A Silken Scarf

The hallways are filled with accursed blackness; little light permeates the stretched expanses of these long-forgotten and seldom used corridors. A musty odor hangs in the air like shrouds, though seldom interrupted by scents most sweet and exhilarating. Dust kicked by mine own feet burn my nostrils and assault my eyes. I walked more than I care to mention before my eyes adjusted to the gloom. It mattered little, as I had traveled this route on more than one occasion and knew it well enough to navigate it without that most important of senses. Familiar passageways bent and twisted, almost as if by will, of its own mind. I had once attempted to keep these very halls, musty and dreary as they were, lit by light of candles whose scents so appeased my very soul. It had become too much a bother, a burden on my time and patience, to keep them up in such a manner.

These halls were seldom used, for they were hidden from the prying eyes of most, those whose snooping may well have led them to my sanctuary. It was such a place most important to me, for I desired little company with others, and much rather preferred my own company to any ten men. My hole and my solace, it sheltered me on more than on cold, rainy day, and a place to where I retreated in order to mull the passage of time. There I would sit on many an occasion that I was supposed to be detained in school, or when I simply desired to hide myself from the rest of the world, be it for safety or for peace of mind.

As my hands fell upon the walls surrounding me, I could sometimes feel the sconces that once held the candles that had served as so simple a joy in my younger days. It had helped to pass the time of loneliness, at the very least, for it would take me well over a few hours to light them all, in my candor and melancholy as it were. Here I would spend a great deal of time, indeed, lighting them one by one, down one side of the halls and then the other, so that as I returned down its lengths I could re-light those weak-willed candles that had been put out by the most faintest of breezes, which were more than sporadic, faint though they were. Alas, the simple joys of a simple life, long forgotten, it seems.

Each footfall was marked by the creaking of aged wood, which bellowed in protest at the slightest bit of weight, but years of use had told me that it would hold true. Almost there, I told myself, as my hand groped what would have been the last of the sconces in the hallway, my fingers recoiling from the still dripping, hot wax. A thick dust was hanging loosely in the air, obscuring my vision somewhat, but was forgotten easily when my nostrils took in the fresh aroma of red raspberries, wafting upwards from my singed fingertips. How I relish the earthy smells that a good candle brought to me.

Books lay strewn across the table set against the far wall of the room, drawers remained open from the last visitor’s perusal, with a selection of the contents of the drawers removed to the floor around it. I must have been in a hurry indeed the last time that I was here, for I seldom left my holdings in such a state of disarray. My eyes darted about more frantically now, as perspiration began to form upon my lined and wrinkled brow. I almost always left it in the hollow of the top left drawer of that very desk, but it was none to be found therein. Had I taken it somewhere? Had I, in my maddening haste, left it somewhere? Left it for someone else to find and to cherish? What if it were so, if I were indeed so inane? These thoughts and others of conspiracy now littered my thoughts at every turn. My thoughts began to race, every minute detail began to sharpen in my mind. The sconce, at the end of the hall, had it not contained the traces of hot wax from a recently burned candle? I brought my so recently singed fingertips to my nose, inhaling deeply the scent of red raspberries, and knew it to be so. Traces of smoke had hung in the air throughout the halls on my journey downward into this very room. Why had I not put things together before now? My door, left ajar, my books, strewn across the table, my desk, vandalized. Who had been here? For what did they search? Indeed, why? They have taken my present! Yes, they must have come to steal it from me! Why else would it be so? It had been nearly a year since my last visit to these walls, so it must have been another that had so devastated my quarters. Panic began to fill the empty spaces between my ears, soon evicting reason from the premises. I began to cast my things from one side of the room to the other, caring little for the well being of things I had collected, harvested since youth. Goblets and trinkets clattered to the floor, and books left to sit opened at unknown pages, face to the dirt.

There, on the desk! There is my treasure! They had not taken it after all, it had been here, the whole time. Relief swept over my body rapidly, calming my frayed nerves to a slow pulse. I held the thing to my cheek, reveling in its softness. The silken scarf had long been a treasure of mine, and I had hoarded since the beginning of my very recollections. It was dear, and most special to me then, and only more so with the passage of time. My eyes admired the rich texture of the scarf, a fine silk like few had seen. Its beautiful colors appeased the eye of any man or beast, a lovely green with silver thread immersed between its fibers, with splotches of a deep brown, which accented the piece marvelously. Its very presence brought my mood to insouciance, a delight that I have been unable to replicate in any form. Its touch and its hidden aromas delighted me, even now, after all these years.

The scarf brought memories rushing to my consciousness, replete with sights and sounds seldom remembered. Memories of her soft, silken face, much the texture of this very cloth which I held so dear, memories which gave me strength to continue on, were welcomed now and would ever be. Oh, how I had adored her simple sweetness, and cherished her very presence. I had desired little more than to fulfill her every thought and fantasy. Oh, how I had loved her, everything about her, from her bony knees to her soft flesh, to this very scarf. Even now its simple cloth spoke to me of all the pleasures, and of all the pains. It was thus that I was forced to do it, as I were left little choice.

I took the scarf, and nothing more.

More to come....