No one ever understood the depth of his passions. The way he handled the axe, the way he threw wood into a fire, the way he lit it, even the way he wiped hair from his face. It all looked so esoteric, so out of this world. They watched him every day with growing awe. If we were Trojan women, he would be our Hector. Even without the beauty of a castle-forged blade in his sheath, his long dark, lustrous hair spoke of a deification that was uncommon to other men; his left eye was a bit larger than his right, and both were equally beautiful with a darkness that intoxicated rather than frightened. The muscles in his arm ran their length, flexing beneath a sheet of baby-smooth hair when bade to by his wide coarse hands as they rhythmically brought the axe down and lifted it up. They sang silent songs for him, the women. One cannot be sung if one is no hero, beauty does not cut it for a man; he would be just as good a cripple woman with a beautiful face. They had those, but their beauty was never spoken of, only their broken limbs were.
As one moved far west from the town, they would enter the forest of the living. The name was a most pretentious one. Questions had been asked about the forest and no definitive answer was given, only tales and legends of the first men in the village, who were cold dead. The forest was quite a sight. In it, there were tall trees, very tall some thought them taller than the hills, these trees were said to be inhabited by gods, the old gods. The concept of novel and decrepit gods amazed dexterous children as it did many. Why would gods be either new or old, what made them so variant? There were streams of cool and clear water running in an endless sequence, if you are lucky, you can catch sight of little goldfish playing in the water, their scales shimmering in the tiny rays of sunlight that sneak through the thick canopies of those gigantic trees. It was full of rodents, antlers and other wild animals, but the most beautiful part of the forest was the presence of the gazelles. Those graceful creatures had a way of jumping from behind one thicket, their long bodies outlining the escarpments yonder, to another. They were hunted down for taming.
Deep inside the forest, in points where not many men came back from alive, there stood a tall stone structure, covered by moss and so old that no one wondered about it anymore. It was known by all children who cared for the stories told by their grandparents that it was a representation of the goddess of Gas’tha, the one who brings laughter. No one could explain why the goddess of laughter was represented by a moss covered rock, how can the gay and the gentle be filled with dullness and muskiness? It did not make sense and the old brushed it away saying that no man can understand the ways of the gods. If it cannot be understood, it is also incomprehensible why their rules are imposed on us and their worship our duty. The grass around the rock were not without wonder; the forest grass were all soft, tall and lush except where there were trodden paths and animal clearings- however, the grass round the rock was long and hard, like stunted reeds. It seemed there was a swamp around the rock or the rock stood on a swamp.
This is the story of the god gargoyle, the one so called and the one yet to be realized, attend and remember…TO BE CONTINUED