Over the past few days I’ve been listening to Voltaire – a talented musician with a taste for the weird. Many of his songs conjure up images in my mind and since I want to practice writing, these images are as a good a place to start as any.
The first song I’d like to write about is “Riding a Black Unicorn Down the Side of an Erupting Volcano While Drinking from a Chalice Filled with the Laughter of Small Children”, so named because a fan of Voltaire’s once equated his music to the audio equivalent of said experience. And thus I present to any potential readers:
The Rider in the Dusk
Picture, if you will, a flat, cracked, dry and dusty plain at dusk. The sun has already gone down, the western sky presents itself in various shades of red and the Evening Star is clearly visible. In the east, the sky is starting to fill with glittering jewels on black velvet. There is no moon. On the plain itself, nocturnal lizards and other small animals are climbing out of their various hiding places, metaphorical napkins tied around their necks.
On this plain, there are the faintest traces of what might one day grow up to become a road: slight grooves where the ground is soft enough, the occasional scrape on the stony surface where it is not. A capable tracker might be able to tell that these barely perceptible tracks are caused by iron wheels and shod hooves. The trail leads more or less to the north and the south from where you are standing now, an invisible watcher in the growing night. And it is from the north that you can hear the slow clopping of a single horse. Out of the dusk the Rider emerges.
His horse’s head is drooping slightly, its ears are flopping down sideways. The Rider himself is slumped in his saddle, his face barely visible under his wide-brimmed flat hat. Everything about him is dusty and worn. The hem of his brown coat is torn in places, his trousers and shirt are patched and his chin hasn’t felt the touch of a razor in several days. It’s probably worth pointing out that his boots, while dirty, look to be in pretty good shape, the soles only slightly worn down at the heels. His bedroll and the saddlebags have seen some use too, and the bags are clinking with every step the horse takes. The Rider smells of travel – of horse and sweat, of dust and ever so slightly of blood.
Right when he is about to pass you, watcher, he lifts his head, pushes back his hat with his thumb and scans the horizon. Although he looks like he might fall out of his saddle at any moment and start snoring where he lands, his eyes are alert. Up close you can see more of his face. it is wrinkled and has seen many a day of scorching heat with no shade to be found for miles. You can also see his handlebar moustache which, like everything else about him, is coming apart at the edges with wiry hair standing out at an angle here and there. He straightens, and after checking his surroundings he glances down to where you stand. His gaze doesn’t linger, but you could have sworn there was a flicker of recognition. The moment passes and nothing in his demeanour suggests he knows that you are there.
Riding on, he scratches his neck and murmurs in a surprisingly soft voice: “Storm’s coming. Better find some cover.” Although this seems to have been directed at himself, it feels like he addressed you too. But the Rider continues on his way south, slumping back down and not glancing back; a tired traveller by all appearances. And as he rides away, you can see small clouds and eddies of dust rising out of the plain while the coat of the Rider flares out behind him, flapping lazily. Pressing his hat more firmly down on his head he grunts and squeezes the flanks of his steed. After a moment’s hesitation, the horse starts to trot. A few moments later the Rider vanishes into the night. In his wake, the bone-dry plain comes to life as the hunters and the hunted once again emerge from their holes. Up above, the stars continue their conquest of the night sky.
Not Quite Here 