Daffodil the Flatulent Goes to Pasture...

[W_A_R]

It was a Vijari day much like the one before it and most likely similar to the one to succeed it. The sun was warm, the sky clear except for a smattering of clouds, fluffy and white like young lambs. An old horse, a destrier known as Daffodil the Flatulent, nibbled at the lush grass, unencumbered with saddle or bridle and nearby a lone figure was sitting under a large river gum, a bound journal lay open in the man’s lap, a pencil rested in his left hand. His fingers were gnarled much like the branches of the tree he rested under, the woody limbs of the tree reached towards the sky as if trying to snare the clouds.

The journal was full of handwriting and sketches, documenting the things the man had experienced in his life and he had seen a great deal. On the last page he slowly drew the scene before him, trying to capture the essence of not only what he saw, but what he felt. And he felt deeply about the land that he was drawing. He fussed a little with a portion of his sketch before he was content. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and breathed deeply. The earthy scent of the warm ground mixed with the sharper smell of eucalyptus leaves filled his nostrils. The sounds of nature, life in all its innocent abundance, were a calming music to his ears. It was good to be home.

He leaned back against the old river gum and closed his eyes. The solidness of the tree and smoothness of its bark were a comfort to him. He listened carefully and the rhythmic melody of waves washing the nearby beach came to him. A gentle and knowing smile played across his weathered features. He knew those sands so well. He spent much of his childhood on the beach, learning from Vijari fisherman and wondering what lay across the vast ocean.

He stifled a laugh. Much of the world of Digiterra was no longer a mystery to him. There remained few mysteries of the world now, but life was fleeting and time marched on heedless of the desires of an old man. Many faces came unbeckoned into his mind. Some had passed from this world and others had much left to give.

He smiled anew. He weighed up the things that he should have done against those he shouldn’t have. The scales tilted in his favour.

He took up some fallen leaves and grass into his hand and squeezed to release a fragrance, a smell of home. A faint sigh escaped his lips and his face relaxed, untroubled. The crushed material tricked from his right hand as the pencil he had been sketching with slipped from his left. Perhaps tomorrow would be different after, for the man who was known as W_A_R of Vijar was home forever, at last.