The Empty Windows, Part 1

This Week’s Prompt:118. Something seen at oriel window of forbidden room in ancient manor house.

The Prior Research: Through the Looking Glass

It was a special sense of space that brought me to the oriel window. Being new to the building, I had only briefly explored it’s grounds—business had kept me from being too keen on its contents and precise layout. It was a house of relative isolation, for relatively little. The benefit of buying at government auctions, there wasn’t much competitions for the place.  Its grounds were grassland, dotted with islands of white stone. If the house was swallowed up, I doubt anyone driving by would have noticed.

So I took sometime to pace about the house, and there I found it—a strange jutting balcony on the western wall. A set of windows surveyed the land—but they were impenetrable from the outside. And more worryingly, no such structure had been found on my first day inside the building. It took about an hour to find the slightly off color wall—much longer with tools to break the plaster over the heavy oaken door.

There wasn’t a handle either, but that was easy to fake. A twist and some careful strokes and the door came open on a hidden room.

It was a small room—a round balcony, with oddly spaced windows. Each of them had a curtain drawn, and a thick screen pulled over them. In between them was a desk, a chair, and an empty picture frame.

Scooting around the desk, I carefully removed the screen—and what a window was hidden by that dreadful veil! It was smooth and green tinted, and seemed to ripple in the wind. It was exquisite. And each that followed, as amazing as the last. I found crimson, azure, indigo, violet, all the many colors of the rainbow in the seven windows there. I admit, it was a bit gauche—but the light it cast on the table was fascinating. And the view of the same plains, cast in only a slightly different color, made the world of difference.

A few days later, I moved some things into the room—my old typewriter, my note books with sketches, and my personal bookshelf. Finding a place for the shelf that didn’t obstruct the inspiring windows took some effort, but I eventually managed to squeeze it across from the door way.  And then I set about writing, watching at the seas of grass shifting in the wind.

It took sometime for the first changes to be clear. I thought it was the isolation getting to me, gazing out through the windows at the grass. Surely, I was imagining shapes moving out there—a forest so verdant and lively through the green window, a rust-red desert in the red window,  a world strange and in perpetually night in the indigo one. They were faint impressions of shapes, like ripples hidden in the glass that my eye was just now noticing.

But no! I saw them, now more and more clearly. They were worlds, worlds fully formed in the windows of such graceful and alien cast.

I saw in that verdant window a country—I cannot read their script, so I called it Verta for its color. Not the most creative name, no, but it must do for now. I observed such dances and songs by their bards—silent, yes, silent yet. But they were entrancing still. They were a different sort of people than most, thin and frail looking. A strong wind would rip their limbs, I feared, a strong storm would shred and tear their wings. Even when they fought, and they fought often with gallantry and honor, they fought with rapiers and sabers and it seemed more like a delicate dance. Even the spilling of blood, who’s color seemed as green as the trees, was more enobled than dreadful. How they seemed to love and fight with a serene passion, it was wonderous. One I had named Gladwing—he was a fierce fighter, wearing a coat of arms of sorts that I’ve drawn here. He was a superb dancer as well, and truly seemed the flower of virtue—even if perhaps his people’s practice of devouring some of the dead seemed unseemly to me.

The yellow window, almost golden, presented fields of wheat for miles. Vast farms, maintained in eternal summers. Golden, blocky buildings peaked over high walls. At first they were of wood and paper, but in time they were stone to last the ages of the sun baked lands. In great chariots, pulled by creatures that were part lion and part oxen, I saw great kings and queens ride out to survey the land. They met and fought, and built great towers to commerate their battles.

And through the red window, among the long grass, I saw the domain of great giants. Twin headed giants, who discussed among themselves and between their heads often. They sat on great stones and spoke for long intervals—I imagined their tones dull and droning, even as they gestured solemnly at stars and shapes in the distance. They built great tablets, with paintings more expressive than their faces. I found it strange—they cast many images of figures with one head, but they and all life had two. I wondered if perhaps they thought of such singular purpose and thought divinity? Or perhaps each head thought itself as a singular entity, trapped without any privacy.

And then through the indigo window showed me a world stranger yet—for the grass became thick here, not grass at all. No, it became a sea, vast and inscrutable, with slow and heavy waves. Drifting overhead were islands, and icebergs rose from the tips like stones. The people here were strange, yes, but not as strange. They had camps to mine strange ore from the icebergs—often they threw from their dead from floating islands, while others wore heavy cloaks and brought nets in the sea to catch strange fish to examine.  One I noticed came frequently, examining the fish who’s skin seemed to hold lost memories and forgotten thins. I haven’t named him yet, his name is on the tip of my tongue. But I remember him clearly.

And through the violet window, a world where the dead were closer to the living—the gaping abalaster entrances and openings where shades would come to retire. The sun was dim, distant and cold. It was like a moon made more bright, shimmering just barely against the dark and perpetually cloudy sky. Familes grew around these openings—hundreds of generations in vast and ever growing mansions. Like mushrooms, they spread and sprouted out of the ground. I saw the weight of years crush and grind passions. With time, even the dead seemed to become nought but architecture, and I grew fond of a young scholar who made the study of decay her passion. I called her Morrigan, after the crow goddess, for she seemed fond of crows. Ghostly animals were herded past her house, as she entertained and wrote papers, and rode with those dead so near to dissolution.

I saw these and I wondered, at all these worlds—why would they have been hidden from the world? Why would anyone board up and bind these windows tightly? Such insight, such wonder—a man of science would find no end of discoveries with this glass, with these world’s just beyond a thin line of glass between us.

Months later, I realized that it was not just the distortion in shapes of glass—it was distortion of the light itself. My eyes, even when I wandered in the grass for fresh air, they could see the ghosts of worlds gone by. Worlds that were just slightly out of sync with my own perception. I stood beside Gladwing as he fought his dread rival, I stood on a stone to see the death blow. I sat and listened to the great two headed speakers debate on solitary summer stones. I watched the great king Orabi wrestle his opponents to the floor as I wandered through the taller grasses. I heard the lapping of the waters against the seas. How strange and beatufiul, to have such refined and sharpened vision. My eyes, adjusted to the colored lens, now saw the shining wonders everywhere.


Perhaps that is how it should have ended. Perhaps at last than I would have enjoyed a dream in this empty house, in this grassy sea. But the plains were wracked one night, with dreadful storms. Thunder and hail bombarded the building, keeping me up all through the night. And when it ended, I found a strange shape form the outside of the house. Atop the old balcony, broken a bit now, was a wooden covering. I had taken it to be a nothing more than a ceiling—but from the ground I saw the sun shine down. And reflect off the dark and smooth  shape of a hidden window of darkest black, resting atop the ceiling.

I’m afraid even with my brief break I ran out of time to flesh this idea out in full. Instead, I’ll leave it here—and return to it after next weeks research!

2 thoughts on “The Empty Windows, Part 1

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