The Fault In The Meadow

At the foot of the Mountains lies the meadow. Like an inverted peninsula it would flow, a parade of flowers set aflame by the passing winds. An eye cast in marvel to study the diverse populace would hang on the mercy of the returning airs.

Beyond the meadow the land sloped ever downward, the Mountains receding quickly down into unspoken depths. They, too, were left to the mercy of what they protected.

Likewise was the town that mirrored the Mountains in its termination.

It was a town unlike any other. It had none of the usual accoutrement. No general store. No town square. No political structure.

It stood but for the testament of the wonder that lie hidden far above.

Its residents were every changing. None would stay too long. They would come to watch the meadow in silence, and would leave as such.

Yet, the silence that accompanied them back to their own lands would be a new one. For all intents and purposes, it would replace the silence that preceded it forever. Of ill intention, no one could begin to know. As it followed the initiated for the rest of their days, it would bring nothing but peace and resolve to their most vulnerable intimate moments alone.

And so, the meadow’s glory would live on. Driven forth by word of mouth, visitors would flock to take it all that it had to offer, to leave just as all those who had come before them.

None who knew of the meadow could resist its charms.

Not the might of the Mountains or the breathtaking rise to it could shake its dominance from their moorings. Even to the Sun they were but mirrors, to reflect the radiance that was rightly the meadow’s onto its scorchless, burning canvas.

Yet, its immortality was not to be so.

For there was a secret beneath the surface that not even the Mountains, not even the ceaselessly streaming visitors, could have known was soon to strike.

Deep below, where no light shown, danger was brewing.

Danger not in itself, but in the eyes of all of those who had basked in brilliance for so long.

And so, on the cusp of a dusk not unlike any other, a thunderous eruption broke the solace of the land. All those who had journeyed to take in the meadow were shaken from their slumbers.

In the silence that followed, they fled in droves to the windows of their nightly sanctums, casting uneasy attention to the might of the Mountain and the breathtaking rise. And waited.

Waited not in care for the well-being of other, but for the sanctity of the illustrious meadow.

And, again, it came.

A booming of such magnitude that none had experienced since the meadow had been but an impending dream. Though none could yet find the cause of such menace, their eyes held steadfast to that invisible wonder, high above them.

It came a third time.

And a forth.

And a fifth.

Sounding more rapidly each time, as if gaining maturity and confidence in its procession.

Then, at last, there was no more.

After time had passed and none but the thickening darkness closed in, the onlookers felt it must have been elsewhere that the disruption had occurred, and they took to their surrogate beds for the night, enveloped in a silence just short of divine.

It seemed eons had passed as each woke up in their turn, rising into a bliss that could never before have been believed. As they went about their morning duties, readying their passing abodes for the next visitors to enjoy, there began to ring in the air a sound least expected to hear in so heavenly a place.

As the departing made their way back into the streets, they were met by the most peculiar of sights.

It seemed, to many of them, that the meadow had shaken its own moorings and had begun flowing down the landscape toward them.

They stood, transfixed; puzzled.

Soon after the cries began. The first from above, or from below, none could rightly say. But the message was clear.

The onlookers were returning forever.

The meadow was gone.