The Magician has not left the beach, except to hunt for food. He stands and watches as the tide rises and ebbs. He waits in fear and grief. There are no echoes in the dark chambers of his heart.
There! In the shallows.
She fights for the surface. She fights to clear her lungs.
She bursts into the light, coughing and spitting.
He drags her to the beach. His tears baptize her.
She opens her eyes to a blue-sky world and in his chest, she hears . . .warmth.
Silence . . .Silence . . .Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . .In a silent place, in a dark place, Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . .Silence . . .Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . . In a distant place and within the silence . . .Something . . .Something . . .
Something breaks the Perfect Symmetry creating a place where something is, and another where something is not.
Resonant chords crash and build within this place somewhere beneath the Sea. Currents and kelp throb in sympathetic cadence, interweaving with long silk rags of silt.
Within the sound, a self is born, a unique self, Stripped of all identity empty of all the things we mistake for self. Devoid of all thought yet a unique and sustaining self.
And it hungers . . .hungers for Being.
Silt and seaweed snakes writhe within the mixture twisting back on themselves knotting into arms. Twisting into hands, into fingers. Fingers that feel.
The world feels so smooth and cool, and slick.
Abiding within the Law, a newly aware self quivers.
Clear fluids congeal, calcifying into a lens, now this . . . she sees.
Dreams ossify. Fragile, brittle, frail structures seem to self assemble. Building layer upon layer.
“I want . . .I want . . .I want to breathe.”
There is a Universal Wisdom written in every element of the Universe. For the purpose of this discussion let us adopt the term Lorois as a name for this Wisdom, with the understanding that this Wisdom has, is and will be called by any number of other names.
It is the Anthropic aspect of Lorois that is an expression of the Laws of Ten Dimensional Space/Time and Quantum Chromodynamics, for, the most incomprehensible attribute of the Universe is that the Universe is comprehensible. Within the Law is the description of the processes that creates opposites, opposites that mutually annihilate when they touch and within the same Law the Balance that holds them so, that they do not.
It is only in the holding of this Balance that this Universe continues. The protons in the nucleus of all atoms long to escape one another because of electrostatic repulsion. Yet the Strong nuclear force holds them in place and even when the electrons are in their zero energy state. They do not fall into the Protons despite their electrostatic predisposition to do so.
This Law of Balance dictates that for every Angel that is created, a Demon must be dealt with and both of these shall occur in every Human. And while one might think that they would mutually annihilate, sometimes they don’t.
The Pretender is falling to the depths. In her mind she is saying, “It’s never like this in the stories.
I am descending into the Depths, screaming in the Darkness.
At the threshold of this Nightmare I meet the Dragon big as the World, a thing of Darkness and Myth, a coiling of smoke and a river of razor, thousands of razor teeth, a Hunger that has eaten up all the World. A hunger that has eaten even itself until only the mouth and the Hunger remain.
I am here above the abyss. I run, but run as a woman run in dreams. It’s coming up behind me and I turn. I raise my weapons, and am cut to bits.
I am falling into the abyss, dissipating cloud of dissociated bits.
The Dragon was fragmented in the process of the struggle and the bits also fall, intermingling with bits of me.
The bits are sad they have lost control and can never be re-assembled.
The bits are settling in total darkness, there are no longer boundaries between self and other, the bits of dragon intermingling with the bits of what used to be me.
The roots of green things from the World of Light are burrowing down into this dark place rich with the debris of what used to be me. Root tips that touch the parts of what were formerly me, die.
I cannot nourish them.
There are worms burrowing through the muck lining the bottom of the abyss and when the worms eat the bits of me, they choke and die. The worms decompose and become muck and rot. The currents of the waters stir the muck, stir with torrential song . And where the songs touch the muck that used to be me, they die.
I am death incarnate and there should be great peace in this silence . . .”
The Pretender decided that she would Like the Magician, which was not so unusual in as much as she often made such decisions on the spur of the moment. It was her custom.
She took off her first mask saying:
“I will become you
I will become your creation
I will change my self into something else so that you will never ever want for anything else
I will be everything you need so that you will never leave me.”
The Pretender opened her hand opened everything but her eyes saying:
“Let me buy you with my sex
Let me open my body, but not my heart
You may not touch me there
Never, ever there . . .
I will show you everything but my soul.”
They left in clear sight but no one saw them leave.
They walked across the fields, walked across flower dappled meadows, through oceans of golden wheat. And when they had walked a day and a half they came to the coast.
As her foot hit the sand of the beach the Pretender turned and regarded the Magician. His eyes have taken the hue of the Sea and his beard has become the grey of winter skies.
She turns to face him, “Which way is your ship?”
He looks out to sea, “My ship has a mind of its own and there is really no way to know.”
“Oh what a lazy captain, that you let your ship steer itself. . .”
“It is not a life-style I would suggest for everyone but it has worked reasonably well for me.”
“How shall we call this ship of yours?”
“It comes when it comes, perhaps patience is . . . “
She says, “Where’s the damn boat?”
He points. “There.”
And sure enough, just cresting the horizon, a tiny cyan ship coursed toward them against the tide.
“Does it have a name?” she asked
“It is called the Heart.”
The ship was such that it was sometimes difficult to make out at a distance. It could easily be mistaken for a graceful sea bird, it’s billowing sails could be clouds . . .
It moved onto the beach and sailed the sand to their feet. The Magician offered his hand and the Pretender boarded the Heart of the Magician.
The Cocktail Parties of the Furies always have the most interesting music and the décor . . .
On this particular evening the invited guests sashay through fantastic landscapes, different in every room. They glide, awash in the brilliant colors of Midnight, the low dull thudding of the Infrareds, the shark toothed Ultra Violets. They eat the most peculiar things and are encouraged to wear very strange hats.
The Magician is holding an azure drink filled with twinkling stars.
Off to his right the Pretender glides through shadow and shade. Her gown, a whisp of gossamer, a hint of feather and down.
She seldom turns to look face on, but sees everything in the room. She seldom stops to talk at length, but speaks to each and every one in the room. If you’re lucky you might glimpse the grace of a hand involved in a perfect gesture, the hint of a smile, the lilt of her voice.
She flows through the room like water and congeals where the Magician converses with a werewolf . The Magician is visibly unsettled by the beautiful woman suddenly standing beside him.