Jend, imprisoned

or, something brief and new

The carriage moved under a searing sun and its wheels broke across ground blackened from the long blister of days. Its form was a rectangular intrusion upon the land, the roof a panelled wood dark as night and with sides that bore no windows at all. A single horse pulled the carriage. No man sat atop any saddle and nor was there a box for any person of such profession to sit, yet still the cart moved unwavering along its path. It moved and swayed and the axles creaked, a fine dust set free from a soil decayed.

At a crossroads a man stood clad in robes tattered by endless years. He stood watching the cart approach, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun and having done just so as his shadow fled beneath his feet. “Ho,” he said as the cart neared, stepping forward to place his hand along the horse’s muzzle. “Ho,” he repeated, stroking the beast’s inquisitive nose. The horse’s eyes were black and in them he could see nothing save the distant longing so possessed by animals chained to the service of man. It stamped its hoofs and snorted, as if irritated at being made to stop, then dipped its head and let out a low whinny, nudging at the man’s hand. “Easy there. Easy.” He took a step forward and ran his fingers along the tug and followed the trace to the front of the cart and then to the strip of iron that gripped the wheel’s rim. He pondered at the fine work of some unknown and faraway smith and then turned his attention to the carriage itself, the smile he wore soon lost from his lips. The side he faced was draped in cloth coloured that of the dying sea. Its edges were frayed and burnt. No cut or slit betrayed any parting and he could discern no pattern or insignia painted onto its surface. He squinted and took another step, but as he did a hand shot out from a hidden fold and the hand was clenched into a fist, the skin so pale it looked as though it had never seen a single day. The pale fist unfurled and the hand rotated so the palm was to the sky with each finger splayed wide. The man jumped, stumbling away from the cart.

“Man in robes,” came a voice from within. “Man in robes, come back.”

The man, startled, said nothing.

“Do not fear, simple man,” the voice said. “Jestra so liked your hand along her muzzle.”

The man edged further away, distancing himself from the strange hand. “Show yourself,” he said, his voice cracked by fear.

The hand retracted, swallowed by the cloth as though it was never even there. Then it returned, emerging with its palm to the sky once more.

“There,” the voice said. “I show myself.”

The robed man spat, the glob of moisture accepted by the ground. “No man is just a hand,” he said. “What foolishness is this? Who are you who hides within?”

The wind picked up and the cloth flapped and snapped and threatened to come free, but each hook pegged to the wooden frame did not waver in its design.

The fingers of the pale hand curled back into a fist. “I am Jend, imprisoned,” said the voice. “And I move across this land.”

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Hello. A few weeks ago I read a book by an author and the book was good. As I read, a scene began to rattle in my mind. This is that scene. I want to be honest: I don't know what this is¹. I don't know who (or what) Jend is and why they are imprisoned and whether their trundling journey across a blighted land represents my own journey in some manner of ways² or whether it truly is some creature I am yet to explore. Perhaps Jend’s cage is a box of prose that I will peel away at only when so inspired to see what is held within³.

The horse is missing, for some reason. There’s also wheel issues, but shhhh, it’s OK. Source: Substack image generator.

1. Spoiler: when do I ever?

2. Forgive me, for I write this beneath a jar of whisky, studying its amber hue.

3. What I mean is, perhaps each visit to his cart will be my own study in some written style, influenced by whatever author I happen to currently adore.