Freedom

Little waves crash on a humble dock. The planks creek in time with the waves. The songs of birds fill the open air. The smell of solid land once more permeates the noses of a few weary travelers as they step out with ginger feet onto the planks before them.

Leaving their weather torn vessel behind these travelers step out onto the new planks starting a new life. Their bodies silhouetted in the morning sun, as if they were ebony statues against a backdrop of yellows and blues. Behind them their ship, probably more adequately called a raft, rocks back and forth. The twig-like mast creeks with each roll of the waves, and the sails bob useless in the water. Around the boat large holes can be seen. The water slowly peeking in and out of hull as it rocks. Well worn oars lay on the cabin floor moldy from the constant exposure to the water they lay next to ruined oarlocks. This decrepit scene the way-faring travelers leave now to seek the brighter pastures of life.

Dressed only in rags they step out onto the dock. Their lead, a tall and well built figure, casts his eyes about searching for new dangers, his leather boots resounding off the ground. Flanking him are two more figures. A young boy walks behind his father, his skin so tanned under the harsh light of the sun and his hands raw. To his right is a woman, heavy with child slowly plodding her way down the dock. She does not look ahead but weary eyes stare dumbly at the planks before her as her feat wander on. With slow and ponderous steps these travelers slowly cress the length of the small dock and step onto dry land.

Where the plank ends, the village begins. A herd of stone structures lazily lay on the hills their heads covered with hats of thatched straw. By the sea shore the largest of this herd towers above the resounding waves. A monolith of stone and mortar, every stone having grown smooth from the constant beating of the wind and the sea. Instead of a thatched roof its hat shines out in the distances, a small lantern to serve as a guiding star for wayfaring travelers. The entire base of the tower is crisscrossed with strands of ivy girding the stones from harm. The only place the ivy dares not tread is a heavy wooden door at the tower’s base which stands closed under the morning sun.

The sounds of men beginning their daily chores can be heard further into the village. The gruff calls of one to his neighbor fill the morning air. The smells of fires being renewed after their evening slumber mix with the smells of food beginning to be cooked. The sweet taste of pastries and breads join the smells of dew in the fresh morning air. And the yellow sun raises from out of the ocean to shine a calm light over the morning affairs.

The sounds and smells and sights of this village by the see confront these weather worn passengers. It is just another day in this costal hamlet but to those arriving it is the first day. As their boots strike the wet earth of solid ground smiles erupt on the travelers’ faces. This is the first day in their new lives. Their first day of Freedom.