble fury sore.

You fool, it serves you right! he raged.

For lost in dark the night before,

he'd wandered, his brain disengaged,

into a war-bot cluster's range—

a target all their shots had drawn.

And though he'd blown them all away,

he'd die this day, all options gone.

His boosted system had sustained

his flight from mid of night to morn;

but this exhausted it, and drained

it empty, broken, weary, worn.

No matter—for his hopes were gone,

his airplane fallen, battle doomed;

he'd ebb away beneath this sun—

and leave his helmet as his tomb.

...But yet, he struggled not to lose...

He'd fight for every breath, refuse

that end conclusion right or wrong—

for life is short and death is long.

He somehow sat up, grey with pain.

It felt, he thought, as if there were

a jag-edge shape of shards within

his body, surging at a stir.

Yet he must stir. No food was here.

He braced himself...

and then he saw 

the leaf-bound packages laid near:

a tidy row.

He shut his jaw

and rubbed his stubble, bent to squint

a little closer; noticed there

were placed beside - a gentle hint -

a plate, and cup, and silverware.

He glared with prideful, haughty glare

for any signs of lurkers 'round

who might remain to giggle, stare

upon him - groveled on the ground!

He'd bear no condescension. Did

they mean insult to him, to feed

him with these little packages

without consulting him for need?

He did not care for charity -

he'd manage! Yes he would, indeed!

He braced to rise. But all the pain 

returned again. In starting eyes,

the woods went whirling, sunlight waned.

He slackened, sweating; did not rise.

Perhaps he could go on his knees...

but as he bent, his nerves' alarms

gave weakness his extremities -

whatever he could do, did harm.

...and made him lose still more of blood.

Despite his pride, despite disdain,

he knew he'd feed on faeries' food

until he could move on again.

His eye cast over, once again,

the packages—they brought to mind

the Flightroom Cat, which liked to lay

its mice arrayed in rows beside

the stair - a little show of pride.

He clenched his eyes. A feeling stirred

in him -—he'd hotly have denied

the word, but 'homesick' was the word.

He roused, and reached - it was a strain,

and hardly worth the trouble - for

this morsel he'd consume in shame

and likely feel no better for.

He caught it up. It weighed a bit -

it felt just like a lump of clay—

he'd bet it was a fairy-gift,

a prank - their chortle for a day.

He tensed to throw the thing away,

but then wrapping came apart,

revealing, glistening and grey,

a gift that really warmed his heart.

... A concentrated ration-bar!

To see one after all these years!

For these had fed him long and far...

he felt a shaming sting of tears.

Darn fat old Cook's unheeding ears!

He blinked and, scowling, cast a glare

about;

none near. He took a bite -

a gourmet having caviare.

The other packets were all right—

with sip or bite, he tried them all.

One of them held, to his delight,

Vita-L-ectrolyte.

A small

packet of raisin juice, as well,

whose iron would replenish blood;

he felt his heart, his stomach, swell

from gnawing, shrunken, to the good.

He looked about for ways to tell

expressions of his gratitude;

he had not really dined so well

so many years. The lousy food

they fed him at the flying field

did him no good - he saw it now.

He sat back, used an arm to shield

the sunshine from his fevered brow.

His musings turned to dream.

He slept.

*

The orb of sun sank low...

so slow...

and rustling shadows 'round him crept,

as sunlight slipped away below...

Rena, in garb of armoured rig,

her specs in intermittent link,

could see her backside, looking big,

and switched the vision with a blink.

Her pacebot seemed to slip and slink

behind her, out of sight and fleet;

its video output painted pink

a doubled vision of the street.

These were the ways where, wounded deep

were roads which ended, rended through.

The planet's severed vessels seep

some depthless deadliness of dew.

She had to cross that swirling stew,

to pass those wounds of hell unbared,

these traps where some fell doomed into

the depths, unto their deaths ensnared...

Her pacebot at her rear, she fared

with scrambling steps, along the ridge;

and, eyes on overlays, she hared

to leap unthought, a broken bridge...

The robot clattered 'long the ledge

but could not follow, stranded there.

She'd have to cross, recross the edge

to help it cross that arc of air...

She glanced below, where torrents tear

with hiss of razors' kiss. There shined

the lamps of ruins sunken there,

their cold light merciless, malign.

But as she turned away she spied -

no trick of eye - it must be true;

a figure clung against the tide

of spray, to stones where torrents flew...

She reached back to her pack, withdrew

her micro mountain-climbing thing.

She bent, secured the end, and threw

the silver hooks and silver string.

The tiny motor whispered, spun.

The hooks were set: grew tautly drawn.

And, feeling shy for