Tale 52- The Poet's Cry

 The two arrived at the edge of the forest, birdsong and sunlight following them as they walked. Sarafelle turned to the Traveler, showing her some of the mushrooms on the path- they were safe to eat. Pulling a knife out of her pocket, Sara cut through them with ease, handing one to the Traveler and showing her it was safe by popping one into her mouth. The two then stumbled upon some berry bushes, Sarafelle gently pointing at the ones which were safe and explaining why. Soon their hands were stained red from blackberries, the Traveler looking down at her palms and examining them. Sara handed her a handkerchief, since she didn’t look comfortable in the slightest. The two continued down the path, finding themselves at the base of a hill, where they spotted a young boy with shining white hair sitting atop it, drawing in a book. An artist, then, which meant he might have a tale to tell. Approaching, the two noticed he was sitting by the base of a tree, the boy staring up at them and giving a slight wave, his face not betraying his emotions. He flipped through his sketchbook, the Traveler pulling out her own book and continuing her illustrations she had not yet finished, the boy peeking in curiosity. “Are those…your drawings?” he whispered, the girl nodding and showing him. Sarafelle stepped back, deciding to go berry picking and leave the two creatives to their craft. The boy smiled, amazed at the skill, before flipping through his own sketchbook and showing her his works, all depicting the same beautiful girl. Portraits, then, but why? The boy sighed at the latest one, leaning back and telling the tale of ‘the Poet’s Cry.’

‘In a small house by the forest, there lived two children, an artist and a poet, born with unusual white hair and gifted with creative talent. The poet crafted immersive worlds through her words, spun silk through her pen, weaved the waves and drew the darkness, capturing each and every delicate thought and image as she saw them, crystallised in verbs and nouns that betrayed the deep emotions below. The artist was much more simplistic, holding an admiration for his twin and a love for his craft, drawing what he saw around him and capturing his viewpoint with very few embellishments. Perhaps that is where they differed- one interpreted the subject subjectively, the other drew it objectively- despite them being identical in appearance, they were not the same. The poet found herself at the well often, searching for inspiration in the waters, and befriended another girl who she met there, the two arranging meetings and sharing secrets. They were closer than paper and pens, the poet entrusting some of her most intimate feelings to this girl, and eventually discovering what she was feeling was a deep, profound love. Her perspective began to change, and with it, her poetry. No longer did she craft immersive worlds, spin silk, weave waves and draw darkness, now she depicted her other half, descriptions of eyes, hair and skin populating her poetry, only hidden under a thin veil of metaphors that tore and betrayed the most intimate of emotions. But those poems, too, would be torn, as the poet discovered her beloved was in love with another, and her affections were merely platonic regarding the poet. Falling into the deepest misery, the artist tried everything to appease her pain, but one fateful night the poet made a decision, grabbing a kitchen knife and destroying each and every poem she’d ever written about the subject of her affections. Worlds collapsed, silk snapped, waves waned and darkness dominated, the ink populating the pages reduced to scraps of paper. Stabbing her knife into each and every one, she felt tears pricking her eyes as she let out a desperate cry and threw the knife into the last poem, her most profound- and stabbed herself in the chest. 

The artist, hearing the commotion, opened the door and found his dying sister, trying everything he could to save her. She merely had one wish- one more night to live, to make her life worth it and not have wasted it on the affections of another- but it was never granted, and they buried her on a hill overlooking the well.’

The artist pointed past him, where there sat a headstone. The Traveler bowed respectfully, one hand on her heart. He then pointed downward, toward the well, where a lone girl stood there, having just been through a difficult break-up. The artist sighed, going back to drawing his sister as the Traveler wrote, before she looked up. There, above him…his sister’s ghost, gently touching his head and stroking his hair. As the boy finished drawing her, the poet gently gave him a kiss on the head, before giving the Traveler a bow and walking back toward the grave, where she would rest. The artist felt a few tears coming to his eyes…she was at peace. Thanking the Traveler, Sarafelle reappeared with berries, the Traveler waving goodbye to the artist as he packed up his materials, intent on going home and moving forward.