There is wind here, roaring down the valley. The brambles and bushes dance and shift with its passing. In the wind, the kestrels fly, propelled upwards and around the remains of an ancient monastery. Holes dug into the walls of the valley were once the abode of homing pigeons, used by the monks to convey messages to far off, equally hidden, locales. But now, they are the nests of the kestrels.

Above the valley, there is no sign of the monastery. No hint that passages riddle the rocks, and doorways yawn open to distant pasts. This valley, the valley of a thousand churches, is not so often explored this far down. So few tourists go beyond the guided tours, and the chains of electric lights. Fewer yet venture to the valley floor. Almost none come here, but those that do, do not return.

This place is secret. Special. It hums with its own self-importance. The rocks themselves know that they guard something from ages past. Those that travel here, amongst the fallen carvings of the past, lose their way. The rocks conspire to confuse and ensnare. Soon, a traveller will venture within the cliffs, and succumb to the chill, inviting darkness.

At the bottom of the valley, only yards from the kestrel's roost, stands a man. In the bright sunlight, his skin glows alabaster. His head is tilted to the left, listening to the screeches and cries of the kestrels. The wind, as he stands there, plays with his spun gold hair, twisting it into the air and making it dance like the brambles.

He is listening to the Kestrels call out, listening to them cry out for lost families. Mourning their choice to explore the valley, and lose their way.

Sakir smiles, knowing that none of these birds shall give away the secret of the monastery. Their humanity exchanged for their lives.

Posted by Martin at June 29, 2003 11:56 PM