Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 1 - Nestor

Note: So I wasn't going to post this today, but it seems like Snake has some time on his hands, so I thought I'd give him something to read. I started this yesterday an took about an hour to write a paragraph. I knew from the lyric where I wanted to go, but was struggling to get there. Like the last time, I don't know where I am going with this. Unlike the last time, this one section is very long. Could be interesting to see if I can keep this kind of length up (that sounded dirty).

Disc 1

Track 1: Three Fingers - Buckethead

“I spotted him like night sky plotted and star struck”

Old Moon with its fractured face was just escaping the underworld as Nestor, barefoot and with a bison-skin blanket draped over his shoulders, hobbled to the fire, crossed his legs and sat opposite of Oan. The paunch of his stomach peaked out from underneath with long, spiraling gray hairs spotting it. Old Moon lingered low in the sky praying that New Moon escaped their daily voyage through the sky of the dead. Moments later, New Moon, blue and curved, appeared.

Like Old Moon, Nestor’s face was scarred down the middle. An inch-wide crevice spotted with bright red sores started at the top of his forehead and cut downward between his eyes and then curved at his nose enough to only claim his left nostril. His right eye was sharp, scanning the crowd around the fire before settling on Oan. His left was no more than an empty socket that never closed and Oan thought, had the look of yearning to see again.

“I’s owed yar one for pullin’ me from the drink, young one over thar,” Nestor said, eyeing Oan with both his troubling eyes. “A mite frosty, it t’was, it t’was.”

Nestor clawed at his face where clumps of scraggly, no doubt flea-infested, hair grew. The day before Oan had found Nestor floating belly-up in the river. Instinct drove Oan to forfeit his hunt and rescue the stranger. The instant he dragged Nestor’s bloated, nearly blue body from the waters with the name of ancient omens slipping from his lips, Oan regretted not letting the man drown.

“A fool enters the Belnor. It’s waters run across a bed of ice in the heavens and never warm till they sizzle in the fires of the underworld,” Oan replied.

“So they do, so they do.” Nestor grinned accepting an earthen bowl full of stew. He brought the bowl to his jaws with his right hand that was missing its first two fingers. He held it there taking long, slow slurps that echoed accompanied by nasally wheezes from his one open nostril. He brought the bowl away from his face. Brown broth hung from the hairs of chin and his mostly toothless mouth beamed open as he chewed on a chunk of deer meat.

“Tis very good,” Nestor added hoisting the bowl up. “Bland to my tasters, but good nonetheless.”

Oan was growing tired of the man’s accent and the pitch of his voice. No one had crossed the Belnor since the days of the great flood had doubled its width. The waters were too choppy to risk the canoes, too cold to swim across. Yet, this man with his brown skin and his accented voice clearly was not one of the Aldroubi that hunted the eastern shores of the great river. He was from the west.

“Perhaps, not only a fool jumps into the Belnor,” Oan said. “Perhaps, a man running from shame would do the same.”

Oan eyed all of Nestor’s flaws and easily imagined him as a villain, a thief or defiler of young girls. Nestor’s good eye closed and he rubbed his temple with his thumb and two remaining fingers of his right hand.

“A bright boy you are,” Nestor started in again. “I could tell it even in my delirium after you scooped me from the waves, I could.”

Oan noticed some of the accent was gone, along with some of the jovial enthusiasm. The change worried Oan more than if Nestor were some sort of fleeing miscreant. A thief, Oan and his men could handle swiftly. No, Oan now believed some of Nestor’s appearance and behavior was an act, a subtle play to misdirect. If this man was so clever, maybe there were other more sinister reasons he jumped or maybe he was thrown into the Belnor. Nestor’s gaze never left Oan while these thoughts ran through his head.

“I can see the wheels a turning, my boy,” Nestor said with a short mocking laugh barely stifled from turning into a roaring chuckle. “I can see them well with this one good orb I have left. My sight has always been sweller than others.”

Nestor pointed to his right eye and smiled. For the first time, Oan was truly repulsed by the man. There was some sort of sick game being played here. Oan despised games.

“Are you a wizard?” Oan blurted out. The thought occurred to him as his lips asked the question.

“Nay, nay,” A sneer raised Nestor’s cheekbones and lines from a lifetime of woe raced out in wrinkles. All the friendly patter in his voice was gone. He cleared his voice as if to recite a long tale.

“You’re wrong about dat. But t’was right about one ding. I was running. I wish to gods above or below, I’d started running earlier. From the first, when I saw him striding out in the sands of the Sorna (a few of the old ones gasped at the name of mythical desert). I was manning my tower as I had all my days, when I spotted him from far off. He stood out all in black on the golden sands like Old and New Moon and all thar star droppings do on the night sky. I should have ran right den, I should. That mistake cost me my fingers and my eye, it did. And more den that, I warrant, I do.”

“Who did you see?” Oan asked over the lump in his throat. It was midsummer, the air still warm and the fire burned well, but Oan shivered.

Nestor leaned toward the fire, maybe warming the same shiver, but more than likely not wanting to say the name too loud. Shadows crept in the night, even east of the Belnor. They crept and waited. Nestor was no fool of a man.

“Salama, of course. Who else?”