Holy Diver

The morning fog had not yet cleared, and it wouldn’t for the rest of the day. It probably wouldn’t be cleared by tomorrow. I watched the thick mist mask all the brush beneath it while settling between peak and ridge. My brother’s car was a bubble of protection from these cold and somber hills of San Bruno. We were heading home from baseball and my brother was itching to hear the sounds of classic metal, which go oh-so-well with baseball’s culture. He idly fingered the radio until it came to rest on his favorite station: one-oh-seven-seven, The Bone. My young and malleable mind had not yet attained the knowledge of the musical spectrum to house any preferences of my own; any channel was acceptable.

The DJ at the moment was not playing anything to get me excited about the world of classic rock. I got bored and restless. The next song to grace my auditory system, however, was perhaps an angel’s kiss and the Devil’s fury combined into one epic. A minute of wind and demonic noise passed on the track as did the foggy hills surrounding me. What began to seem a tedious and unnecessary minute for a song to have slowly began oozing through the cracks of my imagination. The darkness and coldness of that first minute’s sounds turned the forests and precipices around me into a Hellish backdrop. What once stood as a majestic oak now glared down upon me — a freakish and violent monster.

On the edge of being dragged into a mental abyss, a force of light and power began to battle the hell around me by a screaming riff of strength, of power, of metal! Suddenly, with the words of Dio himself chiming in, I was no longer in a Ford pick-up, but soaring on the wings of a Herculean demon. Fire shot from eyes and arrows descended from my bow wielded by rippling arms. I swept to the ground and dismounted my dragon. With the Sword of Atlantis in right and head of an enemy’s in left, I battled the minions of Hell with righteous zeal. Spells of the scourge reaped no vitality from me; it was no average metal that forged the strength of my armor. With the speed of a hunting Jaguar on the Amazon my foes fell before me. Battle ending and nemesis’s hopeless, I quenched my thirst for victory and filled my hunger for mayhem.

As quickly as it began, the magic sound ceased its secretion from my brother’s speakers. Curiosities regarding what I had just hear enveloped me: “What song was that?”

“Holy Diver, Ronnie James Dio.” The power and strength was unlike anything i had ever experienced. As composure resettled within, I noticed the everlasting fog of the coastal mountains had finally lifted.

About gnarlyoak

"Nestled sporadically over great and endless knolls, devoid of life during dry summer months, the oak trees of Los Altos Hills – so numerous around my home – speak to me in an unheard language. Like any person I am the sum of my successes and failures but unlike the masses I have heard the language of the oaks – I found meaning in their forgotten voice." - Song of the Oak
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