Saturday's Storyteller: "All she wanted was to run her hands over the tall grass one last time."

by Belinda Roddie

All she wanted was to run her hands over the tall grass one last time. As it were, however, there was no grass, and Orris's fingers, stark gray steel within her gloves, could feel no rough or wispy sensation of any bristle or blade of any hypothetical meadow. Instead, she stood along what used to be the Burren, now worn down thin and dark from the storm, the hostile Atlantic rising up to lick the heels of her boots with aggressive salt.

It had been two years since the Last Crusade began. She had lost her hands in her last attempt to get rid of the Holy Men. They had been replaced, haphazardly, by one of the country's most brilliant surgeons until he was blown up in an old jeep heading toward the border. Now the Holy Men had control of Parliament, and the partially metallic women was left to wander, a war-tattered, terrorist-branded nomad in the last remnants of an old Ireland that was no longer green.

New Ennis lay several kilometers away, the last trading post untouched by the Holy Men. They had agreed to allow it to be its own small municipality, provided that it did not interfere with the rest of the country. Dublin, from what Orris could tell, was a sickly brothel of pseudo-piety for the New Christian Order. Galway and Clare weren't in better shape, from what she heard in her minimal correspondence; the last letter she had received had been from a friend who she presumed was now dead for some time. She had heard bells, from far away, go off for her. In New Ennis, they assumed she was dying, too.

Shoving her artificial hands into the pockets of her coat, Orris began her walk down the cold former road, now reduced to ragged rubble and dirt. The rain did not fall very heavily any more, and because of this, Orris could swear she could hear a drum beat nearby. Minutes later, she was on a ship, and her father's song could be heard briskly on a newer, fresher breeze. An entirely different story of its own, perhaps far more suitable to a better mood than Orris's own ravaged present state.

Orris could take her father's place at sea, if only she had a boat. An hour into her bedraggled walk, she found the closest bed and breakfast in New Ennis. Well-kept and lit, it was a rare sight to behold. The music grew ever steadier, and she could swear she could hear an accordion.

My damn hands, she thought. They'll lock up soon if I don't get out of the cold.

***

Lost in a barrel in brine, 

I was floating toward a better chance at life. 

I was propelling forward toward the former shore, 

to find a strand of seaweed to wed as my wife. 

And in that dark sensation of panic, 

I dreamt I was back home, 

but the streets had been torn up and no pubs were to be found 

and it was not a place for me to roam. 

Not a place for me to stay, not a place for me to go. 

So I stayed in a boorish vessel to keep my madness in tow.

I found dark sand to sink my boots into,

my hands to scrape at useless gems.

When I finally reached grass, I pulled out each blade

and caressed with my fingers each stem.

And when the wind whirled around me, I realized

how sharply I was utterly alone,

to be left on a hillside while the war raged on

on a battlefield carved out of stone.

But my home was no longer home, not my place to live,

so I remained like spare wood and would continually drift.

Oh, good travelers, remember when you

stray from the chaos of an old world,

you'll find your new land may not be so keen

to offer food, shelter, or a pretty girl.

In your cold revelation of mortality,

you'll find mud to be your most suitable bed,

and if your mood is modified in just the right way,

you'll know the best adjective for you is "dead."

Dead and red and in bed, the blood chilled in your brains,

pulling you back from a barrel into green Irish plains.

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.