The Lost Works of Abbn Ehr: The Horse with two Heads; Part Two

     I was reading this story to my kids the other night for bed time and they freaked out. (they liked the way Abbn Ehr talks.) I must admit that when I started this, it was way to much fun. I was actually writing something else. I was beginning to write "The wind riders" which is the beginning history of all humans in my "Tales of Illandrea" fantasy series. I don't like to tell, but show. this is not always as easy as it sounds while writing a fantasy. then while watching Discovery Channel I saw something about Odyssey tech" showing what the technology of "Homers Odyssey" would look like. I thought "wouldn't it be funny if there was a writer in Illandrea who wrote an epic tale about the events from "The Wind Riders" and made it a fantasy within the story realm, then later, nobody could remember the facts"  that was the birth of Abbn Ehr. His poem ONA WHEA (ona whea means "wind rider" in old Dadmic, my notes arn't with me, spelling subject to change) is still in progress (its hard) but I thought it would make a fun book to have a collection of his story's. This one here is part of the first story. (just a taste)

The Horse with Two Heads: part two 

     In the Region of Ir there lies a small village that calls its self Burkum (which actually exists.) It is such a hole of a place that it deserves no attention, and defiantly draws no embellishment except a description of how rot the place is, and dumb the people are.
     In quite retrospect, let me propose another village that I will call "Garden of the rose" (I named it thus, because I could not imagine a lovelier scene, for my village to emulate). Wander with me though a land that begins with a clear babbling river. (a good river must babble, dear reader, because if it didn’t, it is dead. A dead River is good for nothing.) Follow the river with me as it flows by beautiful fields of clover spotted with a variety of colorful flora, bordering well kept crops full in season. ( and it is always seasonable here)
     Move in with me, through the full fresh scents of the fields to well tended roads edged with large stones, placed to stay those stray grasses that love to encroach on every thing (not unlike little ‘poor’ children who hover and creep up, while cooking soup in the ally) These roads lead to smartly built homes formed by logs and stone, jointed by white mud and clay, harvested out of fertile streams beds.
     Comparatively, the homes of Burkum are made of rubble, garbage, and Smells like a dung heap!     
     The people of my ‘Pleasant Garden’ (as I like to call it for short) are very industrious and full of joy, kindness, and general charity. They share no opinions of offence with one another, rather, they write their grievances on pieces of clay, then enthusiastically throw them over a cliffs edge.
     OH! Dear reader, that you could see what I see, in my minds eye. To feel the love emanating out of these beautiful people. With their well kept cloths and manicured forms. Smiling forth genuine good will. Oh! Future generations, if only I could live in such a place and be comforted in ways that I have never experienced. Often times, when my belly ached in pain of hunger, and my feet groaned from blisters. When my throat burned with thirst and my legs shook from exhaustion. I would think of my Pleasant Garden and ponder on its people, lifting me up! giving me peace! tending my wounds and mending my spirit. Although it was all imaginary, I would find reasons to continue this laborious life.
     I can see them smile, and greet each other with the kindest of pleasantries. “Good day to you” and “May the sun shine forever on your home” to which the reply would be given with a slight bow saying “And may this day please you” or “And the sun bless your family for generations". Unlike in Burkum, where all passer by suspiciously hide their hands in their coats, and greet each other as such: “What do you got there?” to which the reply is “None of your matters! That’s what!” (If you were to be greeted in Burkum and not be stabbed...run! I fear you are being plotted against)
    
     Now, my friend (the horse) did not share with me the shape and looks of my "Pleasant Garden of the Rose" I just knew it, and saw it very clearly in my mind. (I only thought of the worst place I knew and thought in reverse). No dear reader, the horse’s story started out as thus….. (In my words of coarse)


Part three