Where They Belong

By Winston. S.

In the dirt we decay, but some, yet alive, decay long before.

   Mister Sable was no kinder to the poor than he was to a horsefly. His usual quarters interrupted for addition, he cursed the untimely builders for their delay. Mr. Sable then resolved himself to stay another night in lodge. Being no short for funds, Sable found it his duty to purchase, upon his second night stay, the majority of the inns art exhibit. Directly before this extravagant purchase, Sable was exploring the grounds. Stopping to examine a plaque concerning Andrew Johnson, the man for which the inn was named. The tolling of a great, luminous bell echoed from some location. Consequently, a dirty, rancid man observed him. The man being decrepit and slouched, seemed quite poor. Witnessing the man’s approach, he called forth to the wretched man saying,

“We have no business, be on I say.”

The man replied, “If you will Sir,”

“If have told you my pardons fool” replied Mr. Sable.

The beggar began to say, reaching out and clasping at Sable while kneeling.

“But of I plea, would you only he-”

Striking the begged full upon the face, Mr Sable stately claimed,

“From dirt we depart and dirt we shall return, do not think me cruel, wretch. I only deliver you unto your rightful place.”

    Falling to the earth, the poor man’s wish was not heard as Mr. Sable removed himself from his company.

Alas, we return to the exhibit, where men hastily remove creations and place them in Sables delivery wagon, to be returned to his mannor. A boy of the twelfth year sheepishly, and with little anticipation attempt to inquire the attention of Mr. Sable. You see, Mr Sable is one of quite large frame, and is imposing figure is only countered by his daunting and rude expression. Haunting is face are eyes do similar to that of a beast. His apparel is of the best quality, shoes excellently shined, coat expertly pressed. And his tone was one of malice, and impatience.

“Master,” insisted the boy.

“What is it you want?” stately replied the Sir.

“It is that we have run out of room in the cart for your paintings.

“call for another you fool!”

“Sir, I implore you to forgive me, however, there has been a rather large delivery from Johnson City to Nashville, and carts are few, except for this.”

Despite the persistence of Mr. Sable, his three pieces of work created, or thus labeled, by Lilith, were sent to his room.

   Angered by the day’s event, Sable poured himself a drink of liquor, no doubt to have costed a week’s wage. After several a pour of the harsh drink, Sable began to revel in his genius, and admire his excellent purchase. Viewing closely his work, he admired one particularly. A picture of a hillside. Sun shining bright of over just as it crests the most distant slope. The shadows thrown magnificently across the still wet grass, now glistening. Of all the grass, there was one spot that stuck out, in comparison to the trees, the gates, and the distant bell tower. Even more magnificent than the humming birds floating through the trees., and so much more magnificent than even the ditch for which sprouted sunflowers and honeysuckle. This beautiful area was a mere fraction of the work. A brilliantly colored patch of grass, an oval almost, brighter than the surrounding. Speckled with mushrooms and daisies, it was as if some force from above, no, it would seem as if some force from below made it grow much more. There was a length of grass, leading from the stone path to the oval. The path continued along the hills to the very subject of the painting, the  huge, great oak tree, just next to the bell tower. He recalls, the owner of the hotel saying this scene was painted of a secret hidden stretch near Knoxville, Tennessee.

    Sometime, Sable became drowsy, and his thoughts became troubled, so troubled he could not have sat still. He pondered to the point he emerged to the hotels garden, and then to its innermost parts. Stretching forth onto the property, which was largely behind the inn, he found trees and dozens. Thence he heard water and perceived to discover it. Walking prominently, without concern for the thorns and thistles, Sable approached a clearing, and seeing the water, he fell to its mercy drinking. As he poured the water into his mouth, the taste wafted through his person as a rancid wind. He cupped water in his hands once more to smell the putrid odor emitted.  Looking to the source he saw that the water lead to a small path, which was full of stones, walking the path, he heard the owls, humming about, the cool airy night. The  surroundings felt thick and heavy, as before a great rain. Then around the river’s bend, Sable noticed the foliage was well grown, but quite hastily it seemed the foliage began to decrease. In areas that looked as if many had trod, in patches the grass wavered from high to trodden, and he felt a sense of fear. It being very late, the fields and hills he approached seemed quite well lit. The moon bright above, seemed to glow throughout the misty air. And the grass was quite wet and cold through his shoes. Walking the path, he heard the howl of a wolf, then another, and soon a symphony. Seeing the hills rolling before him, and the moon cresting the tallest slope, he felt suddenly a haunting sense of dread befall him. He heard the rustling of a beast or wind about the trees. And quickened his pace. Hearing again a scraping he turned to see t a shade approaching him, covered by a veil, the creature seemed to blur. Fumbling, decrepit and slouched the shade pursued him.

   Quickening his backstep, Sable asserted his voice, in an attempt to bellow, he croaked.

“beeerggghh.” meant as a sure, ‘begone!’ Sables voice failed him at length as he tried to produce more sound slowly the shade approached with unsure footing. The toll of a great luminous bell echoed from some location, up the hills toward a bell tower, Sable began to flee. In consequent to the bell, the darkness erected and it’s footing made sure. At a terrifying rate the shade engulfed the man and had seized him striking him to the ground.

    Sable, trying to rise, the shade groaned,

“If you will Sir.” Then at once Mr. Sable felt the hand and the nails, grasp him by the back of the neck throwing him forward with great strength. Laying on the ground next to a tree he saw the cloak venture forward, taking his chance, the Sir, with all his might and courage, roused himself to his feet and lunged for the creature, hitting him squarely in the back, he at once started wailing and wresting the thing. When he almost had the best of the villain, a low foreign rumble murmured in his ear, and at once his spine contorted in awful pain. To his agony, he saw several shadows approaching from a large tree. His spine contortion and twisting, Sable bellowed in harsh realization. The beautiful sight he witnessed, gave him a feeling of a memory. One he drew at a slightly more sober presence.

 He was weak in agony.  And through the loud chanting. Gaining consciousness lying on the his front, or side. Viewing the dirt, grass still attached, grass so very green, green which could only be found in an artist’s imagining. Mushrooms and daisies sown amongst the pile of dirt that grew before him, piled on by the one unchanging figure. He leaned over me, showing his dirty, wretched, rancid face. His slouched figure familiar. Cutting his wrist he opened my mouth forcefully to allow his putrid flow into my mouth. Siting evoked anger and further pain in my spine.

“You will be released in several moments.” the wretch echoed.

“you are the beggar? What is in a moment?” Sable cried. But the Shade replied.

  “From dirt we depart and dirt we shall return, do not think me cruel, wretch. I only deliver you unto your rightful place.”

“For where shall I be delivered?” pleaded Sable.

Moaning all of the darkness especially chants, in unison, and also from the dirt below “To where we reside for thousands of generations, from where they noun eternally and gnash their teeth in agony, and only to be awakened is to damn another, to where they belong. To where the horrid and foolish liars belong” As the body was dumped into the hole, he hit the earth, which furthered his pain. As the dirt was thrown about him, and the bright green oval directly over top. The chorus of agony only continued, and the chime of pain echoed, covered by the sound of the bell. All the moaning voices drowned by the tolling of their great bell. As the bell quite they only feel the source, draining their very strength, draining their very essence, to where they cannot cry out. The roots grow to each of the tombs, and they grow deeper within our flesh, they root themselves in our soul, and we feed the great oak tree which stands by the Bell tower, in the center of those beautiful rolling hills. We can only moan out when we remember, and we only remember at the tolling of the bell. Which drowns us overpowers us and hides, all the horrid voices, where they belong.

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