Wolfrie had climbed all day. He was effete when he reached the top where the fortress stood, but he made it with a big smile came across his face. With the remaining strength, he crawled to the door where he knocked three times. No one answered. Poor Wolfrie, fainted, right there at the front door of Solomon’s home. He had been so close, so close.
Everything was motionless and quiet, Wolfrie smacked his mouth a few times he slowly opened his eyes. His mouth was dry and fatigue, plagued his body and mind. He looked around a room he did not recognized. He felt the soft silk covers over him and the warmth that the covers provided him. For a few seconds, he did not rationalized where he was.
“How are you doing dear?” a kind feeble voice said to him.
Wolfrie turn to see a very old woman standing beside his bedside. He jumped out of his skin when he saw her. “Who are you?” he said.
“My poor boy aren’t you delirious,” said the old woman. “It’s me, your mother, Solomon.”
“He must have been gone too long to recognize his mother,” said another voice. “Will he recognize us?”
Wolfrie pulled the covers up to his chest in fright. He looked around the room at many strange faces looking back at him. It suddenly came to him why he was there. He was Solomon not Wolfrie.
“Don’t you recognize us, Solomon?”
“Wolfrie sputtered, “of course. I’ve been out to see that sometimes I think I am seeing a mirage.”
“We are all here, son,” smiled the old woman.
“I thought you were dead,” said a man in a brown tunic. “We all did.”
“I was certain you were alive,” said the old woman.
“He doesn’t look like Solomon,” said a doubter in a red tunic.
“Of course he is,” said another in a white tunic. Some seem to argue it wasn’t Solomon while others refuted the remarks. He was indeed, Solomon. http://www.ontalkingterms.com/
to be continued…