Ficly

Eddies & Tides

My father, buried here, was a nomadic king ruling the Siberian steppes for sixteen hundred years. He wandered with horses in the shadow of the majestic Altai range. Many wars where fought over this stream of youthfulness. My father spent his life keeping it’s secret, guarding it’s flow.

In 1598, ninety years ago, a new weapon kept him on the battlefield longer than expected. Father, overdue for a sip, aged rapidly. He crawled the last hundred miles back to this stream, hoping for a drink. A lava flow hindered his path, but he pressed on. He finally clawed his way to the streams shore, thirsting for life, bending his lips towards one evasive ripple. And there he died, solid as arthritic stone, frozen over the eddy.

“Father, she’s beautiful. She sells flowers and honey along the road, many miles away. I brought you some of her sweetness.”

I laid flowers, petals, pollen tea and broken honeycomb upon his back. What little life he still had, shivered under my hand, as I dipped my flask into his stream.

View this story's 7 comments.