Arriving At Mudjimba

The sun had almost sunk below the horizon by the time I returned to the Esmerelda, and I realised I must have spent longer in Triton’s cave that I thought.

“We won’t be able to get over to Mudjimba tonight”, Captain Sorensen told me, “because the tide has turned, and there’s not enough clearance for Esmerelda. We’ll have to wait for the early tide and moor in the morning.”

That was fine by me. Truth be told, I relished the idea of spending the night in my quarters on board, being rocked to sleep by the motion of the waves.

As the light faded, pinpricks of yellow appeared on the cliff sides above Mudjimba dock. I asked the captain what they might be.

“Those are the hanging cottages of Mudjimba Chine”, she told me. “They line the cliff path from the landing stage up to the village proper. They are quite famous. The houses are built into the cliff side. You can only see the fronts, because most of the rooms are carved back into the rock. You’ll see them up close tomorrow, as you climb the path, because that’s the only way up to the village, at least in this side of the island.”

That, I decided, would be something to look forward to.

Next morning as we made fast at Mudjimba. A hive of dockers looped ropes around bollards and maneuvered a gangway onto the ship. Captain Sorensen barked orders and supervised the discharge of her cargo. I found myself feeling just a little lost amidst all the bustle and shouting, so I picked up my staff and set off to explore Mudjimba.

As the captain had said, there was only one way to leave the landing stage, and that was up a series of wooden ladders and pathways that led past the hanging cottages and onto the cliff top.

The climb was steep in places, but I took my time, and as I passed house after house, I realised that no one could enter Mudjimba unseen, at least not by the route we’d taken, and that the inhabitants would get a good look at every stranger who passed. Many of the cottages had what I knew as farmhouse doorways, divided doors, with a bottom that could be closed while the top remained open. The doors to many of the cottages stood open, and at the sound of approaching steps, someone invariably appeared to take a look, offer a greeting, and, of course, exchange news and gossip.

It took me an eternity to climb to the top of the chine and enter Mudjimba village. The layout seemed so familiar to me, and I realised it was like a village I’d lived in as a child, with a central green and a square that housed a stone-walled well and one or two small stores. The rest of the village was made up of low, thatched houses with brightly planted gardens, lining lanes that drifted off from the square in all directions.

I’d heard Mudjimba referred to as “Old Woman’s Island”, and it was easy to see why. Most of the people I saw were women as old as myself and older. Make no mistake there were some children, youngfolk, and men, too, but they were few in comparison.

I was just making my way across the village green to a many-armed signpost when a group of women shouted to me and beckoned me over to the well. A wooden bench ran all the way round the wellhead, and it had been roofed over with an expansive wood and thatch construction, to provide shelter from wind, sun, and rain. Approximately twenty women had gathered beneath the canopy to chat and food and tea brought along in wicker baskets.

One of the women introduced herself: “I’m Molly Bold by name and nature”, she said, and laughed. “Welcome, welcome to Mudjimba. Come on over and take a rest. You must be famished after that climb.”

I was plied with morsels of delicious food and mugs of hot, sweet tea. Then the women fired questions at me:

“Where are you from?” someone asked.

“Where are you headed?”

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Any news from Rainbow Beach?”

“Are you looking for that group of journeywomen?”

“Who are you sailing with?”

In between eating and drinking, I tried to answer all the women’s questions. In the end, everyone knew what little I had to tell and knew why I had come to Mudjimba.

“So if I get this right”, said Molly, “you need to visit the Keeper of Mudjimba and then find out who is working on your vision piece, so you can ask to see it.”

I was relived Molly had managed to piece together the essentials from the melee of questions and answers and general chatter.

“Yes”, I said, “that’s about the size of things.”

Molly looked at me thoughtfully. “Can I ask you what color your coral is? I don’t need to see it; I just need to know the color.”

Her question puzzled me, but I saw no harm in offering a reply. “It’s black”, I said.

She paused before saying anything. “I had a hunch it might be”, she said. “It’s been a long time since one of you came this way. Let me think….”

She counted silently, mouthing numbers as she moved her fingers.

“I was a youngster then”, she said, after a while. “It was just before I left Mudjimba to learn my trade in Rainbow Beach. Must be something like, oh, coming up five-hundred years ago now, in human time.”

“One of whom?” I asked. I knew, of course, that we were thinking the same thing, but I had learned from childhood not to advertise the fact, and I wanted to be certain. I could see she realised this, too.

“One of the Halfborns”, she replied. “Not many of you pass this way any more… not since the changes.”

The changes were one of the few things that permeated all the worlds. Normally, the eternal worlds like Lemuria remained impervious to shifting events of the mortal worlds — the “real” worlds, as their inhabitants liked to call them. But the changes had altered the very fabric of reality and threatened the Otherworlds darkly. As with most things, the changes had begun with the best intentions. There had been a widespread awakening in the mortal worlds, with increasing numbers of people becoming aware that there was more to the world and events around them that met the eye. Some of the awakened set out to examine and describe the unseen, and they succeeded, but they also failed to realise that there was so much they could not know. However, instead of acknowledging the extent of their understanding, they concocted dark and mainly erroneous explanations for what was beyond their grasping. There were fearmongers in their number — men and women who chose to peddle doom so their own unknowing would not be so easily seen. And when fear was not enough, they turned to denial, strangely enough, calling on the authority of equally unproven entities to affirm their words and threaten punishment to those less able to think that they were. If only they could have known how close they came to the real truth, and how freely they might have been given of it, had they deeply desired…

The self-appointed truth sayers rampaged, burning and killing those who held to the old ways, seeking out and murdering those who had knowledge of the Otherworlds, and many who had none, but were named as such purely out of malice.

For their own protection, the Otherworlds closed themselves to the human worlds, save for a handful of portals. Many Otherworlders whose portals were sealed were trapped in human time and ended among the slaughtered. Those who remembered the old ways and Otherlands kept to themselves, and the knowledge grew thin and then was lost, except in a few families who continued to pass between the worlds, albeit with great difficulty and in the utmost secrecy.

Even when the times changed again and became less dangerous, the knowledge was kept close, for fear the troubles might flare up once more. And when finally the knowledge of the worlds and their ways resurfaced, it took the shape of fairy-like tales and parlour games for grown children. The crystals, the herbs, the music, the star charts were in every hand, but their true nature and their deep power escaped most of those whom they fascinated. And still we kept our silence, for we had learned that true sight shared causes fear and that fear only too easily translates to danger.

“The Keeper isn’t here today”, Molly said. “You’ll find her cottage near the Field of Stones. You can’t miss her place. It’s about three hours’ hike.” She pointed in the direction of a lane that led uphill out of the village.

Though I was half-reluctant to leave the cozy round, I got up and shouldered my pack. “I’d best be on my way, then, if I want to return by nightfall.”

Molly reached for a teacloth, in which she wrapped a slice of cake and some sandwiches, then deftly tied a knot and bound it to the strap of my pack. “That’ll keep your strength up”, she said. “We’ll likely be here when you get back, so I’ll probably see you then.”

I thanked Molly and waved a goodbye to the group of women before striding out in the direction of the hills.

Photo (Shanklin Chine): Project Gutenberg (Public Domaine)
Photo (Shankin Old Village): Christophe Finot, ShareAlike 2.5 License (Creative Commons)

Lord Triton’s Dream

We floated, light as feathers, in a darkness so complete that it was filled with all and nothing. The heavens were not created and named. The earth was not yet created and named. There existed only the great deepness in which all things dwelled and yet did not. Then the deepness filled with water, and above the water a wind arose, and they mingled and danced over the nothingness, into which no gods had yet been born and no destinies ordained.

Then, the first gods were called into being in a thought, and in their wisdom, in turn, they bore many children and gave to each a realm in which to dwell and over which to rule. The deep waters were given to Enki, and to him, too, the sacred powers of the Me*. He became the shaper of the world, god of wisdom and all magic, lord over the great deep, and father of the god-like.

And Enki danced, with the great goddesses, he danced, and he lay with them and fathered many children. And he fought fierce battles with his brothers, he fought, and saved both gods and mortals through gifts of knowledge, when destruction threatened. And he sang in the seas, he sang, and called men to venture abroad in ships, and to some he gifted knowledge of the Me.

Great Enki saved Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, he saved her, from the hands of Ereshkigal, exiled in the irkalla, the great below. And he wept salt tears for Ereshkigal, who was feared and cast from the land of the living, so the god-like need not face their own shame.

And he soared and crested on the great waves and rode in a coach pulled by dolphins, he rode. He built his palaces of gold on the ocean bed and was revered by the powerful and the wise.

And in the second world he swam the middle seas and sent out his folk to guide seafarers through the night. Poseidon and Triton he was, both father and son, and he sang to the stars, he sang, and the stars bowed down to him and the peoples of the world praised him.

In the third age he watched as a bright star led kings and wisemen to a sacred place, to herald the birth of another god-like. He rejoiced, for the gods of his ilk had long withdrawn from the mortal world.

And he rode on the wind and danced under the winter sun. He spoke with the giant whales who carried his word far and wide. And he begat many children to fill his world with laughter.

All this the Triton dreamed, and I with him. And through his dream I felt his power, his joy, and his triumphs. I knew his being and becoming, his sorrows and his longings. I knew the spirit of water, the taste of sea foam, the keening of sea-folk for souls long passed into the otherworlds. I knew what is was to be cradled by an ocean swell, to watch the procession of human lives flitting past, like mayflies on a spring evening, and what it meant to be called by the piping of the golden conch.

The dream ebbed, and Lord Triton and I floated in silence for what seemed to me like a very long time.

Eventually he spoke. “I have no dream seeds to offer you”; he said, “and all I can do is hope that you will find a way to see your own dream and someone to dream it with you, if that is your wish.”

He held out a hand to me. In his palm lay a small piece of delicately folded jet black coral.

“Take this, and give it to the Keeper of Mudjimba. And now, fare thee well, for we are unlikely to meet again, though I should be honoured if we were to do so.”

I bowed, for I knew that even though he could not see, the water would carry my sentiment to him. Then, with the sliver of coral held tightly in my fist, I swam out of the Triton’s cave and up through the clear river waters into the light.

Captain Sorensen was already on board the Esmerelda. She helped me on board and handed me a thick towel with which to dry myself off.

“Ready to dock at Mudjimba?” she asked.

I nodded. “Ready to dock at Mudjimba.”
* Me (Sumerian) = The gifts of civilized living.

Lord Triton’s Dream is based loosely on the first tablet of
the Babylonian creation story, the Enuma Elish.
http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/enuma.htm

Triton’s Realm

We both stripped off and dived into the river, followed by the band of merfolk. The water was clear and warm, and as my eyes adjusted to the water, I saw fields of coral and brightly colored plants spread out before me. Shoals of tiny blue fish darted forward to nibble from the reef, then shied back, as if at an unheard command. Anemones swayed like dancers in the current, seahorses inched their way between branches of coral and sea grass, and large fish patrolled the reefs and gullies, as if keeping order in their undersea world.

Two of the merfolk swam alongside of me and signalled for me to grasp their hands. I looked over to the captain. She nodded. So, I allowed myself to be led.

We swam deeper and deeper into the clear water, down past the reefs, past bare rocks and underwater grottos, down into the realm of the water folk drifting and swirling around us. I’d had no idea that so much life existed unseen but a few steps from the world in which I lived. Eventually we swam into a large cave and into the presence of a creature who looked like the other merfolk but was larger and much, much older. Only then did it occur to me that all the merfolk I’d seen, apart from this one, looked young. I was in no doubt that I’d arrived in the presence of the legendary Tanagran Triton.

The triton had the torso of a man and the tail of a dolphin, with a band of loose scales, like a skirt, between the two. His face was obscured by a curtain of long hair the green of fern algae and it flowed and eddied around him in the underwater current, as if alive in its own right.

The merfolk who had brought me to him withdrew and left me standing in the center of the cave alone, facing the Triton.

A Strange Conversation

“Who are you, mortal”, he demanded, “and why are you here?”

He sounded neither friendly nor particularly interested.

“I am a traveller who wishes to pay her respects to the mighty Triton and bid his permission to enter Mudjimba”, I replied.

“You and many others, it seems”, came his response. His voice was tinged with boredom, as if our exchange were merely a ritual he tad taken part in more often that he cared to remember.

“And what can you offer as your toll?”

I thought for a moment before replying. “What might please thee, Lord Triton?”

He flexed his tail, sending the fronds of his hair whirling. “I have no need of gold and bright stones and garlands”, he said, but you might provide the answer to a question, if you are able.”

My spine tingled. My experience of the mythworld was sufficient to tell me that our conversation was taking a turn that might lead anywhere, possibly into some kind of danger. Like most travellers, I also knew that many of the mythfolk were wont to play strange games with their guests. The merfolk were legendary in that respect. I decided to play for time, in the hope that his real wish would become clear before I made a commitment I might be unable, or unwilling, to keep.

“What kind of question might that be, Lord Triton? If I am able, I will gladly offer an answer, though I doubt the power of a mortal to answer any question of interest to someone who embodies the wisdom of ages.”

He thrashed his tail, and I sensed his anger. “Save your pat words, woman! And look at me!”

Mighty Triton swept aside the hair that had covered his face, and I gazed into his eyes.

He spoke slowly, with a brief pause between each word: “Show me who I am, woman. For I no longer have the power to see it myself. Who… am… I?”

We stood in our silence, for I knew he expected no pistol shot answer. I looked into the eyes of the mighty Triton. I gazed into eyes that could not look back into mine, for the Triton’s eyes were milky with the veil of blindness.

Seconds passed, then he exhaled with a deep sigh, his energy visibly spent, and allowed the curtain of hair to sway back across his features.

“Tell me, Lord Triton,” I ventured, “do you ask this question of all who pass here?”

Moments passed before he answered. “Not of all,” he replied. “Not of the young or of the gay in spirit, not of the dreamers and the bold, not of the lovers or the beautiful, for theirs is a different kind of life and a different journey.”

I nodded, then remembered… “Yes”, I said, “I can understand that.”

Our encounter had taken a turn I would not have imagined. I tried to remember everything I’d heard about the merfolk, and about tritons in particular, in the hope some idea would occur to me, and that I might be able to offer some kind of answer to Lord Triton’s question.

Carefully, I posed a question… “What of immortality, Lord Triton?”

He seemed to gaze into nothingness. “Ah, yes”, he replied eventually, “…. what of it, indeed? Once it was a promise, but now it shows its other face. The fates of immortals are tied forever to those of the human world. Though we may not die, we pass from memory into forgetfulness and fade to become mere shadows of our selves. We, too, forget, but not enough. Our memories are like wraiths; they haunt and torment us, but escape our grasp. As humans turn from our world, we are obliged to fade from theirs. When that happens, we, too, forget who we are and what purpose our existence serves. Though we cannot die, neither may we fully live, when the vision of our world thins in yours.”

They were the words of a tired man whose weariness would not be assuaged through sleep alone. They were the words of a once mighty Lord Triton who had lost his vision in both senses of the word. A hunch told me he that he would probably allow me to pass to Mudjimba one way or the other, but that if I passed without answer, I would simply be one of a stream of humans who had entered and left his world as unseeing as he himself had become.

But I had an idea. I reached for the oilskin pouch at my waist. The knot was difficult to untie underwater, but eventually I managed t open it and fumbled in my bag for one of the tiny items.

“A dream, Lord Triton. I possess dream seeds. I can offer you a dream. And in your dream you may remember who you are.”

I had no idea whether the dream seeds would work that way, but I thought it might be worth a try.

The Triton gazed in my direction. “Then dream with me”, he said. “It has been a long time since I shared a dream with another soul.”

His response surprised me. I had little understanding of the working of dream seeds and no way of knowing whether they could enable two to share a dream, but I was touched by his loneliness.

“Yes”, I said. I opened the packet of dream seeds to find perhaps twenty in a variety of shimmering, opalescent colors. I pondered for a moment then removed two identical, tiny seeds in shades of deep ocean water and sea grass.

He held out a hand.

I placed one seed in his palm and held the other in my own as I retied my bag and pouch.

“To dream…”, he said, and swallowed his seed.

“To dream…”, I echoed, placed the tiny seed on my tongue, and swallowed.

The Docks

Tempted as I was by the prospect of meeting other travellers, I felt too tired to visit the Mermaid Inn, and decided the best thing would be to get a good night’s sleep, in readiness for what might await me the next morning.

I woke in the half-light of dawn, and, being an early bird by nature, donned my clothes, packed my belongings, and went down to the breakfast room. A light meal would suffice, for my plan was to purchase some supplies at the produce market before setting off in search of a  boat to ferry me upriver.

Even at such an early hour, the market was a bustling with buyers and vendors haggling over mounds of fruits and grains, vegetables, cheeses and meats. I bought enough to fill a small sack with nourishing items that would sustain me for a day or two in an emergency. Experience had taught me that it always paid to be prepared. Other than that, I decided to trust I would find enough good water to drink, for I didn’t want to burden myself with unnecessary weight.

The docks were busy, too. Three large sea-going ships had tied up during the night and were being unloaded by droves of labourers. At the smaller quays, river boats were taking on passengers and supplies, ready to sail upriver to the many towns and islands that lay along the Kerith. I couldn’t see a boat that looked as if it might be waiting for me, though.

From the docks, I wandered along the seafront in the direction of a marina, where a flotilla of brightly painted fishing boats, yachts, and other small craft was anchored and bobbing lightly on the swell.

Enchanter had been right. I knew it as soon as I saw it. My boat was in the style of a longboat, much like those the ancient Vikings had used to sail the fjords and northern oceans, though the sides were higher. She was called “Esmerelda”. The Esmerelda  measures perhaps thirty feet from bow to stern, with a hull made of weathered, deeply polished dark wood that gleamed in the sunlight and reflected the waves beneath its keel. Midships, a mast half as tall as the boat was long rose into the sky. The canvas was furled, but I could see the sail was painted, and I was curious what it would show when hoisted and filled by a river wind.  There was no sign of anyone on board, so I sat down on the quayside to watch the gulls wheeling and screeching on the wind, while I waited for the captain.

I didn’t have long to wait until the captain came striding along the walkway, leading a donkey laden high with baskets, sacks, and a pair of barrels.  She was a tall woman, lean and muscular, with long flaxen hair braided and pinned to her head, like a crown. She was clad in leather and linen, which was clearly practical, but not at all unfeminine.

She got right to the point. “G’day, Mistress! Captain Sorensen. At your service. If you’ll be so kind as to help me unload the donkey, we can stow the goods and be on our way with the afternoon tide.”

I climbed into the boat. She untied the ropes around the saddles and panniers and passed the baskets, bags and barrels down to me. Together we stowed everything in a small hold beneath the deck planks.

“No need to advertise our wares,” she said, by way of explanation. “There’s still plenty of thieves and river pirates only too ready to relieve a trader of her cargo.”

She led me to a shelter at the ship’s stern. It was simply a sheet of painted canvas that spanned the boat from side to side to keep off sun, wind, and rain. There, she moved a bench aside to reveal a cleverly concealed hatch which covered a smaller hold space than the one we had just filled.

“Stow your things here,” she said.

The shelter was pleasant. It was light and airy and would provided sufficient respite from the elements on our short journey upstream, first to Mudjimba Island, on the other side of the bay, then on to Kerith.

River Crossing

Captain Sorensen was not the most talkative of people, though she was friendly enough when she did have something to say. I had the impression she was the kind of person who spent a lot of time in her own company and felt comfortable that way. While I explored the deck, she jumped back onto the quay and led the donkey to a pen, after which she returned to busy herself with ropes and lines and tackle. Before I fully realised what was happening, she had taken the wheel, turned the prow to face the river, and we were easing our way out of the marina.

“Got to make the most of the weather,  Mistress”, she  said. “It’s difficult to get over to  Mudjimba most of the time. The prevailing winds push water out of the bay, see, and it’s easy to run aground on the sandbanks over by the island. Gotta watch out for the whirlpools, too, when the tide is turning. Esmerelda’s a bit unwieldy. Been to Mudjimba before, Mistress?”

I almost missed the question.

“No”, I replied. “This is my first time.”

She grinned. “Well, then…, can you swim?”

“More or less, ” I said, “though not well. But why do you ask?”

Her grin widened. “Triton”, came the  brief reply.

Then she had mercy on me and explained her mirth. “It’s like this: first time visitors to Mudjimba have to pay their respects to the Tanagran Triton. To do that , you’ll have to dive into what we call “the hole”. It’s perfectly safe, as long as you can swim. It’s just a deep pool between the sandbars and the island. Actually, it’s lovely down there. Lots of corals and fish and so on. And the merfolk, a-course. Gotta make sure you stay on the right side of them. can’t get onto the island unless they give their ok.”

“Do they always give their ok?” I asked.

She thought for a moment. “No”, she said, “not always.”

Once we were clear of the marina, she hoisted the sail, which unfurled to reveal the figure of a mermaid with a turquoise, gold, and emerald green tail, with hair of fine sea grass.

“Esmerelda”, said Captain Sorensen. “Did her myself”, she added, with an evident tone of pride in her voice. “Took me a whole week, last winter.”

Esmerelda was beautiful, and I said so. I wanted to ask a question or two, but the captain suddenly whirled into a flurry of activity, adjusting ropes so the sail would catch the wind, and turning the wheel, to change direction.

It took us some time to cover the short distance across the bay, for we had to tack back and forth to pick up the wind. A hundred yards or so offshore of Mudjimba, the captain trimmed the sail and lowered the anchor.

“Time for a dip”, she said.

It occurred to me that I had no swimsuit.

As if she’d read my mind, the captain looked at me and said, “No need for swim things. Skinny suits do just fine around here.”

I looked around, unsure at first, but decided she was right. I could see no other vessels far and wide, and anyway… it had been a long time since I last swum naked in open water, and I had always wanted to do it again someday. It looked as if that day had arrived.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity in the water around the boat, and a group of swimmers broke water.

The captain stiffened. “Merfolk”, she whispered. “Keep your wits about you, and don’t take everything you see and hear at face value”, she added.

I tucked that item of knowledge away and turned my attention to the practical issue of whether or not to take my pouch with me. I’d been told to carry it on my person at all times, a caution that seemed perfectly reasonable to a traveller in an unknown land, but I hadn’t considered the possibility of diving. I asked the captain what I might best do.

She thought for a moment. “You can get caught without your clothes and find new ones anywhere”, she said, “but your magic is irreplaceable. Best not to be without it.”

She disappeared briefly and returned holding a small oilskin pouch and a leather belt. “Here you go”, she said, handing them to me.

Rainbow Pageant

The crescent of a waning moon hung in the black velvet sky. I couldn’t see any of the constellations with which I was so familiar, and, in looking, it seemed to me that there were many, many more stars in the Lemurian firmament than in that of my own world. A night sky is one of the things that has the power to make my mind dredge up curious little facts. Gazing out into the Lemurian heavens, I thought about how the ancients believed their heroes became constellations, watching over the fate of humans eternally. In that case, Lemuria must have produced many heroes, for the sky was aglow with the light of a million distant suns.

I couldn’t have missed the floating stage if I’d tried. Arcs of laser light crossed the sky, and the rhythm of music led me to it. There must have been a thousand people or more milling around, watching the performances, and clapping exuberantly as each came to a close.

 

The stage was a sight to be seen. It floated, as its name suggests, several yards offshore and was linked to the promenade by a pontoon walkway. A long queue stretched from the entrance to the walkway back into the crowd: probably the performers waiting to take the stage, I reasoned. Sure enough, as one act finished and the applause died down, a large sign hung from the center of the stage flashed a number, and the person at the head of the queue scurried along the walkway and climbed onto the stage. I decided to watch for a while before finding out where I needed to go to get a number of my own.

Seldom have I seen anything so fascinating. The backdrop changed for each performance, adding harmonious lights and images, according to the style and mood of each performer’s offering. I watched as a solo dancer trod out from darkness in to a spotlight, and as the first strains of music reached out across the water, she moved, and the backdrop showed a lakeside scene with wind ripples and delicate, fairylike creatures mirroring the performer’s steps. After a while, the rhythm changed, and drums took over, sending out a raw, archaic beat. Flames rose up behind the dancer. A second person leaped onto the stage, and together they danced an ancient story of power and danger and bravery. The drums beat faster and louder, and the music faded into the background, leaving only the power of rhythm to guide the dancers’ steps. They seemed to dance forever, and then their dance ended abruptly with a loud drum beat. As they stood on the stage, panting from their exertion, the crowd roared and clapped, as if it would never cease, and I found myself cheering them, too.

As carefully as I could, I edged through the spectators and toward the waiting performers and asked the last woman in line where I could get a number for the stage. Like me, she was dressed in travelling clothes and carried a pack and staff.

“Are you on the Enchanter’s journey?”, she inquired.

I said I was.

She offered me her hand. Her grasp was firm and determined.

“Then, come to the Mermaid Tavern on Market Square later, if you like. There are a few of us still here at Rainbow Beach, and we drop by the Mermaid to meet. That’s, unless your boat leaves tonight”, she added.

“I don’t know about my boat, yet”, I replied. “I thought I might look for it in the morning.” Then I asked her when the performances stopped for the night.

“They don’t”, she told me, “or at least not at a fixed time. The stage is open for as long as performers want to use it. And tonight will probably be a long one, because of the soul singers.”

At that point, I couldn’t imagine what should be so particularly special about people singing soul music that it would keep Lemurians from their beds. My incredulity must have showed.

She laughed.

“Not that kind of soul music. Lemurian soul music. It’s ummm… Oh, wait until it happens. You’ll understand more then that I could possibly explain.”

She pointed me in the direction of the ticket booth where I would be given a number for the stage. I promised to look by the Mermaid Tavern that night, if I wasn’t too tired.

At the ticket booth I was given a number and told it would likely be an hour or more until my turn was called. I made my way to the harbour wall and found a place to stand, right across from the stage.

One after the other, as their numbers were called, singers, poets, conjurers, fire eaters, and pantomime artists, and more took the stage and entertained us splendidly. But it was more than mere entertainment: in what they did, each of the performers showed us something of who they were and of the work to which they had been called in their lives.

The Soul Singers

Just before midnight, there were only three numbers before mine, and I had just decided it was time for me to move off to join the queue. Then it happened. As the last chords of a particularly skilled piano recital drifted off into the night, and the pianist left the stage to loud applause, instead of flashing out the next number, the light extinguished, and a man with a microphone strode to the center of the stage. A murmur of expectancy passed through the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen”, he announced, “the soul singers have arrived and are ready to perform for you. The programme will continue when the soul singers have completed their service.”

First the stage went dark, then stars appeared both on the backdrop and floor of the stage, making it merge seamlessly with the night. One by one, soft spotlights faded in, each focused on a figure in a long gown of dusky grey and shimmering gold. Many of the people on the stage held or sat by musical instruments — flutes, harps, violins, cymbals, small drums, and other percussion instruments — others simply stood in the light, looking toward the crowd. Had I not known they were standing on a stage, I’d have sworn they were floating in mid air, above the gentle river swell.

As one, they began to sing a single, long note, which they held for what seemed an eternity, and then extended into a simple, three note chant. I heard the overtones emerge, eery and beautiful, like the songs of angels. My spine tingled. Almost imperceptibly at first, the musicians drew sounds from their harps and cymbals into the music. Then followed the violins and soft drumming. I was enraptured, I felt myself slipping into a light trance and the cares of the day slipping from me.

After several minutes of chanting, two women, one very young, the other old, with flowing silver grey hair, stepped out to the front of the stage and wove a song into the chant. In her part, the younger woman asked questions, and the older woman answered them in hers. They sang in a language I could not easily follow at first, but as the song continued, I found myself able to grasp more and more. Their song recounted a myth about the creation of the worlds and of the passing between them. In the nature of all ritual songs, it spoke of the pain of loss and the hope of reunion, of the passing of darkness and the emergence into light, of despair and hope, of death and the eternal power of love.

Then the singers parted to stand on each side of the stage, and more and more voices joined in the antiphony, while others maintained the harmonics. I became aware of many of the people around me singing and chanting one or other part of the same song.

Slowly, a landscape appeared against the starry sky of the backdrop. The heavens faded into the background and a view of hills and lakes and woodlands came into focus, bathed in a light that exuded warmth, comfort, and serenity. People passed through the landscape, some a distance away, others in the foreground, so that it was easy to make out their features. I heard sighs and low sobs from here and there in the crowd, and when I looked around me, some of the people were gazing enraptured at the images, tears in their eyes.

Still the song continued, creating an atmosphere of peace and acceptance. I realised that some verses of the song were traditional and that others addressed specific individuals, presumably people around me, by name, for as names were woven into the verses, I heard occasional cries of “here!” and “yes!” and “listen!”, sometimes followed by excited exchanges of chatter or by soft crying.

Eventually, the scene faded and the stars took on their original brightness. The choirs and musicians merged once more, and the main singers melted back into the group. The singing ceased, the chants reverted to a single note that tapered off softly into the night. Then the stage darkened completely, and it was all over.

The crowd on the dockside was still and for the most part silent. Several minutes passed before the usual milling and chatter resumed. Intuitively, I understood why such a large number of people had gathered to hear the soul singers, for I, too, felt more at peace than I had for a long time, even though I hadn’t understood everything at a logical level, and even though none of the verses had been for me.

A new number flashed out from the stage, so I picked up my pack and staff and made my way to take my place in the queue of performers waiting for their turn.

Half an hour or so later, my number flashed above the stage and I stepped onto the walkway. It occurred to me that I’d forgotten to ask about the backdrop and how the images were selected. At the steps to the stage, I was greeted by a stage manager. I asked about the backgrounds. He smiled, and I had a hunch that he had been asked this by many of the non-Lemurian performers that night. Hastily, he explained that I should not worry and that the vibration of my own energy and that of my presentation would be translated into the appropriate background imagery.

I mounted the steps and walked across to the center of the stage, which had been marked with a large circle that showed performers where to stand.

In our brief encounter, Enchanter had instructed me to present three things: something old, something new, and something borrowed.

My choices had been easy, for I am not prone to indecision or stage fright, And so I began with the old: a poem I had written three years before this night, without knowing that it would ever be heard or read by others.

The stage lights dimmed and a fine mist spread across the floor, backlit by dim footlights. Of course, I couldn’t see the backdrop, but my curiosity was piqued when I heard gasps of what I took to be amazement from the spectators on the dockside. I cleared my throat and spoke:

When You Are Croning

When you are croning
the night
will be your ally and
death will blow you kisses
from the threshold
between the worlds.

You will have
more friends in the Otherworld
than in this, and hunger
for their love
will layer itself upon your soul
until it robes you in a shimmering veil.

When you are croning
you will shun the busy-ness world
and journey within to
travel exquisite landscapes.

You will learn to speak an
ancient tongue,
your truth will ring
and wound and heal
and your anger rise to burn its way
through the wild flesh of your life.

When you are croning
You will come to treasure
wrinkled, grey-haired women
and their soft belly flesh.

You will learn
the preciousness of touch
and the art of
folding memories into your skin,
ready to carry them with you
into eternity.

For the something new, I presented a work that has been in progress for some time but is coming to completion: a shrine to a sanctuary from my childhood days.

As a girl, I lived in a village on an island just off the coast of the south of England. On the beach was a ruined church tower, all that was left of a church that had been eaten away by the tides. I’d climb up the inside of the tower, using jutting stones that had once borne a stairway, as hand- and footholds. Halfway up was a wide window ledge that looked out to sea. I’d sometimes sit there for hours with a book, an apple, and something to drink.

Since then, as I discovered on a visit several years back, the beach has been landscaped, and the tower made safe and closed. It is no longer much like the sanctuary of my girlhood, but it remains dear to me.

For the something borrowed, I presented some of Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord’s “Spirit Books”, accompanied by one of my most beloved pieces of listening by Enya.

Spirit Books - Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord
View or download a 36-page pdf
http://www.susankapuscinskigaylord.com/spiritbooks.html

Spirit Books - individual examples
http://ingoodspirit.blogspot.com/search/label/Spirit%20Books
http://endicottstudio.typepad.com/endicott_redux/2007/03/spirit_books.html 

All through my performance, I perceived changes in the lighting and atmosphere on the stage, but I saw little, for I was focused on my words and actions. It must have been impressive, though, for the spectators sighed and clapped and gasped, and as I left the stage and retraced my steps along the walkway, I heard kind words, for which I was grateful.

Example of Harmonics
http://www.harmonicworld.com/

Rainbow Beach

Late in the afternoon, I set off to explore Rainbow Beach. I had learned that the area around the docks was called the “Old Town” and comprised the docks, wharves, and storehouses, as well as the markets and most of the buildings of the original port settlement. The Old Town was a veritable warren of narrow streets and alleys. The layout confused me at first, but only until I realised that any street which led downhill would take me to the wharves.

The streets were lined with shops and stalls selling everything a person might possibly want to buy. A veritable riot of smells and colors and sounds stormed in on me as chandlers vied with bakers, vendors of spice, and curio peddlers for my attention. Cloth merchants plied their wares to me, as did woodcarvers, hat makers, jewellers, and many other craftspeople. I was often tempted but remained steadfast. I had no real need of their goods, however beautiful they might be. My destination was the famous “Women’s Market”, which took place each evening in the main market square. If at all, I thought I might find something I wanted there.

Eventually, my wanderings led me back to the market square, which was even busier than it had been when I arrived. Brightly-clad women of all ages and ethnicities were busy spreading rush mats on the ground and piling them high with baskets of goods and produce of all descriptions. Some women had erected brightly colored fabric tents and windbreaks, most of which bore banners or signs advertising the services of healers, or fortune tellers, or seamstresses. Dotted around the market square were tiny food stalls, each with women busy heating oil, chopping vegetables, stirring pots, or rolling out thin rounds of dough.

I am a lover of exotic foods, so I chose one of the stalls and, without asking what it was, pointed to something in the display. My purchase turned out to be a freshly baked chapatti, and the filling was made from chopped vegetables, light meat, and spices — saffron, coriander, and ginger, among others — with a sauce of thick joghourt and cumin. I washed it down with a bowl of steaming, spicy chai and moved on to continue my explorations refreshed.

Throngs of people had arrived at the market in the meantime, and it became increasingly difficult to weave my way through the crowd. Caught in the heaving mass of bodies, with no way out, I found myself inching along a narrow alley just off the market square. After a hundred yards or so, the alley widened and we spilled into a second, smaller, square that was also packed with stalls and booths.

The Mask Maker’s Daughter

I sat on the steps of a stone fountain to rest. A band of children played a boisterous game of catch around me, squealing and chasing each other in turn, and splashing water onto the victim, once he or she was captured. One of the boys was older and taller than the other children, he had the look of a bully about him, and he clearly called the shots. Suddenly he darted after a lanky girl of around thirteen. He caught her, and then, instead of splashing her, as the others had done, he half thrust, half threw her into the fountain.

She gasped and spluttered. “I’ll get you Billy Morris!” she shouted. “Jus’ you wait. One day yer’ll want a mask, an’ I’ll make you the most horriblist one you ever seen!”

The boy sneered. “Girls don’ make masks. Only men make masks. Yer’ll be a stooooopid dream peddler, like yer ma!”

“Me ma ain’t stoopid, and she ain’t no dream peddler, she’s a truth sayer!” Visibly irate, the girl clambered out of the water and lunged at him. She may have been small, but she was certainly plucky!

Billy Morris tumbled backward and fell but jumped up a second later, with nothing injured except his pride. He grabbed the girl and threw her to the ground. From what I could see, she landed badly.

“That’ll teach you, that will, Sarah Flower”, he jeered. Ger off ‘ome and play wiv yer dollies.” He signalled for the other children to follow him, and they ran off between the stalls. All except Sarah.

The girl got up off the ground, and I could see she was in some pain. Her dress was torn, and one knee was bleeding profusely. I wet a handkerchief in the fountain and offered it to her.

She took it and wiped her knee. “Thank you, Lady.”

She straightened up, took a few steps, and winced.

“Do you live near here, Sarah?” I asked. “Shall I help you home? I can explain to your parents that it’s not your fault your dress is torn.”

“No thanks, Lady. I’m ok.”

She hobbled another few steps and stumbled. To me, it looked as if she had sprained an ankle. The second time, I didn’t ask, I simply gave her my walking staff to help take some of the weight off her ankle and told her I was taking her to her parents.

It took only a few minutes to reach Sarah’s home.

“This is it, Lady. This is where I live.”

I helped her up the step into a shop that was filled to bursting with masks. There were masks of every description, from all corners of the world: elaborate carnival masks, tribal masks, gaudily painted demonic masks, animal masks… hundreds and hundreds of them on shelves and in glass cases, on tables and counters, and even hanging from the ceiling.

Home turned out to be a cozy room at the back of the narrow storefront. As we entered, Sarah’s father was sitting at a workbench in a corner, a mask in front of him. Her mother stood at the window, dabbing paint from a palette onto a canvas propped on an easel.

I explained my presence and the rough-and-tumble that had taken place at the fountain.

Sarah’s father sighed. “That Billy Morris is a rough ‘un, but what can you do? Can’t fight their battles for ‘em.”

I assured him that, from what I had seen, his daughter was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles, all else being equal.

In the meantime, Sarah’s mother had attended to her daughter’s injuries. “She’ll be right as rain in a day or two,” she pronounced. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

The Masks

Sarah piped up from her seat at the table, “Show her the masks, Da.”

Just a moment before Sarah spoke, I had been thinking that I should like to spend a little time looking at the masks in the shop.

The father and I walked back into the store. There we spend a delightful hour in which he pointed out various masks, explaining the origins and purpose of each one to me briefly as he did so. After some time, I realised that a though was niggling at my mind. Then it came back to me: the bully had said something about Sarah’s father being a mask MAKER, but the masks he’d shown me were all from faraway places.

Just then, Sarah hobbled into the shop. “Show her the other ones, Da.”

He seemed to hesitate. It was not the kind of hesitation that people might usually notice, and it passed in a second.

“Right, then”, he said.

Sarah’s father led the way into a small storeroom, the entrance to which lay behind the counter. The storeroom was filled from wall to ceiling with glass cases, and in the cases were masks of an entirely different kind from those in the shop.

“Me da makes these”, Sarah said. “An’ I want to be a mask maker, too, when I’m old enough.”

The strange thing about the masks in the glass cases was that, though they were clearly masks, they looked real, more like captured expressions than anything else. Each of the masks was decorated in a different way, at least, I couldn’t see two that looked alike. It was like gazing on a crowd of people at a fancy dress party. The masks had something akin to personality, as if the wearers were also present.

“You could have a mask, too, if you needed one”, Sarah said. “Ma would help you find it, and Da would make it for you.”

“I don’t think I need a mask, at the moment, Sarah. Thank you. But I’d love to learn something about them”, I replied.

“Well then, we’d best go back into the parlour”, said Sarah’s father. “Talk is always best over a cup of tea.”

Over tea and sweet biscuits, Sarah’s father, who I now knew to be called Samuel, explained to me about the masks.

“Most people think masks are for concealment, or maybe for pretending and ritual acting, but what you saw in the back room were traditional Lemurian masks. Lemurian mask makers know masks can reveal as well as obscure things about the wearer, like their hopes, intentions, dreams, and longings. If someone finds the right mask, they can do things and become the person they were meant to be to fulfill their destiny, or to perform a difficult task.”

I was intrigued. “So, how do the people for whom the masks are intended find them?”

“This is Lemuria”, he replied. “So much here is guided by fate. Lemurians know about the masks, and they know to seek out one of the mask makers. But they have to ask. That’s why the masks are stored out of sight. It wouldn’t do for someone to want a mask that wasn’t theirs. It happens, from time to time, and the outcome is rarely beneficial.”

My next question surfaced. “But… but how do seekers know when they’ve found a mask that is meant for them?”

“Oh”, he said, matter of factly, “the truth sayers help with that. Before someone can see the masks, they have to consult with a truth sayer, someone like Ayn, my wife. Ayn can see whether the required mask is in my possession, and if not, she can help find out where it might otherwise be.”

My mind raced. I wanted to know how Samuel and the other mask makers knew which masks to make, and who sought out the masks, and how the mask achieved their effect, and what happened to the masks when they were no longer required, for example, when the owner died….

“Ma can show you”, Sarah chipped in.

So that was it. Sarah was a telepath. I had suspected as much earlier on, when she asked her father to do exactly what I had been thinking. She seemed to realise she’d been found out and grinned at me. Being a child, she probably couldn’t yet resist the urge to read other people.

“Sorry,” she said. It’s just starting, you see, and it’s so much fun.

Silently, I hoped it would always remain a pleasant and useful gift for her, and that she would quickly learn to shield her mind from the barrage of confusing adult thoughts to which she would soon be exposed.

The Mirror Of Truth

Then the talk turned to me, and I told Ayn and Samuel what little there was to tell about my journey.

Presently, I decided it was time for me to leave. I got up from the chair and reached for my staff.
 
“Wait”, Ayn said. “May I tell your truth, before you leave?”

I must have looked skeptical.

“It’s not like fortune telling”, she said. “I don’t make predictions. All I do is look beneath the surface. Often I can see the nature of a thing or a purpose…. And I’ll be happy to show you the answers to your questions about the masks, too.”

Curiosity won the upper hand, and I agreed. Ayn led me into another small room and offered me a place at a table. The table top was made of what looked like smoked glass.

“It’s a mirror”, she explained. “I can see truth perfectly well without it, but it’s helpful for you, as it will show you the images I see when I search for your truth.”

We sat facing each other, both of us gazing into the mirror. After a while, I looked up and saw that Ayn’s eyes had taken on a distant look, as if she were looking far beyond the room in which we were sitting; as if the mirror was a deep, deep pool and she someone looking for stones on its bed.

Then I saw it, too. The surface of the mirror rippled and a hazy image rose to the surface. First I saw myself from a distance, walking the Holborn Hills, on my way to the Murmuring Woods. Then I watched at a series of pictures flitted across the surface of the mirror. Each showed me in a different landscape, some of which felt ancient, as if not from this lifetime, but I saw and sensed no more than that. Then I saw many masks, and I felt the knowledge of the masks pass into my wisdom. And still the images rose to the surface of the mirror. A weaver, a broken mask, a tall stone, an earth barrow, a lake, a barge, and, to my utter surprise, the face of someone I had not seen in a very long time, his eyes gazing directly into mine. This image lasted longer than the others, but all too soon it wavered like the others and broke into a thousand lights. The stream ceased, and the mirror darkened once again.

Ayn breathed deeply and stretched her limbs, like a dreamer waking from a sleep. She looked at me, and I could tell she was trying to find careful words for what she had seen.

“It is rare”, she said, “for one like you to pass this way. And you are brave to leave your world and set out on this journey, to follow where you are being led. You have no goal, but you are willing to discover one. I am surprised, for this is not your way.”

Her words fit well.

“You seek, but you are also sought. The great injustice cannot be undone, but there may be recompense. Your mask is broken, but you may find another to serve you, though it is not here in our care, and I can’t see where it lies.”

Her words made sense, though I couldn’t imagine who might be seeking me.

She spoke again. “The undertone of what I saw is emptiness. I see you, and while you may be present in places or with people, you are not tied to them or to outcomes; they seem to be of no consequence to you and your path. I am sorry, for this is a hard way to have to journey.”

I could not have spoken there and then.

We rose from our seats, and I thanked Ayn.

“May you find a journey companion soon”, she whispered.

I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the market place once more. Night had fallen, but the square still bustled with activity. I made my way down the hill to the wharves, to find the floating stage.

Enchanter’s Bag

By then I’d realised that the Enchanter’s introduction in French had been in fun, and that I was perfectly able to understand her.

Enchanter presented me with pouch. It was a gorgeous thing, made of felted wool and golden mesh, with iridescent blue and gold beads in the shape of leaves on the front. The clasp was intricate, with a pattern of fine worked metal and tiny stones atop mother of pearl.

“Go on then, open it”, she said.

I unfastened the clasp, reached into the pouch, and, one by one, extracted a number of intriguing objects: a packet of dream seeds, spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn, a handful of gold coins, and a set of wings. The last item I drew from the bag was a bead strung on a leather thong. The bead was as long as my thumb and a little thicker. It had been turned from deep blue polished stone with fine, light veins. I was fairly sure it was lapis lazuli. The surface of the bead showed detailed carvings of figures and signs in bas-relief. It was clearly old.

Enchanter gasped.

“You have an intaglio!”

I looked at her. I’d not heard the term before. She must have sensed my question.

“It’s not a bead”, she said. “It’s a seal. If you roll it on clay, the pattern and message will be revealed.”

I considered the information for a few seconds, then I had an idea.

“Come on! Let’s go down to the water.”

I carefully replaced all the objects except the stone in the pouch. Then we descended a stone stairway onto a narrow strip of sand.

“We need to find a rock pool”, I said.

We soon found a shallow pool. I knelt down and scooped handfuls of fine yellow sand onto the stone, then added water and mixed a paste. Enchanter grinned. She had grasped my idea. She groped in the sand and moments later held aloft a razor shell, which we used to smooth the surface of the mixture and form it into a rectangle. Slowly, I rolled the seal across the sand, and an image took shape, raised this time. It showed a man and a woman engaged in conversation. They were dressed in what looked like ritual regalia with elaborate headdresses. Each of the figures held half of a disc upon which something appeared to be inscribed. The woman held a simple, straight staff, with ribbons tied near the top, the man, a staff with a curved top, like a shepherd’s hook. Behind the man, and to his right, a great bird spread its wings. Both the bird’s head and the woman’s hand pointed in the direction of a mountain range in the background. On closer inspection, the borders at the top and bottom were not merely decorative, they contained lines and symbols, but the sand was too coarse to show that degree of detail.

I swept the sand back onto the beach.

Enchanter looked thoughtful. “It doesn’t look Roman or Greek”, she said, “and not Egyptian, either. If you ask me, it’s much older than that. Intaglio have been around for thousands of years, so it might be from somewhere in the Near East. They were used as seals.”

I opened my pouch and placed the seal inside.

“And now?”, I asked.

We rose from the sand and made our way back up the steps.

“You’ll need the items from the pouch on your journey”, Enchanter said. “Take care not to misplace the bag or let anyone take it from you. Keep it with you at all times.”

The excitement ebbed from me, and I realised I was tired and hungry. “Where can I find something to eat and a place to rest”, I asked Enchanter. “And, what happens next?”

“Oh, you’ll find delicious food at the market”, Enchanter replied,” or in the taverns. You name it, you’ll find it here, I promise, and more besides! And as for rest, if you’re planning to stay here a while, you’ll find good rooms in the streets around the market square.”

That sounded good.

“Aside from having some fun, there are two things next on your list”, Enchanter continued, “one is to present us with a turn as part of the pageant on the floating stage, and the other, to find out if your boat has arrived at the quay.”

The thought of a pageant intrigued me.

“What kind of “piece” should I offer?”

“Something that tells us about your work and who you are, at this moment in time, and how you feel as you head out on your journey.”

That sounded challenging, but I was never one to shirk. I decided to eat first and act later, in all senses of the word.

“Fine. Let me rest a little, and I’ll meet you at the stage this evening.”

Art Rites: http://artrites.wordpress.com/

Passing Through the Portal

Outside, the moon rode high, and the air was keen with the scents of earth and night flowers. I looked around for the squirrel but did not see him, so I assumed he had left, his duty done.

Two paths led from the clearing: the one along which I had come, and another, which I decided to take. As I stepped out, the squirrel darted from the undergrowth bearing something in his paws. He squatted in front of me and laid the object on the ground at my feet. At first, I assumed he had been foraging for food, but the object seemed too shiny to be a berry or a nut. I bent down and picked it up, and to my surprise, found myself holding a perfectly formed acorn made of some kind of stone. I couldn’t make out the color by moonlight, but I could feel the intricacy of each line and indentation of the cap and the nut and even the tiny stem.

The squirrel raised his tail and looked in the direction of the path I had decided to take. As before, he took a few steps, then looked back to see if I would follow, before scurrying ahead. I pocketed the stone acorn and set out along the pathway, in my guide’s wake.

We must have walked a little short of a mile when the squirrel came to a halt. He turned around to look at me, then ran around in a circle three times before disappearing up a tree. I waited several minutes to see if he would reappear, but he did not, and I realised that his task must have be complete. I continued along the path alone.

A few steps along the path, I felt a change take place. The air seemed charged and milky, as if it had grown thicker. Though I could see nothing unusual, I had the impression of silken resistance on my face, as if I were walking through a curtain of cobwebs. The sensation lasted no longer than a few seconds, but it was real enough. I suspected I had passed through a protection of some kind and was close to the portal.

Sure enough: ahead of me, just off the path, the space between the trees took on a glow like the one I’d seen on my ascent to the temple of the Muse. I saw an archway forming, lit from behind, by a dull glow. As I watched, the arch became brighter. From a haze within the arch a landscape shimmered, unfocused at first, then ever clearer. I saw hills a long way off, and buildings, and the glisten of sun on water. I heard wheels rumble on stone, a seagull’s cry, and excited voices. The air was scented with salt and tar and spices. The heat of a midmorning sun reached through the arch and warmed my night-chilled skin.

So, this was the portal. I could see that the pathway upon I stood led through the arch, from this side to that, so I simply took a deep breath and strode across the threshold…

… and found myself on a quayside, with a bustling market to my left, and ships of all descriptions to my right: barges, tall-masted schooners, dinghies, elaborate gondolas, and painted sailing ships that clearly came from lands afar. I was surprised, for I had expected to have to tramp along a trail to reach whatever destination lay next on my path. Instead, I’d arrived in a bright, busy town on what was, judging by the sun, the middle of an early summer day.

I removed my cloak and strung it through one the shoulder straps of my backpack, then I sat on a bollard to get my bearings and drink in the scene.

A woman approached me.

“Enchanteur. Enchanté.”

She had dark, flowing tresses and was clothed the same kind of bright silks and jewelled ribbons that gypsy women wore. I couldn’t tell her age, but she had the most delightful smile.

I fumbled for the few words of French I knew and returned her greeting.

“Merci, madame. Je suis enchanté aussi.”

I had no idea who she might be, or what she might want of me and assumed she had probably mistaken me for someone else.

“I see you found your portal”, she said. “Well, welcome to Rainbow Beach. Most of the others left here a few days ago, but you will meet them soon, as you follow their trail in your own time.”

My face must have shown my confusion, for she laughed.

“I’m the journey guide”, she explaind. “I’m here to make sure all travellers arrive safely and proceed in the right direction. Here, this is for you…”
Art Rites: http://artrites.wordpress.com/

Temple Of The Muse

Eventually, the full moon rose and shed its light on the path I trod. I could tell the squirrel was leading me along a gentle upward path. We seemed to walk in a spiral, and as the rounds grew tighter, the greenery that lined the way glowed, as if lit from within. Further along the path, the trees and bushes formed a natural bower, with vines woven between the branches. The light grew stronger, more vibrant. Then we passed through the arch of trees into a clearing, and I saw beams of brighteners stream from within the Temple of the Muse.

The temple had taken a form I’d not encountered before: a round chapel with a curved dome for its roof. The walls were transparent, and shimmered in shades of rose, as the light flickered and danced through them from within. Its pearl pink tiled dome glowed against the night sky, framed by the risen moon. For some reason, its simplicity brought tears to my eyes and filled me with awe. It was the most delicate, most beautiful structure I had seen in many, many years of journeying.

A shaft of light fell on three steps that led to the shrine. I climbed them, entered through an ornamental archway and then passed into the presence of a muse, from whom the light seemed to emanate, as from a brand.

After bowing low, I fished from my pouch a scrap of fine leather, in which I had bound a fairy crystal. The crystal had long ago been given to me by a journeywoman from the Isle of Erin. It was a rare and precious thing, barely half the size of my small finger, clear and unflawed, and though I was sad to part with it, my intuition told me it was the only possible offering I could bring to this place and to this being of such complete and utter beauty.

In the absence of an altar, I knelt down, spread the leather wrapping on the floor and placed the crystal upon it. Light from the muse made the stone glow, and as it did, a tiny, perfect rainbow band I had not seen it until now became visible at its core.

I felt no need to utter words, for words would have seemed helpless and insufficient in view of my surroundings. The place itself, and the atmosphere, spoke them all. So, in my heart, I merely asked for a blessing from the muse for my journey, then knelt in the chapel for some time, allowing the light and the vibrancy to wash over me.

Eventually, I rose to my feet, bowed again, gathered up my pack, and made to leave.

“Wait!”

I turned.

“You have your blessing,” she said. “And have offered me a gift of something that is of genuine worth to you; now I shall do the same.”

Every nerve in my body tingled.

“Listen carefully”, she said, “for you must carry this mousa* in your soul as you journey.”

My heart beat wildly.

She spoke:

“Seek nine and three, and one, and two –
 The other hidden, one is you.
 Pay homage as to each it fits,
 Receive, in turn, your rightful gifts.

 Go far beyond the world you see.
 Deep in the past a destiny,
 Was writ: a call to journey,
 Many worlds, to know, unravel,
 Secrets from the past, and now,
 Before a destined future bow.

 Be true unto your soul desire,
 Live through words and arts the fire,
 Only you can carry,
 To the world. No longer tarry.

 Seek one, and two, and three and nine,
 The Muses, Fates, and Mnemosyne
 Shall mend your souls, if you stay true.
 The other hidden, one is you.”

My thoughts raced. My senses bristled. Deep down, I knew the words contained a grand truth, though I did not understand them fully.

The muse spoke again. “You travel light, and my gift will add no burden to your bones. Your soul, though, is heavy enough. In time, my gift will lighten that load.”

Tears welled up and filled my eyes.

“Go now”, she said. “Say nothing. There are no words in you for what you feel in this moment.”

She was right. I bowed my head, in gratitude and assent.

“The portal is close by, and the time has come.”

One last time, I drank in the brightness of my surroundings, then I shouldered my pack and strode out into the night.

* Mousa: In the work of Pindar (or Pindarus), one of the nine lyric poets of anciet Greece, to “carry a mousa” means “to sing a song”, the “song” being a gift from a muse.

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Murmuring Woods

Dusk had already cast its cloak over the day, as I reached the Murmuring Woods, and I, too, passed like a shadow from twilight to darkness between the trees.

I am not afraid of the forest by night. Folklore may have spun a web of fear and superstition around the Murmuring Woods, but the truth of such tales is not as it is told to the young or believed by the dim and foolish:

Spirits inhabit
The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits much stronger than we,
The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the dead who are not really gone,
Of the dead now no more in the earth…

The truth of these tales is layered into the words, buried inside them, folded between the lines. Yes, it is true that Murmuring Wood is filled with spirits, and it is true that the trees have voices, and that we may encounter strange souls beneath their canopies, but we have less to fear from them than from the quick and cunning afield by day.

The spirits of Murmuring Wood are called by a person’s heart and drawn by true purpose and intention: fear calls to the spirits of fear, darkness to the dark ones, and honesty to the Beings of Light. The knowing understand how to pass safely through any landscape: by asking permission, by walking consciously, and by heeding the spirit signs.

I rested a while beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, for I was weary. As well as that, it was time to find the words to make my intention and goal clear to the guide spirits, which meant I had to state my need clearly to myself, first. Paths through Murmuring Wood are not fixed; they reflect the determination with which a traveller seeks a destination and the strength of her vision of the place she wishes to find. Two persons with the same goal might travel very different ways to reach the place and outcome they seek, along paths of different kinds. What I knew was that I had to find a portal that would take me to a new dimension of Lemuria. Before that, though, I desired to pay my respects at the Temple of the Muses.

These thought were no sooner formulated, than a moment later, an acorn landed on the ground beside me, and a squirrel darted from the bushes to sweep it up into his paws. He squatted on his haunches, eying me, then dropped the nut and scurried several yards along the pathway, only to turn and retrace his steps. Again, he hopped along the path, stopped, looked back in my direction, as if beckoning me to follow.

I rose from my resting place and shouldered my pack again. The squirrel moved ahead, never more than a few steps in front of me, and thus we passed through the wood, changing direction many times, along paths that twisted and branched into the gathering darkness.

Poem excerpt from: Birago Diop, “Spirits”
http://www.hu.mtu.edu/~dshoos/HU3262/Negritudepoems.htm

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Prelude

I heard, or rather I overheard the news, as so often, in passing. I am one of those people whom others do not readily see. It is a skill I was born with and have cultivated for its usefulness. I am now, as it is said, “a woman of a certain age”, and dress darkly, discretely. It is safer that way. Early in this life, I learned that humans are prone to fear half-borns like me, but the story of the half-borns is a tale for another day. You might say I am as invisible as any incarnate being might safely be, and that it suits everyone’s best interest that way. When I go to market, I do not visit and gossip; I watch and I listen, and sooner or later, I am sure to learn what is of consequence to me.

And so it was that I learned of the journey into Lemurian lands: a pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Mnemosyn. The Inner Voice told me it was the call I had been awaiting. A snippet of gossip gleaned here, followed by discreet inquiries and seeded questions in other exchanges, revealed what little information was to be learned, and it was enough for me to know where travellers were to be and when.

I learned that the main party had departed on Twelfth Night, but also that the Portal would remain open until the next full moon, so that straggling pilgrims might pass through and join the expedition. It would be time enough, if I set off immediately and made good use of the moonlight.

As a seasoned journeywoman, accustomed to travelling fast and light, my preparations were quickly made. My journeying clothes are always ready. It took less than an hour to fill my backpack with the necessities — a change of clothes, my journal, healing herbs, and the odds and ends I knew I’d need underway — and ready the house for my absence. After that, all I had to do was put on my travelling shoes, strap on my pack, don cloak and staff, and seal the house with a spell of protection.

The sun was already setting I laboured up a steep pathway behind the house that led into the Holborn Hills, but, for me, the twilight would be sufficient to make a head start until the moon rose to light my pathway through the night. The Holborn Trail is narrow and demanding, but not treacherous, and I had walked it, by day and by night, many times. By moonlight, I reckoned, it would take me until morning to reach to summit. Come morning, I would traverse the hills, and descend through the summer pastures into the Wigh Valley. I could then follow the Wigh river through the wetlands and, with luck, would reach the Murmuring Woods by nightfall. So it was.

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