this story is the Intellectual Property of Aliza S Finley
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
He lay his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. His office was stuffy from the rousing fire in the hearth but he refrained from opening the window. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to mentally distance himself from his conundrum and look at the situation from a more removed perspective.
Around him, the knick-knacks, paperwork, instruments, volumes that filled the massive bookshelves sat watching him. the portraits of grandfather and the rest of the patriarchs – all glaring at him: “Well? You've been given an extensive education, what is the decision?”
“Huh?.. Huh?.. Huh?..” the clocks chimed in like a chorus of metronomes.
He abruptly stood, grabbed his heavy robe, threw sand in the hearth, and left his things to their own chatter.
He paced the long, stony hallway, the cool air clearing his head, but nothing came. He stood staring out one of the windows that banked the hallway.
The snow was falling. How could ice be so graceful? All the scientific explanations could never explain the pacifying effects of snow. He opened the window and reached out his hand. The snowflakes landed on his palm and melted before his eyes. This somehow depressed him and he closed the window. His problem, he decided, was that he spent entirely far too much time alone.
He found Viktor in the great room. As usual, he was brandishing a weapon for the enjoyment of two pretty young girls from last night's indulgences. Anyone had to admit, Viktor was a vision, silhouetted there against the fireplace. With the flickering light glinting off the shining Spanish sword, he had all the grace and self-possession of a matador. The young girls gasped and cooed at the sight. But Viktor was quickly distracted by the intruder, his brother, standing in the door. The girls followed his gaze and sighed in disappointment.
“Excuse us, my dears” Viktor said with a small bow.
They reluctantly left to entertain themselves.
“Well, well, look who decided to join the rest of the world?”
“Yes. Well. We can't all be... conquistadors”
“True” replied Viktor, “what brings you down here to interrupt my performance? What genius plot have you concocted to remedy the situation?”
“I haven't. That's why I'm here. I'm stuck. And I was hoping, well, I thought maybe a fresh perspective is what I need”
Victor nobly leaned back in surprize, “my perspective, you've come to seek out my perspective... well, well, well. This is a delightful proposition. I think you are coming around to true enlightenment, Oscar.”
“Yes. Well,” Oscar sighed as he entered the room and settled into the couch “desperate times call for desperate measures”
“Indeed they do” agreed his brother as he joined him on the other end of the couch, “now then. What are we dealing with?: the glue that held everyone together has melted away and we are left with chaos. Anarchy...
“So, then what is the origin of this distention.... when did it all start to fall apart?”
The two of them sat staring into the flames, the crackle and pop of the wood stirred up flurries of sparks like tiny solutions that faded too quickly to be grasped.
Viktor spoke slowly, staring into the glowing embers “When we had one central religion, we had unity. We had obedience. And those who broke away from the whole only served as game for the hunt.... Ah... the great glorious hunt”, Viktor recalled with nostalgic bliss, “Smiting out dissenters only served to reinforce unity and demonstrate its power. When we lost this unity, this central force, the people had nothing to fuel their sense of power, their sense of identity, their sense of pride, so they grew depressed, restless, frustrated. Society shattered into primitive subsistence.
“So we gave them kings and countries to fight for. And we gave them commerce and free enterprise to provide goals and quests - motivation. But still,” Viktor's eyes narrowed “the artists and the philosophers... they kept questioning, doubting, tearing our structures apart, seeking for more... for things we cannot give them!” He crossed to the decanter and half filled a small glass in annoyance, “I am so sick and tired of being held responsible for humanity's problems.”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, what is the remedy then?” Oscar posed gravely.
Viktor walked to the large hearth and swooped up the poker. He poked at the smoldering wood dissolving it to ash and moved the un-charred timber over the coals.
“The remedy, my friend, is to go back and prevent the last wave of dissent.”
“Wait, wait, no. go back? Viktor, we can't do - “
“It's the only way, Os. By creating such a king, such a charismatic emperor, the likes of which the world has never seen. We then have unflinching loyalty of the people, peace and order reign again, and you can learn to enjoy yourself for once. The glory days, my friend. All we have to do is go back and prevent that last wave of rebellion.”
“The last wave?”
“The denouement, if you will,” Viktor stared darkly into the fire, lowering his voice “the final unravelling - the 20th century.”
NATURAL SELECTION
Morning in May. Fog consumed Munich. A man stood quietly sketching on the bridge overlooking the river. He wore his army uniform without a coat – immune, so it seemed, to the chill.
Out of the fog emerged a tall dark figure with a top hat. His silhouette gloved in a black overcoat of exceptional tailoring.
Silently, the man stalked the young artist, who sat immersed in his landscape. And what a fine landscape – each blade of grass, every ripple of water – the simple lines of pencil culminating into a living, breathing moment.
The man in black stood observing over the artist's shoulder. He leaned in close to the man's neck and inhaled deeply, slowly savoring the intimate moment between them. He took a step back.
The artist turned round, his large brown eyes anxious, defensive. But, upon seeing the dark man in his fine coat and gentleman's hat, a peace fell over him. He lowered his pencil, and gave a deferential nod of good-morning.
The tall figure stood there for a minute, taking in the soft depths of this man's chocolate eyes, so sensitive, so vulnerable, so melancholy. In those eyes were the sights they had recorded, sights of battle, mutilation, destitution, sights that may not have so profoundly effected the average pair of eyes. Oh how delicious, those eyes. They were a great work of art in themselves. Oh yes, this man will do, thought the gentleman.
The gentleman reached his gloved fingers into his coat and drew out a business card.
“At your discretion,” he stated simply. He touched the brim of his hat in good-morning, and silently disappeared once again into the fog.
Looking down at the card in his hand, the artist read “Society of the Philosophical and Esoteric, 13 Germersheimer Str.”
That evening, the artist knocked confidently on the door of 13 Germersheimer Str. He didn't know why he was there, only that there was something about the tall man that morning that put him at ease. And ease was not a feeling he had experienced in a long time. Perhaps he would find brotherhood, perhaps the men here would be just the kind of friends he had been looking for his whole life – men who were passionate about their country, men with high moral standards, men who embodied what it was to be German.
There was nothing notable about the entryway, the single door was black with a brass knob and knocker. The sun had just set, leaving the world chilly and dim.
The door opened, but no one remained to introduce themselves and show him in. Shivering in the doorway, he shrugged and stepped into the abyss.
It was a plain, dark hall. Footsteps echoed down a stairwell ahead so he followed them to the basement. There he met another blackened hall. A candlelit room opened to the right, and what he saw was...
“Adolfo” said the gentleman enticingly, “come in and shut the door, my friend. You don't mind if I call you Adolfo, it is a most sentimental and endearing name. Come.”
Adolfo stood in the doorway with wide eyes. The walls and ceiling were covered in oriental scarves leafed with gold. There was an armoire full of small objects behind the gentleman and a table to the right covered in golden statues and exotic fruits. Various vessels of incense filled the room with smoke. There were twelve men besides the gentleman standing six to each side of a large table. They were all dressed in hooded cloaks that obscured all but their hands.
“Come and join our brotherhood. We have been looking for a man like you, a man with your skills, with your... passions. We have been searching for a man such as you to fulfill the great prophecy. Are you this man?”
Adolfo stared. Was this a dream? No, no the gentleman's voice echoed in the room and rang in his ears, it was as though his whole life had been a dream and this moment was his awakening. How did this man know him – know his heart?
The gentleman laughed, a deep all-encompassing laugh, ”I know your heart because it is destiny. Will you keep it waiting?”
Adolfo stepped forward into the room, drawing upon his courage and his pride, “No... I mean yes, I mean, I will not keep it waiting,” he replied finally able to meet the gentleman's gaze.
“Good. Sign here” he pushed a piece of paper towards the artist. The man standing directly to his left procured a pen, and he signed. The same man on his left collected the pen and paper, and Adolfo was lifted up onto the table.
Chanting began as they circled the table. Adolfo didn't understand what they were chanting. Either they were mad or he was. But the smoke became intoxicating and the chiming bells and the vibrations of the deep voices reverberated in his chest, pounding out a new heartbeat, driving out all sense.
Time seemed to stop and go on forever, sound blurred together, until he was traveling very quickly through somewhere unknown and everything he thought he knew dissolved into dust...
THE GATHERING PLACE
The next thing Adolfo knew, he found himself in the woods. These were of course no ordinary woods. It was night. Overhead, the stars twinkled and danced. The trees seemed also to twinkle, and only after inspection were his suspicions confirmed; the trees were made of the purest silver. He recoiled and turned about, the forest swirling into a scintillating carousel of demonic foliage. Where is this place, he cried out to the heavens, where have they sent me, and why and for how long?
Disoriented and nauseous, Adolfo plopped to the ground – thankfully carpeted in regular, ordinary grass. His breath puffed out in ragged clouds. He shivered and rubbed his arms. It was then he noticed a path at the edge of the glenn, and without hesitation, he got himself up and started down it.
It was a pleasant walk, after one got accustomed to the ambiance of metallic trees. They were quite luminous, like walking in a garden of candelabras. After a time, he came to a stream which was narrow enough to leap across. On the other side of the path, the forest continued but the trees here were made of pure gold. Adolfo had never seen so much splendor. It was all together a pleasant place, here and there a small bird took flight, a rabbit scampered into a golden thicket.
And after a time strolling through the golden forest, he came upon yet another stream. He leaped, but miscalculated the distance and landed ankle deep in the water. How curiously warm the stream was. It was a most luxurious sensation, this warm stream. Resuscitating his shoe as all the water drained out of it, he surveyed the path ahead to find before him a forest of crystal - no no these were diamonds! Adolfo continued slowly, in awe of what he saw before him. There was surely not a more enchanted place in all the world!
And as soon as he had found himself in the woods to begin with, he found himself standing before the gentleman.
“My friend. We meet yet again.”
The gentleman wore a fine crimson smoking jacket lined with black satin. He sat upon a cushioned chaise in a gazebo of polished marble among the majesty of the shimmering trees; a rather ominous figure for such etherial settings. “I see you did not find the bridge” he commented, looking down at Adolfo's wet leg.
“Where is this place?”
“Where indeed. It is nowhere, and that is why it is a most suitable gathering place for meetings such as these.” The gentleman got up and started down the path. Adolfo followed.
No one can say exactly what they spoke of while walking through the forest of diamonds, but one can only guess that the gentleman spoke of the future and the fate that would befall man because of disorder and disunity.
Finally, the gentleman stopped and turned to look into Adolfo's eyes. “I have traveled far and wide, searching, searching for a man who could rise above this madness. A man with your talents.”
“But how can I be who you want, with all my passion, I have done nothing but follow the orders of greater men!” Adolfo blurted out.
The gentleman, eyes twinkling with mirth, drew up the back of his hand and tenderly brushed Adolfo's face, “oh my son, you have the gift of sight, the gift of seeing essence beyond form, and that is all that is required. The question for you to answer – for yourself – is are you ready? Are you ready for your new life, the life you have suffered so long to deserve? Suffered so that you could bring a new age to man kind. Shhhh, no no, do not utter a word, give me your answer at the end of the evening.”
They now stood at the edge of the diamond woods, facing another gazebo just as the first, but much much larger. Both floor and ceiling were populated with twinkling chandeliers casting rainbows on the smooth marble. Settees of silk, trays of rich food, and a fine party of musicians played to a bouquet of ladies in taffeta and lace.
Together, the men ascended the steps. Adolfo had never seen so many breathtaking ladies. Some were young, some mature, some tall some small, some voluptuous some slender, and everywhere in between. He quickly downed a flute of champagne and fell into the eager arms of the nearest woman. Round and round and round he went, he must have danced with every single girl. His first partner was older and statuesque, she glided with graceful strength, mystery reflected in the emerald depths of her eyes. His second bounced around with pure sweetness, a bubbling brook, fresh spring day. Another was a spitfire with flaming hair, dueling him with witty repartee, cachinnating with delight at his replies.
The gentleman sat on the periphery, sipping champagne, putting back canapes and truffles, his toe keeping time to the music.
After what must have been hours, rosy faced and glistening with mirthful perspiration, Adolfo returned to his friend, collapsing boyishly onto the settee. The gentleman passed him a flute of champagne and an assortment of canapes.
“Enjoying ourselves?” he asked rhetorically. The young artist seemed to radiate with joy, causing the gentleman to feel a tinge of jealousy. How easily men find joy over the simplest merriments. How childish they are, how base. But then he looked into the man's face and saw that beyond the twinkle in his eyes lived a great loneliness, a great desolation.
“Walk with me” he stated simply. And the artist quickly swallowed the rest of his drink and followed.
They walked for a bit in silence, the peace and enchantment of the wood settling into them once more. The gentleman stopped and caressed a nearby branch lovingly. Then, to the artist's horror, he snapped the branch from the limb of the tree and held it out for the artist.
“Take it, it is my gift to you. I have taken a particular liking to you Adolfo. Together, nothing can stand in our way, no one can stop us from returning rightful glory to this dying world.”
Adolfo tentatively reached out in disbelief. The gentleman didn't let go, instead he moved closer. He could smell the champagne, the strawberries, the mirth. He could smell Adolfo's rapture and see it in his shining, innocent eyes. The gentleman slowly descended upon his lips, his hands squeezed the man's shoulders. He towered over him, pulling Adolfo under him, entering inside, tasting his prey. Tasting the loneliness and fear after years of hardship, tasting the despair. He drank deeply from the pools of his sadness, his isolation, his hopelessness. Then finally, the grand finale, his self-loathing. Reluctantly, the gentleman eased up, savoring the soft moist strawberry scented lips and gracefully stepped back.
Adolfo clung to his little tree branch not sure what had occurred. He blinked and could see that the gentleman stood before him completely unruffled, so he followed suit.
They continued strolling down the path together. “So what will your answer be, my Adolfo” the gentleman casually asked.
“Yes, of course yes, and a thousand times yes!”
“Well then, we had better get started.”
Adolfo woke suddenly and found himself lying on a park bench overlooking the river where he had been painting earlier. It was cold and dark, he felt light as air, euphoric. Seeing the morning star on the horizon, he sucked in an icy breath, and ran back to base.
PERFECTING THE HUMAN RACE
“Ta-dah!” announced Viktor, flinging the doors to the great room open, “the prodigal son returns.”
No one greeted him in the great room. How very anti-climactic; Viktor disliked a grand entrance wasted. He swiftly departed for Os' study.
The sunlight streamed through the tall windows flanking the hall, but the door to his study lay wide open and no one inside. Where else could he be?
He wasn't in the garden, nor the kitchen, dining hall, dueling room, or the stables. And all the horses and cars and helicopters and other modes of transportation were quietly standing by, so he hadn't left. Where on earth...?
Viktor went up to change and shower. Passing by Oscar's room, he peeked inside. Os never lazed about in his room during daylight hours, and yet there he was, or what used to be Os.
“Brother?” Viktor peered into the room timidly, “What... what happened to you?”
Oscar was inaudible from the great mass of down on his bed. He was merely a shadow, a ghost. Even Viktor knew that they were not invincible. They would cease to exist if the people forgot them.
Viktor gave a guttural cry of frustration “How can they be forgetting you?! I can't believe this! Every act of generosity on our part has only made the people more unhappy, has only added fuel to their demands that we compensate for their inadequacies. They have no memory of how things were before we civilized them, they only ask for more with their hands out, like spoiled children who throw a tantrum when they've eaten all their candy and are still unsatisfied!”
Oscar, unable to make a sound, gave what appeared to be a dark glare. Ghostly tears formed and fell strait through his face onto the sheets.
Viktor tactfully perched on the edge of the bed,“I did everything I promised. Listen, I know you're upset, as you should be” he cajoled, “well I did give the world an almost unstoppable king, and then I brought them all together against a common enemy... If you want to make an omelet you've got to crack some eggs!”
Oscar's eyes glared into his brother's.
“But... wait, I was able to discover a way to solve our little dissension problem once and for all. In fact,” his eyes narrowed in thought, “now that I think on it, this would solve your little waning problem also. I promise, just give me tonight, Oscar, and I will make everything right.”
Viktor went straight to the underground lab, “this shouldn't be too difficult, people are just as any other domesticated animal, except maybe a little harder to break. Would they rather live like wild boar? ...this is for their own good!”. And with that he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
DIOS EX MACHINA
Paco
It was always hot and muggy this time of year, but tonight it felt like the city was on fire. Paco dribbled the soccer ball around his room restlessly. He could hear the clinking of dishes being washed in the kitchen, the music his mother liked playing on the radio, and his father going on about something he read in the newspaper. Something was in the air, Paco could feel it, like a bomb about to be dropped. He normally had trouble settling down, but tonight, someone turned the hyper switch on full blast or shot him full of caffeine. He wished there was somewhere he could go and just run as hard as he could, leap off a waterfall, feel the cool air rush past his face. But those open places only lived in childhood memories, they didn't exist anymore.
Lying on his bed, on top of the covers in his underwear, the lights off, the window as wide open as his eyes, Paco's head was a zoo. “Monkeys. Monkeys!! Get out of my head, monkeys”, he commanded. Monkeys are such contrarians... He was the only one awake at this hour.
Paco gave a deep sigh and crossed to the window. Maybe some fresh air would clear his head. It was stuffy as hell. You could actually see the fog of humidity. It glowed red from the stoplights. He wanted to yell “GOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLL!!!!!!” just to let out some energy, break the oppressive feeling, but Paco exercised a little consideration.
He suddenly noticed, he could feel his heart beating in his head. It steadily got louder, stronger. Pain throbbed, it was difficult to breathe. The pounding grew so loud, it was a red alert going off in time with his heartbeat. Paco fell to his knees, he couldn't believe what was happening, he could think of no way to stop it, he could not think at all. He lay there shaking with cold. His eyes ran, but only vaguely did he register the burning wetness tickling the bridge of his nose, his temples, on it's path to the carpet. He focused there, on the carpet, escaping into the scratchy fibers. His ears filled with roaring, a great flapping of wings, and blackness found him at last.
*****
Sasha
At least there was a breeze under the overpass. Sasha didn't have anything but the clothes on her back: Jeans and that purple t-shirt they gave her at the Girl's Home, “back to the basics” – like the billboards for Macy's said. She'd sleep under the highway tonight. The last guy she crashed with... well she had to get out at the last minute through the fire escape... long story.
At least there was a breeze under the overpass. Sasha didn't have anything but the clothes on her back: Jeans and that purple t-shirt they gave her at the Girl's Home, “back to the basics” – like the billboards for Macy's said. She'd sleep under the highway tonight. The last guy she crashed with... well she had to get out at the last minute through the fire escape... long story.
Sasha stopped walking and took a deep breath, holding out her arms so the breeze could cool her. Life sucked sometimes. Today was no exception. She hadn't eaten except that half finished burger and a lemonade she swiped when someone got up from their lunch to go to the bathroom at the food court. Her headache was probably from dehydration.
“Uch”, she said to herself and put her hand to her forehead. She just wanted to find a patch of grass and lie down, why hadn't she thought to go to the park – oh yeah, because she would rather not watch hookers and junkies go about their work-day... night... whatever. FUCK! What the hell is this headache from?
Sasha thought she might throw up, but knew it would be pure stomach acid. She put both hands against the concrete wall and hung her head, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Another wave of throbbing, piercing pain overtook her and then the world rolled around her, like the inside of a washing machine, the ground came up and hit her left side. Good thing everything was numb now. The thing about moments like these is you appreciate the small things: Air, consciousness, eyelids. Sasha heard the sound of the ocean, waves roaring in her ears. She felt the scratchy sand against her skin. She felt the peace that comes over anyone who accepts that there is nothing to be done but fall inward, deep deep deep where nothing can reach you.
*****
Eliott
Alone on a Friday night. Again. Keiko (Mom) went to get her hair blown out and attend this month's benefit party meeting. The meeting was merely an excuse to get their hair blown out, compare manicures, and pretend like her life had purpose. Hiro (Dad) was away on “business”, which was code for “pleasure”.
This was perfectly ok with Eliot. He liked take-out and enjoyed being alone. He didn't relate to anyone else anyways, certainly not his peers – their lives seemed to revolve around decorating themselves with the newest this and listening to the hottest new that, monkey see monkey do, it was tiresome.
“Mr. Takasaki?” Bina, the housekeeper knocked softly on the door.
“Yo,” Eliot answered, opening the door and going back to his desk. He sighed. No matter how many times he told her 'You can just call me Eliot'... I mean what did they do to them at housekeeping school to make them so afraid of letting their guard down.
“Oh, sorry to disturb you, sir. Did you want any more pizza?”
“No, you can go to bed, or do whatever...” god it was always so awkward giving someone permission to stop catering to your every need.
“Ok. Goodnight, Mr. Takasaki”
“Yeah, goodnight, Bina.” Eliot turned back to his computer. He was in the middle of figuring out how to network with the global camera system so he could vicariously enjoy the escapades of street artists, maybe capture some of their work before it got whitewashed.
His computer buzzed, a high pitched sound. The dogs outside howled. That's weird, they were trained to bark ferociously, they never howled. The monitor let out a subtle, ear piercing “beep”, and Eliot's eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head. “What the hell-”
He got up to rinse his eyes, but found himself on his bed. The high pitched buzzing continued to fill the room. His heart beat in his temples. He tried not to make a noise incase Bina would hear him, but he couldn't help moaning and gasping with pain. Shit. Where did his mother keep her yellow pills and could he get to them? Fuck. Aw, this sucks. Eliot buried his head in the pillows. He felt himself falling forward into outer space, warp speed through the stars.
BACK TO THE FUTURE
LA DOOR VA DOOR
Oscar woke upon a sandy beach. The sky was dark and filled with twinkling lights. The water calmly lapped at his feet.
“Oh thank god!” he felt his arms, his face. He was real again, he was himself. He looked around. He breathed the cool night air, relishing the feeling of his lungs expanding, the rush of blood to his head. Where was he? Viktor was always traveling around to strange and distant places, Oscar had always stayed where he was, attending to the job at hand.
Turning around, he was startled to see two men in dark blue clothes standing behind him.
“AH!!” Oscar blurted out.
“We didn't mean to suprize you,” the dark haired man on the left said.
“We are the ones who brought you here” said the light haired man on the right congenially.
Oscar was not used to being disoriented. Burdened yes, disoriented, no. Something caught his eye, down the beach. There were three small figures.
“I am so glad this night has come, we've been looking forward to meeting you.” said the light haired man.
“Sunali, let's take them back to the village and include the young people in this conversation,” suggested the dark one.
“Yes, Suvali, of course, of course,” finished his brother, putting his arm around Oscar as they walked down the beach.
The two brothers, Sunali and Suvali, silently led their four guests to a village of teepees set up in a grove not far from the beach. It was still and quiet except for occasional sleeping noises coming from neighboring tents.
The six of them filed into a teepee set up in the center of the village. They made themselves comfortable upon the many pillows and wrapped themselves in the handmade blankets and firs that were strewn about while Sunali lit a fire and Suvali filled a heavy black pot with herbs and roots. The tent was suprizingly spacious yet cozy.
Oscar, at this point, found his bearings and had a good idea of where they were. He studied his three fellow travelers. The girl, who had introduced herself as Sasha looked suspiciously at the situation, while Paco seemed elated. Eliot's poised facade concealed his mind, fast at work, taking in every subtle detail, yet remaining impassive.
An interesting bunch. He wondered what exactly Viktor had done and what was happening back at home. He didn't remember much from before. He hadn't been himself at all since Viktor tried to fix things... why, why, why did he think Viktor could ever solve anything. He loved his brother, but liking and loving are not the same.
“So,” said Sunali, settling back on his cushions as the fire crackled merrily, “I want to begin by addressing our three young, wayward travelers-”
“How do you know I'm young?” Sasha bit out defensively, “why do you know anything at all about me, and what the hell was all that, before- ?! ….I mean it hurt!” she added apologetically when Sunali's eyes shone with sorrow.
“I am sorry, beyond... that pain you all experienced just before arriving on the beach, that was not us. We came to get Oscar out of there and anyone who still lived.”
Paco's face fell, “Lived?”
“Sunali, you are not giving information in the best order,” Suvali said as an aside to his brother, placing the pot over the fire and taking his place in the circle, “You see, children-”
“We're not children” Sasha corrected him.
“I apologize, you, Sasha, most certainly are not” Suvali gave her a knowing look and began again, “You see, my very wise old friends, Oscar's brother, in his endless quest for order, thought it a good idea to create an electrical storm in the atmosphere strong enough to disrupt and disconnect the established brain patterns of the human population of Earth. I can only imagine at this point he has begun the process of establishing new, more perfect brain patterns, producing conformity, uniformity, order. While everyone in good health has lived through it, well... we all have a different definition for 'living'.” Suvali paused, gazing into the flames.
“When we sensed all of this was happening,” Sunali picked up, “we came and got you and brought you back. We didn't think anyone would have been able to maintain their sense through that. We are so honored to meet you three, you are miracles.”
“Don't speak too soon,” returned Paco, “I feel totally nuts.”
“That's just the side effect of excess electrical brain activity, that'll settle down,” Sunali assured them, “you're taking in a lot right now, which is good, you're lucid. Clarity will come with time.”
“Here, this will help,” Suvali dipped a ladle into his pot and poured the amber broth into a small wooden bowl. Once they all had steaming bowls before them, they sat in silence and sipped. The broth sank deep, filling their stomaches with peace, warming their blood, and clearing their eyes. The fire crackled and danced in the still night. Outside the tent, a breeze created a symphony among the trees.
The three young travelers, exhausted and overwhelmed slipped off to sleep. The brothers returned to sleep in other tents, each with his wife. Oscar remained awake, guarding his three remaining loyal subjects.
“I've failed,” he confessed to the dying fire, and with that, he wept silently in the arms of night.
The next morning, Oscar watched Sunali and the kids playing a sport they called Magajani, involving a frisbee and a lot of running around. Sunali was so carefree, laughing heartily when a play almost was an epic win and ended in a ridiculous heap. The kids at first would argue with each other about what the others should be doing better, but Sunali's laugh was so infectious, they started to see the humor in epically failing.
Oscar sat on the far outskirts of the meadow. The people of the village had long since been up and most were going about their day.
Suvali came and sat down beside him.
“Something is weighing heavily on your mind, Oscar,” he said gently.
“Yes, well...” Oscar looked down at the grass. Talking couldn't change the past, but great yearning finds release where it can, “I am afraid I have failed at the one thing I have spent my life trying to do well.” That was all he could say. He had to clear his throat and collect himself.
Suvali nodded, taking it in, “You know who we are, don't you. Maybe you do not, but you have a feeling about who we might be, and I want to tell you to trust that,” Oscar looked up in amazement.
“Your forefathers thought,” Suvali continued,“that they must rule the people, that man was their flock to be shepherded and gleaned. This is what they taught you, but it was never in your nature to be. You see, grandfather, we are not mortals like them, we are archetypes, born from the people, not gods to rule over them. We are truly servants of man. We cannot be what we choose, like they can, and will rule only as long as they chose us.”
“Your forefathers thought,” Suvali continued,“that they must rule the people, that man was their flock to be shepherded and gleaned. This is what they taught you, but it was never in your nature to be. You see, grandfather, we are not mortals like them, we are archetypes, born from the people, not gods to rule over them. We are truly servants of man. We cannot be what we choose, like they can, and will rule only as long as they chose us.”
Oscar couldn't believe his ears, “so... so Viktor is going to...”
“Ah, well, you come from interesting times, Oscar. Twins are always born out of times of great change. Viktor thought he could force the people to believe in you, but no true memory can be imposed. Now that this has failed, he will force them to remember him, or at least worship the image of him. But this will not last.”
“Oh no...” Oscar contemplated heavily. “what will happen to my poor people? why do I care so much, I know there is nothing I can do - I can't go back.”
“Yes, well, this is true.”
“So what do I do now?”
Suvali smiled, “Do you remember your father explaining the true nature of time? And how it is circular? Well, let's just say that these events have been foreseen” Suvali helped his ancestor up and they started back to the village.
At this point, they had reached the village, just in time for lunch. Men and women were congregating around the cooking fire some talking, some taking long dregs from clay cups. Children chased each other and showed off tricks they had taught their dogs. The people who had taken the role of cooks were bringing great bowls of food to long tables set up in the center of the town. One cook stirred the great pot set over the fire.
Sunali and the kids straggled in, cheeks rosy, spirits high.
“So is there any way to beat that game?” Eliot asked Sunali.
“Well, that's the point, it's supposed to be impossible, and we keep trying anyways. It's different every time. It has only been beat twice in my memory. And I am quite old.”
The villagers had begun filling their plates and some sat at a large communal table while others found quiet spots in the herb garden or under a shady tree.
The three young outsiders eagerly joined the line and soon they sat with a group of people around their age.
Sunali, Oscar, and Suvali sat under a large trellis at one end of the herb garden.
“So, how do your people live? How have you structured society?”
“Well, we didn't,” replied Sunali, “they told us what they wanted. We came together in a great discussion, until we decided on a system that worked for almost all of us. For some of us, it didn't , so they left to another village that is structured in a way that they agree with. Even within this village, people move to different roles and policies are amended. But there are no absolute rules.”
At Oscar's incredulous look, Suvali expounded, “People understand that the most important job of the individual is to be in touch with his needs and enjoy the process of fulfilling them. This is not only his greatest responsibility to himself but also to others, because only someone who respects and values himself can be respectable and of value, and in turn respect and value others. We don't need punishment, because the people enjoy a connection with each other, and any act of destruction is its own punishment.”
“This is the future?” Oscar was filled with hope.
“This is one future,” Suvali clarified, “there are many many futures.”
“As numerous as the stars,” finished Sunali, “something for everyone!” he chuckled.
They spent the rest of the day visiting the various projects people were working on: the livestock caretakers, the gardeners, the clothes makers, those who looked after infants and toddlers, the teachers who shared their enthusiasm for various topics of interest with young and old. Some young people apprenticed with a faction of their choosing, some were off with the ambassador party, sharing ideas and trading with neighboring towns. One party took on the responsibility of fixing and inventing new forms of technology (this is the future, after all, and to Oscar's surprize, they had every convenience his time had enjoyed and more). Some people were keeping the village clean and beautifying it with various forms of art. There was one group that met three times a week to put together plays for the weekly bon fire's entertainment.
In the late afternoon, people finished up their tasks for the day and washed up. This was a time when families reconnected. Some people went into the woods to quietly play their instruments, others worked on little hobbies they enjoyed. Many of the children played board games. Some couples went off on their own.
After dinner, everyone gathered around the bon fire. The night sky glittered with stars. Wrapped in the blankets they made from the sheep they cared for, their faces glowed expectantly.
“Tell the story of Dachid and Daal!” shouted a little voice.
“Yeah!” echoed some others
Sunali found his place upon the stones that circled the fire pit.
“Dachid and Daal, huh?...” he laughed, and at once his eyes lit up with the magic that makes every storyteller what he is.
******
THE TALE OF DACHID & DAAL
Once, a long long time ago, in the days of the first man, the gods were many. They lived among the people. They enhanced their lives – helped their crops grow tall, their children marry happily, and brought peace upon their households. The gods were honored on festival days. They sat at their tables, and danced with them around their bon fires.
Now, in those days, a man did not choose what he did, he learned his trade from his father. One man, Dachid, son of Mardum, had the job of butcher. Day after day he slit the animals' throats, he drained their blood, and he took them apart. Now, Dachid did not like doing what he did, but because it was what his father did, he had no choice.
Not being a happy man, Dachid never married. He never recognized his god. Instead, he grew hopeless and despondent.
Now, one thing about the gods is, they have an overwhelming amount of love for people. Love can be experienced and expressed in so many ways. When love goes ignored, it finds other ways of being noticed. Dachid's god was called Daad. Daad followed Dachid through his childhood and faithfully pined for him through every miserable day, always trying to get his attention by doing this or that. But Dachid, being so miserable, never noticed a thing. Over the miserable years, Daad grew into a formidable creature.
For most people, 42 was an age that all looked forward to. For at 42 years of age, a person could invite a god to live within him, filling him with divine understanding, and sometimes giving him miraculous abilities.
By the time Dachid was 42 years of age, Daad was a great huge demon, enraged with the frustration of his abandonment. So great was Daad's frustration, and so empty was Dachid's heart, that the night of his 42nd birthday, Daad jumped down Dachid's throat and overtook him.
Crazed out of his senses, Daad went on a rampage, destroying the whole village. He then moved on to the next and then the next, until word grew about this powerful man-god.
Men grew fearful, forgetting their own gods, and decided it was better to follow behind Daad, than to fall in his path. It wasn't long before Daad became the ruler of man, and for many many years afterwards, man lived in fear of the great single god they themselves had given power. They forgot their own power, their partnership with the the spirit world and its endless benevolence.
******
“...And so, dear ones, this is why we follow our heart, and thank our spirits.”
Sunali bowed as the crowd waved their fingers in the air, giving a “shhhhhhh!” of appreciation.
The villagers dispersed each lighting a small lantern from the bon fire to take back to bed with them. Young children hand in hand with a grandparent, or carried by a parent, older children scampering back to one of the children's sleeping tents.
THE PIED PIPER
For forty days, the four travelers passed the time happily in the village, each in their own way:
Paco played Magajani. This game, he soon learned, was played with absolute focus, sweat was no stranger to this meadow. And yet no one seemed to care about points. Each team wanted the other team to match them, making the challenge greater, confidant that they would rise to meet it and thus all get better together in never ending fun.
He learned to duck and swerve deftly. And in time he could play with the best of them, bringing a new style to the sport.
They in turn were fascinated by his demonstration of soccer. After lunch one day, he watched some of the kids enthusiastically form their own teams. They awkwardly kicked the ball around, seriously engaged in this new challenge. They would come to Paco for a little coaching, just as they had helped him learn Magajani.
Funny, thought Paco, this is the longest he had gone without an injury.. well... besides his stomach which was always sore from laughing.
Eliot spent each day with a different faction within the village. Inspired by its harmony, he wanted to learn everything about its structure and function. He observed the ways in which they interacted co-operatively. And most fascinating to him, he noticed how protocol was continuously changing to more efficiently and harmoniously function as part of the whole. There wasn't a list of rules anywhere of what to do or not to do, neither did Eliot see anyone berate anyone else or loose their patience. There were no bells to signal when to work or stop, if a person decided their day was better spent in quiet contemplation or doing whatever they felt like, they went and did it. There were always enough helpers, because work was regarded as a form of play. The village was like a living breathing animal, within which, each organ functioned within the whole. And in this way, this small society evolved gracefully, expanding with each passing year.
Eliot came to know many of the people from all arenas. He was struck by how warm and deeply happy each person was. He felt redeemed by the enthusiasm and focus each had for their work – there were no jobs which held more prestige than any others. Some had spent many years doing one thing, others had done many things and brought a broad spectrum of knowledge. Eliot was surprised to see what a wide age range took part in daily activities – very young children knew how to pick from the garden and bring it into the kitchen, where great-great-grandparents showed them how to knead bread and grind spices. There was more productivity than Eliot had ever seen, and it was all done joyfully, pleasantly, and inclusively.
Sasha spent most of her time in the woods alone. The peace she found there drew her back again and again. She had found a spot by the brooke where it had widened into a pool. Here she would lie down to nap as the sunlight streamed through the leaves, and little critters went about their activities.
Sasha prayed that she could be worthy of a place like this, that its peace would live inside her, stilling her heart to its pulse, filling all fear and pain with a sense of homecoming; a home she was always welcome in.
She learned to be still, present. In time, the water began to whisper the secrets of their travels: the deep ocean tides, the accent into the clouds, the soaring down to earth, and the flowing, surrendering to the rush of being all together again in the river. They told her of crystallization, floating, swirling, then resting on the stillness of the mountaintop. They told her of being pulled to the lips of a stag and of pulsing through its noble heart.
While she dreamed, the trees danced to the song of sun, basking, applauding the rainbow rays of sunlight. They celebrated in their accent, ever-reaching towards heaven, sucking the nectar of the soil, soaking in all the tales of water's adventures.
Oscar, still devastated over the loss of his kingdom, hiked to the tallest hilltop. For forty days he sat at the summit meditating upon what he would do next. On the fortieth day, Sasha happened upon him. She sat down and put a gentle arm around his shoulder. They sat there silently together, soaking up the sun and the tranquil birdsong, before she spoke.
“When I was eight, I lived with the Fosters. Mike Foster told me this story.”
Sasha cleared her throat and shifted in the dirt.
******
OF RATS AND MEN
There once was a town overrun with rats. One day, a traveler comes to the town, carrying a flute. He promises them that if they would just give him a place to sleep and a hot meal, that when he goes on his way again, he will play a magic song on his flute, and all the rats will go with him, leaving their town forever. Instead of at least taking pity on the hungry stranger, they laugh at him, refuse him both diner and shelter, and chase him from the town. So that night, while the town sleeps, he takes his flute and plays the most beautiful song. It is so beautiful that when it reaches the ears of the innocent children, it calls them out of their beds, into the streets, and over the walls of the rat infested town.
******
“They say that the children have been dancing behind him ever since, and when the wind blows, you can hear them humming along. It's like this eternal parade.”
Sasha stared off into the valley, “Children's services took me away; Mike's spouse was a Stephen instead of a Stephanie. Maybe I latched onto this story because no body had ever told me a bedtime story before or since. But after that, wherever I ended up, I would always leave the window open at night, so if the Piper ever came through, I could join them. But I guess I lived more like a rat... lost in the streets. Everywhere you go you get swept aside, people are scared to look at you... but actually rats are pretty smart, they have a lot to teach us, if we aren't afraid of them. I don't know why I'm telling you this, except that... like, take Mike Foster, right? You might feel like you missed your chance at doing good, but you never know how much the little things make all the difference in the world.”
Sasha leaned over and hugged Oscar's shoulders. She got up, and went on her way.
That night, to everyone's astonishment, Oscar bounded down the mountain and joined them all for dinner. He ate heartily, let out a sigh of satisfaction, and marched off. Sunali and Suvali gave each other a knowing look and gathered the three kids into the teepee where first they had talked. Sunali lit the fire while Suvali manifested a pot much bigger than the one he had used before.
Oscar then joined them, fully shaved, snowy white hair cut shaggily around his shining face. He was astoundingly young and handsome, radiant.
Oscar climbed into the cauldron. Then, Sunali passed a bowl of sand around, motioning each of the children to grab a handful. Suvali gestured to them to throw the sand into the fire. They did. The fire blazed up around the cauldron. And then all went quiet and dark. Oscar was gone.
“Ok, kids, who wants to go with him?” asked Sunali.
THE STORYTELLER
Oscar landed with a thud on the cold dark ground. He stood up, pulling his cloak around him. He was so white against the dense forest, he almost glowed.
He started off walking, through the sleeping woods. He walked until he came to a clearing with a great pond where the moon was admiring herself upon it's rippling surface.
The ripples grew, as though a large fish were swimming just below the surface. Oscar saw, instead, a dark shiny orb emerge slightly and then pop back down, and pop back up again, then bob back down. Pumping like this, until it emerged from the water, the ripples quivering, returning a liquid sonar back out over the pond.
And there she was. Revealed in the moonlight. Oscar could see the water dripping from her elbows and the ends of her dark hair. He could hear her teeth chattering as she breathed. He wanted to bring her his cloak but he stopped himself. She quickly put her clothes back on, and slipped away, through a bush.
I must follow her, he rationalized, because she will surly lead me to more people.
And so Oscar crossed the field, under the amused gaze of the moon, and disappeared after her.
He wandered through the dense foliage, having lost her trail long ago. How peaceful it was in the woods, how silent, except for the mysteries whispering in the trees. In the darkness, a doe raised her head, calmly watching him pass through.
After a time, Os lay down and slept on a large, fallen log that had grown soft and spongy.
Waking to the symphony of birdsong, Oscar rubbed his eyes, taking in his surroundings. Moss hung everywhere, treetops swayed high above him, and life was busy all around him.
He walked on, all that day. Was he going in a strait path? Would he end up back at the pond, full circle? He did not know. He couldn't recall having any prior experience traversing a wooded environment.
Funny, for all of his many tutors, he had not ever left the fortress he was born in, he had not seen the world he was to rule. Furthermore, he had hardly met anyone outside of his very small circle of servants. He wondered if he, and his forefathers before him, might have ruled better had they known the people they ruled, considered them friends, been ambassadors for their wellbeing.
It was after nightfall when he saw it: a warm flicker. He felt the vibrations of beating drums and heard the song of revelry on the wind. Lightheaded from hunger, Oscar stumbled towards it, hoping they were welcoming.
Fifty people or so were dancing or playing music around the fire. Another fifty, roughly, moved on the outskirts, talking, laughing, eating from a table set with leftovers from dinner.
This must be the very distant past, Oscar realized by the heavy rustic clothing and the fact that every man had at least one wicked looking piece of cutlery on their belt. Funny, he didn't think about where he was going when he decided to jump into the cauldron, just that he wanted to be somewhere where he could do some good.
Oscar saw her then, dancing near the flames. Her hair glowed red around her as she spun, oblivious to anyone else.
Suddenly, he was choked by a forceful arm, cold metal at his throat, “what's your business here?” asked the small, hard, leather-clad man, to whom the arm belonged.
“I- I come in peace. I am lost in your woods... a wanderer.”
“Where are you from?” he challenged.
“I... am from very far away, I do not belong to anywhere,” Oscar admitted.
The man sensed the defeated tone of Os' voice and relaxed his grip, “come, then,” he replied, holding Os by the arm. The man led him to what seemed to be the chief, sitting in a large chair robed with furs and a metal circlet upon his wild greying hair.
“O Callahan,” he addressed the chief respectfully, “I found us a traveler, lost in the woods. He says he is friend.”
Callahan looked Oscar up and down then into his face. “Have you collected his weapons?” Callahan asked.
“No... they must be concealed, but I have kept my dirk at his back.”
A search for weapons ensued and came up empty.
“Well,” laughed the chief, “he must not be the enemy if he has no weapon, but he cannot be very wise then either. Who are you, then, and what is your trade, traveler?” Callahan demanded.
“I am a... a storyteller!” he blurted out, hoping that his luck would be better than the flutist from Sasha's story, “a wandering bard” he corrected and gave a nervous bow.
The chief squinted, “and what do they call you?”
“Merde...” Oscar swore in french under his breath, rule number one in time travel, never use your modern name, “uh... Merd... Merden!” he stammered
“Eberwynn!!” the cheif hollered over the crowd to a woman standing by the table of food, “bring more food!!”
Murden was sat down beside the king, wrapped in furs, and a large plate piled high was set down beside them. The chief was eager to hear news and tales, but the music postponed such necessities, to Murden's relief.
Instead, he sat there watching the dancers: one dancer in particular. Oblivious to anyone, she moved like a flame herself, taking in the mystery of night, consuming its shadows, burning it up, casting her own radiance.
She was before him now. Where cool moonlight had, upon the previous night, unveiled her secret beauty, now warm flickering fire exposed her passion.
She met his dark eyes, her dance became a dangerous net, a cobra rising up. And he went willingly. Yes, his eyes whispered knowingly, yes I speak your language.
She dropped her arms. Eyes like a deer, she took a step back and fled into the darkness.
Oscar, now Murden, wanted to run after her, but could not leave, as he was the guest of honor. So for the rest of the night, even as he drifted off to sleep in the bed they had given him, all he could do was wonder.
At breakfast the next day, Murden sat beside the chieftain. During their polite conversation, he asked Callahan about the woman who fled the bon fire so suddenly.
“Ach,” he shrugged, “that is Gypsy-Rose, my niece. Her story is a mysterious tale.”
Callahan shook his head, “You see, one thing you have to understand about her mother, my sister, is that she was a wandering spirit, most days she went off into the woods and no one knew what she did. But she did no one no harm, so we let her be. We can't say for sure how the story goes, but we suppose, that one day, while wandering in the wood, my sister came upon a strange bunch of men. And one of them took a liking to her and after a time they married each other in secret. Until one day, it was clear that she would soon have a baby. She stayed close to home, but kept her secret as to who the father was. She wanted to have her baby by the hands of the wise woman here. But after the baby was born, she disappeared with her child. And none heard from her ever again. Even when we searched the wood, we found not a trace of anyone.
“And so a few years passed, and one day a wee child was found in the wood. Not a scratch, nor sign of her mother or her father. Yet perfectly healthy and clothed just as we were... and very much of the likeness of my sister. And to this day, she still has her likeness.
Callahan leaned close, putting his hand over his mouth and whispered to Murden, “there's some who say it were the faery folk who are her father's people,” then he righted himself and said in a usual tone, “but if you ask me, her mother was queer enough herself to have had such a child.”
“Gypsy-Rose studies with the medicine woman,” he added, “the same woman who bore her so many years ago... Perhaps she has some memory of those hands, perhaps it helps her remember her mother and father, for she must remember them, if even just a little.”
Callahan buried his face in his flask with a far off look in his eyes. Murden should have known that her origins would be unfathomable, but then, to these people, so was his.
“Now that I have told you one of our stories, I expect you will return the favor tonight. It has been long since our fire has been graced by a true bard,” Callahan gave Murden a hearty smack on the back and went on to his official duties.
Murden walked about the town, but no where did he see Gypsy. He found the herbal woman on the outskirts of the village. He knew it must be her, because she was by far the oldest one around.
Her hair was grey, sticking out in all directions under a kerchief. Her hands were bony, veins standing out as she delicately tended her garden. Her voice thin as she sang a little folk song. Murden had never seen anyone take so much care in anything as this woman with her plants, but then this was rough earth to be growing such delicate things, and these herbs were life support for her people. The things she knew were ancient, the things she knew had kept human kind from extinction. The things she knew lived inside her, keeping her alive all these years, as though she was but their vessel.
Murden walked around the small cottage and discreetly peered in through the window out of the corner of his eye. He saw a dark figure stirring over a pot and his heart leaped. This must be Gypsy! He heard pounding of pestle on mortar as she pulverized some seeds. He closed his eyes and listened to this sound as though his ear were against her chest and we were listening to her heartbeat. He wished she would lay down her work and come out of that dark little house. He would take her hand and...
“What'cha spyin' on?” a loud little voice spurred Murden from his daydream.
“I...” Murden looked down at a tiny snot-faced little boy holding a stick, not knowing what to reply.
The little boy leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Don't even think to take from the witch's garden, or else she'll be angry and you'll have to pay the price!” His earnest face looked up seriously, repeating what his mother had told him.
“Oh?” was all Murden could reply. The little boy, apparently, had a full schedule that day, and stabbing at Murden's leg with a fierce “hee-ya!”, he ran off around the corner.
Murden decided not to garner any more witnesses to his interest. He spent the rest of the day on the other side of town chopping wood for the blacksmith and trying to think of what story he could tell around the bon fire that night.
The blacksmith's fire was a popular gathering place for the pyromaniacally inclined. Some of the warriors had recently returned from a hunting and trading trip, and were lounging around the fire, heckling each other and poking sticks into the embers.
Murden was entertained by their presence, but the blacksmith seemed annoyed, he took his profession seriously and did not appreciate his fire being violated. The warrior men had an air of casual superiority that seemed to threaten village symbiosis.
A farmer by the name of Finnioan came up to pick up his mended plow shear.
“How goes it, Finnioan?” asked the blacksmith.
“Ach, well...” Finnioan looked hesitantly to the side, “In truth, I'm worried for this season's rainfall. It looks to be a dry year, and I don't know how I'll yield enough. This may be a lean winter,” he finally admitted.
“Achh,” mocked one of the warriors, “perhaps if Finnioan weren't so lean himself!” The rest of the party exploded into laughter.
“Don't worry Miss Finnioan, we'll catch enough game to see us through the winter, you can dry your eyes,” said another.
“You just take your little plow and go tend your little plants,” said a third.
“You all can hush your corn holes if you know what's good for ya!” shot back the blacksmith.
Finnioan gave a tired look to the blacksmith and went on his way.
“Now for our evening's entertainment, Murden the Bard is tellin' us a story!” Callahan announced.
The crowd made ruckus noises of excitement, tapping their flasks on the wooden tables that were set around the fire. Murden could see small puffs of smoke coming up like tiny chimneys from their pipes.
He cleared his throat and ascended the ledge around the fire pit.
“Once...” he began, voice trembling, “once...” he cleared his throat again and someone handed him a flask to drink from.
Murden took a long drink, gathered his courage and began
THE ONION PATCH KID
Once, there was a great merchant, a tradesman who traveled far and wide and had great success. He returned home with many horses and trunks full with treasure. He had a great beautiful house built and married the most lovely girl in town.
Because he had worked so hard early in life, he had a distaste for work and preferred to buy what he wished instead of producing it himself. He did not let his wife lift a finger to clean or tend a garden, insisting that they have servants clean and buy her anything she wished. But there was one thing he could not buy: a child.
One day, however, their prayers were answered. His lovely wife discovered that they would soon have a child.
As the days passed, a curious desire arose within her, an appetite for vegetables. And so the servants were sent out daily to fill the cupboards with carrots and peas, spinach and rutabagas, celery and parsnips.
One night, his wife awoke him from his sleep with a terrible craving for onions. What could he do? The market was closed, the servants were gone, and they had no garden, not a single thing grew around the house but tulips.
The merchant crossed to the bedroom window. Looking up at the moon, he asked what he should do for his wife. And it was then that he saw an answer to his prayers.
Next to the merchant's house, lived a witch, whose garden was her pride and her joy. Rain and shine she was out there tending her herbs and plants. As the moon shone down upon his neighbor's garden, the merchant saw the row of big beautiful onions sprouting up.
And so he dressed, climbed the fence, and picked one onion, bringing it home to his happy wife.
The next night, his wife awoke, pleading him for an onion the same as she had last night, and not one to withhold anything from his wife, he dressed and climbed the fence again, this time brining home two onions.
The third night, she awoke again, and again he dressed, climbed the fence, he pulled up three large bulbs, white as the moon. But the witch was waiting for him this night, and before he could climb back over the fence, she caught him by the ankle, and pulled him to the ground.
“Oh please, I beg your forgiveness! It is for my wife, she is with child and wants nothing but your onions!” the merchant begged.
“Why have you no garden of your own, then?” replied the witch, “You take from me, because you have not the foresight to have provided for yourself. But these,” the witch motioned to the garden, “these are my children, my loved ones, they are no ordinary onions, they are magic. When the babe is born, she will also be magic. Because of your wickedness, you must give her to me to raise.”
The merchant was devastated, but returned home to his wife, who ate the three onions.
When the babe was born, the witch came and took her, locking her in a tower where the world could not touch her.
“...and so the merchant's daughter grew up in the tower, under the guidance of the witch," Murden's eyes met Gypsy's then, and time stood still for just a moment as amusement shaped her lips, "...if only the merchant had made use of his garden, if only he had not taken from the witch... but that would have been another story...”
Murden stepped down and took another great long drink from his flask. The crowd spoke amongst themselves as they shuffled off to bed.
The next day, the blacksmith stood peacefully hammering by his otherwise vacant fire. Where had all the ruffians gone?
Murden soon found out, as they all returned to the blacksmith that afternoon. Having spent the morning buying seeds, they each now needed a hoe.
Over the course of the next week, the yards of every member of the village had rows dug and planted.
Finnioan could hardly get his work done, there was always someone coming by to ask him advice on this or that. But many of the older children eagerly completed his work for him in exchange for learning from a master grower.
Seeds became a precious commodity, and the evenings were devoted to meetings about the cultivating of seeds, the best fertilizer, and how respond to changing weather.
Murden was on his way back from delivering another shovel to the Finnioan farm, when he came upon the home of one of the warriors from his first day around the blacksmith's fire.
The warrior, whose name is Specklaine, was now out in his garden, building a trellis for his beans.
At this moment, a village girl, by the name of Melinda, was on her way, carrying a basket of calendula. She swayed as she walked, the ribbons in her hair fluttering on the autumn breeze.
Specklaine crossed to the fence and whistled in appraisal.
Melinda frowned, “I'll thank you, sir, not to whistle at me as if I were an animal.”
“Oh, my deepest apologies,” Specklaine replied sarcastically, giving her a mock bow, “I had you confused with one of O'Derbie's milk cows. But now I see it was a mistake, for I know that O'Derbie would not braid ribbons in their hair.”
Melinda's face showed furious horror at his words before she turned up her nose and irately went on her way.
Murden passed by many gardens on his way back. Each one with a sweaty gardener, but an empty home. In the village, he saw many groups of be-ribboned ladies, swaying as they walked with their baskets; all of them talking amongst themselves happily, but keeping far from the rough menfolk.
That night, the great fire cast its flickering shadows across Murden's face as he stood before a rapped audience.
*****
GLYNDA AND THE LION
And so it was that the merchant's daughter came to live in the witch's tower. The witch called her Glynda, and taught her everything she knew of goodness and kindness, keeping her far from the dangers of the world.
Meanwhile, the merchant and his wife had many more children, who thrived along with their proliferous garden.
Until the day came for him to set off again on business.
On his way out of town, he stopped by Glynda's tower to say farewell and ask if there was anything she wished him to bring back to her. But Glynda, knew nothing of the world and therefore wanted nothing, she could not fathom what to ask for. She did, however, notice that her father did not look forward to his work, and simply replied that on his journey, he should stop and smell the roses. To which the merchant nodded seriously and galloped away.
He took his promise to heart, stopping by the roadside whenever he saw a rose and breathing in its sweet smell, remembering his family when he did so. And because of this, he had the best of luck in all his business dealings. But on the way back, he was in such a hurry to get home to his wife and children, that he rode all through the night and got lost in the woods.
Wandering, the merchant came upon a large garden full of roses. Scrambling over the fence, he eagerly smelled them, hoping they would give him the good luck he needed to get back to the road.
But alas, after wandering in the wood another day, he came right back to the same garden.
Then, the merchant had another idea. If he could pick one rose and take it with him, perhaps he could maintain his luck, not only on this journey, but in all future circumstances.
So the merchant climbed the fence and walked through the flowerbeds until he found the most perfect rose. Grasping the stem between his forefinger and thumb, he snapped it from the bush.
No sooner had he done so, than a terrible roar filled the silence of the garden, and a great huge beast sat before him, his glowing yellow eyes causing the merchant to tremble.
“Why would you pick this flower?!” he roared, “these are my beauties, my darlings, these are not ornaments to be plucked!!”
Meanwhile, the witch was sitting up in the tower with Glynda They were embroidering a tapestry depicting all the most lovely things they cold imagine.
“When will my father come home,” Glynda wondered aloud, “he was supposed to return yesterday.”
Now, the witch had a magic mirror which could show her anything she wished to see. She always brought it with her to the tower, so she could keep an eye on the world down below. And when she looked into it, she saw Glynda's father being chased from the garden by the beast.
“My sweet, the time has come to let down your hair and enter the world.'
And with that, the witch led Glynda down the stairs and onto a horse.
The horse took Glynda into the woods to the doorstep of the beast.
Glynda knocked on the door and it opened. The beast stayed in the shadows, and having never been taught of fear or threat, she did not look for anyone lurking about, she simply saw a dark room.
“Oh!” she said delightedly at the enchanted house which magically invited her in, “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Not knowing the etiquette concerning breaking and entering, she walked through the house until she found a room that seemed hospitable.
Overwhelmed with this new experience, Glynda lay upon the bed and fell fast asleep.
The beast did not know what to make of this woman. She did not cower or cry in terror at the sight of him like everyone else. She was like a sweet rose, blossoming, perfuming the air with her very being.
That evening, Glynda awoke to a great hunger, so she went downstairs to see if there was any food in the house. She gasped with delight when she saw the table was laid out with a beautiful meal.
Glynda could see the shadow of a great man sitting in the dark at the other end of the table.
“Oh! Why thank you,” she exclaimed as she crossed to the table, “I am Glynda” she curtsied and sat.
The beast did not know how to answer. He did not know how to care for anything but roses, so he carefully poured her a glass.
“'Mmmmmm!” Glynda let out as she appreciated the meal, “did you make all of this food? It's so delicious!”
Her dinner companion did not answer. He simply sat there silently in the dark.
They ate dinner together in this way, Glynda having a one sided conversation, the beast keeping her watered.
After diner, Glynda shivered. So the beast lit a fire, and as it unveiled his great hairy mass, his sharp menacing teeth, and his yellow ferrel eyes, Glynda gasped.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “how fluffy you are! How sparkling your smile, how warm your gaze!” and before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched his shoulder.
The beast, knowing only the touch of violence and fear, snarled ferociously and raised up a great claw, slashing Glynda's dress. In shame, he fell into the shadows, trembling.
Glynda stood there bewildered, a great hole in her dress. She gently approached his great cowering form.
“It's all right” she soothed. Then she stepped back to the fire to warm her hands. She looked down at her dress and she gave out a great laugh. She had never seen fabric rip apart and this was a wonder to her. She studied the clean tear that went all the way through three petticoats.
“Oh my!” Glynda was overjoyed, “You would be very very handy with my sewing projects!”
The beast's fear melted, and he came out of the shadows. He took her carefully in his great paws and gave her a gentle hug, careful not to crush her petals.
Glynda and the beast, spent many days together. He taught her of all practical things and she filled the house and garden with sunshine. And soon they were married and spent many nights together sewing by the fire, or strolling through the rose garden by moonlight.
******
The next day, not much work was done. Ladies found themselves branching off from their friends and strolling past sweaty gardeners. Men found themselves at their fences with glasses of water, talking patiently about flowers or ribbons or whatever else she had on her mind.
Over the course of the passing week, many picnics were had by the lake or under the apple tree. Many walks were taken by moonlight. Many hummed to themselves as they went about their work. And in a month, many happy weddings were performed.
In two months since he had arrived, Murden watched village life transform. The homes were full of love now and surrounded by thriving vegetation. With the inclusion of so many fresh herbs and vegetables to their meals, hardly anyone fell sick, and wounds healed quickly.
Murden never felt better in his life. He had never been able to do any good with his own people. And although this was a far corner of the world, he couldn't help but feel some pride and accomplishment here.
Murden stood at the well, splashing water on his face and arms from the bucket. It was a windy day, the kind that reminds you that winter is coming. He had hoped Gypsy-Rose would weave ribbons in her hair and come to the blacksmith fire with a basket of flowers in her hand. But she kept to herself. He had not seen her anywhere in weeks.
Enough is enough, Murden decided. He tucked in his shirt, pulled closed this leather jerkin, and set off to the house of the wise woman.
ALASTAIRE'S TABLE
Murden walked purposefully across town to the herbal woman's house. Nothing could stop him now, except...
There were rough footsteps behind him, “Calahan would like to see you. If you would,” a tough looking man said.
Murden entered the dark hut. A small lantern hung over a large table in the middle of the room covered in old maps and the remnants of a meal. Calahan sat upon a great chair. He waved in dismissal to the rough looking men who flanked him. The two men then stood alone in the dark hut.
“I don't know how you do what you do. I know nothing of magic, nor the ways of the mysteries. But I know what you do is magic, and I am grateful for it.”
He reached down beside his chair and brought up two cups, filling them with the decanter.
“I am not a young man. And I have no son, no heir. I see no man among my men who would take my place. But I know that many would try, when I'm gone. And I know this would lead to destruction...
“It is a good king who knows what his people can do, but he must also know what they will do in his absence."
A frigid wind blew through the cracks in the hut, and the lantern sputtered. Its light shimmered on racks of weapons, shields, and armor that were housed against the walls. The two men drew their cups to their beards, drinking in the weight of Calahan's words.
Calahan's eyes looked sadly at the table, “I need a story...” he said at last.
That night, at dinner, Calahan sat at the head of the table. He stood and raised his glass.
“Tonight, I'd like to say some words. Though many a night I have spoken to you as your friend, as your father, tonight, I'd like to speak to you as your king.” Calahan's eyes looked weary as he looked down, collecting his thoughts.
“The best thing you can do is to tend the land, be fruitful, as you have been. But you must not forget your old ways, you must not grow soft and so contented that you lie like sheep for the wolves...
“But neither should you become wolves. We are not sheep nor wolves... we are not animals, we are men. I do not have answers, I leave you only with a question. What is it to be human?”
With a shrug of bewilderment, they all drank.
During dinner, Murden sat absolutely bewildered over what kind of story to tell the people. How do you convince a bunch of men not to fight one another when the chief was gone.
“Psssst!” came from behind him. Murden assumed it was not meant for him until it came again, “Pssssst!!”
Murden turned around and nearly shouted at who he saw. He covered his mouth and ducked out of the clearing discreetly.
“Eliot!! What are you doing here?”
“I jumped in right behind you,” replied the young man standing before him.
“You jumped into that big black pot just after I did? How long have you been living in the woods?” Oscar exclaimed incredulously.
“No, I just now landed right over there,” Eliot pointed to the circle of trees behind him.
Oscar rubbed his head in disbelief.
“How long have you been here? And what's the story? Catch me up.” Eliot schemed.
Oscar briefly updated Eliot on his accomplishments thus far and what was now being asked of him. And Eliot listened intently.
“Hmmm... a story to produce a society of co-operation, a culture wherein everyone felt and acted like a leader... not so impossible.”
That night Murden stood on the standing stones of the bon fire.
“Tonight, we have a rare treat. The greatest bard who ever was has come to visit me and lend his talents to our humble ears.”
There was quite a stir in the crowd, for very rare was it to have visitors. Eliot, dressed in a borrowed robe – more befitting of a traveler than the jeans and t-shirt he came in – set a hush over the crowd upon his ascent
*****
ALASTAIRE'S TABLE
Once, there was a fine kingdom overlooking the sea. The king and all his finest warriors would get in their big ship and sail out over the world. They were great warriors, but alas, one day they sailed out and never returned.
In the kings absence, the people fought over who would be king, and the kingdom sank into ruins. The people lived in poverty, barely surviving amidst the angry feuds over who should take the king's place.
But, a curious thing happened. One day, outside the gates of the king's castle appeared a big stone. And in the stone was the king's sword – the very sword which should have been laying at the bottom of the sea. It was agreed that whosoever could pull the sword from the stone would be the next king.
All the biggest, strongest men came to try to pull it out. But it was no use. The sword was not a sword of strength, and it would not bend to the will of force. And so for years, no one was deemed worthy by the sword to be the next king...
Until, many years later, long after everyone had all but forgotten the magic sword, there was a small boy named Alastaire. He was the youngest son of a simple farmer whose farm lay just beyond the castle. Because he was the smallest and could do less of the farm work, he was sent to market with whatever they had to trade for things they didn't.
Alastaire was walking through the tents which the other farmers had put up to shade from the sun, when a great cart overturned, taking with it some of the tents. There was a great ruckus, and in the middle of it all, an old man was caught up in one of the tent ropes and strung up on a tree branch by his throat. He kicked wildly, his withered face turning red. The whole scene was a tangle of tents, ropes, feathers, and people screaming over their spoiled goods.
Amidst it all, Alastaire saw the old man dangling from the tree and he immediately looked around for something sharp. Spotting a sword glimmering out of the corner of his eye, he ran over, lifted it from where it lay and nimbly climbed the chaos to cut down the old man. The man lay gasping and grateful on the ground, as the dust settled, and Alastaire knelt by him to offer him a drink from his flask.
“You've taken the sword!” the old man said horsely, “Look! Look! Everyone, he's got the great sword, he has taken it from the stone!”
Everyone stared in amazement. And thus Alastaire became king.
This was quite a shock to the young boy, for he did not want to rule over anyone. And yet, he did not want to cause unrest. He didn't see why each person in the kingdom couldn't be their own ruler. After all, the people had survived this long without a king.
So, Alastaire had a great table made for his council. It was round like a wheel. And because it had no head and no tail, all who sat with him at this table were equal to all the others, no matter where he came from or who he had been.
Alastaire invited any who wanted, to join him at his table. Men from all across the countryside came to sit at Alastaire's round table. Whatever weighed heavy on a his heart was shared. All those at the table then came together, as friends and fellows, finding solutions, growing in wisdom and virtue.
Whosoever sat at Alastaire's table were forever changed. From that day on, wherever they rode, whatever they did, their hearts and deeds were noble, for they knew that all are truly their equal and treated them as such.
All those who were touched by the kindness of King Alastaire's knights, sought in turn to help their fellow countrymen in whatever way his neighbor could benefit, and all grew prosperous and happy.
And so it was that Eliot came to the village.
Calahan died that night in his sleep. And the villagers built a great round table, calling Eliot the king of all authors. By the wisdom of Murden and King Author, a golden age began for a small village in the woods.
What became of Sasha and Paco? What became of Viktor and the human race of the present? These are stories for another day. Why? Because, collectively, we are writing it right now.
SASHA Part I
BACK TO THE FUTURE
FOREWORD
Excellent, everything was going according to plan. Viktor gave a big sigh and took a long drink of his cocktail. Leaning back in Os' old study chair, he put his boots up on the desk and crossed his legs.
It was all so simple, so easy. They really are like sheep, he mused. Tell them a story and they go where you want them to. After taking over all television networks, news outlets, and movies, it was easy as pie. Viktor simply made the news whatever he wanted the people to think. He wrote the screenplays too. He even invented the pop charts, polls, and scientific discoveries. Viktor was very busy, but now his work was pretty much done, everyone was falling into line, too scared to leave their homes and so desperate, they'd do anything for a paycheck! Hahaha, it was so much more fun and effective to do this his way, why hadn't he wrestled the rulership from Oscar long ago. Although he did miss his brother... let's not let our emotions get the better of us now, Viktor, he reminded himself, time for a bit of fencing perhaps.
Viktor spent the afternoon fencing. This stirred up a marvelous appetite, and he took his dinner promptly at six. On the diner table was one of his newspapers.
A small article in the back of section D caught his eye.
Wait a minute, I didn't write this, Viktor thought
STUDENTS AT BAINBRIDGE ELEMENTARY RESTRUCTURE STUDENT BODY. It went on: students at Bainbridge Elementary unanimously voted on Tuesday to change the hierarchy of the student body. They decided to form a round table, giving each elected official equal voice. “We know we can do a lot more good by working together, instead of making one person the boss. And we believe we can find creative solutions that everyone can agree on and benefit from, and we refuse to enact any policy at another's expense,” Jared Almstead, fourth grade representative said. When asked what the inspiration for this new concept was, he said that they were inspired by a book about knights and the round table, an adaptation of an old folk tale.
Viktor laughed, kids do say the darnedest things.
He shrugged and went to bed.
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
Down, down, down. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Sasha had not a moment to think about stopping herself. Suddenly, thump! Thump! Down she came upon a heap of sticks.
It was as if she had fallen off the top bunk bed, Sasha was more startled than hurt. Feeling around blindly, the “sticks” revealed themselves to be mops and brooms. She resourcefully set about to locate the door.
Sasha emerged into a bright hallway. As far as she could see to the left and the right there were white doors. Closing the small broom closet door gently behind her, she started walking, hoping to find one of her companions. Her dusty sneakers squeaked against the polished checkered floors with each step, exaggerating the silence.
Where was she, she wondered? Last thing she remembers, she was standing in a tent where that blond guy asked who wanted to follow Oscar into the big black cauldron, after which Eliot hoisted himself up, gave an adventurous smirk and fell backwards into the blackness. Not to be outdone, Sasha followed, going headlong into the unfathomable depths. She could only guess that Paco was not far behind her. But where were Os and Eliot?
She tried one of the doors. Locked. Then, before she could run or cry out, there were two men with dark glasses, each grabbing an arm, and everything went as black as the broom closet she had just exited.
“Who sent you,” the voice asked.
“Aaaaaaaaaa” she screamed out and choked. This cleared her head. If she could have she would have jumped up and shaken off the jolt, but obviously, whoever she had trespassed upon wasn't interested in her getting away without answers.
She quickly assessed her surroundings. From her horizontal position, it was hard to get her bearings. An overhead spotlamp washed out any vision of the room, but she could feel cold stainless steal at her back through her thin t-shirt. Her right arm felt tingly, like pins and needles, and it was held in an unnatural angle.
“Who sent you,” the voice repeated. It sounded like a man, middle aged, average size... damn it Sasha, she told herself, how're you gonna get yourself out of this one? This was her first run-in with a professional.
“You will not escape, you can relax and answer my questions, or we can do this the hard way. Hard for you, not the least hard for me,” she could hear him grin with self satisfaction at his cinematic dialogue... monologue... whatever.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaa” she heard her own voice echo. This must be a very large room. The last shock was a touch stronger. Think, think, answer his question, who was he? Where even was this? She couldn't think of a reason to keep the answer a secret.
“Sun-sunali” she answered.
There was a pause, a silence. Confusion. He had no idea who that was.
“AAAAAAAAAAAA” this shock came from her middle finger and shot up the side of her head to her temple. Her back felt clammy and her arms and legs like ice. She shivered and noticed herself trembling. Mind over matter.
“Suvali,” there was another silence, so she quickly filled it with something, anything, “I – I'm from the future.... me and, and Eliot, AAAAAAAAAAAchhk” she almost sneezed at the end and then groaned. Damn it Sasha, never let them know.
But the shocks continued. It didn't matter what she said, she knew, this was for sport, this was a game of chicken.
After the sweat and the shivering,
The trembling turns to shaking,
Time looses consistency,
Everything turns very white,
Despair then becomes euphoria,
And that is when it stops. The light turns out. And there is only the cold, hard metal table and the burning at the corner of the eyes where tears wore down a salty trail.
The cold, smoothness of the linoleum felt good against the side of her face, but she didn't want to open her eyes, she didn't want to remember where she was. Where was she anyways?
There was a greenish tinge to the florescent light. The room was very small but completely empty. Concrete walls. A large industrial door. And sitting right in front of the door was a small silver plate with the largest, reddest pomegranate Sasha had ever seen.
She slowly pulled herself vertical. Big mistake. Her head throbbed. What had happened? She could hardly remember the events of the previous day. Had it only been a day? Everything felt so strange. Like she was floating. Like a drug hang-over.
She stared at the deep red fruit, sitting menacingly on it's silver platter. The red pearls promised an oasis from her thirst and fatigue, but she knew her greek mythology. Do not eat the fruit. She pulled herself back against the far wall, pulled her legs close, knees to her chin, and waited.
Sasha stayed like this for days. Sometimes she slept, always awakening to a fresh pomegranate, the old ones growing soft. This was the way she counted time.
The door opened. The big door. A man loomed in, grabbed both of Sasha's arms, lifting her out. A woman in uniform stood there with a syringe.
Everything turned to liquid. The walls danced, they became waves crashing in on each other as they proceeded to their destination.
Curiouser and curiouser, she heard herself thinking, and then she fell to dreaming, violent, beautiful dreams.
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
`How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!'
She was unaware of being dumped in a large tank of water and sinking to the bottom. The world of dreams gave Sasha such sweet relief, she didn't care if she ever woke up.
She found herself on her back with the cold metal table underneath her and the bright light above her and the indistinguishable presence around her and the pain consuming her.
“Oh the beauty when the mind and body give up, oh the salvation when the soul takes flight” said the voice.
It was a soothing voice, Sasha wanted to hear it again, was she falling in love with the voice? The pain enveloped every thought, the room got brighter, her heart pumped a terrified rhythm, and her thin t-shirt saturated with sweat.
Then, it happened, something greater grew inside her, from deep in her gut, a power beyond herself. It percolated and condensed, seeming to draw power from the air. It grew until it matched the pain shooting up her right arm and she screamed.
It wasn't the savage scream of pain she had previously tried to squelch, it was a predatory expression of rage. Powerful enough to match the voltage entering her finger. As she screamed, she pushed the light away, sitting upright. She knew only one thing, nothing could stop her from attacking the voice.
Sasha gasped. She was being pulled from the water tank by a complex pulley system. She had a raging headache. The woman in uniform checked her blood pressure and other vitals. She velcroed weights onto Sasha's ankles.
“He wants to do it again right away,” she said to the large man beside her as she filled another syringe. The cold cotton ball kissed Sasha's arm and the sting of the needle invaded her fluids with more adventures.
This was not at all like the last time, Sasha's heart raced, she felt wide awake. The large man grabbed her arms, walked up the steps to the tank, and threw her in. Her arms ached where he held her. The weights pulled her to the bottom. Sasha cried out uncontrollably, letting all the air out of her lungs, but maybe that was for the best, she would drown quicker. Soon her vision dimmed and her body gave up the fight.
Back on the table, under the light.
“Very good,” said the soothing voice, “you are doing very very well.”
Sasha gasped the beautiful air deep into her lungs, relieved. Her eyes stung with the brightness, the cold table seared her back, only the voice guided her through the darkness.
The pain began, slowly at first, but steadily grew, and grew, and grew. It didn't stop, it didn't slow, it just escalated. Sasha thought she would pass out, she prayed she would, she asked for death – anything to stop the pain. The room grew bright, the table drenched with sweat, her body shivered and shook.
And then.
And then, it was as though Sasha were suspended in a space of endless nothingness. Something new formed inside her, emanating from deep within her and echoing into the black void around her. All external sensations yielded to this power, as she herself yielded. It was pure starlight. It was a promise of love and eternity that had been there since the beginning of time. It was endless benevolence.
I Am, it said.
And she cried it out into the universe, transcendent and absolute.
The light above that cold table turned off, the pain stopped.
“We are done for today,” said the voice.
SASHA PART II
It was the most beautiful place she had ever been: a forest of luminescent trees. The sky was black and filled with stars. Am I stuck in a fairytale now, she wondered, looking down at her gauzy nightgown. A small white bunny stopped in front of Sasha on the trail and bravely stared into her eyes follow me it seemed to say. Is this an acid trip? Sasha wondered. The bunny hopped ahead and she followed it.
They traveled together through the woods until they reached a stream. The bunny stopped, sniffed the air - almost pointing with its tiny nose in the direction Sasha was to continue - and scurried into the crystalline bushes.
Sasha hiked up her nightgown and adeptly forged the stream with one leap. The soft earth absorbing her bare feet. What a beautiful place. There was a calming effect here. She walked onward, and after a short time, the path grew steep, winding up a great hill. At the top, Sasha found a charming landing with a small gazebo.
She felt someone behind her at the trail head, but she didn't turn around.
"You found my quiet place," said the voice. The voice!
Spinning around, Sasha looked upon a man. The voice. In the flesh. He stood there dignified, all in black, with his black hair slicked back.
"This is where I come to think," he stepped forward, "but tonight I have brought you here to ask for your help. You see, I am the king of your world, but I have lost my kingdom."
"How? How did you loose your kingdom?" Sasha heard herself saying.
"Because of the stories. You see, I can only exist in a world where people remember who I am, as the authority," His eyes grew dark, "But there are these stories, stories I didn't write, treasonous stories, the people are all reading these fairy tales which tell them to lead themselves," he glared into the distance formidably, but remembered himself and approached Sasha gently, taking her arm and leading her into the gazebo at the edge of the cliff.
"So they have forgotten their true leader, they are dissolving into chaos while I am stuck in limbo... unless," he pet her hand, "unless someone very special can refresh their memory." He took both her hands and gazed earnestly into her eyes, beholding her humbly from the depth of his gratitude.
"You... you have no idea how much I..." he stopped himself, turning out to look over the scene below, the diamond trees, and in the distance the golden trees, and beyond that, the silver trees. It reminded Sasha of a park she used to go to some nights, up in the hills, and when she looked out over the city, it looked as though humanity had shot down all the stars, and they lay sprawled out dead in the city. But here, the stars mirrored the brilliance of the forest.
"I very much need someone who can rule, who will act on my behalf, and save the human race. Someone very special, who sees beyond the veil, who sees what is in the best interest of humanity, when they cannot see it for themselves. Will you come to their rescue in their hour of desperation?"
Sasha stood frozen. The moment soaked into her through her thin clothing as the breeze blew around her. She stood as a sentinel atop the mountain, a beacon of unmoving willpower. She knew the pestilence that spread through humanity. She had seen it every day. She had stood on the fringes of society watching the virus spread with every hateful act. Someone had to do something. Was it her? Was this her calling? She looked out over the stars above and below. She thought of the souls of the world crying out for change. A catalyst. A symbol of destruction, of hope, of unity.
Destiny. A powerful word.
It was someone's destiny. Is this hers?
“Yes.”
She heard herself say, but she did not feel like she knew the whole of what she was saying. Was this job something of which she was capable? She felt numb and tingly. The man in black stepped forward, grabbed her by the triceps. She felt very weak. You will be more than ready, and they will be ready for you, she felt his promise as darkness enveloped her.
Sasha woke slowly. She sat up but hadn't cleared her eyes. She felt soft cushions against her back, silk. Rubbing her eyes, she then looked around. She found herself in a richly tapestried room, a fire crackling at a marble hearth, and herself sitting in the largest four-poster mahogany bed she had ever dreamed of, its botanical carvings inspired by tropical destinations. Pulling back the abundant covers and jumping down from the mattress, she explored the room.
“Shall we continue?” said the voice, Sasha jumped, "you cannot see me, I am a ghost in this world, but now, because of all our hard work, I can touch you. You see?"
A lock of Sasha's hair flew up before her eyes and danced like a charmed snake. She shrieked, leaping backwards in surprise.
"Do not be afraid. I will give you anything you desire. But we must continue our work," the voice traveled around the corner to an adjoining room.
She heard water flowing, and discovered a white marble bathroom, in the center of which sat an oval bathtub. She unbuttoned her silk pajamas and slipped into the bubbly water. She knew what would happen somehow, but she didn't resist.
A gentle hand pet her hair once, twice, and then pushed her under.
The warm water encroached into every crevice of her eyes, ears, hair, enveloping her senses with a soft peace. Sasha accepted this like medicine. She felt her body with all its needs, cry out. Fear, pity, confusion washed through her as layers of mortality gave way to her essence. She was then floating free above the scene. She could look down on herself lying in the bath, see her knees peeking up among the bubbles, her arms flopped over the side of the bathtub like dead fish. But what's more, she saw the voice, the man from her dream, dressed all in black, bent over the tub.
She came down next to him. Playfully, Sasha rubbed his black hair, which moved like tall grass in the breeze. She giggled audibly.
His arms jerked out of the water and he reeled back, away from where she was, "is that you?... is that..." a smile of recognition creased the edges of his mouth, "it is you, you can see me, I can hear you!"
Sasha then felt herself floating upwards towards the ceiling. She had gone too far and couldn't stop herself. Bright shimmering light permeated her vision, dissipating the room around her, filling her with utter and complete acceptance. She wished this feeling would never end, and yet she could not remember anything but this feeling, as though she had always felt this way, and everything else was just a forgotten dream.
"No!" he panicked, as he pushed himself up, and quickly reached into the water, dragging her out, "not yet, stay with me, come back to me."
Sasha woke on the cold marble floor in a pool of water. Coughing and sputtering, she gagged up water. Alone.
The closet was full of fine clothes - long robes and gowns like in her dream. She threw on a gauzy nightgown and a heavy robe. Exploring the room, she found a silver tray containing a lone pomegranate sitting on the table in the entryway to her suite. She was quite hungry. What was she supposed to do here anyway? Was she trying to escape? Find Os, Eliot, and Paco? The "magic cauldron" or whatever that was she jumped into had brought her here. Maybe it brought her here for a reason.
She bore a finger into the fruit, tearing back the thin flesh of the pomegranate, and one by one ate its seeds. It was then she smelled roast chicken, and saw wisps of steam rising from the other side of the great bouquet that decorated the table. Her stomach burned with anticipation as she circled the table and, without the wits to look for a carving knife or silverware, tore off a drumstick and ravished it, she would find napkins later. Sasha was quickly full and sat in the chair by the fire while polishing off a glass of wine. She was so sated, she fell asleep where she sat.
Days passed in isolation. The door was locked. No one came to tell her anything, not even the man in black or his voice. Food appeared, dishes disappeared. I wish there was a cat, thought Sasha, or some music... something. She had stopped sleeping days ago.
Lying upside-down in an overstuffed chair by the fire, she yearned for the weightlessness again.
"Well, why can't I do it myself?" she asked herself aloud, "maybe I don't need anyone else".
She drew a bath, warm and bubbly. She slipped out of her gown and slipped into the water. With a sigh, Sasha submerged her head, preparing for bliss. She felt the emptiness, the dizziness, the struggle set in... but at that critical moment, the body takes over. No matter how many times she tried, Sasha couldn't stay under the water long enough. She stayed in the tub, even after she turned pruny and the water cold, staring at the spot on the ceiling where she had been so euphoric, enveloped with that perfect love. All she wanted was that feeling back, was that too much to ask?
"Trapped, trapped, trapped," she said to the congregation of apothecary jars lined up on the vanity counter, "why... why... why... because!" she chastised herself, "you asked for this. You always wished to be left alone by the world, warm and fed. Now you have your wish, you have to live with it."
And so she did. She broke her bread, she brushed her teeth, and went to bed... Without sleeping.
And so it was, that Sasha learned - everything can be torture. Pleasure and comfort bring their own pain, when one knows their body holds them prisoner from the truth. From the wonderland, that waits just beyond the veil.
Sasha lay in bed with her head hanging off the end. She imagined herself flying above her body, looking down on the world, feeling that everything is going to be ok, knowing that it is perfect, and free from pain.
"THAT'S IT!" she sat up suddenly, "Pain. There was something we were missing: a nudge, an assistant..."
Desperately, nightgown aflutter, she flew into the bathroom, opened the drawers under the vanity, searching for an assistant, anything sharp would do. "We must continue our work," she justified. But the search came up empty. "What do I do?" she asked herself in the mirror, "what, what what?" she asked the apothecary jars. I'll help you, said the littlest jar. "You will?" Sasha was touched by his sacrifice, but she wasted no time. She picked him up and gave him a kiss. Then holding him up, exalted, she tipped her hand upside down, sending him hurtling to his death. After retrieving a shard from its porcelain grave, Sasha sat cross legged on the floor with her prize. "Just enough to assist... in our work..."
Sasha ran a fresh bath, threw in some soap for bubbles, lit some candles. With a deep satisfied sigh, she slipped into the hot water.
Sasha held the shard point side down and pressed the tip into her index finger. She closed her eyes. She inhaled, and then pressed deeper. The sting brought her senses alive. With every breath, she pressed deeper. With every breath, the burn in her finger spread throughout her body, emancipating her from it. Like Moses.
"Let my people go!" she laughed, deliriously.
SASHA PART III
One minute she was in the bath, the next minutes she was soaring over the city. Over rooftops and streets. She flew down to an apartment window. Everyone inside was gathered around the television. The news was playing.
“The queen ordered a cease-fire against rebel fighters today. Her merciful wisdom gives the world hope for our future prosperity. Troops will continue to occupy, to maintain order. Construction on brand new church and state buildings for the fallen city will begin next week, as we bring life, freedom, and happiness to the primitive victims of this terrorist rebel regime...”.
Sasha flew onward to numerous windows, all with the same news story of how Viktor's army was conquering the world, conforming it at gunpoint, to his vision of order. She felt sick, nauseous. Why was Viktor doing this? Sasha rested on a rooftop as the sun was setting.
But it was then that she saw it.
Her world turned upside down as her mouth dropped open.
In front of her was a large billboard. She could not breathe.
Big black letters “Life, Freedom, Happiness, this is what I fight for”.And a fifty foot picture of her own smiling face.
Suddenly, the past few weeks came back to her. The photo-shoots, the interviews, the press-talks... she had been very busy, and all the while Viktor was standing beside her, orchestrating the whole scenario. She was his queen. She had caused this, she was building him his perfect world, and the people ate it up like they couldn't get enough.
Sasha's vision was blurry with tears. How could she live with herself? She jumped off the rooftop and soared higher, higher, higher up into the stratosphere. Deep within her screamed the question “WHY?”.
Why?
Why....
Finally exhausted, Sasha floated sadly through the dark nothing.
“Please, will you draw me a sheep?” said a little voice.
Sasha opened her eyes. A hand held out a piece of paper and a pencil. Sasha took it and proceeded to draw a stick-person and handed it back, “you want to know what a sheep looks like? I should know, I'm their sheepdog,” she said wiping her eyes.
She looked up at the figure before her, “Paco?!” she shouted.
“Hey!” he replied, “I have to show you something”.
“I can't believe it!! Where...what... what's going on? Where are Oscar and Eliott?”
“This is what I've come to tell you,” Paco led Sasha down to the window of a child's bedroom. A little girl was lying in bed, reading. The room filled with the little girl's visions. Knights in shining armor stood in a circle, swords drawn together. The knights jumped on their horses and rode off to tame dragons, save princesses, bring justice, and keep peace.
Sasha and Paco flew to another window, where an older boy was reading, and his visions contained a great round table with a king and his knights in conference. Behind him stood a tall man dressed in bright white, holding a staff.
“Look closer,” said Paco.
Sasha did.
“It's Eliott and Oscar!!” she exclaimed, “How did they get inside the stories?”
“The great cauldron sent them to the ancient days. Sasha, do you remember when you told Oscar about how much that story transformed your life? Well, he has applied that theory to the ancient people, and Eliott has continued with his story of the round table, with much success. But there's something no one could have anticipated. Their stories survived and are inspiring the people now,” Paco was out of breath from excitement.
“Viktor was talking about this. I think he's catching on. He'll use this towards his own ends. He'll trick the people into carrying out his plan for him.”
“Wait, you haven't seen the best part,” Paco said. He pointed his finger up to the sky and it moved until the sky was dark and full of stars, "wait until they fall asleep". Sasha and Paco stood in the dark, watching, as wispy figures floated up from out of their sleeping bodies and came together in a circle and then flew off around the world.
“They are working together in their dreams to loosen the grid of control around the world. Viktor's plans may be the perfect storm for an entirely new kind of human nature,” Paco's eyes sparkled with gleeful irony.
“What do I do?” Sasha pleaded, “if I stay, Viktor will keep using me as his queen, but how do I escape? Where do I go?”
The two stood there, hand in hand, watching the beautiful ghostly figures rise up, come together, and jet off, like northern lights.
“I don't know,” Paco replied earnestly, “it's a nice view from up here. We forget that the world has been through unimaginable darkness. It took leaders like Viktor to pull us through, survive the madness, convince us that we will survive, but now we stand at the threshold of revelations. I believe in the perfection of the universe, there is a reason for everything.”
With that, Sasha woke up.
SASHA PART IV
She did not wake up in the warm bathtub, however, but on a frigid rocky hill.
“What the hell am I doing here?” Viktor paced the small level area.
“I-I don't know,” Sasha answered, rubbing her eyes, “Hey! You're here... with me!”
“I was in the middle of some very important... you mean... can you see me?” Viktor became aware of himself and smoothed his hair, straightened his vest.
Sasha stood, brushing off her dressing robe and explored the area.
There was no sign of the city, but down the other side of the hill looked to be a small village preparing for dusk.
“Excuse me, just where are you going?” Viktor was clearly not very flexible about this change in his schedule.
“I'm going to find shelter,” she answered simply.
“Don't you care about getting back?!”
“No, and even if I did, I don't see how freezing to death up here is going to help” Sasha didn't even turn around.
“There has to be some-” Viktor looked up into the sky as though if he jumped high enough, he would go back the way he came. “YOU!” he accused, “You did this! You whisked us both away with your... your witchcraft. Who ARE you?” Viktor had to yell over the sound of the wind as he hobbled down the hillside after Sasha.
“Isn't it a little late to be asking me? Besides, you didn't believe me when I told you,” Sasha brushed him off over her shoulder like a fly.
“Listen, You, I am a very important person, I don't think you realize what-”
“No,” Sasha whirled around and glared into Viktor's eyes, “I don't think you realize what you're dealing with, and if for one second, you make me regret what I went through for you, I will.”
“You'll what,” Viktor looked doubtful.
“I will forget you entirely,” she said simply and watched his eyes grow wide.
“But what about the people?! I have to get back to the city, the press releases and-”
“HA! Oh yes, the people were benefiting so well from your little stories,” Sasha yelled over her shoulder as she took up her pursuit for shelter.
“They were! Let me ask you something, missy, you think you know how to lead? You think you can change people, no less dependent than a baby, who wouldn't know what to think, what to do, without someone there to tell them. How do you set such people free?” Viktor pulled his jacket tightly around him, “They have chosen servitude again and again, should I take away their choice then? How is that freedom?”
“I feel sorry for you,” Sasha answered as they neared the town, “you are SO out of touch.”
Sasha Part V
Sasha stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the village. No one seemed to be out, and no one seemed to be home. All of the light and sound was coming from a building in the center.
Sasha walked forward with confidence.
“Wait, what are you doing?” cautioned Victor, “They could be unfriendly, they could injure us, burn us at the stake, we don't know these people or what they are capable of.”
“Paranoid much?” Sasha looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear and turned to Viktor, “Don't speak. You must, must,” she emphasized, “remain silent.”
Sasha approached the brightly lit hall and heard the inhabitants clanking away at their meal. It was a huge building, surrounded by a deck and crowned with crossed beams in the shape of ox horns. There was no door, so Sasha merely stood in the doorway and waited for someone to notice her. Finally, someone did.
“Ey!” shouted a man, looking at Sasha “Oooo, ar yuuu?!”
Everyone stopped eating, looked up from their plates, and fell silent.
Sasha stepped into the light with her hands raised. Not a tall person back in modern days, she dwarfed every adult in the room by at least a foot, and the fact that they were draped in heavy furs made her look even smaller.
“I am a traveler, I have journeyed from a far distant land,” she tried to speak boldly and not let her shivers make her seem weak, “the gods have led me to your village by some miracle!”
The townspeople exchanged wide eyed looks at the mention of the gods and Sasha knew she had hooked them. The gods have sent her here, and they are watching to see how we treat their messenger. She must be, for no one could travel alone with no belongings, no pony, not around these parts.
They looked at her small figure, dressed in that thin nightdress, shivering in the candlelight. Someone leapt up and draped a heavy leather cloak about her shoulders, someone else stood to make room for her at the table and others piled food onto a plate and gave her a round golden cup, decorated ornately, to drink from. They watched her closely, whispering in reverence. She was so different from anyone they had ever seen, and although she did not threaten them, they were curious.
All this while, Viktor stood in the doorway, arms crossed, entirely unnoticed by anyone.
After Sasha had had her fill of food and the mead was warming her belly, someone finally spoke up. He sat at the front of the room, in a large chair decorated with horns and antlers, Sasha took him to be their leader.
“So, traveler, “ he bellowed for all to hear, “Tell us, what news have you to give us?”
Sasha stood slowly and summoned the courage to fill the room with her answer.
“There is much I can tell you, but I must begin at the beginning, for it is unlikely that you have heard of The Summerlands?” oh shoot, Sasha, you better know what you are doing... she said to herself as the room murmured in curiosity.
Sasha then grabbed her cup and stood on the bench so all could see her.
“First, a toast, to your hospitality and to the gods,” not knowing what a 'toast' is exactly, they got the idea and a hearty response was followed by the silence of drinking.
“Once,” said Sasha, theatrically, emboldened by the mead,
* * * * * *
Many many years ago, there was a gloriously perfect kingdom. It was ruled by a great king. The land was prosperous and the people were happy.
As things happen in utopias, a child was born. A perfect heiress for this perfect kingdom. They named her Dawn.
At her Christening, all 12 fairies were invited. The King and Queen sent for them to bestow gifts upon the child.
And they did.
They gave her love, joy, beauty, harmony, compassion, intelligence, humor, grace, empathy, strength, curiosity … but the King and Queen neglected to invite the Old Witch, the Ancient One. And just before the twelfth fairy was going to bestow the twelfth gift, she showed up. She pushed past all of the guests, and stood menacingly over the baby.
“I have a gift for the little baby...” her voice dripped with menace. The king and queen stood helplessly-by, terrified of her dark and evil power.
“When she is 16, and has had enough of all your love and light and happiness,” she spat, “she will know death.”
The Old Woman's mouth curled up, she closed her ancient eyes, and gave a deep chuckle. Her knobbly hand pat the cradle affectionately, and she was gone.
Oh what a to-do was made by the court. This child was the hope and celebration of the whole kingdom, and now she was condemned to death? The fairies conferred amongst themselves, and one was pushed in front of the cradle.
“Your majesties,” she said nervously, “there is some hope, for I have not given my gift, and there is a way to... to remedy the curse.”
The king and queen nodded in approval and the little fairy prepared her magic.
“Little princess, when the day comes for you to know death, you shall fall into a deep sleep, so that it can only find you in your dreams,” the fairy glanced up at the king and queen, and timidly retreated back into the throngs.
Sleep was certainly better than death, but to take extra precautions, it was decided that Baby Dawn should not grow up in the castle, where it would be easy for death to find her, but she should be secreted away, where not even she would know of her true heritage, and so, could not attract the evil eye of the Ancient Witch.
So Princess Dawn grew up, ignorant of all of this. Instead, she lived the life of a peasant's daughter, deep in the woods.
Midnight, on her 16th birthday, the Old Witch came to her.
She cleared her throat loudly, and Dawn awoke with a start.
“My dear, I have come to free you,” she spoke frankly, leaning on a gnarled walking stick, “They have kept the truth hidden from you, so I have come to teach you the ways of the world.”
“Oh?” Dawn was indeed loving, joyful, beautiful, harmonious, compassionate, intelligent, funny, graceful, empathic, strong, and curious, so she did not question the motives of this wise old woman before her.
“Come with me,” she said, leading Dawn up into the attic. The old woman hobbled over to an old twelve-spoked spinning wheel. “This is the year, yes? With its four seasons and its twelve months.” she said, pointing to the wheel, “ And it goes round and round and round” the old woman then sat down at the wheel and began to spin it, threading the bobbin as she spun. “And one day, you will die,” she took up a sharp knife, and snipped the string off. Dawn was indeed intelligent, and she stood there for a moment, watching the wheel spin wildly, yarnless, she tried to wrap her head around this foreign concept. A look of puzzled surprise came over her face, and she was about to raise a question, when she fell to the floor.
The Ancient Witch laughed to herself. Gone had been the days when she ruled over the kingdom, and she had long been an outcast, unwelcome as each new paradigm drew her farther and farther out of people's memory. Now, with no heiress, the kingdom would be thrown into chaos, and she could easily take the throne. She would show them the death of their heiress, and they would all fall at her mercy.
However, Dawn was not alone. She had never been alone, she had always had one fairy or another looking after her, and when the fairy saw what the Old One had done, she flew straight away, to gather all the fairies and commence Operation Dreamtime. The fairies planned that in such an event that the 13th gift were fully bestowed, to prevent any melancholy in the kingdom, everyone would be put into a magical sleep until such a time that they could awaken her.
And so the Ancient Witch easily overtook the sleeping kingdom, feeling quite satisfied with herself. And the fairies wend into hiding.
Sasha Part VI
The townsfolk made Sasha a bed of firs beside the fire in the great hall. The minute her head hit the pillow, it began to snow. A frigid wind roused her from her bed. There, in the doorway was a boy.
“Paco?” she inquired.
“My friends call me Pan now,” he said with a confidant chuckle, holding out his hand. Sasha took it, and the two of them flew up into the night sky.
“How did I do? Did the story survive?”
“I'll show you,” Paco set them down upon a rooftop in the modern city.
The snow still fell upon it, just as it had in the ancient village, the moon still shone down upon it, the same moon that had counted the months for ages before.
The snow still fell upon it, just as it had in the ancient village, the moon still shone down upon it, the same moon that had counted the months for ages before.
And just as before, she and Paco waited and watched to see what the children would do in their dreams. Faintly, Sasha saw the ghostly shadow of a dreaming child as he rose from one of the houses. How beautiful, how graceful, how etherial. Out of nowhere, a dark shadow came and consumed him. Sasha could see the little boy struggling inside its black monster. The monster grew wings made of soot, and with a great heave, flew up into the stars with the tiny, pure spirit trapped within its belly.
Sasha observed the scene with horror as each angelic figure rose from their bed and was swallowed by a night dragon.
“But...” she turned helplessly to Paco, “they aren't able to come together anymore.”
“No, no they are not,” he said with a crooked smile.
“How can you be smiling? I did this. I did. It's all my fault! Those children cannot undo what Viktor has done, and the people will be trapped in darkness forever,” Sasha's eyes were full of angry tears.
Pan held Sasha's shoulders and kissed her forehead, “Dearest Sasha, have you forgotten your own story? When death came for you, what did you do? Who was your champion?”
“...I was.”
“How else can anyone know their power?”
And with that, Sasha woke up. .
The next night, after dinner, the villagers at one table began to tap their steins on the thick wooden table, until the whole room joined them in a thunderous noise.
“Saga, saga, saga, saga...” they chanted. It took Sasha a second to realize that they were calling for her. And so, she swallowed her beer and stood upon the table. The crowd hushed, and Sasha spoke:
“Aaaaaand so!!! The great dark witch ruled the land while the princess slept along with all her subjects. Dream after dream, death threatened her in endless torture.
“But before the fairies had gone into hiding, they left seven little dwarfs to watch over her and help her through.” Sasha paused. She wanted to put herself and her friends in the story. She needed the children to know that there were people looking out for them, friends they could call upon for support.
“There was Happy, Smarty, and Tough,” Sasha said, thinking of Paco, Eliott, and herself, “Compassionate and Strict,” she thought of Oscar and Victor, “Mystery and Possibility” she declared, referring to Sunali and Suvali.
“But far far away, there were those who did not know the princess and so, were not asleep. They lived under the black curse of the witch, in eternal winter. The witch sent her son, Dread to watch over the land and keep it in darkness. However, the strongest and bravest men had erected a great and sturdy hall, where the fires were always lit, much like this one, and men could gather to drink, sing, and tell stories – at least to keep the memory of laughter and summertime alive.
“But their security was short lived, for what Dread hated most was merriment, and even the glimmer of hope in the hearts of men caused violent hatred. He soon found them, snatching up warriors, eating them alive. Dread came regularly, and soon, news of the great hall's defeat spread, deflating what little hope the people had.
“However, there was one little warrior who decided to stand up to this monster. One night, as the few remaining hall dwellers slumped in the corners, nursing their mead steins, a voice was at the door.
“'Light the fires, my friends, for I have come to slay the monster!!'
“This was done, but when they saw who stood there, they shook their heads, 'You are a tiny man, you cannot defeat the great Dread!' they said.
'A bee is small, yet it has a terrible sting,' answered the little warrior, undaunted.
“So he was let in, and everyone waited for Dread. First they felt the ground shake under his terrible feet, next heard his deep growl, and finally they saw his great, glistening eyes dilate in the firelight as Dread set upon the hall. Someone threw the little warrior a sword, but he threw it back, saying 'The beast does not fight with a sword, so neither shall I. Otherwise, it would not be fair.'
“The great beast huffed and puffed, infuriated by these humans, their penchant for joy, for merriment, an abomination to him. The very thought of their existence enraged him. But when he entered the lit hall and saw the little warrior standing alone with his bare hands ready, he laughed.
“'YOU?! You think you can match ME?! I, who have claws as big as ram's horns and teeth as sharp as knives. You are but a tiny man!!!' and he gave another great laugh.
'I may be small, my mouth and fingers blunt, but I shall use all of these things to defeat you,' said the little warrior, and he jumped upon the great giant and climbed up his back. The monster reeled, grasping up his back, trying to throw the little man off. The warrior climbed up to Dread's head, his little hands clung tight to his hair, and he whispered into his ear 'I know of your endless suffering. There is only one way to find relief.'
“'HOW!!' shouted Dread, infuriated that he could not pulverize this impudent man soon enough to quench his violent thirst.
“'You must have knowledge, only then can you have wisdom, and only then will you find relief from this darkness' he replied into the demon's ear.
“'GIVE IT TO ME!!!' cried the giant, and the little man hung from his hair by his teeth, swung around to the giant's face, reached around the giant's eye-ball and adroitly snapped it out of its great socket.
The monster screamed in pain and fell to the ground in shock. The little warrior ran to the river and threw the eye-ball into the water.
The whole hall rejoiced.
“'You are a bee!! With the heart of a wolf!!' they shouted, and so named the little warrior Beewolf.
“'Thank you my friends, but I am no different than any of you, and neither is the monster I defeated. While he suffered, all of us suffered, so let us pray that when he wakes, he indeed has the wisdom I have promised him'.
“The people were terrified, but they trusted Beewolf. When the sleeping giant woke, he was calm and peaceful, for just as one eye looked around the hall, his other eye was traveling around the world. At first this was simply distracting, but in time, the giant learned many things from his itinerant eyeball and did indeed become very wise.
“One day, his eye came upon a castle, in a land far away. Everyone in this land was asleep, and in the highest tower slept a fair maiden. He did not know what this meant, but when he told Beewolf about what he saw, it was clear, that this would be their next adventure.”
The Seven
That night, Sasha lay her head on the pillow, expecting to join Paco overlooking the sleeping city. Instead, she found herself overlooking the world. And Paco was not the only one there, Eliott, Oscar, Sunali, Suvali, and Viktor were also in attendance.
“Good Job Sasha!!” Eliott greeted her with a hug.
“Yes, excellent work,” Sunali agreed, nodding with his brother.
“Oh my gosh, what are you guys doing here?” Sasha was mystified.
“From what we can deduce, you told a story which spread through mass consciousness” Eliott explained.
“A story about all of us being together and it is mass consciousness which has brought us together,” Oscar finished.
“It must have been the story of the seven dwarfs watching over the sleeping princess,” Sasha was fascinated by this phenomenon.
“Well that explains why all the women down there seem to be so out of it,” Paco laughed.
“What other stories have you guys been telling?” Suvali asked, staring thoughtfully down at the people of Earth.
“Everyone in my camp seems to love the stories of the Knights of the Roundtable,” offered Eliott.
“I told one about a little man who conquers a big monster,” said Sasha, “but it was a metaphor, I was trying to help the kids defeat the astral demons I created when I told the story of the princess who dreams over and over of death...”
“Oh dear. Well, then that explains why the men are all at war trying to play super hero,” explained Suvali.
“Okay guys, here's what we've got to do...”
The seven concocted a plan. A plan to free humanity. Bring them back to who they truly are, and invite them into a Bigger Story.
The Five
Oscar, Viktor, Sasha, Eliott, and Paco went back in time all throughout history, many times. They shaped cultures, told stories.
Eventually, many people joined them, going back and forth in time. Like The Goose That Lay the Golden Egg, leaving breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel.
It was quite a mess.
In the end, everything turned out perfectly. And Everyone lived happily ever after.
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