Originals' Contribution for February
How an Amish Met the Ouroboros
Zenos Zond
In the simple stillness of my homestead, bathed in the glow of a single oil lamp,
I first beheld the singular serpent—its shape wrought upon a tarnished band of metal,
a thing of worldly vanity I ought never have touched. The Ouroboros, they call it,
though its name is a mystery to me, a serpent biting its own tail, a circle unbroken.
It was given to me by chance, or so I thought—a passing tinker, his cart laden
with sundries, left it behind as though it wished to stay with me.
The object bore a curious weight, though small and light to the hand. Its etchings
seemed alive, the serpent’s scales catching the lamplight in ways unnatural. I ought
to have turned away, to cast it into the ground where such devilry belongs,
but I did not. Pride, I reckon—a sin whispered in my ear by that cursed thing.
From the moment I held it, time seemed to falter, each day bleeding into the next
like ink spilled on a clean page. The rooster crowed before the sun rose, the sun
lingered long past its due, and the stars spun like a wheel above me. My chores,
my prayers, my very breath fell into a rhythm I did not recognize—a pattern coiled back upon itself.
I sought counsel with my brethren, but they saw only a man burdened by weariness.
"Pray harder," they said, "and toil well, for the Bringer of Light sees all."
Yet my prayers found no peace, and my toil bore no fruit. I saw the serpent in the
curl of wood shavings at my bench,
in the whorl of butter churning, even in the creeping vines that choked the corn.
At last, I understood—a revelation not of —, but of the Adversary. The serpent was not
of this earth, nor of any natural place. It was a curse, a cycle, a torment sent to ensnare
me in its eternal maw. Even now, as I sit in the stillness of this holy night, I feel its grip
upon my soul, coiling tighter with each breath.
I am but a humble and simple man, a keeper of the old ways, yet I know this: the Ouroboros
is no mere ornament. It is a snare, a trap laid by forces I cannot comprehend.
And as the serpent devours itself, so too does it devour me. There is no end,
only the dreadful circle that turns forever, a silent mockery of the life I once called my own.