Ruth…

She emerged over the crest of the promontory laid in heather that veiled meadow and moorland, wearing her bare-shouldered white tattered embroidered dress and bare feet pained by thorn and thistle and bramble.  In her left hand she carried the battalion’s standard and arm and seal.

Behind her rose a hundred men with fierce eyes bearing muskets and bayonets jabbing the morning mist, awash with clank and din, and thirsty for the blood-filled chalice.   Their random cadence rumbled, craving ransom from cradle to grave, assembled by grace…

“Halt!” she raised her right hand to signal the men. “Why have you not answered me?” she demanded of the Fairy before her.

The blue feathered Fairy stood — nay, hovered, with wings spread wide, glistening in the morning’s hazy light.  She had no answer to give.

“Fairy, what of Ruth?  Why have you no account nor recount, nor have you any trace of the import of David?”

The Fairy looked into her eyes, silently.

“Speak Fairy, have you not traced the story of Ruth from the breast of Hecate and its mystery?”

“No.”

“Then, so it shall pass.”

And with that declaration Quantum once more raised her right hand and this time turned her men around to vail to valley and river for tomorrow’s ambition anew.

 

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