Scene: Walking on the Water

 

A man stood upon the swift waters. The man’s hands were behind his back, his head slack and level. His walk laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the water. A gentle midway slope of the water folded its arms, silent and observing the etiquette and fixity of his expression which one would hardly have expected.

 

He closed his eyes in order to fix his thoughts—all a sound, percussion like the woods, branches with impatience and recurrence striking against one another. Overhead, shone great stars looking familiar. He was sure that they were arranged in some order which held secrets and some unique significance.

 

He continued to walk with circumstances; an imperious nature chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of opportunity and perilous suffocation. From this state he was awakened—ages later—by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat.

 

He was conscious of motion. Then all at once with terrible suddenness, his arms parted and floated upward; he pounced upon the water. He leapt, trying to force his whole body with unsupportable anguish upon the water. His lungs engulfed a great draught of air mixed with water. He ran hard making record of things never before perceived. He felt each separate sound as they struck. He saw the trees; the veining of each leaf; the wind and the visible world at a pivotal point.

 

He bends his knee in the wetness, the sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous tone now rings out behind him and comes across the water that pierces and subdues all other sounds. He turns, accurately measuring the distance and runs in that direction shaking free from the constraints of his own breath.