Sea of Stones - 4

 

 

There is an echo, methinks,

in each writer’s soul –

a rustling perhaps of moldering leaves

‘neath a forever tree in a forest of dreams,

“Unto the ends of the earth!”

 

words of a forgotten song?

whispers to a lover never quire forgotten?

a missing page of scripture?

a command from a liege lord?

“here be dragons,” on an ancient map?

 

Nay – none of these in truth,

for there is such a place claimed by history;

at least information upon which believing might find roots –

 

A Roman general, impatient with bloodlust after defeating the Thracians,

followed an emerald river north from the sea; drawn by a glittering white peak,

proud as a crown of three jewels.  But when he reached the ends of the valleys,

there was no was to pass, just a circle of pristine stone beyond vision’s eye,

and he wrote, “I have reached the end of the earth.”  – and returned home.

 

Traders from the great caravanserai trading faire of Györ followed a pleasant stream of sapphire purity, seeking an easier pass to new silk markets in Milan – but their way was barred by cold mountains with no trees or grass or bush – and snow that never melted –  and stories spread of having found, ‘the end of the earth!”

 

The Golden Horde found no barrier to its religious calling to bring light to the West – no fortress they could not defeat – until they wrote home to
China of the most beautiful valley in the world – protected by a sea of stones with seven lakes but no soul – where nothing lived at all – and of the triple mountain.  They stopped their western charge and turned north to
Moravia – having reached by their words, “the end of the earth.”

 

The Ottoman Turks swept up the Danuba and Dann Rivers bent on reaching
Vienna – hard fought battles against fortified positions.  So they attempted a flanking approach through the Julian Alps – only to find an impassible wall of white above “blackened lakes”, and marked on their maps of the “valley at earth’s ending.”

 

I have found these stories, and am sure there are more – as many as there are wandering tribes, but these are written — these are more than just memory – and all have in common having found “the end of the earth.”  “The Mountian of Three Heads” is also documented as the furthest Eastern reach of the Carolingian Empire — an easily recognized landmark as travel sight, but also a barrier — and end to the ‘earth’ controlled by the Holy Roman Empire.

 

This wall of barren stone has a center peak of the three heads – the remains of three unfaithful virgins it is said — a source of many myths.  The Alani came and stayed in the valleys and called the Mountain Trigor.  Of this you surely knew.  It was here these refuges from the Steppes mixed with the Celts before they continued across Europe by more Northern routes.  It was here that Kiyan was borne in the 12th century — the one who became known as ‘The Gusari’.  Mt Trigor kept watchful eye over the first recognized Salvic State of Karantania, where the modern Slavic languages found identity — and in whose words the sacred mountain came to be called ‘Triglav’ (pronouced tri-claw’ — and I cannot but envision that it was here that Prometheus was chained.

 

so I would venture that the ‘end’ must also be the ‘beginning’ – and of this I will tell you more…

 

I am called Trigor becuase I speak of ancient facts and information

 

I am called ‘The Duuran’, because people believe the stores I tell

Speaking of Virgil…

“…Interestingly,” said the Viscount, swaying slightly with the ship dipping and diving through the waves, as we stood on the middle deck watching the blue views of water and sky, “…Virgil explains the account of the beginnings of Rome in his epic, ‘The Aeneid’…” The Viscount had an eloquence that even though his role involved a lot of speaking, he was never dull to listen to. The stories and history poured from within him, like water from an ornate fountain. Often I made notes in my journal, which was always in my dress pocket. I had leafed tentatively through the copy of this epic he had thrust at me, but most of all I loved the image on it’s cover, where one of the celestial beings visits Aeneas, the hero of the tale. I had come on this journey to find beauty. More favoured in my mind is ‘Georgics’, which speak of idyllic pastoral modes of living, bees and hives and olive groves basking in the sun. Still, this was relevant to the history of the place we were to begin our journey, and I wanted to hear about Rome, and make the most of my tutor’s encyclopaedic mind. Soon we would arrive, and my eyes would be opened to a new vista, a new way of seeing the world. He also spoke about the ‘Villa Ada’, a stately green part of Rome…

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Wild Burros

 

On the infamous Route 66 that crosses the southwestern United States, there is a small “ghost” town called Oatman, in the Arizona desert.  The town was famous for being the honeymoon hideway for Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, but today it is also famous for its wild burros.  The burros are descendents of the pack animals that gold prospectors brought with them to the region in the 19th century.  Today they are protected by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management as a living relic of the American Wild West.

The town of Oatman makes its living from tourists, such as myself above, who come just to see the donkeys.  My dad was with me on this trip and he nicknamed the little fellow “Herschel” (I have no idea where he came up with this name– I just went with it).    Anyway, “Herschel” is one cute little bugger, isn’t he.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006