One Story: The Girl in the Apricot Gown
When the road ends and one turns to look back. In complete reflection. All that remains are the stories. And that one single truth is absolute for all who have come before us. And all who follow.
These stories of my life in Persia are not limited to me. The expanse of history and lives well lived precedes me. And follows me. My stories are but a small scene in a larger tapestry. Let us share one such scene now.
I return to the girl in the apricot gown. Standing barefoot in the stream. Pale streaks of sunlight peaking through the heavy canopy dropping diamonds on the water for her to admire. She tucks her long hair back. She looks over her shoulder at a small bird chirping on the nearby bank. Smiles. Chestnut eyes smiling.
Recalling the scents and sounds as I lay there under cover of shade on the eastern edge of the stream behind her, I am complete. The scene is heart filled. She does not notice me and I do not give away my place. On that particular day.
There is an opportunity that follows. I hid once more. I waited. Watched. She moved. She sang. She was delightful to behold. I leapt forward, but she moved swiftly, not aware I was behind. Was she even aware of my presence?
There is a moment to share here of my previous transmissions. If you feel inspired to include a short vignette of that waterfall and sweet water stream so many aeons ago?
I share this image. She was older. Long brown tresses loosely flowing and caught in the slight breeze. She was looking down at her feet. I did not have that vantage. That view from her eyes.
My eyes were locked on her through the greenery. The foliage fluttering in unison with her immaculate hair. Her garb was a pale orange. Not the color of a ripened peach yet not as subtle as the heart of a passion fruit.
Yes. We had the luxury of both fruits in our abundant orchards. Though you may not find a source external to this telling.
I watched. I had begun the turmoil of manhood. Youth was forsaken now. I often wandered to my hidden refuge after the rigorous training with broad sword.
I crawled forward. Silently as if i was a hibernating snake. Slow but with purpose.
I lifted the branch of a small oak. Sycamore. It matters not that particular detail. I caught the scent of her. Foreign. Delightful. Unlike the women of our compound. Unlike any female i had ever met.
Her feet were bare. I did not have the moment to search for her sandals. The hem of her gown was soaked in the stream. Darker than the rest. A small thin swath of fabric danced with her brown locks. But not in any rhythm i recognized.
She hummed a tune. Softly. Elegantly. Sweetly. To say she sounded of the angels would be fool hearty. All beauties sound like an angel when the young male heart first falls upon one.
I waited. I watched. My heart lept as she slipped through the soft waters and up and over the opposite bank.
She was gone! And then I was after. There was a noise from behind. I did not turn to see the maker. I only moved forward. Into and across the small expanse of cool water. Up and over the tufts of long grass.
She was gone. It was instant. Not a sound ahead to follow.
It was for me to retreat to the call of my brothers behind me then. And I leave this moment. This visual here.
So I return to the years previously discussed. There was so much laughter and love shared. And again I say how the children and the youth were spared from the pain and suffering that would soon part the curtains of our adolescence and young adulthood.
Before the call to train. Before the call to separate the warriors from the workers. We stayed fit and full with days filled with movement and wonderful foods. Not a worry ahead for any young boy or perhaps even young girls. Although I reiterate that we did not wander with the girls. The natural separation flowed without quandary. It was a simple divide of purpose and of pleasure.
It occurs to me now this was perhaps even by design although never stated. Was it the guise of the adults to whisper this convoluted separation without advancement? Perhaps. Perhaps it was the nature of our culture. To ease the children into adulthood. To prepare the youth for the formidable future.
I share this thought now. Perhaps no one is ever free from the designs of others?
This retrospect is fraught with danger that spoils the divinely delightful youth of our Dear Persia.
There is more. Yet I leave you with this image. In all that is. I am Xerxes.
To continue as the moments flow and my recall is in play, I will share one more scene of the girl in the apricot gown. I feel now that I will not reveal her name. That gives more pause to the reader. Mystery? More that I protect her value through these words and the historical documents once in writing.
This day she was in blue. Soft, gentle, flowing blue. Lighter than the sky or the sea. More of the bird’s egg in a spring nest. Sitting on the same bank that I had before hidden my presence. Her scent still intoxicating. Her eyes still chestnut with flecks of pale sunlight sparkling when she smiled. I approached without hiding. Sat beside her. I gave her my name. She did not respond
Birds sang in the distance.. Sunlight streamed through the canopy. The stream hummed a beautiful tune to set the scene for our first encounter.
She was my first beloved. Even before that moment. I was not yet a complete man. Though I felt manly. She was not yet a complete woman. Though she was ahead of me.
Our soft spoken exchange is private and will remain so always. She was breathtaking for a young one like me. She was perfect. We made one and only one arrangement. We would meet on this bank once more. I was to bring a blanket and some wine. She was to bring some fruit and some bread. And although we did not know it at that first conversation. We would share a moment that would not ever be forgotten. And is now documented for history.
And that is where we must leave the reader to notice and wonder? Imagine the encounter. Indeed the encounter was more than anyone could ever imagine.
Copyright 2023 - Terran Cognito
