PART IV
[Window To Your Soul]
He did not want to open his eyes but it seemed unreasonable not to; the meeting borders of starred skyline and dusty hills were unmistakable - appearing to him suddenly - as if his memory of lost love had only been a slight derailment in his train of thought. Now he despaired of ever understanding, ever grasping the significance of his time in this limbo. For the most part it had been a time almost entirely spent on his back. And a small trickle of horror crept in, intimating that possibly he was still dying. These were the last beats of his heart, obscured in the darkness of that squalid room after his father's departure; or worse still he had never arrived there but was simply, at this moment, bleeding to death on a basement floor. His life merely flashing before his eyes.
Reduced to the humiliating, his back to a wall of mounting confusion, he cried. Unable to stop his pain he felt the rising sobs wrack his upwards until his body visibly shook. Unmanly, perhaps? But he felt anything other than a man. Not someone who had had a life that amounted to anything. Help and hope, those Siamese muses, had finally deserted him and he could only curl into a ball against the sand and wait for the inevitable. Ha, he had mocked his father as the gun had rose to target him:
I'll kiss my mother in hell and you'll *still* be in a lower place.
Blasphemous to his mother's memory, yes, but perfectly appropriate to the occasion. He was being excised, cut away, like a right hand that pollutes the blood. It did not matter that he was his father's only son. He blanched. Surely he was not naïve enough to believe his father had remained faithful to his mother - the golden calf of The Project after decades of separation? Surely he was not naïve enough to believe he was his father's only son? He imagined them, these ghost children, sparkling across the globe, seeing strange white lights in their dreams, waking up screaming. He did not matter; never had.
He lay fallen; small, crippled and blasted, his face half-smothered against the sands, blinded by his own tears, his back facing the west, knowing the advancement of what he knew not. A closing crescent of fire, intense to a degree that flayed his back, singed his hair, carbonised the air before it left his lungs. A fiery apocalypse that he would never see arrive. Whatever had held back the tears before was now furiously swept away. In his heart he had cried in the netherworld of the basement when he waited for nobody to come. In his heart he had cried when he knew his mother had been immolated, burned to death, and he had been an instigating party. In his heart he had wept when he knew he was beyond redemption because he would never forgive himself. And now his heart was broken and he could not stop the flow of everything he had for years shut out; no more than he could stop the unquenchable force behind him that blazed remorselessly, turning the ground to glass.
For it was hell, and it had come for him. He had invited it. The fire was for him. A star dense with souls in eternal misery and pain. And all he could think was that he missed his mother, that he should have been there.
Had he not felt the depth of this pain resonate in him so profoundly, he would have been paying attention to the ripples in the atmosphere. Another presence. That irresistible magnetism he had felt, the one he had unconsciously moved towards, except now it's immediate re-appearance seemed to draw unnatural sound from the very burning air. A rhythmic, undying sound that bristled with anger, and sheer vigour of opposition - not towards him but the creeping hell behind him.
Yet she rose, from the earth, from the sand, from thin air it seemed, and instantly she declared war.
Though he was mortified, by his tears, by his weakness, as he saw it, to even dare to cry, he could be watch as he saw the figure coming towards him, dark and slender, loosely cloaked, determined in its ascent up the bank where he lay. The very movement of her musculature matched the preternaturalism of her pace. The way she continued undaunted when he knew what she must have faced. The Companion climbed onwards.
In a moment she had reached him, and then stepped over and beyond him, disappearing from his view for only a second before crouching at his side and shifting him, pulling him protectively against her body - which soft and rich, coursed with unknown strength, seeming to leak its magic into him by its mere proximity. She wiped the sand from his face, while he could only look helplessly upwards, beholding her human face without the veils and the masks.
"Jeffrey," she breathed it, and the incredible sympathy of her face moved him beyond words. Her sadness at seeing him broken so - for it seemed, in that moment, a wordless empathy had passed between them and he knew that she understood the meaning of defeat - true defeat.
Her black eyes shone with anguish, blacks strands (or braids, or neither) flailing in the winds, dark brown skin - an ageless, beautiful chameleon of a girl - and an otherearthly spirit. Like the daughters of the Pharaohs that bathed in the Nile. The winds were whipping now, tearing at them, making him feel naked and defenceless. He could see the wall of fire was no longer a crescent but had closed behind them creating a perfect circle of wrath. Still she held him with a posture of immutable resistance to the danger that threatened them both.
"What is it?"
He knew he had asked it without thinking, totally in reaction to the whirring flaming pillars that were mesmerising to watch - if he allowed himself the luxury of detachment. His voice was lost subsumed by the terrific roar of the things - not molten walls but living ethereal, lethal flame, not so far as a block away and closing fast. In the midst of the twisting sands, the raining fire, the rumbling, he suddenly understood. The ring of fire was sentient. It was talking to Her, for he felt her physically stiffen. And he understood that she was answering, fighting its persuasion, limiting its influence - refusing it - despite him not hearing a word. But she could only persevere for so long, of the two, this inferno boasted the greater power. And yet, and yet, she fended, she fought.
His body was healing, strengthening, and reviving he faced the flaming whirlwind. He could not penetrate its exchange with The Companion, but as much as her face hardened with resolve, something in her was crumbling, her eyes darkening as much with contempt as with fatigue. And he wondered again what he was actually witnessing.
"Death." she answered, only to cry out suddenly, reaching for her arm - blood welling between the fingers.
He heard the great fire laugh in gluttonous anticipation. The Companion seemed to wilt, a million emotions making themself plain, as she turned now to face him. He could only babble foolishly, "Let it take me." while reaching for her wound, truly beyond any natural resource of courage, but finding it anyway. Awash with a sense of finality, they both faced the fire, together, and standing in each others arms, he did as she and closed his eyes. He felt her focussing, marshalling her strength, though he did not understand it and wished that somehow he could protect her.
But the wind picked up - really picked up - swirling around them, forming a barrier of hurricane and sand and he, in awe and fear, could not speak, only squint against the grit and intensifying light; feeling their bodies impossibly crushed in the narrowing space - the world spinning round and round. The fire roared, furiously, trying to find a way in. But the light was becoming so unbearably bright, he had to close his eyes again or be blinded - only to discover this offered little to no protection. Fear came upon him again - and he felt it and hated it. The Companion's arm slipped about him, a hand covering his eyes. The last thing he heard were her words, not resigned, not afraid, lethargic, calm and concentrated:
"Sssshhhhh."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Those who see any difference between soul and body have neither
- Oscar Wilde
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TO BE CONTINUED IN: The Red Dream
[Window To Your Soul]
He did not want to open his eyes but it seemed unreasonable not to; the meeting borders of starred skyline and dusty hills were unmistakable - appearing to him suddenly - as if his memory of lost love had only been a slight derailment in his train of thought. Now he despaired of ever understanding, ever grasping the significance of his time in this limbo. For the most part it had been a time almost entirely spent on his back. And a small trickle of horror crept in, intimating that possibly he was still dying. These were the last beats of his heart, obscured in the darkness of that squalid room after his father's departure; or worse still he had never arrived there but was simply, at this moment, bleeding to death on a basement floor. His life merely flashing before his eyes.
Reduced to the humiliating, his back to a wall of mounting confusion, he cried. Unable to stop his pain he felt the rising sobs wrack his upwards until his body visibly shook. Unmanly, perhaps? But he felt anything other than a man. Not someone who had had a life that amounted to anything. Help and hope, those Siamese muses, had finally deserted him and he could only curl into a ball against the sand and wait for the inevitable. Ha, he had mocked his father as the gun had rose to target him:
I'll kiss my mother in hell and you'll *still* be in a lower place.
Blasphemous to his mother's memory, yes, but perfectly appropriate to the occasion. He was being excised, cut away, like a right hand that pollutes the blood. It did not matter that he was his father's only son. He blanched. Surely he was not naïve enough to believe his father had remained faithful to his mother - the golden calf of The Project after decades of separation? Surely he was not naïve enough to believe he was his father's only son? He imagined them, these ghost children, sparkling across the globe, seeing strange white lights in their dreams, waking up screaming. He did not matter; never had.
He lay fallen; small, crippled and blasted, his face half-smothered against the sands, blinded by his own tears, his back facing the west, knowing the advancement of what he knew not. A closing crescent of fire, intense to a degree that flayed his back, singed his hair, carbonised the air before it left his lungs. A fiery apocalypse that he would never see arrive. Whatever had held back the tears before was now furiously swept away. In his heart he had cried in the netherworld of the basement when he waited for nobody to come. In his heart he had cried when he knew his mother had been immolated, burned to death, and he had been an instigating party. In his heart he had wept when he knew he was beyond redemption because he would never forgive himself. And now his heart was broken and he could not stop the flow of everything he had for years shut out; no more than he could stop the unquenchable force behind him that blazed remorselessly, turning the ground to glass.
For it was hell, and it had come for him. He had invited it. The fire was for him. A star dense with souls in eternal misery and pain. And all he could think was that he missed his mother, that he should have been there.
Had he not felt the depth of this pain resonate in him so profoundly, he would have been paying attention to the ripples in the atmosphere. Another presence. That irresistible magnetism he had felt, the one he had unconsciously moved towards, except now it's immediate re-appearance seemed to draw unnatural sound from the very burning air. A rhythmic, undying sound that bristled with anger, and sheer vigour of opposition - not towards him but the creeping hell behind him.
Yet she rose, from the earth, from the sand, from thin air it seemed, and instantly she declared war.
Though he was mortified, by his tears, by his weakness, as he saw it, to even dare to cry, he could be watch as he saw the figure coming towards him, dark and slender, loosely cloaked, determined in its ascent up the bank where he lay. The very movement of her musculature matched the preternaturalism of her pace. The way she continued undaunted when he knew what she must have faced. The Companion climbed onwards.
In a moment she had reached him, and then stepped over and beyond him, disappearing from his view for only a second before crouching at his side and shifting him, pulling him protectively against her body - which soft and rich, coursed with unknown strength, seeming to leak its magic into him by its mere proximity. She wiped the sand from his face, while he could only look helplessly upwards, beholding her human face without the veils and the masks.
"Jeffrey," she breathed it, and the incredible sympathy of her face moved him beyond words. Her sadness at seeing him broken so - for it seemed, in that moment, a wordless empathy had passed between them and he knew that she understood the meaning of defeat - true defeat.
Her black eyes shone with anguish, blacks strands (or braids, or neither) flailing in the winds, dark brown skin - an ageless, beautiful chameleon of a girl - and an otherearthly spirit. Like the daughters of the Pharaohs that bathed in the Nile. The winds were whipping now, tearing at them, making him feel naked and defenceless. He could see the wall of fire was no longer a crescent but had closed behind them creating a perfect circle of wrath. Still she held him with a posture of immutable resistance to the danger that threatened them both.
"What is it?"
He knew he had asked it without thinking, totally in reaction to the whirring flaming pillars that were mesmerising to watch - if he allowed himself the luxury of detachment. His voice was lost subsumed by the terrific roar of the things - not molten walls but living ethereal, lethal flame, not so far as a block away and closing fast. In the midst of the twisting sands, the raining fire, the rumbling, he suddenly understood. The ring of fire was sentient. It was talking to Her, for he felt her physically stiffen. And he understood that she was answering, fighting its persuasion, limiting its influence - refusing it - despite him not hearing a word. But she could only persevere for so long, of the two, this inferno boasted the greater power. And yet, and yet, she fended, she fought.
His body was healing, strengthening, and reviving he faced the flaming whirlwind. He could not penetrate its exchange with The Companion, but as much as her face hardened with resolve, something in her was crumbling, her eyes darkening as much with contempt as with fatigue. And he wondered again what he was actually witnessing.
"Death." she answered, only to cry out suddenly, reaching for her arm - blood welling between the fingers.
He heard the great fire laugh in gluttonous anticipation. The Companion seemed to wilt, a million emotions making themself plain, as she turned now to face him. He could only babble foolishly, "Let it take me." while reaching for her wound, truly beyond any natural resource of courage, but finding it anyway. Awash with a sense of finality, they both faced the fire, together, and standing in each others arms, he did as she and closed his eyes. He felt her focussing, marshalling her strength, though he did not understand it and wished that somehow he could protect her.
But the wind picked up - really picked up - swirling around them, forming a barrier of hurricane and sand and he, in awe and fear, could not speak, only squint against the grit and intensifying light; feeling their bodies impossibly crushed in the narrowing space - the world spinning round and round. The fire roared, furiously, trying to find a way in. But the light was becoming so unbearably bright, he had to close his eyes again or be blinded - only to discover this offered little to no protection. Fear came upon him again - and he felt it and hated it. The Companion's arm slipped about him, a hand covering his eyes. The last thing he heard were her words, not resigned, not afraid, lethargic, calm and concentrated:
"Sssshhhhh."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Those who see any difference between soul and body have neither
- Oscar Wilde
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TO BE CONTINUED IN: The Red Dream