Merlin's Guru

The Previously Undead Sachen Lama

2014-10-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

“Pomdrakpa, the whole idea of karma rubs me the wrong way. The future is yet to be determined. Why is this poisonous idea all you think about?” Asked Abhiseleka.

Pomdrakpa rubbed his chin. “Why do you always insist that you be the cause? Can’t good things happen without your interference? You have always trusted yourself too much, and the Immutable Law of karma too little,” replied Pomdrakpa.

“That may be the case, Pomdrakpa, but I cannot let this go,” he said. “Matangi is the only mother I have ever known. Kimiya, you must turn this carriage around,” he said. They were descending the valley, moving further and further away from her.

“If it is possible to help her, Abhiseleka, we must take this next step. There is a debt owed to you that we must collect,” she said. She looked over at Pomdrakpa and nodded. Then he pulled his mala necklace out and began to twirl it. His mumbling was annoying at first. As he continued however, the sound of his mantra muttering started to resemble a tanpura somehow.

Abhiseleka looked straight at the rocky path ahead. They continued to descend into the valley. It was green and vast, stretching out toward the horizon. It made him think of things that end, like the lifespans of human beings. A friend died once, old Fariduddin the poet. Abhiseleka thought of him and his expiration. His voice was electric when he was alive, his brain quick as molten gold. Now he was gone, just like Matangi.

These people deserted him, and he ran out on them too. It was eating at him. His life was entrusted to two people he did not know. Neither Pomdrakpa nor Kimiya were coming across warm and fuzzy. On the contrary, they were hard taskmasters. Pomdrakpa was downright abusive.

The further they went, the longer he listened to Pomdrakpa’s tanpura mantra, the madder he became. Pomdrakpa keeps talking about Karma. What if he believes I owe him something? Kimiya as well, she claims I abandoned her. They were crazy, delivering him to his doom. He wanted to speak, but Pomdrakpa’s mantra was very meditative.

Abhiseleka felt as if his head and his mind were forcefully faced forwards. He imagined Matangi held him in her arms like a baby and a tear rolled down his cheek. She is gone. And it’s all my fault. He thought.

For a long time they continued down the mountainside. The deep resonant mantra echoed off of the rugged rock formations and preceded them on the path. Kimiya brought the reins down on the horses. She put her hand over Pomdrakpa’s heart and he stopped singing immediately. The echoes continued for a while, then it was a loud silence and the blowing wind. Some raptor flew high overhead and screeched. Kimiya cocked her head to the side and listened to the wind.

“You don’t hear that, do you?” She asked. She received blank stares in return. “All you men hear are your damn mantras; This is precisely why life eludes you. A man is pain, and neither one of you bodhisattvas hear him. Keep your mantra to yourself. I am listening,” she said. It was quiet, almost like it came from some place deep inside her own mind. But it was clear, the man said only one thing, “Kamapa,” over and over. He wanted release. He was obviously in some kind of prison. She drove towards the sound of his voice.

The road down forked to the right, but a smaller path took the carriage to the left, into a deep jungle. Pomdrakpa looked at Abhiseleka. Abhiseleka looked at Pomdrakpa. They remembered the cannibals at the Dakshinakali temple.

“I don’t care what either of you say. You’re not getting out of this, Karmapa,” she said. By now, the voice of the pained man was loud. Abhiseleka and Pomdrakpa heard it echoing the way the Tibetan song had been just minutes ago. It was, however, not soothing. It was a call to immediate action, action that had been long delayed. Just as sudden as it started, the voice stopped.

Kimiya stopped the horses. “Now, what do we do? The voice stopped,” she said. The other two were relieved, yet still anticipating the trick Kimiya had in store for them.

“Karmapa! I know you’re out there.” The man’s voice emanated from a small opening in the rock, framed in by tree roots. Kimiya pulled the horses to a large tree and tied the reins. She dismounted the carriage and looked at them.

“Let’s go,” she said, “he needs our help.” The men stayed until she gave them a burning look. Then they jumped all over themselves exiting the carriage. They stood in front of the hole. It was silent. “He’s asking for you,” she said, “I think you should go first as a consequence.” Abhiseleka looked at her with tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want to go in there,” he said. He buried his head in Kimiya’s chest and she patted him. One eye was exposed and it winked at Pomdrakpa.

“He winked at me,” he said.

“Pomdrakpa, you are the grown man here,” she said.

“The voice is asking for the Karmapa. That is clearly Abhiseleka. Why should I travel down that hole at all?” He asked.

“You are the Karmapa’s Guru, Lord and Lama,” she said. “While he’s still a child, you are his representative on Earth. Pomdrakpa, I need you to see what’s down there before we send Abhiseleka,” she said.

He asked no more questions, but sat down where he was and faced in the direction of the hole. He closed his eyes and listened. Kimiya and Abhiseleka just waited, sticking with her plan for Pomdrakpa to blaze the trail down into the earth.

He was still sitting, facing the tree with his eyes closed, and a smile crept over his face.

“There is a lama in there. He is extraordinarily old,” he said.

“Why is he asking for me?” Asked Abhiseleka. Pomdrakpa still had his eyes closed.

“He’s asking for no one; the man inside that cave is in the deepest samadhi possible. He is just on the brink of death,” he replied. He opened his eyes and shook himself awake. “There’s nothing to worry about down there. On the contrary, a miracle is occurring in this cave. This man is one of the undead. I don’t know where the rest of him dwells, but it is not inside the body,” he said.

Abhiseleka felt cold inside and out. He began to shiver. Kimiya held him close to her. She was so warm and nurturing, just for a moment. Then she pushed Abhiseleka away from her, and bent down so she was at his eye level.

“I saw what Pomdrakpa saw. There is no danger. It’s time, Abhiseleka,” she said. She looked at the hole, then to Abhiseleka, raising her eyebrow. The cold feeling was shattering his insides. He didn’t speak, and began walking over. Finally, the voice came clear for him.

“Karmapa, I thought you would never come,” he said. Guilt washed over him. A faded recollection that smelled dusty tickled his nose. It was thick with the grime of butter and smelly lama incense. He knelt down on the ground at the entrance and put his head through. There was a faint glow that brightened when he did. The light was pulsating, feeding off of Abhiseleka’s thoughts. It got brighter as his emotion rose, then dimmed as it fell. He played with that for a moment, then was interrupted by the extraordinarily loud voice of the man in pain.

“Karmapa, are you just going to stand there? Free me!” He said. It knocked Abhiseleka flat onto his back, and his flesh froze on his body with goosebumps. An apparition appeared. The man was in a red robe, holding a begging bowl in one hand and a mala in the other. He looked over at the glowing orb at the center of the cave and saw an emaciated bag of bones, seated in an upright posture, unmoving.

Abhiseleka was petrified. All color had disappeared from his face and his pulse was fast and shallow.

“You don’t remember, do you Karmapa? You can stop with the act; you are still accountable for what you did. We had an agreement,” he said.

“Yes, an agreement that I upheld. I owe you nothing. You are slime, and you’re in the right place,” said Abhiseleka. The ghost transfigured himself into a vicious demon. Blood dripped from his fangs and long yak horns sprouted from his head.

“Your imaginary friends don’t scare me, Sachen,” replied Abhiseleka. “You are harmless now, but you were not then,” he said. Abhiseleka felt powerful, all knowing, but he did not know how. It was as if some force had possessed his body. He approached Sachen and looked down at him with eyes narrowed to slits. He was not a demon or wrathful deity. This was a gentle man. Abhiseleka could not deny it.

“I am reformed, and anyway, I am dead. It’s time to let me go,” said Sachen. Abhiseleka looked up at the light spilling in from the entrance. He was torn. Part of him, the all knowing part, said to ignore his pleas. His humanity knew he could not.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Abhiseleka. Kimiya’s face appeared in the entrance, surrounded by light. She looked like an angel. Her face transfigured into Matangi’s.

“Just do the right thing and everyone wins, my son,” she said. Abhiseleka stared at her face. Her words echoed through the cave and his mind. Matangi wants this man freed; I’m overriding this demon inside me. He thought.

He turned to Sachen Lama and bowed his head and hands to him, in respect. Sachen approached Abhiseleka and extended his arm. He held a simple wooden mala, with a metal svastika on the end. Abhiseleka reached to take it from him. Sachen’s arm passed through Abhiseleka’s flesh but the mala did not. It began to heat up in his hand, and the svastika on the end emanated light of all the colors of the rainbow. The seated corpse in the center of the cave was steaming and the sphere of light surrounding him intensified. The entire cave was filled with light. Sachen Lama’s apparition fell onto his face in a full prostration towards Abhiseleka.

Abhiseleka prostrated himself as well. The crows of their heads touched. When they did, the light stopped. It was darkness in the cave, except the light that split the dust that now filled the air. In his right hand, Abhiseleka still held the wooden svastika mala necklace. The icon on the end was still glowing, and as Abhiseleka noticed it, the glow intensified. He held it out in front of him and walked over to the center of the cave, where the Sachen Lama’s body was imprisoned. The light revealed a pile of dust, a moth eaten faded red robe, fingernails, and a desiccated skeleton. There were a few long beads with strange circular designs on them. Abhiseleka picked through the dust and got them. He held the beads in the palm of his hand and the glowing mala in the other. He blew the dust off of them. They seemed to have a different sort of glow altogether.

He made his way to and through the entrance to the delicious fresh air above. It smelled sweet compared to the smell of the decayed lama, sweeter than it ever had.

Kimiya and Pomdrakpa were sitting in the carriage, passing the pipe between each other, loaded with the soma mixture. They were discussing the weather.

“The passes will already be snowy. We may need a sherpa to help us through,” said Kimiya. Pomdrakpa wrinkled his nose.

“Do you know how many times I have navigated through here?” He asked. He waved his hand, east to west, then west to east. “More than I can count,” he said.

“This is my concern,” she said, and pulled the pipe from his hand, “you have become pompous in your new role. I’ve seen how you’re training Abhiseleka. It’s not the way to go. You are punishing him for things he didn’t do. The Universe is kinder than that,” she said.

Pomdrakpa wrinkled his nose again. “The Universe is kind, but the Caliphate isn’t. Nor is the Khanate, or Sakya Pandita, who is worse than the rest,” he said. She shook her head, choosing to not reply instead. Abhiseleka was still watching. He arose and walked towards them. She turned and smiled. It was Kimiya’s face again, not Matangi’s. It struck a sad chord in his chest and stole a breath away. Kimiya’s smile melted. Pomdrakpa stared forwards. He did not want the Sachen Lama freed. Pomdrakpa agreed with the demon that tried to take control down there. He thought.

“That demon is the Karmapa, Karmapa,” said Kimiya. She laughed and slapped her knee. She kept laughing, and it escalated. She slapped Pomdrakpa’s back, who was leaning in the opposite direction, and he started laughing.

Abhiseleka was dejected. “Why are they laughing at me? I knew they weren’t my friends,” he said. He turned around and sat down under a tree, feeling very alone.

Everywhere You Look

2014-08-10T17:14:00.000-07:00

“Who are these people, Mungan? They look like Abhiseleka,” said Goldach. Mungan wiped the sweat from his brow, and sighed.

“I hope these men are dervishes,” he said, “but they may be common Mercenaries. They are Mohammedans,” he said. Goldach looked at them. Where have I heard that word? He thought. Mungan looked at him.

“The word Mohammedan?” Asked Mungan. Goldach nodded. “Your friend Abhiseleka. His land is overrun with them,” he said. Goldach thought about what Mungan was saying. If they’re overrun, the Mohammedans probably aren’t helpful, thought Goldach. Mungan shook his head.

“Don’t be a narrow-minded bigot like her,” he motioned to the wagon where he thought she was sleeping. “You can’t just categorize people, Goldach. Many Merlins have owned extraordinarily intelligent and gifted Mohammedan squires. Have you noticed their energy fields? They are extremely advanced. Probably dervishes,” said Mungan.

The words sank in to Goldach’s young brain.

“What do you mean, owned? One person can’t own another,” said Goldach. Mungan was about to reply when one man from the party of dervishes walked over to address him. He stood in a formal stance, like that of a soldier. He held up his right hand, to show he was unarmed.

“Mohammed ibn Musa, Sir. My party and I are at your service. We have just been robbed by a homily looking couple packing a hidden load of thieves. They stole our deposit to the King’s treasury. We are all dead men without it,” said Mohammed.

Mungan was inclined to believe him, as was Goldach. The other men kept a respectable distance, waiting by the carriage.

Coventina had exited the rear of the wagon, and was walking around the passenger side when she saw Mohammed. She shrieked, and kept shrieking. He jumped at the first one and ran back to his carriage. All the men got back in Mohammed brought the reins down hard. They were gone before anyone said a word. The dust was in the air from the road.

“There are bandits everywhere,” said Coventina. “Are you ready to relinquish the reins?” She asked Mungan.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Would you like something to whet your palate?” Asked Mungan. She did not reply, but took the flask from him and drank.

“Coventina, those were not bandits. They were dervishes,” he said.

“What’s the difference?” She asked.

“Yes, what is the difference, Mungan?” Asked Goldach.

“Are you going to get in or not, woman?” Asked Mungan.

She began to climb into the carriage, holding her dress up and reaching for Goldach’s hand. She nearly pulled him out onto the ground. Mungan held his other hand, and for a moment, Goldach felt the stretch. She plopped down onto the seat.

“You don’t talk to a lady like that, Mungan. Look what you’re teaching Goldach,” she said.

“He has spent the rest of his life with Myrridian, Coventina. Do you really think I have anything to teach him about womanizing?” He asked. He looked at Goldach, who’s attention was transfixed on this exchange. Mungan quickly moved the conversation forward.

“The difference between a bandit and a dervish. Where shall I start? This is an extensive subject. It’s obvious neither of you have even met a dervish, except perhaps this one incident. Let me tell you, there would be no Druids left at all without them,” he said. Goldach leaned in and listened. Coventina raised her head as well.

“They’re the most devout people you will ever meet,” he said. “Even the cold blooded killers amongst them, worship facing the East five times a day,” he said. “They understand the Jewish magic better than some of the Jews I tell you!” He said.

“I heard something different,” said Coventina. “In Mass last Sunday, the Archbishop talked about the Mohammedans fierce defense of Jerusalem. He also mentioned some of them have begun to perform secret societies, conspiring against Christ and His Church,” she said.

Goldach and Mungan looked at each other quickly, remembering the Templars and the Order to which they both belonged. Coventina could not know.

“What do you mean, ‘There would be no Druids without them’?” Asked Goldach. Coventina noticed her point was ignored but said nothing. This was more important anyway.

“Coventina answered the question for us, Goldach. The Mohammedans are launching offensives on the interests of the Church, not just here, but everywhere,” he said.

“How does that amount to Druidic salvation?” Asked Goldach.

“If the Church is busy fighting them, they may be too busy to finish the job of exterminating us,” said Mungan. Coventina’s face turned red.

“Do you mean you condone these attacks?” She asked Mungan. A smirk appeared on Mungan’s face.

“I don’t condone them any more than the Church’s war on the peasantry here and abroad,” he replied.

Cures All Ills

2014-06-13T03:50:00.001-07:00

“Dear Christ Jesus, please bless and keep Goldach as he begins his career in diplomacy. Help him to hold his tongue, and learn your ways. Dear Jesus, help him to always remember to speak French and befriend King Henry. In the name of the Green Man and his Bride,” Amen.

Goldach wanted to speak out again but wanted more to avoid Coventina’s wrath.

“Now you say ‘Amen.’ When the prayer is finished, you invoke the ancient tribal deity of the Jews. His name is Amen. That is how it’s done,” she said. Goldach looked out into space and remembered the church with Marta. He was looking up at the crucified Savior, wanting to trade places with him. Everyone stood all at once and said Amen over and over. Both Mungan and Coventina were trying to get his attention, and failing.

Mungan put his hand on Goldach’s shoulder.

“Whatever you do, don’t get yourself killed. Even though it seems that Jesus had a successful death, he was still gone. We need you, Goldach,” said Mungan.

“That’s right. Your mission is specific. You must gain the trust of King Henry. That means following his customs. Goddess help us, the church already has their claws sunk deep into the boy,” she said.

They finished breakfast and Coventina broke the news to him the most gentle way she could. She arose from the table and brought back a pile of green velvet. She stood, looking at Goldach. He looked back at her. She began to tap her foot.

“Okay, what is the green velvet?” he asked.

“Goldach,” she held up the outfit finally, “this is what you will wear to the coronation of King Henry the Third,” she said. He knew better than to put up a fight. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. That made him think of Abhiseleka. I wonder what has become of him. That got Mungan’s attention, but he held his tongue. He looked to Coventina, who nodded her head. Goldach witnessed this exchange, but did not realize what it was about. As he began to probe with his mind, Coventina shoved the pile of green at him.

“It’s time for you to get dressed,” she said. Goldach did exactly as she said. He made sure to shut the door loudly. Then he opened it back, just a little, and waited. He crouched down by the door and strained to hear what they were saying. It was too quiet; they were whispering. Frustrated, he slammed the door completely shut. Looking in the mirror, he saw a prisoner. I wish I could run away like Abhiseleka, he thought. That is what Mungan had seen. He saw Abhiseleka somehow. Goldach sat down and resumed his plan to spy on their conversation. Everything got completely silent. The birds even faded to the background.

When the silence rose to a deafening pitch, as loud as could be, the noise stopped. Then it was just Coventina and Mungan, deciding the fate of the world.

“What got your attention Mungan? Was it the little brown boy Goldach was wondering about?” Asked Coventina. Mungan did not answer her. He just glared in her direction. He can hear every word you’re saying. He thought at her.

In the back bedroom, Goldach swooned. His head was spinning. Abhiseleka was supposed to be his secret. This could be a problem. A million thoughts raced through his head. The final one of the barrage was this: denial won’t work.

Well, he can hear what you’re thinking as well you genius, thought Coventina. Why does the little brown boy matter? Thought Coventina.

“Stop calling him that,” said Mungan. “His name is Abhiseleka. I heard that much. Little boys grow up to become men, and this boy in his mind is no ordinary boy,” he said.

“So he’s a real person?” She asked. Mungan hesitated, thinking about what to say, what he believed.

“I want to jump to conclusions. His predecessor had a friend like this. He was from the land of Bharat in the East. I saw this being appear in front of my eyes on several occasions when Aurelian was alive,” he said. Coventina sat back in her seat.

Goldach was still listening with his inner ear. It was amazing. Mungan knew more about himself and Abhiseleka than he thought. Now he remembered Aurelian and the monk talking in the cave. It was more silence. He didn’t like the silence; it made him feel all alone. He remembered now. The man was a monk, dressed in red, and he was called Gephel.

He’s listening, thought Coventina.

Of course he is, thought Mungan, he needs to know. It won’t help us to keep secrets from him, he thought.

“Well, you’re going to have to talk to him about it. I don’t like brown people,” she said.

“Why, Coventina, that’s the most ignorant load of vomit I have ever heard,” said Mungan. He was visually disturbed, but not speaking. His face wrinkled into a prune and he shook his head. “That is not a brown man,” said Mungan, “he is a master magician. He is real. And you don’t want to piss him off,” he said.

“I’ve heard enough of this horse shit,” she said. “I want to see Goldach in his green velvet coronation uniform,” she said. “I don’t need to know any more about Goldach’s master magician,” she said. She arose and walked towards Goldach’s door. She knocked loudly. He did not answer or open the door. He sat on the floor.

“Goldach, are you ready? Tell me you didn’t go to sleep again,” she said. There was no reply. She reached for the doorknob, but then stopped herself. Mungan was trying to tell her something.

That’s what he used to do. He would go to sleep and contact Gephel when he needed to confer with him. The two times I saw him materialize, Aurelian was in a deep sleep.

Coventina wanted nothing of it. She opened the door and saw Goldach seated on the floor in a daze.

“Wake up Goldach,” she said. “Leave that Mohammedan alone. Nothing good comes from those brown people,” she said. Goldach snapped out of it to Coventina’s delight. She did not understand; he was looking for something with which to stab her. There was a deep and primal anger that was rising in him. There was no thought but revenge. Coventina felt a wave of dizziness come over her. Goldach had no audible thoughts, but when he looked up at Coventina, his eyes were pale, almost translucent. She backed away and closed the door behind her.

She grabbed her hat and overcoat. “I’m going for a walk, Mungan. He’s all yours,” she said. She closed the front door behind her.

“And it’s good riddance to you then,” he said. He walked over to the large bottle of whiskey, brewed and distilled by the monks of Westminster. He pulled the cork out of the bottle with a hollow thud and tipped it back. The satisfying heat spread throughout his body. He sat back down in his chair and purposefully thought of nothing. It wasn’t but a few minutes that Goldach emerged from his room.

“We need to get out of here before I kill her,” said Goldach as he approached the table. Mungan looked up at him. He looked at his head, then scanned all the way down to his feet. He had made his assessment. He pushed the bottle towards the boy.

“Have a good long swig of that and we’ll talk,” he said. Slowly Goldach reached for the bottle. “Don’t be timid. Whiskey is nothing but medicine, Goldach,” said Mungan.

Goldach picked up the large bottle with both hands. It was bigger than his head, but he managed to tip it far enough. Mungan was surprised.

“That seemed to go down smooth, boy. You been filching nips when I wasn’t looking?” He asked. “If you just ask me, you can have it whenever you want,” he said.

Goldach sat down across from him.

“So what do you know about my brown friend?” he asked. Mungan pulled the bottle back to himself and swung it back again.

“First of all, don’t call him that,” he said, “his name is,” he stammered,”What’s his name again?” Asked Mungan.

Goldach's Miraculous Conversion

2014-05-14T18:40:00.000-07:00

Goldach’s eyelids were burning. When he opened them the sunrise was shining through the Blessed Virgin’s body on the stained glass window. Eastern exposure, he thought. Coventina opened his door.

“Breakfast in a few moments, Goldach. Then Mungan will be taking you to see a new friend. So wash your face,” she said.

“Are you taking me to befriend Henry, the boy King? Is there any way out of this?” He asked her. She looked stunned. I finally got to slap her back. He smiled.

“How did you know, my boy? My God! You are the Merlin,” she said. She sat down next to him on the bed and put her hand on his. She looked into his eyes. “Goldach, King John has been executed. His son, Henry, will be coronated today,” she said. Goldach remained stone faced until she continued. “Myrridian will also be present,” she said.

Goldach’s face and ears got hot. His eyes turned green and Coventina arose from her place seated next to him. She looked afraid. I’m not afraid of him. He’s just a little boy. She was trying to convince herself when Goldach looked up at her.

“I’m not trying to scare you Coventina. It’s just that I met Henry in a dream. He acted like a regular spoiled child, and not much like a King. Myrridian was not present,” he said. The heat came over him again.

“Your time here at the Abbey is temporary. One day, you will have to go back to him to resume your medical training, Goldach,” she said. “You may as well make peace with him now. It’s good training for the future. Don’t you want to be a peacemaker?” she asked. The words reverberated in his mind. He thought of Abhiseleka, remembering the last moments of his dream.

“Pomdrakpa,” he said. He shook his head and looked at Coventina. “I’ll wash my face and be right out Coventina,” he said. She nodded her head and walked out, shutting the door behind her. When she reached the other side of the closed door, she covered her chest with her arms and said a prayer for him. Mother Hestia, keep this boy safe and close to your breast. Bear him as your son, alas, he is an orphan. Keep death far from him and inspire him to win all battles. In the name of the triune Goddess, So Mote It Be, she thought.

Mungan was looking at her from the kitchen table, shaking his head.

“No use praying for him, Coventina. He is well-protected. When you see Myrridian, you’ll know what I mean,” he said.

Goldach laid back down and went to sleep. He wasn’t tired, but he had to go back to Abhiseleka and warn him. He was drifting down, and then it was daylight in the Kadamba forest. The sunlight pierced through his eye into his brain, giving him a sharp pain.

“What do you want?” Asked Abhiseleka. Goldach turned around and faced him.

“You have no right to be angry with me. I came back to tell you. You must save Pomdrakpa. If you don’t all hope is lost. Tell the woman. He cannot die,” said Goldach.

Abhiseleka did not understand. “What am I supposed to do? We barely escaped with our lives. Do you want me to go back to that carriage?” He asked.

“I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you have to save him. He is your teacher. I saw the future, Abhiseleka. It doesn’t happen without him,” said Goldach.

Abhiseleka knew that Goldach was right. He sat down where he was on the bed of feathery Kadamba petals and closed his eyes. Goldach began to pace. In another part of his mind, he heard Mungan and Coventina stirring, debating about entering the room to wake him up.

Hurry up, Abhiseleka, he thought. Goldach suffered with Pomdrakpa. There was a soft place in his heart for the man. But I don’t know why, he thought.

“I’ve got it!” Abhiseleka jumped up from his place on the forest floor. “I have just spoken with him; he is on his way,” he said.

“It will have to do,” said Goldach. “I have to go back to the world. Today is little King Henry’s Coronation,” he said.

“You remember, it doesn’t have to happen the way we saw it, Goldach. You just have to avoid antagonizing him. He’s sensitive,” said Abhiseleka. Then he laughed.

“This is no time for jokes Abhiseleka. One last thing. Do not trust that woman. She is a spy. I’m not sure who sent her though,” he said.

Abhiseleka was left standing in the forest alone. He whirled around, and behind him was Kimiya.

“Goldach, have you lost your mind? Breakfast is ready. Get out of that bed before I make you sleep outside tonight,” she said.

That’s all the incentive I need to stay right here, he thought.

“You’d better hurry, Mister, or I’ll call your bluff,” she said. She heard his thought.

I forgot she did that, he thought. He arose from his bed and stumbled towards the door. Coventina met him there with three hard slaps.

“You forgot something else. That’s to help you remember your French.” She slapped him the first time. “This is for going back to sleep when you know we are waiting for you.” She slapped him again. “This is for even considering running away from home.” She slapped him for the third time. “Now get over here and eat your breakfast,” she said.

He sat down at the table and reached for his spoon. “Bow your head, Goldach. At the palace, there will always be a prayer said before any meal. It will be required that you bow your head when they do, lest you draw attention to yourself,” she said. She put her hands together and bowed her head. Mungan was caught off guard, and when Coventina looked up, she scolded them both.

“Mungan, you’ve got to set a proper example for the boy,” she said, “Goldach, bow your head.”

They all did, with hands folded together, and she began to pray.

“Dear Lord Christ Jesus,” she began.

“Are you really going to pray to their deity?” Asked Goldach.

Coventina stood up, and it seemed like her head hit the roof.

When did she get so tall? He thought. Goldach wanted to rescind that thought. He shrunk back from her as flames appeared in her eyes. She appeared to be quite angry.

“Goldach, a comment like that will get you killed,” she said. “Don’t ever disgrace their deity. He is the Father of the World to them. He is the Green Man to them. It is the same thing. Don’t add to the ignorance. Silently be aware of what they aren’t. This is the source of your power,” she said. She sat down, apparently cooled off, and began to pray again.

It Passed Right Through

2014-01-18T04:56:00.001-08:00

Abhiseleka did not speak. He sat down on a stump, and began to stroke a large red and white spotted mushroom. Goldach was just happy to finally be free. He had been shuffled around in shit carts from one dreary building to another. Why couldn’t he just spend all his time in the forest, wandering?

“I believe that’s why we’re here, Goldach. There are reasons you can’t do that nowadays,” said Abhiseleka.

“Oh yeah? What kind of reasons?” He asked. Abhiseleka did not reply, but looked up into the rays of light that penetrated to the forest floor. Goldach came and sat on a stump behind Abhiseleka’s, and watched the other direction. We’re obviously watching for something. He thought.

“Yes, and I don’t know what it is,” replied Abhiseleka. They sat there for what seemed like hours, though no one can reckon time in the Astral world. Then, there was some action. Towards the sunrise there was a commotion of birds. They chirped loudly and were flying in the boys’ direction.

What’s that? Thought Goldach.

That’s what we’ve been waiting for. Thought Abhiseleka. There was a faint sound of dogs barking and hoof beats. Over the horizon, looking into the sun, a man was darting behind trees. He kept his eyes squinted into the sun, watching. He spotted Abhiseleka, and ran towards them. They were now nestled in the roots of an extraordinarily ancient oak tree.

“You’ve got to help me. They’re after me. If they catch me, King John will have me publicly disemboweled after he rapes my entire family in front of my eyes,” he said. Goldach and Abhiseleka looked at each other.

Do you think he’s crazy? Can he see us? Asked Abhiseleka.

“Why, don’t be stupid, you brown dwarf,” he said. “I recognize a gnome when I see one. You’ve got to help me. Take me inside your tree house.”

Goldach spoke up. He had met many types of people in his work at the infirmary, and he knew his type. He was a villager, probably some type of artisan, maybe a cobbler. The common country folk still believed in nature spirits and saw entities. It was just the way things were. The apostles were the gnomes, Mother Nature Virgin Mary, and the Crucified Christ the Green Man, sacrificed each Autumn and resurrected in Spring.

“I believe in the crucified Christ, and I’m not him. Yes, I can see you and that’s why I know you can help me. Please, I’m a simple man, just trying to feed my family,” the man said.

“Why are the King’s men after you? What did you do?” Asked Abhiseleka. The man got a squinty look in his eyes.

“You’re pulling at my leg, surely. You know what I did. What else would I be doing out here in this haunted place? Hunting deer,” he replied. “Now take me into your house or I’m barging in,” he said. He tried to climb into the hollow trunk of the oak tree, and was successful, but it was no house. Still, it hid him rather well. The dogs came first, barking right in Abhiseleka’s face. Goldach laughed as their barks seemed to blow his hair back from his forehead. He wore a grave look. It was the man. The dogs had given him away.

“Of course they gave him away. That’s the whole point. They’re hunting dogs,” he said. Abhiseleka had not heard of such things, though they were happening all around him back in India. He was appalled.

“We have to help this man. Did you hear what they’re going to do to him?” He asked.

“What are you going to do? Say a mantra and make him disappear?” Asked Goldach. Abhiseleka looked one of the dogs right in the eyes. He was still barking and snarling, but he skipped a beat.

“These dogs can see us as well as the man can. They’re just that well trained. We have to get past that training,” said Abhiseleka. At first, Goldach thought Abhiseleka was guessing, but then he got his own idea. Abhiseleka was right, but staring in the dog’s eyes was not helping. Goldach walked up to the alpha male and stuck his hand inside the dog’s chest and felt his heart.

Leave this man alone. Tell the rest. Thought Goldach.

If we don’t deliver him to these people, they will have us killed and eaten. Thought the dog. Goldach removed his hand from the dog’s chest and sat back down where he was, in the roots of the oak tree.

“So, what’s your big idea?” Asked Abhiseleka. Goldach looked up into the tree.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Goldach asked the man.

“My name is Anguish,” He said. Goldach looked at the dogs. The hoofbeats that followed them grew louder. “My blood is on your hands, Druid. You could’ve saved me,” he said. He looked right into Goldach’s eyes. Goldach stared back into his and a strange thing happened. The iris grew, filling the entire socket. It was shiny, like a black metal ball. Images began to appear, of gore and pain, then the King’s men were upon them. They were dressed in Templar Regalia, bearing their red crossed standard. They stopped the horses behind the dogs and looked at the tree. Goldach and Abhiseleka were terrified. The horses hooves were within inches of their faces.

The men looked at the tree.

“Well, he has not climbed the tree,” said the leader, who’s name was John Marshall. “I reckon he must be within it’s hollow trunk.” He reached over to it with his lance and struck the tree. “I summon you in the name of King John and his majesty’s court to exit that tree immediately, or suffer the consequences,” he said.

The men looked at John, and then to the tree and back again. Not a sound emerged from the tree. The dogs had ceased barking upon orders from their caretaker, and the man, supposedly named Anguish, was holding his breath. He was reciting within his mind an old Gaelic charm for protection. Over and over, he repeated the phrase, Is álainn é an saol. It means “Life is beautiful,” in Gaelic. It was addressed to the Goddess Brigid, who had never failed him until now.

“Retrieve the thief,” said John Marshall. Two grizzled looking men dismounted and found the hole into which Robert had climbed. They were both too fat to enter. Robert had a much thinner frame than either of them.

“Come on out, you wretched mongrel,” said one of the ogres. He reached up into the hollow and swatted around with his arm, just barely missing Robert’s leg. He was afraid to attempt to enter the hole, lest he get stuck and embarrassed in front of the men. That would literally mean death. He pulled away from the hole. The other ogre didn’t even attempt to examine the hole, content with the other’s assessment.

John Marshall got a gleam in his eye.

“Too much mutton for both of you. It’s best to stay hungry at all times, lest you lose your fighting edge. Here I am, sharing my secrets with you, like so may pearls in pig shit,” he said. he dismounted, and removed his helmet. He wore a light chain mail over his Templar Knight costume. He was thinking about Jerusalem, longing to be there, but stuck running odd jobs for the King, waiting for his moment. He walked down to the ancient oak trees roots and crossed himself as he crossed the threshold. He was in awe of this tree. It must be over a thousand years old. He thought. There was a faint voice emanating from the tree. He leaned his ear towards the sound, and it vanished. It was an incantation of some kind.

Why, this may be a Druid inside this tree. John nearly hit himself in the forehead. Of course it was a Druid. Who else would live within such a magnificent work of Nature? He approached the hole, crossed himself again, and climbed into the tree. A leather clad foot crashed hard into the side of his head. He saw stars, but only stumbled. There was a man perched up higher within this trunk, looking down at him silently. John heard the voice again. It was this man’s incantation. Whatever it meant, John did not know. But it was musical, and beautiful, and John did not have the heart to apprehend the man. Go in peace, and sin no more. Said John Marshall. He then exited the hole.

When he emerged, he kicked one of the dogs. “Stupid dogs,” he said. “Housed within this tree is merely a nest of opossums, a mother with children. “Let’s move on men,” he said. None of three could believe it. Did John Marshall have sympathy for the Druids?

“I don’t think it is sympathy he has,” said Abhiseleka. “It’s a healthy respect and fear.” With that, Goldach held his head a little higher. They watched the troops all turn around and leave they way they came. As they did, the dogs trailed behind the men and horses. They looked back at the boys and apologized. There was a pleading in their eyes, the same question of mercy that the man stuck in the tree had done. Goldach looked at the two dogs with which he and Abhiseleka had made contact. The dogs came running back, unnoticed by the men. They jumped at Goldach, and passed tight through him, landing at the feet of the extremely lucky man who had just finished crawling out of the hollow tree.

They jumped on him and licked him, begging for mercy.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said, “I’ve stolen the King’s hunting dogs.” He laughed at that, and the irony that these young angels before him had saved him from a fate much worse than death.

“We didn’t really do anything,” said Goldach. “Maybe John Marshall was just having an off day,” he said. The birds had resumed their resounding chorus, and all five of them relaxed just a little more. The man came over to Goldach and held out his hand to him. Goldach extended his, but it passed right through.

Sometimes the Hunter, Sometimes the Prey

2013-12-17T03:28:00.000-08:00

“There is a small village just over this corner. Just Buddhists live there. Some of them may recognize my master as well,’ she said. She placed her hands in the Namaskar prayer position and bowed slightly in Abhiseleka’s direction. Abhiseleka put his thumbs in his mouth and stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well, if you believe you’re fooling us, you are sadly mistaken. As far as I’m concerned, no one should have to work under those conditions,” said Drogon. “I am glad you escaped, but there’s no way we can take you with us,” he said.

Her face began to redden, and Drogon wondered if she was going to try to throw him from his seat. She did not. She sat quietly for a moment, then began reciting the Sanskrit alphabet.

“My master taught me to apprehend the mind with Sanskrit. ‘A faithful servant and despicable master, is the mind,’ he would always say,” she replied. That was indeed one of the Karmapa’s favorite sayings when he was alive, and Pomdrakpa stopped his mantra altogether when she repeated it. The lamas looked at each other then looked down at Abhiseleka, who wore a slight grin.

They traveled for the rest of the afternoon until the valley which housed Kimiya’s village began to appear on the horizon, just before the grand wall of the Himalayas began. A blue river ran down from their peaks, feeding the misty air of the village. A large and colorful Tibetan Buddhist monastery sat perched high on a cliff overlooking the houses, market, and fields.

“This is my village,” said Kimiya. It’s name is Pharping. The two lamas looked at each other for one moment, simultaneously, then back straight ahead. Their new destination was also known as Yanglesho to the Tibetans. The originator of Tibetan Buddhism, The Lotus Born, was said to have gained his enlightened state in a cave somewhere near Pharping. This state was referred to by the Mahasiddhas as “Mahamudra.”

Neither Pomdrakpa nor Drogon Renchen had visited Pharping since the Karmapa had died. They were too wrapped up in their own political designs to apply any honest efforts towards their practices. The guilt bore heavily on them, and they recognized the “crazy wisdom” techniques as the Karmapa’s trademark. Pharping was a place of pilgrimage for Buddhists, lay people and clergy alike. It was a place to avoid for a Lama-turned-merchant.

“You know, the Buddha warned against practitioners like you,” she said, “that would take what they learned and swindle people with that knowledge. Have you ever been to the Temple of Kali? That’s the place Buddha learned compassion,” she said. She looked at Abhiseleka, who was smiling with a big gap toothed grin. The Lamas had turned green. Pomdrakpa had pulled the long stemmed pipe from it’s yak leather holster and the small ceramic container for the hashish opium mixture he and Drogon had been smoking. He crouched down, away from the wind and lit the pipe with a sulfur match, taking a long and satisfying draw from it. His eyes glazed over almost immediately and he handed it to Drogon. They passed it between them again and Pomdrakpa placed it back in it’s holster.

They sat in silence for a while, until Kimiya saw the road that would take them to the Kali Temple, properly named the Dakshinakali Temple. It was a narrow road that had a steep incline.

“This is where we turn,” she said. Drogon Renchen pulled on the reins, stopping the horses in the middle of the road. He was looking at the mountain and thinking it was a bad idea to even attempt it. He didn’t say anything, though; Kimiya was very excitable.

“You’re just too intoxicated,” she said, “trade me places.” She climbed over Drogon and clenched the reins from his hands, pushing him aside with her hips.

“Those horses don’t know you; they won’t follow your instruction,” he said. She sat quietly for a moment and closed her eyes, then tied the reins loosely to the bar at the front of the carriage. The horses began to forge ahead, up the mountainside, by Kimiya’s mental instruction. Abhiseleka laughed as Drogon Renchen covered his eyes with his hands. Pomdrakpa hung his head over the edge. Always a glutton for pain, he was afraid of heights, and yet he stared down the lengthening distance from the side of the road to the bottom of the valley below.

“Are you going to make it, Pomdrakpa?” Asked Abhiseleka. Pomdrakpa pushed his left hand out toward him and groaned. The fire of Kali was lit within the Lamas bodies; they were both dreading this unexpected visit to her temple. Abhiseleka had hatched a thought in his brain that Matangi was involved in this detour. He watched Kimiya, and though she was short with straight hair and brown eyes, whereas Matangi was tall with curly hair and green eyes, they moved the same way. He dismissed it and watched her drive the horses up the mountain without holding the reins, just like Matangi would do if she was here. She looked over at him and winked. He blushed.

The steep incline plateaued and gave way to a dense and fragrant forest, swaying in the cool breeze. The air was fresh and new. Kimiya directed the horses up the path. There was a wooden sign that read: “Temple of Dakshinakali, The Mother of the Universe.” As they neared the temple, the smell of goat meat cooking drove Pomdrakpa and Drogon into a frenzy, so much so that the horses veered off the path and headed towards it. Kimiya threw up her hands as if the movement was out of her control. They were now on a lesser worn path through the forest, away from the temple.

The sounds were deafening, as the sun was beginning to set. The monkeys called from the treetops. It sounded as if they were beating their chests. There was a cacophony of bird calls as well, that one could not be separated from another. It was a solid wall of sound. As they travelled deeper into the forest, the smoke from a fire became thick on the path. A boy came out to greet them with his hands in the namaskar position.

“Come, and eat with us; my mother and father have sent me to get you. You can park your horses there and it’s just down this path,” he said. It was strange he did not announce his name. He seemed eager to get back to the fire. “Come, come; it’s almost ready,” he said. Kimiya tied the reins to a tall papery barked Birch tree. Abhiseleka stayed behind with her, but the lamas followed the hungry boy. She extended her hand to him and they began walking.

“I’m sorry I sent you away with such incompetent fools, Abhiseleka,” she said.

“Matangi!” he said.

“Don’t blow our cover; we’ve got a good thing going here,” she said. He looked at her and she, for just one moment was Matangi. Then she was the Dakini Kimiya again, walking with her head held high as if to gain a little more height. She was just a little taller than Abhiseleka. He smiled and had nothing to say. They walked, hand in hand towards the little boy’s fire with his parents.

When they arrived upon the scene, the lamas were tearing into the goat meat. They acted as if they hadn’t eaten for years. It scared Abhiseleka; he remembered his vision from earlier, when the lamas were tearing Goldach apart. Then he remembered, and released his hand from Kimiya’s. She was there too, devouring her friend’s flesh. It was another lifetime, but it still made him wonder if he was in the wrong place.

She walked up to him and held his hand again. He saw something terribly disturbing in his mind’s eye. There was a lama, dressed in yellow, beating a hand drum and chanting a strange incantation. He looked closer, at his face, and saw that it was he who officiated the ceremony, the one where Goldach was torn limb from limb. He started sweating. Cold beads appeared on his forehead and upper lip.

“Sometimes you’re the hunter, and sometimes you’re the prey,” she said. She gripped Abhiseleka’s slippery hand a little tighter, then released. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. “Please forgive me, Abhiseleka,” she said. He looked at her, then to the lamas, then to the family officiating this ceremony. That’s when they came up to greet Abhiseleka and Kimiya.

“Welcome, welcome,” said the man. “My name is Sandeep. My wife is Sunjata, and my son, whom you have already met, is called Yuvaraj. Please, sit down with us and eat. You’re friends tell me you are on a long journey. You must be hungry, and you’re in luck. This is the prasad from our sacrifice to Mother Kali at the temple,” he said. “I insist that you eat some with us and share Mother Kali’s blessing.”

Abhiseleka looked at Kimiya and she elbowed him in the ribs. Let’s sit down with Drogon and Pomdrakpa at the fire, Kimiya thought at Abhiseleka. She took his hand and twisted him over to his place next to Pomdrakpa, his spiritual teacher. He was beginning to realize that he was not going to get out of this. Sunjata would come around to his spot in front of the fire. He would have to taste the stringy, greasy goat meat, leaving not a morsel on the plate, lest he rouse Kali’s anger. He hung his head down at the thought, just as Sunjata walked from the tent towards he and Kimiya at the fire. She elbowed him in the ribs yet again.

“Would you please stop doing that?” He asked Kimiya. Sunjata was standing there, holding a silver dish piled high with goat meat. She handed Kimiya a smaller plate.

“For the boy,” she said. Kimiya forked an overgenerous portion from the dish for Abhiseleka. He groaned. She handed it over to him. Sunjata nodded her head and smiled.

“A big plate for a big boy; it will make you grow big and strong. Mother Kali’s blessing,” she said to him. He was supposed to eat the meat with his hands, like the lamas. Just don’t think about it, Abhiseleka. It’s not a big deal, thought Kimiya. The lamas were finally reaching the end of their servings. They both looked in Abhiseleka’s direction and chuckled. He raised his upper lip in a snarl towards them. They laughed harder. Kimiya took a large greasy bite of the goat’s leg, tasting the smoky fire over which he had been cooked. It was delicious to her; the energy of the ritual was fresh on the meat, very hot and angry.

Now that everyone was seated and eating, Sandeep seized the opportunity to make small talk. He addressed the lamas, disregarding the others.

“Men, it is an honor to have two initiates in our midst,” he said. He motioned with his joined hands in their direction and bowed. They returned the gesture. “I see you have eaten heartily from Mother Kali’s sacrifice,” he said, “and pledged yourself to her.” He chuckled, and looked towards the sky. The ground shook and the sky rumbled, now hanging low above them. A group of devotees travelled down the path, headed for the camp, singing a hymn to Kali. They carried two large posts and spools of twine. When the group reached the fire, they seized the lamas and tied them, hands and feet, to the posts. Abhiseleka and Kimiya were also seized. They were shackled and led, along with Drogon and Pomdrakpa, towards the temple of Dakshinakali.

Deleted Scenes: The Celtic Goddess, Coventina

2013-11-17T16:34:00.000-08:00

When he looked back to Mungan and the Lady, she was gone, replaced by a girl who looked exactly like her, but smaller. She was roughly the same age as Goldach, about ten years old, with bright red hair and pale greenish blue eyes. She stepped forward and kissed Goldach softly on the lips, which sent an electric shock throughout his body. It made him dizzy, almost to the point of falling down.

“My name is Coventina,” she said. She presented Goldach with a rather plain looking flower stalk. He accepted the gift and presented he with a perplexed look.

What is this? He thought.

“That is a flower of the Gold Dock plant, the mystical cure for stinging nettles,” she said, “and your namesake.” She held up the fringed ends of her dress and curtsied respectfully to Goldach. “Would you like to take a walk with me through the fields?” She asked. He was suspicious of this girl who had just been a grown woman. He did not trust her one bit. He looked at Mungan.

“Mungan, what’s going on here?” Asked Goldach. Mungan had bent down and was investigating the right rear wheel of the wagon. His back was turned to Goldach and Coventina. “You’re really going to kidnap me and send me off with some shapeshifter?” He asked. Mungan remained focused on his task, nodding his head imperceptibly. His body began to shake and convulse slightly. Goldach could tell he was laughing at him.

“Are you laughing at me, Mungan?” Asked Goldach.

“No, I’m laughing with you, son,” he said. “Why don’t you go with Coventina? She can answer your questions much more thoroughly than I. I am just a simple bookbinder,” he said.

“I don’t want to go with her,” said Goldach, looking straight into her eyes. As he did, his words trailed off. Her eyes are quite stunning, he thought.

“Why, thank you Goldach,” she said, and curtsied again. She produced two matching hats made of tightly wound burlap fabric. She handed one to him, and placed the other on top of her copper colored head. “It’ll keep the sun out of your eyes,” she said. The sun was low in the sky and rising quickly towards the noon. Goldach thought the hat was a sensible gift; his eyes had always been extremely sensitive to light. He placed the hat on his head, and was suddenly willing to go with Coventina. She grabbed his hand, and they walked off in the direction of the sunrise through the green fields.

There were tall hills that lay in the distance, covered in green even to the tips, surrounded by the dense network of canals and streams that linked the land to the wider sound beyond. The pathway was coarse gravel, leading straight towards those hills, through the tall green fields that stretched out as far as he could see. She had released his hand, and now ran out ahead of him, throwing her hat into the field. Goldach kept his, to protect his vision from the still low sun. She stretched out her arms and twirled around, falling over into the field.

“Do you ever do that, Goldach? Have you ever spun around and made yourself so dizzy that you fell down?” She asked. Goldach did not answer. He pretended to not have heard her comment, looking out into the shimmering green field. She kept staring at the side of his head. He felt the hot iron of her stare.

“What?” He asked her, annoyed by the prying eye.

“Have you ever done that, Goldoc?” She asked again. He shook his head.

“No, I have not,” he said, “and what’s it to you?” He asked her. She did not answer for a long time. They kept walking. She picked at the crops that flanked the dirt road occasionally, eating their flowers. Goldach kept silent. He didn’t know what to say to her. More time passed. She appeared to be deep in thought. Her face lit up and she walked over to Goldach.

“Alright. Hold on right there,” she said. “Close your eyes.” Goldach closed his eyes, and he felt her slap his back, right in between the shoulder blades. His ears started ringing and his eyes crossed. His vision was doubled.

“What’d you do that for?” He asked.

“You’re too serious, Goldach. You really should loosen up. This might be your last chance for a while,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” He asked.

She spoke another language, one he did not understand. He did catch the meaning, but her abrupt change threw him off. He thought on the meaning. Soon, your training period will begin. You will speak only in Latin, and translate texts for the Catholic Church! His face got red. He thought of Myrridian. He could see his face in his mind’s eye, laughing at him, then looking at him sternly. He looked at Coventina. So, this is my punishment? Myrridian sent me here to be punished? He felt rage rise in his throat, and Coventina sensed it. Her small frame grew, then shrunk back down. She had become an elderly woman, sufficiently startling Goldach into forgetfulness. She seemed very angry. What was I mad about? He thought.

The elderly Coventina looked down at Goldach. There seemed to be fire emanating from her eyes. She reminded him of what had angered him moments earlier.

“This is no punishment, Goldach, just part of the training you are destined to complete and surpass. You’re not getting out of it this time,” she said, flashing a grin. With that smile, she became her child self again, baffling Goldach.

“I have to sit down,” he said. He sat down right at the edge of the field, dizzy and exhausted. “I don’t know if I can keep up with you. How do you do that?” He asked.

She was skipping around the gravel path, kicking up some dust at Goldach. She walked over to him and gave him the flask of yogurt to drink. He held it up to his nose and sniffed.

“It smells rotten,’ he said. “What is it?”

“This, my friend, is your salvation. I know about your special dietary requirement,” she said. A scene quickly flashed in his mind. He had the meteoric iron dagger in his hand, and a large male boar bared his neck to it. It began to slice through the thick flesh when the flash was over.

“Isn’t that rather inconvenient for all involved parties?” She asked. He sat mesmerized. “The concoction in that flask is my own invention. I usually reserve it for gestating women, but having thought about your illness, I believe we may have the cure,” she said.

“Well, I’d rather drink blood. This smells rotten and inedible. I demand to know the ingredients immediately,” he said. Rather than being offended at his insolence, she threw her head back and laughed. Goldach began to laugh with her. He then realized he was laughing at himself, and she still had not answered the question. She stopped laughing abruptly.

“This is the ingredient list, Goldach. Goat’s milk yogurt, from the milk of a brown nanny by the name of Aeval is the first. Next, the key ingredient is blood from her utter.”

He wrinkled his nose and put the cap back on the flask.

“The final ingredient is a yogurt culture passed down to me by the great Merlin, Saint Aurelian himself,’ she said. He felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. Upon hearing the name, he removed the cap, tipped it back, swallowed, and shuddered as it went down. The mixture had a familiar musky and slimy texture to it.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. He glared at her and tipped it back again. There was no need to get used to this dreadful brew; it was already more familiar than boiled potatoes. Goldach, in his previous incarnation as Aurelian, had drank thousands of gallons of it. This was his most vivid recollection from that time. He had developed a nauseating aversion to the smell and taste of goats.

“Tastes like it’s good for you,” he said. He smiled and began to heave, choking it back down. He did prefer the boar’s blood. The goat’s natural smell reminded him of carrion, food fit for vultures and raccoons. Coventina nodded her head once, walked over to Goldach, and offered her hand to him. He was dizzy and the breakfast churned in his stomach, threatening at any moment to make a return visit to the outside world. He did not want to stand up; even less did he want Coventina’s assistance in the act. He ignored her hand and strained himself upward and onto his own to feet.

Thanks for the goat and the hat, but I don’t trust you, he thought. Coventina smiled, but it was an evil look in her eye. She looked directly into his, silently. You don’t have to trust me. You just have to do as I command, she thought back at him. Her face lightened and brightened. She was laughing at him again.

“I was just kidding,” she said, but Goldach was having none of it. His face turned red again.

“I don’t have to take this,” he said. He turned around, intending to walk back towards Mungan and the wagon. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was no Mungan and no wagon, but an expansive coastline had taken their place. The waves crashed onto the rocks below them. He turned back around and she was there, right in front of him.

“You’re so cute when you’re mad,” she said. “Walk with me Goldach. The yogurt is probably taking some effect now.” He thought about it for a moment. He willed himself to disregard the lingering odor and taste in his nose and throat, and noticed she was right. He was feeling stronger.

“What happened?” He asked, gesturing towards the salt spray from the water. She didn’t answer, but gently took his hat off his head and threw it into the water. She took his hand into hers and they began to walk the path again, the one that appeared to lead to the green mountains ahead. We don’t have much time left Goldach; you’re going back to Mungan soon. She picked two large flowers from the green herbs of the field, and handed one to Goldach. She took a bite of hers and began to chew. Goldach looked at it.

“Try it, Goldach. It’s one of the best medicines we have,” she said. They continued to walk, away from the water and toward the hills. Goldach put the entire flower in his mouth and chewed. Coventina’s eyes widened.

“You remember that too; it was always one of your favorites,” she said. They kept walking together, holding hands most of the time. He wondered what Coventina wanted, and why she was here. The sky began to change colors, as the sunset was coming. “Let’s go back to the water,” she said. They turned around and walked back towards the waves. Through the rocks was a sandy path. She led him down it, and there was a tall rock with steps carved into it, as well as strange writing. They climbed the side and sat facing the spray of the ocean and the large sky, where the sun began to dip below the watery horizon.

“Goldach, do you ever wonder whether you’re dreaming or awake?” Asked Coventina. He did not answer. A feeling of acrid fear ran through him; she knew too much. He stiffened, then loosened. Be natural. He thought to himself. He didn’t want to give himself away, but she already knew.

“I already know what?” She asked him. He clamped up tight, not wanting to reveal any of his adventures in the dream world to Coventina. She knew too much. She was dangerous. “Goldach, sometimes you’re so dense. I just wanted to tell you that all this has been a dream,” she said. Immediately, he knew. She was lying.

“I’m telling you the truth,” she said, putting two fingers to his mouth. “You are about to wake up in the back of the wagon.” He looked at her and started to laugh. He threw his head back and closed his eyes and laughed harder and harder.

Mungan’s thickly calloused hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He was on the floor of the wagon bed, rolling around, when he was roused from his dream.

“I reckon he had a rather humorous dream,” said Mungan. He turned around and looked back, away from Goldach, and she approached. It was Coventina.

The Liberation of Kimiya

2013-10-20T12:05:00.001-07:00

“Abhiseleka, it’s the end of the road for today,” said Pomdrakpa. “We’re going to stay here tonight.” Abhiseleka sat upright, facing the corner with his hands still clenched over his eyes. “What are you doing? Are you hurt?” Asked Pomdrakpa. He climbed into the wagon and Abhiseleka shrieked.

“Get away from me!” He said. Pomdrakpa grabbed his thrashing body into his arms and began to recite a mantra in a very deep voice, over and over. He stroked Abhiseleka’s hair and he was docile. He carried him to the edge, dismounted the wagon, and pulled Abhiseleka out as well. Pomdrakpa was still reciting the mantra as he stood him up. He acted drunk until the lama clapped his hands three times, and ceased the mantra.

Abhiseleka felt as if a fog had lifted. He did not know where he was. There were colorful and loud people everywhere. It was some kind of market, smoky with fires over which large meat sticks roasted. The shopkeepers who turned the meat sticks were mainly elderly women with wrinkled faces. They smiled while they did their work. Many of them recited mantras as they turned the meat. They were Tibetan women. There were also loud men calling out in Tibetan, which Abhiseleka understood, though he did not yet speak the language himself.

Overall, it was a filthy place. Abhiseleka was repulsed by the smell, but it was the din of haggling voices that threatened to bring him to his knees. Pomdrakpa and Drogon Renchen looked around the market. Abhiseleka followed. Deeper down the smoky stone corridor began the skin trade. Naked women, men, and children stood in the dark cages lined with straw. They wore metal collars that had chain connected to them. Abhiseleka wanted to cover his eyes. He could not believe what he saw. The lamas walked hurriedly ahead, desperate to find something.

“Drogon, my friend,” said a voice from behind one of the cages. A Turkish merchant emerged from the shop behind a caged little Ethiopian girl. She sat in the corner, huddled with her hands around her knees. Her body was propped up against the back wall of the cage. The shopkeeper, upon seeing this, slammed the bars of the cage.

“Get up, you lazy girl! How will I ever sell you if you act sick? You must stand and look longingly in the customer’s eyes, like this,” he said. He clasped his hands together and cocked his head to the side. He batted his eyelashes. She did not move. The girl continued to stare off into nowhere. A small tear emerged silently from her right eye. He opened his palms and beat on the bars. She still did not move. He turned his head away from her and to the lamas.

“What good fortune has brought you men to my shop today?” He asked. The lamas remained silent. Abhiseleka looked up at them, anxiously awaiting their answer. He looked back towards the Ethiopian girl, then back to the shopkeeper. A new idea dawned on him. His face lit up.

“You have brought me a prize,” he said. He walked up to Abhiseleka and stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. “He is beautiful. What is his price?” He asked.

Drogon Renchen face reddened. Pomdrakpa stepped forward and pulled the boy away from the shopkeeper.

“He is not for sale,” said Pomdrakpa. “You couldn’t afford him anyway,” he said further.

“Oh really? Try me,” replied the shopkeeper.

“He is technically worth twice his weight in gold,” said Pomdrakpa. A middle aged Indian slave, a man wearing a dirty linen outfit stood at attention. The shopkeeper clapped his hands three times and he ran off. Less than a minute later, he emerged with another slave who was dressed identically. They toted a mid-sized wooden trunk, each holding a handle from either side. They dropped it at their master’s feet.

“Open the trunk,” he said. One of the slaves unlocked the lock, pulled it off, and threw back the lid of the trunk. It shone brightly with small gold coins, full to the brim. He smiled at the lamas, then at Abhiseleka.

“This boy is not for sale,” said Drogon Renchen. “We have come only to replenish our supplies, and to garner a guide to help us navigate the passes. We are headed to Lhasa,” he said. Drogon handed a small rolled up scroll of paper to him. The shopkeeper winked twice at him, bent down, and whispered in one of his slave’s ear. He ran off and emerged with a beautiful Persian woman. They were dressed in long and brightly colored dress, blue and purple. She smelled heavily of Frankincense.

“This is Kimiya. She will take you to your lodgings for the night. In the meantime, we will exchange your cart with a full one, equipped for the journey east, and your mules for yaks. It will all be ready by the morning,” he said, and extended his hand to Drogon first, then Pomdrakpa.

“This way please, dear Sirs,” she said. She clasped her hands together and bowed down to her waist, then began to walk back down the bazaar in the direction of their wagon. Once out of the range of her Master’s hearing, she began to speak.

“I am no concubine. I am the Master’s Dakini,” she said. Drogon and Pomdrakpa looked at each other. “Don’t play stupid with me, you old men. He, this boy, is no ordinary child,’ she said. She laughed. It bubbled up from her until she was nearly doubled over and unable to walk. “The look on your faces,” she said, “when Kamran tried to buy him,” she gestured towards Abhiseleka, “was priceless,” she said. She abruptly stopped her laughter, and a grave look fell over her face. “That man in there, Kamran, he is not my master. This boy is Vajrasattva, my master and teacher. I will never leave his side,” she said.

She stopped walking abruptly. Drogon and Pomdrakpa almost ran into her. She bent down and touched her forehead to Abhiseleka’s, holding the back of his head in her hands. She closed her eyes. The tumult around their party faded away for just that moment, at least for her. Abhiseleka seemed unperturbed and put his hands on the back of her skull as well. “Where have you been?” She asked Abhiseleka. She then continued walking. Their carriage was now in sight. “You cannot trust that man,” she said. The lamas hesitated. “You tell them, Vajrasattva. We must go to someone else,” she said.

“I thought you were showing us to our room,” said Drogon Renchen. “I am not joking. Kamran will kill you in your sleep and take the boy, along with all your merchandise,” she said. “Ask him and he’ll tell you.” She motioned to Abhiseleka with her head. The lamas looked at him and he nodded his head once. “You see! He knows I’m right. He recognizes me,’ she said. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. All four of them squeezed into the front of the carriage. Drogon held the reins. To his left was Kimiya. To his right were Abhiseleka, then Pomdrakpa. He snapped the reins down on the mules and they pulled the wagon, back towards the road that headed out of town.

Myrridian Saves the Day Deleted Scene

2013-09-19T19:36:00.000-07:00

One third of the Merlins and most of their squires suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace. The Templars were bloodthirsty and angry at having been eluded by the remaining members of the Merlindom. Also, they were frightened by what repercussions may await them due to their failure.

Myrridian had roused them all from the metal fogginess their squires had imposed on them and organized a rallying point which they all knew. Their perfect and momentary mental clarity was enough to call them in the direction of the infirmary. Merlin quickly re-routed them to the village where Marta and Goldach were residing, instructing them along the way to discard the identifying outfits they had been wearing and procure the garments of peasants that were sold in the marketplace a little further down the path from here. They were all on foot, aware of each other by the telepathic link Myriddian had established and was now maintaining.

Guirmean, back at Myrridian’s lair, had witnessed all these events and was extremely displeased. He had gone inside and was loudly meowing at Myrridian’s prostrate body to awaken, calling his spirit back to it’s home. This was disruptive to his guidance of the Merlins. Guirmean had been vested with the power to make such decisions, however, so Myriddian slowly travelled back along the elastic cord that led back to his body. Along the way, he gave explicit instructions to the Merlins who were traveling to conference with him. Speak to no man, and if you must, feign total ignorance. Each one was now on their way, separately, to the safe village where he had brought Marta’s family. There was work to do. He finally reached his lair; descending again through the roof, he landed on the Dervish carpet and was magnetically pulled into his body. It felt like it weighed eighteen tons. Guirmean was standing on his chest, meowing loudly. He reached up to pet him and he jumped off.

He looked over at the Calamus root extract, picked it up and tipped the bottle back. It was an extract of Calamus in whiskey he had brewed himself and would begin to take effect immediately. He rose from where he had laid, walked over to his stone table, sat down, and began to write the events of the journey down, lest he forget. When he had sufficiently documented the story, he walked out the back door to the creek and washed the remnants of the ointment from his body.

He had not forgotten Marta or Goldach, but without this meeting the work he was destined to do would be futile and frivolous. He sat on the front porch with Guirmean, feeling refreshed from the time spent outside of his body. It was much more restful than any sleep could be. Guirmean was still angry from the risks he had taken. Conferring with him through mental pictures, Myrridian showed him his reasoning. Goldach and Marta must come here; there is no other safe place. Even these Merlins who were loyal now would be advised to abandon the old ship. There was no other way. The tides had made their decision, and they were going out. The old ways would be driven deeper undergroung, but the concessions Goldach would make were too much for Myrridian to bear. He would just as soon die. Goldach, however, the heir of Aruleanius, would be pragmatic to a fault. His pragmaticism knew no bounds; when a goal was set, nothing could stop him from achieving it.

He sat and daydreamed about Marta and Goldach, sending her the message that he would be there shortly with guests. Though the season was over, they would plow the fields together. He wanted them to stay inside if possible, and for her to make sure the possessions she had were packed and ready to go. There was no time to waste. The Merlins were on their way.

Marta had experienced the vision of Myrridian’s deeds, along with Goldach, who was becoming more and more aware, and communicative. On one level, he understood his mission in life. Yet the awareness of that destiny was slipping away from him, as it does from all young children. It’s not an evil process, but a natural and organic one. If we already knew the end of the story, would we even bother to read the book?

In her dreams last night, it was as if she sat on the rug with Myriddian, though he seemed quite unaware due to his focus on the task at hand. He continued to underestimate her, such was his impression of women in general. Nevertheless, she did bear witness to the salvation of the twelve Merlins, each with their druidic squires. The gravity of the situation surrounding Myrridian and Goldach was becoming quickly apparent to her. The old ways were gone, and the only option was total conversion. She, like Myrridian, had not wanted to believe it; now there was no denial. The old political clout held by the kingdom of Merlins had all but disappeared. Though there were many who would die for Myrridian if so required. That was exactly what he wanted to avoid.

The twelve Merlins were on their way, each with varying levels of loyalty to Myrridian, all with a now deadly self-destructive and unflinching devotion to the old ways. She was rather exited that this meant she and Goldach would be returning to Melrose for good. Her own mental and telepathic suggestions were taking hold, unnoticed by the High Merlin of Scotland. However defunct his title and office were becoming, it was still quite a feat to exert such powerful influence on such a man. She smiled to herself with a rare moment she allowed herself of pride, quickly changing her focus back to the persona that was rendering her capable of such influence. She was again an idiotic wench, who hung on Myrridian’s every last word.

That was her costume she had to wear when she was around him, and she would wear it well. Soon, it would come off piece by piece, and she would show herself an adept scholar of the old alchemical arts. It would be gradual, and yet sudden. The calamus root was that effective, and the time was at hand.

Myrridian arrived at the village; about two hours ahead of the Merlins who were in transit. He was kicking at the clods in the fields, acting perturbed at the soil conditions. He had brought many plows and farming implements with him in a horse driven wagon he had rented from a shell-shocked youth in the village adjacent to Melrose. When Yohanon saw that Myrridian had arrived, he rushed out to greet him.

“Sir, sir, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” He asked.

“I have brought soil experts to examine these fields with me, dear Yohan; I would like to know their opinions on how to maximize yields this coming season,” Myrridian replied. In his reply was judgement and cruelty, to effect Yohanon’s quick and sullen departure. He was a meddlesome sort, bound up in the petty politics of the small-town cathedral. He did get the message, but did not want to be construed to Myrridian as rude or unthankful, so continued to carry on the conversation.

“Well, that’s a rather wise decision. There is always room for improvement,” he replied. At this, Myriddian showed his displeasure on a very subliminal level, conveying the fact that Yohanon was no longer welcome in his presence, but that he appreciated him and his work here on this little farm. Yohanon quickly responded,

“I didn’t want to be rude, Master, but I believe I ought to take leave of you and let you to your business unperturbed by the likes of Yohanon.”

“Thank you Yohanon. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Would you mind sending Marta out to greet me?” Myriddian demanded.

“I certainly will. Your kindness is never wasted on me sir!” Yohanon spoke these words and almost tripped over his own feet as he backed away, not wanting to turn his glance away from Myrridian too soon. When he reached twenty paces, he turned and ran back to the cottages, his belly flopping around accordingly. Myrridian heard him calling Marta,

“Lady Marta, Lady Marta, the Master would like to see you in the Kale field, on the double!”

Myrridian was unsettlingly exited when he saw Marta emerge from the cottage in the distance. She was wearing a crimson dress, and had Goldach slung around her front side in a cotton sling. He was getting rather heavy for her to carry and she slunk under his weight.

“Marta, it is no longer safe here. Do you have your things together?” He asked.

“Why yes Master. I heard you calling when you began your journey here. Has something terrible happened?” She asked.

“We have no time to discuss anything now; suffice to say we will be departing before nightfall. I have brought in soil analysts, Marta. They will be here any minute, and I don’t want them to see you or Goldach. They won’t be here long. Please remain unseen within the cottage,” he said.

Marta was surprised to see him so affected by the events of the previous night. He looked like he was about to fall over he was so tired, and his pupils were blown. He was still in the spirit world, beside himself with fear and loathing for his existence. She felt tenderness for him and reached for his hands, taking them up in hers and staring deeply into his eyes. They were dark and deep, like the water of the ocean on a moonless night. She felt as though he was pulling her in when she saw them, deep under the waves where the pain was absent. Perceiving all this, she realized she had already succeeded; Myrridian was in love with her. She was feeling his feelings as her own. She was silent in her mind, mirroring back a nurturing feeling, still holding his hands in hers. You can depend on me, Myrridian, she thought.

It was only a ten second exchange, but it was meaningful enough that there seemed to be a break in his demeanor, and she thought he was about to cry. People like him, caretakers, were never allowed to show their emotions, even to themselves. And in such a powerful political position with the lives of so many constantly at stake, there was no option. His back straightened and he withdrew his hands and his emotions, retreating back into himself and to the task at hand.

“Take leave, Marta, and be on the ready,” he said.

“As you wish, dear Master,” she replied.

As she turned to walk back to the cottage, he felt the hatred rise up again, for himself, from the danger of being involved with this woman. He never allowed himself to be mirrored. That was how people got killed. He remembered Miryabeit, then quickly forgot. He was afraid that Marta never would. No matter how well she thought she could hide it from him, she wanted vengeance. It was plain as the nose on her face. He would continue to act as though she didn’t, but remain extremely wary of her. There was, after all, no choice but to allow her in to his inner sanctum. Goldach would be much more than he could handle, and without a mother figure, he would lack the diplomatic skills he would desperately need in years to come. He knew from experience.

The Merlins were close, he could almost smell their breaths. They travelled on foot, as instructed. Myrridian was ready to break the connection with all of them. Some of the Moorish squires been judged trustworthy, and were traveling with them. By his sight, he saw seven of them. The rest were companionless; their apprentices had been traitorous. Those five who had remained at Stonehenge had born the brunt of the Templars and the church back at Stonehenge, caught in the middle of a colossal tidal wave.

The Gnome House, Deleted Scenes #1 MG, Book #1

2013-08-21T18:13:00.000-07:00

“Let us go to a more hospitable place,” he said. He spoke yet another magical phrase. There was a loud thunder clap and flash of lightning that accompanied the phrase, then nothing. The Merlins looked around at each other, some wondering if Myrridian was losing his touch. He stood with his back up against the tree. Cyprian looked at the tree and noticed something extremely peculiar.
   “Did anyone else notice that tree is moving?” He asked the group. It looked for a moment like the thick bark of the ancient oak tree was running upwards, like a river flowing. They all noticed at once that the tree was growing before their eyes, widening as well as growing taller, rapidly. Myrridian continued to watch them, as they wondered what happened. It was Mungan who noticed the grass around the tree had gotten taller as well. He walked over to an acorn and figured it out. This tree hasn’t grown, he thought, as he picked up an acorn from the forest floor. It was the size of a large melon. Why, Myrridian has shrunk us all down!
   As he realized this, he looked around at the rest of them as they were having the same realization. They had their heads hung back, gaping at the enormity of their surroundings. Their minds were taken completely off of Stone Henge for a moment.
Myrridian didn’t stop them. He laughed quietly to himself as the six inch tall Merlins perused their new environment.
   Cyprian walked around the tree and noticed what looked like stairs that led beneath the tree’s visible roots. It looked like an ordinary foxhole. I would never have seen these steps, he thought. If he had been his ordinary size, which was nearly five and a half feet tall, he would have walked right past the hole. He was just the right size to look down under and notice a vey tall set of double wooden doors at the end of the short landing after the subterranean steps. They were sturdy, just like German Alehouse doors. He was tempted to walk right up and knock on the door, but thought better of it.
   Cyprian walked around the tree and saw Myrridian still leaning up against it, waiting.
   As Cyprian approached, he said,
   “Cyprian, you found it. Thank you.” The Merlins all looked over at the two.
   “Found what?” Asked Mungan.
   “If you want to know, come on,” said Myrridian. “Take us to the entrance, Cyprian,” he said. Cyprian walked around the tree and looked down into the hole he had discovered beneath it’s roots. No one seemed interested except Myrridian.
   “Well, good job, Cyprian, you found a hole. Congratulations,” said Rinauld. He was the Merlin of the West Midland Birmingham District, where the Forest of Arden is located. Myrridian walked over and looked down into it.
   “That is much more than a hole, my friends. This is the house of a gnome,” he said. He walked down the steps and gave an extremely peculiar sequence of knocks on the door. It was a series of four knocks in rapid succession, then three loud knocks. He repeated this cycle three times, and the door opened suddenly, revealing a plump white haired gnome woman who was holding a cast iron skillet that had thirteen pastries on it.
   “We were wondering if you all would ever get here,” she said, “the tea has been ready for an hour.”
   “I must apologize, my dear madam,” said Myrridian. “We were nearly murdered by the heathen hunters just moments ago.”
   “Even more of a reason then; please tell your friends to come on down. Dweldin’s waiting for you in the study,” she said. “My name is Braelyn.” Myrridian looked up at the Merlins, except Cyprian, who was already down with Myrridian and Braelyn.
   “Let’s go, men,” Myrridian yelled up the steps. Rinauld peeked his head down. “Come on, we’re running late already. We are invited into the home of the renowned Merlin, Dweldin,” he said. The men began to file into the house, Braelyn first, then Cyprian and the rest of the Merlins. Myrridian waited until the last one entered and followed behind him.
   As Myrridian entered the threshold, Braelyn was leading the Merlins through her kitchen, which was saturated with the delicious aroma of mushroom and potato stew, and the bread that was baking in the oven. He lagged behind the others and looked over the simmering cauldron. He heard the woman’s voice,
   “Come on Myrridian. You’ll have to wait with the rest. It’s not ready,” she said. Myrridian, impressed with her sight, followed her order.
   “Of course I could see you. That’s my kitchen, son,” she said. The small kitchen was walled with wood planks and the roots from the tree below. Passing into the next room, a vast expanse lit by bright clear mirrored lanterns opened up. This was the dining hall, and an enormous round oak table sat directly in the middle of the room. At the far corner, facing the entrance to the kitchen, was the Merlin Dweldin.
   He was a gnome; his outfit was complete with a tall red conical hat and blue coveralls. His cheeks were red, and he wore a large smile on his face. As the Merlins filed in, he retained his seat. When he saw Myrridian, he jumped up as spry as a toddler, ran to him, and embraced him. He squeezed Myrridian so tightly it knocked the wind out of him.
   “Why, you’ve been gone too long my brother,” said Dweldin. Myrridian was crouched with his hands on his knees, still attempting to resume his normal breathing pattern.
   Between gasps he said, “Yes it has Dweldin. Maybe if you didn’t try to squeeze me to death every time we met.” He was smiling, and began to laugh as he regained his composure.
   “When are you bringing the boy to see us?” Asked Dweldin. He was referring to Goldach, and had no way of knowing he had even been born. Dweldin heard his thought.
   “This great tree surrounding us told me. That’s news around here. Everything has come to life over this boy. What’s his name?” He asked.
   “His name is Goldach, and he’s still rather young to be smearing on flying ointment,” replied Myrridian.
   “You and I both know, Myrridian, that child can get here without it. Why, look at your men,” he said. “They’re all here. Were you going to introduce me, brother?” He asked.
   “Please pardon my lack of consideration. Please make each other's acquaintance. Here is Cyprian, Rinauld, Mungan, Adair, Forgall, Gabhan, Ernan, Conlan, Doran, Trefor, Heddwin, and Cullan,” he said. Each of the men tipped their hats as his name was announced.
   “Pleased to know you, men. Anyone care for a drink?” Asked Dweldin. He held up his stein, then tipped it back, draining it and slamming it down onto the table. He then walked over to the corner adjacent the kitchen entrance, where a large oak barrel was sitting on a marble slab. He opened the valve and refilled his cup.
   “Feel free; the steins are on the wall,” he said. The mugs were hung on wooden pins that were securely fastened to the wall. A line formed. Myrridian was at it’s head. He sat down, directly opposite Dweldin. The rest of the Merlins found their chairs, and began to enjoy their ale.
   “This is a fine brew, Dweldin,” said Myrridian.
   “Yes, it is,” he replied.
   “What are the ingredients?” Asked Myrridian.
   “I do not know. This barrel was a gift,” he said. As Myrridian tasted the brew, he allowed his mind to wander. He did not want to ask Dweldin who contributed the barrel, but he had to know.
   “Well, just ask me then,” said Dweldin. Myrridian saw his answer in his mind’s eye. It was a familiar face, and old Merlin turned Templar from Northwick.
   “Some secrets are better left untold,” said Myrridian. The men were occupied with their ale, and not paying attention to the two of them.
   Did Grefin brew this ale? It looks like he’s created a situation in Canturbury. Has he talked? Thought Myrridian.
   You are perceptive, sir. It is indeed his handiwork. He is in trouble, Myrridian. They have had him locked in the dungeon, feeding him pig droppings. Yet he will not reveal the secrets, even after many months. I don’t know how long he can hold up.
   Grefin was a young Merlin in training Myrridian had first met just after the death of his mentor, Aurelian. He had been invited to join the Knights Templar then. Ever since, he had been sort of a double agent. Now, no one knew who’s side he was on. The clergy at the Canterbury Cathedral had gotten wise and detained him. They lacked the mercy to kill him, allowing him to waste away chained to a wall in the dungeon there.
   “I would like us all to raise our steins,” said Myrridian, “to Dweldin and his lovely wife Braelyn. May they live a hundred more years,” he said. All the Merlins raised their steins and chanted in unison, “Aye!”
   “Don’t be shy. If your cup is empty, please refill it,” said Dweldin. “It sounds like you all have a valid reason to drink yourselves silly. What’s this business at Stonehenge all about?” He asked. Myrridian’s face turned red. He had momentarily forgotten about the recent events. Now reminded, his anger rose in his throat. He drained his glass, got up, and filled another.
   “They’re putting the screws to us,” said Myrridian. Dweldin shrunk back and hid his thumbs. “No, not the thumb screws,” he said, “they have forced the issue. It looks as though the Merlindom has finally been overtaken.”
   “They teamed up against you, huh?” Asked Dweldin. “Well, you know what Aurelian said about this,” he said. Myrridian stared at him. He did not want the man’s name brought up here, even though it was inevitable.
   “Men, it is time to discuss Stonehenge,” said Myrridian, taking his cue from Dweldin.
“The incident shows us, our time is short. Those men were agents of the church, many of them Templar Knights. They were planning to sacrifice every one of us,” he said.
   “I don’t believe that. I didn’t see anything out of place at all. A regular old fashioned ritual it was,” said Rinauld.
   “The hell it was,” said Dweldin. He was sitting forward in his seat. His face had reddened and scrunched up. His eyes got large and wild and he hunkered down as if he was telling a ghost story.
   “I saw it with me own two eyes. If a word of what I tell you is false, let Thor strike me dead where I stand with a thunderbolt,” he said. “As the men assembled at the Big Stones, there were mounted cavalry surrounding the entire area. Troops had amassed and were poised to strike as the ceremony began. If Myrridian had not arrived when he did, you all would have been pig food,” he said.
   “Is that how it was, Myrridian?” Asked Rinauld.
   “The Merlins have been infiltrated, said Myrridian. “They caught us off guard. I was not expecting them to have advanced so quickly,” he said.
   “They, the Roman Catholic Church, have begun to employ Elemental Spirits, who fight their wars for them. Without our help, nothing grows, wells dry up, cows stop giving milk, and the land withers,” he said. “When the famine comes, the agents of the Church are there to pick up the pieces,” he said. “That’s why every one of you are on their kill list; not one Elemental I know would go against you,” said Dweldin.

Frozen In Time

2013-03-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

When the Merlins reached Canturbury castle, Goldach looked up at the imposing fortress, nearly falling backwards as he did. It was quiet and misty; just a few birds chirped. As he listened closer, he heard fain sounds coming from within he fortress. The large drawbridge was up and showed no signs of lowering. One of the Merlins, Absolon from the Norfolk district, had his falcon with him. Myrridian removed a small, rolled up scroll from his satchel and handed it to Absolon. He placed it in the falcon’s talon and tied it loosely. Then Absolon leaned down towards the falcon and whispered into his ear. Goldach thought he heard what he said, but it was in some other language.
It was French. Myrridian noticed this too, and when the drawbridge came down over the stream, he said, “Get back!” There were men with spears and armor that had come to meet them.
   “What is your business here?” One of the guards asked.
   “I’m afraid we have made a mistake, dear sir. We will be on our way now,” said Myrridian. He obviously knew something they didn’t, but Absolon would not leave without his falcon. He was about to speak, but Myrrididan looked at him then looked up. There was the falcon, circling high in the sky. Absolon then knew that the situation here was grave at best. The guard was not warming up to Myrridian very well, either.
   “I think not. The motley bunch of you will be coming with me to the dungeon!” Said the head guard. Myrridian decided quickly that it would be wise to allow themselves to be captured, and spoke to the men.
   “Do not oppose them,” he said. He quickly pulled Goldach near to him. “We will go peacefully,” he said. The men did not hesitate to do as Myriddian had instructed. The guards began to file back into the castle.
   “Go on now, head on in there,” said one of the guards. As they entered the castle, there was an entryway lined with replicas of the royal tapestries of the Lady and the unicorn. Large candles burned in amber glass holders alongside these tapestries. One of the larger oafs of their party, Rinauld, lingered over the tapestry of the Lady holding a mirror up so the unicorn could see his reflection. As he hesitated, the guard poked him in the back with his spear. He knocked the spear out of the guard’s hand. As it fell to the ground, Myrridian put his hand up, and everything stopped.
   “Rinauld, I’m sorry. That should not have happened,” said Myrridian. Only he, Rinauld, and Goldach were still in motion. Everything else was in suspended animation. Myrridian looked at Goldach.
   “Your mother’s been feeding you the Sweet Flag, hasn’t she?” Asked Myrridian. Goldach just shrugged his shoulders. Myrridian ruffled his hair. He continued. “What I want you to do, Rinauld, is nothing.”
   “He drew blood, Myrridian! I cant just...” Rinauld was quickly silenced by Myrridian. His mouth was still moving but no sound was exiting.
   Myriddian said, “Now, Rinauld, we do not have time for this.” He stopped and smiled at the irony. “Well, we do, but we won’t in just a second.” Rinauld was no longer attempting to speak. “Look, Rinauld, he won’t remember anything. No one else will either. We have a task to accomplish here, and we cannot leave a trace! So, no more altercations. Keep your eyes straight ahead and follow these pissants into the dungeon. We will not be there long, but we have to free our compatriot. This is the most direct way.”
   Goldach noticed this conversation. His gears were turning. He thought to himself about the strange logic. He knew this was a dangerous situation, yet he didn’t tell anyone else. It was a rescue mission, on a need to know basis. He had decided that no one but him needed to know.
   Rinauld looked at Goldach, and remarked, “We’re here for his education? Far be it from me to question you Myrridian, but come on Sir!” At this, Myrridian’s eyes narrowed.
   “You will not question me or my directives, Rinauld. Forget about all this, drive on, and do not speak or hesitate again,” he said. At that moment, time resumed itself. The guard was on the ground, picking up his spear.
   “Why, you twit!” The head guard said. “You dropped your spear. Can you show some royal decorum for one moment? I should report this to the Archbishop.”
   “Please don’t Sire; I will straighten myself this moment,” he said.
   “We’ll see about that. Well, go on. To the dungeon,” said the head guard.
   Past the entryway, they travelled down a long hall. When they reached the end, a dimly lit hallway spiraled down to the subterranean dungeon. Two guards went down first, then the Merlins were lined up and sent down.
   “Put him in there as well,” said the head guard. The guard who had dropped his spear protested and the head guard slapped him with the back of his hand. The guard fell to the ground, as the head guard was wearing heavy metal lined gloves. They picked him up and carried him down the steps behind the Merlins.

   The dungeon smelled terrible, as the floor was wet and soft with excrement and urine. There were so many rats that their sound was rather deafening. They were placed in one large cell. The unconscious guard was thrown to the ground after them and the cast-iron gate was shut loudly. Sitting in the corner was Grefin of Northwick, whom only Myrridian knew well. He was in a dishevelled state, covered in the ancient waste that lined the floors and walls of this dank prison. He was thin and emaciated; not much remained of him. Myrridian became extremely angry at this.
   “Gentlemen, this is the man we came to see. Meet Grefin of Northwick,” said Myrrididan. Goldoc recognized this man, but not acutely. He had been a close associate of Aurelian’s when he was alive, helping him to form the secret branch of the Knight’s Templar that was their reason for this journey.
   Grefin was weak and barely able to speak, but his spirits were renewed when the party of Merlins arrived. He raised his head with tremendous effort. It otherwise was hung down from a lack of spirit and energy. He mustered out the words,
   “Young Myrridian, a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into here. I suppose these are your like minded compatriots, excepting the sleepy one over there?” He asked. Myrridian nodded.
“And what have we over here? He’s a might young, isn’t he, to be locked in Canturbury’s holy dungeon?” Grefin turned his head to look at him and Goldach remembered. “Yes, my boy, you’re no stranger to me,” said Grefin. Goldoc said nothing. He felt faint from the fumes, which overpowered each one’s senses.
   “Who is this man?” Asked Absolon.
   “He is our important contact at Canturbury castle these days, I presume,” he said with a laugh. Grefin laughed also, but with difficulty.
   “If I were you, dear Sir, I would ask the more pertinent question: How in the bloody hell are we going to get out of here?” Said Grefin. The unconscious guard began to lift his head. Rinauld saw this, walked over to him, and knocked him out cold again. His head fell into the pile of feces on the ground.

Pratipanna, The Trickster

2013-02-27T03:34:00.000-08:00

“You know them personally, Pratipanna. It is time to summon them,” she said. For a split moment, a crack in time, Pratipanna thought to himself. I work to get paid, woman. Matangi heard this thought, as did the sages who ignored it. Her eyes narrowed and Pratipanna collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Fine, I’ll do it! Matangi loosened her grip on his nether regions and he somewhat regained his composure.
“They are already outside, Dearest Goddess,” said Pratipanna. Abhiseleka released her leg and walked over to the flap. Before anyone could stop him, he had raised it. Outside the door was a group of sages with torches. Their spokesman stepped forward.
“We are her in the service of the Kingdom of Delhi, and her rightful ruler, Sultan Shaams-Al-Iltmush. Victory! Truth!,” he said. The last part was chanted by the entire crowd, which consisted of about one-hundred individuals. Abhiseleka allowed the flap to drop back down, and ran to Matangi, hiding behind her leg and again holding it tightly.
“How can they be trusted?” Asked Shaams. He looked straight at Matangi. She looked at the Sages, who looked at Pratipanna.
Pratipanna said,”They care nothing for money. The reason they are here, and they can be trusted, is Her.” He looked at Matangi, and Shaams sighed audibly. Matangi was the only factor in his life that he had ever risked trusting. Beyond that was always his own cunning and brute force. They all worship her. They all know her. Matangi had visited each one of the crowd in their meditations and had pre arranged this entire episode. Even Pratipanna, upon seeing her, had the recollection. She reached for young Abhiseleka’s hand and went out to the crowd. As she opened the flap, their torches burned brightly. They stood in organized rows, as if soldiers awaiting command. This was how Matangi had been envisioning it.
“For the children!” She said, and paused, pulling Abhiseleka to stand in front of her. He was terrified. “For the children’s sake, for the next generation. It is not for ourselves that we now undertake this battle. It is for the people here in this kingdom, who have no voice of their own,” she said. “How can they beat us? Only if we let them,” she said. Shaams listened to this speech and wondered. He was implicitly guilty for allowing the Ulaamas to do his dirty work. He was not the ruler Matangi said he was. She was that ruler, and that was what the Ulaamas could not tolerate. The time she had forseen was now transpiring. They would all have to be exiled, and a new type of army created. From the sounds of the crowd of sages outside, it was well on it’s way.
Shaams stepped out in front of the tent with Matangi. The crowd roared with affirmation, and yet Shaams knew, their approval was not because of his actions. It was for Matangi. Shaams was merely a man caught in between two political ideologies, two religions, belonging to neither one. Yet this was his moment to make a stand. he had absorbed Matangi’s teachings. However foreign they were to him, she made sense. The only prospect that would come to fruition with the Ulaamas in power would be more chaos and treachery. It was not that he trusted these people, it was that he had to. He believed in Matangi. He spoke.
“My friends, by fortune or fate, I am the Sultan of this land. I understand the atrocities that occur daily here. Until now, I have opposed them to no avail,” he said.
The crowd groaned and grumbled. Matangi raised her hand and they all fell silent again. “We are brothers here. I have taken the Sufi vows. I believe in the oneness of God and his creatures,” he said. “Now, seeing you assembled here today, I have faith that the Orthodoxy can be defeated. They will not be defeated by brute force, but by freedom of the mind. That is where the war is waged; you must see that! Together, and behind Matangi, we can unify the various factions that are now divided. The division is our greatest weakness, and it is not your invention. It is the invention of those who have come before us.”
Shaams had learned as a young boy in Turkestan the forbidden doctrine of the great Persian emperor, Cyrus. Through private instruction, it was none other than the Sage Moinuddin, who was still meditating in the tent, who had lit the fire of liberty in the young Shaams. He was told stories of how conquered countries would cheer and applaud Cyrus’ entrance into the city. In his mind, he had finally realized a boyhood dream as he spoke to the gifted and boisterous crowd.
There was a scroll surfing over the people, being handed upwards towards Shaams. As it moved towards them, there was a low murmur echoing. Shaams’ moment was interrupted as he wondered what he could do about the inevitable traitors that dwelled within the ranks of the sages. Matangi pinched his side, leaned into his ear, and whispered.
“Shaams, let it go,” she said.
When the scroll reached him, he opened the cylinder, removed the document, broke the wax seal and unrolled it. The writing on the note was in a language he did not know, Sanskrit. He handed it to Matangi, who held it in her hands for a moment. A smile came over her face. She, as many had already experienced, could feel the message on the scroll. It was most fortuitous. She whispered in Shaams’ ear.
“Let’s peruse this message within the tent,” she said.
They went inside.
“What does it say?” Asked Shaams.
“What does it say, Mata?” Asked Abhiseleka. She ignored them, but they all watched her face for any subtle hints that would give away it’s contents. She read over it carefully, once, then began to translate it for Shaams.
“To the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish, may he rule Delhi for a thousand years. This note is to inform you of the going’s on at your palace. The rebellion has been quashed, and the traitors have been captured, bloodlessly. The prisoners are now in the dungeon, and I, your Lieutenant General, Pratipanna, await further instructions,” she said.
“Lieutenant General Pratipanna?” He asked. For the first time, they noticed he was no longer present in the tent. “Matangi, is this authentic?” He asked.
She looked at him, took his right hand and placed it on his heart.
“You listen to your self and answer your own question,” she said. He closed his eyes and began to see his answer for himself. Pratipanna had appeared back at the palace in the midst of the Ulaama who had paid him to orchestrate Iltmush’s assassination. They were convened in his interior court, already quarreling amongst themselves regarding the division of power in the new Sultanate. When the doors opened and Pratipanna entered the court, the discussion abruptly halted.
“Pratipanna requests permission to address the kind ministers,” he said.
The Ulaama with the biggest hat, Shayk Mohasim, responded, “Yes, go on,” he said.
“Shaams Al-Iltmush has been captured and is being held for ransom by the Chishti Sufis,” he said. There was an outrage amongst the Ulaama. Some thought that Pratipanna ought to be beheaded for his failure. Iltmush was supposed to be dead. “They have assured me, however, they have no loyalty to him. They only want a certain measure of gold and jewels, and he will be yours,” he said.
“Bring the jewels,” said Mohasim. He clapped his hands twice and two eunuchs were sent to retrieve the trunks loaded with jewels plundered from the treasury, previously plundered from places like Assam and others. When the eunuchs had brought the trunks, Pratipanna clapped his hands twice, mocking Mohasim. They all gasped when they saw the two men who brought in another trunk. They were both Pratipannas. He had replicated himself!
They set the trunk down in front of Mohasim and opened it.
“The finest hashish from Khorasan,” said Pratipanna; “Let us celebrate!”
Some of the Ulaama hesitated, thinking it was an inauspicious time to celebrate and knowing it was inappropriate to become intoxicated. When Mohasim was handed the large hookah and began to smoke the hashish, however, everyone else followed suit. Pratipanna and his two doubles also smoked, not to rouse suspicion. He remained unaffected, while the Ulaama, every one of them, were fast asleep in a short amount of time. He then walked to the exterior door of the court and brought in the sages, who relocated the jewels to a safe place, and systematically carried the Ulaama to the dungeon.
Iltmush opened his eyes and did not believe his vision.
Matangi said, “That’s exactly how it happened, Shaams.”
“If that’s the case, let us make haste back to the palace,” he said.

Atlantean Mermaids and Telepathic Frogs

2013-01-27T18:39:00.001-08:00

It was a short distance away from Myriddian’s stone house, down a path that was invisible. It was not that it was overgrown, though the ground path itself was only about a foot and a half across, but that it was not meant for anyone’s eyes but Myrridian. He was holding Goldach against his chest, with Goldach looking backwards over his left shoulder at the forest they left behind them. When they arrived at the clearing, Myrridian set him down and let him walk the area.

There was a hot spring pool in the circumferential clearing, and though the entire space was surrounded by the dense oak forest, there were specifically thirteen oaks that demarcated it as a holy and hidden place. In the center of the pool was a green copper statue of a mermaid laying leisurely on a clam shell, and playing a harp that looked exactly like Myrridian’s.

Being here with Goldach, Myriddian began to have the experience he was hoping for. The memory had been lost to him, almost as if it were covered over by layers of dust. There was a flood of remembrance now that washed all that dust away.

Myriddian was young, but a little older than Goldach was now. His master Aurelian had brought him here, he realized now as a sanctifying ritual. This was his most powerful ritual space, and even then, the mermaid at the center of the pool glowed and seemed alive and yet timelessly ancient, as if beckoning with a call older than time itself. It had brought little Myriddian comfort to see her, the comfort of remembrance and familiarity.

Aurelian had spoken to him then, in a voice so open, tenderhearted, and out of character that Myriddian would have been frightened to hear it in years to come.

“You know, dear Myrridian my boy, we have been here before,” he said. Myriddian replied then,

“Yes, Master, I remember building this place, and putting her here to guard it,” Myriddian replied, smiling and pointed at the mermaid. “Her name is Atargis,” he said further. His master Aurelian’s countenance changed when Myriddian said that he constructed this sanctum; for all these years Aurelian had the distinct feeling that he had been the one. The innocence of a child however, could not be debated with, especially when he remembered the mermaid’s name.

Aurelian had spent many long hours having conversation with the spirit of the statue, prior to this day, and she had indeed asked him to refer to her as Atargis. When the child Myrridian spoke these words, he had a flood of visions. There were ancient civilizations with untold knowledge, sunk forever under the waves. The immortality of the soul and the relativity of the human reckoning of time became more distinct and concrete. Aurelian wanted to ask Myrridian more questions, but was almost embarrassed to. This caused a rift between them that was never really healed.

Myrridian realized today, standing here with this child, that the rift he had been raised with was not new and had not been for an infinitude. There was an opportunity here for forgiveness, but the depth of the loathing he felt for Goldach rose to the surface in an undeniable way. He pushed it back down, and saw the boy as a boy again.

Goldach was playing, walking around and touching all the trees on the periphery and talking to them in nonsense. It sounded like babbling to Myrridian, but it felt like something more. As he turned his ear toward the interaction, he could hear the birds in the trees, the frogs, and all of nature responding to Goldach. The oak trees themselves seemed to be welcoming him back, as if he had only been gone for a day. With their infinite forgiveness they wanted to inspire Myrridian. He would think about it.

It was humorous to Myrridian that Goldach avoided Atargis, the centerpiece of this sanctified ritual place. It was as if he remembered that he did not want to remember, focusing on what he knew best, mother Nature Herself. As Myrridian thought this thought, a toad about the size of the child’s fist hopped from a cooler side pool of the main one and began to croak, calling to him. Goldach ran from the tree he was talking to, smiling and laughing, got on the ground, eye to eye with this toad, and began to carry on a private and silent conversation with it, nodding every once in a while. After a two minute span of this passed, Goldach carefully picked up the toad, rose from his position, belly down on the ground, and placed the toad in the front pocket of his burlap tunic.

He then saw the statue of Atargis and began to cry. He sat down on the ground and wept silently to himself, looking at the copper statue, with the steam rising up from the hot pool around her. He cried silently to himself for five minutes, then took the frog out of his pocket and held him eye-level. He looked into the frog’s eyes then set him down on the ground in front of him.

When Goldach had looked at the mermaid statue, a flood of communication came through to him, in the form of pictures. There were layers upon layers of lifetimes, and the spirit of Atargis had represented the very beginning, of all of this. It was the fall of humanity eulogized in the Jewish bible, the moment of Earth’s history when humans began to know what it meant to be enslaved. Goldach saw himself, standing over an unconscious person, laying supine on a table. He was not a he, but a she, waving a crystal instrument over the person. There were people of authority looking on, supervising the event; her partner was a stoic man in the corner, standing silently and directing energy. The patient writhed and moaned as the session continued. This was the genesis of the first disease on Earth, a successful attempt by one group to enslave another. This was Atlantis, the beginning of the end; incomprehensible emotions flooded his body, and Goldach turned away from what he saw. It was too much for his young mind to handle, and he begged Atargis to stop.

“Ask your friend to help you, Goldoc,” said Atargis. He saw the frog in his mind’s eye. Removing it from his pocket, he spoke to him telepathically.

“Can you make it stop?” He asked the frog, looking deeply into his eyes. The frog did not speak in coherent thought, but Goldach suddenly knew her name was Ceres, and the feelings he was experiencing began to subside. He then knew to put the frog down, as she had all that she could take.

Fariduddin's Last Stand

2012-12-29T17:17:00.000-08:00

Matangi nodded her head again. “I’m not surprised, Fariduddin. He had quite a frown on his face when he left,” she said. She again was laughing. She found herself, as many did, constantly amused to the point of laughter in the presence of Fariduddin. It was not that one was laughing at him, or that he himself was laughing. It was as if the humor of his existence just bubbled up out of him uncontrollably, infecting all of those around him. Abhiseleka wanted to learn, and so was usually very close to him when he came to visit Matangi. This was his fifth visit in the month she had been in the palace.

“So, you didn’t speak at all at this meeting?” She asked.

“Well, I mostly just listened to them rant and rave. Whore this, insane that, infidel here, law-breaker there, it was all the same stuff, very monotonous and boring. I sat at the table with them, silently, and they noticed that I didn’t join in to all their talk. They finally, after expelling much hot air, asked me my opinion. I didn’t agree with them, but I had to stand up for you, for their own sake. So I told them the Jewish Meschiach story,” he said.

“The Jewish Meschiach story?” She asked.

“Yes. I heard it from a Kabbalist in Yemen, a painter. He had a bigger beard than me, almost. It was the same trip that I made my Haj to Mecca. They all respect the power and insight of the Kabbalists, even if they don’t like them.” He said.

“There were five dervishes, who lived deep in the Dragon’ Blood forest, on the island of Socotra just off the coast of Yemen. Each was more crochety than the next, for all five were widowers, and had loved their wives very much. They had met at a coffee shop in Sanaa, while playing a chess tournament. During the next few months after that tournament, they all had discussed together how meaningless their lives had become since their beloveds had expired.

These were old men who had lived full lives, had made and lost fortunes in their respective careers. They had seen enough to understand that all worldly things were ultimately meaningless. As they talked and talked, their common and secret wish was revealed. Each one had secretly desired to one day retreat to the woods and live as though there was absolutely no reality but God. Each one had thought to himself, in his darkest hours, ‘I wish I could just retreat into nature and contemplate this big Universe for the rest of my days.’

After having discussed this periodically and secretly over the course of the next few months after their meeting, they decided to pool their resources and do just that. The five of them scouted out the location in the forest of Socotra, then together built a stone hermitage by a river there. Each one had his own cell, in the tradition of the Christian monastics of the Egyptian desert, the ‘Desert Fathers’. They lived completely communally from what they could cultivate from the land or gather from the surrounding forest. They had an extensive library as well, books from all around the world were housed there, the Jewish Tanakh, the Qu’ran, the Christian Bible, the Vedas from India, the Book of the Way from China, and others, all translated into their common language. They spent all their time reading these books and meditating on them, and playing chess while they discussed their new understandings.

It was quite stimulating to their minds and rather idyllic, though after about five years, the same feeling they started with, boredom and restlessness, set in. They started bickering, slowly, about who would cook dinner, who was lazy, who was more dedicated to God, and even which book had the best version of God in it. It got to the point where they became more disillusioned than when they started, all in the midst of this tropical paradise. ‘Now,’ each one thought, ‘I am really bad off.’

Over a particularly heated chess tournament, they all decided to see a prominent holy man they had heard of, who lived at the foot of the mountains just inland from the port town of Aden, the site of the original Garden of Eden, also said to be where Cain and Abel are buried. His name was Avraham ben Loenthal, well-known as a keeper of the secrets of Quaballism. He would have an answer for them, the kind that could not be found in any book, they all agreed.

The trip was planned, and before one week was up, they had chartered a boat that would transport them to Aden. They bickered all the way there, blaming each other for wasting their communal resources on such a pointless trip, and for being so inflexible that they had to resort to such extreme measures. Underneath it all, each one being honest with himself, was the guilt of feeling that there would never be enough of anything in this world to satisfy the void of humanity, even God.

When they arrived in town, they stopped at the first inn they found and asked to be directed to Avraham Loenthal, the great Kabbalist. The inn keeper ran them out of his inn and told them to never come back. Perplexed, they started on the road, by foot, towards the mountains. The bickering had stopped, as they had a common goal again, to realize their communal solution, one that would work for everyone. They followed their intuitive vision and their gut instinct, and after three days, arrived at the hermitage of Avraham Loenthal. He opened the door.

‘I’ve been expecting your group! Please come in and have some tea. What took you so long?’ Avraham asked. They discussed their hermitage in the dragon’s blood forest, and their plight. They told their story to Avraham, and he was enthralled with every last detail. When the story finally arrived at the reason for their journey, Avraham was dismayed. His face wrinkled up.

‘That won’t do, my friends! You have a destiny to achieve. There is no time for such arguments when there is so much work to be done. I have been studying each one of you, and have arrived at a conclusion. I do, in fact, have the solution you have sought and travelled so long for. I will, however, need to conference with each of you privately.’

The five hermits were extremely exited at this. The first one, chosen randomly, Avraham was sure to stress, was taken out into the path that ran up and around the edge of the forest. The others were left in his home, sipping tea and waiting for their turn. When Avraham returned with one, he brought the next and took a short, fifteen-minute walk with him as well, telling him exactly what he needed to know to solve the problem at their hermitage. By the time he took the fifth hermit to the mountain path, the other four were left, beaming, exited at the prospects of returning home.

This is how the walk with the fifth hermit, and all the others went:

Avraham began to speak.

‘I heard your story, and your destiny as a group is an extremely uncommon one. One of your party, and it is not you, let me say straightaway, is the bona-fide Messiah. The force of this one’s devotion has attracted the favor of God and brought the five of you together. Return to your Hermitage, and act thusly, for I will not inform you of which one is in fact the Messiah. And the one who knows, who is marked with holiness, will surely not tell, no matter what. It must remain a mystery until God ordains it.’

After this short statement, the rest of the fifth hermit’s walk was in silence. Each one was given the same story, told exactly the same thing. Not one of them were allowed to discuss it, however, so each began to think to himself,

‘I wonder which of these men is the Messiah?’ They began to think about each others’ ideals, devotion, wit, and charm. On the journey back, they were relatively silent, contemplating this new and great truth they had heard, and the austere and unassuming presence of the Rabbi, Avraham Loenthal. When they arrived back at their hermitage, the problem of their discontentedness was indeed solved. They each treated the other as if he were the most holy person who existed, seeing the best qualities, those of their own ideal in the other. Before long, a traveller came through their hermitage, and asked to be housed there. They housed him, fed him, entertained him, and sent him on his way.

The traveller had such an enlightening experience that he spread the word, and before six months were up, the hermitage and it’s inhabitants had developed a reputation of being a place where enlightenment could be sought and found. Their contentedness spread throughout the island of Socotra and abroad, each one finally realizing the truth Avraham has passed on to them, the one they read about in some of the better texts. God lives in every man as his own Spirit, and takes many forms and names,” he said.

“I like the story,” Matangi said,”but I’ll bet they didn’t buy it.”

“They did not. I believe I am now on their list. As soon as I was done, three of them stood up and drew their swords. Mohasim stood up with them and said, ‘Alright Sufi, it’s time for you to exit the meeting,’ ” he said.

Fariduddin came directly from that failed attempt to Matangi’s apartment. There was now no one else to help him. A revolt was brewing, and even the Sulatan was not safe, all over this woman, Matangi. She did have a magnetically radiant presence, as if she knew something, something that no one else could touch. And the stories about her were astounding. Just being in her presence, he thought, was beyond all the praying he had done in a lifetime. She was absolutely dangerous. The boy, Abhiseleka, was the same way. He seemed to wordlessly pick out your worst trait and pluck it’s string until it played right again. Mohasin had dropped the last of his bigotry against the native Indians in his short visits with these two; that was now the problem.

“Well, if it comforts you at all, these men will not gain the opportunity to stifle the Sultan, you, or Abhiseleka and I in any way,” she said.

When Fariduddin saw the look in her eye, her words didn’t matter. There was no way the Ulama would triumph in contradiction to Matangi’s goals. She subtly said, ‘Every one of them will drop dead before they can harm us.’ Matangi heard this thought, and responded to it,

“I didn’t say that! I’m just telling you, they are no threat. Allah wants the Islamists and the Hindus to get along, that’s all,” she said.

Until Matangi’s arrival, he would have never dreamed of the possibility. How could the conquered coexist peacefully with their conquerers? The idea that Sufis could successfully convert Orthodox Hindus into Muslims was one that had been going out of style, thankfully. A movement was now in process that was unprecedented in any Islamic society he knew of, one of peaceful coexistence and blending of cultures. There could, however, be no Sharia Law under such a situation.

“From what I know of God, I believe it; from what they know of God, it is impossible,” he said.

“There’s nothing impossible but impossibility, Fariduddin,” she said. They sat there in silence after that. Matangi began to play her tanpura again. This is what he waited for. He had never heard such music. Every time he came to visit Matangi, she would end the visit with this strange Indian music, and he would go home and compose the most beautiful poetry he had ever heard. The last time he wrote inspired by Matangi’s music, he read and re-read his poem, with difficulty because of the tears streaming down his face. He sat in silence, his body moving unbidden, swaying back and forth slowly to the droning music. She began to sing an extremely familiar song along with the sound, one she sang every time. It was composed entirely of single syllables, like an alphabet.

“Ah, Aah, Ee, Eee, Oo, Ooo...,” and so on it went. Then she stopped playing. He rose from his seat; there was a deafening silence in his ears as he bent to kiss her hands. He then bent down to Abhiseleka and kissed him on either cheek. Abhiseleka smiled and said,

“Bye, bye, Baba Fareed. We’ll see you next time.”

With that, the visit was over. He went to his shack, just on the outskirts of the Sultan’s garrison, lit a candle, prayed, then began to write:

“The sun can only be seen by the light of the sun.

The more a man or woman knows,
the greater the bewilderment, the closer
to the sun the more dazzled,

until a point
is reached where one no longer is.

A mystic knows without knowledge,

without intuition or information,

without contemplation or description or revelation.

Mystics are not themselves.

They do not exist in selves.

They move as they are moved,
talk as words come, see with sight
that enters their eyes.

I met a woman once and asked her where love had led her.
‘Fool, there's no destination to arrive at.
Loved one and lover and love are infinite.’ “

Fariduddin fell asleep at his table with his pen in hand, and the sound of Matangi’s tanpura and voice singing in his ears. His poem, with the ink still wet, was an homage to he. He had become rather obsessed with her in the few months since they had met, regarding her as the premier saint he had met in his long lifetime and extensive travels.

Being well advanced in years, he had finally realized the freedom he had craved from within himself his entire lifetime. The candle was lit on his desk, though the ink had spilled, and his long white beard and eyebrows hung down over his face. A strong gust of wind blew his rickety front door open, and the bell attached to it tinkled.

The candle blew out, and all of a sudden, there was a thin but tremendously strong wire around his neck. He was old and feeble of body, and he did not last long. The man who snuffed out his flame, after Fariduddin was dead, stood over his body. He had no malice toward the old man. The assassin had been chosen by Shayk Mohasim because of his love for Fariduddin. He looked down at his lifeless body. The moonlight reflected off of his face revealed a beatific smile that caused the assassin to weep and fall at Fariduddin’s body, begging for his forgiveness.

Matangi's First Parable

2012-11-28T15:36:00.000-08:00

“It is never the world which threatens us and the well-being of our people, it can only be our perspective that guides us into danger. Let me illustrate with a story,” she said.

“There once was a man who was gifted in the art of war, plundering the countryside and bringing back the spoils to his master. He conquered village after village, always justifying his conquests on the basis that one has to work with what one is given. One day, he entered a village, the next one marked for conquest, dressed as a wandering mendicant, begging for alms. This village was poor, but operated on the principle that their Goddess would always provide for them, as long as they recognized Her in everyone they chanced to meet. It was their only law: if you wish to receive something, if you wish to own something, you must be willing at all times to surrender it.

So the man who had come to covertly scout out his next conquest was wandering the streets of this holy village, the inhabitants of which lived on faith alone, the faith of this understanding. The man was dressed in rags and his beard was unshaven. He smelled as if he had not bathed in ten years. The sun was setting, and as he passed by a fruit merchant’s booth in the market, the purveyor of that booth upon seeing him and smelling him, recognized an opportunity when he saw it.

‘Sir, he said, I see that you are in an extremely dishevelled state, most likely bereft of the benefits that befit a child of the Goddess. If you will excuse my forwardness, it would be my and my families honor to host you for the night, seeing to it that you’re fed well, and perhaps replenished in spirits if it pleases you.’

The man was taken aback with the merchant’s offer, and filled with suspicion, began to decline.

‘I will hear none of it sir! Please, in this country there is no greater sin than refusing the kindness of another, other than refusing to see the Goddess in those you chance to meet. Please, don’t make me beg; the Goddess doles out opportunities, and it is ours to seize them when they are presented,’ he said.

Well, this man did not believe either in the Goddess or his fellow humans, but he felt as though he could not continue to refuse the merchant’s offer. So, he felt for his dagger at his side, and comforted by it’s presence, he agreed to go to the merchant’s house and sup with him and his family.

When he arrived at the merchant’s house, being a pious Muslim, he was disgusted at the large wooden idol of a naked Indian Goddess that was the centerpiece of their home. The merchant’s wife noticed how he was looking at the statue, and commented,

‘You must not be familiar with Kamakhya; she is the Goddess of all blessings. Ask her for anything you want, since you our guest here, and before the night is over, as our guest, it will be yours.’

Well, the man had heard of the magic of the Indians, though this was his first real encounter with it. He was dead-set on owning this village, it’s inhabitants, and all it’s secrets as well, and he wished for these three things only. He was pleased with the meal the merchant’s wife served, and interested in seeing his wishes granted, so he accepted the mat on the floor and bedded down for the night when the merchant and his wife did. His belly was full and he slept well. In the morning, the kindly merchant walked him back to his booth and bid him farewell.

On the way back to his master’s palace he was quite pleased with himself, considering the generosity of the merchant and his wife, not to mention the wishes he had made according to the woman’s suggestion.

When he arrived at his master’s palace, he was not able to find him, but was met by his servants who shackled him and threw him into the dungeon. He cursed the merchant, his wife, and the wooden idol of Kamakhya, blaming them for this injustice.

The first night there, he was visited by an apparition of Kamakhya. She spoke to him thusly:

‘Oh, you who desired the village, it’s inhabitants, and it’s secrets. Did you not listen to the secret of the Goddess? If you are to own anything, you must first give it away. Now look, your ownership is expressed, and you are displeased. Please remember this in your next incarnation: when the opportunity presents itself, you would do well to request knowledge and knowledge alone. It is the only possession in this universe that cannot be diminished and expands when given. Remember it well. There is much time for contemplation here. With that, the Goddess Kamakhya left his presence, and the man died in that dungeon years later, chained to the wall, never fully understanding his folly. He missed the point, Shaams; if you desire to won something, you must be willing to give it away, and what you give away you will surely earn.”

One flew over the Village

2012-10-29T19:26:00.001-07:00

As she began her journey in silence back to the cottage with Doleen she began to think about her mother. She had died delivering Doleen, when Myrya was only twelve years old. It was a dark time in her life, and she was thankful that she had learned everything she could regarding herbs and the old religion from her.

“Sweet Flag and silence, keeps a woman alive in times like these,” she would say. There was no tolerance for any woman to express herself, then or now, lest she be marked a witch. And so she was, unnoticed because of her silence. It was Miryabeit’s uncontrollable tongue and combative nature which brought her to the attention of Myrridian as well, she thought. Doleen was practically dumb; she didn’t have to learn silence. She was just fragile, and yet her own three children loved her more than anything. The youngest children spent most of their days at the nearby cathedral, being indoctrinated per the relatively new custom. Only one of her own daughters showed any interest or affinity in the old ways, and she was still too young to learn. Now all her attention would be on Miryabeit’s child. She would hide her resentment as well as she could.

They finally arrived at their cottage. The wagon was parked and she could smell the stew cooking. It was the same thing, day after day. She never passed on it. Though the smell of the pig stew had once made her salivate, she now loathed it and even wretched when she thought of it. She had Myrridian and Goldoc to thank for that. In the time she had learned to bleed the animals, she had grown fond of them and had nightmares of their revenge. She had been well-trained on how to calm the animal and delicately slice the neck with a razor, filling flask after flask for the bloodthirsty infant she carried around.

She learned of their sorrows, their empathic nature, and their society. When they went to the dormitory to eat, she sat down at the stone table with Doleen, the children, and the others and just stared in the bowl. She felt horrible. So many people would kill to be fed as well as they were, and all she could think of was the pig, staring at her with an eye that seemed so human, with concerns and emotions like a any other person. She was full of shame, eating around the flesh that was interspersed with the potatoes, carrots, and kale. Yet no one suspected, no one except Goldach. He always cried in the dormitory when they ate. The children sat, extremely and disturbingly well-behaved, not saying a word. Doleen sat, looking as if she would weep any moment. The two men and women, whom she refused to learn their names, sat beady-eyed and cruel, discussing church gossip. There was a witch here, and the pagans there, and God help them all. Goldach stayed strapped to her back the entire time, and whimpered as he responded to Marta’s emotional state.

Knowing how sensitive he was, it was not enough to just mask her feelings. She had tried to convince herself, but to no avail. Her life was worse and more controlled externally than ever before. The Sweet Flag allowed her to think on levels. On one level, she was extremely pleased to be away from the British masters, who were cruel and demanding. She loved the cottage she shared with Doleen and their children, however cramped it was. She actually enjoyed working out in the fields; that was the time she used to think, finding elusive answers to things she was pondering. That was also when Goldoc was at his best; his communication with her opened up when she opened up to the plants. The plants seemed to focus her mind. She made sure to apologize and thank every one of them before she harvested them.

She longed to be back at the infirmary, where she could practice her medicine. The only problem was Myrridian. He would be there, standing over her shoulder, making sure that everything was collected and done according to his will. That surely took all the fun out of it. She had to hide the Calamus she had collected; it would’ve given away her secret. And now she was nearly out. When she had put in her order for a peck of dried and powdered Calamus root, the man’s eyebrows went up and then down, as he squinted and scrutinized her. Why she may be a bit of a witch, after all; she heard him thinking it. When the ignorant oaf thought this, she hit him where it hurts,

“I know it is rather strange, sir, to ask for such an exotic item. But I only want it to ease my menstrual cramps and to sooth my swollen breasts. Goldoc is voracious,” she said. “I once overheard one of the peasant women from the village discussing it once; I asked her for some, and it did help.” Little Goldac looked at the man, who’s face had turned beet red, and smiled at his embarrassment. Marta took the cue. “It’s quite embarrassing to discuss such issues with a man; please forgive me,” she said. His face got redder still, and his voice clogged.

“Well, it’s there for sale at the spice and granary you say? Dear Mum, I will resort to nothing to procure it for you. He does indeed appear voracious,” he said. She hoped she would not have to speak about it again. It was unnerving for the man to know about it. Marta had learned from Myrridian’s feeble attempts at controlling her memory how simple-minded people could be made to forget, and this man, Yohanan, fit the bill. Her first order of business, upon reception of the powder, would be to strongly suggest it never happened and she knew nothing of herbal medicine whatsoever. Such were the times that legitimate medicine was kept out of the hands of those who needed it most.

Tomorrow was Saturday, with a shortened schedule; the field work would be done not long after the noon hour. Some would go into town to trade, drink, and galavant. She would do none of these, but would perhaps sing songs with the children; she and her sister might bake honey biscuits for them in the evening. Doleen needed attention as well as a break. More and more, Marta worried that she was cracking up. Miryabeit’s death and all the other fast changes that Goldoc had brought into their lives recently had been drastic indeed. She was not adjusting well.

The church, which they all would be attending on Sunday, had brought Doleen and other shell-shocked people like her, pretty much everyone these days, much comfort. Marta was cognizant that she had to get over her bigoted predisposition against all things Christian, lest she be branded a witch. Goldoc also needed her to be level-headed. He did not soak up his environment; he soaked up her perception of his environment. On the church and it’s associated activities, Myrridian, she, and Miryabeit had agreed: it was all malignant. Only now was she starting to find some redeeming qualities in the whole business. It was like an addictive drug, however. Take away the ability to connect with nature, outlaw it even, and then offer a substitute that medicates the pain of her absence. That was how she viewed the Cathedrals and the Priests and the bleeding Savior tormented behind the altar. She thought to herself, is that a warning? Is that what they do to people who disagree with them? She would never make her thoughts known on the subject. Didn’t it seem to obvious to ignore, though?

All that was true, but it was more true due to it’s pertinence: there was no turning back. The old ways and the old religion was quickly becoming a thing of the past and it would not return. She wished her mother was here. She wished Myrridian were not so domineering. There was no subject that enthralled her more than medicine. She missed it greatly. She longed to learn more from Myrridian, to gain more confidence from him. She had to convince him even further of her loyalty. Where was he?

The Roots of Abhi

2012-09-29T16:09:00.000-07:00

By this time, Abhiseleka about three and a half months old, having been born in the early summer time. It was the Indian Region of Assam, a largely agricultural region. Abhi and his parents lived in a thatched roof and mud construct home. The floors were dirt with bamboo mats to cover them. Deepaneeti and Brihkendra, his parents, did a lot with what they had, which was much more than most around them. They were agriculturalists, Patils, who owned the small farm in the Himalayan foothills, having inherited the land as a wedding dowry from her parents. There were six lower-casted families who lived and worked the land on their nearly six-acre farm. The primary crop was tea, but there were also other subsistence crops such as rice grown on the small estate.

The workers were housed in much more modest thatch roof huts, with bamboo walls that minimally kept them from the elements. Still, the Patils, Abhi’s parents, were better to their workers than most. They had lived and worked on this land for many generations, and were gifted as property with the land.

The most elaborate building on the premises was the Kamakhya temple, whom the couple were charged with the maintenance, not only of the actual building, but of the daily religious duties they had inherited. He saw these duties mostly as a necessary chore, but in his wife, he found his spirituality. She lived absolutely enthralled with her duties as cook and maintainer of their ancient ways. They were both just sixteen years old, yet they had been matched and bethrothed eight years earlier, by the temple priests in the big temple, a little further up the mountain.

Their religious duties, which they were expected to uphold for the rest of their lives, were daily pujas, fire ceremonies to the goddess Kamakhya. Along with this he was expected to continue to grow in his knowledge of the holy books of their particular sect, memorizing and chanting daily what added up to thousands of pages of Sanskrit texts, which had relatively recently started to become written documents. These were written on palm leaves and stored in a library located behind a curtain, which was housed behind the effigy of the goddess. He also had a lifelong project devoted to writing down these texts, systematically and with absolute exactitude. It was a task that he saw as his burden to bear in life, often wishing he could surrender it all and become a menial laborer like the people who worked for him. It was however, not in the cards. There was, coupled with his admiration for his wife, a resentment that her duties did not include such mentally taxing chores.

He saw her major task, caring for their child, Abhi, as not a chore, but as an absolute joy he was largely deprived of. His moments with the boy were few and far between. They were, as he saw it, what made his life worth living. As all parents, he saw his child as special. But, he thought, there was something that stood out about Abhi, a special glow to him that he had not noticed in other children, but in the religious fanatics in the villages. He actually abhored the fakirs in the village, begging for alms, and contorting their bodies. They seemed to be a mirror for all his inadequacies. Who was he, to have inherited land and workers? Did everyone live in a prison? Though the shudras were beyond poor, they seemed somehow free to him. The look in their eyes, of utter contentment. The same look he saw in his wife and son. He knew he didn’t have it.

All he had been given, just handed over, and he didn’t believe any of it. He went through the motions, felt the energy, and honestly questioned all of it. Who was this Goddess he and his wife had been raised to worship? With all the exposure to the ancient texts, chanting, initiations, and mantras, he had only one authentic spiritual experience in his entire life. He had not yet recovered from it, either. He had more questions than answers. Once, when he was eleven years old, he was in the worship room, reciting texts to the priest. After he had passed his test, reciting the nearly twelve thousand word text in the correct meter, he and the priest had a conversation.

The priest told him, “Now my son, you know the Goddess. This hymn is the summation of her presence and you have mastered it. You should be very proud.”

He wanted to ask the priest about his experience. It seemed devoid of anything special, just countless hours spent parroting back what he had heard. It was tedious to him, when he really wanted to be outside in nature as some of the sages he had read about had done. He had heard they found the Goddess there, but he was told the place to find her was within the hymn:

“When one has mastered this hymn, there is nothing more to learn, my son. Everything is granted by her mastery.”

He was exceedingly disappointed, and felt very guilty. Was there something wrong with him? He had had no special experience, just endless hours of recitation. Is this what the Goddess is all about?

“How do we know the Goddess actually exists, Swamiji? I see her murti every day. I have learned her hymn, and she has yet to talk to me or show me anything more...”

The priest reached pulled his right hand back as far as he could and brought it hard, his knuckles and the back of his hand contacting Brihkendra’s little head with force. It knocked him to the ground, leaving him dumbfounded and seeing stars.

“You are a disgrace, Brihkendra!,” the priests eyes widened; his face was red and a vein protruded on his forehead. “How dare you speak of such things in her very dwelling place! You are a disgrace to her name and your own!”

At that time, his mother had told him countless times the meaning of his name: Brih Kendra, means “to grow the center.” It had special significance to her and the priests. He was expected to be a prodigy of worship, and to bring honor to his people through his mastery. He always doubted that, and this episode was imprinted on his mind strongly. He now doubted whether he even wanted to live up to his name. he wanted to leave everything, but his sense of guilt and duty was just too much for him. The priest spoke softer now, but with the rage permeating everything,

“Sit down. Let’s get back to the Sahasranama. Let us start from the beginning,” he said. He recited the first words, and Brihkendra parroted them:

“Meditate on that Ambika, who has a body of the colour of saffron, who has the three graceful eyes, who has a jeweled crown, adorned by the moon, who always has a captivating smile...”

So, with all this book knowledge, and the belief that it had gotten him absolutely nowhere, he lived torn between his desire to forgo his duties and his love for his wife and child. He knew he could not do both. He continued to go through the motions, working even harder to become the prodigy of his namesake. All the time he was prodded by his mother, who spoke with tears in her eyes about his dead father and his special destiny.

The authentic experience he had finally had was on the occasion of his son’s birth. His wife had started having labor pains at bed time, so her walked her to the predesignated area. It was a large hut that had been built for the occasion. A few of the field women already had the puja fires burning in the center of the room, as they had for one week previously leading up to this moment. The matriarch of this group came to meet them. She put her palms together at the level of her heart and fire blazed in her eyes, but there was a radiant calm about her. “I’ve got this handled; please go to worship, sir.” She did not speak these words aloud. Brihkendra heard them in his mind, but her lips didn’t move. She must be possessed, he thought. The woman looked at him, then at Deepaneeti. She got down on her hands and knees and touched her feet, then placed her face upon her feet.

At this point, he ceased to exist for her. The woman grabbed his wife’s hands and looked deeply into her eyes. She instantly lightened, as if all the pain had been removed from her body in that moment. They walked hand in hand through the doorway to the hut. He was left standing alone when an unseen force seized his mind. There was a voice. The woman’s voice. Did she have a name? He did not know it.

“Dhumvati is my name. I am the birther of all children. I make straight the way for the divine souls.” The sound of this voice echoed in his mind, and he knew the woman truly was possessed. With the spirit of the Grandmother Kali. Whoever she usually was, was absolutely absent. He dropped all hesitation and headed straight for the temple, as she had instructed him.

When he got to the Kamakhya temple on their property, he found all the fires lit and a deafening silence in the meditation chamber he shared with his wife. It was louder than he had ever heard it before. He felt his wife’s lighthearted laughing presence here as well, and heard her voice now in his head. But it wasn’t. “Sit down, my lover, stay with me for a while.” Who was this now? It surely was not the Grandmother’s voice he had heard earlier. There was a high giggling laugh that he almost recognized again as his wife. “Sri Lalitambika! You know me Brih-Brih!”

He sat down with his face blushing. It was a pet name his wife called him when they made love in the wee hours of the night. At that moment, he saw his wife, in his mind’s eye, in the hut surrounded by all the women of the fields. He saw the puja fire in that hut, burning with many different colors. She was not in pain. One of the women had told her a dirty joke, poking fun at him, and she was laughing. He could not help but laugh as well. It was a high pitched, girlish laugh that echoed throughout the silence of the temple. He looked at the effigy of Kamakhya. She had changed, and now had the same firey eyes he had seen in the old woman at the hut. She was radiating the same calm he had felt then.

“Meditate, my baby,” he heard in his mind. It was not a request. He rose into the deepest meditation of his life, feeling as though he was lifted up off the ground. His eyes were closed. He heard more laughter, and could see his wife’s pain starting back again. She was having contractions. He was distanced from his emotions and his thoughts. He was receiving pictures that played out in the field of his closed eyes.

He saw a man in robes, the orange robes of a Sannayasi, or renunciate. He was conducting a ceremony with other men in robes, reciting in a strange low voice prayers in a foreign tongue. It was the Buddhis, he thought.

He then saw a man with a long beard, emaciated from many years of pennance. He was sitting with matted Jata, dreadlocks, and covered with ash. It was in the middle of a birch forest. There was no one else around but the wildlife, and all the songs of the birds, monkeys, and other animals seemed to be sung directly to this man. He looked like Shiva, breathing only very seldom, in a suspended animation.

“Who are these men?,” he asked. “Why am I seeing these men?”

“Loosen up Brih-Brih, these men are your son, Abhi!” He heard more laughter then and saw another man, leaving in the middle of the night, leaving his wife and children to live at the feet of some guru. He saw this same man, but not the same man, over and over, doing the same thing: starting a family and leaving them for life as a renunciate. He started to cry, feeling so sad for that man and his family.

“Don’t cry. That’s not for his this time.”

He now understood that he was hearing Kamakhya’s voice herself. He loosened up his mind and got what she was saying. This was his son’s previous incarnations. He was some kind of holy man, it seemed. He then saw him, dressed all in white, talking to a large group of dishevelled Mohammedeans. They were gathered around him in a large hall of a palace, barely breathing, afraid they might miss a word from his mouth. He was surrounded by light, bright light of many colors, that the people around him seemed to be soaking up. They were men, women, and children. He could not tell what he was saying. It was in the Mohammedean language. He did not understand it.

“He is saying, my son, all religions are one. None is better than another,” Kamakhya’s ethereal voice spoke.

“This is my son?! He is a Mohammedean?”

“He belongs to no religion, Brih, he is above all that.”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“When the time is right, you will...”

He awoke out of this meditation, floating back to the ground, as it were. One of the field women was there, at the doorway to the temple. He could see the outline of her body through the early morning light. He could not see her face. Had he been sitting here all night?!

“Your son has been born, Sir,” she said. She quickly turned around and ran away. All the spirits and goddesses seemed to be gone. He had a feeling of fire in the center of his chest, and felt, not tired, but invigorated and exited. He started towards the hut to see his son for the first time. His name would be Abhi, which meant fearless.

The Beginning

2012-09-29T16:05:00.001-07:00

Merlin was sitting on his porch, rocking on his stone glider. His long beard hairs had been yellowed with the smoke from the Meerschaum pipe he was constantly smoking. The forest had come alive with the voices...from the trees, from the birds hallowing another day. The sun was setting and there was exitement in the air. Gweldor was on his way, he had been informed. Gweldor was Merlin’s only true confidante...the only one he could trust, but he never came until nightfall. He came with incredible stories of power and intrigue, and remisincence, told as only one as wise as an owl could tell. The Datura blossoms wafted a fragrance toward his old nose that reminded him something he knew not to be true...all is well, dear Merlin, all is well.

From within the cobble stoned house, the salty aroma of his magical stew emerged. Vegetables from his extensive garden populated the immediate surroundings, as well as the stew. There were many one-of-a-kind species. One of his most prized was the pure blue potato, who’s species most were still convinced was poison. That never stopped Merlin, however. He was so in-touch with each of the plant’s majestic spirits that none could harm him. Believe it or not, Merlin was known to toss back the fruits of the Nightshade plant, chewing and swallowing them as if they were blueberries. In his stew were also some of the magic flying herbs that allowed Merlin his extreme clairvoyance. He knew every inhabitant of these woods, plant, animal, and otherwise, for a radius of at least fifty miles.

In those days, that was an essential knowing. The People were being executed by the hundreds, day in and day out. The Mohammedeans had been hired by the filthy English crown to aid in the cause. This was most unnerving, as they brought with them the desert magic of the Hebrews, the Ark, and Al Moshe. This was difficult to rectify...as this power was devised to expand empires. All this and more he knew, from the plants, from the ethers, and from his most trusted confidante, for whom he now waited.

The light from the stained glass oil lamps stylishly placed on and around his magnificently understated abode now became more apparent. His toad, still wet from his lotus pond out back jumped up and sat on his lap. Is he here yet?, he asked Merlin.

No, my dear friend, still waiting...The nameless toad contentedly looked back to the forest through his dime-sized eyes, waiting with his beautiful bright blue-eyed friend, the law of the land, Merlin.

To the south, near the border, there were fires burning. The village of Forsymouth had been sacked and burned to the ground. The Mohammedeans took no prisoners, save the women, who either became slaves for sale in distant lands, or occassionally “wives.” Merlin found this practice to be most distasteful. Even in war, he had never heard of such ruthless debauchery. If he had his way, they would all be dystroyed, and the balance of nature restored. But, in the grand Scheme, there was a place and purpose for everything. Merlin had to think in terms of limitless eternal time, just to keep from growing truly mad. Without Gweldor, his Twin Flame, he would have given up the ghost long ago.

He could feel him now, flying in from the east. The toad wordlessly looked up at him with his yellow eyes, much the same way a three year old might. He nodded his head, Yes our good friend Gweldor was on his way. He took a long draw off his stone pipe and placed it into it’s marble stand next to him. His electric blue eyes closed, and there he was. The deep vibrant forest was all around him. he was gliding up, down, and through the leaves and branches. There was no feeling like the freedom of Gweldor’s flight. There was no vision so keen, nor acuteness of hearing. Their history was long, painful, and triumphant. Merlin’s mind travelled with him, soaring above all the troubles of his fading magistrate. Finally, through Gweldor’s eyes, he felt the bird’s melting relief. He was home again. He slowly descended for a landing, through the magestic oak forest and down to the stone porch. Gweldor the owl landed on Merlin’s left shoulder at the precise moment his blue eyes opened. He brought him close to his cheek, kissing him and petting him like some do their pet cats. Merlin was always so glad to see him that tears welled up in his eyes, and this was no exception.

“Hellllloooo Goldach,” Gweldor cooed at him. He was a large Great Horned Owl, older than the oldest of the forest. And in him lived the spirit of a master from the east, Merlin’s twin flame. He flew to the large quartz cluster that had long been designated as his perch.

“You trying to kill yourself, Old Man?!!,” Gweldor sent a picture of the datura in his pipe and the scotch in his flask.

“You old scoundrel, where have you been?!!!!,” replied Merlin, known to the owl as Goldach...his given name.