Temple Of The Hounds

“Temple Of The Hounds”

By Sheb Schebella

I awake estranged to a world that I have always known, discomfort finds me, my empty thoughts are filled with unsettling emotions, a nightmare perhaps that I can’t recall has brought me to the edge of my bed. I round up my hounds from there deep sleeps, they rise quickly, shake their loose fur free and stretch. They appear fresh and are ready for the trail already pawing at the door before I have even dawned my first boot. The clock on the wall does not seem to dictate their lifestyle even though it reads 3am, nor does it mine apparently. I fill a tin cup from a bottle of uncorked dry merlot from the night before. Am I drinking to early for society or shall I chalk it up as just another late night to ease my guilt; in truth I could care less either way, my thirst needs quenching. I light a cigarette, pull on my ball cap with the head lamp on, the front door opens the hounds barrel out heading into the dark of the woods; I follow at my leisure and pick up the trail some minutes later. After a few minutes more the hounds return to me, I hold my tin cup up high to avoid spilling any as they leap up and lap my cheeks and taste the corners of my mouth. I command them to bugger off with a smile, and they charge once again into the night as if the hunt has truly started. I am again at peace, in my element, amongst what I understand and do not fear whether it be night or day and regardless of the season; I am with my gods and I pray to whomever is the one listening and give thanks to the quelling of my demons. I find a log and without bothering to brush the snow from it I sit and focus upon the empty spaces between the falling snow flakes, and it is there I place my sacred words to keep them frozen in time, and perhaps when I have spent enough of them, then they shall warm my heart and perhaps anyone else that stumbles across them that is able to translate there meaning when jumbled together to fit their own tongue; then perhaps they to shall smile. I rise and whistle for my hounds, they come crashing into my legs, I tell them home and they bolt. They now are in the hunt and I am with them. Another beautiful moment that will die my own. If only the world could see me here, then they would truly know me, but what vanity to truly think they are interested in such affairs. Difficult to share Band-Aids I suppose, perhaps that’s why the truly kind kiss booboos, and perhaps that is why I drink my wine in The Temple Of The Hounds.