Finish the Fiction Story Contest - Week #39 - @bananafish

A Thousand Windows
by @f3nix

From the Little Ararat’s peak, Vartan "tiger's eye" observed his hometown, Yerevan. In the ample pocket of his tunic, well sheltered from the harsh wind, his squat fingers played with two graceful jade discs, while his steed, foaming with fatigue, seemed suddenly reinvigorated at the sight of home after months of traveling. If it had not been an animal, it would seem that he was moved. In Vartan's eyes, the only veil was that of travel fatigue.

Armenian merchant of precious stones, merchant son of merchants, he did not care how dangerous the journey was, nor how many moons had rotated above the long caravan: his mind was a precision balance that incessantly weighed and estimated without respite Indian emeralds, Burmese rubies, Pakistani aquamarines. This was Vartan's life since the cradle: he made a profit, and he did it surprisingly well.

A brisk early March night, something unexpected happened to him: he had a dream. Being an unusual experience for him, he awoke to throw in a far corner of the room the brocaded bedspread, upset and wet with sweat despite dawn’s breeze. In his family no one used to dream, there was no space for these frivolities. If he reflected well, maybe a couple of times he had dreamed of carving a gem or making a good deal, but he never came across those surreal dreams like a sand mirage in the ocean. After that episode, dreams began to visit him more and more frequently, as the unstoppable progression of pot-bellied drops in an August downpour. Frankly, it was a very unfortunate situation for Vartan, who was soon forced to invent every kind of wild night escapade to justify the increasingly evident dark circles under his eyes.

Then one day, while he was dreaming, the unthinkable happened: he suddenly perceived that he was in the dream. That first experience of dreamlike lucidity did not last long, nothing but an imperceptible beating of wings of awareness before the rules of the dream came back to swallow him and to dictate the story, relegating him to a mere spectator. Night after night, he began to acknowledge the laws that governed that world and how to bend them to his creative power. Thin and rarefied realms could become dense with colors, shapes, and perfumes. The Escheresque geometries of dancing fractals disobeyed space and time.

Gradually, Vartan learned to attribute a new meaning and content to the term comprehension. For every new dream he was immersed in, the breath of those universes and his soul were united in one single essence longer and longer. In those dreams, Vartan traveled in the folds of reality, learned the language of angels and played dodges with them in the heart of perennial storms of unknown planets.

Soon, what was happening in Vartan's soul could not remain hidden to the eyes of the family, his friends, and the entire city of Yerevan.

My Entry:

Vartan’s horse took a step closer to Yerevan, the small desert village lost to history, and yet timeless with its embedded traditions dating back for thousands of years. All around the familiar sight of the brush as twilight neared.

As he looked toward the horizon he could see the sky changing to shades of yellow and pink. Only there were two black silhouetted figures charging toward him on horseback.

Once again the threat against his wealth presented itself. He’d known of others like him in the same trade to meet such an end. Precious stones were as good as cash in many places. Killing the “Stone Man”, a time honored tradition of outlaws living on the outskirts of society.

Just like in his dreams.

These were dreams not nightmares, because Vartan could control what happened in the moments that should have brought terror.

He moved the jade discs clockwise closing his eyes and visualizing a tiger flying through the air. When Vartan opened his eyes he could see the black figures being knocked to the ground by the cat’s shadow leaping through the air.

Another cry, and then the roar of the cat.

The dismounted horses jogged to Vartan. They stopped close enough to him to allow their reigns to be gathered. Then the three horses began the journey toward Yerevan.

333

“Vartan!” Hailed the head of the family.

“A gift of wealth, Father.” Said Vartan giving him control of the two horses he’d claimed.

“Saddled? Our Vartan could never be a mercenary. Did you trade away your jade?”

Vartan laughed at the question leaving puzzled looks on the men who had gathered round. Not much entertainment in a village like Yerevan to rival the return of a beloved son.

“No Father, afraid some mercenaries found fame with a famine feline bold enough to make the kill. Evidence can be found near Little Ararat’s Peak. Let not the sacrifice go in vein. So please accept these gifts from the returning “Stone Man”."

Now the wiser faces of the town’s people beamed a proud smile. Vartan seated above them on his trusty stead.

Only then someone grabbed his sleeve and pulled him off his mount. Vartan fell to the dusty street. Laughter, and the grin of a familiar friend.

“What will ya do when the Empire conquers this wasteland?” Xaltan inquired.

“I won’t tangle with the likes of you.” Answered Vartan. He moved the jade discs still in his hand counter clockwise and a pumpkin pie struck Xaltan in the face.

Thank you,
Cyrus Emerson

Also, available from the Author:

Fear and Loathing in the State of Jefferson - ebook
https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B079R5KLPN&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_GsURAbAVDYNEM

Lost Angel – Introduction with Ray Manzarek of The Doors
https://www.downpour.com/lost-angel?sp=249812

Red Roses - audiobook
https://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/Red-Roses-Audiobook/B07F2LWHPN