Vault of diamonds: 6 February 2011
Weighty steps echo through the corridor, rebounding authoritative and pedantic. The massive form thrusts air from its sentry stillness, sending it singing and swirling beside, behind, and around. The song overwhelms, daring to blow me over, then it quiets to a whisper, and I wonder if it has returned to its stationary post.
Towering doors—impossible in size, devastating in substance—stand vigilant at the corridor’s end. The master stops and faces the entrance, breezes around him swaying to a halting stillness. He has arrived. To possess this vault-filled passage is to own supreme sway, the dominion of influence over all life. But only the master can bear the weight of the keys, and wield the doors from their locks.
The jangle of golden authority sounds like bells from a tower. He lifts key to latch, and wind follows his arm. Decisive power hurls faithful teeth and gears from their holding grip. He leans into the door. Thunder groans as hinges bear down under their burden. Stones shout for the grinding shove against their faces.
Then, all is silent, except for the faint sigh of wind, who exhales in wonder at the sight. He steps in, turns all around, and gazes at his treasure. Wind follows him in silent grandeur, stirring loose bits of wealth from the floor, and scattering them in swirls of feathery brilliance. This is the storehouse of diamonds.
He smiles, and breathes, a deep, powerful breath. His exhale harmonizes with wind’s song, propelling a burst of luminous gems into the air. They seem to expand, twirl, suspended in dance, gazing on the master. His eye twinkles. They sparkle, then tumble in whirling arcs to new niches in the heaped wealth.
He reaches down, gathers a handful of jewels, while wind scatters loose gems with his echoed movement. He gazes up at the domed room, now gleaming with pure light, then out the iron doors into the corridor. He looks beyond, past all framing and space, and smiles.
He turns, and strides out the vault. Wind ripples his gestures through the room, glinting, sighing, singing, till every particle of treasure sparkles under his passing light. He closes the doors, locks them. They will hold till he returns to the treasury. He knows, because He designed them.
Out, out, out the corridor, into his quiet resting place. Wind sings a high-pitched melody as he sits by his dearest invention. He turns the sphere round and round, finding the perfect spot. He lifts mighty hand, and sprinkles diamonds onto the orb’s surface. He blows a soft breath, warm and cool air spiralling his command. The place on the globe turns white. He smiles. It sparkles.
Wind giggles for joy, sending the diamonds into mounds and drifts. Clouds of diamond dust hover at the surface, then eventually settle, glimpsing over sparkling shoulders to catch the glint of his delight, and reflect it back to him.
Have you entered the treasury of snow?
He sends out His command to the earth; He word runs very swiftly. He gives snow like wool; He scatters the frost like ashes; He casts out his hail like morsels; who can stand before His cold? He sends out His word and melts them; He causes His wind to blow, and the waters flow.