Revenge
Brushstroke.
Colored streak.
Cliff face
Once bleak,
Painted in
Bright tones.
A Narayani
All alone.
Red there
Green here
Recreates
His darkest fears.
The murderers
Seemed innocent.
The killers his
Old friend had sent.
The ones he taught
Had told him lies.
He dropped the brush,
Began to cry.
The twenty years
He'd been exiled
Had made him strong;
Had made him wild.
That painting on
The cavern wall
Showed only part
Of Narayan's fall.
And as the tears
Down his face ran,
It came to him:
A clever plan.
A writer was
That friend of his,
A quiet man
Named Atrus.
He'd conjured up
Another world
Into a book
With pages furled.
He'd even – no,
It couldn't be –
He'd even brought back
His people, and he
Had sent both his sons
To make life so rough
For the poor Narayani –
Enough was enough!
He'd steal that book;
He'd make Atrus come
And then he would see
What his sons had done
To the beautiful world
Of his childhood friend!
He'd make Atrus rewrite
Narayan, and then…
But what if he didn't?
The thought made him weak.
There'd be nothing left –
No thoughts left to speak.
He'd fall through the sky
Inch by inch, bit by bit,
Until he hit the ground –
When he did, that'd be it.
So, he packed up the brush,
The paints, and drop cloth,
Looked back at his painting
Once more, and was off.
He linked to J'nanin,
Contemplating his pain.
A lightning bolt flashed;
Down poured the cold rain.
He entered the tusk
And settled in bed,
Unperturbed by the devious
Plot in his head.
He'd enact his plan
The very next day:
"Hello, it's Saavedro.
Can Atrus come play?"